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❝ “An appalling mountain: 1600 meters of rotten, black and slippery rock interspersed with hanging glaciers that continuously discharge rocks and avalanches directed along the ascent route by an enormous hourglass. [...] On the morning of August 6, I started. I had with me a macabre description of the route: you start where Sandri and Menti died, you cross where Kurz died, you reach the “Death Bivouac” and so on until the summit. [...] The wall looked like a war cemetery: remnants of hasty retreats, shreds of clothing, a boot embedded in the snow, abandoned backpacks, ropes hanging like ghosts. [...] Then the weather suddenly changed. It started to snow, and the wall became not only macabre but deadly. I realized that on that mountain, it wasn’t enough to be prepared with stubborn willpower; it wasn’t enough to have traversed kilometers and kilometers of vertical walls. And I, who always relied on technique, couldn’t put myself in the hands of the blindfolded goddess.”
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