August, 1986

Six months later it was summer in Switzerland. A stable high pressure system had settled over the Alps. We were strong and full of laughter and lofty plans. Everything was possible.
The long, steep approach to Rifugio Bregaglia was over in a mere two hours, leaving us even more energized. Our packs were loaded with fresh bread, prosciutto, wine and climbing gear, and we lingered on the porch well into the evening. The hut had filled with alpinists, 90% of whom would join us the next morning on the classic North Arête of Piz Badile, a 900 meter razor sharp pillar of crisp granite. We knew we would have to be fast and ahead, or bogged down in a mess of ropes and singing Italians. It was a big route but nobody seemed to take it seriously, so why should we? Because with only three seasons behind us, this could be a bit much. But we didn’t care.
At 3:30am the warden waked everybody up. No wind, clear skies, nice and frosty. Perfect conditions. We strapped on our crampons with numb fingers and ran onto the glacier with only two parties ahead of us. As I silently reflected on the beauty of alpinism, I spotted a shooting star to the north.
Eight hours later we were helicoptered off the top of pitch 17, me with a broken shoulder and a shattered hand missing a finger and my buddy heavy with guilt.

December, 1986:

Chamonix. With Rebuffats classic hit list all but memorized, we arrived with far too many ambitions on our second ever visit to that high strung capital of alpinism.
Our first choice, the North Face of Tour Ronde, # 34 in Gaston’s book, was a steep, but, at 400 meter, relatively short ice route on a spectacular peak. The weather that Cristmas was very unstable and we waited out storm after storm until finally loosing patience. In what seemed like a decent 24 hour weather window, we grabbed our gear and skis and hitch hiked through the tunnel to the Italian side.
It was wet and cold with fog and dirty snow in the streets. The lift was closing, but we talked the operator into doing one more run to the top station. We stood silently in the cold cablecar, as we ascended thousands of meters in a few minutes. Up there the wind was howling out of thick clouds and everything was covered in rime ice. We staggered across the exposed bridge into the hut, partially shut down and cold.
Our mood was solemn and full of doubts about the upcoming climb. After hours of debating we ended up setting the alarm for 4 am without knowing why.
The morning was clear, icy and windy. As we put on our skis I cast a cursory glance at the dark peaks and, not surprisingly, a shooting star descended over Tour Ronde.
Following our reluctant departure from the rifugio was one of the longest and most intense epics of my years in the mountains. It was also the last one requiring outside assistance. Everything went wrong and there were some heart stopping close calls, at the time arrogantly blamed on poor conditions.

December, 1990:

Some serious analyzing was obviously needed after the ‘86 season. We learned. We got wiser. We even became good. I also did everything possible to avoid visual contact with celestial spectacles prior to alpine starts. Until the trip to Poland in ’90.
My girlfriend and I were invited to stay with the Tatra Mountain Rescue for a week of winter climbing. It was decided to try the North Face of Miegu Sov-something, a 1000 meter mixed climb. As we stepped out into the cold night after a cozy bivvy, I let my guard down and stared right into one of the most spectacular shooting stars I’ve seen.
Everything came back. I was doomed. The near misses, the injuries. All the recent successes were forgotten. It was clear that I had to break the spell somehow. We changed our plans to an easier route and went for it. I could barely function, so scared was I. Sally led most of it, while I suffered with my demons. We topped out into the pale winter sun and spend a hurried couple of minutes on the summit before descending into the shadows again. Now I was really gripped. Descents are where it always goes wrong. We plunged down big exposed snowfields, but no horrible slab avalanches crushed us. Some tricky iced up rock was difficult but safe. We found the right descent gully thru the upper rock band first try.
Then we came to the key traverse leading to the ramp that would bring us down. It was a steep slab, 300 ft wide and covered in rotten crusty snow. Below, the face terminated in a nauseating drop off. We sat up a manky belay and with a quick exchange of hollow words Sally started out. It was slow and precarious. Front points scraping, no gear. When the rope ran out I removed the anchor and followed. I was strangely calm, knowing this could go either way. With no belay and no gear between us, we moved with utter care across the thin veneer of ice and spindrift. When she finally could throw a runner over a flake and start belaying, I knew I’d come out the other side alive.