The North Face of Cime Grande di Lavaredo

Route “Comici” on Cime Grande di Lavaredo
5.10c, UIAA VII, all free climbing, ED

The team did not bring aid climbing equipment, as this style of ascent is not favored in Europe. They also didn’t bring crampons to save weight, allowing the second climber to climb instead of jumaring.

The route is littered with old pitons, but these serve more as historical artifacts than reliable protection. Many of them were likely placed by Comici himself. They used their own cams and nuts for protection.

For a possible emergency bivouac, they carried minimal necessary gear — a small stove, water, snacks, an inflatable pad, a cover, and warm clothes.

The next planned route was “Spigolo Giallo” on Cima Piccola. A vertical line along the southern arête, ascending to the sky like a phallic symbol. Intense, powerful male climbing in inner corners with overhangs alternated with pleasant, meditative, graceful, and airy female climbing.

From the very first day, using any opportunity to visit Tre Cime, Katya and I meditated on the north face of Cima Grande, trying to build up maximum motivation and a certain internal aggression. The wall exerted psychological pressure, making it hard to believe we could climb it.

I go to Misurina, to “Lavaredo Sport” to see Giovanni, our indispensable consultant for all matters, who has worked as a guide for 40 years and knows the area like the back of his hand. I ask him about the weather forecast. He looks it up online and tells me that tomorrow will be very cold, with a night frost down to -3, cloudiness, but no rain, while the day after tomorrow it will rain, and the weather will deteriorate significantly.

So, it’s either tomorrow or never.

I tell Gianni that we plan to climb Comici and ask for his advice on whether we can go tomorrow. He replies that it will be very cold, but okay, he would go. The day after tomorrow, however, is not okay.

Well, the local guru’s blessing is received. But what “very cold” means in the hot Italian Alps, we later appreciated as connoisseurs appreciate aged wine.

We wake up in the morning. We have breakfast with our favorite cheese, the stinkiest in the store, with green mold mixed with some slime, which no one else ate except us. But on this cheese, you can work all day, like on an energy drink.

During breakfast, I accidentally glance at the garbage bags, and a silly thought comes to mind: “Maybe we should take a couple in case it rains?” Forecasts are forecasts, but the sky looks gloomy. You can crawl into these bags entirely, like into bivouac sacks, and it will be dry and comfortable in them, like tomatoes in a greenhouse. Silently, I tear off two bags from the roll, fold them neatly, but then I realize that these black, thick garbage bags strongly resemble those for transporting bodies, and, not wanting to tempt fate, I put them back on the table. The whole scene takes place in silence, like all our morning preparations and breakfasts. But, as it turned out a couple of days later in some conversation, Katya was watching with interest at that moment but didn’t ask what those manipulations with the garbage bags were. This is the most valuable thing about partners — no unnecessary words or silly questions.

This scene better than any description characterizes our interaction on the route. No unnecessary words, silly questions, unnecessary advice, each just silently does their job. Even when it was hard or scary, a few words or sometimes just a glance into the eyes, a glance in which everything is said, a glance after which you understand what true Svan trust is.

After the first two pitches, Katya accidentally climbed the wrong way, and I had to rappel back diagonally, practically using aid climbing through an intermediate point. Looking at the fact that from this station the rope still reaches the large lower ledge, there was a very strong temptation to bail out while it was still possible since further down due to the significant overall overhang of the wall, rappelling off the route would be problematic.

— How are you? Climbing further or not? — in my question, an unspoken hint that I am ready to give up the route. — Everything is fine. We climb, of course, — in her answer, a similar half-hint reminding that we won’t forgive ourselves for this retreat.

Further, there were no more ways of retreat, so everything immediately became significantly simpler. When you take a step beyond which there is no way back, all thoughts and doubts disappear, leaving only the need to move forward.

There was no more pleasant chatter at the stations. There was no play in “female style” and femininity. There were no thoughts on how to place the foot more beautifully, push up, and execute the move. Everything disappeared. Only we remained, the wall, and here and now. In the end, only mutual control remained — who clips what and where at the station. And the clenching of teeth from the cold and pain in the fingers.

My mind was entirely focused on one task: to climb the wall before dark. There was neither the mental strength nor the desire to linger at a belay station and marvel at the breathtaking view of the vast vertical walls surrounding us—looming on both sides, plunging deep below, and soaring high above. Just a brief glance around, and my brain took a mental snapshot, capturing the image to later savor when safely on the ground, without any need to rush.

That day, I didn’t check the time once, unlike my usual habit on a route to gauge our progress. Though I was tempted to look, especially when the sun started breaking through the dark clouds that had hung over our heads all day, enhancing the gloomy atmosphere of the walls of Cima Grande and Cima Ovest on either side. The sun’s appearance on our side of the wall indicated that evening was approaching.

But checking the time wouldn’t have helped. Calculating time or not—there was no turning back. So there was no point in getting anxious by looking at the time and calculating whether we had enough of it. Besides, there simply wasn’t time for those calculations.

Especially after we completed the seven crux pitches and emerged onto what we thought would be an “easy” part of the route, expecting to move faster. But we realized that “faster” was not an option, and it would actually take longer. The fourth and fifth-class sections ahead were covered in verglas. And Katya’s “Krasnoyarsk last chance"—the rock pitons—were left in the tent because climbing with hardware on European rock isn’t fashionable. Plus, our concept and idea were to free climb the route. Clean style and all that.

So, after the crux, it turned into real figure skating, except this “figure skating” was on vertical rock in climbing shoes.

And towards the end, Comici decided to test us, or rather, to check if girls have the courage. Just as we were starting to relax, thinking we had only one pitch left before the described “delicate traverse on stoppers over a roof, ” where we would need to push hard one last time, followed by another easy pitch to the main terrace of Lavaredo. And then, suddenly, we hit a black narrow chimney with a ledge, the smooth walls of which were completely covered with a layer of ice.

— Are we sure this is the way? — Mmm…—I peered around the corner, examining the surrounding walls on the right and the massive 28-meter roof, under which the traverse runs, on the left, —well… it seems there are no other options.

And indeed, there were no other options—no way to go left or right, and descending was not an option either. So we had to climb through. How? God knows. Silently. Or rather, not entirely silently. But that’s behind the scenes.

Next was the “delicate” traverse, which, after the delicate “figure skating, ” seemed not delicate at all, but, oh joy! —climbing on dry ledges and holds.

And there it was, the incomparable feeling of freedom, when we finally emerged onto the main terrace of Lavaredo, escaping from the trap where there was no choice, only one way—upwards.

Immediately, all the mental tension of the past 12 hours dissipated. There was an indescribable lightness and relief. We could put on our boots without worrying they would fall into the abyss. We could finally check the time. We could even try to call and let someone know we were okay. On the wall, there hadn’t been a thought or time to get out the phone or radio.

Another hour passed as we made our way across the terrace. Although wide, it was sloping, with icy scree and hard firn, and we were experiencing the effect of mental relaxation after “breaking free, ” so, understanding the risk of a careless move, we proceeded simultaneously with intermediate protection. We turned the corner onto the western part of the terrace.

Here, we were delightfully greeted by the setting sun, appearing in all its glory in the now-clearing sky. It was as if the clouds had waited for us to climb the wall, hanging all day as a dense dark curtain, adding to the ominous surroundings and making us nervous that they might unleash rain and thunder at any moment.

Checking the time, it was already half-past seven in the evening, meaning we wouldn’t descend before dark. And we didn’t know the descent route. Unlike the logical straight vertical rappels from Torre Preuss and Cima Piccola, the descent from Cima Grande is through southern couloirs and “gardens.” And if you haven’t scouted the descent route from bottom to top in advance, which we hadn’t, it’s tricky to navigate.

Then began the search for the right couloir, of which there turned out to be four, all with huge cairns on either side. Almost an hour was spent searching for the rappel ring that was supposed to be there according to accounts. In the remaining half-hour of daylight, we managed to rappel three pitches to the end of the couloir. While Katya descended, I used the last light to climb down the ledges and find the right gully. There was just enough twilight to locate it, and then we began descending in the dark.