I put people on classic Dolomite rock, snow and ice — honestly graded, carefully run, and with the kind of joy you can't fake. Every day out ends up in the logbook below.
I used to follow a tidy little map someone else drew: the degree, the desk, the slow climb up a ladder leaned against the wrong wall. From the plain you can see the Dolomites on a clear day — and one day that was no longer enough.
So I apprenticed myself to the mountains instead. Seasons of hut work and early alarms, hundreds of pitches on pale rock, avalanche courses, first-aid recerts, a rope that's never far from my pack — the long way up, taken one honest pitch at a time.
What I offer is simple: real days in real mountains, run with care, graded without ego, and written down afterwards so nothing gets polished in the retelling. The routes and notes below are the record.
Judgment is the only piece of gear that never goes out of date.
learned that the hard way, twice
A selection, honestly graded and honestly styled. If you want the full logbook, ask — it's long and it's boring in the best way.
Small ropes, long days, no ego. Tell me where you are and where you want to be — the mountain will meet us in the middle.
The great classics up to grade V+ — long ridges, pale faces, ropework that makes sense. Tre Cime, Sella, Catinaccio, Marmolada's gentler lines. We climb the mountain, not the clock.
From "I've only climbed in a gym" to standing on a real summit, in one honest progression. Knots, anchors, exposure managed kindly. The day is built around you, not a checklist.
Quiet skin tracks off the Sella, avalanche craft you'll actually keep, and first swings on the blue ice of the Serrai di Sottoguda. Winter with judgment in it.
Guiding needs a door you can shut behind you. The Crib is mine: an old larch-and-stone hut below the pass, being brought back by hand — a place to come back to, and leave from again before first light.
mostly held together by stubbornness and three good hinges
Follow the build →Four larch walls, a roof with opinions, and a view of the towers that made the sagging floor irrelevant. I said yes before common sense could catch up.
Everything tired came out — boards, plaster, a decade of someone else's dust. What stayed is simple and true: timber, stone, light.
Windows that open, a bunk under the good beam, pegs for the ropes and shelves for the field notes. The stufa goes in before the snow; after that, it takes guests.
Short, honest write-ups, pinned to the coordinates where they actually happened. Tap a note to read the whole thing.