The Devil's Ice
QUOTA 2,758
2,758 m
PIZZO DELL'OMO
2,773 m
Alpi - Alpi E Prealpi Bergamasche - Alpi Orobie
After filling my eyes with the panoramic and geological grandeur of Pizzo Suretta in August, an old obsession began nagging at my mind once again.
Together with my partner, Daniela, I decided to attempt the ascent of Pizzo dell'Omo, at 2,773 meters.
Ever since the day I stood atop nearby Pizzo del Salto about two years earlier, I had yearned for this wild peak of the Alpi Orobie, drawn by its rugged setting and an approach steeped in old-world toil.
It meant a great deal to me: climbing it would close the circle, finally completing the ascent of all the peaks that form the crown around Pizzo del Diavolo di Tenda, the monarch of my Valle Brembana.
Planning immediately ran up against uncertainty, an essential ingredient of exploratory mountaineering.
The few route descriptions I managed to unearth lacked clarity on the final technical section, rendered obsolete by the retreat of the Ghiacciaio del Diavolo that once swathed its base, forcing climbers today to redraw the line.
My doubts were fueled by reports at least ten years old, incapable of conveying the current state of the face.
The same heavy question marks hung over the approach.
Most reports started from Ambria, in Valtellina, the most logical and direct access.
From the Valle Brembana side, however, the choice narrowed down to two options: Bocchetta di Podavit or Passo di Cigola, the latter involving an infinitely longer and more grueling distance.
Speaking with an acquaintance, the same one who had given me advice for the ascent of Pizzo Rondenino, I learned that even twenty years earlier, when he passed through, Bocchetta di Podavit featured a section rigged with rusted chains, necessary to overcome a significant drop and reach the glacier.
With the ice having long since receded, a substantial rock step would certainly be waiting for me.
In my dogged online searches, I had managed to dig up an old photo of that descent line: a narrow diagonal ledge, choked with loose rubble, suspended over the void and dropping straight onto the glacier.
The fierce heat endured that summer dispelled any hesitation, prompting me to rule out passing through Bocchetta di Podavit.
Accepting the harshness of an itinerary that promised to be endless, I made the decision to start from the village of Carona, climb up to Passo di Cigola, and from there traverse beneath the dark north faces of Monte Aga and Pizzo Rondenino before entering the amphitheater that holds the Ghiacciaio del Diavolo.
We set off as planned at six in the morning, the darkness pierced only by the beams of our headlamps.
Having quickly gained Passo di Cigola, we were greeted by a family of ibex, mostly young ones.
One of them, leaping onto a rock, lost traction with its hind leg: a minor stumble from which it will quickly learn that absolute, unerring sure-footedness that we humans, intruders in their home, can only envy.
The unsettled weather at dawn had surrendered to a crystal-clear sky, while below us a sea of clouds lent the landscape a fairy-tale, yet inscrutable, atmosphere.
In past years we had climbed this far to summit Monte Aga and Pizzo di Cigola, but beyond this boundary, for us, yawned the unknown.
No sooner had we crossed the pass than the mountain showed us its rough side.
I had pictured a descent down grassy benches, but instead we were met with a vast, unforgiving expanse of steep scree.
Once an initial faint path petered out, we chased sparse paint blazes that soon vanished into thin air.
We then left the descent to instinct, dropping straight down the fall line to eat up the vertical drop as quickly as possible.
Suspended above the ceiling of clouds, we felt the palpable fear of being swallowed by the mist and losing all bearings.
We hoped the plunge would level out soon, but the massive shoulder descending from Corna d'Ambria relentlessly forced us all the way to the valley floor, burning through 600 meters of elevation.
Checking my Garmin watch, the numbers read like a verdict: elevation 1,800 meters, cumulative ascent already 1,300.
With roughly a thousand vertical meters still to climb to reach Pizzo dell'Omo, I was acutely aware that our day was going to stretch out enormously.
My only hope clung to Bocchetta di Podavit: I hoped to find it in passable enough shape to allow us to climb back up it on our return, anything to avoid trudging back up that grueling 600-meter abyss we had just descended.
Having picked up the trail toward the Ghiacciaio del Diavolo once more, battling steep and treacherous ground, we reached the foot of the rubble-strewn moraine that serves as the pedestal for Pizzo dell'Omo.
Looking up from that spot was an emotional jolt, so overwhelming was the beauty of the place.
Immense vertical walls and cathedrals of stone were locked in a single formidable embrace: a rare sight for this part of the Alps.
In that instant, I felt absolute isolation humming against my skin, conscious of standing in one of the wildest and most remote recesses of the Orobie.
My thoughts turned to the first ascensionist of Pizzo del Diavolo di Tenda, who back in 1870 had passed right through here: without a shadow of a doubt, I was treading in his very footsteps.
That invisible thread of history moved me, kindling the silent, reverent respect I hold for the pioneers of mountaineering.
Drained by the steepness, we arrived before the remnants of the Ghiacciaio del Diavolo, dwarfed by the colossal shadows of Pizzo del Diavolo di Tenda and Pizzo Rondenino.
Self-preservation immediately drove us to scan the massive wall of Bocchetta di Podavit in search of that ledge that would grant us an easier return.
But the illusion lasted only a moment.
The glacier had retreated so fiercely that it left behind an insurmountable rock step.
An old loop of cord dangled into empty space; it was obvious that even if we somehow forced the initial move, we would top out onto a near-vertical slab entirely carpeted in loose debris.
Bocchetta di Podavit was completely impassable.
We understood at once, with bitter resignation, that in budgeting our remaining energy we would have to factor in the long, grueling ordeal of Passo di Cigola and its 600 meters of elevation gain.
With a shadow of dismay in our hearts, we moved beneath the access gullies leading into the realm of Pizzo dell'Omo.
A couple of photographs downloaded from the internet were our only compass to decipher the route.
From the very first meters, the commitment was total: climbing up rock steps made treacherous by a constant hemorrhage of loose rock.
Our focus grew razor-sharp to prevent any slip on that shifting gravel.
Every block we surmounted required a clear-eyed wager on the future: we had to evaluate it on the spot, asking ourselves whether we would be able to downclimb it on the way back.
The only obvious landmark on that face was Bocchetta del Diavolo, the col linking the forepeak of Pizzo dell'Omo to Pizzo del Diavolo di Tenda.
Used for the ascent in the past, because of glacial retreat it now presented a tall, smooth, and utterly inaccessible wall.
Navigating through this thick blanket of uncertainty, we found ourselves at the base of a gully.
The only thing telling us we were in the right spot was a single photo found the night before during my final, frantic searches.
Adrenaline pumped thick through our veins, compounded by a long approach that had eaten away the time needed to study the route calmly.
That primordial setting, the layered fatigue, and the total unknown of the passages ahead left us with a raw, persistent unease.
I started up the gully, but before long my way was barred.
A massive boulder fallen from above had wedged itself squarely inside, sealing off the passage.
It sat pinched between a vertical wall on the left and a holdless, slightly angled slab on the right.
One glance was enough to grasp the gravity of the situation: the chockstone rested in an irrational, precarious balance, weighed down by a heavy pile of loose talus that had collected above it.
The tiny holds available and the instability of that stone guillotine made me back off from attempting to climb over it.
The risk was simply too high.
Conferring together, we explored horizontally across that strip of wall as far as possible.
To the left, I spotted another gully, itself a vile funnel of loose rubble.
From below, I thought I could make out a narrow ledge that might allow a manageable way upward.
I climbed up to it, only to collide with harsh reality: the terrain was far too vertical.
It was perhaps feasible, but without the faintest idea whether it led to the right exit, it wasn't worth risking so much only to end up potentially off-route.
With slow, calculated movements, I downclimbed to the base of the gullies, where Daniela shared her wise, if bitter, decision to abort the climb due to the hazardous terrain.
Chewing on the frustration of having failed to unlock the mountain, I wanted to climb back up the first gully for one last, stubborn look before retreating.
Once again, I stood beneath the wedged boulder.
Had it broken loose, it would have crushed me flat.
My sharpened eye caught a horizontal edge on the right-hand wall, just big enough for a foothold.
Immediately above it, I spotted a thin crack I had missed earlier, which looked as though it had been carved specifically to take a hand.
Bypassing conscious thought (and I take no pride in this, as the gamble of that instant was the subject of harsh self-scrutiny all the way down), my right hand latched onto the crack, my foot snapped automatically onto the edge, and without feeling the effort, I floated up over the boulder.
In that moment, the only image in my mind was Paul Preuss, whose biography I had finished reading just a few days earlier.
The confrontation with reality on top of it was chilling.
The absurdly precarious state in which the block rested was laid bare: holding it in place were only two tiny points of rock, reduced to thin splinters perhaps by the impact of its original fall.
I got my weight off the boulder instantly and shouted down to Daniela that I was through.
I asked her to move closer for moral support, perhaps out of a purely psychological need, while sternly warning her to stay out of the gully's line of fire.
Usually, when I sense that an obstacle can be unlocked with a few straightforward climbing moves, I encourage her to follow me up; this time, I didn't utter a word.
The terrain was so unstable that our safety depended not on our skill, but on the rotten structure of the mountain itself, and was therefore entirely beyond our control.
She confirmed she would wait for me, reminding me that further ill-defined unknowns still waited higher up.
With a knot of anxiety in my stomach, I peered up into the upper gully, choked with even heavier debris.
I resumed climbing driven by pure curiosity, irrationally convinced that I wouldn't manage to reach the summit anyway.
Shortly after, the skyline broke open onto the connecting ridge with Pizzo del Diavolo di Tenda: I was in the right place.
I tried calling down to Daniela, but she could already no longer hear me.
Summoning my courage, immersed in total uncertainty, I scrambled over some ridge blocks and came face-to-face with the white wall of the Pizzo dell'Omo forepeak.
It was an unclimbable face for my abilities, dropping sheer into the void.
I decided to outflank the obstacle on the opposite side, and after a few steps a small stone cairn appeared: the single, solitary human trace on the entire mountain.
It was the silent assurance that I was on course.
I glanced at my Garmin: 50 vertical meters to go.
I entered a gully of vertical rock and scrambled up it at speed, no longer looking around and shutting off all questions.
I only wanted to top out so I could regain voice contact, reassure Daniela, and make sure she was safe.
Almost without realizing it, I stepped onto the forepeak of Pizzo dell'Omo, the first milestone of the day.
I barely had time to rejoice before turning around to find the main summit looming ahead.
It looked nothing like the photos in the reports: it appeared far away and would demand plenty more time to reach.
The only relief was the promise of terrain that now had to become easier.
I tried shouting down again. After several attempts, Daniela's voice drifted up: she was positioned directly beneath the plumb line of the forepeak.
I yelled down that I was fine, that I was going to make a push for the true summit, and that it would take some time.
With her blessing secured, a fierce anxiety over having left her alone propelled me forward, down off the forepeak toward the summit of Pizzo dell'Omo.
I downclimbed a stretch of solid rock with generous holds, gained the base of the final summit block, and climbed with an urgent stride.
I was on top.
I honored my personal ritual, thanking and greeting the summit; then, at a run, I flew back toward the forepeak, ignoring route assessment, ignoring the difficulties.
Only once I called down to Daniela to let her know I was on my way back did calm finally settle over me, for the first time since we had left the Ghiacciaio del Diavolo.
Retracing the moves proved tricky: the feverish rush of the ascent had kept me from memorizing the route, forcing me to consult the GPS track recorded on the way up to locate the right funnel.
Slowly and with great difficulty, I lowered myself back down to the wedged boulder, brushing past it in terror of weighting it.
Guided by Daniela's voice calling from below, I felt blindly for the footholds and eased myself out of the crux.
The tension slackened, though lingering agitation still kept me from fully savoring the summit.
Our exploration had burned two precious hours.
Because of this, we immediately set off on our return journey without granting ourselves the luxury of a break.
We tried to faithfully follow the marked trail toward Passo di Cigola, refusing off-trail shortcuts, yet halfway up the dreaded 600-meter climb awaiting us, the path vanished.
For the umpteenth time, we found ourselves battling the relentless pitch of an unstable scree slope, with nothing for a compass but a few faded paint blazes spotted by sheer luck on the way up.
We topped out at Passo di Cigola late in the afternoon; dusk was not far off.
Mustering our remaining reserves, we decided to run down toward Carona, relying on the lightweight clothing and gear we had packed specifically for this contingency.
By seven in the evening, we were back at the trailhead.
Weighing on our shoulders were 31 kilometers, 3,050 meters of elevation gain, and nearly thirteen hours of non-stop travel.
I held close the joy of a summit won.
Daniela, forced to halt barely a hundred meters shy of the goal, had accomplished a physical and mental feat of absolute greatness, worthy of and in every way equal to standing atop such a harsh and forgotten peak.