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In a quiet moment, Luca and I go over our schedule. Several free days lie between the last and the next module. For the first time in months, there is space.

I call Wastl. Ask if he has time. If we can do something. Something unnecessary. Something outside any plan. Just to release the pressure of constant training.

He has time. And in the meantime, the paragliders we ordered from Laurent have arrived. What a coincidence. The decision is easy. The next day we drive to Oberstdorf, pick up Wastl and the three wings, and head south, over the Brenner, towards Lake Garda. For months it has been winter. Shadow, cold air, frozen fingers, hard snow. Now the landscape changes. The light softens. The air warms.

Arriving at Lake Garda, the rock radiates stored heat. The scent of olive trees fills the air, mixed with warm stone and dust. After so much ice and glacial wind, the southern air feels almost unreal. Arco rises above us with its bright limestone walls. On the lake, windsurfers carve their lines. Above the mountains, thermals rise slowly into the sky. For the first time in a long while, the air no longer bites. It carries.

It smells like the south and summer. And also like exhaust fumes from the many cars that pollute the mild air and the Mediterranean surroundings. It is this contradictory moment—warmth and openness in the air, and at the same time something heavy hanging over it, barely visible, but present.

Flight from Monte Baldo

Along the Gardesana Orientale we look for a landing spot. A large field near the shore seems ideal. We inspect it, walk it, agree: perfect. Shortly after, we park at the cable car station of Monte Baldo, shoulder the wings and go up.

Too early for real thermals. The windsock hangs slack. Time for a cappuccino, a brioche, a quick break. One hour turns into two. When we step outside again, the air has changed. A steady updraft runs along the ridge. The windsock stands firm. Perfect conditions.

Lines sorted, harness on, everything in place. I pull the wing up into the wind and step over the edge. Not down, but straight into lift. The air catches me immediately. Laurent’s new prototypes glide noticeably better than our old wings from Chamonix. Below lies Lake Garda, just 65 meters above sea level. Above rises Monte Baldo, over 2,200 meters. More than two thousand meters of air between us and the water.

I fly first. Calm. Controlled. Trying to soar along the edge. It works. The air carries. I even gain a bit of height. Forty-five minutes pass, maybe more. Then I turn and head for the landing field.

But everything has changed. The empty field is now a packed parking lot. I’m already too low. No way to divert. The landing is tight. Very tight. I touch down between parked cars. Just barely. Damn. The wing collapses too late, slaps across several car roofs before I regain control.

Luca and Wastl have seen it and choose a water landing. Clean approach. By the book. Then it turns. The wings touch, but instead of collapsing, they fill again. For a moment they lie on the water. Then the Ora hits. The afternoon south wind fills the 38 square meters of fabric instantly and accelerates the situation. They are pulled backward across the lake at incredible speed. Within seconds, they are in the middle of a dense field of windsurfers between Riva and Malcesine.

Masts break. Sails tear. Lines tangle. Wings twist. Shouts. Movement. Chaos. Two paragliders and around twenty windsurfers involved. The Ora, usually a gift, becomes the start of a full disaster. Completely underestimated.

By the time I free myself and hitch a ride to Malcesine, the chaos is already everywhere.

I try to calm things, explain, organize. Cameras appear. Reporters take photos. In the end, no one is seriously injured. Luca and Wastl are unharmed. Soaked. Shaken. Insurance details are exchanged. The damage is significant. Our wings are destroyed.

We withdraw quietly to Arco. Flying is over. The next day we climb. Hard. As if we have to balance the day before. Then we drive back via Oberstdorf, drop Wastl off, and Luca and I return to Aarau.

Urs wastes no time. He puts a newspaper on the table. Big pictures. Paragliders. Windsurfers. Lake Garda. A text about ski instructors, mountain guides, trainees. Alarm bells.

He just smiles slightly:

Departure tomorrow. Four a.m. Breakfast at three.

The next morning, after breakfast, he takes us into the basement and hands out gear from another time. Heavy nailed boots, loden trousers, coarse wool jackets, caps, scratchy underwear, thick twisted hemp ropes, poor gloves. I have no idea where it comes from.

Then he says:

We’re climbing the Matterhorn👉

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