"The ridge - a ski boot's width between heaven and nothing."
The slopes glisten white - but our destination is higher up. More remote. Colder. More real. With every step on the skins, our breathing becomes more rhythmic, our thoughts quieter. The beacon replaces the sieve, the touring skis the gold panning board. We climb through the wintry Sertig valley near Davos like modern-day gold prospectors. In search of powder and a moment that is worth everything.
Overnight, the wind has drawn new lines: soft waves, frozen tracks, absolute silence. Only the rustling of the jacket and the clicking of the bindings break it. "The Gfroren Horn lives up to its name," says my touring buddy Martin, breathing warmth into his fingers. No wonder: the sun is still hesitant.
The valley recedes with every meter of altitude, the view widens. The ascent follows the course of the valley before leading to the north side of the mountain. The terrain becomes steeper and rockier. The final ridge is narrow, a good width of ski boot between the sky and nothing. A misstep? Not a good idea. Now every step counts. And then: summit happiness at 2,747 meters. "Wow!" No more words are needed. The rest is told by the mountain landscape on the summit around Martin. His breath hangs in the air, the silence echoes.
