Climbing the Matterhorn via the Hornli Ridge. A dream comes true.

I met Laura last year through her dear friend Maurizio – we’ve been skiing together for years. An avid hiker exploring the Alps’ 4000m peaks, we’d planned our first outing in the Monte Rosa group. But the weather, as sometimes happens, wasn’t cooperating out West. Laura, unwilling to miss a mountain adventure, had a little Dolomite wishlist ready and pitched it to me: “A hiking peak, a via ferrata, an easy climb… all lovely ideas, of course.”

I’ve always believed (and told anyone interested) that if curious, lively people want to “hire” me for a day in the mountain, they should aim for something they couldn’t possibly do alone or inexperienced. So I replied: “Laura, I’d rather you save ferratas and hikes for solo days. Let’s do something more interesting… like climbing!” With a mix of fear and curiosity, she took the challenge. And she loved it – first at Cinque Torri, then on the Sass di Stria Arete (what I jokingly call “Falzarego’s Matterhorn”).

Between climbs, we savored the summit of Tofana di Rozes. Dreams deserve to come true, though early-season conditions made the ascent trickier. Standing on the shoulder with crampons, I almost felt like I was on Castor in the Monte Rosa range.

That’s how Laura discovered the vertical side of mountains. It pushed her to get fit – even training indoors (you’re a legend, Laura!). She learned climbing isn’t synonymous with “extreme,” but offers routes for every taste and skill. A huge step, especially when you’re no longer a kid. Later, she sent me a photo of her desktop background: the Vallée Blanche Glacier from Helbronner, with the Aiguille Marbrée and Dent du Géant looming. Ever the instigator, I teased: “C’mon Laura, next year we’re climbing the Dent du Géant!”

Long story short: we crushed the Dent in late June, despite the high mountains already smelling “rotten” – the approach to Salle à Manger felt like a rubble heap (worse than usual), and the summit ridge was crumbling. I don’t recall exactly when the Matterhorn idea emerged, but the Dent du Géant is my favorite test run. Planning it for September was risky (a single snowfall could end the season), but in this hot summer, we pulled it off with last-minute luck and logistics.

For me, it was my 11th time on the summit of the Matterhorn (sounds like a joke compared to local guides, but as a city-born guide living in the Dolomites, it’s a sweet little win). For Laura? A dream realized. Who’d have thought she’d stand atop the Matterhorn via the Hornli Ridge just one year after touching rock for the first time? Deep down, I think I was the first to believe in her. And I wasn’t wrong. Heart, passion, grit, and preparation make the leap possible.

I’ll leave you with Laura’s own words – I asked her to write about this journey, to voice her emotions and inspire others afraid to dream big. And if you ever want to peek at the Matterhorn… just to dream… click here.

THE NOBLEST CRAG
The Matterhorn, the perfect mountain.

This story begins years ago, at a birthday celebration with a gift to unwrap: I pull off the ribbon, tear the wrapping paper as tradition demands, and read the title of the book I’ve been given: “THE NOBLEST CRAG” by Reinhold Messner.
I thank the giver and place it on my bookshelf. Occasionally, passing by, this book would wink at me—until one quiet autumn evening, I finally picked it up and embarked on a magnificent adventure.

Reading the history of the Matterhorn’s conquest, this perfect mountain, stirred extraordinary fascination in me. Learning how those valiant men—with their limited knowledge and rudimentary gear—reached that feared yet coveted summit made me sigh and dream awake. To walk in those climbers’ boots was like living a parallel life, one that captivated me so deeply I began unconsciously craving that high place where their hearts found peace.

Life then brought special people to my side. Sensing my tenacity, stubbornness, and passion, they chose to help my dreams surface and placed their trust in me. Enter Alberto, a mountain guide from Cortina d’Ampezzo—and with him, climbing. At first, I feared it, but soon discovered it suited me perfectly. We started in the Dolomites: Cinque Torri, then Cima Grande di Lavaredo… until his proposal came: “The Matterhorn next year.”
I said yes—though I clearly didn’t grasp what that meant. I brushed it off, climbing all winter in indoor walls and crags until May, when I reunited with Alberto for the extraordinary Selvaggio Blu trek (whose ruggedness would prove vital training for the Matterhorn).

Summer arrived, and Alberto proposed the Dent du Géant, facing Mont Blanc. An overwhelming landscape. The day before, we warmed up on the Aiguille d’Entreves—touching rock, making peace with it. Everything went perfectly, and I was euphoric.

Now the test was passed, and my long-awaited dream seemed possible. Alberto consulted other guides who knew me—all gave their approval. First milestone achieved: The Matterhorn was on! But the scorching summer threatened our plans; high temperatures battered the Alps, closing the Matterhorn routes. Hope faded…

Until a Friday in early September: “Laura, conditions are good! Depart for Zermatt Monday, summit Tuesday. You have two hours to pull the trigger.” I had to choose—fast. Huts needed booking, Alberto needed to organize.

A significant personal commitment made me hesitate—but the dream’s pull was too strong. I called my family. Their understanding didn’t come easily (this sport defies comprehension for outsiders), but then a message arrived: They’d felt my joy. My heart lightened; my mind settled.

And so, one miraculous September day—barely a year after learning what “climbing” meant—I stood in Zermatt, face-to-face with Him.
The Matterhorn loomed immense, breathtakingly beautiful. Finally at its feet, my dream was becoming reality; obsession would soon release into gasping breaths and sweeping vistas. I gazed reverently, realizing these tales had seeped into my bones and stayed.

Like those valiant climbers of old, I now reckoned with my own stubbornness and passion—pounding my heart until it found peace up there.
Fear of failure, respect for this sacred mountain, the historic Carrel-Whymper rivalry—all threatened to paralyze me. But Alberto read my thoughts: “Come on, let’s get closer.”

We rode the cable car through dreamlike panoramas to Schwarzsee, then trekked two hours to the Hörnlihütte at the Matterhorn’s base. My thoughts soared; I felt transported—reliving history’s pages. Whymper and his companions climbed beside me.

At the hut, Alberto grounded me: “Drop packs, Laura. We’ll scout the first part of the route in daylight—tomorrow’s ascent starts in darkness.”
Just over a year ago, I barely knew what climbing meant. Now it was my turn: to deploy every skill learned, every hour trained, every stubborn ounce of grit. With infinite trust, I placed myself in Alberto’s hands—his silent, focused client.

The evening passed calmly: a hearty meal, a sunset worthy of masterpieces, packing gear, then bed—heart trembling, emotions sky-high. I was touching the sky with a finger.

Tuesday, September 13, 5 AM. As I joined the procession of headlamps snaking upward, doubt’s darkness—chilling and stifling—threatened my first steps from the Hörnlihütte. But Alberto’s short rope did its work: occasional tugs sharpened my focus on the next move. Dawn’s light began etching the peaks above me, clarifying the purpose that had drawn me here.

Around two hours later, we reached the Solvay Hut at 4,000 meters. The sea… who knows when these rocks lay beneath it? Thoughts drifted as the climb slowed, syncing with my breath and heartbeat.

Step by step, in my parallel world’s bubble, we gained the shoulder, passed St. Bernard’s statue, and finally—the summit. That silent, intimate ecstasy will forever live in my most profound memories: Believing. Fighting. Dreaming. Trusting. Four hands gripping a rope, one life entrusted to another.

Alberto met my eyes, recalling a request I’d made the day prior. We understood without words. My smile widened as I slowly straddled the Matterhorn’s ridge. Downclimbing a narrow passage, crampons bit perfectly into pristine snow. I felt safe—blissfully, utterly safe. A few more steps brought us to the cross on the Italian summit of the Matterhorn.

The dream was now reality. A happiness so explosive it would keep resurfacing in my heart for days.

One summit photo—then descent. Hours flew; no time to waste. Alberto belayed as I moved carefully, dizzying voids yawning below. I never wanted to leave.
A quick snack, then the endless downclimb began—rappel after rappel, rock after rock—consuming 1,200 meters of descent. Hours later, we touched the final rocks near the Hörnli.

And there we were—journey’s end, hearts overflowing with indescribable joy. Joy that will keep me dreaming, simply because the Matterhorn enters your soul and never leaves.