The Dufourspitze is the highest peak in Switzerland and the second-highest in the Alps. It sits at the heart of the Monte Rosa massif—a chain of giants straddling the Swiss-Italian border. Surrounded by massive glaciers and fellow 4,000-meter peaks, it offers one of the most breathtaking views on the planet.

For years, climbing the highest peak in my home country lived in the back of my mind. But mountains dictate the timeline, not us.

Then came the winter of 2017–18. It was a historic season; some of the largest snowfalls in thirty years were recorded, and almost every face in the Alps became skiable. The mountain was calling.

One day, three Norwegian skiers came into the shop I managed, asking about the route. Halfway through our conversation, a thought struck me: Why not join them? They weren’t sure about the route details, so they immediately accepted. It was a team formed on the spot, bound by a shared goal.

I had recently skied the Schwarztor, a classic ski tour that leads to the bottom of the Gorner Glacier. I knew the conditions were perfect. It was easy to convince the Norwegians to ski the Schwarztor first for some warm-up powder turns before hiking up to the Monte Rosa Hut from the glacier floor.

The snowpack was so deep that open crevasses were barely visible. After some epic turns, we reached the Gorner Glacier and stopped for a short break to switch from ski mode to climbing mode.

The hike up to the hut was stunning. Everything was covered in fresh powder, like a sugar-coated wonderland. It was late March, 1:00 PM, and windless. After an hour and a half of hiking, I could see the heat getting to everyone. There was a visible overtiredness in the group. We knew the next day’s walk to the summit would be much longer, and we needed to save our energy.

Summit days on the Dufourspitze require a super early start. We woke up at 3:15 AM and began skinning up around 4:00 AM.

Besides a short, steeper traverse section, the glacier has a perfect gradient for a smooth climb. As the scenery evolved, we found ourselves immersed in the middle of this huge, silent world. But after three hours, I started feeling my legs get heavy. I had done some walking that season, but nothing this long or this high.

It was around this time that the Norwegian friends started to slow down. Eventually, they made the hard call: they would stop about 500 vertical meters before the saddle.
That last 500 meters were by far the hardest part of the climb. I was incredibly glad to be on my hard-boot setup; it was lighter and more efficient than the soft boot system many skiers use, saving my calves when the slope got steep. I doubt I would have had the energy to summit on a heavy soft-boot setup.

As I pushed on, the temperature began to rise. A question formed in my mind: Should I go for a solo summit mission on the ridge? Or call it a day and enjoy some powder turns back to the hut?

As I got closer to the snow summit, I noticed a group of Spanish climbers I had met the night before at the hut. Four of them were there, but three were too tired to attempt the final ridge. One of them, Alfonso, was still keen.

We decided to rope up together.

I took the lead. I was better acclimatized, and this was Alfonso’s second 4,000-meter peak—he had only done his first a few days earlier. It was a partnership built on faith and a shared desire to reach the top.

Once we got higher on the ridge, things got spicy. The ice was blue—glassy and hard, bluer than I expected.. Neither of us had extensive experience on icy ridges, so we took it easy. We placed ice screws now and then for protection. They gave us peace of mind, but they also slowed us down. Placing protection always takes longer than you think. That’s the game you play in climbing: fast and risky, or slow and safe. We chose slow and safe.

Once we reached the rocky section, I felt at home. As a keen rock climber, this terrain suited me. The pace picked up, but we were really starting to feel the heat and the altitude.

In the back of my head, I worried that my partner could slip, given his lack of experience. The progress was slow but steady, and in hindsight, it was good that Alfonso was being extra careful. Even if the pace felt slow to me, I made up for it by not having to place any more protection. The ridge itself had plenty of solid, pointed rocks that made perfect natural belay points.

It was a perfect day. Absolutely zero wind and no clouds in the sky—a rare event at 4,500 meters.

There was quite some powder on the ridge, as not many people had been climbing after the recent snowfall. This required careful foot placement to avoid slipping on smooth rocks.

Suddenly, I felt air coming in through the tube of my CamelBak drinking system. Fxck, I thought. It felt super hot that day, not a breeze in sight. My head was slightly dizzy. I started getting worried about the way back.

I had only packed 1.5 liters of water for the climb. That’s probably enough on a cold day, but given the warm temperatures, it was definitely not enough. Heavy and hydrated, or light and dizzy. Tough choices sometimes.

Sooner than expected, I saw the cross—what a relief to have reached the summit.

Standing on top of the Dufourspitze is one of those moments where you just stop and laugh—partly from exhaustion, partly from pure disbelief. The view is absolutely jaw-dropping. Every direction you look, it’s just peaks and glaciers stretching forever, like the Alps decided to show off.

The down-climb back to the Satteltole went a lot smoother than we expected. We both started flowing like we had climbed that ridge plenty of times. A light breeze greeted us halfway down, feeling like a blessing from the gods to my dry mouth and slightly spinning head.

Alfonso and I had only just met at the saddle earlier that day—some quick handshakes, a shared glance at the conditions, and a mutual "Yeah, let’s rope up together." Basically two strangers trusting each other’s instincts. And somehow, it worked perfectly.

Once we got to our skis and board, we lost no time. We stepped right in, knowing that from there, it was a powder carpet all the way to the hut.
The conditions were exceptional: perfect, light, slightly wind-settled Alpine powder. We enjoyed every single turn we had earned on the way up, aware that these kinds of powder conditions are rare in these mountains. The wind usually packs everything down.

What took us five hours to climb, we skied in probably 15 minutes. It felt like a blink of an eye, and we were back at the hut.

After a cold beer, Alfonso stayed in the hut, and I headed home.

The sun had set a while ago, and I found a very thin layer of ice on the flat glacier. I glided over it like I had never experienced before, bringing me to Furri way faster than I expected.

I had waited 10 years for the perfect conditions. Standing there, gliding home in the dark after a day of ice, rock, and powder, I knew it was definitely worth the wait. The mountain had given us everything: the challenge, the partnership, and the perfect descent. That’s the deal we make with the Alps. We bring patience; they bring the magic.