Risk is defined as "the possibility of suffering harm connected to more or less foreseeable circumstances, or the chance that a disadvantageous or damaging event might occur."
When it comes to defining mountaineering, there are many interpretations and schools of thought—but all of them share one fundamental, inescapable element: the conscious acceptance of risk. And it’s precisely the ability to choose, voluntarily, whether to expose oneself to certain risks that, in my opinion, makes mountaineering unique. Throughout the expedition, I found myself reflecting on the concept of risk more than once.
Following in the footsteps of Bonatti and Mauri
Our expedition began on June 21st at Terminal 1 of Milan Malpensa airport. We were a team of four: Federico Secchi, mountain guide from Valfurva; Gabriele Carrara, a guide from Bergamo; and Ettore Zorzini, photographer and longtime friend, with whom I had already shared the intense experience of the Trango Towers expedition in Pakistan in 2022.
Our objective was Gasherbrum IV—one of the most fascinating and inaccessible peaks in the Karakoram. We weren’t just aiming for the summit: our goal was to repeat the legendary Northeast Ridge, first and only climbed in 1958 by Walter Bonatti and Carlo Mauri. A legendary ascent that took about two months—and hasn’t been repeated in over sixty years.
People and logistics
Once we reached Askole, the last village accessible by jeep, we relied on local porters and mules to carry our loads. We split 320 kg of gear, clothing, and food into blue expedition barrels, distributing them among the porters and animals. When people talk about high-altitude expeditions, they usually focus only on climbers and mountains. But behind every success, there are many others working hard to make things happen.
Local porters carry 25 kg each on their backs, while the mules take on up to 75 kg. Watching them at work is humbling: they move heavy loads along rough trails, unstable moraines, and exposed terrain with a balance and resilience that leave you speechless. Every time I watch them, I’m struck by how naturally they move through such hostile environments—it almost seems impossible.
Beyond the physical work, the porters are also our link to the land we pass through on our 100 km trek to base camp. In our five-day journey, we pass through several villages where life is simple, based on farming and herding. The houses are built from natural materials like clay and wood, and life follows rhythms very different from our own. And yet, despite these differences, there’s one thing that connects even these remote communities to the rest of the world: the smartphone, which clearly has its role here too.
The serac
After five hours of work with pickaxes and shovels, by 1 p.m. on June 31st, our base camp platforms are finally ready to host the tents we’ll call home for the next twenty-six days. We’re lucky: after a rest day, the weather holds, and we decide to take advantage of the window to start our acclimatization.
We climb up to Camp 1 at 6000 meters, where we spend the night. The next day we continue, and that’s when the first real difficulties begin to emerge. Right away, we realize that reaching 7000 meters without crossing the infamous serac is much more complex than expected. We opt to climb a 55° slope to reduce the objective risk—but the season is dry, and beneath the thin layer of snow, the ice is bullet-hard. Progress is slow and exhausting. We still manage to reach 6900 meters, just below the top of the serac, but we realize we’ve made a navigation error: we’re off route and hours behind schedule. At that point, there’s only one option: descend about 200 meters and take off with the paraglider—by now a trusted adventure companion—to return to Camp 1.
The choice
We return to base camp disappointed but with one clear realization: the most logical, fastest, and least exhausting route to the summit goes through the icefall. Unfortunately, it’s also the riskiest. In 1958, Bonatti and Mauri climbed and descended through it for two months without incident. But conditions today are very different. The glacier is thinner, the climate harsher, and the margin for error even narrower. And in mountaineering, even the smallest mistake can have final consequences.
We discuss it at length, sharing different perspectives on risk. This is where I make my decision. Mountaineering is built on the conscious acceptance of risk. People die in many situations—at work, on the road—often without ever choosing to take that risk. What I love about mountaineering is precisely that: the ability to choose at the beginning. I can decide whether to enter certain situations, whether to expose myself to a certain degree of risk, based on the information I have. And so, I make my decision. A different one from Fede and Gabri. I decide not to cross the icefall and step back from the climb, while Fede and Gabri accept the risk and decide to continue.
Gascherbrum II and the life at the base camp
The weather remains unstable for a few days, but finally, on July 13–14, we get a good window. We decide to use it for an acclimatization rotation up to 7000 meters, this time on a safer and more accessible objective: Gasherbrum II. Fede and Gabri join me—choosing a more cautious route, away from the dangers of the icefall. We reach Camp 2, but that night it starts snowing, forcing us to wait. Still, I leave food and gear up there in case conditions allow for a summit push and a paraglider flight from the top at 8030 meters. Around 10 a.m., thanks to a short weather break, we start the descent. I manage to take off and fly a stretch—saving time, energy, and my knees.
Then the weather worsens again. We spend the next four days at base camp, waiting for another window. The days go by slowly—yet somehow, too quickly. We build a routine: breakfast, fingerboard training, pushups, lunch, a movie in the afternoon, dinner. Every day feels the same, but also different—because with each passing day, we have one day less to play with. As time passes, the central icefall of G4 continues collapsing. Even Gabri and Fede begin to change their minds about the original plan. Unfortunately, time is no longer on our side.
The last days
On July 19th, a bit of stability returns, and we move fast. Gabri and I climb to Camp 2 on G2 to retrieve my gear and fly down, while Fede and Ettore stay at Camp 1 to shoot photos and videos. We leave base camp at 1 a.m. and reach Camp 2 by 9 a.m. at 6600 meters. We have just enough time to rest briefly—and then it’s time to move: the snow is softening under the sun, and we’re postholing up to our knees in a very tight takeoff zone.
We talk it over briefly and realize there’s only one solution: take off, and quickly. We launch and enjoy a spectacular descent with Gasherbrum I behind us. I land just five meters from my tent—a small but satisfying personal victory. We make one last check of the forecast on July 22nd, clinging to a sliver of hope. But the news isn’t good: seven straight days of bad weather are on the way.
The way back
With heavy hearts, we decide to break down base camp a few days early and begin planning our return. The porters and mules will retrace the original route, while we choose to cross the Gondogoro La—a tough 5,500-meter pass that allows us to save three precious days of travel. On the way back, we stop in Khaplu, the hometown of our young assistant cook—a 26-year-old full of energy and enthusiasm, eager to proudly show us his land. We gladly accept.
Walking through the village with him gives us an authentic glimpse into life in these mountains—one that’s often forgotten or overlooked. Of course, we would have loved to attempt the summit. But mountaineering is made of choices—and knowing when to turn back is part of the game. Even without reaching the top, I return home with peace of mind. Not every expedition ends on a summit, but each one brings something valuable. These experiences are deeply enriching—made up of people and landscapes that leave a lasting mark.
