“I expected snow, not icy concrete,” Rich shouts from about twenty feet behind me. Halting, I lean into my ice ax and gasp for a few quick breaths of the frigid February air. We’re halfway up a steep 600-ft snow slope. Time does strange things when you’re zoned in and kicking steps. “I know, let’s take a minute” I mumble back. “It’s probably best,” Rich retorts. “This could be where that one climber slipped and cracked his femur.” I shudder. “Yeah, I can see why, let’s stop here and grab a snack. It’s really packed down solid now.” We both plop down in hardened divots of the icy hard pack. Looming above towers a 650-ft icy couloir, the first objective of our adventure. Sprawled before us lies the tiny mountain town of Lillaz, our humble refuge for our week in Italy’s northern Alps. With my back crammed into a snow dugout and my rucksack precariously resting beside I finally can appreciate the grandeur of the valley.
Every year hundreds of climbers and thousands of Nordic skiers flock to this rugged corner of Italy’s Gran Paradiso National Park. Lillaz isn’t Chamonix. You won’t find raucous crowds or a flashy après ski vibe. It’s a resilient town with a unique history and an esoteric sense of solitude. One doesn’t stumble aimlessly into this valley. Everything about it is intentional, the inhabitants, the intrepid bands of ice climbers, and the deep ruts left behind by the endurance skiers. It’s deliberate and yet unassuming. One experiences Lillaz for a reason.
Lillaz rests in the historic Aosta Valley forty miles from the French border and three hours from Turin, the capitol city of Italy’s Piedmont region. The journey from Turin Airport into Italy’s least populated region whisks one into antiquity. As we speed past the medieval castles and ancient vineyards, the alpine walls of the valley envelope us. Dead ahead sits the most impressive fortress, the Castello di Fenis with its mighty buttresses and unscalable towers. It’s impossible to not contemplate the past during the journey into the valley. This region has played a role in Italy’s history for thousands of years. The very name Aosta originated with Caesar Augustus after his generals violently wrested this region from barbarian tribes in 25 BC. But it’s not Caesar that captures my imagination on this drive through the plains of the Po River valley, instead it’s Hannibal of Carthage, Rome’s most capable adversary.
Although historians debate the exact location, it was Hannibal that bypassed these precipitous crevasses, towering ledges, and alpine heights with 100,000 soldiers and 40 African elephants during his journey from northern Africa to modern-day Italy in the Second Punic War. The endurance required is almost unimaginable. In similar fashion and a few centuries later, another historic figure traversed this dangerous valley to reach fertile fields of Italy. The meteoric young French general, Napoleon Bonaparte etched his name into military lore by crossing Switzerland’s Saint Bernard’s Pass and into the Aosta Valley with 40,000 troops in the Spring of 1800. Bonaparte’s southern advance was halted at the Italian Fort of Bard, which we unwittingly speed past on our highway journey into Lillaz. These historical episodes reveal that at great costs a few passed through this inhospitable valley, but most would never dare to inhabit this austere region. This valley is rugged, and its inhabitants are no strangers to its allure and hazards. Understanding the history of this region helps contextualize the modern adventurer’s experience.
The area surrounding Lillaz is an alpine adventurer’s paradise with over 140 multi-pitch ice routes and fifty miles of Nordic ski track. There are two parallel valleys that extend from the towns of Lillaz and Cogne—Lillaz and Valnontey. Beginning at the town of Cogne, all Valnontey’s routes rest within view of the 13,323 ft mountain, Gran Paradiso. Rich and I spent three days of climbing in Valnontey and two days in Lillaz. The route—Lillaz Gully—that Rich and I climbed the first day was six pitches of a combination of steep snow, easy mixed sections, and waterfall ice; a perfect route to loosen the nerves and stoke the excitement. There are few locations in Europe that offer the assortment and variety of ice climbing lines in such a close vicinity. The British make the trip across the channel when they tire of the Scottish storms and weather cancellations on Ben Nevis. The French are here to avoid Chamonix crowds. The Italians, well, because it’s home. Wherever you may call home and whether you seek long days of vertical ice or beautiful days winding through Nordic ski trails, Lillaz is perfect.
After our mid-slope snack, Rich and I continue towards our morning objective. The couloir’s ice is in perfect condition. Utilizing dual ropes, Rich leads the first pitch while I take the second. Swapping leads increases our rate of ascent and keeps the body warm. Each section completed offers a wider and more beautiful view of the valley and Gran Paradiso. Climbing in the Aosta valley requires total focus. One must constantly remain present and aware of the sounds, and dynamic nature of the ice. From the thundering of avalanches careening across the opposite sun-soaked side of the valley to the soft thud of an ax striking a hollow section of ice, all must be heard and understood. We top out after the final pitch, 4.5 hours later, toes numb, hands unable to grip, but with beaming smiles. There really is no such feeling as the completion of a climb. Cold beer and savory Italian pizza spur our descent. That night, over wine from one of the region’s top vineyards we swap tales with two of our friends, Baz and Annabelle in Lillaz’s top ice climbing restaurant—Bar Cascate. I can think of no better way to end a day in the mountains.
The next morning early before the sun has emerged from behind the ridge, Rich and I hungrily stumble into the lodge’s dining room. Three separate bands of climbers huddle together, discussing the day’s agenda over thinly sliced prosciutto, peaches, and buttered crescents. The four young and haggard Italians offer a welcoming nod. The French duo barely recognizes our disturbance. The light chatter continues unbroken. We unassumingly slip into our seats, joining the room’s quiet anticipation. It’s a mixture of excitement and wonder, all stirred together by a unifying respect for the valley. We’ve come from the far corners of the world with one task, to explore Aosta’s alluring beauty. Suddenly, the sun begins to emerge from behind the Gran Paradiso. Like a signal flare all seem to notice. It’s time to climb.
Bryce Mitchell is a contributor to Pushing Horizons.
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