Since I’m now apparently considered the one who explains the locals’ own routes back to them, I’m duly assigned to find the start. And so, having picked up the correct track, I manage to convince Jacopo that it’s better to push through the brambles rather than follow it to its end. Shortly after, back on the right path, we find the fixed lines and set off. The route is well bolted and Lucio is not intimidated by the vegetation, quickly finishing his pitches. Now it’s my turn: an initial pitch, with a hidden hold inside a crack, forces me into moves it’s better not to describe in detail. We set off into the overhangs. Here I call on Willy to describe how our hopes remained just that: “the natural embodiment of determination fades in the face of pale thought. And thus deeds of great importance and weight are diverted from their natural course: and even lose the name of action.” After passing the first bolt, I clip into the aid ladder. The pitch is done almost without touching the rock, but it feels like I have an elephant as a counterweight, such is the rope drag. To rest, I give my next lead to Jacopo in exchange for his last one. Jacopo, because style matters, performs in his Moschino jeans, making balancing moves on the etriers. Following him second, the music changes—the route seems entirely free-climbable, but that’s a discussion for another time. Given the overdose of style (and the fatigue starting to kick in, and Jacopo’s insistence reminding me that the last pitch is mine), I try to balance the style ledger again, using the excuse of a wet slab to pull on no fewer than four bolts on the final 6a+ pitch. We reach the summit without seeing a single person all day. Incredible for being at Medale on a perfect weather day, isn’t it?