A BAD DAY......

The morning light painted the towering limestone spires of the Lake Garda Mountains as we racked up beneath the infamous 'A BAD DAY......' A formidable Grade 8 challenge, its name always sparked a nervous chuckle, but today, we felt ready. The first few pitches were a symphony of precise movements on perfect rock, the exposure exhilarating. Then, as if on cue, the sky began to scowl. Wisps of cloud thickened into an angry grey mass, and the wind, initially a gentle whisper, began to howl through the chimneys. By the fourth pitch, a notoriously tricky traverse, the first cold drops splattered onto the rock. We were committed.

Route-finding became an exercise in blind faith through the gloom. On the crux slab, slick with rain, my foot slipped. A heart-stopping moment, the rope catching me just above the last quickdraw, leaving me dangling, rain plastering my hair to my face. The 'bad day' truly began. We shivered, our hands numb, but there was no turning back, only upwards. Hours later, soaked and utterly spent, we pulled onto the summit ridge. The view was obscured by mist, but the sense of accomplishment burned brighter than any sun. 'A BAD DAY......' had lived up to its name, but we had faced it, endured it, and emerged, perhaps a little wiser, from its stormy embrace.

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