The Story of Ultrafly

We came here chasing altitude in Europe. Ultrafly—our deranged accomplice—was already whispering before dawn. Said it wanted stone, sweat, speed. We laced up tight and grinned. Grounded by our Vibram® soles, we lunged into the alpine unknown.

Ibex watched us from their cliffside posts like little horned sheriffs questioning our choices. They didn't think we belonged here. Ultrafly begged to differ.

It clawed up vertical scree and bit rock with some kind of obsessive devotion. It's split carbon plate flexed over roots and rocks that cackled with desire to see us stumble. But instead, we got far and fast, ripping through sheets of civilisation en route to even weirder terrain.

By the time we looped back to the valley, the shoe was splattered with mud and a smugness that comes only from first place.

Back at basecamp, Ultrafly vibrated from the day and murmured, "Let’s do it again tomorrow". Of course, we said yes.

What is Lava Loft

There are places only some should go. The Dolomites aren't friendly, but they'll make an exception if the gear is right.

Lava Loft led us like a dog-eared map: we looked up and saw that mountain is a small word—this open-mouthed beast was something else. Then the cold came in.

More than once the frost bit at our faces, but Lava Loft bit back, our cores and arms warm and kept in working order for the march.

Trails wound through and over rocks as big as fallen ogres. We moved with the urgency the wind pushed at us, teeth gritted, knees high against its current. We fell into a sweat we couldn't feel, moved off the skin before it could settle thanks to down bonded with gold flakes moving vapour outward like a deep, earned exhale. Only salt. Ghost traces of our exertion.

Fog burned off to sun. Ten tiny ounces packed into our bags, pockets, even underneath a hat. Forgotten.

Later, at camp, we'd look back and realise: all that had stood between us and ill fate was this light, pored layer of invincible down.