Christmas Eve afternoon. Recently returned from the glaciers and the wind of Patagonia. I go into my garage and see my snowboard and my snowshoes dusty from at least two years of inaction. They seem to be begging me to be used. On  Monte Lussari in the Julian Alps near Tarvisio, there is  sure to be snow.

I pull out my old backpack. I throw in some gloves and a change of clothes. I bring out the boots with the laces now reduced to shreds. I throw everything into the car and then do the rounds of Christmas greetings. “Is there stewed tripe where you’re going?” “I have to go, sorry, best wishes!” It is almost ten o'clock in the evening when I arrive at the foot of the slopes. At least five snow groomers are going up and down to prepare the slopes for Christmas. I watch them work. Their lights on the white snow are a real spectacle. They are moving fast as though dancing. I prepare my equipment.

Minus six degrees. I put on my snowshoes, gloves, a backpack with the snowboard and the change of clothes for when I arrive. No water, no food. I have eaten and drunk enough. I begin to climb on the edge of the piste that the snow groomers have not finished working on yet. Two pass me by slowing down, curious to look at me. I wave. It’s Christmas Eve. They let the madman go up into Christmas night without intervening. The starry sky is extraordinary. The snow reflects the light from the villages in the valley. There is no need to turn on my head torch. The initial enthusiasm soon gives way to a slow panting that accompanies the creaking of the snow. I follow the piste that has not yet been groomed and moving upwards I look at the sky. A long trail of a shooting star crosses the sky dotted with endless lights. “Look after my children” is the thought that comes to mind as I walk slowly up the snowy ramp. The shooting star fades slowly as though it wished me to look at it until the end. Orion, on a carpet of other stars, rises imperiously above me, while Aldebaran glows with incredible power. It is an enchanted night. Definitely. Christmas night. Everyone is far away, in their homes celebrating. Only a lunatic is climbing up the piste in the starry silence of the night. The lights of the valley seem to follow my steps and repeatedly I turn back with the impression that someone is following me. But it is only the thoughts that I had left in the car in the valley and which, increasingly frozen, are still trying to attack me.

The long black firs mark the edge of the piste, playing hide and seek with countless stars. Halfway along the trail, I’m breathless. Resilience. Breathe slowly and walk even slower than your breath. When you’re tired, you can still walk as much again. Slow down, as though diving; when you no longer have air, it eliminates the thoughts. Slow down. You'll last longer. You’ll get further. The snow rises up towards the summit. One step and then another. Silent and slow like an old man. Remember the motto of Santiago: “If you want to arrive young, walk like an old man”. I go up into the night. Looking at stars and black tops of silent trees. Maybe I should be scared. Of the silence, of the night, of the unknown. Maybe. But in the meantime I climb slowly and the top of the bell tower appears from afar, then the roofs, finally the lights of the small village already immersed in sleep. The tiredness vanishes as soon as I arrive at the first houses.

I leave my snowshoes and snowboard against the wall and head to the church. It’s eleven o'clock. Everything is silent and already asleep. I peer through the still lit windows of a hotel. A woman is reading near the fire. Far in the valley the Christmas lights go on and off. Up here everything is immersed in the endless blanket of snow embroidered with eternal stars. The church is closed, of course. A year ago in Portugal I was alone again on Christmas Eve, with a tin of tuna in an albergue of the Portuguese Camino, in an isolated mountain village. A woman had brought me a piece of cake. Now I was here. In my Friuli. Returning from another long journey to discover green and eternal giant isolated amid huge glaciers and large blue lakes. The bear that has always lived in me had once again led me to savour the silences of my land. Albeit still close to what the good workmanship and religiosity of man had created. I breathe the goodness and energy of creation. Christmas Eve.

I’m about to set off down again. Below the church, three lads are smoking outside the only bar with its lights on. “Is it open?” “What do you need?” “Just a glass of water; I don’t have a penny with me anyway” “Come in; it’s Christmas. Drink something with us”.

In front of a beer we get to know each other in the space of five minutes and it’s as though we had always been friends. We drink and talk about each other. Each with his wishes, with the expectations for his life, his work problems. The lads have finished their shift in their respective bars and restaurants here on Monte Lussari. “Over 300 servings in just four hours. Today was a full house and tomorrow with the slopes so well groomed and with the sun there will be even more people”. It must have been a long day at work. But now they are all together. “It’s midnight! It’s Christmas! Happy Christmas to all of us!” At one in the morning I leave them, happy to have met them, here amid the snow and the silence of this strange Christmas night.

I slip on my snowboard, afraid of not remembering the movements anymore. Two curves, and the body settles into position, remembering all the necessary positions in the remote memory of the muscles. I go down gently, enjoying the snow of an untouched and perfect piste. The snow glides like on the waves of the sea and accompanies me while I fly downhill in the night with a clear mind and a light heart.