I received a message from my sister whilst guiding a trek in the Dolomites. Had I heard about the accident of one of Germany’s most famous and finest mountaineers. With barely any phone reception, I had not. My first reaction was to brush it off. She will be fine, I thought. Laura Dahlmeier was not just an exceptional mountain guide, she was a world champion biathlete, an Olympic gold medalist, and a role model for countless female mountaineers. My sister had followed her career as a biathelt passionately for years, cheering her on through every winter season. And I started following her expeditions especially last year, when I happened to be in the Himalayas at the same time. While Laura Dahlmeier was making a record-breaking solo ascent of Ama Dablam, I was scouting new trekking routes for Shanti Treks, watching her progress from below in still amazement.

The news of her death a day later hit me hard. She was an experienced mountaineer, mindful, attuned to the mountain, with a deep sense of awareness. She knew what she was doing. And yet, she was hit by sudden rockfall, which is one of those risks that can never be entirely ruled out in the mountains. A tragedy like that is always hard to comprehend. I felt the fragile balance we all navigate up here. The mountains are majestic, yes. But they are also wild, unpredictable, and sometimes unforgiving. Back from the trek, I read an interview with Reinhold Messner. He said that mountaineers like him and Dahlmeier live in a world of their own. A world full of contradictions that most people will never fully understand. And yet, a passion must be lived. Picasso once said, the meaning of life is to find your gift, as in your passion, the purpose of life is to give it away. Someone once told me how lucky I am to have found mine. But this week, I walked with more humility than ever. My thoughts kept circling the tragedy. Each step felt like a quiet reflection on how quickly the mountains can turn, how fragile our paths really are.

Precisely because Laura Dahlmeier was so experienced, so thoughtful and responsible, her death shook me all the more. She wasn’t reckless, yet she knew the mountains, their dangers, and had a deep respect for them. That she lost her life to a sudden rockfall was hard to comprehend. It felt so contradictory: someone who knew exactly what she was doing, who moved with care, and still, something happened. Maybe it was this very contrast that stayed with me throughout my tour. On the one hand, I was reminded of how quiet and serious life in the mountains can be. On the other, I witnessed more carelessness, and above all, more cluelessness, than ever before.

The Alta Via has become one of the most popular long-distance trails in the Alps and with popularity comes consequence. The Dolomites are having their moment, yes, but it is bittersweet. The trails are busier than ever, and more and more people come ill-prepared – physically, mentally, and ethically. For the first time ever I felt the need to ask fellow hikers if they are doing ok, I whitnessed dangerous passing attempts on the trails and I picked up more cigarette butts and banana peels this week than I care to admit. Trekkers with full camping gear and flying drones, which both is forbidden in the Nature Park, have become part of the landscape. It hurts to see beauty treated so carelessly.

And yet, the beauty endures, if you know where to look. I adjusted my trekking route from the traditional path and planned in detours to lesser-known huts where possible. We still caught those quiet, misty mornings, when the sun rises behind the pale limestone towers. We heard the silence between footsteps, the breath of the group, the distant call of a marmot. The Alta Via Uno is a masterpiece, but like all great works of art, it only reveals itself fully when respected. When walked with intention, not consumption.

What made this particular trek unforgettable, though, was the group I guided. All strangers at first who I gently supported into becoming a team. One returned for her third trek with me, the others for their second. Over the course of the week, through the rhythm of long days and shared effort, something beautiful unfolded. I challenged them to see where caution was needed, where growth was possible, and how fear could be navigated, not avoided. I worked with them to develop a sense of judgement, respect for the terrain, and confidence in the face of fear. I saw them celebrate how far they had come, physically and emotionally. I helped hold the space for that transformation to happen. And by the end, some were already talking about meeting again at next year’s Transalp. To bid farewll, one of them hugged me tightly and said, “This was the best experience I had all year.” What more could I ask for?

Being a mountain leader is a job soaked in beauty and responsibility. It is not just about showing people the way, but about teaching them how to move through these places with care, with humility, and with awareness of their limits. Because the mountains are not pink sugar-coated postcards. They are raw, wild, and alive. Situations can change in an instant. The mountains can offer peace, transformation, and deep joy, but only if we approach them with respect. And yet, in the end, sometimes even respect is not enough. The mountains do not negotiate. They do not differentiate between expert and beginner, between prepared and careless. They simply are. And that is exactly why our awareness, our humility, and our presence matter so deeply. Today my work feels more fragile than ever, and yet more important than I imagined.

And for those already longing to return to the silence of high trails and the golden light on limestone walls — there will be another Dolomites journey this September. Through the heart of the Rosengarten (all info here), where the rocks blush at sunset and the path winds gently between past and present. I will be there. Maybe you will too.

Let’s cross mountains together.