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Finally! We reach the end of the climb and it is no longer raining; all we have to do is walk along the ledge towards the south side of the Cima Grande and call for the helicopter. We sit for a moment; we have to change our shoes.
We open the backpack and we are disappointed to find that there is absolutely nothing dry. We have to empty the shoes like one would a glass of water. Well, the important thing is that we are on top, tired, but alive.
We would like to get moving quickly but the reality is that even the ledge that, under normal conditions one can follow easily without a rope, is now slippery and demanding because of the many centimeters of ice.
So we have to proceed roped up. It takes us longer than a half hour to do what normally takes 5 minutes.
Still, we reach the end of this great effort at the point at which the helicopter has enough space to touch down with its skids. I find my cell phone and call Hansi the pilot but with bitterness I realize the telephone is irretrievably ruined by the water.
I try a couple of times, I open it and dry the contacts of the battery, but nothing works. In the meantime, Paolo realizes I have a problem and tries his cell phone and… it doesn't work. We can't believe it, descending along the normal route in these conditions would be a very tough trial. One last hope: we try with Tony's telephone and… it works. Thank God.
We're ecstatic! Another ten minutes and in the distance we hear the noise of the helicopter getting closer; sweet music to our ears. With great skill Hansi touches the skids on the ledge with the same speed and facility we park a motor scooter. We get on board and with a dizzying dive in less than a minute we are at the hut where we are warmly welcomed. I will always remember the pleasure of eating the steaming bowl of hot soup. I could not hold the spoon because my hands were trembling so much from the cold, so I had to use pieces of bread to dip into the soup in order to eat it. Then, finally, we are in our car heading home. Now it is raining again.
Epilogue
In the evening I call Davide. He tells me that during his descent he didn't think he was going to make it. He had to help the Spaniards who had completely lost their minds and didn't know what to do. Once at the base of the wall he tried to call us with yells and screams, but it would have been impossible for us to hear him. After calling for a half an hour he stopped, disconsolate. He confessed to me that he thought we were dead. And what about us? I think the fact that Paolo and I climb at a level of 8a on the cliffs in the valley is irrelevant. Instead, I am convinced that the difference was the experience accumulated over the course of many years and many outings in the mountains, hundreds upon hundreds of easy routes and difficult climbs, under the most disparate conditions. And I would like to think, to conclude, that an old instinct transmitted to our genes from generations of alpinists and mountain people helped us and guided us in making the best decisions.