Without television or newspapers. Without radio or social media. One can only imagine how the oral tradition of the mountains, left free to invent, shape and pass on stories, might have narrated the feats of Deborah Compagnoni. It likely would never have dared to conceive the peaks of sporting dominance and success that have shaped the collective imagination of entire generations in Italy and beyond. What it certainly would have done is describe the skiing artistry of the one and only ‘Regina delle Nevi’, ‘Queen of the Snow’, as an inheritance of her land itself: the natural outcome of the rhythms of Santa Caterina Valfurva, of the surrounding morphology, of the habits and gestures that define it. And in doing so, it would not have strayed far from the truth.

There is no point of separation between Deborah Compagnoni and the mountains, especially those of her origins. This becomes evident when listening to her stream of consciousness, where memories and experiences merge into sensations, and every sensation inevitably enters into dialogue with a sincere layer of her identity. With the snowy core of a noble champion who, at heart, has never ceased to be a ‘Mountain Girl.’ 

Within this vast yet strikingly clear existential spectrum, the latest synergy between Deborah Compagnoni and Altavia has allowed us to come into even closer contact with an absolute icon of skiing, and, above all, to isolate the cornerstones of her human essence. The very same cornerstones that give substance and depth to the collection bearing her name. This special interview is accompanied by a visual production curated by Achille Mauri.

If you close your eyes and let your mind drift to Santa Caterina Valfurva, what are the first images that come to you? Can you define the value of this place in your life, both sporting and beyond?

“If I close my eyes and search for the most distant, yet also the most vivid image inside me, I go back to being a child. I see myself in the hotel kitchen, behind the sheer curtains of the window: outside it’s snowing, there’s so much snow, and I’m watching people walking by, pushing themselves along the road with skis on their feet. It’s a memory that remains incredibly vivid. I also told it in a small book of stories that I wrote: that scene is like a flash, almost a postcard. I remember perfectly the hotel’s front door, seen from the side, and the guests coming in and out while the snow keeps falling outside. Santa Caterina and those places of my childhood were fundamental to my entire journey. That’s where I took my first steps on snow, where I learned to know it, to feel it. I spent a lot of time outdoors, even in summer. When I think of winter, I inevitably think of skiing, of the path that later became my life. The emotions I carry within me are all tied to that element, snow, and to the sense of peace that surrounds it. A peace that, for me, has always been a constant. I return to Santa Caterina Valfurva often; I still spend many months there every year. In autumn, for example: it’s one of my favorite seasons. Even in summer I have always lived, and still live, the mountains intensely: hiking, forests, meadows, animals… That sense of freedom has always belonged to me, and I believe it was also my secret in skiing. Before races, to focus, I didn’t need a mental coach or specific techniques: it was enough to return, with my mind, to those memories, to immerse myself in that peace. And immediately I felt the weight of pressure lighten.”

You recently wrote the book A Mountain Girl, which you’ve just mentioned. What still makes you feel like a mountain girl today? And what defines a mountain girl who can remain so, despite a remarkable sporting career?

“What makes me still feel like a mountain girl is, first and foremost, simplicity. As well as the fact that I haven’t changed on the inside. The values that have always accompanied me have remained solid, deeply rooted in me. I’ve lived many experiences in life: not only those linked to races, medals or injuries. Like everyone, I’ve gone through highs and lows, different phases. There was also the period of motherhood, lived in a completely new environment compared to skiing. And after that chapter, there was the return: a natural call back to my dimension, back to the mountains. Perhaps, at first, I stepped away precisely because I was a bit overwhelmed by everything surrounding success: attention, popularity, crowds. I always appreciated people’s affection, having a fan club, but at a certain point that visibility takes away an essential part of life: the private one. I needed to regain balance. So I lived another life, and only afterward did I feel the desire to return: to rediscover my places, my passions, those connected to skiing and to the nature I grew up with. I think I remained who I was also because I like building real, sincere relationships with people. The book was born from all of this: from memories I had in my mind, still vivid, made of emotions and images from childhood. Many of the stories I wrote were tales I used to tell my children and nieces and nephews. At a certain point I thought: I’ll put them down on paper, so they’ll remain. They are small fragments that may also make you smile, but above all they preserve the flavor of another time.”

The place where a book is conceived is often meaningful. In your case, where was it written?

“I wrote almost all of it in the mountains: that was where I felt most inspired. Memories resurfaced strongly, so much so that many more came to mind than those I eventually included. I had promised myself I would write 20 stories, and I wrote 20, but I could have continued with many more. Mine is a family I would define as mixed. My mother has Venetian origins: my maternal grandfather was from Venice and had moved to Bormio. So from that side, I also have a bit of ‘sea blood.’ On my father’s side, instead, the roots are entirely mountain-based: my grandmother was from Valfurva. Our family boasts a long tradition both of farming and of alpine guides. My grandfather, for example, was a guide and ran the Pizzini Refuge, which still exists today and is now managed by my cousins, right at the foot of Gran Zebrù. He was also among those who founded the first ski school in Valfurva. You could say that my story intertwines with the very first steps of tourism in these valleys. My father always passed on to me a strong passion for memory: he’s deeply passionate about stories from the past. He loves telling them, preserving them, and I believe that, in the end, my book is also this: a way of passing things on. Because it’s always beautiful to know where you come from, and to try to pass that on to others…”

Alongside the more lyrical aspects of this geographical, family and cultural dimension, your journey has also included concerns about contemporary mountain culture. Can you outline your ideal vision of it?

“The most beautiful thing would always be returning to memory, to the history of places and traditions, but not those reproduced solely for tourists. I mean something real, authentic. When you still happen to meet farmers or artisans who work the land or materials in a genuine way, almost as it was done in the past, it truly moves me. It’s a sign of continuity, of identity. I believe remembering where you come from is fundamental, and that first and foremost it should be the people who live in these places who are able to live their territory well. To feel part of it, in balance with the environment they inhabit. That’s why I think services for tourists should always be balanced with those for people who live in the mountains year-round. Living a place as a tourist is very different from living it every day, in every season. When this balance breaks, conflict arises. Tourism has brought great relief to certain areas that would otherwise have been abandoned, so it can’t be denied. I myself was able to ski thanks to the lift systems built for tourists. The key is common sense: passing on respect for the environment and for people sincerely, not just for appearances. Respect shouldn’t be a showcase: it should be an authentic habit.”

Which values, details or lessons of the mountains shaped and guided you as an athlete?

“I think skiing is a combination of elements: technique, of course, but also sensitivity, adaptability, awareness of your body and of the environment. The technical aspect is fundamental, but the way you absorb it as a child makes the difference. In my case, everything happened naturally, without forcing. The first steps on snow, outdoor games, that constant contact with the environment: all of this formed a particular sensitivity in me. Perhaps it was a gift, but more than anything it was an innate familiarity with snow and with the rhythm of the mountains. I shouldn’t be the one to say it, but I see the difference between those who become exceptional and those who don’t. That ‘something extra’ often comes precisely from a natural relationship with the discipline, from a personal way of living it. For example, I was very autonomous: I didn’t put too much pressure on myself, I didn’t always follow rigid structures. I trained a lot, but in my own way. I loved inventing training sessions, even in summer. They told me not to ride a bike, and I went anyway: sometimes all the way to Passo Gavia, then continuing on foot. It was all part of my way of living sport. When you do something with pleasure, it becomes your strength. And perhaps that’s what took me so far.”

Reaching such heights, did skiing in any way change or shape your relationship with the mountains?

“I would say no, because my career developed gradually. I reached competitive skiing in the right way, following the entire pathway from the youth teams upward. I was able to experience every stage with awareness, savoring each step, and for that I’m deeply grateful: to my parents, and to the life I was able to live. My sporting career gave me extraordinary experiences: travel, encounters, discoveries. I saw the United States, Japan, Canada, South America… And doing so in those years, between the 1980s and 1990s, still carried a sense of adventure. Today it’s wonderful that everything is faster and easier, but back then every trip felt like exploring a small, new world. That experience enriched me immensely.”

At certain points in your life, you were led to live far from the mountains. During those periods, did you feel the absence of your places?

“At the beginning, yes, but it wasn’t a rejection. It was more a need for distance from Santa Caterina, where everyone was looking for me. I could no longer experience it with serenity: I felt observed, followed, and I needed to hide a little. I lived well on the plains, in cities too, but I missed those landscapes… Opening the window and seeing the mountains, breathing that fresh, clean air. They may seem like trivial things, but for me they were real necessities. I was still fortunate, because I could often take refuge in nature: maybe not in the mountains every week, but almost, heading toward the Dolomites or similar places. So I wouldn’t say I suffered, but yes: the call of the mountains always remained strong, alive.”

When you talk about your approach to the slopes, and to everything that surrounds them, the word “freedom” often returns. What kind of freedom did sport and life at high altitude show you?

“I can say that I experienced the peak of my career with great balance, managing to keep external pressure at a distance: the pressure that inevitably comes from others, from the environment, from expectations, without building barriers. I never wanted to hide or isolate myself from the world. Today, sometimes, I see very famous people or great athletes who seem to live in constant escape: they give something, then close themselves off again, as if they always had to protect themselves. Instead, in every phase of my life, I tried to live well, to remain authentic. I believe the environment in which I was shaped also played a role in this: the team, my teammates, and above all, the places. Our sport naturally takes you far from big cities: you go to glaciers, to the mountains, to places where nature surrounds you and gives you balance back. It’s a huge advantage, even from a human perspective. I think, for example, of Jannik Sinner: he’s an extraordinary champion, he also comes from a small mountain town, and I imagine it’s not easy for him to manage everything that comes with fame. At times, he may miss that sense of freedom the mountains give you. I’ve always tried to protect that freedom. Perhaps the only real moment when I felt it waver was when I returned to Santa Caterina and, inevitably, found myself surrounded by many people looking for me, waiting for me, wanting to talk to me. In those moments, I sometimes had to carve out spaces of personal freedom: to somehow return to breathing that air which, for me, has always been the most precious thing.”

Which other sports have accompanied you throughout your life?

“I’ve always been deeply curious about anything related to outdoor movement. As a child, I loved cycling. I have photos where I’m tiny, already riding without training wheels. I would go around freely, everywhere. I’ve always loved cycling. When I joined the national team, we were told that cycling was an excellent form of training and that we should get a road bike. I remember buying mine with the help of my grandmother: she contributed to paying for it. From that moment on, the bike became an inseparable companion. As soon as I had a bit of free time, I would head out alone, climbing the roads of Santa Caterina, often reaching Passo Gavia. Once, the woman at the mountain refuge gave me kitchen gloves because my hands were frozen. Later came mountain biking. In the United States, it was already being talked about, and in 1986 they sent me a mountain bike: I was sixteen or seventeen. I was fascinated by the idea of going off-road, onto trails. Later on, the national team decided that cycling “slowed down preparation too much” and told us to stop… but I continued anyway, because I loved it too much. In general, I trained constantly on the trails around Santa Caterina: sprints, jumps, agility exercises in the meadows. I still remember those places: they’re vivid in my mind. When the snow arrived, instead, I loved cross-country skiing. I never loved the gym: first of all because there weren’t many, and then because I’ve always preferred training outdoors. I was drawn to the freedom of moving through space. The idea of locking myself in a room to lift weights never suited me. Even today, when I see videos of modern athletes constantly training in gyms, I think: “Why stay indoors, when the world is out there?” I did everything outside: jumps, running, balance, coordination, even on uneven terrain. Perhaps it was this approach that gave me sensitivity, coordination, body awareness. I’ve always experienced these aspects of performance in a natural, spontaneous way.”

What impact did skiing have on Deborah Compagnoni’s human journey, in terms of cultural exchange?

“As I said, every trip was a discovery. That was one of the most beautiful aspects of that life: getting to know new places, different cultures, but also returning to places I had already seen and finding them changed. I remember, for example, my first time in Vail, Colorado, in 1989. I returned ten years later, in 1999, at the end of my career: it felt like seeing a familiar place that had been completely transformed. Every mountain showed me a different soul. Some experiences were more ‘classic,’ others very particular and unexpected. Each one, however, left something with me. Perhaps because wherever I went, I always tried to recreate the same kind of bond I had learned to build in my own mountains: a deep, silent bond with nature and with places.”

Does the mountain still spark this sense of wonder, of the sublime?

“Absolutely. The mountains continue to fascinate me every day; they are always a new discovery. I consider myself fortunate because I still have the opportunity to travel and to discover different mountains, different rocks. I love direct contact with the mountain: I enjoy climbing, touching it, feeling the living material beneath my hands. And what I love most, perhaps, is exploration. Going alone, walking, crossing the threshold of the forest. I like the forest, but not when it’s too dense, perhaps because I grew up in Santa Caterina, where vegetation ends quite early: at 1,700 or 2,000 meters you’re already out in the open, high up, immersed in light. The mountains are an environment that feels like home to me, a natural habitat. They don’t frighten me: on the contrary, they fascinate me in every form, in every season. The mountains still manage to surprise me.”

How does the project with Altavia fit into this relationship?

“The project with Altavia was born from this deep bond. It’s something very stimulating, growing year after year, we’re already at the third collection, and each time it brings new ideas, new investments, new perspectives. The goal, however, remains solid: to maintain authenticity and simplicity, to offer quality garments at an accessible price, and to bring more and more people closer to the mountains. And to do so while conveying important messages: awareness, respect, curiosity, but also introspection. Because the mountains, for me, are not only about sharing: they’re also a place where you can be with yourself, where you can protect your emotions without always having to show them. It’s a way of rediscovering that deep bond we all, ultimately, have with nature, and that we risk losing.”