Respected voices, with Reinhold Messner leading the way, have long argued that the relationship between humans and mountains is not one of domination, but of dialogue. A form of communication, not conflict. Hervé Barmasse has learned to listen to that dialogue, to master and refine it—transforming it first into personal experience, then into cultural and environmental advocacy.

On the occasion of the first chapter of Vibram’s ‘Voci dalla Montagna’—a series of talks organized by a brand inherently aligned with the cultural soul and philosophical-sporting approach of Barmasse—we asked this son of the Matterhorn to reflect on the core values that define his relationship with alpinism.

What followed is a rich conversation with a true Game Changer—in every sense. An exceptional athlete who understands that above all, he is a human being shaped by the mountain and its timeless teachings. Together, we try to open new, virtuous routes—on the rock and beyond.

You came to alpinism after a skiing accident—at a time when you were on track for what looked like a brilliant competitive career. What was it like to go through that kind of transition at such a young age? And what did you find in your first deep, personal contact with alpinism?

“When I had that serious accident, I was among the best in the world for my age category—in both downhill and giant slalom. But it became immediately clear that I would never return to being the athlete I had been. In moments like that, you lose your sense of direction. Just before, you had this very specific idea of your future: maybe one day winning World Cup races, going to the Olympics… At sixteen, you dream of things like that. So of course, it was a difficult time. I tried to return to competition—I gave it my all for two years. And I don’t regret it, because all that effort taught me something. But I simply wasn’t able to get back to who I was before.

Once you realize you can no longer compete at the level you were used to, the real challenge becomes something else: redefining yourself, finding your place in life again. I’ve always said the person who really made the biggest step at that time was my father. He brought me to his mountains. This was part of a family tradition—my grandfather and great-grandfather were both alpine guides, mountaineers, explorers—but it was my father who said, “Now I’ll show you the world of tradition.” The kind of mountain life you’re born into, not the one you choose. That transition was incredible. I discovered something else that could be part of my life—something that could make me happy.

Alpinism is a very different world, a different kind of sport from skiing or snowboarding. You’re not competing with others—you’re competing with yourself. And that was the most beautiful, meaningful realization for me. All outdoor sports have some built-in competitiveness, but alpinism teaches you to measure yourself only against yourself.”

As you’ve mentioned, alpinism runs deep in your family—almost like a cultural lineage, passed down across generations, both materially and spiritually. Given your narrative approach to the mountain, how deeply do your roots run into this culture? And what role has mountain literature—its legends and storytellers, both universal and local—played in shaping your vision?

“I believe it’s important to have a broad, well-rounded understanding of the world—not just of your sport. And that kind of perspective doesn’t come only through action, but also through knowledge: through literature and history. Mountain regions have always been fertile ground for oral traditions. Many guidelines, values, and unwritten ‘rules’ were passed down by word of mouth—never written down. Why? Because mountain communities, for many reasons, had later access to formal education. But those teachings—shared orally—are still incredibly meaningful.

In my case, things were different. I come from a family with a strong cultural tradition—in the highest sense of the word. My great-grandfather taught in Turin, my grandfather was a professor, and my father followed that same path, at least for a while. So in my family, there was always this idea that mountains weren’t just about action—they were about reflection, thought, vision. Not a place of isolation, but of openness. If you think back to how the mountains were seen in the 1500s or 1600s, literature described them as dangerous, chaotic, even repulsive—something to avoid. But that changed. Today, we see mountains as spaces for play, health, sport, joy. That shift wasn’t just athletic—it was cultural. And that distinction is essential. Many athletes, after their competitive careers end, continue to live within that mountain dimension—if they truly love the outdoors, sport, and nature. But that kind of commitment only happens if there’s a clear inner vision behind it—a layered thought process—not just habit or routine.

The mountain is something that makes me feel good. In that sense, we can even talk about the idea of ‘mountain therapy’—a concept that already existed in the 18th century. It’s no coincidence that even back then, people saw the mountains as a form of healing.”

“If someone asks why you go to the mountains, don’t show them a photo of you posing at the summit. Don’t show them your best technical moves either—because that’s you, your ego, not the mountain. The mountain is everything around you, around us. It is pure beauty. Tonight, show them the beauty.” What does beauty mean to you? Do Hervé Barmasse the human and Hervé Barmasse the athlete find beauty in the same moments, in the same places?

“First, I think we have to define what we mean by beauty, which is so often reduced to something purely visual. And it’s true—mountains do offer incredible visual beauty. The landscapes, the natural spectacles, the sublime… Nature, in itself, is a source of aesthetic wonder. But then there’s another kind of beauty—one that, without drifting too far into the spiritual, is the beauty of ascent. It’s often a metaphor for life: the journey that builds your inner self. And the mountain lends itself well to that metaphor, because its paths lead upward. Climbing becomes a kind of inner elevation. And ultimately, what is that inner elevation if not the pursuit of happiness? That’s the kind of journey the mountain gives you.

Yes, the mountains are known for hardship, risk, and raw effort. But if that were all, no one would seek them out. There’s a kind of beauty that leaves something behind—both outwardly and inwardly. It makes you feel good. It’s the beauty of the soul. And that’s something truly meaningful. I think everyone should seek that kind of inner balance—that state of harmony where you feel at peace with yourself and the world around you. Oddly enough, I find that balance in the unbalanced morphology of the mountains. And to maintain that balance, I remind myself that before I’m a mountaineer, I need to be a person. I emphasize that often—especially today.

If you look at the world of professional sports today, it feels far removed from the real needs of our society, from people’s lived realities. It wasn’t always like that. There have been athletes who sparked genuine cultural and political change. That kind of presence has largely faded. There’s a growing poverty of thought among athletes. Many just focus on being athletes—and nothing more. Maybe it’s because sports have become so structured, so deeply tied to sponsorships and marketing… There’s little room left for freedom. It used to be different. Athletes used to take a stand. And I’ll say it again: being a champion is great—but above all, you need to be human.”

Speaking of sponsorship and marketing—in this event, you associate once again your story with the legacy of Vibram, a company that has taken root not just commercially, but culturally, in the Italian and international mountain world. How important has your relationship with a heritage brand like this been to your journey?

“My relationship with Vibram began in a very particular way. At first, I didn’t know the company in depth—I was more familiar with its historical impact on the outdoor world, especially through the visionary figure of Vitale Bramani. If you think about alpine history, Vibram played a key role with the invention of the carrarmato sole, which was a real revolution. In mountaineering history, it’s like one of those before-and-after moments—like the first ascent of Mont Blanc, the Matterhorn, or Everest. Vibram truly changed the way people move through the mountains. Not many companies can say they’ve done something of that scale.

To me, Vibram was first and foremost that: a brand that shaped history. Then, over time, we got to know each other better. And from that came a relationship based on shared values: looking ahead, nurturing a vision, believing that innovation isn’t just about making things easier—but about improving people’s lives. I’m talking about well-being, health, community, happiness—all the themes we’ve been discussing. 

I admire that Vibram always keeps its eyes on the next step. And often, those steps aren’t conventional—they’re the kind that make you say: “Let’s go do something that doesn’t exist yet.” That’s the kind of thinking that keeps a company alive and relevant. Vibram was built on innovation, and it still views the world through that lens today. Its legacy is both recognized and recognizable. How many times do you walk into a store, pick up a shoe, turn it over, and look for that yellow octagon? That says a lot.”

“The mountain we return to is never the same one we left behind. Now more than ever, it’s not about where you go, but how you get there.” You often speak to the environmental consciousness of your followers, and sustainability is a core pillar of your approach to mountaineering. In your view, what are the real turning points needed to change the path of modern civilization—especially as it now threatens even the most sacred natural places, like the world’s great peaks? Has your recent experience on the Gran Sasso taught you anything new—insights, warnings, or guiding principles?

“When we talk about mountains and sustainability, we often use the wrong language. We hear things like “We need to save the mountains” or “We need to save the planet.” But that’s a flawed mindset. It’s not the mountain that needs saving—it’s us who should protect what’s left of it. The reason is clear: consider that over 80% of the world’s freshwater originates in mountain regions. That fact alone should make us stop and think. Without water, there is no future.

There are many ways to live more sustainably, but even the word sustainability is at risk of becoming meaningless—an overused term. Everyone talks about melting glaciers—we’ve been discussing that for decades—but melting is just the effect. The real question we should be asking is: what’s the cause? One answer is carbon footprint. So what are we actually doing to reduce it? Personally, I’ve made changes in my own practice. As a mountaineer, I used to do four international expeditions per year—now I’ve cut it to two, sometimes one, sometimes none. It doesn’t mean I’ve stopped doing what I love. It means I’ve found a different way to do it—both as an athlete and as a human being.

Sustainable development, in the end, is about creating a new kind of dimension—not just a physical one involving legs, lungs, and strength, but also a mental one involving thought and intention. Sustainability is about balance: finding a new equilibrium between the human footprint and the way we choose to live on this planet. It’s not about going back to being cavemen. It’s about finding a new way forward. And yes, athletes and mountaineers can help lead that change. For example, we can choose to explore the Alps or the Apennines rather than always flying to the Himalayas. That’s one reason I admire Kílian Jornet—he’s drastically reduced his in-person participation in trail races, events, even conferences. And technology can help us make these choices more often. At the end of the day, it all comes down to making concrete decisions. And, I hate to say it because I’m part of the category, but we mountaineers and outdoor athletes don’t always take that step. We like to travel, because it’s helped shape who we are. I get that. It’s shaped me too. But we’re also incredibly privileged. And that’s exactly why we need to do more.

That’s what the Gran Sasso project was all about. I saw a satellite image from the European Space Agency, and it just struck me—it looked cool. I didn’t know much about the area. I didn’t even know the names of all the peaks. But that single moment of curiosity and imagination was enough. I traveled to Abruzzo and was introduced to every peak. It was simple, yet deeply meaningful—not just for the mountains, but for the people. The people I met, and continue to meet, are a vital part of what gives these journeys real value. Sometimes, planning everything down to the last detail takes away from that. Taking away some tech and adding a bit of human contact—a taste for genuine adventure—is a form of real courage. Because an adventure, if it’s truly real, should at least once make your legs shake. In the mountains, you come close to your limits, and when you’re right there—right on the edge—you tell yourself: “Okay… but now I really have to find out who I am.”

Your path as a climber—and as a person—has been full of first ascents and new routes. What goes through your mind when you realize you’ve added something new to the map of human exploration and knowledge? Is there a competitive drive in your vertical quest? Or is it more of a vital, inner necessity?

“At the core of it all is a deep hunger for new experiences. Every experience helps you grow—not just as a mountaineer, but as a person. The Gran Sasso project is a perfect example of it. If you’d mentioned it to me five years ago, I probably would’ve brushed it off. Maybe I would’ve said: “Yeah, but what should I do there?” And yet, fast forward to now—and I think: “Wow, that was amazing.” Trying something different, something that doesn’t have to be trendy, or cool, or successful in the eyes of the world… That’s where the magic happens. It’s about living something new, for yourself—for your own inner growth. At the end of the day, that’s what we’re all really chasing: something that makes us feel good. That brings us real joy.

We keep coming back to the same question: what actually makes you feel good? I think today we need to learn to step outside the frameworks of success, numbers, likes, approval. We need to try doing something just because it brings us joy. Even though it’s hard—it is hard, and it always will be. It’s not easy to tune out all that noise. But that’s the whole point. That’s the power of it. The Gran Sasso crossing was exactly that: one of the most deeply joyful experiences I’ve ever had. I’m talking about real happiness—rare, authentic joy, the kind you only feel a few times in life. And it happened on a mountain that few people would’ve ever considered.”