Gianni on the summit of Chuebodenhorn (3070m).

Sometimes circumstances combine to present an opportunity too good to miss. So it was when I found myself self-employed and able to work from anywhere with an internet connection when my wife became pregnant. Her impending maternity leave and the need to move to a larger property to accommodate the new arrival suggested the opportunity for a temporary relocation from our base in Cambridge, UK, and northern Italy was top of the list.

We decided to spend from December 2007 to March 2008 in Italy, giving us three months to adjust to the strains of parenthood before moving, and enough time to get settled back in Cambridge before my wife had to return to work. We lined up a few rental properties in various locations, instantly falling in love with one in the picturesque village of Menaggio, on the western shores of Lake Como. Menaggio boasts views up the lake to the Bregaglia range of the Alps, close proximity to great skiing, and is surrounded by the mountains that served as the inspiration and training ground for the group known as the "Lecco Spiders", which included Riccardo Cassin. Conveniently, Menaggio is also home to a very active section of the Italian Alpine Club and I was fortunate enough to be introduced to one of their instructors, Gianni Greco, on my first day in the village. Thus began a great friendship and a four-month juggling act between family time, work, and play in the mountains.

Language was always going to be an issue. I had no more than rudimentary Italian, mostly relating to food, and while Gianni's English was slightly better than my Italian, we were often at an impasse. Most of the other guys in CAI Menaggio spoke even less English than Gianni, so our trips usually involved lots of gesticulation – a classic Italian trait – and blank faces. I think I managed to communicate that I was predominantly an alpinist who did a little bit of rock climbing, had climbed on ice a number of times and done a total of three days ski mountaineering. While approaching an ice climb a couple of weeks later, I began to wonder if my explanation had been misunderstood when one of the guys on the trip, who did speak English, said he'd heard I was a gun ice climber. Hmmmm. Nothing like pressure.

Icefalls in the Val Febrraro. The author climbed the one on the left.

The trip was part of an ice climbing course being run by local climbing legend Maurizio Orsi and the guy I was talking to was one of the students. I was quick to point out that I wasn't a gun ice climber, but had just done a few routes in Scotland, Norway and back home in NZ. I wondered what the others might be expecting – it had been three years since I was last on steep ice. Getting to the base of the fall involved a lovely walk up the beautiful Val Febrraro near the Swiss border and a steep slog through dense pine forest. The routes were up to 200m in length, with the most sustained climbing near the bottom. I paired up with an instructor who was surplus to requirements, Silvio "like Berlusconi" Fontana, who very kindly offered me the first pitch. Not wanting to disappoint, I took it. The pillar went without too much difficulty, but I blew the exit – finding nothing but rotten ice, one of my tools popped while I tried to pull over the lip and the force threw me back over my front-points, which popped after a certain amount of twisting. The screw probably would have held anyway, but the screamer did its thing, absorbed the shock, and added another metre or so to my fall. With dented pride and a rather sore ankle, I repeated the pillar, found something solid enough to exit on and completed the pitch. Whatever these guys were expecting, I think I shattered any illusions. To his credit, Silvio was very kind and made little comment, although perhaps that was more to do with his limited English. He led the next pitch beautifully and I considered myself well introduced.

Gianni also happened to run the local ski club in Menaggio and kindly kitted me out with ski mountaineering gear, and my wife with downhill gear. I'd absolutely loved the ski mountaineering I'd done previously (two days on Ruapehu and one in Livigno, Italy) and couldn't wait to do more. In late December, I joined Gianni and the gang for a ski mountaineering trip to Surretahorn (3027m) on the Swiss border near Montespluga (1940m), which is where we climbed from. On Ruapehu, the slopes had been firm packed and I'd had no difficulty travelling all over the mountain. However, in Livigno, although I'd found going up no problem, coming down in deep powder had been quite a challenge and unlike any of the piste skiing I'd previously done; my normal technique, fine on groomed or hard-packed snow, caused me to turn into a snowman at every turn. I wanted to get good at this type of skiing but needed practice. Thus, it was with trepidation that I followed Gianni up slopes of deep powder and through steep and narrow chutes that would be a huge test of my skiing ability on the way down. I'd told Gianni I was an "intermediate" skier, but these guys had been skiing since birth and in all kinds of terrain, so maybe our ideas of intermediate were slightly different. Would I embarrass myself yet again?

I was perhaps saved from the steepest terrain by the weather. A blizzard blew in, forcing us to turn around at a shoulder a couple of hundred metres below the summit. I removed skins, locked my bindings in, and, donning goggles and Dachstein mitts, prepared to descend. This was by far the most technical skiing I had ever done and I knew I was out of my depth. Wind crust gave way to powder, which gave way to wet snow followed by patches of bullet-proof ice. This was true all-mountain skiing and I was getting a lesson in it. I was pleased to be falling less frequently than I had in Livigno, but knew I still had a lot of work to do. The descent used up far more energy than the climb and by the time I reached the bottom, I was shattered.

Skinning up Cima Pianchette (2158m).

Fortunately, I was invited back for more two weeks later, this time after a massive dump of snow, to a lower (and less avalanche threatened) peak called Cima Pianchette (2158m) in the Val Cavargna. We climbed from a village called San Nazarro, at 950m, experiencing wonderful views across Lake Como on the ascent before being enveloped by cloud. The descent went much better this time, with only a handful of falls, and I really thought I'd cracked it. However, that illusion was broken just a few weeks later when I joined the team on a climb of the long east ridge of Pizzo Tambo (3279m), again from Montespluga (Pizzo Tambo and Surettahorn guard the Spluga pass between Switzerland and Italy, which is open only in summer). The day was a stunner and the views on the climb were spectacular. The last part of the climb was a scramble up rocks and snow without skis, but I had to stop just short of the summit as my crampons didn't fit the ski boots I was borrowing, and the last part was pure ice. Still, I was happy with my efforts as I returned to the col while the last in the party were arriving. My satisfaction was short lived, however, as the variation in snow conditions on the descent proved to be my Achilles heel yet again, bringing me back down to earth in both literal and metaphoric senses.

Frustrated, and determined to get it right before leaving Menaggio, I resolved to make the most of the remaining opportunities to go ski mountaineering. These turned out to be the best routes of the season for me, both in Switzerland. The first, Pizzo Uccello (2713m), meaning 'peak of the bird', is a stunning precipice of 700m above the San Bernadino pass that can be approached via a slightly gentler route from San Bernadino (1611m). I was hitching on another course so I hit the front with one of the instructors, although he soon left me behind to get up first. Over the next hour, the rest of the group reached the top, photographs were taken and I found someone to descend with. The steep slopes below the summit were powder-laden and for the first time I experienced the bliss of linking turns in the fluffy white stuff. The whole run down to the car park took around 40 minutes and it was some of the best skiing I have ever had.

Approaching Pizzo Uccello (2713m), aka 'peak of the bird', the high point in the distance.

Finally getting the hang of things, and not wanting it to end, I managed to squeeze in one last trip with Gianni and two others on a 1500m ascent of Chuebodenhorn (3070m) in the Val Bedretto. Unburdened by students, the three experts set a mean pace and we quickly ate up the miles. The terrain steepened sharply below the summit and skis were swapped for ice axes. The view was stupendous, taking in nearby Pizzo Rotondo and a distant Eiger dwarfed by the massive Finsteraarhorn. We sat up there for a while, enjoying the vista with perfect weather and no need to rush. The descent was a dream. We linked turns in gorgeous powder, making "S"s down the broader faces before heading into some interesting mixed terrain through forest near the bottom. For once, nobody had to wait for me. It was a great feeling but alas, it was all over; we had to pack up and head back to the UK.

The area surrounding Lake Como is one of spectacular beauty and boasts world-class rock climbing, ice climbing, and alpine and ski mountaineering terrain; it is little wonder that the local section of the alpine club would be so active in such a region. The welcome I received from the locals was humbling and I hope to repay the debt if the members of CAI Menaggio ever choose to visit NZ. To Gianni, Maurizio, Giulio, Silvio and all of CAI Menaggio: grazie mille!