
Alpine Four-Thousanders
Twelve years.
Eighty-two summits.
Countless stories.
For many years, the four-thousanders accumulated almost unintentionally, without a plan. Only when there were few left did I start seeking out the ones that remained. Yet each ascent had to have meaning, so it often didn’t follow the easiest route. And not every plan succeeded. In the following chapters, you can read about the spirit of my fast & light ascents and the intense week that led up to that very last four-thousander.

All the Alpine Four-Thousanders
Alps, Europe
82 x 4000m
1st Czech, 3rd youngest man
X. X. 2010 Stralhorn
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9. 7. 2022 Grand Pilier d' Angle
alpinism, ski-mountaineering
Over twelve years, Matěj gradually climbed all 82 four-thousand-meter peaks in the Alps, becoming the first Czech to accomplish this feat. Along the way, he was joined by 20 different companions; he summited 40 peaks solo, covering over 115,000 meters in elevation gain. During this period, he stood atop a four-thousand-meter peak a remarkable 110 times. For the vast majority, he avoided any cable car access.
The four chapters written for *Montana* magazine capture the experiences of these ascents, often via challenging routes.
1. Chapter: Traverse of Obergabelhorn – Zinalrothorn*
2. Chapter: South Pillar – Schreckhorn traverse to Lauteraarhorn (UIAA 5)
3. Chapter: Traverse of Rochefort – Grandes Jorasses (UIAA 5)
4. Chapter: Peuterey Integrale (UIAA 6) and the 82nd summit
,,The future of climbing and alpinism is how fast and how light you can go in alpine style”
Ueli Steck
Chapter 1.
Traverse Obergabelhorn–Zinalrothorn
From village to summit and get back for lunch…
My vision of single-day ascents of Alpine four-thousand-meter peaks. Without support. Relying solely on my own strength. From the last village, from civilization, to the summit and back within a few hours. A balance of speed, minimalism, and efficiency. Attributes that define modern alpinism.
Täsch village, two in the morning, the alarm echoes off the metal walls of the van. Impossible to ignore. Everything is ready from the night before. I eat, dress in the minimum gear I prepared. A thirty-minute ritual. I open the van door. Into the challenge! The night's dreams turn into reality – the Obergabelhorn-Zinalrothorn traverse from the valley and back. A single push!
Täsch – the last village accessible by private car; beyond this point, it’s either taxi or train. Zermatt is all “electric vehicles.” I choose my bike – an eco-friendly, economical solution that fits my approach perfectly. At 2:30 am, I channel energy from my legs into the pedals. My mind has shut off the signals doubting the sense of today’s goal. Half an hour of pedaling under the moonlight, a half-hour of questioning whether today’s goal is realistic. I shake off the lethargy only by weaving around people leaving bars. Zermatt, unlike I’ve ever seen it.
I lock up the bike and run up Zmutt Valley, missing the right turn a few times. Sure, I could load the route into my watch, but I prefer letting things flow, keeping my mind alert. Running beneath the imposing north face of the Matterhorn, the moon illuminates it like a spotlight on a stage. The parallel is undeniable. Here, alpinism’s history was written; here, climbing’s gold medals were earned.
Two headlamp beams, two figures traversing beneath the north face. I know their goal well – the Zmutt Ridge. They complete a perfect reflection of humanity’s smallness compared to this imposing Wall with a capital W. In two hours, I aim to be at their altitude, though they’re currently 1,500 meters above me. Zmutt Valley is gentle but long, demanding that most unwelcome activity, especially in the morning – running.
Six kilometers from Zermatt, I turn right. Finally, uphill! The direction is crystal clear – the first 4,000-meter peak today will be Obergabelhorn, via its renowned Arben Ridge. My pace is set: 1,000 vertical meters per hour. The meters accumulate. And there are plenty more of them waiting in this alpine climbing terrain today.

Dawn breaks. The beginning of a new day. The rarity of the ordinary. Matterhorn at my back, shaping the spirit of absolute uniqueness. Photo: Jan Zahula
In the early morning, I start without clothing on my upper body. It’s a practical decision. The valley is warm, and I’d need an extra shirt to change into as I reach higher altitudes. This keeps the pack lighter. But it also unburdens the mind, intensifying a sense of fragility and insignificance in what I’m doing. Beneath starlight, the moonlit shadows of peaks, the crackling of glaciers, falling stones, and rushing streams. Where the difficulty rises, the pace slows, and the body stops "heating." Layers are added. Simple math. Live simply.
The Arbenbiwak, en route to the Arbengrat, is why I push past the initial chill. I plan to layer up there. It’s below zero! In the dim light, I lose the path, wandering for fifteen minutes. My hands are numb. Finally! The latch on the door feels like a puzzle, challenging numbed hands. That flash of blue metal brings instant relief. I spot a gas canister and a burner—rescue for my frozen hands and body. Thanks to the Dutch Alpine Club, which manages the bivouac, I thaw my hands. The pain is long and intense, burrowing under the nails.
At half-past five, with feeling back in my hands, my spirits lift. I’m excited to climb the distinctively high-quality rock of the Arben Ridge. Solid rock, unlike the loose rubble so common in Valais, is a rarity here. The 3+ difficulty demands good trail running shoes. Not a soul in sight across the valley. Elegance, purity, and freedom of movement in alpine terrain. Self-reliant, I move quickly along the ridge toward the summit, focused on coordinating each movement, trading holds and steps, devouring the ascent. Only the sun’s play on Matterhorn’s perfect pyramid distracts me.
In the final third, a fresh layer of snow shifts both the rhythm and tone of my movement. Crampons scrape against rock. The combination of Petzl Dart crampons and Dynafit Sky Pro running shoes may not make sense to everyone. But with over twenty Alpine 4,000ers under my belt using this setup, ice isn’t an issue. The odds of my toenails surviving, however, plummet with the hardness of frozen water. Comfort was never on the table.
I reach the summit of Obergabelhorn, 4,073 meters, at half-past seven. Five hours from Täsch village. Via the Arbengrat. Alone. A quick summit photo and one last look at the Matterhorn’s north face. Visions for the future clarified...
I begin the descent, and my worries are quickly confirmed. The conditions suggest this won’t be a free ride. My plans for an hour-long descent or jog down toward the Rothornhütte were, at best, optimistic. A quick inventory check in my running vest confirms it—yes, the rope and harness are indeed back down in the valley, 2,500 meters below. A quick look at my feet: trail shoes and crampons? Not exactly a confidence booster. The scene is completed by rock dusted with fresh snow. I switch from speed mode to emergency mode. Absolute focus and precision in each movement set the rhythm.
Trust in my decisions and abilities. A heightened awareness of my own body. Presence…
I approach an ice-glazed slab, and the solution is in my right pocket — a 120-centimeter loop sling. I thread it through an old piton, then lower myself. This is the last of my climbing gear.
The terrain toward Wellenkuppe isn’t exactly runner-friendly. To put it mildly, I’m getting a brutal lesson from the Wallis Alps. The crampons on my running shoes demand a solid ankle and a heightened tolerance for pain during these traverses.
The combination of weather and conditions — this defines the success of high-speed alpine ascents. This season, it’s been relentless. From Wellenkuppe, it should be smooth sailing! Or so I think, until I enter the couloir, which hands me lesson number two. Farther down, I reach the glacier toward Rothornhütte, where I finally remove the crampons. Ice axe in hand, I break into a run.
Quarter to ten — Rothornhütte. I breeze past the terrace, pausing for five minutes behind the hut to refuel and organize my thoughts. There’s still a thousand vertical meters to the summit cross of Zinalrothorn, and I’ve already climbed twenty-six hundred. Traversing across the glacier and over snowfields, I start encountering descending climbers halfway up. They tell me I started too late; I counter that I left at the right time—from the valley floor, after first tagging another 4,000-meter peak along the way.
Fatigue is creeping in. This state, when the body is pushed to its limits, is something I savor. As a doctor, I’m fascinated by how far human limits can stretch, both physically and mentally.
I traverse into the final couloir and climb upward. Two hundred meters to go, thirty minutes to reach it—that’s the calculation my mind uses to motivate my body.

I climb onto the rock, but just then, a crampon slips off my shoe. That doesn’t happen often, but after five hours, I suppose it’s earned the right. I pick it up, and it takes my exhausted, dehydrated brain a moment to comprehend: the crampon has lost its central bar. This is truly minimalism taken to the extreme. I consider my options. Even duct tape is no help here. A solid argument for descending? Probably. Yet, a descent with one crampon, no climbing gear, in running shoes, with a storm on the way—that leaves plenty of room for an intense adventure.
I climb down the summit couloir. At one icy section, the thought of calling a helicopter crosses my mind. But it’s midday, and I’d hate to disturb the guys from Air Zermatt for lunch. So, I keep going on my own. After traversing the couloir, the terrain eases up, allowing for a quicker pace. I remove the remaining crampon and run across snowfields toward the hut. Without stopping, I continue down into the valley. My thighs are on fire, my head is throbbing, and I fixate on the stream below.
Just outside Zermatt, I stop the timer and cool my body in the mountain stream.

The third unsuccessful attempt to summit Zinalrothorn. The third incredible day on Zinalrothorn.
My goal wasn’t to set a record! It was to move at a quick pace, with ease, fluidly, and with minimal gear, overcoming the natural obstacles of an ambitious route. That’s where I find the greatest joy in moving through the mountains. That’s where I find meaning. The beauty of the mountains and the motion within them lies exactly in this: everyone can find “their own way.” A natural direction. And as long as it harms no one...
Základní informace Location: Wallis, Alpy, Švýcarsko Plan: Täsch – Obergabelhorn 4073 m a. s. l. – Zinalrothorn 4201 m a. s. l. – Zermatt Reality: Zinalrothorn minus 200 m Time: 10 hrs a 30 min, 33 km, 3600 m+ Support: no
Time stamps Täsch – 2:30 Zermatt – 3:00 Arbenbiwak – 5:30 Obergabelhorn – 7:30 Rothornhütte – 9:45 Zinalrothorn (200 v.m. under summit) – 11:00 Edelweiss nad Zermattem – 13:00 |


Finish of the 82x4000 project
Seven days and fourteen Four-Thousanders with Ondra Mrklovský
Chapter 2.
Southern pillar – Schreckhorn – traverse – Lauteraarhorn (5 UIAA)
Wildly ambitious for strongly team. Ben Tibbetts
Time is a limited commodity… We begin the night transfer to the Alps… Grindelwald, Switzerland, and an hour’s nap in a barn…
Our sleep is interrupted by the noise of a tractor. We start packing up, and the week in the mountains begins. “Who’s taking the tent?” Ondra asks. I reply, “Tent?” He throws it back in the car… It’s my first time in the Alps with Ondra, but it’s clear from the get-go that we’re on the same wavelength.
We head towards Schreckhorn Hut. The incredible scenery shakes the body out of the stupor of sleep deprivation. By 3:00 PM, we find a perfect spot to sleep. Sheltered, with a little stream nearby. Yeees! Catching up on sleep, round 2.
At 4:00, the phrase “nearby stream” takes on a whole new meaning. The stream flooded us. But the sunset is spectacular. We won’t let it get to us, and as the last rays disappear, we fall asleep. Four hours of sleep ahead of us.
By 3:00 AM, we’re already heading towards the start of our route: the south pillar of Schreckhorn. We agree the glacier doesn’t call for crampons, ice axes, or even a rope. It’s faster this way.
The bergschrund is no trouble, but the transition to rock is delicate. There’s less snow than usual, leaving only polished rock in its place. We climb sections rated 4 on loose rock simultaneously, without protection.
Using a series of couloirs, we reach the base of the main pillar. Ondra veers to the right, even though our direction is to the left. I stand firmly by my choice! The reason is simple: with my climbing abilities, the left route is simply out of reach.
Climbing the south pillar is excellent. Solid rock and only natural protection. Classic alpinism. The first rays of sunlight warm the rock—and our frozen bodies. We make quick work of the climbing meters toward the summit. The difficulty holds steady at UIAA 5.
After six hours of movement, we reach the summit of Schreckhorn at 4,078 meters. We pause, sort our gear, and stash the rope in the pack, then head toward Lauteraarhorn. Before us lies the magnificent ridge connecting two majestic four-thousanders. The climbing on solid granite is absolutely splendid. The sky is cloudless. We’re soloing, moving swiftly with ease. No time lost on protection.
Ondra accepts the pace and style of our ascent. We watch each other closely to ensure neither of us is outside his comfort zone. Without words… the smiles on our faces say it all. The rope stays in the pack, and our only protection is confidence in our own bodies and their coordination as we do what we love.
Four hours of focus and flow, and we reach the summit of Lauteraarhorn at 4,042 meters. We take a short break. A mouthful of homemade snacks and a quick ridge crossing between peaks give us confidence that we’ll have the descent behind us in two hours.
The next four hours stretch on… First, we descend a hundred vertical meters along the eastern ridge, where the solid rock we enjoyed on the ridge between peaks has disappeared for good. A horizontal section follows beneath the south face. Then another ridge descent, rappels, and scrambling down scree slopes with truly horrendous rock quality. Another rocky ridge, then a snow ridge, a descent onto the glacier, a field of scree, and finally a traverse to our sleeping bags. Four hours of intense experiences—but even two hours in this terrain would have been more than enough.
The day still isn’t over. Fourteen hours of movement are already behind us, with more hours ahead. We manage a fifteen-minute break, but the approaching storm creates a hard deadline. We pass Schreckhorn Hut, and Ondra starts jogging. The reason is simple—he’s not a fan of the section from the hut down. So we run it! With packs on our backs, after fifteen intense hours.
We time our arrival with the storm perfectly. Exactly thirty minutes from the car. Past ten in the evening, we open the trunk, soaked to the bone.
Until midnight, we’re cooking between farm machinery under the barn roof. Tomorrow will bring a five-hour drive, repacking gear, and a midnight start toward the next peaks. But it’s hard to absorb all that after eighteen hours on our feet…
Chapter 3.
Traverse Rochefort – Grandes Jorrasses (5 UIAA)
We arrive in Courmayeur. Stock up on food, grab coffee, pizza, and repack gear. Simple rituals of days in the valley.
By evening, everything is ready, and we’re set for the usual four hours of sleep. We plan to start at midnight. Ahead of us are two vertical kilometers up to Torino Hut, then the full traverse of the Rochefort and Grandes Jorasses peaks, seven four-thousanders in total, and finally, the descent back to the valley and the car. We lie down at 8:00 PM. But soon, we’re woken by rain drumming on the car roof. Fresh snow on the ridge would make the grade 5 climbing sections impassable at speed. We set the alarm for an indefinite delay. At 2:00 AM, it’s still raining. Postponing the traverse by a full day isn’t an option, as the next few days are dedicated to the grande finale: the Peuterey Integrale. We decide on a modified plan, opting to spend the night at Torino Hut. Without using the cable car, we reach the hut by afternoon, and the superb Italian coffee and wine confirm that we made the right call.
It’s 3:00 AM, and we’re leaving the warmth of the hut. Under a star-filled sky, we jog across the glacier, passing beneath Dent du Géant toward the Rochefort ridge. The ridge is delicately icy in places, with soft, collapsing snow in others. But dawn compensates for everything! The scenery becomes even more unique when seen from 4,000 meters. We’ve already summited two four-thousanders—Aiguille de Rochefort and Dôme de Rochefort—and now face a series of rappels down to the Canzio bivouac. The cold is intense. I fixate on the green dot against the white background, pushing toward the bivouac. I wrap my frozen feet and hands in blankets, cracking ice off frozen energy bars. My feet haven’t warmed up; my body is even more chilled. We push on.

Ahead lies grade 5 climbing on the north side of the Jorasses. There’ll be no sun… We run to the base. Not so much for time but to generate warmth! We catch up to a pair who started from Canzio. They missed the start and are chilled to the bone.
We climb smoothly along the route, summiting Punta Young, Punta Margherita, and Punta Elena. We move simultaneously on the rope, sometimes with crampons, sometimes without, rappelling, and occasionally belaying. The ridge’s variety and the techniques required to traverse it are challenging. Just when it looks like we’re approaching easier terrain, another tower appears. “This has to be the last one,” we think… If we didn’t still have the notorious glacier serac to pass under on the descent, we might appreciate the ridge’s complexity more. But time pressures us, and the afternoon sun raises temperatures well above freezing.
Punta Croz, Punta Whymper, and Punta Walker. This trio of peaks, monuments in the history of Alpine climbing, caps off our traverse across seven four-thousanders. We simply cross over the summits that bear the names of legendary mountaineering figures. The traverse is complete, but the adventure has only begun. That’s one way to describe the descent.
It’s like Russian roulette. We dash beneath the feared serac. The reassurance we’d received from Zoban a few days earlier fades as flashbacks from the Marmolada disaster creep into our minds. After five minutes of running under the serac, the safety of a rocky rib provides relief.
We rappel to a lower glacier level, then cross the glacier to the next rock rib. Ondra plunges waist-deep into a crevasse, while I try to take a higher route. I end up chest-deep…
We weave through a maze of crevasses and seracs to reach the next rock rib, Rocher du Reposoir. Descending, downclimbing, and rappelling. We piece together each segment of the path to safety. Ondra recounts how the hut warden cooked them fantastic pasta at one in the morning after climbing the Walker Spur. We have the motivation to hurry. The rib ends, but we’re still picking our way through crevasses.
Finally, we’re off the glacier. We take off harnesses, remove crampons, and jog towards Boccalatte. The thought of that pasta is motivating, but from a distance, I start to suspect…
The hut is unstaffed. Long-term. So, another energy bar it is. Our spirits are lifted by the rest on the terrace, with a stunning view of the valley. By this time tomorrow, we hope to be at Bivacco Borelli and starting the Peuterey Integrale. “Rest day” isn’t in our vocabulary.
The last rays of sun disappear from the terrace. The heat’s gone, but no problem. Ondra takes off running again, so warmth is on the way! 1,200 vertical meters down to the valley. A steady pace brings us to the bottom in just over an hour.
Our warm-up for tomorrow’s ascent of the Peuterey Integrale is complete. Beer, pizza, and espresso chase away any worries. Homeostasis achieved!
