On August 25, Edu Marín, together with Juan Pablo Caballero, completed the second ascent of Egoland on the south face of Marmolada in the Dolomites, climbing the entire route free from the ground to the summit.

More than a climbing achievement, this ascent became a deeply personal journey shaped by challenge, patience, and commitment and a powerful expression of Edu Marín’s vision of what true adventure in the mountains means. This is his story.

For nearly two years, I was completely immersed in a demanding, deeply personal project: opening my own climbing gym in Lleida. It required all my energy and focus, and during that time I stepped away from long expeditions and major adventures.

Eventually, I felt a growing need to reconnect with my essence - with what truly makes me feel alive. That inner pull led me back to the great mountains of the Italian Alps, and more specifically to Marmolada, in the heart of the Dolomites.

To me, Marmolada represents the purest expression of adventure. It is the birthplace of traditional multipitch climbing, shaped by a strict, uncompromising ethic: minimal protection, maximum responsibility, and a relentless pursuit of difficulty. It is a place steeped in history, where commitment and ethics define the true spirit of climbing.

I chose Marmolada for all of this - and more precisely for Egoland, a line that embodies everything I believe adventure climbing should be.

Egoland is not just about difficulty: it’s about total commitment

Egoland is a 500‑meter route graded 8c/+, widely considered the first modern multipitch climb on Marmolada. By “modern,” I mean that its first four pitches are bolted - the only way to free them, as the rock offers no opportunities for natural protection.

Above these pitches, however, the character of the route changes completely. Fixed gear becomes scarce, replaced by knifeblades, cams, and occasional rock spikes. The climbing turns more serious, with long, exposed sections high on the wall where protection is minimal and often uncertain.

For me, the true essence of Egoland lies in this unique combination of extreme difficulty and complete commitment. On the upper pitches, protection fades away, and you are forced to move forward almost instinctively - reading the rock, trusting your intuition to find the right line.

And that’s where the real danger lies: even a slight deviation can leave you unable to protect yourself or retreat. This level of exposure demands absolute presence. And that is precisely what makes Egoland so extraordinary.

Climbing has always been about sharing.
The people make the journey.

This ascent was different from the very beginning. For the first time, my usual partner - my father - was not with me. Athletically and personally, we were an incredibly strong team. We never abandoned a project; we always saw things through to the end. We didn’t even need words - a single glance was enough to understand everything. And our laughter in the hardest, darkest moments is something I will always carry with me.

But time passes. My father will turn 74 this year, and the intensity of that flame is slowly fading. Accepting that reality is not easy.

At the same time, climbing has always been about sharing. It is one of the things I love most about it - a social act, enriched by friendships and by the people you meet along the way. Not climbing with my usual partner became an opportunity to connect with new people, to build new bonds, and to imagine new teams shaped by passion, humility, resilience, and motivation.

Failure is never the end.
It's where growth begin.

Just before leaving, an accident threatened everything. I crushed my middle finger with a hammer, rupturing capillaries and causing internal bleeding, swelling, and complete immobilization.

A period of rest was inevitable. Nevertheless, I continued to travel, using that recovery time to connect with my local contacts, rekindle personal relationships, and work. It turned out to be an unexpected but valuable pause.

When my finger began to improve, I returned to climbing too quickly. The injury reopened, forcing another full week of rest. Two consecutive weeks without climbing seriously endangered the project.

I wasn’t in shape - that was clear. And for the first time, failure felt like a real possibility. Yet this vulnerability transformed the challenge into something deeper. There was only one way forward: to try.

Waiting is also part of the ascent.

The weather was hostile - rain, cold, and a wall that stayed wet for weeks. But unexpected things are always part of big projects, and over time I’ve learned to embrace them.

Instead of fighting the conditions, we adapted. We trained whenever possible at Vertik Dolomites, where we felt completely at home, and remained patient. Staying mentally strong during that waiting period was essential, because when the window finally opened, we needed to be ready.

Those slow days created space for connection. The refuge became a second home - an extraordinary mountaineering family where work, values, and tradition are passed down from generation to generation. We shared moments that will stay with me forever, alongside local climbers who passed through during brief breaks in the weather.

Waiting became part of the ascent.

The team and the challenge.

As the project intensified, the physical strain began to accumulate. Juan Pablo’s knee started to suffer, and I worried about pushing him too far. That’s when I invited Marcello Bombardi, a strong Italian climber and a longtime friend from my competition years. He joined without hesitation.

I knew there was a real possibility that Marcello would climb the route before me. But it didn’t matter. If anything, it pushed me to improve every day, to rise to my best level. Who would succeed first became secondary.

We began the ground-up attempt, alternating leads. When we reached the 8c/+ pitch, it was my turn. I fell near the top after a small mistake. Marcello followed and sent it.

I tried again and split my finger open halfway through. Blood and pain forced me to stop. In that moment, I chose to fully support Marcello, alternating leads with him all the way to the summit.

I felt genuine happiness for his success - and at the same time, the weight of my own failure.

Leading from the ground to the summit.
Exactly as I dreamed it.

Failures teach lessons that success never can. The key lies in how you handle them emotionally: they can become fuel for improvement, or excuses to quit.

During my years of competition, I learned that victory only comes after learning how to deal with defeat. When things go wrong, it hurts - but that pain also brings clarity. It is there that adaptation, change, and growth begin.

I stayed focused. I returned to training. For nearly two weeks, I trained alone and in silence, waiting for the moment when I would finally feel ready.

And then it came.

I climbed every pitch from the ground to the summit, leading each one, freeing the entire route for the first time in history.

The mental and physical exhaustion was immense. I had to give everything I had to make it happen. From the ground to the summit, on lead - exactly as I had dreamed it, exactly as I had imagined it, and exactly as I needed to do it.