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You notice those days from the beginning, if you have an eye. The signs are clear to anyone who can read them: stable high pressure, crisp air, and an extra backpack placed next to the desk. You notice them from the complicity, from how people look at each other, from how they work, fast and efficient, to finish their tasks as soon as possible. When the nice spring weather comes, when the green meadows come back, well, it's inevitable. Better, it is natural: it would be unimaginable that people whose job it is to develop, design and create tools to live your dreams in the mountains were not themselves eager to spend in the mountains as much time as possible.

Alice, Simon and Marta leave their desks at practically the same time. They have a bus to catch, and buses don't wait. Of course: only a few tens of kilometres separate the Salewa Headquarters in Bolzano from the Gardena valley, and using public transport allows you to reduce the environmental impact of your passions. Moreover, this way nobody has to drive and stay focused on the road; time flows better, chatting among friends and admiring the incredible South Tyrolean landscape.

The Dolomites are not a playground. They are young and beautiful mountains that create and define a unique environment made of rock, animals, plants and humans. They are not a playground: they are monuments, created by no one and available to all those who want to confront themselves with their amazing magnitude. It’s not a playground, and being here is not a game.

Some things are simply part of your essence, of who you really are, deep down inside. There are things you can’t deny, and calls you just can't silence. At most you can postpone them, waiting for the right moment.

Alice stretches out in the evening sun, checking the map. Simon takes a picture, looking at the unravelling of the path through meadows and stones. Marta smells the air, filling her lungs with the scent of spring in the mountains.

Time to set off, and to go fast. Not for haste: because it's when you go fast, when you squeeze your body in that sweet effort that you really feel alive. Not for lack of time: because life is not measured in minutes, but in density of experience.

The path winds along, caressed by the light of the sunset. It's almost time to pull out the head lamps. Almost: because this is the magic hour, the hour of the enrosadira, the one in which to sit, be silent, fill your eyes.

An eternal moment, and it's time to start again. It is time to continue, to walk, to learn who you are.

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