I hand her the rack. She hands me the small pack. And she’s off, going up slightly overhanging arête, then lured around the corner to some perfect jams. For an island in the middle of the Med it feels surpassingly alpine. My thoughts wander. A swallow fighter pilots by, whizzing inches from the rock. I think of friends back home (wherever that is these days) and find a strong urge to wish them here. That’s always the conundrum with travel. You want to tell them how great it was, but not so great to sound as if you have a bad case of gloat. It is a disease that affects many travelers, even seasoned pros. 

Which is, I suppose, where the usual sign-off on the back of a postcard comes from—Wish you were here—a cheap and rather insincere gesture. Especially Sard postcards, which nearly always feature a white beach, a sea cliff, and the brilliant blue-green water that is so clear it makes your eyes ache. But in some ways I mean it. In Sardegna I’ve found myself wishing I could bring many friends and a highly select group of family members. Just for a few days. And yet at the same time is doubly satisfying to be climbing with Caroline. 

We wander up a limestone pillar, jutting out from the slab. It’s airy and the sun is intense and warm. It’s one of those climbing days you live for, a day that keeps you motivated to search for more perfect lines. 

We top out on a well-rounded summit, the unearthly limestone shaped by wind and water. It’s a moonscape with small trees and bushes in keeping with the guidebook’s title Pietra di Luna (rock of the moon). We rap the route paying particular heed to the core-cutting edges. We’re down in time for the walk out without headlamps, blissed out with the satisfaction that only comes from doing longer routes.