High in the Swiss Alps during the late 1980s, where snow swallowed sound and peaks pierced the sky, there lived a long-haired cat named Tomba — a feline who seemed to believe the mountains were his birthright.

While most cats curled up by fireplaces, Tomba followed climbers into the deep alpine wilderness. Icy ridgelines, frozen switchbacks, and steep ascents above 3,000 meters were simply part of his territory. He trained with no one. Carried nothing. Yet somehow, he kept pace with seasoned mountaineers as if he had memorized the terrain in another life.

Climbers joked that Tomba chose his climbing partners carefully — sniffing backpacks as if selecting who was worthy of his silent guidance.

Then came the moment that sealed his legend.
On one climb, Tomba abruptly left the marked route. Minutes later, an avalanche thundered down across the very path they had been taking. Snow roared. Ice shattered. But every climber survived.

Coincidence? Instinct? Something more?
No one could say for sure.

What they did know was this: when Tomba moved, you paid attention.

He disappeared in 1993, but near the Gemmi Pass, his story still drifts through the cold mountain air.  Not just a cat. Not just a companion.

A quiet guardian of the Alps.