A few years ago, I was hiking alone on an Italian mountain pass in Trentino. Dusk was already settling in, but as I stood at the peak of the circular trail, I couldn’t resist the lure of a thick wall of clouds approaching. I waited in awe, celebrating the moment and capturing every angle with my drone, completely losing track of time. By the time I started down, the sun had set, leaving me to navigate the path in darkness. This was during COVID, so I was utterly alone, feeling a rare sense of vitality and oneness with nature—exactly how I wanted it.

Yet, I was not truly alone. The mountain sign with its distinctive emblem had warned me, though I had ignored it with a light heart. There were, perhaps, other “wanderers” lurking in the shadows.

As I began my descent, a deep, guttural roar echoed from the direction of the path leading back to my car. Chills raced along my spine, and I tried to rationalize it, convincing myself it sounded like the engine of a Harley Davidson. But I knew only one other car had been at the remote trailhead, likely long gone by then. The nearest road was three kilometers away, and a larger road lay at least ten beyond that. This sound was no motorcycle.

A frantic search online brought me to a video of a bear producing that very noise. Now, I understood the meaning behind the mountain’s emblem.

There was no turning back; the way I’d come would take another three hours. I took my flashlight, steadied myself, and began the descent, following all the safety guidelines I could remember. I sang improvised German songs and clanged my metal cup, finally reaching the mountain’s base unscathed.

But as I passed two ancient herding huts, I froze—two gleaming eyes stared back at me from the distance, piercing my soul. Nearly petrified, I retreated into one of the huts, consulting my trail app and maps. To my dismay, the path home lay directly in the direction of those reflected eyes, which I was now certain belonged to the roaring bear.

There was no alternative. To the right was a sheer drop, and to the left, the mountain loomed. I had to confront my fear. Steeling myself, I geared up, amplified my songs, and waited until the eyes moved away for at least five minutes before daring to pass.

I survived, but the intense, raw sensation of being alive far surpassed anything I had anticipated.

Later, I discovered that a couple had been attacked by a bear in this exact region the year prior. This experience stayed with me, inspiring this kimono’s design, which also draws on the fierce energy of Berlin’s underground scene—capturing that visceral feeling of being alive in an untamed environment.