The Dead

As soon as we got off the mountain, we saw the newspaper articles sensationalizing the deaths that occured on the mountain this season.

We had discussed this up on the mountain. We knew things were being exagerated and the such. Newspapers exist to sell themselves, after all.

There have been 6 deaths this season, about double the normal. For a number of 9000 climbers, it is not that high. Certainly lower than the average death crossing the street in a big city.

The first was an Italian, part of a group of 4 with a guide. This is the worst, I think. They kept climbing in a storm, something I have heard criticized by many other guides, as it goes against common sense. They arrived at the summit and then, in zero visibility, started coming back down the wrong side of the mountain, into a glaciar. One died. Help, called too late, arrived when the other three and the guide had already spent two nights in the elements and the storm. He did not survive. The other three were given medicine to be able to climb back up to the summit and down the other side to a place where they could be airlifted out.

The third was someone who was climbing the glaciar. It is not an easy climb, and he died.

The fourth was someone who died of a heart attack shortly after reaching the summit. His body was taken down only a couple of days ago, along with the unfortunate guide's, when the weather was good enough for them to be retrieved.

The fifth was that poor man I have already spoken of, who was hit by a small boulder.

And the sixth is presumed dead, a French man who simply disappeared nearly two weeks ago. It is unlikely he will be found alive now, it has been too long.

Each was mourned by the people who know the mountain best. Everyone grieves these disappearances. And no one likes their deaths to be taken lightly, to be transformed into stories to sell a medium.

30th jan Mendoza

Too hot! I am going to turn into a very cranky, very annoying thing if I have to stay here long! I wanted to go climbing (there is excellent climbing nearby, apparently) but my two big toenails are all black and blue, it will hurt too much, they got too bumped around on our walk down from the high camps.

I've decided to go to Bariloche to go do a bit of ice climbing on Monte Tronador. It will be cool, icy, aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh! Much better!

Keep posted to know how that turns out!

28th Jan route back to Mendoza

It was time to go. The things for the mules had been packed. Our day bags were ready with water and our lunches. Everything was done. And I didn't want to go.

How could I? It was beautiful here, I felt good here. Base camp felt like home. Too bad I have no skills whatsoever that could be useful to anyone in base camp. I'd love to stay.

A round of hugs. A tightening of the heart, many times repeated. I want to stay I want to stay I want to stay. Adrianna looks at me longingly, Chapu is staring at the ground, Rodrigo is drinking mate with friends, looking unusually somber. Nenu and Jaime come to give me a present. A beautiful woven necklace, with a stone from the mountain inside, Inca style. Jaime picked the rock. Nenu wove the little pouch it is in. Jaime wove the string it hangs on. I stare at it. I know I will cherish this, know I won't want to part with it, know I will be heartbroken if ever I lose it.

I really don't want to go now. I am just getting to know these wonderful people. Intimacy is very quick in such a place, where you need to depend on one another, where you share tents and more forced physical closeness than most people ever do, where different body odours are just part of everything else and of no particular concern to anyone.


More hugs, more pictures, more exchange of emails. We should have left an hour ago, we have to go.
The last view of everyone.


And we do, we tear ourselves away, we are driving Lito insane, but I feel I leave a part of me behind. I am glad for the walk ahead. It will give me the time to be with myself and mourn.


Leaving base camp further and further away.


I walk alone, or nearly, for the first 3 to 4 hours.

We spread out into a line about a kilometer long. Lito ahead, then Jackman, then me, then Gerard, the German we met yesterday, then Shum. It takes us nearly 10 hours to reach the entrance to the park. During that time, we mingle, take pictures, change our order of walking.


Confluencia camp, people playing volleyball.



It does me good to be able to use my German. Gerard is really entertaining, very interesting. And a brute, in the most admiring sense of the word! He can walk us all into the ground carrying 30kg on his back! I hid his tent with the things I left for the mules, to lighten his load slightly. I meant to take more, and am sorry I didn't, I got caught up in the goodbyes at base camp.


When we finally get to our bus, exhausted, I feel calm. I'd been really sad a few hours earlier. We board the bus for the 3 hours back to Mendoza. It is nearly dark. I look at the snowy mountain peaks one last time, and feel I will be back. This calms me further, and I can feel serene as we drive away.

Jan 27th, back down to base camp

Although Shum wanted to go up a bit higher this morning, to cross the 6000m mark, he was even worse off than yesterday, and as soon as we were all packed, we headed down to base camp, the only way to make us all better. This should have taken about 2 to 3 hours. It took me more than four, and took Shum over 5 hours. We were quite obviously not yet recovered.

Jaime on one of the breaks he took more for our sake than his.

Jaime stayed with Jackman and me. They insisted on accompanying me despite the fact that I was slowing them down. I tried not to think of the fact that, despite how I told them to please not wait up, I am secretly glad they did. What a big baby! Lito stayed with Shum.

Jaime with his huge load, and the steep paths that blackened my toes.

All the way down, we saw people struggling up. I wished them all luck! We were in a good weather spell now, the wind had died, the clouds had cleared. A few days of perfect summit attempts.


The summit, wind-free for today's hopefuls.



Base camp, tentalizingly in view hours before we actually reached it.


What is a homecoming, when one has known no geographical stability?

It's the people. Not the place. Where people care for you is a home coming.

It's Adrianna, the lady who runs the Aconcagua Trek bit of the base camp, yelling Carmen!!!! And coming to give me a big hug, bringing me to the mess tent and feeding me warm soup as I sat, unable to do anything more than grin. It's Chapu, the cook, and his smile that is equal parts caring and mocking, having a look at my bewildered face and seeming glad to have me back.

With Chapu, Adriana and Lito.

It's Rodrigo, one of the porters, with his hair hanging like algae from a sea rock all around his head, nodding and nodding and saying nothing. It's Miguel, the artist at the highest art gallery in the world, saying "bonjour, lady!" with crinkly eyes. It's Jaime with his unassuming, comforting presence. It's Nenu, the super thin and super strong porter, who gives me caring female companionship and endless smiles.

With Nenu and Jaime


It's the things, too. The toilet where I can actually leave my excrements, to be airlifted out by helicopter, instead of having to collect them and hand them in to the guide with the feeling of handing in a bad piece of homework. It's the shelters that are actually big enough to stand in, instead of having to duck in and out of them. It's the warmth. After the frigid temperatures of the high camp, a few degrees below freezing seem balmy.

I eat, have a quick shower. Forget to rinse my hair, boy, a week without a shower and I already forget how it's done!! Tomorrow, the dust will stick to it and make it dirtier in a half day than a week of high camping has managed to do. I go stand in front of the camera that Miguel the artist has, hoping that Julien catches a picture or two. I write a quick blog entry so that everyone knows that I am fine. I wait for Lito and Shum to arrive.

That night, all 8 bunk beds are occupied: Jackman, Shum and I, the guide Quique, 3 unknown guys who walk in a bit later, and Gerald, a German who summitted today, and as if that were not enough, summitted from high camp 2, not 3, and then walked all the way back down to base camp! "Un animal!" says everyone admiringly. Just lazy, he answers easily. Didn't want to have to worry about setting up and striking so many high camps. His feet are covered in blisters. His face covered in smiles. He has kinds words and encouragement for everyone, whether they summited or not.

I sleep so deeply that it feels as though the night never came, it just flew quickly by, and the next morning merges into this evening.

26th Jan, the return of all summits

Carmen! Carmen!

I wake up, a bit out of it. Check the time. I'd been in bed (in the sleeping bag) for 4 hours. The sun through the yellow fabric of the tent makes everything cheery. I feel like I am made of cement. No part of me wants to move.

Carmen!

A head pokes in through the tent. It's Jaime.

Jaime! Did you make it up?

Yes. I feel ecstatic. It's his 6th time, and he just turned 27 a few days ago. And this is just this mountain, he's summitted others. He is going to be a very sought-after guide, Jaime!

But he doesn't care about his success, he comes in quickly, checks on me. I'm fine. Did you eat? Did you drink? I grimace. I forced myself to do a bit of both, but it's hard. Jaime disappears, but comes back a few minutes later with the doctor's oxymeter and plops my finger into it to get a reading. All four of our eyebrows climb into our scalps as we get the info back: 51%.


Self-portrait as I got back to the tent before sleeping. The swelling is from peripheral oedema, not dangerous in the short run, but a warning sign. It was worse the next day.

Christ, no wonder I coulnd't keep going! If I'd pushed on, I would have blacked out! I already was! Ryan was at 47% and his friends were scared for him!

Consternation filled me as I looked at this. How could it have gone down so much so quickly? I had the highest reading 2 days ago! I breath deeply, I know this is a way of making it go up (Ryan told me, he was traveling with 3 nurses, they all took readings twice a day, he always cheated right before his turn). It went up to 54%.

Jaime starts preparing water. The quickest way to get me better, apart from going down, is drinking tons. And I don't actually feel badly, I think, rather surprised. Weak and heavy, sure. But that's it. I've felt like that after boring work days, and a great deal worse after hard interval training sessions. I turn to my bottle and drink. Jaime frowns. I should have drunk that already. I feel a bit sheepish.

He hums as he works, a habit I find marvelously soothing. It makes me feel safe. He tells me that some people react late to altitude sickness, even 48 hours later. How dumb, I think. And here I thought I was doing so well. Fine, now that I know that about me, I can add another rest day in Camp 2 next time and that will solve that problem. He laughs. Yes, many people come back here. I laugh too. I think I already have partners for next time! I check the time, how long until Lito and Jackman are back? A couple of hours. He grins hugely. They are going to make it.

And they do! Jackman, so demure and quiet, has a fantastic smile on his unevenly tanned face, Lito seemingly relaxes when he sees me laugh, but insists on my drinking.

That's pretty much all any one of us can do, it's too high to be hungry, but I eat one of those soup in bowl type things and feel better.

Jaime and Lito sharing an exhausted laugh


Everyone goes to bed early. Tomorrow morning, Shum wants to try going up a bit higher, at least the 6000m mark, with Lito before we head back down. He asks whether I am up to it too, but I know I am not. I only want down.

We all sit in the tent a bit longer, munching, laughing, but mainly, getting more and more tired. This was Lito's 48th summit. With a bit of luck, he will reach 50 this season.

The night was far from restful, but I did sleep again. The next morning was glorious, it would be a good day for those summitting.

26th january, the way down

As I walk down, an annoying noise accompanies me. It is the noise of my crying. I am ashamed of this and hold my breath whenever I pass anyone on their way up so they can't hear. I always step to the side. Priority goes to those going up in the mountain. There are niceties to be observed. But they have more to do with common sense than etiquette. No one can see my face. My tuque is pulled low over my brow, my mountaineering glasses are huge, and the rest is covered by the neoprene mask.


Picture sent by Jak Man, my returning to camp 3.

I turn often to look at Lito and Jackman. Almost every time, Lito is also looking down, checking on my progress. I can't stay still too long, if I do, he'll think something is wrong and have to leave Jackman to come check.

I am walking much more quickly down, but I am still surprised by how slow. This is not normal. What is wrong with me?

I arrive at the place of our first break, where I fell asleep for the first time. I go sit at the same spot. This is comforting. And it's sunny now. I sit, I look up.

The summit looks so near from here! Like you could sprint there and arrive barely winded. Maybe I still could. There are people still going up past me, although it is getting late to just be starting.

As I think this, my head stuffs again, I feel like I am being pulled by something tied to my back.

Of course I couldn't. Why can't I accept it? This isn't failure. Your body breaking down, making you fall asleep, it's not failure. It's your body protecting itself, protecting you. Keeping you from being able to continue into a situation for which you are not ready. You've reached your summit. This is it for now.

As I sit thinking this, slowly, I recover every bit of me. Little by little, the mountain gives me back who I am, piece by piece. Ready to take it back if I think of going up again. I can think. I warm up. I let myself into a reverie of all sorts of past situations. And contentment begins.

I wouldn't force myself to run a marathon through a debilitating injury. Why should this be any different?

Up, Lito has stopped. He is looking at me insistently. I have to get up, I am making him worry, he is wondering whether I've fallen asleep here and will die of hypothermia. I get up, wave, turn, keep going down.


Picture sent by Jak Man, of Lito checking on my progress as I walk down. I can't be sure, but I think this one was taken when I sat down lower to watch them go up; Lito looks worried.

Arriving at the tent is a struggle. I am weak, tired. It is relatively warm inside the tent with the sun. I look at the time, calculate when the others will be back. I get into my sleeping bag, and fall asleep waiting for the others, when everyone will be back from their own summit.

26th January, summit bid

Summit morning. Up that high, you can see the curvature of the earth, the horizon is not straight.

We step out, into our cramponned boots. We turn to the mountain. Lito goes in front. Jaime is already ahead, waiting. Headlights are not necessary, it is already light enough to see. But this is when your vision gets reduced, when it gets really thin; my entire world becomes the back of Lito's boots. I will stare at these, follow these, until I have my own rhythm, until I can get back into myself without getting lost. For now, I need these.

Lito starts a slow walk up. Slow is all that can be managed at this height. One step, breathe, one step, breathe. My heart is beating at what it normally would running on flat terrain at about 10.5- 11km per hour. We are advancing at perhaps 2km per hour.


Picture sent by Jak Man. Me behind the neoprene mask.

Step, breathe, step, breathe. Breathe in deep, force the air into the lungs. It's easy to feel dizzy here, it is important not to hold your breath. Lito breathes deeply too. I can see from the angle of his boots that he is turning around often to check on us. I don't meet his eye. I keep focused on his boots. Legs apart. This is no time to get a crampon stuck in the back of your other leg and fall.


View downwards from the first zigzags

The route zig zags up the steep mountain. It is very snowy this year. It makes it easier to go up, because the snow packs together the loose scree that normally would hinder our progress. I try to feel grateful for this. We'd been discussing this for the past 2 weeks, it does not happen often, and it is a good thing for us.

It has been an hour. I am still checking my lungs. Deep breaths. Clear in, clear out.


I am on the left, in orange, losing ground. Picture sent by Jak Man.



I am not cold, I can move all my fingers, all my toes. Excellent. A whip of wind shoves me aside. I get back upright.

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind
Es ist der Vater, mit seinem Kind...

Have I ever told anyone that this is the poem that made me fall in love with German so many years ago?

Er halt den Knab wohl in der Arm
Er macht ihm sicher, er hält ihn warm.

Ihm or ihn? Darned German grammar! I have no dictionnary to check here. What was the next stanza again?

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind... durch Nacht und Wind....

Lito has stopped, I nearly fall on top of him. Pausa, he announces. I nod, fully concentrated. These short breaks have to be useful. Drink, eat something energy-dense, get back up before you can get cold. I sit.


The first break stop, picture by Jak Man.

Lito is shaking me, nena, nena! You've fallen asleep! I bolt upright, shocked. My breath is raging, I moved too quickly, I gasp. I've fallen asleep?? Asleep? Here???? Where I could just not wake back up? It's about -10 plus the wind!! I get back up, I haven't drunk, I try to eat some power jelly beans, I feel like I've just been injected with adrenalin. It makes my nausea worse.

We start again. My feeling of panic abruptly leaves me, I feel like I am in a world of very dense fog. It is perfectly clear, I can see, up ahead, the part where we will be meeting with the sun. But I feel a bit far from it all, like I am watching from the outside. I frown. I know this is not good. I can't let myself become disconnected from my body, I have to stay here. I have to find the rhythm. The rhythm.

Step, breathe, step, breathe, step, breathe.... breathe... breathe... The rhythm eludes me. Step, Wer reitet, step so spät, step durch Nacht step und Wind... I let Jackman ahead of me; if I can't find my rhythm, I will be ruining his, it is best that I step back. Step...

I am on one knee. The wind is shaking me around, I struggle back to my two feet. How did I end up down on one knee? Was it the wind? It must have been. I can't have fallen asleep again. Not while walking. There is a bit more distance between Jackman, Lito, and me. I see Lito stopping, waiting for me to close the gap. Up ahead are the small figures of Jaime and Quique and his two clients. Ha! So they do exist! Move all my toes, move all my fingers, breathe, what is the next darned stanza? Oh Vater, oh Vater, und hörst du denn nicht? Was der Erlenkönig leise gespricht? Mein Sohn, dast ist ein Nebelstreif. No, that part comes later.

Two and a half hours, and no rhythm. My heart picks up. I am exhausting myself trying to find a rhythm. Not having one is exhausting itself. Like being adrift at sea, trying to get up on a piece of floating wood, knowing that once there you can drift yourself, you can rest, but you have to get on the piece of wood first, and you can't. I am exhausting myself trying to get up on this piece of wood. Whenever I stop, I can't get going again until at least 5 or 6 breaths later, so I try to keep the time between breaks as long as possible, 15 steps, 14, 12 steps, up up up, catch up to the sun, everything will be alright once you catch up to the sun.

It works for a bit. I am so starved for the sun, for the warmth, my toes and fingers are getting cold, are getting stiff, this is not normal, it's because I have no rhythm, the sun will fix it all up. I feel like I have another person in my head who wants to cry, but I just want the sun. I feel like I am in a dream, wanting to run but not managing, wanting to break through but being held back, invisible, soundless.

We get to the sun!! I am dizzy with relief! Another break. Lito studies me. I see this distantly. Ok, nena? Ok. Ok, Jackman? Ok. short break, back up, keep moving, it's cold. The zigzags are almost over, Lito is showing us. After that, it's the travesia. I look up, anguished. That part is where we will lose the sun. I will think about that when we get there. We will be walking for about 2 hours in the shade.

Step, breathe, step breathe. Everything is so quiet. The wind is raging, very far away, in another world...

I feel a hand grabbing hard on my arm. Ow! This feels realer than anything else today. I look up. Lito is holding me hard by the arm. And I am down. Again. I can see that if he were to let go, I would be sliding down the mountain. There's a long way to slide. I have enough feeling to feel slightly panicky about this. I understand that I am losing a battle. My mind understands this before I do. I sit back. Lito lets go, sits beside me.


(Photo by Jak Man; tents visible below, seemingly a leap away)

Nena, you fell asleep.

I say nothing.

Nena, you are walking with your eyes closed. I've been watching. You're wavering.

I am feeling bewildered.

Nena, did you see those people pass you just now?

I look up ahead. There is an entire group, about 8 to 10 people, just ahead of us. What? Those people passed us and I didn't notice? They must have passed us, there is only one way.

Nena, you have apuñamiento.

Ich bin höhekrank?

Did I just answer Lito in German? Must have been Goethe. Does that mean I am making no sense? He just told me I have altitude sickness. Making no sense is part of it. I am making perfect sense to myself. I am coherent. I can move all my toes and fingers. I can breathe deeply, I can switch to another poem, in another language, I am forgetting bits of this one anyway. My head is not hurting. It just feels stuffed.

Nena, many people are passing us, we are very slow.

Slow. That means I am not keeping up. I am holding them back. That means more than 8 hours to the summit. That means an even longer, more tiring day. More risk. More danger. I am thinking this but not understanding it.

Nena...

Lito is waiting for me to understand on my own.

In my mind, I travel to El Misty in Peru, a few months ago.

I was unprepared then. Was not properly equipped, not properly acclimtatized. I could not feel my toes anymore. I could feel my hands beging to stiffen. My head hurt so much I could not even tell what was around me. I wanted to cry, but that took too much effort. I was reciting Joe Simpson in my mind, I was remembering Jorge Semprum and how he declined verbs in his mind when he was being tortured, to get away from his body's pain.

It was the shock that did it. That I could inadvertenly mentally compare walking up a mountain, a much beloved activity, to being tortured. It wasn't supposed to feel that way. I had gone down then, at 4700m. Sad, but not once regretting.

Nena?

I was prepared now, though! I'd done everything I could.

Yes. You did everything you could. You kept your part of the bargain. But you don't decide. The mountain does. The decision is in her hands.

Can't I try a bit longer? I get up. Two steps. I look up. Two steps and I know it's over. Now I'm crying. I can feel the wetness behind my neoprene mask. Lito is hugging me. I look down to the camp. It's so insultingly near!!! We've been at it for hours and I feel I could jump down there!

Can you get down on your own? I nod yes. You go down, I'll be watching. I nod. I can't stop crying. I hug Jackman, who's been standing quietly aside through all of this.

Where are we?

At Independencia. Nearly 6300m.

Nearly 6300m. Less than 700m short. Surely I could keep going a bit longer?

This part is the tough one. You've been telling yourself you'll know when to stop. You'll know the difference between pushing on through hardship and pushing on through foolishness. One leads to triumph, the other to danger. It's no longer about mental strength now. It's no longer up to you. The decision was never yours.

The doctor's words in Plaza de Mulas: know when you've reached your own summit. It may not be the mountain's summit, but your own summit is the important one. Know when to come back down from your summit, and you'll come back safe. Know, and you'll come back. He'd held my gaze after saying this. Driving the words in. Now they resonated. Know when you've reached your summit.

I am still crying. How annoying. I can't make myself stop. That means my nose is stuffed, but I can't blow it, because if I remove my mask to do so, the rest of my wet face will freeze.

One last hug. Take many pictures, Jackman.

I turn, and start to step down....




I quit before reaching those big boulders.

Jan 26th morning preparations

I wake up with a knot if my stomach. Thankful I've managed to sleep at all, I know the body does not like it at this altitude. Any problem you have gets intensified. If you cut yourself, the cut won't heal. If you catch a cold, it emphasizes quickly. The body is in survival mode, and wants down down down, away from this thin air, the struggle of existing, it starts shutting down functions that are less important (such as healing cuts) to keep the other ones going. And we are about to make it go up another thousand metres. I am lucky I have naturally low blood pressure. This is when it starts sky-rocketing.

It is quiet in the tent. It's all about concentration now. Determination. Pig-headedness. Visualization. It's the test after all the preparation. Like a marathon. The results of the training more than the race itself. This is when I find out whether I did it right.

I've been playing this scene over and over in my mind for weeks now. I was expecting the nausea, the fast-beathing heart, the anxiety. I am thankful I have no headache. I take deep breaths, try to calm myself. My lungs are still clear of liquid, this is excellent, no pulmonary oedema. I try to think clearly. I repeat poems in my mind. And latin declinations. I can think. This is also excellent. No cerebreal oedema. Jaime looks at me, slightly concerned. I probably look like I am pooing in my sleeping bag, in a very concentrated way. I smile at him and he relaxes, hands my my cup of tea. I take it, drink small sips, close my eyes, visualize myself arriving at the cross, the wind whipping us around.

Eating is difficult. I repeat Pierre's (our trainer's) advice before an important race, which essentially goes something like: " Eat! I don't give a shit if you're not hungry! I don't care if you feel like throwing up! If you eat, even if you throw up after, at least your body will have had the time to get some nutrients in, you need it for the race! Eat!" (somehow though, he makes it all sound very caring. Also, it sounds a great deal nicer in French). So I eat grimly, lips pressed tight together. Oatmeal. I can't stomach anything else, and this, at least, is energy-dense.

We hear noises from the other tents. Quique and his two clients, who I have not yet seen and am not sure exist, as they are never out of the tent. Shum and Jackman over on the other side. They talk in rapid Cantonese, we hear bits of it in between hails of wind. We learn that Shum is not feeling well, and will not be joining us. I hadn't seen him since our arrivel in the mid-afternoon the day before, he never left the tent. I clench my teeth. I want up. I breathe deeply again.

We finish the preparations. It is the first time we set out in the pre-sun cold, we need to be wearing lots of clothes. We are leaving with our duvet jackets, but I have my goretex and fleece to change into later, when it gets warmer. If it does. I stick toe warmers to my socks. Dig out the booth insoles I always sleep with to keep them warm and dry for mornings. Pull my goretex pants on top of my double layer of thick fleece pants and thermal underwear. Tie my mitts to my wrists, in case I need to take them off, so they don't get blown away by the wind. You lose a mitt you lose a hand, so the saying goes. Check that I have water, gels, jelly beans, chocolate, dried fruit. It will be a miracle if I can actually stomach eating during the day, I feel like shit. But I was expecting to feel like shit, it's ok. I've felt like shit before. I've run through feeling like shit before. It passes. Once you're into the rhythm, once you've settled into your groove, it passes. It's eight hours. In eight hours, we'll be laughing at the top, taking quick pictures. I won't think about the hours down, I'll think about that when the time comes. Eight hours to the top, when I'll be taking out the flag that Ryan gave me to fly at the top, the flag with a message.

Lito checks that we have enough liquids. A thermos full of hot tea. A bottle of juice which is warm but will start getting cold soon enough. Wearing the proper clothes. "Lista, nena?" Si, as ready as I'll ever be.

We step out into the disappearing night. Venus, still bright. The first star to appear in this incredible sky. The last to leave us.

25th January, moving to high camp 3, 5900m

This was my first shitty night, and in great part my fault. I did not drink enough, woke up many times thirsty, but felt shy about peeing in the tent with two men nearby (like they'd care, it's the mountain, and also, with my funnel and bottle, there is nothing to be seen of be shy of) and therefore kept drinking to a minimum. Result: bad sleep, headache, nausea, everything I'd been working really hard to avoid. We were also woken by people leaving in the middle of the night to make their summit bid now, and their rallying cries. The wind was relentless, constantly screeching.

Lito removing ice from front of tent.

Jaime and Lito woke up to start making water, and I huddled in my sleeping bag, hoping for the sun, which only started to warm up the tent about an hour later. In the meantime, I listened to Jaime and Lito. Their presence was incredibly comforting and soothing, and I felt happy to have shared a tent with them. They told jokes and laughed softly as they set about breakfast, cursing at the stoves. We have three going full blast, and two are new. Predictably, those are the ones that keep breaking down, and Jaime was constantly having to duck out of the tent to fix one of them. As well as Quique's, the guide next to us, whose (brand new) stoves were also giving him problems. I guess the company is going to hear about those! The guides are furious with these "improvements".

With Jaime, shortly before we leave

Lito gave me an aspirin, and I forced down some food and liquids, but not nearly enough, I knew. I would have to work hard to make up for this self-inflicted damage.

As the previous day, the porters arrived early (they actually go back to base camp to sleep, and then saunter up as if it were nothing, carry stuff, and slide back down). I once again separated my stuff in what would go with them and what I would keep with me.

Camp Berlin, close to our own camp 3, Cholera

It took 3 hours to get to this last high camp. And I was infuriated with myself; I had no strength whatsoever, my thighs shook, I felt like I had had a huge workout and then forgotten to eat, and felt weak. Eating required an uneasy balance between forcing stuff down, but not so much that I wouldn't be able to keep it down. Vomiting and the ensuing dehydration is really to be avoided. Lito was a little worried, and encouraged me. It shouldn't have been this difficult. Jackman had no problems. Shum arrived an hour and a half after we did, and looked absolutely beaten. I felt badly, it didn't look like he'd be able to make it.

Lito's innovative sock-drying technique

My appetite picked up and I took soup, bread, tea. I felt pretty lethargic. The wind kept howling. Jaime and Lito kept working hard to make life comfortable for us. They have to go dig ice out with the piolets, cook, make us drink and eat, give us the approved plastic bags to go to the bathroom and then collect these excrements into "KK Tubes" to bring back down. It's like being parented. They make us feel safe and cared for. It's difficult to stay healthy at these altitudes without experienced. The cold makes you numb and slow, you know what you should do, but do it less and less. They do everything for us.

Lito and Jaime with another guide passing through


A contemplative walk at sunset

One last night. Tomorrow is the summit bid. Eat, drink, try to rest, even if sleep is impossible. I do fall asleep though, listening to the comforting breaths of the other two people in the tent.


Sunset remains absolutely spectacular, but so cold, as soon as the sun goes down, everything finds refuge in their sleeping bags. Worth a shiver for these pictures, though.

24th January, moving to camp 2, 5400m

So, leaving tales of ghosts behing, we plunged on ahead to camp 2, the second of 3 high camps.

I feel positive that my decision to have a private porter (shared amongst the 3 of us, but with my using, and paying for, half of the allowed 20kg) was a good one. I was once again able to enjoy the scenery, stop to take pictures, and enjoy every moment.

The scenery continues to be spectacular; honestly, this is one of the most beautiful settings I have ever seen, and I so look forward to being able to put up pictures!


The wind-blown summit

Looking at the porters work is a very humbling experience.

They took everything down in no time, packed it up, put it in their bags, pranced up the mountain like goats, despite the fact that they carried at least 25-30kg each, and still had the time to put up the tents at the next camp before sliding down past us, all smiles, as we were only about two thirds of the way up! Incredible! And not all of them are men, either; there are a few women, I find them awesome!

Lito, porters "El Turco" (Nenu's boyfriend), Jaime, Rodrigo, me, Shum, Jackman.

It is getting very cold now, the wind is glacial. Lito is always after Jackman to put on his sunglasses, which he hates to do. But altitude blindness is not fun, even though it is temporary. And it hits very quickly. One of the porters, Rodrigo, had forgotten his this morning when he left, and I was happy to be able to lend him my spare. He is a funny guy, looks permanently surprised, his hair always having a huge battle around his head, his eyebrows always high in seeming shock. If he were an animal, he'd be a fox cub. He must be in his twenties, but I swear he looks 14!


We arrived at around 3h30.

Jaime, our group porter, would be staying with us for the rest of the expedition. So our tent would get cozy with the 3 of us in there. He was already there, making water, smiling and humming softly to himself. He is from the northern Argentina region, born and raised in the mountain. He is the strongest of us all, unaffected by the altitude, the cold, or any hardship at all, it seems.

With Jaime

As I had a slight headache, I immediately put myself in hydration mode. Lots of soup, tea, electrolyte induced water, vitamins... the headache was soon gone, and I left the tent for a walk around the camp.


Quique, in the next door tent.

It is really really windy, and pretty cold. Felt like winter in Montreal. I took quite a few pictures. This is the biggest of the high camps, the only one where the helicopter can land with relative ease. There are guardaparques here, unlike the other two camps, and often a doctor as well.

Quardaparques and doctor's station, Camp 2

Right now, there is a lot of activity, because two bodies (from the second and third people who died on the mountain this year) are being brought in (at much effort, it is not easy terrain) within the next couple of days so that they can be airlifted back down. It gave me a chill. I know Lito was approached to be part of this rescue team, but as he is with us, he is not going to go.

He and Jaime prepared brown rice mixed with tuna for dinner, it was delicious! And I was very happy to still be hungry, it is important to keep up one's strength. Two more days!!

With three of us in the tent (Jaime in the middle, since he is the tallest) it was not that cold, about -7 in the tent. The wind screamed all night, but I barely heard it.

The summit at sunset

24th January, the abandonned tent

So today we were moving to our second high camp, which is at about 5300m. This was to take around 4 hours, fully loaded, so about an hour more than yesterday. With a porter coming for a lot of our gear, though, I felt confident that this time I would be able to keep to that time with no problems.

Last night, on one of his forrays for ice, Lito had been poking around a tent next to ours. He felt disconcerted by the state of it. There were socks hanging on the tent's guy lines to dry, now frozen stiff; the cooking stuff was still outside, exposed to the elements. I could tell he was worried. "It looks like somebody was expecting to be right back", he kept on saying, looking at it. "Nobody leaves a tent in that state and then abandons it". He finally had a quick look inside, scared to find a body. There was no one. But as there was an electrical storm last night, he was unable to use the radio to send information on this seemingly abandonned tent.

So he did this morning, as soon as the lines were clear (there is a lot of communication in the morning as soon as it is possible, between the helicopter etc, so everything that is not an emergency has to wait until all the coordination is done) he radioed in, while the porters, who had just arrived and were busy packing up, made more discoveries that showed that this was not an intended abandonment; a high altitude calmel back, full and now frozen; a head light, meaning the person meant to be back before dark; a sleeping bag, meaning the person meant to come back to sleep. People made these discoveries quietly, uncomfortably. Nobody seemed happy to be looking around. The tracks had been erased by the heavy snowfall, so there was no way to know how long ago the person had left, nor which way they had gone. In the dark, they could have slipped off one of the sharp ledges and fallen to their death. Lito was very protective of where we went when we had to go pee, and he is very likely right to have been.

It was about an hour later that we found out that this tent belonged to the 5th person to have died on the mountain this year, a man who, while walking to base camp below (about an hour at most to walk down), was hit by a small boulder, had his ribs fractured and lung punctured and bled to death. We had heard about this, it had happened right before we arrived at base camp, such a stupid, senseless accident. The guardaparques asked Lito and his team to please place everything in the tent, that somebody would be sent up for it.

I must have looked quite struck as I stood watching the porters grimly assemble everything and place it in the dead man's tent. Enough so that Lito came over and tried to distract me by telling me the name of all the mountains around us. We have to go on, he said. We can't let the dead hold us back. I know this is a mountains philosophy too. When you get to the level they are at (the guides, those people with a lot of hard core experience) there are many dead, it is to be expected that they learn to go on.

I spent the rest of the day in Joe Simpsons' book "This Game of Ghosts" in my mind, reliving the story of all his friends who died on the mountain. His questioning of why they did what they did. And the story of those who quit, tired of risking it, but who died all the same, like Tat. I spend the rest of the day thinking about the abandonned tent.

23 rd January; moving to Camp 1

We had an amusing start to the day. We were supposed to go to the doctor's for one last count of our oxygen, and I came out on top at 86%. Shum's was improved, but still low enough to worry Lito. Jackman was high, as it has always been. This quick test, however, took forever, as very unfortunately, a person with deep frosbite (probable amputation case) was being treated in the little cubicle next to ours. A case of summit fever, pushing on while knowing you are putting your health at risk. Anyway, this was obviously not the amusing part. But it took a long time, and by the time we were done, Lito was already anxious for us to go.

As, normally, it is always sunny in base camp, when it isn't, things stop functioning. Most things are solar energy run, and the days are long, starting with the sun hitting the tents around 9h30, which is when most people start peaking out of their sleeping bags, and ending with the sun set nearly 12 hours later. Now, with all this snow we've been having every afternoon, plans get changed. Shum wanted to have a shower during the day yesterday, which I did as early as I could (once the solar pannels had heated enough water) and Jackman did soon after. But Shum waited too long and got stuck without one, which meant that this morning, he was adament that he needed to shower before we could go. So, already late, we were a little further delayed.

It was nearly noon when we left for what had taken us a leisurely 2:50min two days ago. But now we were fully loaded with about 20kg of gear (including liquids).

It took me about 25 minutes to realize that, if I insisted on carrying this heavy load for 3 days running right before summit day, I was risking it. The combination of thin air and steep climbing was exhausting, and for the first time since the beginning, I was unable to keep up with Lito's pace.

At first, it was still sunny, and relatively warm. But then it clouded over. Which made me think, at least it's not snowing. When it did start to snow, I thought, at least it is not the big, wet stuff. I stumbled into camp after 3h40 minutes, tired and worried.

Lito and Jaime were already busy preparing water, an exhausting task involving climbing higher to find clean ice, filling a huge bag of the stuff (snow, once melted, turns into nothing, while ice is much denser and gives a good amount of water). Jaime is the "general" porter, meaning that he carried the group tents, stoves, cooking stuff and food. But, with this experience, he is much more an assistant guide than a porter, and Lito trusts him. He will probably become a guide later.

Anyway, Lito fed us, then we rested, and it started to snow that big, heavy, sodden stuff again! Ugh! We were all driven into the tents, which made dinner a difficult thing as we could not easily eat outside.

I was sharing a tent with Lito now, and the vestibule area of it was used for the constant task of making liquid. At 5L each, that means making 20L, plus the cooking. And of course, since this water is made from ice, it contains no minerals whatsoever, which means that, until you supplement it, drinking it with nothing is pretty useless as far as hydration goes. It'll go right through your body without stopping to do the important stuff of getting rid of toxins, etc. So you add sugar, and tang, and tea and soup and whatever.

I made the decision to hire a private porter for the next 2 days, and spoke to the guys about it. A porter can carry 20kg. We decided to split the cost and load. I would take 10kg, and they would take 5kg each. This worked out well financially, as the costs are (very reasonably and understandably) high. The cost to carry a load from camp 1 to camp 2 is 130$ US, to camp 3 is 180$.

So I felt calmer about this. Once again, the analogy to running comes to mind. No ones does difficult workouts 3 days running right before a marathon. This is the time to try to keep your body strong and fresh. If I wanted to have the best possible chance of reaching the summit, this was the best thing to do.

It kept on snowing and snowing and snowing, Lito started grumbling that it might as well be winter, which made me laugh, it is impossible to be upset at something when somebody else is even more upset, and even insulted, by it. So I just kept on writing in my journal and reading.

We were rewarded later; the wind picked up, it cleared everything, and we had a spectacular sunset!