Since I outweighed Quentin by 60 or so pounds, I was confident I could hold him if he were to break through the ice and fall into a crevasse.
Since I outweighed Quentin by 60 or so pounds, I was confident I could hold him if he were to break through the ice and fall into a crevasse.
No sail for the wind,
Or rock to ascend.
No birds in the sky,
Or reasons to cry.
No bike for the trail,
Or mountain to scale.
No sun for the day,
Or words yet to say.
No cold for the heat,
Or dance for the beat.
No fly for the trout,
Or sense in the route.
No skis for the snow,
Or mystery to know.
No tent for the night,
Or rope to keep tight.
No found for the lost,
Or gain to the cost.
No coat for the storm,
Or way to stay warm.
No boat for the river,
Or stop to the shiver.
No pack for the stuff,
Or smooth for the rough.
No elk for the wallow,
Or pathways to follow,
No skates for the ice,
Or bowl for the rice.
No cool for the hot,
Or stove for the pot.
No tent for the rain,
Or gain for the pain.
No boots for the feet,
Or snacks left to eat.
No water for the drink,
Or reasons to think.
No gloves for the hands,
Or wild in the lands.
No parks for the town,
Or trails to walk down.
No socks for the feet,
Or strangers to meet.
No summits to reach,
No moments that teach.
No ring in the bell,
No story to tell.
We were backpacking on the Big Island of Hawaii along the Mulawai Trail. The first night out, we camped in Waipio Canyon. Then, the next day we headed toward Waimanu Canyon and stopped for the night to camp on a rustic camping platform provided by the state’s Division of Forestry and Wildlife. The shelter was conveniently located on a mountaintop within a day’s walking distance of the trailhead and was a welcome sight after our long and hot climb through the jungle and up the Z Switchbacks. We reached the elevated platform in the middle of the afternoon, and since there was still plenty of daylight left and we were all physically drained, everyone picked a spot and stretched out on the shaded and relatively clean plywood for a quick nap. As I dozed off, I thought contentedly of gentle breezes, juicy Lilikoi fruit, and thick clouds. Josh and I were the guides for the group of 8 teenage boys, a fact that would eventually come into play. But for the moment, we all just slept.
If all went as planned, we’d get to our Wind River Range campsite by late afternoon, which would leave us with plenty of daylight for setting up the tents, organizing gear, and even resting a bit before cooking supper. Our backpacks were heavy, but being mostly young and fit, by lunch we’d already covered 10 of the 15 miles planned for the day. At just a little after 1 o’clock, we crossed Roaring Fork Creek and stopped on the other side to change out of our river shoes and eat our midday meal of tuna, Bolton Biscuits, and gorp. Among other things, the stop also provided a nice break from the uphill grind we’d been on for the past several hours.
At 22,841 feet, Aconcagua is the tallest mountain in both the Western and Southern Hemispheres. In addition, it’s the highest peak in South America, which means it’s one of the Seven Summits (the highest point on each of the seven continents). Via most of the routes usually followed, it’s essentially a non-technical undertaking, although it is big. Its sheer size, location, and the persistent presence of a cold, wet, and snowy wind known as the Viento Blanco have led to many medical problems for climbers throughout the years. This particular expedition occurred in February 1985.
This is my story of that climb:
Snowline was at about 19,000 feet. Camp 3 was just below it, and since we had been camped there the night before, our tents and cooking area were on dry ground. I was aware that the previous night was the last one we’d spend with the dust and sand whipping up, slapping our faces, and getting into our food until we’d summited and were on our way back down. I knew that the dirt and sand part would start again once we returned to this same spot. But, for the moment, there was just snow and the occasional rock. The Polish climbers were above, likely already roped up and headed toward High Camp. It seemed fitting that we were both on the Polish Glacier Route since the Poles were just ahead of us. With them invisibly up ahead somewhere in the clouds, the five of us Americans seemed to be all alone as we pulled out our climbing gear and roped up. We didn’t doubt that the summit was somewhere up above, but at that moment, all we could see were humps, holes, and ridges of snow that seemed to bleed into what we figured was more of the same.
The plan was simple enough. During the previous two weeks, we’d worked our way up to Camp 3, getting ourselves and gear to that lofty perch. The glacier began just above that, and we intended to climb up it and establish a High Camp on the snow at about 21,000 feet. We’d spend a night there, leave our tent set up, and then go for the summit the following day. After reaching the top, we would climb back down to Camp 3 on that same day and spend that night there, with a stop en route to gather gear at High Camp. Finally, after one last night at 19,000 feet, we’d descend back to the relative predictability of our base camp at Plaza Argentina.
A fierce wind stirred up the fresh snow, which peppered us with tiny ice shards as we stood around on the bottom fringe of the glacier, preparing to ascend. Being the least experienced climber in the group, I tied in the fourth position on the rope. Mike, the team’s primary guide and most experienced climber, led and went first on the rope. His wife, Peggy, was next and would help figure out the route. Jim, who’d been on several big climbs before, was third, while Will, a physician, and experienced climber, brought up the rear.
Clouds mixed in with what seemed to be an ever-present fog and persistently streamed past us from below to above, making it hard to see clearly. I was captivated by how the clouds kept moving upward, bunching against the ones ahead and creating a soupy and eerie fog. As we began climbing the upper mountain, I felt a chill start to set in deep inside my body as a wet wind pierced its way into the only sliver of exposed skin that I had. “Is this the Viento Blanco? Is this what it feels like,” I wondered? I’d read and heard a lot about it and was fascinated by the uncertainty of what it was. And then, almost thankfully, my head began to throb as the headache I’d been experiencing for hours elevated from irritating to profound. At least the relentless pounding, dull pain gave me something else to think about.
I focused hard on remembering the process for correctly connecting myself (or tieing-in) to the climbing rope and, thus, the other climbers. It was simple enough, but I struggled with it nonetheless. My hands were like sticks, and it all seemed so confusing. Finally, I resorted to removing the new mittens I’d gotten for the trip, which exposed my hands to the elements. It was cold, but almost strangely, my fingers felt warmer and more flexible once uncovered. Ultimately, I turned and twisted the Goldline climbing rope and formed a loop of sorts that I clipped myself into. Somehow, it all came together just in time, and I was securely connected to the rope and rope team just as everyone else became ready to go. I remembered my tan mittens at the last minute and slid them back onto my hands. At that point, we hoisted our backpacks, checked each other’s knots, and finally began to move forward onto the snow.
Tethered to my teammates, I was thankful I didn’t have to figure out which way to go. Crevasses, false summits, and Viento Blanco—there was a lot of stuff that I didn’t completely comprehend. Besides, I wasn’t feeling all that good. Thankfully, all I had to do was watch the rope, keep the slack out of it, and put my feet down into the footprints in front of me. I was resigned to the fact that most steps would be uphill but clung to the thought that each step forward was taking me one step closer to the summit. All the while, my headache and the Viento Blanco persisted.
While I knew I needed to focus on the rope and the mechanics of moving forward, I kept looking up from the snow and out toward the southern horizon. Spectacular Andean peaks stretched down into what I knew had to be Patagonia. Early on, while looking at and pondering the distant mountains, a sharp tug came from behind as Will stumbled a bit and pulled me back into the world of step, rest, step. Now, I was mindful of keeping my full attention on the climb and other climbers.
After that tug and reality check, I only looked up from the trail of footprints to ensure that the rope was staying on my uphill side and wasn’t getting too loose or tight. Periodically, I had the urge to look up again at the clouds and surrounding terrain. But I had learned better and didn’t.
After an hour or so of plodding along, we stopped. Word filtered back- it was a quick rest. The other team members took the time to adjust their clothing and pull out some water and snacks. But I used it as an opportunity to soak in the distant surroundings. I looked to the north, where numerous smaller peaks filled the sky, and then toward the south, where the summit pyramid of Tupungato stuck up above a cloud bank. Farther off in the distance, what seemed to be a continuous layer of mountains extended into the horizon. It consisted of multiple peaks poking up into what ultimately became a broken cloud layer. Finally, a cold-looking lenticular cloud clung to some unnamed peak in the distant southeast. The sight of it sent an even deeper chill into my bones. Ever so often, the clouds would break for an instant, and I could retrace parts of the route we’d followed up through the Vacas Valley to our base camp. Just the thought that I could see it made me feel hot and thirsty as I thought back to the blaring sun and dusty trail which had led us there. I reached for my water bottle to quench my neglected thirst and took a quick gulp just as I noticed the others getting ready to move out. The swig was not quite enough, and I wanted more, but there wasn’t time for that. The break was over.
The rope fed out, and I began moving again and was careful to keep from tugging Jim. I noted that Will kept an attentive eye on the section of rope between the two of us as it untangled itself and played out. Nobody wanted kinks, unnecessary knots, or tugs, I realized.
Eventually, our team spread out across the lower Polish Glacier. We were all tied into the same 150-foot rope. Since we were connected, we were limited to how far apart we could get. Unfortunately, neither my headache nor nausea was getting any better up to this point. There was nothing easy about each step. Periodically, I had thoughts of stopping and turning back. But each time I’d start to think through the actualities of doing that, I’d feel the rope tighten up, reminding me that four others were connected to me and that if they could do it, I could.
I kept moving and continued to take solace in that each step forward was one step closer to the top. But it was cold. And I kept thinking about how the other four were likely cold as well. I wondered if their feet were as numb as mine. My head throbbed, but I was pretty sure that Mike and Peggy had headaches, too. After all, they’d split an aspirin the night before to deal with theirs. The snow was balling up on my crampons, but I could look around and see that it was doing the same thing on everyone else’s. So I had my pains, doubts, and expectations but realized that everyone else probably did, too.
The wind gusted from the south and sent plumes of snow shooting up into the air. “It must be coming directly from the South Pole,” I speculated. The stirred-up ice crystals stung the little bit of bare skin that remained exposed and ultimately seemed to settle into every open crevice on my body. I was somehow sweating and freezing at the same time. I wanted to remove and add a layer of clothing simultaneously and wondered how that would work.
The routine of stepping forward with one foot, bringing the other up even with it, and tapping both boots with my ice axe to clear the snow from my crampons, kept going through my mind. I kept resisting the urge to gaze at the surrounding magnificence since I knew I needed to stay focused on the rope and the people connected to it. While I was doing my best to avoid looking for it, I kept sensing the presence of the Viento Blanco, always both just ahead and above. The routine continued. Take a step with one foot, bring the other up, and knock the snow off.
“Were the others thirsty and cold,” I wondered? “Were their stomachs churning?” I speculated about whether the wind was whipping their faces? And what would the Viento Blanco feel like to them? As I slogged along, I had plenty of time to ponder. My thoughts of stopping persisted but kept fizzling away, mainly because the others kept moving forward and taking me with them.
And then, Mike did come to a stop and stabbed his ice axe into the snow. I wondered what he was doing but soon realized it was just a break. I followed suit and momentarily forgot about the cold. I’d been thirsty for a while. And so, this time, I immediately pulled my water bottle out and gulped some of the tepid fuzz-filled water we’d created from melting snow the evening before. My thirst was finally quenched, and my body was pleasantly warm, at least for that moment. But that soon changed. By stopping, my body temperature dropped back to its normal level, and I felt warm and comfortable for a while. But it continued falling, and since my clothes were sweat-soaked, a wet cold began chilling me from the inside, and I remembered once again that it was just plain old cold outside. I thought of moving vigorously in place to warm back up, but I was physically too tired for that. My head began throbbing again, and for some reason, I thought back to the unfortunate glass of pear juice I’d had back in Mendoza that had wreaked havoc on my stomach.
But then, I once again looked up and out. I could see the big snowfield below where all of the penitentes were. Above that, I guessed where Camp 2 was, although I couldn’t quite see the big clump of boulders near the tent clearings. The Andes stretched out and then disappeared into the northern horizon. A big bird floated between two spires down below. “Is it a Condor,” I wondered? The sun broke through the clouds for an instant and lit up the west side of a lower peak off to the north. Jim was busying himself with equipment chores of some sort while Peggy and Mike looked up into the Viento Blanco. I looked back, and Will was pausing between gulps of water and looking back down the trail we’d just created.
I looked up at Mike and could see what was about to happen, just as he grabbed his ice axe, turned uphill, and began moving again. The break was over. As anticipated, within moments, it was my turn to move. Step up with one foot, lift the other, and clear the snow. The routine started right back up. For a brief moment, I wasn’t as thirsty as before, the snow wasn’t balling up as it had been, and I was moving with little effort. But within minutes, the comfort and ease of movement ended, my thirst returned, and the snow resumed collecting on the bottom of my boots. “All good things must come to an end,” I thought.
As the climb wore on, my legs began telling me that the pitch was getting steeper, and, all the while, it kept getting harder to breathe. Finally, during a brief pause, I looked back behind and, with the new perspective, saw the abrupt increase in steepness. Even though I was focusing on the rope, I couldn’t help but notice that the Viento Blanco was still hovering just above. Thankfully, it seemed to keep moving higher as we did. By this point, I’d come to recognize a few certainties about the climb— that it was cold, there was a lot of snow, and we didn’t want to climb up into that dark cloud above us known as the Viento Blanco.
Morning drifted into the late afternoon. It became apparent that the light was filtering through the clouds from a different angle and losing strength, and my watch confirmed that nightfall was creeping toward us.
By this time, the world had become all snow in every direction. There was no more seeing dirt down below or trees off in the distance. There was only white and frozen. Then, all at once, a ray of sunshine hit me in the eyes. I was startled by its unexpected slap. Instinctively, I flinched, turning my head away from the blinding light while simultaneously looking out into the distance. Shafts of light were everywhere, reaching down from the sky and illuminating ridges, peaks, and valleys. Gray Cumulus Nimbus clouds seemed to be split apart at their seams and looked like they were being sucked up higher into space. Everything was alive and in motion. The shapes, colors, and sizes of things all seemed different from what I’d seen only moments before. Was it the same place, I wondered?
It was captivating. “Get your camera out and take some pictures,” I thought. But then I pictured my anorak and pile jacket on over my bibs. Then, I remembered the confusing bib suspenders, which in turn caused me to visualize the various zippers and buckles that fastened and clipped it all together.
My mittens were bulky, and they were covering glove liners. And even with all of the insulation inside the shell, my hands were still cold. It was clear to me that to work the zippers and buckles to get the camera out and then push the shutter button, I’d need to remove my gloves and use my bare hands. The thought of that brought one terrifying Word to mind— frostbite. And then, there was the wind, snow, and the Viento Blanco to top it all off. The more I thought about it, the more I realized just how complicated the process would be. The case was closed. There was no way I was going to get my camera out.
Besides, I realized that what I was seeing would likely vanish before I could ever even get to the point of being able to take a picture, anyway. So, I stopped worrying about it and turned my focus back to the things happening in my surroundings. I consciously let the sights soak deeply into my memory and vowed to remember them all. And in another instant, as expected, it was gone. Then, almost abruptly, the clouds thickened, the horizon disappeared, and the Viento Blanco sent me a harsh breath that snapped me back into my cold reality.
The summit of Aconcagua never came for our whole team, but plenty of memories and outdoor adventure stories did. We all made it up to High Camp. The rope never broke, and the knots held. My headache eventually went away, my thirst quenched, and breathing became easier. When we returned to Camp 3, sand again began pelting me in the face. Temperatures soared. Food choices went from instant rice to fresh beets (yes, beets), and finally to steak. The Polish climbers went to the same High Camp as us, took Will along with them to the summit, and made it safely back down.
Years later, Word has it that at least some of the snow up high has never melted. People say that the Viento Blanco is as harsh as ever. I can find no mention, description, or images of the view from 20,000 feet up on the Polish Glacier looking south during an abrupt break in cloud cover on a late February afternoon with low humidity. I don’t bother to look for a photo of my own, which might have captured that magical moment of the wild mountain splendor I witnessed because I know that one doesn’t exist. There are times that I wish there were at least one. Something to prove or reinforce that what I’d seen back then was real. The fact that nothing like that exists saddens me for a moment whenever I think about it. But invariably, a sort of image-in-motion of what I saw that day pushes its way into and overwhelms my senses, and I can feel the moment.
Humongous mountains, jagged ridges, and hidden valleys fill a picture that paints itself into my mind. Countless unnamed peaks are everywhere, growing smaller as they melt toward the Antarctic. Rays of sunshine connect the clouds to the ground, showcasing various land features and creating a kind of light that’s both brilliant and muted. The sky is full of thick, gray clouds, some of which manage to break free and soar past, creating momentary glimpses of blue skies. An ominous but somehow inviting fog hangs to the edge. I see the wind blowing from the south and smell its sound as it rises to the heavens.
I try to think of any single word to describe it all– spectacular, beautiful, extraordinary, overwhelming, complex, astounding, inexplicable, profound, compelling, or intriguing, I wonder? Yet, while no single one seems to when clumped together, they all do. At that moment, I came to my own understanding of what times and places like that mean.
We called it the “Valley of the Dinosaurs,” mostly because of the humongous rock formations scattered all around. They dominated the remote high valley in Colorado’s Tarryall Mountains with their sheer size. And they breathed a strange sort of life into the area that had convinced me early on that the whole place was somehow on the move. I could never pick out any one thing that caused me to think that—it was more like a general, overwhelming, and deep gut feeling that had me convinced. I was consumed by the place’s pure and simple beauty and sensed the place was more alive than me from the first time I blundered into it. Through the years, I took every opportunity to return. And while the physical cost of getting there was never cheap- without fail, it was always worth it.
“It were a good adventure,”
He said as he sat,
Then he straightened the snakeskin,
That banded his hat.
He guzzled a jar of whiskey,
But spilled some on his coat.
His manner was sure,
Though he drank like a goat.
The outside was gray,
And the tavern was cold.
Except near the stove,
Where the story was told.
There was a moment of silence,
As he stared into the gloom.
Then, he started the story,
His words filling the room.
“These days, most of us is livin’ here in Kentucky.
We knowed each other from Big Bone Lick,
Where we wandered and hunted by day,
Then come here in the evenin’,
To drink and have a say.
We weren’t none of us borned here.
We ain’t the settling down type.
But’d just ended up here in the East Bend,
After decidin’ our days of roamin’
Might finally’a seen their end.
After years a trappin’ Beaver,
Livin’ rough, and scoutin’ new.
We’d done trapped out the Bone Lick,
So, the coop we thought to flew.
So, we decided to spend our days what’s left
Roamin’ wild with those we knowed.
To head out west and to a place
Where none of us had ever goed.
And since we was so inclined, that’s what we did.
It were true we had our beaver dreams,
And thoughts of riches colored gold.
But it were mostly cause we wanted free,
And to forget that we was old.
They was 20 of us,
Trappers and hunters all.
Some was Indeans, some was Frenchmen,
Some was short, and others tall.
Some was black, some was white,
Some was big, and others small.
But all was hardened by the land,
And I did trust ‘em, one and all.
So, we cross’t the river at Rabbit Hash, and the journey then commenced.
It were the fall of 1821,
When we struck out on our own.
Headin’ west toward old Santa Fe,
Crossin’ country still unknown.
They was times we rode our horses,
On beaten trails of dirt and rock.
But they was times we walked for miles afoot.
And got too tired to talk.
We follered cricks and rivers,
The Verdigris, the Arkansaw, and others with no name.
And after weeks of hills and meadows,
To the mountains we done came.
Our days was filt with movin’,
Huntin’ game, and lookin’ west.
Then we stopped beneath the Spanish Peaks,
To set a camp and rest.
I’d never seen such.
We’d heard tales of lotsa mountains,
Full of beaver, elk, and deer.
Way out yonder ‘crosst the prairie,
Many miles away from here.
From far away the mountains seemed
To be a wall of rock and ice.
But once up close we was pleased to see.
It were country mighty nice.
They was glades and hollers
Cricks, and trees.
Elk and bear,
And lotsa honey bees.
Eventially, we cross’t the mountains
And come to Taos then Sante Fe.
Up to then, they wasn’t many folks,
As we moved along our way.
Except we run’t acrosst some Spaniards
Traded with Ietans, Cheyennes, and Arapahos.
Was guarded by the Kioways,
And had to worry with some Crows.
They was a fandango for us in Santa Fe,
We drank our fill and had a feast.
Then we turned around and headed back
To all awaitin’ in the east.
We headed back with a good bit of meat,
Not many pelts, but lots of tales.
Of scary faces, unfound places,
And all manner of travails.
After 18 months of livin’ wild,
We cross’t the river and was home.
Brim full of life, despite the strife,
And with no more mind to roam.
Yessir, it were a good adventure.”
The story finished, he sat back in his chair,
And silence filled the room.
He took a deep breath, then let out a laugh,
As sunshine broke the gloom.
We topped the ridge on the dirt road and began dropping quickly into the valley on our mountain bikes. We all knew that it’d continue to get warmer and greener as we descended from the Bolivian highlands, but our thoughts were mostly focused on what was awaiting us at the end of the ride. The anticipated post-ride rewards were different for each person- a warm bath, cold beer, hot coffee, a dry room. And so, we thought of those things, and little else as the town of Sorata came increasingly into view.
Rico, or “Tarzan” as he preferred to be called, hadn’t felt very strong since lunch. His backpack seemed exceedingly heavy, and the big uphill into Pinto Park was yet to come. He’d never been a complainer before and was intent on not becoming one right then. The feeling was new to him, and he wanted to figure out what was going on, so he could keep moving ahead in his accustomed dominant and carefree fashion. Perhaps, he reasoned, his weakness problem had something to do with the creek water he drank at lunch.
He recalled the Strep he had back during the winter and began to wonder if maybe this wasn’t that. But since there was no sore throat, he was pretty sure it wasn’t. “No, this is something different,” he decided.
The kid walked up while I was down in the creek fiddling around with a big rock, to tell me he’d lost his last fly. I was the fishing guide and supposedly the person who’d take care of that sort of thing and thus, knew I needed to act quickly. Of course, the most obvious solution would’ve been for me just to give him one. Usually, that’d be a simple thing to do– but since, in this case, I didn’t have any, it wasn’t even an option.