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Archive for the ‘Trip or Race Report’ Category

Expedition 2012: Patagonia, Land of Extremes

December 26th, 2012

Patagonia is the place of legends: the towering, iconic mountains, raging rivers, deep blue glaciers, wild winds, and miles of open, expansive wilderness. There’s a reason the company Patagonia took its name from this corner of the earth. A trip to Patagonia is a dream for most climbers and trekkers, as it was for me. So when the opportunity to go climbing with a couple of friends came up, I jumped on it.

The plan came together nicely: Mike Coote, a climbing friend of mine from Boston, and Marco Perez, a good friend from Peru, who I’ve climbed with in Peru and Bolivia, planned a three week trip where we would explore the classic corners of Patagonia and try to get on the Southern Patagonian Ice Cap while climbing a peak. We would begin at the southern tip of the South American continent, in Tierra del Fuego in Argentina and then head up to Chile to Torres del Paine National Park to do the Paine Circuit, one of the top treks in the world. Finally, we would go to Argentinian Patagonia in Glacier National Park, where we would get onto the Patagonian Southern Ice Cap and climb a peak.

Tierra del Fuego, Argentina

Despite it’s cruel weather, Tierra del Fuego is an off-the-beaten track prize for any explorer. It’s a place of jagged peaks, remote glaciers, wind-torn forests and bogs. The largest of South America’s islands, it’s split politically between Chile and Argentina, with the border running almost exactly halfway through the island. We chose the city of Ushuaia in Argentina as our starting point. Ushuaia is the southernmost city in the world and was founded for two primary reasons: as the main port and launching point for trips to Antarctica and as a stronghold for Argentina to repel Chilean claims to territory. The competition between the two countries over Fuegian lands has been fierce over the years, with the most recent borders being re-drawn in the middle of the Beagle Channel, giving Chile the former Argentinian claims on the prized island of Navarino. Argentina, determined not to lose any more of it’s territorial claims, incented people to settle in Ushuaia. As a result, Ushuaia has developed rapidly and lost it’s remote, end-of-the-earth feel as a city, having it replaced with tourist shops, a large port hosting cruise ships destined for Antarctica, and a burgeoning population cultivating the outskirts of the city.

The surrounding wildness, however, preserves Ushuaia as the perfect place to experience Tierra del Fuego. The first place we chose to explore was the harbor, which serves as a habitat for species that can only be found in sub-Antarctica climates, such as the penguin. The harbor, as it often does, shuts down due to the severe wind, but we managed to get out on a boat in a relatively calmer window. We cruised the Beagle Channel (named after Darwin’s famous vessel, the Beagle, which sailed the straights in 1832). We passed Alicia Island, one of the main islands in the harbor before reaching Isla de los Parajos (Bird Island), where we observed the king cormorants, who make the island their home and resemble penguins from a distance.

King cormorants on the Isla de los Parajos (Bird Island)

King cormorants on the Isla de los Parajos (Bird Island)

We circled the Les Eclailreurs lighthouse, symbolically the lighthouse at the end of the world as well as the southernmost lighthouse in the world, and then visited Isla de los Lobos, home to many of Tierra del Feugo’s sea lions and fur seals.

Les Eclaireurs Lighthouse: The Lighthouse At the End of the World

Les Eclaireurs Lighthouse: The Lighthouse At the End of the World

We then toured Bridges Island, which contains more wildlife and vestiges of the indigenous population, the Yaghans, who used to dwell on the harbor islands. The Yaghans, in fact helped give Tierra del Fuego it’s name. Ferdinand Magellan, the first European explorer to visit this part of the world was said to have seen the bonfires of the Yaghans from a distance on his ship and hence gave the land it’s name, Tierra del Fuego or “Land of Fire”. The Yaghans, as with other indigenous populations in South America, were killed off by disease, with the last of the estimated original 3000 Yaghans dying in the early 20th century.

Bridges Island

Bridges Island

Martillo Island, on the outer banks of the harbor, served as our final port of call on the exploration of the harbor. Martillo Island is home to Estancia Haberton, contains more than 50,000 acres of lakes and forests that serve as home to colony of an estimated 3000 pairs of Magellanic penguins and 16+ pairs of Gentoo penguins. Among the Magellanics and Gentoos, also is one King penguin, who normally is only found in Antartica. The locals believe that the King got lost and is taking refuge among his cousin species. The King is much larger than the other penguins and was easy to spot. While the Gentoos mainly stayed on their above ground nests, the Magellanics had the run of the island and were very curious of our presence. They approached us, curiously gawking asking us what we were doing there, often retreating to their underground nests if we got too close.

A curious Magellanic Penguin

A curious Magellanic Penguin

We decided to spend the rest of the time in Tierra del Fuego exploring Tierra del Fuego National Park. Part of the original plan was to climb one of the local peaks, Cerro Alvear or Cerro Olivia, which is the highest peak in Tierra del Fuego. In what was to become an all too familiar theme, the high winds, rain and clouds, forced us to change our plans. Tierra del Fuego was particularly raw, with colder temperatures compounded by moisture and wind chills. Climbing in those conditions, particularly up the rocky faces and scree slopes of the Fuegian summits, was not safe nor enjoyable. Instead, we set out to explore the beauty of the lower confines.

The Martial Glacier served as our first stop and was the first of many glaciers we would see in Patagonia. To reach the glacier, we climbed through blasting winds and a rain/snow mix, where we got views of the glacier snaking its way up the peaks as well as panoramic views of the Beagle Channel in the background. Laguna Esmeralda (Emerald Lake) served as our next destination—a short 4 hour hike across Fuegian bogs and forests—where we reached the emerald green, subalpine lake that rested at the base of Albino Glaciar. The final point of exploration was the Senda Costera in the Tierra del Fuego National Park, from Bahia Ensenada to Bahia Lapataia. The four hour walk took us along the coast, visiting the homelands of the native Yaghans, who used to eat the plentiful mussels along the beaches and build homes in the chilled forests.

Laguna Esmeralda with views of the Albino Glaciar

Laguna Esmeralda with views of the Albino Glaciar

Torres del Paine National Park, Chile

Our entry into Torres del Paine National Park began in the gateway town of El Calafate in Argentina, about 350 miles north of Ushuaia. The environment is noticeably warmer in El Calafate, with more greenery. El Calafate still retains the wild Patagonian weather, particularly when traveling westward to the town of Puerto Natales in Chile, which served as our base for entering Torres del Paine. Along our journey to Puerto Natales, we visited the Perito Moreno Glacier, which is one of the few glaciers on earth that is not receding, but in fact, advancing. The glacier is also one of the few in the world that you can easily access and watch icebergs calve off into the lake. Perito Moreno cuts Lago Argentino, Argentina’s largest lake, into two by spanning a three mile stretch from one shore to the other, all while standing an impressive 240 feet above the surface water (ice depth reaches 558 feet) and spanning 20+ miles towards the South Patagonian Ice Cap. Standing in front of Perito Moreno is one of the most breathtaking experiences one can have.

Perito Moreno Glaciar

Perito Moreno Glaciar

Puerto Natales is a dusty, remote port town in Chile, mainly serving the many tourists who venture here every year to enter the National Park or take one of the many ships that explore the maze of fjords and islands along the south Chilean coast. Our plan was to hike the Paine Circuit, one of the classic treks in the world. The full circuit was closed due to landslides, leaving the shorter, more scenic “W” circuit as the main option to travel. We stocked up on 5 days of fuel and food, got great info from our friends at Erratic Rock, a local hostel run by an American expat from Oregon, loaded up our big backpacks, and headed into the park.

Mike guarding the gear at Erratic Rock hostel in Puerto Natales

Mike guarding the gear at Erratic Rock hostel in Puerto Natales

Fires ravaged the park in 2011, scorching 2 million+ hectares of land. While it’s not known exactly how the fires started, it’s largely attributed to someone’s lack of care with a campfire. Consequently, camping was only allowed in designated spots and campfires forbidden.

Day one began with a boat ride across Lago Pehoe, where we got dropped off at a very windy spot at the northwestern part of the lake. We climbed 4 hours north to campsite at the Grey Glacier, all while getting views of the Paine Grande massif, including the appropriately named Cerro Castillo (Castle peak) and Cerro Catedral (Cathedral peak), both of which resembled their namesakes. These peaks captured my imagination as I stared in wonder at the massive walls jetting out 7000-8000 feet straight up into the air and thinking about the climbers who had scaled these monsters with sheer athleticism and advanced technical skill in the past.

Cerro Castillo and Cathedral along the Valle del Frances

Cerro Castillo and Cathedral

We set up camp in a meadow situated between Paine Grande and Lago Grey. We got our first glimpse of the Chilean refugios (huts) along the circuit, which were surprisingly luxurious compared to the huts of the White Mountains in my native New England or even the huts in other mountains I’ve visited in Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador and Nepal.

A short walk brought us to Glacier Grey, whose snout forms the northern end of Lago Grey. We watched the unstable, 600 foot thick wall ice calve off into the lake as the sun set. Strong winds send the huge icebergs across the lake and scour the glacier, hardening the ice. Glacier Grey stretched all the way to the South Patagonian Ice Cap, the main engine for feeding the glaciers, along with immense amounts of moisture and wind.

Glaciar Grey calving icebergs into Lago Grey.

Glaciar Grey calving icebergs into Lago Grey.

We retraced our steps the next day, hiking 7+ hours until we reached Campo Italiano, a main crossroads to Valle del Frances and the eastward arm of the “W” trek. Campo Italiano reminded us why its so important to act responsibly in the mountains, with its overuse and transient population.

The next day provided us with one of the highlights of the trek, bringing us the Valle del Frances, sandwiched in between the Paine Grande massif to the west and the Cuernos Massif to the east. We observed avalanches breaking down the impossibly steep slopes of Paine Grande until we finally reached a high point overlooking the peaks on both sides. The Cuernos (“Horns”) are a series of sharp towers that rise vertically straight upward from the valley floor. These are some of the most coveted prizes in the big wall, elite climbing circuit, so I felt privileged to be in their presence. The approaches alone to the walls would be a challenge enough for most, but to spend days scaling the walls—particularly in the harsh conditions of Patagonia—is quite an impressive feat.

Wind ripping across Los Cuernos

Wind ripping across Los Cuernos

We exited the Valle del Frances and finished the 7 hour day in the rain at the Los Cuernos campground. Our tent and clothing got drenched in the pouring rain as we made our usual evening dinner of pasta with tomato sauce and tuna. Los Cuernos had a refugio where we were able to take some shelter from the harsh conditions and socialize with others who were also passing through.

The fourth day brought us along the rolling forests on the north side of Lago Nordenskjold, around the famed Torre Massif, ending at Campo Torres, a beautiful campsite at the base of the Torres. The Torres are four sister towers (Torre de Agostini or Torre Sur, Torre Central, Torre Monzino or Torre Norte and Nido de Condor), the most famous peaks within Torres del Paine National Park. The Torres are legendary big wall peaks in the climbing world and are considered some of the most difficult in the world to climb. Stories of week-long blizzards in the summertime and 70 mile an hour winds picking up haul bags during ascents of the Torres are quite common.

Sunrise over Las Torres

Sunrise over Las Torres

We settled for watching the sunrise over the Torres in a fortunate brief window of clear whether. The alpenglow from the sunrise lit the rock on fire with color. Watching the sunrise over the Torres was a highlight of not on the trip, but of the year, and indeed of my lifetime.

We ended the trek on the fifth day with a long walk from Campo Torres to Hosteria Las Torres, where we began to renter civilization. The large hotel provided a nice refueling spot as we awaited the buses that would take us back to Puerto Natales for our departure to our next leg of the journey—Glacier National Park.

Glacier National Park, Argentina

The starting point for visiting Cerro Torre and Fitz Roy and other classic peaks in Glacier National Park is El Chalten, a small, backwater town about 2.5 hours south of El Calafate. El Chalten, as was the case with Ushuaia, was established by the Argentinian government mainly to fortify its claims on its western Patagonian border. El Chalten thrives on tourism, with the town of about 1000 people comprised mainly of hotels, restaurants and guiding companies.

We arrived in El Chalten around 10pm, just was the sun was starting to set. The night was clear and beautiful, which would turn out to be the only day that would be so for our entire stay in El Chalten.

Cerro Torre, Fitz Roy & other climbing classics of Patagonia on the only clear night we had

Cerro Torre, Fitz Roy & other climbing classics of Patagonia on the only clear night we had

We decided that we would try to climb Gorra Blanca, a relatively remote peak that normally takes 4-5 days to climb. Gorra Blanca is a glaciated peak that sits on the eastern edge of the South Patagonian Ice Cap. The peak was not challenging technically or because of altitude (the highest peak in Patagonia, Fitz Roy, is only about 3500 meters), but rather because of one thing: the Patagonian weather. Since the peak is directly exposed to the westerly flow of weather off the Pacific and onto the Ice Cap, it gets notoriously windy, foggy and rainy/snowy once crossing over the higher passes. Our planned route was going to take us over the Marconi Pass, across the Marconi glacier to the edge of the ice cap, where we would set up a camp (or go to a nearby refugio on the Chilean side) for a summit attempt. The biggest risk, aside from walking head first into an 80 mile an hour wind, was getting pinned down in white out conditions on the middle of the glacier. Since we did not have a GPS, we would rely on a map and compass. We also needed to make sure we brought our snowshoes and a shovel to build a walled space for our tent. The shovel could be our lifeline on the glaciar.

Climbers heading up Gorra Blanca

Climbers heading up Gorra Blanca

Aside from our rope and other climbing gear, we also packed enough food for 5 days, one additional day of food than we thought we’d need. We monitored the weather on a site called windguru.com, which we were told was the best site for Patagonia. The site did a somewhat reasonable job estimating wind, cloud cover and precipitation, but was far from accurate. The only way to understand the weather in Patagonia was to experience it.

With our packs fully loaded and weighing a lot more than any of us were used to carrying (estimating about 20-25 kilos), we retired to bed at our hostel in El Chalten, ready to leave the next morning. The entire night the wind howled, ripping down the valley and blasting El Chalten. Our hostel in particular seemed susceptible with its shoddy construction, letting wind in through all the cracks and absorbing the wind in it’s porous nooks and crannies. Upon checking the weather first thing in the morning, we saw that Marconi Pass was being blasted and was receiving substantial rain. The same was expected to the next day. We decided to postpone our start until the next day, preferring to sleep in a bed rather than spending an assured night with 3 people crammed into a tent in the rain and wind. Leaving the next day would also presumably allow us to avoid that days bad weather since the first part of the climb was mainly in forests and along what we assumed were rocks not exposed to the wind.

The following day proved to be equally windy, but we headed out. We got dropped off by a taxi at the starting point at Puente Electrico at Rio Electrico. We knew it would be windy, but we did not expect full-on hurricane force winds at the start. We struggled to get to our feet and move up the path head first into an estimated 75-80 mph winds. It took all we had with the heavy packs to remain balanced. We huddled together, backs to the wind, and checked the map. The map showed that once we turned a corner, we should be protected by the winds blasting in from the west by a large rock formation and trees. We prodded along. Fortunately, our prediction held true and we proceeded to head up the path towards our goal, Campo Playita, about 5 hours away.

Camping at La Playita on Lago Electrico.  The wind, rain and clouds hammer Marconi Pass and our planned ascent route up Gorra Blanca

Camping at La Playita on Lago Electrico. The wind, rain and clouds hammer Marconi Pass and our planned ascent route up Gorra Blanca as seen in the background

The climb up to Refugio Piedras Fraille was relatively flat, with on and off again rain—the typical weather pattern of the lower elevations in Patagonia. We arrived at Fraille, where we met another group who had just climbed Gorra Blanca. They had been fortunate enough to take advantage of the window of nice weather they were presented, which corresponded to the night we arrived in El Chalten and into the next day. They told us that the climb is a “lot further than we thought” and quite taxing. Crevasses did not seem to present an issue, except at the beginning, where there was a gap between the forward moraine and the start of the glacier. The real challenge was as we expected: the weather, namely the role it could play in route finding. While they were fortunate enough to summit and climb out in relatively calm weather, they did indicate weather forecasts were not looking like those conditions would repeat themselves. For that reason, they had decided to head out, abandoning their original plans to go onto the ice cap.

After an extended break in Fraille, we moved on towards La Playita camp, nestled on the shore of Lago Electrico, where we would spend the night. La Playita was an estimated 3 hours away, but it would take us about 4 with our heavy packs. The path was a lot more challenging than we expected, taking us over large moraine fields and through a river crossing that required us to get our boots soaked. Towards the end of the hike, the rain came down at a very steady clip, soaking us and all our belongings. I had lined my pack with plastic, so my sleeping bag and other items inside remained dry. However, I had not put on my gortex pants, so my shoeller shell was pretty wet. Arriving at camp tired, we set up camp and covered ourselves in gortex head to toe. Making dinner with 3 people jammed into a 2 person tent is challenging, but we made it work.

Taking shelter in the tent after getting beaten down by Patagonia's weather

Taking shelter in the tent after getting beaten down by Patagonia's weather

The rain pelted the tent all night, with the wind behaving itself. We awoke to the rain subsiding to a sprinkle, but with the mountains completely covered in clouds. We could hear the wind ripping through the higher elevations. We were told that the conditions at La Playita are indicative of what you could expect to find in Marconi Pass. A party in the tent next to us had spent 3 nights in their tent waiting for the weather to subside. Their original plan was to head to Lautaro, a remote peak that normally takes 8 days to climb. With 3 days gone and an additional fourth day planned to stay in La Playita due to the current weather conditions, they would need to modify their goals.

Similarly, we decided to modify our goals. The Lautaro party also had a satellite phone with them that was reporting in weather forecasts. They were told the weather was expected to continue to be stormy today and for the next 3-4 days. Given that forecast and the fact that we only had about 5 days left on our trip, we decided to head down and turn our sites to some of the other peaks that would be more sheltered from the weather (or so we hoped) and not require lugging a heavy pack. While we did not mind climbing in bad weather, it was the combination of the possibility of being trapped in bad weather for day son the glacier with limited food and summit possibilities, few views and little time for anything else, that sent us down. This decision turned out to be the correct one since a few days later we learned from other people who had been in other parts of the range, that they experienced terrible weather. In fact, one party who had gone across the ice cap, reported not being able to see anything and having to make dangerous river crossings up to their chests, including one where 3 members of the party were swept away by the fast currents. They had to be pulled out and continue their journey completely soaked and cold.

Regrouping in El Chalten, we watched weather conditions and decided against an attempt at a couple of other peaks that we were considering: Cerro Solo and Vespiangni. Instead, we decided to complete a 3 day trek around Cerro Torre and Fitz Roy, which would let us experience all that the park had to offer and get us great views of the peaks.

Hanging glaciar over Lago Sucia as seen from Laguna de los Tres

Hanging glaciar over Lago Sucia as seen from Laguna de los Tres

From El Chalten, we headed towards Laguna de los Tres, about a 4 hour journey. Along the way we passed what normally would be spectacular views of Fitz Roy, but the clouds prevented us from seeing. We passed the glacial lake, Lago Capri before reaching Camp Poincenot, where we set up camp for the night. We made the 1+ hour climb up to Laguna de los Tres, where we were greeted by a stiff wind, snow and clouds. The view of Fitz Roy was obscured, but we did get great views of the deep glacial lake, Lago Sucia. The final part of the journey included hiking to Piedras Blancas, where we saw the Piedras Blancas glacier, a hanging glacier that left a field of boulders, many of which serve the local climbing community.

A relaxing view of the Piedras Blancas glaciar

A relaxing view of the Piedras Blancas glaciar

The next day, we attempted a hike to Lago Sucia, but the trail abruptly ended at a very difficult, if not near impossible river crossing, forcing us to turn back. Instead, we took the 3+ hour journey to Laguna Torre, where normally fantastic views of Cerro Torre could be had. Because of the clouds and wind, the views were obscured. However, we did get spectacular views of Glacier Grande, Cerro Solo and the surrounding peaks. The camp at Campo di Agostini was our last camp of the trip.

Reflections on Climbing in Patagonia

Patagonia is a land of extremes. It’s got the most extreme weather and the most extreme climbing terrain of anywhere I have ever been. I’ve always read about the weather in Patagonia, particularly the wind, but it was another thing to experience it first hand. The wind is just relentless, with gusts merging with sustained winds, which easily bite into your core. Clouds seem to form out of nowhere in a matter of minutes. One minute you see blue skies, and literally minutes later that same sky is shrouded in clouds and snow is falling. While precipitation is not voluminous in short spurts, it is more sustained over days. The combination of the wind, clouds and the rain/snow is what makes Patagonia famously known for its weather and climbing in this part of the world extreme.

wind blown trees

It really is as windy in Patagonia as they say it is

The topography of Patagonia makes the climbing extreme. There are very few peaks that don’t represent an extreme challenge (ED or TD is the normal rating on most of the peaks). The big wall climbs in particular are daunting. Patagonian climbing is designed for the extreme climber, mainly for experienced rock climbers who are comfortable climbing difficult (5.10+) climbs, many of which require multiple days, long approaches and dealing with unpredictable and harsh weather. There are of course less difficult climbs in the lower valleys (mainly as day outings) as well as upper elevations for those willing to search them out, but for those climbers looking for less technical routes in a classic alpine mountaineering setting, Patagonia is not the best place to climb. Those climbers would be better served in places such as the Cordillera Real of Bolivia, the Cordillera Blanca of Peru, the volcanoes of Ecuador, the Khumbu of Nepal or other similar regions that offer a greater variety of climbs with more predictable weather.

As a student of mountaineering, I found it exhilarating to be in Patagonia. I stood among the giant peaks of the mountaineering world where legends were made– from Lionel Teray and Guido Magnone’s first ascent of Fitz Roy via the Southeast Route in 1956 to Hayden Kennedy and Jason Kruk’s speedy 13 hour ascent of Cerro Torre in 2012. While I did not climb what I had hoped in this trip to Patagonia due to weather (and joined the long list of others who had done the same before me), I left Patagonia with a newfound respect for any climbers who climb in this part of the world. I’ve always said technical mountaineering at altitude is the toughest sport in the world, and climbing in Patagonia without the altitude but the harshest weather on earth, falls into that same category. Climbers who venture off to climb Cerro Torre, Fitz Roy, the Torres or any of the smaller towers surrounding these classics are true warriors. Those who succeed in climbing them are in another level above that.

Rolando Garibotti retracing the controversial first ascent of the Compressor Route on Cerro Torre.  Torre Egger in the background.  Photo: Rolando Garibotti

Climbing in Patagonia is extreme: Rolando Garibotti retracing the controversial first ascent of the Compressor Route on Cerro Torre. Torre Egger in the background. Photo: Rolando Garibotti

The great Southern Patagonian Ice Cap is an extreme adventure in itself. While not technically challenging, it requires strong route finding skills and a willingness and ability to deal with harsh winds and weather conditions. A traverse on the ice cap requires at least an 8 day journey, including pulling heavy packs, crossing raging rivers up to your waist and of course traveling head first into the wind and rain without seeing where you are headed.

The best advice I can offer to anyone looking to climb in Patagonia, whether it be across the ice cap or up one of the classic towers, is to pick a single objective and give yourself plenty of time (2-4 weeks) to achieve that objective. Be willing to wait for the right window in the weather. Patience and luck are your biggest allies.

Reflections on the People, Environment and Future of Patagonia

The Argentinians and Chileans who inhabit Patagonia are an adventurous, hardy type of people. Many come from the big cities, such as Buenos Aires, and have decided to look for greater economic opportunities in Patagonia, as well as enjoy the rugged and beautiful terrain of their country. While both countries are developing countries, they are better off than many of their neighbors that I have visited, such as Bolivia and Peru. The standard of living was higher, with better roads, more reliable transport and greater access to natural resources, including the purest water on earth.

The Patagonians very much view themselves as stewards of their environment. The locals in Ushuaia, for instance, who have lived there for decades, resent the expansion of the cities to accommodate political ambitions and even resent the greater impact of tourism. They prefer to see the Ushuaia of old—one that had a more contained population and blended more seamlessly with the local environment. Throughout Patagonia, particularly within Chile, there was a strong resistance to altering the environment to fuel the energy needs of the northern part of the country. Patagonia is blessed with one of the best systems of river in the world, which many would like to harness for its hydroelectric potential. Dams and power lines are regular parts of conversation, most of which has not come to fruition due to the desire to preserve Patagonia’s natural resources. I fear in time that this will change as population growth and economic ambitions will outweigh the desires of the Patagonians.

Patagonia sin represas! (Patagonia without dams!)

Patagonia sin represas! (Patagonia without dams!) Local Patagonians debating the future of the region

Climate change also presents a serious challenge to Patagonia, particularly its vast array of glaciers and the Southern Patagonian Ice Cap. While some glaciers in Patagonia are defying logic and advancing, many are retreating. Just like in other parts of the world, the impact of human-induced greenhouse gases present the biggest threat to the future of Patagonia. The signs of this threat are not as drastic as I observed in places such as Nepal, Ecuador, Bolivia and Peru, but nonetheless are altering the landscape and the culture of the region.

The future of Patagonia not only lies with the people who live there, but people like me, who have visited this region, and will use the lasting impressions of its beauty to influence my actions on a daily basis and the conversations I have with my kids, family and friends on the importance of protecting this land and others like it around the world.

Brewery to Brewery (B2B) Ride: An Epic of a Bike and Her Rider

December 19th, 2009

I’ve been fortunate enough to have have had some really great experiences in my life– from expeditions to triathlon races– many of which I’ve written about, but never have posted online (mainly because they were written prior to the widespread use of blogs or common occurence of writing to the web). I figured now is a great time to share some of these stories on Ascending Higher, particularly as we’re waiting for the snow to arrive and searching for some inspiration to plan out some exciting adventures for 2010. I’ll run them as a series of posts, starting with a narrative I wrote about my trip to Peru in July-August 2001 during an expedition to the Cordillera Blanca. I’ll then follow that with write-ups of my climbing trip to the volcanoes of Ecuador in December 2000, my expedition to the Cordillera Real of Bolivia in July-August 2004, trek to Everest Base Camp in March-April of 2000, as well as recaps of my experiences at bike rides (Harpoon’s Brewery to Brewery) and triathlon races (Eagleman, Ralph’s CA Half). I would love to hear your comments and experiences, so please comment on any of the posts!

This first post was written in June 2002, soon after I had completed the 2nd Annual Brewery to Brewery (“B2B”) Ride.

Brewery to Brewery (B2B) Ride: An Epic of a Bike and Her Rider

The sponsor of the B2B ride, Harpoon Brewery

The sponsor of the B2B ride, Harpoon Brewery

It began innocently enough; a beautiful sunrise over the city of Boston on June 22nd, 2002, as we pulled into the parking lot at the Harpoon Brewery for the 2nd Annual Harpoon Brewery to Brewery ride (“B2B ride”). A sadistic 100 of us had volunteered to subject ourselves to 130 miles (even more sadistic since the original advertisement said 150 miles) of cycling from Harpoon’s brewery in south Boston to their northern New England location in Windsor, Vermont. We were all ready to go, including the fearless group of four from Team Mercury Multisport—Josh, Annie, Leslie and myself.

This ride actually had an sentimental element to it for me since this was going to be my final ride on the 12 year old Raleigh Technium bike that I have grown to love and hate. For I had purchased a newer, “cooler” model bike that will force the Technium into retirement. The long ride would serve as a fine send off for this loyal beast—so I had thought.

Once out of the traffic-ridden streets of greater Boston we chugged our way northward to the NH border. The sky got ominously more overcast as we progressed and the Technium had this funny gear slipping “thing” going on. “No worries,” I thought, “I’ve dealt with this before.” All felt good at the mile 47 water stop. After scarfing down two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made on good ‘ol all-American Wonder bread, I was ready to tackle the next 90+ miles.

Pushing myself up a moderate hill around mile 50 my feet felt suddenly light and free. What had happened? Had I gained some sort of super power that turned my quads into pistons of pure muscle? This thought quickly left my mind once I realized it was me were talking about after all and I looked down to see my chain lying like a dead snake on the ground. “Good God,” I muttered, “the Technium must know this is it’s last ride and will not let me put her down without a fight”. It had not been a gear-slipping “thing” afterall, but a weak link in the chain giving me problems.

Not having a chain breaker, my hopes of an early finish in time for a date with about 10 IPAs at the brewery in Windsor were dashed. Instead, here I stood off of Route 119 in East Nowhere, NH pathetically holding my greasy chain and staring helplessly at the pavement. Suddenly a familiar flash of yellow and red appeared out of nowhere. A fellow B2B rider! This gracious knight, Colin, a citizen of Great Britain, fortunately wielded a chain breaker. All the kings horses and all the king’s men quickly put my chain back together and Humpty Dumpty was back on the road.

I was fixed and furious; ready to make up for lost time when alas, the “30% chance of showers” turned into a “100% chance of downpours” and the sky opened up for the next several hours. The rain actually felt good at first, serving to cool me down. However, by mile 75 while standing in a Dunkin Donuts convenient store shivering uncontrollably and sipping on a Gatorade, I wished the rain to Hell. Lesson number one out of the Handbook for Sadistic Cyclists says that you must always grin and bare it—finish out your ride no matter what the weather conditions. So I hopped back on the No-Large-Chain-Ring-Gear Technium and I was off.

It took about 10 minutes to heat back up and start to feel good again. The rain continued in droves over the next 21 miles to the second water stop at mile 97. The Harpoon support team was great, providing us with the nourishment and encouragement we needed to prod along. Leaving them behind, we knew it was our last stop for the day and the brewery now awaited us!

Fortunately, most of the route past Keene, NH was downhill. The rain had stopped for a brief thirty minutes or so to allow us to cruise this portion. In fact, cruising became the new theme for the day. I actually began to feel refreshed, and “second-winded”. That would not last long as the second wave of downpours arrived just in time for mile 108. Leslie and I had chosen to ride together for support, and now was my time to take advantage of that support. I am sure she got sick of me asking every five miles how far we had gone, but never showed it. Perhaps the daggers of water cascading off of her back tire and into my face was her way of silencing me, for I dropped back to avoid the acqua-induced onslaught. I dropped further back after several pee stops facilitated by drinking nearly two liters of water at the last water stop.
Around mile 120 we joined forces once again, focusing on the finish. The rain had stopped, the brewery was only 10 miles away and life was good once again. Around mile 125, the sentimentality began to settle in, for knowing this would be the last five miles I would ride on the Technium. I was determined to make it quiet, memorable five miles. As I steadily cruised along, I thought of all the good times on this bike: the numerous 22 mile sprints up to Bedford and back; the rides to the beaches along the north shore; and who could forget the 85+ mile jaunts up to the NH border and back? As I waxed nostalgically of these memories, I suddenly found myself jolted back to reality as I came off my saddle and hurled towards the handlebars. The scraping sound of my shoes on the pavement as the back tire lodged into the railroad tracks made me realize I needed to react quickly. Fortunately, I landed on my feet and stopped my fall quickly. I had made it unscathed. Alas, the Technium had not. The back tire turned into a pretzel upon impact with the tire tracks and flatted out (these tracks, in fact, caused several wipe-outs as I would later find out). One last memory, indeed.

Hitching a ride to the brewery with a B2B rider who happened to be driving by in his van, I finished the last five miles of the ride in non-ceremonious fashion. Taking the Technium out of the van, I leaned it against the fence in order to make off for the feast of grilled chicken and beer that awaited all of our hard work upon the completion of this epic. As I walked away from the bike, I heard a metallic slither. Stopping, I looked back to see that the chain had fallen off and rested on the wet grass. I just smiled and thought of all the good times.

Ralph’s California Half Ironman and The Eagleman Half Ironman: Two Races, One Goal

December 6th, 2009

I’ve been fortunate enough to have have had some really great experiences in my life– from expeditions to triathlon races– many of which I’ve written about, but never have posted online (mainly because they were written prior to the widespread use of blogs or common occurence of writing to the web). I figured now is a great time to share some of these stories on Ascending Higher, particularly as we’re waiting for the snow to arrive and searching for some inspiration to plan out some exciting adventures for 2010. I’ll run them as a series of posts, starting with a narrative I wrote about my trip to Peru in July-August 2001 during an expedition to the Cordillera Blanca. I’ll then follow that with write-ups of my climbing trip to the volcanoes of Ecuador in December 2000, my expedition to the Cordillera Real of Bolivia in July-August 2004, trek to Everest Base Camp in March-April of 2000, as well as recaps of my experiences at bike rides (Harpoon’s Brewery to Brewery) and triathlon races (Eagleman, Ralph’s CA Half). I would love to hear your comments and experiences, so please comment on any of the posts!

This first post was written in June 2003, soon after I had completed the Blackwater Eagleman Half Ironman.

Ralph's CA Half Ironman now known as 70.3 Ironman CA- Oceanside

Ralph\’s CA Half Ironman now known as 70.3 Ironman CA- Oceanside

After finishing the Timberman Half Ironman in 2002, I was hooked. I knew the longer distance endurance races were why I had gotten into this thing called triathlon. Where else could you suffer for 5 or more hours (in my case at least) completing a 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike and a 13.1 mile run and call it “enjoyment”? Or perhaps more appropriately, where else could you challenge yourself to reach beyond your limits and to seek your personal best? So shortly after I finished the Timberman I scoured the Internet for more of these endurance gems. Like a drug addict, I needed to know when the next one was so that I could satisfy my inner yearning for more torture. Just as importantly, I wanted the “good stuff”—the races off the beaten path—races with some history—races with some Mojo.

Two races in particular piqued my fancy—Ralph’s California Half Ironman (now called Ironman 70.3 California Oceanside) on April 5, 2003 and The Eagleman Half Ironman on June 7, 2003. These races not only fell perfectly into my training and race calendar for the year, but also fit the criteria for the “good stuff”. The California Half would take me to Triathlon City Central– San Diego, California– while the weather was still cold back east (and ice climbing season was coming to a close) as well as allow me to pay a visit to my sister who still can’t quite figure out why I would want to fly 3000 miles to do one of these things. Likewise, The Eagleman would take me to lovely Cambridge, Maryland (okay, well not so lovely, but the Chesapeake is nice) and allow me to pay a visit to my two year old godson along the way. Always combine pleasure with pleasure I like to say.

The California Half Ironman featured over 2000 athletes from around the world, including last year’s Hawaii Ironman World Champion, Tim DeBoom. (Not that I would ever get a chance to see him since he finished 1 and half hours before me, but it was somewhat cool to be at a race with the “big guns”). The California Half is considered the “kick-off” to Kona, being the first Hawaii qualifier of the season. This fact, coupled with its location, ensured the competition would be stiff. My only goal entering the race was to see where I was at at this point in the season. Being from New England, its difficult to train outdoors in the winter (you get no sympathy from those living in southern California—trust me) so I knew the 56 mile ride over the hills of Camp Pendleton would be quite a challenge. I was praying to the God of Trainers to pull me through!

“Be sure to wear your wetsuit, the water is freezing!”, the Race Director warned us at the pre-race meeting. However, the race day water temperature turned out to be 59 degrees—child’s play! Being in my wetsuit for the first time since last October did not worry me (but it should have as I ended up with the biggest wetsuit hickee ever seen on a human being), as I slid myself into the Pacific. With water temperatures just fine, air temperatures in the high 60s and absolutely no wind to speak of, the swim in Oceanside harbor was the best ever for a race.

The transition areas were all well-run and organized, as I made my way for my bike. Fortunately, the course is closed to public traffic since it’s on a military base (there was actually a threat of a base closure due to the war in Iraq, but luckily that did not happen). The support of the Marines handing out water bottles at the aid stations was a true inspiration, as I was reminded of how lucky we all were to be competing in races such as the California Half because of the bravery of the Marines. I gave it all I had on the ride, but the hills had taken their toll. My time was much slower than I had hoped, but I did have enough for the run.

The run took us along the strand at Oceanside and was quite a flat, scenic course. Temperatures had risen during the double out-and-back run, approaching the mid-to-high 70s by race end. I had been battling a post-tib injury since last year (and still am), so I knew the run would be a true test of mental stamina for me. For me, the run (especially around mile 8 on a half IM) is always “the meat” of the race—the time when you have just got to hang in and pull it through. I had to reach deep to pull it through this time, but I did and was rewarded with a great big hug from my sister and Leslie at the finish line. Victory!

After the California Half, I knew I had a lot of work to do. The Eagleman was two months away and I needed to get outside and train. With the weather now consistently above 40 degrees (and consistently wet) back home, there was no excuse not to get the miles in. I settled into a nice routine of long ride-long run on the weekends and even ventured out into Walden in early May to get some open water swimming in.

June 7th quickly came and race day was already here. The Eagleman Half Ironman, like Ralph’s California Half IM, was a Hawaii qualifier, so a large number of pros (some having already qualified for Hawaii) came for the event, including Tim DeBoom once again, as well as Lori Bowden. With over 1800 athletes, it was one of the largest races I have ever been in.

Fortunately, the rain held off for race day, with perfect conditions of overcast skies and temperatures in the low 70s. The brackish water in the Choptank River lived up to its name, pelting swimmers with some of the choppiest conditions ever seen at the Eagleman. Navigating proved difficult in such conditions.

Eagleman Half Ironman

Eagleman Half Ironman

The heavy rain the day before caused the transition area to be quite muddy. Not wanting to risk clogged cleats, this was the one time I actually left my “coffee shop caps” on my cycling shoes as I ran my bike through the transition area. The ride through the Blackwater Preserve was very scenic and fast. I was able to pull down a descent bike split. The run, on the other hand, would be another story.

The 13.1 mile out-and-back once again took us through scenic and flat stretches of the Blackwater Preserve. Unfortunately, my injury had not improved much since the California Half, so I was limited in my training for the Eagleman. It certainly showed on the run, but once again, I was able to win the mental battle and pull out a solid overall time.

Both races proved to be premier events and “must dos’ in the circuit of North American Half Ironmans. From a personal standpoint, I was quite happy: With two races, I achieved my one goal—to challenge myself to reach beyond my limits and to seek my personal best. And I had it done it at venues that possessed “the good stuff”.

Peru Expedition 2002: Cusco and the Cordillera Blanca

November 29th, 2009
I’ve been fortunate enough to have have had some really great experiences in my life– from expeditions to triathlon races– many of which I’ve written about, but never have posted online (mainly because they were written prior to the widespread use of blogs or common occurence of writing to the web). I figured now is a great time to share some of these stories on Ascending Higher, particularly as we’re waiting for the snow to arrive and searching for some inspiration to plan out some exciting adventures for 2010. I’ll run them as a series of posts, starting with a narrative I wrote about my trip to Peru in July-August 2001 during an expedition to the Cordillera Blanca. I’ll then follow that with write-ups of my climbing trip to the volcanoes of Ecuador in December 2000, my expedition to the Cordillera Real of Bolivia in July-August 2004, trek to Everest Base Camp in March-April of 2000, as well as recaps of my experiences at bike rides (Harpoon’s Brewery to Brewery) and triathlon races (Eagleman, Ralph’s CA Half). I would love to hear your comments and experiences, so please comment on any of the posts!
This first post was written in August 2001, soon after my arrival back to the United States after my trip to the Cordillera Blanca of Peru in July-August of that same year. I spent the first week with my wife, Leslie, acclimitizing along the Inca Trail, and then the remainder of the trip on an expedition with Roger Wall, Marco Perez, Jaoquim our cook, and lots of burros and chickens (the chickens unfortunately did not survive the trip).

Peru Expedition 2002: Cusco and the Cordillera Blanca

Winay Wayna on the Inca Trail, Peru

Acclimitizing on the Inca Trail: Incan ruins at Winay Wayna

A few days of trekking through the Sacred Valley in the Department of Cusco, Peru brought us back five centuries into the heart and soul of the Incan Empire. My travel partner (who is now my wife– we weren’t married at the time), Leslie, and I could only leave to our imaginations what the ruins at Sachsayhuamán, Tambomachay, Pisac, Ollataytambo, Winay Wayna, and of course, the most mystery-shrouded of all, Machu Picchu, were like before the Spanish conquistadors transformed them. Workers chiseling out the next stones to be placed perfectly into the city structures, gilt Incan walls, quinoa terraces tended by local farmers, guinea pigs (still a local delicacy) nesting in the stone houses of the locals—all probably were very typical at the apex of Incan society. These idyllic scenes have vanished, replaced by tourists swarming over what was once a sacred temple, Quechuan natives dressed in traditional clothing clutching puppies, begging tourists to take their picture in exchange for a sole (the Peruvian currency), and the Machu Picchu Sactuary Lodge, catering to those who pay $200+ a night to watch the sun rise over Machu Picchu without the inconvenience of the morning hike on the Inca Trail. The government has even approved the building of a ski gondola from Aguas Caliente to the top of Machu Picchu so more money can be creamed from the curious but coddled visitors to the world famous archeological site. While the concept of a gondola is in blatant contradiction to the true spirit of Machu Picchu, the demand for such a structure and the government’s desire to profit from it can only be attributed to tourists, like us.

Year after year, thousands hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu on what is arguably one of the most spectacular hikes in the world. We chose not to hike the Inca Trail for this very reason. The frat party atmosphere at Winay Wayna, where all trekkers —Inca Trail bound or not—must pass to access Machu Picchu (unless bussing it up from Aguas Caliente or hiking in from another remote route from Vilcabamba to the west) proved our decision to steer clear to be the correct one for us.

Despite the taint or overcrowding and overcommercialism, the Cusco region of Peru is absolutely one of the most beautiful places I have ever traveled. The environment varies from the tropical jungle ecosystem of the Manu Preserve in the Amazon Basin to the high alpine rock and ice of massive peaks that climb above 6,000 meters (approximately 19,700 feet), such as Nevada Veronicá. Unfortunately, most tourists who come to Cusco do not venture outside of the Sacred Valley or beyond the Inca Trail. The reason for this is the accessibility of these sites, and the shroud of mystery that still covers most of department beyond Machu Picchu. The jungles beyond Machu Picchu are a remote area, with the forgotten city of Vilcabamba (also known as Espiritú Pampa), just recently having been uncovered for visitors. Few venture to travel that far, however.

For us, Machu Picchu and the Sacred Valley represented not the culmination, but the point of embarkment of our journey. Leslie and I parted ways in Cusco as she prepared to meet a group to trek in the Cordillera Blanca and I readied myself for a climb in the same range. My decision to climb instead of trek was one I had made before traveling to Peru. While it meant parting ways with Leslie, it would only be for a short time and would allow me to pursue an activity I am passionate about—challenging myself on climbs at altitude—and one I cannot pursue where I live in a Boston suburb.

I flew from the former Incan capital city Qusqu (now the modern Peruvian city of Cusco) to the Peruvian capital, Lima. In the seasonal gray gloom of that city, I met up with Roger, my good friend and climbing partner from New York City. Roger and I had climbed Mount Baker in Washington State together and have ice climbed in the White Mountains of New Hampshire as well as rock climbed in the Gunks of New York together, so we comfortable with one another’s strengths and limitations. Choosing compatible partners is crucial to any expedition, but does not mitigate the other factors that can derail an expedition — as we would learn.

The elusive Artesonraju with Alpamayo in the background

The elusive Artesonraju with Alpamayo in the background

After an unexpectedly pleasant, but tiring eight-hour bus ride to Huaraz, the climbing mecca of the Andes, we were at last in the Cordillera Blanca. I stepped out of the bus feeling strong and invigorated as I inhaled the cool mountain air and absorbed the views of surrounding peaks. After picking out one of the many taxi drivers who cruised the area for business, we were shuttled through the wild streets of Huaraz to our Swiss-style hotel, the Hotel Club Andino, where we met Marco Perez, who would be leading us on our climbs over the next 21 days.

With 13 years of experience climbing throughout the Andes, Marco is one of the most knowledgeable and reliable Peruvian guides around. We were lucky to have him, particularly since we only found him at the last minute. Roger and I had debated the use of a guide and decided that since we did not know these mountains and were uncertain of how best to arrange the logistics and support for our expedition, somebody like Marco would make our trip much more enjoyable. Our expectations were exceeded.

The Cordillera Blanca, a range of twenty 6,000-meter peaks, represents the finest climbing in the western hemisphere—a climber’s playground. It is ideally suited for the serious climber — whether looking for the challenge of a famous rock face, La Esfinge (The Sphinx, otherwise known as Torre de Paron), or the second-highest mountain in the Andes, Huascaran Sur (6,768m), or just seeking a scenic spot to practice mountaineering techniques on glacial moraines. Most climbers looking to check off big-name peaks come to attempt Huascaran or Alpamayo (5,947m), both formidable climbs. We opted for lesser-traveled peaks.

After stocking up on food, obtaining the services of a cook and porter, Joaquin, and making final gear checks, we were off for the Llanganuco Valley, one of the many beautiful valleys in Huascaran National Park. We climbed to 4,665 meters in about 3 hours, gaining spectacular views of the Huascaran Massif, Yanapaqcha (5,700m) and the Huandoy Massif (6,395m) along the way to our destination at Pisco Base Camp. Pisco Oeste (5,752m) was our planned first summit attempt and we were to spend three more nights in this valley, slowly advancing until our summit bid.

Already at base camp, I noticed the altitude in a way I had never experienced before in my other high-altitude excursions in Nepal and Ecuador. Most people experience some form of altitude illness when they arrive at high elevations, whether it be loss of appetite or a headache, but these symptoms usually fade with proper acclimatization. However, my extreme shortness of breath and elevated heart rate were atypical. On the way to moraine camp, while climbing over large boulders and scree fields, I felt fatigue and began to cough. My condition was worrisome enough to Marco that he ordered me to descend to base camp to rest. I did not object, knowing full well the consequences of staying at moraine camp. My condition could worsen, perhaps to a state of pulmonary edema, a life threatening condition that causes excessive fluid buildup in the lungs. Altitude can kill. The only cure for severe altitude sickness is immediate descent, and the evacuation of a sick climber over the Pisco moraine in the middle of the night would have been nearly impossible. So I descended.

Back at Pisco base camp, disappointment overwhelmed me. This was supposed to only be our acclimatization peak and I was already falling apart! After months of preparation it came to this. I was in the best physical shape of my life, training every day (with active recovery included), aerobically for 1-2 hours, lifting weights 4-5 days a week. Now, all that effort had been crushed by a simple lack of oxygen. It hadn’t just been physical preparations that now seemed for naught: Roger and I had had difficulties pulling together the logistics of our trip , both of us having made sacrifices to get to this very point. Two other climbing partners had pulled out of the expedition when one ripped up his knee climbing in California and the other refroze once frostbitten toes when caught in a storm at the top of Grand Teton. Yet we two had still managed to make it here — and for what?

Huandoy Massif, second highest peak in the Cordillera Blanca

Huandoy Massif, second highest peak in the Cordillera Blanca

Roger and Marco had camped at Pisco moraine camp and continued on the next day for an early morning ascent of Pisco Oeste. After their ascent, they met me at Pisco base camp. I was happy for Roger and Marco when I heard that they had summited Pisco Oeste. I wanted them to push on with our original plan without me to Chopicalqui (6,345m), but, not wanting to fracture our team, Roger and Marco, decided that we should all descend back down to Huaraz, rest, and then head out for our next summit attempt. If we descended at this point and followed that plan, our chances of summiting a 6,000-meter peak would be slim. I had a hard time accepting this, especially since this was my second attempt at climbing a 6,000-meter peak (the first was a trip to Chimborazo, Ecuador that was thwarted by bad weather). Nevertheless, I reluctantly accepted, but silently vowed that one of us would push on to summit a 6,000-meter peak if the circumstances did not prohibit a safe attempt.

We decided the Santa Cruz Valley offered us the greatest range of options. This valley is home to some of the classic mountaineering climbs: Alpamayo, Quitaraju (6,040m), Artesonraju (6,025m), and what has been described as one of the hardest climbs in the world, the spired, avalanche-riddled Taulliraju (5,830m). I held out hope that perhaps we could at least get on Artesonraju or Quitaraju, which had been part of our original aspirations, but I knew that would be a long shot. After a first bout with sickness at altitude, it is hard to shake off. My lungs still festered with a lingering cough as we trekked past one gorgeous alpine route up towering peaks after another. After much discussion as a team and soul-searching for myself, we decided we would climb, but not to 6,000 meters this time. We would stay together and maximize our enjoyment of the mountains, the real reason we were in Peru.

Focusing on Millishraju (5,510m), a glorious snow-covered peak sandwiched between Taulliraju and Nevada Paron (5,600m), we moved forward with high spirits. We camped in an isolated valley at the base of a moraine that leads to Millishraju, our best campsite of the expedition. The next morning, after sucking down hot tea, bread and fried eggs—the classic breakfast of Andean expeditions— we got an early start for the summit. The moraine challenged us, as we pushed ourselves onto the glacier. The route brought us over a long snow climb, peeking out over huge sections of hanging glaciers and past large crevasses. After pushing ourselves hard for several hours, the summit loomed in the passing clouds ahead. I felt very strong. When we reached the summit, I was intoxicated with joy. There I stood—surveying the second-highest mountain range in the world, ist glaciers, rock, ice, and the blue skies that set them off like celestial palaces.

The towering summit of Piramide de Garcilaso

The towering summit of Piramide de Garcilaso

I looked forward to edging down the valley, to the point of departure for our next summit attempt. I felt once again like a king, picking among his castles, as I looked upon the unbelievable variety of mountains. We needed to plan carefully, however, since I could suffer a relapse of altitude sickness higher up and because Roger had experienced a relentless, altitude-related headache on the climb up to Millishraju. So we set our sights on Curuicashajana (5,510m), an imposing granite peak bristling with slabs of glacial ice. Curuicashajana would be enough of a challenge for climbers in our condition.

With the assistance of two burros, and reliable Joaquin, we moved camp to the base of Curuicashajana. Stuffing ourselves with freshly butchered chicken carried from Huaraz, we sat around camp the night before the attempt on Curuicashajana, admiring at the burst of stars that filled the clear Andean sky. The weather was perfect for our pre-dawn start.

As we set out, it was bitterly cold. Temperatures had fallen overnight. Since none of us had been up this peak before, we needed to negotiate an uncharted, steep moraine before reaching the glacier. The moraine proved to be a challenge in itself, with large clumps of grass obstructing our pathway as we scrambled over rock slabs. After three hours of climbing 610 vertical meters (2000 vertical feet), I stopped for a photo break as Marco and Roger plowed ahead. The sun was just beginning to send its intense equatorial rays over the Santa Cruz Valley, casting perfect light over the monstrous slopes of Piramide de Garcilaso (5,885m) and Artesonraju. I took several photos of this magnificent sight before turning to Quitaraju. Its massive western face dropped away precipitously, with its sharp ice flutes capturing the sun’s rays along the way. I thought about the climbers who were probably summiting at that very moment on the other side of Quitaraju. It was probably the first 6,000 meter peak for some of them, and they were fortunate to have such glorious weather.

Moving forward in the cold air, the strength I enjoyed just the day before quickly began to leave my body as we rose above 5200 meters (17,000+ feet). I plodded on, frustrated. After another half hour of battling with my lungs, I stopped and waved Roger and Marco onward, shouting to them that I would be going down. I could not jeopardize the safety of my partners nor my own. Obviously, the mountains would not permit me to go any farther.

I made my way back to base camp. After a near glissade down the moraine on the slick clumpy grass, I was relieved to be in this safe spot. I spent the day recounting the adventure we were on, step by step, contemplating the decisions I had made along the way. Were they the right ones? What if I had just toughed it out? I had no answers, but that did not stop me from torturing myself for my choices. This is the most difficult struggle in the mountains—the one with the mind. The mind says, “go for it”, while the body says “no more”. I reminded myself that the losers of the struggle die. I had chosen what was best for me.

When Roger and Marco returned to camp, they said they had diverted from the summit of Curuicashajana, opting instead for a traverse over the rock-glacier line right below the summits of Curuicashajana and the majestic Rinríjirca (5,810m), in the direction of Taulliraju. It took them a solid 12 hours to complete. Both were utterly exhausted. As they told their epic, part of me wished I had been with them, but the other part was very happy that I had not.

We packed up camp and made our way over the high pass of Punta Union (4,760m), to other side of valley. It took us two days to hike out, going from contorted icefalls at the head of Punta Union, to bog-strewn pampas leading to Vaqueria, our departure point. The bumpy ride in our colectivo (mini-van) over another high pass at 4,700 meters was an adventure in itself. A flat tire, wet snow, blaring Peruvian pop songs, and a driver with the terrifying habit of letting go of the wheel, kept us occupied during the three-hour ride back to Huaraz.

In Huaraz, we said goodbye to Marco and Joaquin. Both had been excellent resources for us. We promised to keep in touch, for I was already planning my return to the Cordillera Blanca for next year’s climbing season. There is simply too much to do in this mountain range, and I had only begun. Next year I would return wiser and more seasoned. We would ascend more slowly, give our bodies more time to acclimatize, and plan for high camps above the moraines if we decided to attempt any peaks that do not have frequently climbed routes. This experience had taught me two such important lessons. I would put them into practice next time. We had, with varying degrees of acceptability, successfully addressed the other issues ahead of time to maximize our chances for success this time around.

No matter how much planning for success you may do, it’s never enough. Many things have to come together for a successful summit attempt: logistical planning, physical conditioning, weather, nutrition and hydration, health at altitude, technical climbing experience, teamwork, meshing of personalities and styles with partners, and a good dose of luck. The mountain decides whether you make it or not. I kept this in mind throughout the expedition. It would have been very easy for the mountains to become an all-consuming passion, seducing me into “summit fever,” which casts caution aside. I avoided taking uncalculated risks and as a result, lived to plan my next adventure.