Not Our day.

1/23/10
We woke this morning to a brilliant sunrise and the promise symbolic of same. This would be our day. All of the work leading up to this moment was like the coiling of a snake. Coiling coiling coiling. Now all that pent up energy would be released in one exacting strike at the summit of Aconcagua.
Aside from attaining the summit, I have another powerful reason to welcome the successful execution of our goal; we can then go home.
We have given much to this endeavor and I am tired. I am on the outs with every form of  foodstuff remaining among my provisions. My I-pod headphones are toast, having soaked in the sweat of my ears then frozen. Now all music sounds like a bum beating on a fender.  My sense of smell has forgivingly turned itself off, routing scarce oxygen to more pressing functions. The stench waved goodbye to me yesterday, promising to wait down at base camp.But I know this place stinks and my possessions stink right along with it. 
I am ugly. I took a picture of myself a moment ago to see how far things have gotten out of hand after almost three weeks without personal hygiene. It reminded me of a quote by Father Theodore Brown who was a guest one night on the David Letterman show.  He said "I looked into the abyss. The abyss looked into me. And neither one of us liked what we saw."


I fired up our trusty MSR gas stove, put the pot on, and filled it with snow Ty had gathered the night before. But something wasn't right. The stove was putting forth a lame effort, burning a quiet blue mood-lite instead of the typical roaring flamethrower that says "the date is on!" At this rate it would take hours to generate the water we need to leave High Camp.
Ty, having considerable experience with camp stoves, began diagnosing the problem. After disassembling the pump system and lubricating the compression cup, he reassembled the stove and it worked perfectly. But by this time it was too late in the morning to leave for the summit. We would end up too high on the mountain too late in the day. "Besides," Ty reasoned, "we don't have enough snow gathered at this point to melt that much water."
He was right on all counts, by I was unwilling to let the day go, such was my desire to be headed home.
"I think we can still do this thing," I said, grabbing the snow bag and my ice axe. "I'm gonna go get some more snow." Ty said nothing.

The nearest snow bank was two hundred feet up the mountain, which was enough exertion to take the edge off my mood, an angry-pouting-mumbling-to-myself grumbler. It was about five degrees Fahrenheit, but, again with the altitude, in this thin air the effect was that of -30 F. What had seemed like adequate layers soon surrendered in the frigid morning shade. Before I had even started raking at the snow bank with my ice axe, all the fingers inside my heavy summit gloves had gone completely numb. I worked harder at the snow, believing the effort would warm them. It did not. I turned back toward camp with only a half bag of snow, cradling its contents in my arms but for fingers that would not bend to grasp it properly. I cast off my gloves as I climbed back into the tent and jammed my hands into my arm pits. At first there was no response from them. I examined my fingers for the powder white color that frostbite initially appears as. There was no sign of it. Ty just looked at me, uncertain of my mood and where it was going next. It is well documented that climbers become prone to aggressive behavior as a byproduct of high altitude. A good Climber will watch for this in himself. A good climbing partner will know when to say nothing.
"We're not going anywhere today," I said peevishly.
Slowly my fingers started coming back to life and the pain left me swearing through gritted teeth. I asked Ty if there was any hot water left over from the last melt. He said there wasn't, that he had put it into the water bottles where it quickly cooled. He wondered aloud if a chem-pack hand warmer would help, then recalling that it takes 20 minutes for those to heat up. I felt the pain and frustration inside me crash into each other like the twin tails of a boat's wake. "I JUST WANT TO GET OFF THIS F*#KING ROCK," I exclaimed.