Summit Day

1/24/10
The following is my account of what happened during our summit attempt of Aconcagua on January 24th, 2010. I have made a best effort to reassemble the events, persons, times, and places with the greatest accuracy. But the nature of recalling such things from persons who where oxygen deprived at the time of occurrence is fraught with errors of omission and fact. So there you have it. This is one man's version and nothing more.

The day before we left for the summit had started out clear and idealic, a fist full of salt in the wound opened up when our summit attempt had to be scrapped. But clouds began forming in the lowlands by early afternoon, slowly working their way up all sides of the mountain to converge just above High Camp and dump snow by mid day. Just before the first snow fell Ty looked out the tent window. "Hey, Super Climber. Check it out. Pea Soup." Sure enough, the visibility had been reduced to a few hundred feet. We looked at each other thinking the same thing. It was a good thing we didn't go up. This would be the forecasted snow storm, the one that would drop 3 inches, then clear out to leave perfect summit conditions. As a pellet snow began peppering our tent the report of heavy thunder confirmed how nasty things were above us. As Climbers are prone to doing, we chose to focus on the now excellent prospects for the next day's summit, offering no energy to the speculation of what circumstances we might then be in had we left for the summit that morning as planned.

The three inches of snow turned out to be more like five. There had also been a fair bit of wind. But by morning all was right. We celebrated the convenience of scooping snow right outside the tent door, not even having to leave the comfort of our shelter to harvest the raw material for water. We had decided to leave at 7:00 a.m. after comparing strategies with some of the other teams at High Camp. Since the first several hours would see us climbing the south side of the mountain we would be in the frigid shadow of Aconcagua. To leave earlier would mean still more time in sub-zero temperatures and increased exposure to frostbite. But in spite of our best efforts it took longer to get ready than we had expected. The thin air had a way of slowing everything down. To bend over and tie a shoelace required a dizzying pant-fest immediately thereafter. I would think to pack something but forget what it was by the time I had unloaded the compression sack containing it.

The day before we had woke to the sounds of boots marching past our tent as teams came through our camp enroute to the summit from Berlin Camp on the Normal Route. Looking up at the hill there had been several strings of headlamps picking their way through the pre-dawn darkness. But today there was none of that. Only one other team appeared to be on the move, the guided IMG Team we had more or less been traveling in tandem with from the start. They were already started up by 7:15, moving in single file at a slow deliberate pace.

It was 8:00 a.m. as we left high camp under clear blue skies with not a breath of wind. Ty led for the first stage that would take us up to Indepencia Hut. His pace was typically swift, but I did not mind the work at first as it encouraged the generation of body heat while we clawed our way up Aconcagua's bitter cold dark side. But eventually the thin air started to take its toll and I found myself wanting for the pace of the IMG Group. Not only was their pace more agreeable, but they had also opted to break left of the main ascent halfway up, carving a lateral traverse with a much kinder grade. As we approached this fork I hoped Ty would likewise break left, but, as is his custom, when faced with two trails headed to the same place Ty will always take the steeper. Though I have never actually asked him about this, I suppose it is based on the logic that since both trails go to the same place it is better to get there sooner instead of later. But at that moment I found myself frustrated, aching to ask Ty if it would be at all possible to pick a more difficult route up the hill. I had no way of knowing that the clarity of that moment and the layout of the scene it occurred at would come in very handy later in the day.

We arrived at Indepencia Hut as the IMG Group was finishing their break. We hydrated and ate a snack while Ty removed his left boot to thaw his big toe, which had gone numb in the cold. I offered to warm it against my stomach, as is common practice, but, now in the sunlight, Ty chose to thaw the toe against the warm boards of the hut. I sent a text message on the satellite phone advising Family that we had left High Camp and were now at 21,000 feet. The sun rapidly became more intense as we sat there. Now shifting from cold management to heat management, Ty and I each shed a layer. But as we stood to continue toward the long traverse Ty noticed something below us. "Uh oh," he commented, "take a look at those." The entire hemline of Aconcagua was crowded with clouds that looked very much like those of the previous day. If we continued up we could expect a rough time getting back down. Now 1,800 feet below the summit, we were above the clouds and would probably reach the summit before they caught up with us. We had the heavy clothing to gear up if we needed to during the descent, had certainly traveled in bad weather before (though nowhere near this high), and the IMG Group was out ahead of us breaking trail. It was one of those decisions you make with the best information you have at the time. In this case we judged the order of weather deterioration based on what we had seen the evening before. Ty and I could not have known how much worse it had probably been above the fog that shrouded our view. We decided to press on for the summit.

I led the next stage, which took us in short order to the balcony preceeding the traverse. Deceptively steep and interminably long, the traverse cut a long grade up a quarter-bowl formation that normally would have been bare rock. But the snows of the night before had fallen and frozen, raising the ante by creating a toboggan hill that a Climber would rocket down some 2,000 feet should he fall. "I wasn't expecting this," Ty commented with some dread. "Me either," I countered. "I don't suppose there are any fixed lines since this is normally all rocks and dirt," I added. "No, I doubt there are," Ty posited. We cached our trekking poles and put our crampons on. With ice axes in hand we then set out on the traverse, careful, measured, and wide awake.

We gained another 1,000 vertical feet and caught up with the IMG Group again by the time we had completed the traverse. At one point we passed them, stopping to rest a short distance up the trail. When they trudged by us a few minutes later one of the Climbers asked me how many of the Seven Summits this will be for me. (He had asked about the other mountains we had climbed as we checked in at the Penitentes Hotel Ayelen). "Four, if I should be so lucky to summit," I said. "That's great," the Climber said with a big smile. But IMG Guide Peter Anderson felt differently. "How many beautiful mountains have you climbed," he asked with more than a little pretension. "Two," I said, thinking of Denali and Kilimanjaro. "That's really a shame," he offered in false condolence, "I've climbed over 150 beautiful mountains!" Having not invited the discussion, I wasn't sure why he felt it necessary to jam it down my throat. Confused by what had happened, I said nothing as they continued by. We sat there in silence for moment. Then Ty said "Don't let him get to you, Mauro. Sometimes people just need to hear F#*@ You!"

I had been concerned about how the Guides might treat Ty and I in the course of this expedition. In a sense we were an advertisement for not using them. We stood out as a team of only two, and to whatever extent we succeeded it might speak to the notion that Guides weren't necessary. But, with the exception of this particular Guide, I found the case to be quite the opposite. There seemed to be a respect the Guides felt for us; "two guys doing it on their own the way it use to be," is how Ben Marshal, an IMG Guide, described us. They were generous with their advice and friendly socializing at camp. For the record, I believe very much in using professional Guides. On the whole I have been exceedingly impressed with their abilities and commitment to their clients. On many occasions I have seen Guides get marginal Climbers to the summit of a major mountain. I have seen them porter client gear up to the next camp during rest days. I have seen them put their own safety at risk time and time again. They work long days, often trying to please wealthy clients who refuse to recognize this is not a luxury excursion. They do all of this for the love of the mountains and a chance to introduce someone else to that love. And for this they typically have no benefits, not even medical, and are paid $180 a day for a Lead Guide, $120 a day for an Assistant Guide. Without the sometimes generous but never reliable tips at the end of each trip most Guides would live beneath the poverty level.

We caught up with the IMG Group again at the base of the Caneleta, a steep 800 foot ascent weaving around and over boulders the size of cars. I had saved something extra in my energy reserves for this, having read many accounts of Climbers whose will was broken on the Caneleta, the final challenge to the summit. A month earlier a man attempting to be the first person from Thailand to summit Aconcagua so completely expended himself on the Caneleta that he died upon reaching the summit. There his body lay for several weeks while authorities tried to figure out what to do about it.

As Ty and I hydrated and made minor gear adjustments, the IMG Group started for the summit. Knowing we would catch up with them, we took some extra time to rest in the safety of a small cave-like hollow at the base of the wall. A snow was falling lightly and the dense fog that had followed close behind us during the ascent now began consuming our surroundings. We strapped on our packs and began clawing our way up the Caneleta.

The first four hundred feet of trail dodged in and out from beneath a low overhang at the base of a rock wall. The route threaded scant passages up ambitious inclines like a Gregorian staircase. We stopped often to breath hard, sometimes taking only a few steps before having to stop again. I scrutinized my efficiency of movement and repeated the mantra "simple thoughts, simple thoughts." At some point it all started to be like an out-of-body experience. I could see myself laboring hard, yet feel none of it. There was no more thinking. My body was on automatic pilot, a function drummed into its reptilian being through the many hours I had spent on the Cedar Lakes Trail. I could hear my breathing, see my foot plants disappear beneath me.

Then the trail opened up a bit to where one might have enjoyed a pleasant view had the clouds and fog not completely over-taken us. As we made painfully slow progress up the final 400 feet I stopped bothering to check my altimeter. It could say we were twenty feet away. It could say we were two hundred feet away. At this point it didn't matter. I knew we were going to the summit regardless. Normally this realization brings a burst of energy to me, almost a tearful joy. But on this occasion I felt nothing beyond a primal need for oxygen. Then Ty stopped, cast off his pack, and turned to look down at me still thirty feet below him. "Come on Mauro," he said, "lets finish this together!" After stopping four more times to breath, I finally stepped onto the summit of Aconcagua, 22,841 feet above sea level, the highest point in the Americas. Ty hugged me. Then gesturing to a modest makeshift monument a few steps away, said "there it is."

We walked together to the monument, a pile of rocks with a steel crucifix stuck in it. Beads, ribbons, and shredded prayer flags adorned the cross. I handed Ty my camera and pulled out the laminated photos of my Boys, my Mom, and my love, Lin. After posing for a summit photo with each I traded places with Ty to record the moments he would share with family on the summit. Then IMG Guide Ben Marshall said "Team photo! Here, let me get a picture of you two together!" I handed him my camera, then offered to do the same for his team, a group of eight Climbers, two IMG Guides, and a local Argentine Guide. Then I dug the satellite phone from my pack and called my Mother back in Monroe, Washington. I told her I was on the summit and couldn't talk as the weather was going bad and we needed to start down. She congratulated me and offered a mother's cautions for a safe descent. Then I called Lin. When I heard her voice the numbness that had been my existence for hours broke open and a flood of emotion came gushing out. "Hey there you sexy stack of pancakes," I said, offering what had long ago become a standard greeting of ours. I was struggling to hold back the tears, knowing I would still need everything I had left to get down to High Camp. We spoke for one minute and twenty-three seconds.

I was kneeling on the ground as I spoke into the sat phone, my face down to avoid the snow and growing wind. When I looked up the entire IMG Group was gone. They had quite suddenly left the summit. "Hey, you wanna call your Fam," I asked, extending the phone toward Ty. He looked very nervous and unsettled. "No, I'm a round tripper," he replied. Though I was not exactly sure what that meant, it seemed clear he had no intention of chatting on the phone at that moment. Then Ty's eyes grew large and he shouted "WHOA!" He started backing around in circles shouting "WHOA WHOA WHOA!" Then he threw down his hat and rubbed his head. "My hair is crackling," he exclaimed. I stood to approach him, and as the steel points of my crampons contacted the ground an electrical current passed through my feet and ankles. Now Ty was running in circles again and I realized we were in the middle of an electrical storm. I remembered the thunder from the night before. I thought there is a very good chance we are about to die. "We gotta get the F&#@ off this mountain," I screamed, then throwing my pack off the summit. Ty, having already put his pack back on, dashed down the trail with myself close behind. We came upon my pack thirty feet below the summit. I had taken a glove off to dial the sat phone and now could not find it. Frostbite being a certain outcome, I scrambled through my pack looking for the glove. It was immensely frustrating, as I knew at that moment we should be descending with all haste. Then a quick thinking Ty handed me a spare pair of gloves from his pack. "Do you think we should get rid of our axes," I asked him, considering the lightning rod properties of their metal construction. "No way," he argued, "we're gonna need them to get down, Dude."

We descended at what seemed a frenetic pace, though several seconds probably separated each step. We were both charged with adrenaline, squandering precious oxygen with the useless racing of our heart rates. "Focus, Dave," I repeated to myself, aware of the consequences of one ill-chosen step on this extremely steep pitch. The lower we descended the thicker the fog became. Visibility soon closed down to perhaps ten feet, but the trail winding down among the boulders was clear and well beaten. Suddenly a climber appeared in front of me. It was so sudden I almost ran into him from behind. It was IMG Guide Peter Anderson. He had one of their Climbers short-roped already. "Do you need any help here," I asked him. "No," he replied. We passed them and two other Climbers before coming to the next IMG Guide Ben Marshall, who also had a Climber short-roped. About this time we all arrived at the base of the Caneleta. Ducking into the cave, we started gearing up for what already looked like a fight to come. I put on my down summit coat, heavy mittens, balaclava, and goggles. My summit pants already on, I zipped the legs shut and checked all other clothing vents to make sure I was fully fortified.

It was at this point Ben, the kinder of the IMG Guides, approached Ty and I offering "Hey, if you guys wanna tailgate along with us that's cool." We accepted, believing greater safety lay in numbers and glad for their Argentine Guide whom we thought could probably find the way down blindfolded. The IMG Group left to start the Traverse. I remember looking at Ty one last time before we left the cave. His eyebrows raised, lips pursed tight within a snowy bramble of whiskers, his expression said this is serious.

We followed along just behind Peter, who was still short-roping a Climber who complained that he could not see. My own goggles were soon useless as the sticky pellet snow crusted over the vents on top and the lenses fogged. I switched over to my glacier glasses while still on the move. The wind and snow were obscuring the tracks in the trail, making it very difficult for the short-roped Climber to judge depth. As a consequence we were falling behind the rest of the group. I climbed around Peter and the troubled Climber dropping down in front of them to break trail in snow that was now almost knee deep. The fresh tracks helped the short-roped Climber see where to step and our pace improved. We caught up with the others at the balcony, where ice axes were traded for the trekking poles we had all cached there during the ascent.

A sense of relief showed in the faces of the Climbers. We had made it down the Caneleta, crossed the Traverse and now had only 1,400 feet of relatively easy descent down to High Camp. There was no exposure to falling. This was a wide-open ski slope-like hill we had all been able to study at length from High Camp. We were practically home. Ty decided to add some heavier clothing, so we remained at the balcony as the IMG Team resumed their descent. Just before leaving with them, the Argentine Guide put a hand on my shoulder and smiled. “Good luck,” he said. He apparently thought we had decided to separate from the group. He meant it kindly, and he meant it sincerely, but it wasn’t the kind of Good Luck a person gets very often. It wasn’t like the Good Luck you get when you are trying to pick up a spare at the bowling alley. It wasn’t like the Good Luck someone offers as you leave for a job interview. This was the kind of Good Luck that says I hope you make it down alive. Last year a Guide and Climber did not. They became lost below this point and froze to death.

“Go ahead,” Ty urged me, concerned about holding us up. “NO,” I refused, “I am NOT leaving you!” I peered over the edge of the balcony. They had all disappeared into the fog below.

Ty finished with his gear and we started down the hill. Again we caught up with the group at the next ledge. Then, in one long single-file line, we resumed our descent toward High Camp. By this time it had been ten hours since we left for the summit. Many of us were out of water. Most of us were out of energy. The adrenaline had worn off. I assumed we were close, an uneventful slog down to the tents. Had I looked at my altimeter I would have realized we were still two hours away. Soon I slipped back into that out of body trance. I had been running on empty for at least two hours and wasn’t even sure what was keeping me going.  My feet were chunking down hard, the skeletal structure of my legs forced to go it alone but for muscles no longer able to set me down easy. My vision blurred slightly with each jarring step, steps I was no longer consciously taking. It was like sitting in a chair while someone whacks it with a baseball bat. Ty and I were in the middle of the IMG Group at first, separated by one of their Climbers. But the order kept changing as some Climbers descended faster than others. Ty, a fast descender, passed two more IMG Climbers, assuming I was passing them with him. I, however, am a slow descender under the best of circumstances. I am cautious with my steps, careful with my knees, economical with my energy. Even the short-roped Climber at the very end of the line passed me. I soon fell behind.

I remember realizing I was alone, watching unfamiliar landscape go by, not caring. The twelve Climbers in front of me left a clear trampled trail into the fog. I would just follow it. Though I was now far enough back that I could no longer hear them, I continued on without worry. After all, I reasoned, we had to be very near camp.

About this time, an annoyed Peter Anderson shouted at Ty. "Hey, Alaska. YOU'RE NOT WITH THE GROUP," adding almost incidentally "and you're leaving your friend behind." Ty stepped out of the line, expecting to see me close behind him, scripting sharp words for a Guide who had for no apparent reason treated us with contempt from the very start. But I was not there. He stood looking up the trail as the IMG Group passed, continuing downhill into increasingly heavy snowfall.

Only a few minutes passed before I emerged from the world inside the mist. “Hey there, Super Climber,” Ty greeted me. “I’m gased,” I said, “we must be pretty close though.” Ty looked confused. “We have another 800 feet to go,” he said. "No way," I protested. "Way," he said, thrusting his altimeter in front of me. As we stood there talking the fog cleared for a moment and I thought I saw the last of the IMG Group traversing to the left between some boulders. Then a group of four climbers packing a carry passed from right to left through the same clearing.

The clearing grew dense with fog again as Ty and I descended down into it. But there the trail we were following became interspersed with several other sets of tracks, some of which were traversing, others descending, and still others now impossible to interpret but for the snow that had already filled them in. Nothing about the large boulders around us looked familiar. We realized the IMG Group was now gone and we would have to find our own way down.

I told Ty that I thought I had seen the last of the IMG Group traversing left around the biggest boulder, but he somehow doubted this. Though he had not seen the IMG Climbers, Ty had seen the group of four making a carry. He believed the trail traversing around the boulder was made by them and that they were probably descending to Berlin camp on the Normal Route. To follow that set of tracks would mean we were not lost, but it would take us to a camp 600 feet below our own, neither of us having the requisite energy to then ascend to High Camp. We climbed down a short distance, then back up again. We looked for another set of tracks that might make more sense.

It was not unreasonable for Ty to doubt what I had seen. Climbers occasionally hallucinate in high altitude. On Denali I had experienced this as my deceased Brother, Danny, walked beside me the entire distance across "The Football Field" at 19,000 feet. He was smoking a cigarette and asking me how it was going. "I think you're gonna make it," he said at one point. I smiled at him. Then I said "But Danny,you're dead." "Yeah. I know," he agreed sadly, then vanishing with a gust of subzero wind.

"I just need to sit down for a minute," I told Ty, plopping down right were I stood. He studied me for a moment, then said "I sure would hate to get lost right about now." Then it hit me. This was exactly how it happens. An exhausted Climber sits down to rest and never gets up. They say death by exhaustion, like that of freezing, is a relatively comfortable death. At that moment I was very comfortable. I could have sat there for hours. Sat there while the last of the light faded. Sat there while the snow hid any remaining tracks. Panicked, I stood up. "Let's get down this hill now," I said.

Ty was was debating the various trails a few minutes later. I still believed I had seen the IMG Group in the fog. But now something else occurred to me. "They took a different route up the hill,"I said, "That's why nothing looks familiar. They descended by the same route they went up!" I told Ty how he, head down and grinding up hill, had taken the steep ascent to the right that morning while the IMG Group traversed to the left around some boulder outcrops. He hadn't noticed this at the time. "Are you sure," he asked. "Absolutely, I was mad as hell at you for taking the most aggressive line of ascent." "You were," he questioned with surprise. Thrilled to connect the dots, I said "Yeah! I thought you were being a real S*#@head!" I started down the trail but Ty did not move. Still seeking some form of concrete proof, he posited "so A decision is better than no decision?" "Yes," I responded. "Worst case we end up at Berlin Camp and find someone with room for the night in their tent. But I think this is the trail back to our camp and we can't afford to lose any more daylight." Ty started down toward me, still unconvinced but willing to go along. Then an idea came to him. "Crampons," he said. "The IMG Group was still wearing crampons. The group headed down to Berlin Camp would not have needed crampons!" We studied the tracks in the trail below me carefully. Clear crampon marks scarred them thoroughly. That was good enough.

A few hundred feet lower we came to the fork in the trail where our two paths had separated that morning. "This is it," I exclaimed. We continued down the trail until a modest cluster of tents appeared below and to our left. We decided to ask these Climbers where High Camp was, but as we got closer we could identify them as the IMG Group. We knew our tent lay less than a hundred feet below this. We were home.

It was eight P.M. when we pulled into camp. The AAI group camped next to us had become worried and already had hot bottles of an orange energy drink ready. I called Lin on the sat phone to report that we had made it safely back to camp. I was spent. Removing my boots and crampons seemed like a monumental task. I crawled into my sleeping bag with full summit clothing still on and passed quickly into a deep deep slumber.