About that Guide

We woke the next morning and set about sorting our gear in one of the dining tents. Lite day packs were readied with our lunches and a layer of waterproof clothing. The remainder of our things were bundled and tagged for the Muleteers to pack out.

Kevin and Steve were drinking hot tea in their dining tent, swaddled in heavy coats, waiting for the warmth of breakfast and the day's first touch of direct sunlight. Ty and I joined them as a member of the kitchen staff was bringing in cold cereal and milk, which we regarded unenthusiastically. "Pancakes are comin'" Kevin reassured us. I emptied a Starbucks instant coffee pack into a cup of hot water, then adding a half pack of cocoa. It was a mountain mocha, a taste so decadent it could make a Bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.

I was rested and, for the first time since leaving for the summit, had enough energy to feel good. Where the knowledge of our having summitted had been little more than a numb fact, I now thought of it and felt an immense smile growing. We had done it. I thought of the months of training, the doubts expressed by some, the still more plentiful belief offered by others. There had been sacrifices made by us, and our loved ones. It had been expensive in terms of both money and time. Viewed like this in its entirety, the cost seemed wholly outsized for a chance to stand atop a mountain most people have never heard of. But having now done so, I felt it had somehow been worth it.

Ty and I cruised around Plaza de Mulas for awhile after breakfast. A much larger basecamp than Plaza de Argentina, there were tents set up as business enterprises. One was a makeshift restaurant. Another sold supplies, including cans of Coke for $6, or a beer for $8. There was even an Art Gallery with green AstroTurf, fake palm trees, and chaise lounge chairs in front. A sign encouraged passersby to stand before a webcam so family back home could see them.

I called Sonia back at my office on the satellite phone. We spoke for a few minutes about the descent and how Ty and I would be trekking the 16 miles out that day. She shared the sad news of a dear Client who had passed. I asked her to order flowers. As Sonia could only post updates to the Blog from her home computer, news of our status would not be known to others until later that evening. As we had not checked in the prior day, concern was already growing as to whether we had made it down from High Camp. Later that afternoon Lin would be called to the office at the Elementary School she works at. Apprehensive about the reason, she would arrive very near to tears. A bouquet of flowers had been delivered for her, flowers I had ordered before leaving on the climb. It was January 26th. Having calculated our likely summit day to be the 27th, the card read "My Dear, I am very close now. The road back to you leads over this mountain, but I can already feel you by my side." Like the glassy silence of the last two days, this too just didn't fit. Somehow it invited her worse fears. Something had gone wrong. We were missing. Lin sobbed as she carried the flowers down the hall to her classroom, a room full of special needs students. "Why is she crying," a little girl with Asbergers asked. "She got flowers," an Aid explained, "and sometimes when you get flowers it makes you so happy you cry."

I loaned the sat phone to Kevin so he could call his Girl Friend. Then we said goodbye to he and Steve, and set out down the Horcones Valley on foot. We listened to our I-pods, stopped to snack, and played several more rounds of "Knife Fight." "Hey Ty. Norah Jones vs Elton John in a knife fight. Who do you like," I would question.
Occasionally we would be overrun from behind by trotting mules, their dust consuming us as they dodged wide-eyed and skittish like chickens in a fog. A few miles outside one of the camps we came upon two men and woman walking the trail. She was dressed in runners clothing. They asked about the conditions on the mountain and if we had summitted. They said the woman intended to "run up to the summit." I said I had seen both sides of the mountain and had not seen a run-able trail on either. They mulled this notion for a moment, then explained that it was all part of a fundraiser for some kind of charity back home. I wanted to tell them they had gravely underestimated this mountain, that if she was lucky the cold would turn her back before the altitude got ahold of her. I had seen a professional Guide turned into a dirt dart, and a properly equipped Climber collapse so suddenly in the thin air that he didn't even get his hands out to break the fall ...and she was going to run up the hill. But I said nothing more. It simply wasn't my place. People come to a mountain like this with a lot of funny ideas. Yet each is entitled to her own dream and who is to say what might work out.

Many hours later we shuffled into the Ranger Station, dusty and exhausted. We showed our climbing permit for the last time, checking out of Aconcagua Park. Our ride pulled up forty five minutes later, a jeep that hunched to one side beneath the considerable weight of its Driver. Fredrico offered us each a can of beer from a hand almost large enough to completely conceal it. Though the park gate had been closed for the day, he had bribed his way in with beer and soon bribed his way out by modus same.

We pulled up to the Penitentes Hotel next to a van containing the IMG Group. They were busy loading their gear for the drive to Mendoza that night. "Hey, Alaska," they greeted us. I asked if they were going to stick around long enough for me to buy them a beer. They said they were leaving momentarily. I told Ty I was going to ask Peter a few questions. "I would just let it go, Mauro," he counseled. "No, I gotta talk to him," I said. "Let's just get to our room," Ty urged. "I'll catch up with you there," I said and walked over to the van. Peter was loading duffels of gear as I approached. I introduced myself again and told him I am a Journalist who was writing a piece about the climb and my experiences on it. He seemed to tense up immediately. "There seemed to be an animosity coming from you toward us from the very start. I am wondering where that comes from," I asked. Peter paused for a moment, seeming to consider his words carefully. "Well. Some times. Climbers. Who don't have a Guide. Will. Use the Guides paid for. By. A group of. Other Climbers," he stammered. "Is that what you thought we were doing," I clarified, "freeloading off you guys." I said this in a non-emotional matter of fact fashion. "No. No. Not at all," Peter responded, backing away from his own statement no sooner than he had said it. "Were you aware that Ben invited us to join up with your team?" "Yes," he acknowledged. "Still you told Ty Hey Alaska, you're not with the group." Peter seemed surprised that I would bring this up. "Well. I was. Terrified. That we might be leaving you behind." "I see." Then I asked Peter about our exchange involving the mountains I had climbed. His response focused on a love and respect he has for the mountains, values imbued in him by his father. He spoke of the need for Climbers to embrace these things and not be fixated on the summit. In short, he exposed the views of the Yin but did nothing to explain the conflict-oriented manner in which he had chosen to advance them. Enough was enough, and it seemed clear this cranky Guide, a bully of sorts, was not going to own his actions. And something inside me, recognizing that those same actions may have prevented my being lost, did not feel right about really leaning on him. Forty yards away was my Hotel and a hot shower I had spent many hours dreaming about. I thanked Peter for his time and offered my congratulations to the IMG members as I left. They were beaming, positively radiant with the satisfaction of a Treasure Hunter who clutches something shiny. I at once wished I knew them better and recognized we would probably never meet again.