Zesty Lemon

Firstly I’d like apologise for the hiatus over the festive period. The reason for this has little to do with lackluster levels of concentration or the endless pursuit of the shiny bottom in the Roses tin. Unbeknownst to a lot of my online readers, I’ve been away climbing mountains in Argentina, and in an effort to minimise the risk of my rabbit being boiled by some of my more motivated stalkers, I neglected to broadcast my absence. Whilst it’s a deviation from my normal commentary, I’d invite you have a read of the journal that I kept while I was climbing the highest mountain in the Americas; Aconcagua.

1. In the beginning…
2. Carry on… Up the Vacas
3. Base, sweet base
4. Luggage reunited
5. Rolling Stones gather much respect
6. All rest and little play makes for a dull team
7. Snow fun
8. Team Vs the Machine
9. Snow bored
10. The end of the road…

---

 

1. In the beginning… – 21/12/2010
Trailhead to Pampa de Lenas

Despite the festivities of Christmas very much taking a back seat for the duration of this trip, it did not mean that we were excluded from the child-like excitement on the short drive from Purta del Inca to the trailhead at Purta de Vacas.

As a group, we were all itching to begin our adventure after the meticulous preparations in Mendoza. Food had been purchased and prepared, loads had been packed, and our main loads had been checked on to mules – hopefully to begin their anonymous and oddly illusive journey to base camp.

After resigning myself to being as anal as a tenor lady salesman, I had spent a chunk of the previous night reading up about the days trek. I quote from the book… “a leisurely days trekking, light loads and picturesque scenery.” Being a big fan of the book in question, I do not wish to critique it too harshly. However, let me tell you a few home truths about trekking if you’ve been off the scene for a duration like myself.

It’s hot, do dusty that you get a very applied comprehension of what it must feel like to be a chain smoker, it’s monotonous and; in our case, guided by someone whose overtly buoyant personality grates on you without want or a justifiable reason why.

Discomforts aside; which I believe were more substantial for others than myself, being in the heart of the Andes was an experience to cherish… at least until a couple of weeks later when we were to be found cursing their lofty insolence.

Carry on… Up the Vacas – 22/12/2010
Pampa de Lenas to Casa de Piedra

By this point, it has become apparent that we had a number of comedians within our group. Before this becomes a cynical observation, I meant it as a positive thing. It lightens the mood and this is an indispensable commodity in such a hostile environment. From chatting with other group members, it seems as though we’ve been very lucky in that everyone seemed to initially gel well together.

Shortly after setting off, we had to cross a bridge over the Vacas river. Being at the front of the group, I was disappointed to find that I missed the hysteria of some of the other members as they tentatively crossed behind me. I admit that Brunel would have been embarrassed if he’d have had his hand in it, but it’s entertaining to envisage adults; quaking with trepidation, at the thought of crossing a 7ft high gang plank over a stream that’s lack of conveyance meant that it had the approximate viscosity of yogurt.

This days trek was being lead by one of our more reserved guides. Without wanting to say anything negative about him; after all he was a great guy, he hadn’t climbed, let along guided Aconcagua before. I wouldn’t say that it worried me – after all, it takes a special kind of idiot to get lost in a valley, but his initial pace implied an exaggerated confidence in his direction which could potentially have developed into a bad president.

Upon arriving at Casa de Piedra in the late afternoon, spirits were high as we had been privy to our first views of the heap we had come to conquer.

We were hiking into base camp on the same schedule as another group which we’d christened ‘Team America’ on account of their geographical origin, ego and; come to think of it, their appearance also. The reason that I mention them at this point, is because after setting off at such an ambitious pace in the morning, they arrived at Casa de Piedra before us and in an effort to assert their presence, had used a disproportionately large part of the campsite for their tents.

On account of this, Anglo American relations were tested as we politely (read Britishly) kept our complaints introverted and pitched our own shelters on the outer boundaries.

Our evening meal did little to repair the severance between our American cousins. They were seated at a table adjacent to us and their manor of conversation showed an unreasonable amount of aggression towards an inanimate mountain. Personally, I was more concerned about what noise the creature; that was now sat exuberantly on my plate, made in it’s more lively state, but as I understood, their attitude really grated on a number of people.

Base, sweet base – 23/12/2010
Casa de Piedra to Plaza Argentina

Today it became clear why my guidebook had described the trekking thus far as ‘leisurely’. Despite my unconditional longing for exaggerated height gain, days one and two only elevated us a modest 400m each in turn, and today would advance us further than the collective altitude so far with an additional 1,000m.

The day started with a river crossing which; although the river level was low, still necessitated wading through knee-deep glacial melt-water. Being one of the first to cross, whilst I was massaging my feet in an effort to restore some of their former feeling, I got the interesting vantage of examining people’s facial contortions as they traversed the frigid water. The expressions were all very varied but all managed to convey the cry and disbelief that they had all paid over £3,000 for the experience of numb feet!

The day hike started by advancing up the Relinchos valley. The first part is littered with eroded paths, steep hills and precipitous drops which was a fresh and welcome change from the monotony of the previous two days.

Early on, it became clear that there were a number of divisions forming within the group; simply because our paces seldom matched. As the trip was still in it’s infancy, those at the front felt compelled to wait for the more lumbering members at the back to catch up periodically. It was at one such hesitation that one of the members of ‘team-America’ slowly trudged past us. Clearly not being content with his ‘step to vocal’ ratio, the man that we’d nicknamed ‘Pork Chop’ on account of his misplaced girth, offered us the puzzling analogy of a war in 1812 in which the British “stopped to soon”. After several of these chants throughout the early morning, I eventually retorted back paradoxically with, “remember the Vietnam war, you stayed to long.” I couldn’t quite figure out the gaze I received in reply, but it came from eyes of chipped granite and he neglected his chant henceforth.

The base camp; Plaza Argentina, remains out of sight on a rocky plateau and only reveals itself  once you have ascended a final acute gradient. The altitude of the camp is at 4,200m (which for a brief comparison is similar in height to the lofty areas of the Alps) and the significant relative gain in height is enough to encourage the onset of high altitude illness amongst us sea level dwelling mortals.

As it transpired, I was suffering no ill effects with the possible exception of extensive breathlessness on exertion. Our base camp host; Daniel Lopez, welcomed us all with infant’s party food and coco tea which is supposed to aid altitude acclimatisation. Evidently this disagreed dramatically with a couple of people in the group, as shortly after ingestion, it reappeared in all its technocolour glory. Such a display in England, wouldn’t results in many repeat invitations to dine in one’s company, so it’s a testament to Argentinian resolve that hospitality at height is never overlooked.

Luggage reunited – 24/12/2010
Plaza Argentina

As per our schedule, today involved having a day of rest in order to build up our strength and facilitate with acclimatisation.

Calling it a rest day however, is a bit of a misnomer. Admittedly, we breakfasted late at 8:30 but as with anything on the mountain, its very much a relative concept – some people I know, are rarely even conscious at that time!

The most pleasing thing was being reacquainted with our kit bags that we had last seen back in Purta del Inca. I do not with to speak bad of Argentine logistical efforts, but I breathed a sigh of relief when I observed my equipment was undamaged. Judging by the smorgasbord of different abrasions and host of flora detritus on the bag, the fact that it’s contents were intact was a real high point.

The same could not be said for other items that had been ferried in on muel-back however. Pringles in particular seemed to have been the biggest casualty; their traditional parabolic shape having been forcefully morphed into hydrogenated confetti. Following this tragic loss, any items that didn’t survive the trek in, were subsequently described as ‘muled’.

The rest of the day was split between sorting out our provisions for our first load carry to camp 1, and engaging in an unwilling game of high altitude hide-and-seek with Pork Chop as I feared he may have just worked out my Vietnam comment.

Due to a certain circumstantial deprivation and the abrupt realisation that it was Christmas Eve, we were informed that a party was planned for the eveing. Whether ‘party’ has a more subtle definition in South America I don’t know, but if their idea of a party is a hot chocolate and bed before 9, then boy did we party hard! Perhaps we should have said carnival instead.

Rolling stones gather much respect – 25/12/2010
Plaza Argentina to Camp 1

After the quasi-indulgence of a lay-in the previous morning, today was an abrupt return the reality of our adventure and the plan today was to carry our food, commodities and stoves to camp 1. Critically, we had to carry enough food to stock both camps 1 and 2.

One member of the group had thoughtfully come equipped with a luggage scale so that each tent team could be evenly weighted. Initially, I was unsure about its utility, but after loading my pack and attempting to throw it over my shoulder with a manly bravado, only to yield feebly like Lembit Opik in an election rally, it didn’t take much persuasion to see it’s merits.

Before we set off, Chris; our main guide, gave us a spiel about what we could expect on the days’ hike. He particularly stressed the risk of rock falls down the scree slope and advised us not to use MP3 players. The latter advice was not really applicable to myself as I had absconded from using my iPod on the mountain itself. However, the instructions on what to do in the event of a rock fall did grab my attention – but perhaps not for the right reasons.

The advice was that if someone spots or dislodged substantial rocks; which is difficult to avoid on a scree field, they’re supposed to bellow “Rocks” to inform climbers in their fall line. However, the advice to the unwilling potential target is not to scout for the impending missile, but to turn your back to the slope and hope that it doesn’t strike you. I can see the psychological merit in not seeing your imminent doom, but at the same time, I can’t help feeling that this advice was clearly dictated by someone sitting comfortably behind a desk at the time of it’s inception.

So as we began our trek to camp 1 carrying a rucksack to the tune of 20kg, Chris set the rhythm at a pace difficult to differentiate from that of a funeral precession. It soon became clear why it was such however. The route along increasingly steep scree fields whose insubordination was two fold. Every step taken had the effect of unsettling your already top-heavy frame so that you soon took up a ‘ballet’ akin to a spaniel on a polished floor, and secondly, in the mid-day sunlight, the mountain never hesitated to remind you that you were walking on a glacier by lubricating your soles and opening up in large fishers. All of this action; bear in mind, had to be completed in double plastic mountaineering boots which may well keep your feet toasty, but at the expense of comfort and dexterity – giving you a gait similar to that of John Wayne on a squash court.

It was then, of some relief when we arrived at camp 1 and made our cache. As the weather was good, I decided to have a sit down and relish in the thought of how light my pack would be on the decent. Suddenly I remembered that it was Christmas day and that my girlfriend had given me a letter that was supposed to be opened on this day. Thinking ahead, I had slipped it into my rucksack in the morning and I took delight in reading it at 5,000m.

After indulging at new lofty heights for as long as I could stand in sunlight – I very quickly take on the tactile complexion of a cooked pizza is left exposed for too long, I; along with three others including Chris, began our decent.

Soon after commuting myself to the ‘yield-so-easy’ scree slope, I heard the inevitable and fortuitous cry of “Rocks!” from a teammate on the slope above. Employing my own devised tactic of stealing a glance to see where the said projectile had originated, I was alarmed to discover a head-sized stone, decimating a path straight in my direction. Just as the rock bounced into one of its more expansive downward orbits, I defaulted to the given advice, turning my back, bracing myself and contemplating the irony if I were to be struck dead by a rock diminutive in mass to the Andean giant I had hoped to climb. Alas, the rock continued unrelentingly on the same vector, and within a few tense moments, struck my right ankle with sufficient force to involuntarily kick out my leg, sending a shower of gravel on a spirited decent to the valley floor. As luck would have it, the stone struck me in the best possible place, the boots that I’d cursed to enthusiastically earlier.

Content with the adrenalin I had experienced so far in the day, I made it back to base camp without further issue. It became apparent however, that the youngest member of our expedition was not well at all and was rushed to see the base camp doctor. The diagnosis was high altitude cerebral edema (HACE – swelling of the brain), severe enough to warrant immediate decent by means of the park’s helicopter. As he was only 16 and traveling with his step-father, some diplomacy ensued so that his step-father could accompany him in the helicopter down to Mendoza.

A somber end to Christmas day – our group of 16 were down to 14.

All rest and little play makes for a dull team – 26/12/2010
Plaza Argentina

Today, our schedule called for another rest day at base camp. Whilst we were initially please by this thought, after a few hours with very little to do, we were almost longing to advance further up the mountain.

As I covered in a previous passage, rest days can usually be filled by preparing loads for the day hence. However, when you are preparing to move between camps, a lot of the equipment is otherwise engaged , leaving you a limited window in the morning to pack.

After exhausting the clock over breakfast as much as we dared, the immediate conundrum to solve was a tedious condition that I’d christened HABE – high altitude boredom edema. Characteristics include restlessness, lethargy and an emotional swelling which has the cruel and disturbing virtue of making Jack Nicholson style axe rampages seem like an appropriate way to alleviate the tedium.

Fortunately, no one amongst our team fell fowl of the latter symptom, and instead, one group member produced a pack of playing cards and after rallying a few HABE sufferers, we were soon enjoying a vocal game of Pontoon.

I should explain at this point, that I am the world’s most appalling card player. Many a time when trying to play poker, I have elatedly announced that I have a hand comprising entirely of red cards, only to be met by the perplexed expressions of my opponents and the dawning realisation that perhaps its not as good a hand as I had convinced myself it was. Regardless, we continues our game with a deck comprising of a suspiciously voluminous quantity of aces, and happily passed the time until dinner.

Snow fun – 27/12/2010
Plaza Argentina to Camp 1

The previous evening we had been subject to a small snow flurry which initially put us in high spirits as it would hopefully have added a dimension of security to the formidable scree slope. However, today also meant that we left the relative comforts of our logistics provider at base camp and set off for the high camps proper. With this in mind; and not wishing to chew the lip of hindsight, I went for one final and indulgent shit in what was rapidly becoming the ‘not so long’ drop.

During our morning briefing from Chris, we were also informed of some terrible news. On our decent from camp 1 back to base camp a few days earlier, we had seen four people high on the Polish Glacier quite late in the afternoon. I guess the exact story will forever be lost, but the team ran into difficulty and during the night one of their members died from exposure. The other three made it down to camp 2 but another in their number passed away during the night. By all accounts, this team comprised of experienced mountaineers which made the situation all the more shocking. The main reason Chris had chosen to share the information with us at this stage, was because apparently it was very likely that we would see the bodies being ferried down the mountain today as we made our ascent. This proved to be correct.

I was also dismayed to discover that my pack; which I assumed would be lighter, in fact weighed in considerably more at about 26kg. Accompanied by the thoughts that on this upward trip the group had diminished by two, it was a decidedly reserved departure from base camp.

I liked to think that I had learnt a sufficient number of lessons from my time on Kilimanjaro with regards to efficiency, which would have put me in good stead for this trip. In the most part this was successful. For this trip I had brought along my CamelBak which is a rubber bladder, capable of holding 3 liters of water, which can be drawn upon when walking by means of a tube and an ingenious bite valve. However, when I first wished to take advantage of my hands free hydration system, I realised angrily that due to the improbable bulk of my rucksack, the tube remained tantalisingly out of reach and any futile efforts to benefit from the live-giving nectar, resulted in looking like Stephen Hawking trying to swat a wasp. I therefore resigned myself to having to drink on the defined rest stops and stifle my thirst in between.

When nearing camp 1, the wind began to pick up and before long, snow had begun to fall. It must be stressed that mountain snow is not like traditional snow however. Whereas our precip we get at home is made of beautifully geometric, clearly delineated jewels, the snow we were experiencing was that of ice pellets whose wanton desire; when whipped by the wind, was to intravenously drain all of the colour from any flesh, foolishly exposed to its wrath.

Already in a miserable mood on arrival at camp, we then had to the task of erecting our tent. Having picked a tent at random from the stash that we had at base camp, I had neglected to notice that it’s lineage was not the same as we’d become accustomed to on the walk in. On account of this, constructing the shelter in copious amounts of wind and mountain snow with unfathomable instructions, made for a lot of frayed tempers and general falling out. I’d personally like to name and shame Mountain Hardwear for devising a tent so obtuse in its ability to provide shelter, it would make Ed Viesturs blush.

Following the Benny Hill-like efforts of tent erection, all we had left to enjoy were some freeze dried meals. Perhaps my expectations were too high, but I had a re-hydrated chicken tika masala which; had it not been for the large friendly letters on the packet, could have easily been mistaken for the extracts of sulphurous rocks back at Purta del Inca.

Team Vs the Machine – 28/12/2010
Camp 1 to Camp 2

Logic would have stated that after the exertion of the previous day, it would be a rest day today. Thankfully for us HABE sufferers, it was not the case and today called for a load carry up to camp 2 at 5850m. This is just shy of the height of Kilimanjaro and keen students of numeracy will not that the height gain from camp 1 is 850m.

Morning broke and with it, so did my digestive system at the thought of freeze dried muesli. Depending on your perspective, I wasn’t disappointed. It has the consistency of the dryer parts of the Vacas river and the smell of the proctology wing at a city general hospital.

It did however, have the positive consequence of keeping my bowel movements regular. Sorry for this brief but relevant detour… Now that we were higher on the mountain, we no longer had the ‘luxury’ of long-drop toilets. Furthermore, the Aconcagua park authorities now issue climbers with a bag in which to deposit your expulsions in an effort to control pollution on the mountain from human waste. Unless you have been through the indignity yourself, its impossible to imaging the level of concentration required to keep your balance when squatting. A momentary lapse in the backwards direction could result in a tumble into your freshly produced output, whilst a forwards lurch risks a painful and embarrassing face-plant on account of your hands being otherwise occupied in an effort to warn off the effects of genital frostbite. Anyway, I digress…

The hike from camp 1 to 2 is an arduous one. What differentiated it from other days however, was that we all took it at our own pace, commanded our own break intervals and reached the goal in our own time. Max; our other guide, shot off from camp 1 in an almost mechanised romp, so unrelenting, that no one else could match his pace. Initially I was behind Max but I was then overtaken by another strong member in our group, to remain for the rest of the day.

This was the day where I learned a another truth from the hills. Never, and I mean never, believe any form of timescales given by people descending the route you are so desperately climbing. Not only will they be wildly inaccurate, but they’ll often be doctored in an effort to raise your spirits. This may be effective in the short term, but as time passes, you can’t help but think how good your ice axe would look embedded in the do-gooder’s head.

In the end, I was third to reach camp 2. By this point in the afternoon, the weather had begun to close in so we wasted little time in making our cache and retreating down to camp 1. On the decent, we ended up passing other members of the group, still on the way up. I was annoyed to find myself giving timescales to my upward bound friends in direct contrast to my own preachings earlier.

Snow bored – 29/12/2010
Camp 1

Bad news for all HABE sufferers today as its another rest day but one further complicated by limited camp facilities and the 2ft accumulation of snow on the ground that was to increase consistently throughout the day. As a result of the snow, we were confined to our tents for the majority of the day and although I had cursed its awkwardness to construct, it’s internal dimensions seemed to reconcile some of its respect.

It’s just as well that the tent was spacious as you had to don double plastic boots , sunglasses, hat, gloves and all manor of warm clothing in order to perform the most basic of ablutions. When going to urinate, it had to be precisely timed so that the wind didn’t interfere with the direction of flow. Failure to respect this trait at best would result in a vortex of fluid that cascaded dangerously close to ones trousers whilst the more serious of consequences would invite ridicule and a pair of unpleasantly damp salopettes.

The day was spent eating, reading and trying not annoy each other in the tent until we were all summoned by Chris and Max for a discussion. They had been on the phone with our travel company in England, who; in turn, had replied with devastating news regarding the weather. The snow was forecast to worsen and the wind was set to rise. The immediate plan was to re–evaluate the situation in the morning.

The end of the road – 30/12/2010
Camp 1 to Plaza Argentina

During the restless night in which we endured more snow and abundant wind, I was unfortunate enough to be revisited by an old enemy – stomach cramps. Having not been struck with these pains for the best part of three years, and being woefully ignorant of the choice drug which helped alleviate the symptoms, I had much to ponder during my sleepless night.

After some light hypoxic consideration, I decided that the best solution would be to descend in the morning as I had no chance of attaining camp 2 in my state, and wait at base camp for the rest of the team so as not to be a liability higher on the mountain. Chris accompanied me back down to base camp, stopping briefly at the doctor’s cabin to gain assurances that it wasn’t altitude related.

So as I retired to my tent adopting the fetal position, the realisation hit me that I had unfortunately failed to conquer the mountain. On my reflection, it was disappointing, but I remain convinced that it was the correct decision to turn around. From what I can remember, the usual course of treatment for my ailment, is to let it run its course and normally I would recover naturally in three days or so. However, I had a visitor to my tent in the afternoon that strongly encouraged me to visit the doctor.

The cheery visitor was a sweet member of the guardeparque (park rangers) by the name of Erika who had taken it upon herself to oversee my ‘treatment’. I can’t fault the guardeparque one bit, but I am not very good at being a patient, and protested feebly that I wasn’t sick enough to warrant specific medical attention. I like to think that the kind Erika was ignoring my complaints, but it transpired that she didn’t speak much English and thus, my moans were evidently lost in translation.

The doctor; whose name now escapes me, performed the usual battery of tests commonplace at altitude before quizzing me on my symptoms in fluent ‘Spanglish’. Trying to convey stomach cramps by means of gesticulation and onomatopoeia however, proved tricky, and it was only when I discovered that the work ‘spasm’ was relatively uniform in both English and Spanish, that we made progress.

Its then that I discover that he decides the best course of treatment is an injection of a pain killer. Torn between the risks of having intravenous drugs administered in questionable hygienic conditions, and wanting to get my monies worth from the exorbitant permit fee, I opted to have a shot injected into my left bum cheek making a mental note to learn more Spanish before my next venture to South America.

Being British, I of course thanked him profusely for jabbing me in such intimate proximity, and promptly made my way back to the tent. After sitting down, it was then that I noticed an alarming arrhythmia emanating from my chest. Being the ‘sunshine and moonbeams’ type of personality that I am, I convinced myself that I was having a heart attack and before unconsciousness ensued, I frantically attempted to unzip my tent-fly. In those lively few moments however, my heartbeat returned to normal and I offered a frankly apologetic smile to the foreign figures that had paused by my tent in curiosity at the animated antics inside.

Click here for part 2 of ‘The Lost Continent, a Pessimist Abroad – Travels in South America’.

Tags: Aconcagua, Argentina, Cerro, Christmas, False Polish, Mendoza, Relinchos, South America, Travel, Vacas Valley