THE STONE SENTINEL

The Stone Sentinel

Climbing slowly at 22,000 feet, focused intently on placing every footstep carefully, I suddenly hear a faint cry from above. Awakened from a trance, I look up for the first time in hours, and I am horrified by the sight above - a huge section of the mountain is simply sliding towards me. There is an instant’s pause as the implication penetrates my oxygen-deprived brain and then a sudden understanding and terror flood through me. I know I’m dead.

Often, in the comfort of an armchair, reading a travel or adventure book, I’ve wondered how the human mind really reacts in moments like this. And now I know the answer. It becomes very focused. 

Aconcagua, the Stone Sentinel, is the highest peak in both the western hemisphere and the southern hemisphere, and the highest peak outside the Himalayas. But I have long considered it in more human terms - the highest mountain I’ll ever try to climb. Straddling the Chile-Argentina border and only a hundred miles from the Pacific Ocean, it rises to a shade under 23,000 feet, dwarfing the surrounding Andes peaks and creating its own unique weather system. Although no K2 in technical terms, it is steep, high, cold and unpredictable, and no attempt upon Aconcagua is a casual undertaking. Today Aconcagua attracts thousands of sightseers and climbers each year, though only a fraction reach the summit. 

Seventy five percent of climbers approach Aconcagua from the west and climb the Normal Route via base camp at Plaza de Mulas. I only have two other high-altitude summits to my name, Kilimanjaro and Elbrus, and I harbor no illusions as to my amateur status. But William Blake’s ‘less traveled road’ has always held a certain allure, so I chose a more individual route on Aconcagua – the much less traveled False Polish Glacier route, approaching from the east. 

In the Argentine city of Mendoza, the traditional launching point for Aconcagua expeditions, I join a team of eight other clients and three guides, but no porters. Apparently we will use mules to ferry baggage to Base Camp at Plaza Argentina (13,860 ft) and thereafter we’ll carry all the equipment ourselves as we climb. 

During the early part of the walk-in there is a palpable sense of expectation as Aconcagua hides herself behind secondary peaks. But on the evening of day two, as we reach the confluence of the Vacas and Relinchos rivers, she at last reveals her striking visage through a cleft in the hills. She is big and steep, and from this angle not unlike the Matterhorn, though with softer and more mature features. The huge Polish Glacier is clearly visible, looming predatory on the southeast face.

Day three is a gain of 3200 ft. in altitude, hiking up the gorge carved by the Relinchos river, through truly spectacular scenery: a steep rugged trail, sheer cliffs and raging torrents and waterfalls. We ascend into atmosphere that is drier, colder and less oxygenated, and the vegetation diminishes and then finally peters out. The multi-hued tents of Base Camp are incongruous in a lunar landscape of sand and rock, and huddle tiny on the lower flanks of towering shimmering Aconcagua.

The walk-in has taken a minor toll, and a rest day at Base Camp allows us to check status: as well as the usual hiker’s maladies like blisters and muscle ache, the 100-degree temperatures have caused swollen hands, digestive problems and heat-stroke. And since we have ascended almost 5000 ft in altitude, we also check blood oxygen levels. At sea level a score of 90 to 100 is normal, but 80 is more usual at our high altitude. 70 means ascend no farther, and 60 means descend immediately. My reading is 91 and I’m feeling good, but two of our party capitulate at this stage and decide to head back down to civilization. 

An ascent to 23,000 feet will mean not only tremendous effort and exertion, but also exposing oneself to environmental extremes: greatly reduced oxygen, increased ultraviolet rays from the sun, severe cold, decreased air pressure and other climatic factors. Acclimatization to these extremes is best achieved by climbing high and sleeping low, so a normal ascent plan would mean we begin by ferrying some of our equipment up to the site of our future Camp One and then return to Base Camp to rest and recover. 

Above Base Camp the gradient steepens considerably, and the ascent to Camp One is challenging, climbing 2300 ft through steep moraines of scree and “penitentes”: forests of huge ice needles sculpted by sun and wind. There is an icy biting wind, and we experience our first real difficulties climbing with heavy packs in the rarified atmosphere. Some places above glacial streams could easily have resulted in a quick slide, broken bones and an icy plunge, and I have no desire to see the underside of a glacier. But we ascend safely to Camp One which, at 16,075 feet, is higher than Mont Blanc or Mt. Whitney. We cache our gear and return quickly to Base Camp. 

Over the next five days we ferry equipment between Base Camp and Camp One, then move up to Camp One permanently, and continue ferrying the same equipment to the site of Camp Two, which is another 3100 ft higher at the foot of the Polish Glacier. Minor ailments are not unusual as the body weakens in these environments, and sure enough I develop a dry cough, which then escalates into a full-fledged cold and a deep internal wheeze that I know will stay with me for the duration. I also have a general feeling of malaise that is a combination of sunburn, altitude sickness and fatigue, and I lance my blisters each evening, passing a thread through and leaving the ends hanging to promote drainage. 

Rest days are critical in allowing the body to recover from its exertions in increasingly thin air and to acclimatize to the environment. We need sleep, warmth, food, vitamins and, most importantly, hydration. By now I haven't had a shave or a proper shower for almost two weeks, but I have other priorities. Here at Camp One, breathless and fatigued, I drink 6 liters of fluids every day, and I barely move around campsite. The upper portion of our walk-in route is visible far below, and I clearly recollect the moment we left all greenery behind. Camp One is an inhospitable place, not conducive to life of any kind: there are no flaura or fauna, no birds, no insects: nothing can survive here. And the elements conspire too - the higher we climb the colder the air, the stronger the wind, and the fiercer the sun's ultraviolet rays. Each morning, I awake to find the inside of my tent encrusted with a thin layer of ice, and today I watched someone's tent, improperly secured, fly off the mountainside and sail downward, dwindling to a tiny yellow speck, until it disappeared thousands of feet below.

Camp Two is at the same altitude as Kilimanjaro’s highest peak and the oxygen content is half that at sea level. It perches on Aconcagua’s flank, over half a vertical mile of increasingly steep rock and ice above Camp One. Climbing to it wheezing and spluttering under a load of fifty pounds is not a pleasant experience, especially in the fierce wind coming over the shoulder between Aconcagua and her sister Ameghino. I’m excited by the sudden proximity of the Polish Glacier, and awareness that the summit is now only 3500 feet above. But team spirits are dampened by the sight of several desiccated corpses lying not far from camp, climbers from another era whose bodies have just recently been disgorged by the glacier. The radio reports that a storm is coming in – this is bad news. Though safe from avalanche, it is an exposed position and the tents rattle and shake under the onslaught, staying put only because we have weighted them down with dozens of large rocks. The wind increases throughout the evening until we have to shout to communicate. Lightning flashes, thunder booms, and no-one sleeps.

Next morning dawns calm and crisp, and today we plan to move up to Camp Three, where we will spend just one night before our summit attempt. Camp Three is only 1300 vertical feet away, but also a long traverse around to the north side of the mountain. Much of the traverse is on steep slopes covered with snow and re-frozen meltwater, making crampons and ice-axes mandatory. My sickness has worsened, and in spite of medication I can barely take a dozen paces without doubling over choking and gasping for breath. Halfway up the last steep portion I collapse with piercing stomach cramps, which could be caused by dehydration or just the body’s inability to digest food properly at this altitude. There is no alternative but to continue, albeit even more slowly, and after an hour the cramps finally pass. At 20,500 ft Camp three is higher than Denali/McKinley, a jagged wilderness of rock and ice with the wind shrieking over the ridge like a banshee. Nor can you rest here - the longer you stay the weaker you get. I have never felt so sick, but tomorrow is what this whole trip is about.

Summit day starts badly. Two more team members have developed altitude sickness and they cannot leave camp. Our team leader splits the dwindling team, now only eight climbers, into two groups, which leave camp separately. The “A” climbers depart at 7 am and the “B” climbers, which includes me, thirty minutes later. Previously we have always climbed as a single group, so this is an unexpected move.

An hour later we are climbing slowly, bent double to maintain our footing under the force of the wind, which, having crossed the Pacific Ocean unimpeded, is now screaming straight into our faces. But the sun is coming up and the panorama across the roof of the Andes is spectacular. The surrounding peaks are 4000 ft lower down.

Suddenly we realize that due to the last-minute changes in climbing order all the water rations have either been taken by the "A" team above or left behind at Camp Three below. This is a critical issue, which can affect not only our summit chances but also our lives. We discuss, and agree that we will each make our own personal decision. I endeavor to catch the “A” team far ahead, which means picking up the pace and climbing alone. Of course I’ve always known that ultimately I have to get my own self to the top, that on every climb there comes a time where each of us must stop relying on the team and start depending fully on our own mettle. I recognize this moment now. 

So, I set out on the long sloping traverse, technically very easy, across the top of the Gran Acarreo, fiercely determined and spurred on by a very tangible fear of running out of time. I stop periodically to thaw my frozen hands, which also gives my lungs and heart a chance to recover, and I discover I can make good time. The “A” climbers are by now also strung out over a long distance, and soon I catch the tail-enders, exchange some breathless words of mutual encouragement, share water, and push on. 

The summit is approached via the Canaleta, a steep narrow gully, over 700 ft high, a wild chaos of boulders and loose rock, infamous among mountaineers. By the time I reach its base only two climbers are above me, directly above, and moving ahead at a fast pace. Although a professional guide, our team leader is climbing Aconcagua for the first time, and I suddenly realize the reason for the big rush - he wants this summit on his resumé. And he appears to have sacrificed the team’s cohesion in pursuit of this personal objective. Even in my hypoxic state this was as clear to me then as it is now, and anger flooded through me. And so, determined not to have the beckoning summit snatched from my grasp, I start up the Canaleta.

I am several hundred feet up, climbing carefully, when I hear a faint cry from above. Startled, I look up, and see the whole central portion of the Canaleta sliding and tumbling towards me. Someone has started a rockslide in the most dangerous place on the mountain. And now I finally find out how the human mind reacts in moments of extremis - it focuses. And a strange thing happened. Someone, another “me”, appeared from behind a curtain in the back of my head, stepped forward and nudged the regular me to one side. Then I just watched as he took over and handled the whole thing - he observed, calculated, decided and acted. Snap, snap, snap. Everything happened quickly but on auto-pilot: although we’re struggling to remain upright in knee-deep sliding sand and stones, he prioritized this as irrelevant and instead focused on the twenty or so boulders tumbling towards us. He instantly eliminated all but two as not of immediate danger and turned his full attention to these two. He sidled gingerly to the right, and the first boulder, about the size of a small television, flew past on the left. Then he hopped and skipped to the left (no mean feat under the circumstances) and the second boulder, ironically the size and shape of a coffin, tumbling end over end, whipped by on the right. And that was it. No problemo. Just like a video game. As I stood trembling and took a deep breath of relief and disbelief (have I really just dodged a rockslide?), my alter ego vanished as quickly as he had appeared. And below, my team-mates, just entering the Canaleta, have found safety behind an outcropping.

I continue climbing, and soon realize I’ve made a huge mistake. The conditions are appalling and I’m expending lots of amount of energy making very little progress. Plus the whole thing could come down, dangerous for anyone below, and the wind is picking up – I hadn’t thought that possible. Meanwhile the rest of the team, minus one more casualty of altitude sickness, have gathered at the Canaleta’s base far below me. Eventually they begin to move upwards on a more circuitous but more sensible path around the edge on a narrow strip of firm snow. But I am already committed to the Canaleta and the only way is up. Every time I put my hand or ice-ax on a rock it moves, every time I inch upwards I slide back a little, and I end up scrambling frantically to gain purchase. Meanwhile I am dehydrated, gasping for breath, freezing, burning, coughing, choking and retching, and my legs and arms are trembling violently with exhaustion and exertion. The climb is interminable. Dozens of times I rest my forehead on my ax and breathe deeply for several minutes, sweating and shivering at the same time, ice crusted round my hood, wondering how I can get out of this. The top is never perceptibly closer but in a vague way I am aware that every move puts me a little nearer. The real enemy is time, which is slipping away. At this point I am also suffering from dehydration and oxygen deprivation and I was moaning and mumbling incoherently, talking to myself, singing snatches of songs, reciting bits of poetry and listing people’s names over and over. Although... the idea of turning around and descending never entered my head: I was prepared to fail, but not by giving up.

Three hours later I drag myself by teeth and nails out the top of the Canaleta, just as the others arrive at the same location. I’ve lost all the time I gained earlier and I am in a poor physical state. Everything hurts: toes, fingers, hands, ears, nose, cheekbones, jaw, teeth, gums, stomach, ribs, calves, back, shoulders, neck. But I know the mountain well and, as I look over my right shoulder, I can see the huge 7000-ft sweep of the South Face falling away behind me. At this point I finally realize we've made it… the summit is still an hour away but with the Canaleta completed nothing can stop us now. I guzzle more water and begin to feel halfway human.

The summit ridge is actually much steeper than it appears in photographs, but in spite of the altitude and exposure the ice is very stable. With crampons and ice axes biting deeply we move upwards. By now all the ridges and faces are converging rapidly and there is little around us but sky. The last twenty feet are sheer, but I think I took them in a single crazy scramble and with one huge breath. Emerging onto the small rock-strewn summit plateau is eerie because after all this time in the shadow of the huge peak there is suddenly nothing around but bright blueness. I spot one boulder sitting slightly above the others, stagger drunkenly over to it, step up and over, turn a full circle on one leg and collapse on my back like a starfish. In the lee of the wind it is achingly hot, and I scrabble madly at my zippers and buttons to loosen my clothing. It is 2.30pm. Soon the realization sets in that, excepting any out-of-season night-time Himalayan ascent, we are the highest people on the planet. 6960 meters or 22,841 feet. We linger long enough to take in the stupendous views and shoot a few photos, and then we descend carefully, safely and uneventfully to Camp Three. During the descent I am intrigued to find that my addled mind cannot perform basic mathematical functions - I am unable to subtract seven and a half from twelve. Camp Three, yesterday a hellhole, is today a welcome haven. 

Next morning I am very weak and can barely breathe, and I remind myself that we are still above 20,000 ft. Simply packing the tent renders me immobile for a long time, and I cough and retch constantly. Descent is not most climbers’ forte anyway, because psychologically the objective has already been completed. But with full packs we descend the steep slopes of the Normal Route all the way to Base Camp at Plaza de Mulas, passing many climbers trudging painfully up the featureless lower slopes. At Base Camp we meet our team-mates who, happily, have recovered at this lower altitude. 

Under normal circumstances the 16-mile hike out from Base Camp to the trailhead might be considered a challenge. But compared with what we have already endured this is a breeze, even considering the multiple river crossings and consequently wet feet. Plus, a dawning sense of accomplishment and satisfaction accompanies a return to civilization.

At this lower altitude a plentiful oxygen supply and moister atmosphere fuel very quick recovery. Blisters heal, coughs and colds recede and disappear, sunburn fades, muscles mend, chapped and bloody lips re-knit. Toenails dry and peel off, though this is more disgusting than painful. Most dramatically, the last vestiges of altitude sickness miraculously clear up, and smiles appear on gaunt faces for the first time in weeks. Weight loss also begets a voracious appetite, so we’re fortunate to be in Mendoza, the wine and beef capital of Argentina.

On balance, Aconcagua was kind to us, and we were particularly lucky with the weather. Most of all, I know from experience that my memories of the pain and discomfort will fade over time, while the high points will remain vivid and clear. Eventually the balance of my recollection will shift in favor of the positive. I know my cool alter ego is still hiding in there, waiting till he’s next summoned. But I’m not sure I ever want to call upon him again. So I keep the knowledge fresh in my mind, reminding myself often that my mountaineering days are definitely over. And this time I really do mean it. I think.