“I get the feeling there’s a message here for us,” he said, chuckling.
“You mean, as to why the demise of biological humans is to be celebrated?” asked Anja.
“Exactly!” he exclaimed and they both laughed so hard that they could barely continue breathing.
I comprehended the irony and I laughed with them, but it did add to the uneasiness that seemed to be growing within me. What really was my function? Was I to encourage Anja to digitize? Should I set the mood for her and Gunnar to reproduce? Or was I meant to remain impartial or discourage any change at all?
The paradox of being a biological human was undeniable and yet I found it endearing too, especially when coupled with the type of self-effacing honesty that both Anja and Gunnar exhibited. The more I recognized the paradox, the more it seemed to grow. This made me feel happy and uneasy at the same time, which expanded the paradox still further.
I could have become stuck in an infinite loop of philosophical inquiry were it not for the arrival of Jake, Stefan, Gil, and Andreas. They were in the form of Andean flamingos—I detected them from their digital signatures, but it was also evident from the way they honked and grunted excitedly, as they circled above us. Their enthusiasm helped buoy our spirits, as the trail was becoming ever more challenging.
We had now reached the beginning of Aconcagua’s great western wall. Embedded into the wall were dozens of glaciers, winding around the moraine and its couloirs, although they were often obscured by a covering of loose pebbles. In some cases, the pebbles were so thick, we could barely tell there was ice underneath them.
In more rare instances, the glaciers took the form of tall, thin blades of hardened ice, closely spaced, with the blades oriented toward the sun. Called Nieves Penitentes, these oddities formed in clusters and could be as tall as ten feet. Gunnar decided to wander off-trail to inspect a cluster and he was surprised to discover they were extremely strong—he was unable to break even the narrow tips. I did some research and learned that they formed when the sun turned ice directly into water vapor without melting it first.
Our next landmark was the site of a former military shelter on the left side of the trail. It had been destroyed by a massive avalanche and all that remained were some crumbling rock walls. The ground turned still rougher and steeper here. Gunnar announced that we had reached our final ascent, a section affectionately referred to as Cuesta Brava, since the rugged slope was only for the brave at heart.
For the first time, I could see strain on Anja’s face. Her pace slowed considerably and her breathing appeared to be shallower and more labored. Gunnar and I shortened our steps to match hers. As we did, we saw below us the skeletal remains of dozens of mules who had taken unfortunate stumbles.
The glacier-clad vistas of the western wall became more and more prominent at this elevation. After another mile of climbing, we approached a summit that we thought might be the base camp, but our hopes were dashed when we realized it was just another mound of scree. Anja’s face now had a look of despair.
“Guys,” she said breathlessly, “I’m out of water and feeling a bit panicky.”
Gunnar offered her the last of his water. She swallowed it down thirstily, but she still seemed alarmed. He motioned her to a rocky perch and we all sat down.
“Let’s rest for a few minutes,” he said. “We’re at over fourteen thousand feet now, so this is higher up than you’ve been before.”
Anja nodded. “How much further?”
“I think it’s only about a quarter mile away. It’s hard to tell because the terrain is so steep.”
The four Andean flamingos swooped in front of us—it was Jake, Stefan, Gil, and Andreas again. This time they performed acrobatic stunts, dive-bombing through the air, then twirling and spinning in a synchronized fashion. As if to provide motivation, they touched the tips of their wings in a straight line, emitting sharp cries of delight, and launched into a sequence of overhead flips, one after another in rapid succession, before shooting off in the direction of base camp.
“Oddly, that seemed to help,” said Anja. “I’m ready to press on.”
We continued our ascent with Gunnar in the lead and myself in the rear. The wind was gusting at over thirty miles per hour and all we could do now was put one foot in front of the other, mechanically and stoically. In the distance, another summit began to take shape, but we reminded ourselves that it might be a false hope.
Slowly, we marched up the trail, which was now covered in ice. It felt steeper than anything we had yet encountered and even I felt the demand on my system. Complete concentration was required in order to avoid slipping.
At last, as we approached the crest, we saw in the distance a lone ranger station and some more Quonset huts. A small sign proclaimed that we had indeed reached Plaza de Mulas, at an elevation of 14,340 feet. We could scarcely believe we had reached our goal for the day.
In its heyday, Plaza de Mulas had been the second-busiest mountaineering base camp in all the world—second only to that of Everest. Numerous guide services and outfitters had provided a range of creature comforts for those willing to pay. Now there was not a person to be seen.
The lack of activity made the scenery all the more breathtaking. Pristine snow covered most of the mesa that comprised base camp. In the far distance, we could see the summit of Aconcagua. From this perspective, we were able to appreciate for the first time the sheer enormity and verticality of the mountain. We still had 8,501 feet to climb.
As we contemplated this sobering fact, a dark blur appeared high in the sky, seemingly from out of nowhere. At first, we thought it was a storm cloud, but it quickly broke up into thousands of small dots. Gunnar instinctively grabbed hold of both Anja and me, and all three of us braced ourselves for something to happen that we didn’t understand.
The small dots started to organize as they moved closer to us and we came to recognize that they were a swarm of birds. They organized still further and we identified them as tens of thousands of Andean flamingos—or I should say, as zero percenters in the form of Andean flamingos. Then we finally realized what was happening.
The flamingos were spelling out a message in the sky: “Eternal loving kindness!” With the flapping of their wings, they added an animation effect, which made the words appear as if they were dancing.
The message was beautiful and inspiring and bizarre, all at the same time.
As quickly as they came, the flamingos soared off into the distance—except for Jake, Stefan, Gil, and Andreas, who swept down beside us and morphed into their biped forms.
“Did you dig our show?” asked Jake.
“It was amazing,” replied Anja. “How’d you do that?”
“We have our ways,” said Gil.
“Years of choreography classes,” added Stefan, winking.
“You should have asked your friends to stick around,” said Anja. “I would have liked to have had a chance to thank them.”
“They didn’t want to impose or anything,” explained Jake. “They just wanted to pay their respects.”
“We had over fifty thousand flamingos up there, you know,” said Andreas.
“Incredible,” said Gunnar.
“But that’s just the beginning of our surprise,” said Jake. “Remember the old hotel?” He pointed to a large building nestled in the foothills about a mile to the west. The eighty-room structure had been built in the early 1990s, making it the highest hotel in the Americas, but the cost of maintenance had become prohibitive, so it had fallen into disrepair.
“We fixed it up for you guys,” said Gil. “You won’t be sleeping in a tent tonight.”
“No way,” said Gunnar. “I’ve always wanted to check that place out.”
“And we’ve got a gourmet dinner awaiting,” added Andreas.
“Food!” said Anja. “Need food now! Must eat now!”
“No worries,” said Jake, laughing. He snapped his fingers and Stefan, Gil, and Andreas became mules. “Hop on board!”
We each mounted a mule and rode across Plaza de Mulas toward the hotel. By the time we arrived, the sun had slipped below the horizon and the entire western sky was bright pink. Bathed in diffused light, the grand hotel stood before us like a mirage.
Upon entering, we were further wowed by the efforts of the guys. Not only had they prepared a sumptuous meal for Anja and Gunnar, but they had illuminated the entire hotel with paper lanterns and decorated it with bouquets and wreaths fashioned from native plants.
We thanked them profusely, as it wasn’t every day that one felt so lavished with attention. Whatever apprehension we still carried with us seemed to dissipate in the presence of such friendship and generosity. At least for the moment, we were all okay.
Twenty-One
October 27, 2024
Plaza Canadá, Aconcagua, Argentina
After feasting on empanadas de búfalo and ensalada de remolacha con manzana, Anja and Gunnar retired to the penthouse suite. Although the hotel had no electricity or heat, lying on a proper bed in a room sheltered from the wind was a big step up from being in a tent. I half expected Anja to relax her no-kissing rule, but the moment their heads hit pillows, they fell sound asleep.
I spent the downtime reading more about acclimatization strategies for biological humans engaged in high-elevation climbing. My review of the literature confirmed Gunnar’s estimate. From Plaza de Mulas, we would want to allow a minimum of eight to ten days to reach the summit.
Unfortunately, the most recent weather reports indicated a major storm heading our way in just five days. According to the models, severe blizzard conditions were expected above thirteen thousand feet. While less common in spring, the dreaded viento blanco could strike the Andes at almost any time of year. At the summit, it could result in winds in excess of 150 miles per hour.
I didn’t look forward to imparting the bad news, but I resolved to advise that we abort our mission. The risks were too high to take unnecessary chances. Dozens of hikers had died in blizzards on Aconcagua and I had no intention of letting that happen to Anja or Gunnar.
To soften the blow, I prepared fresh açaí juice and homemade granola with yogurt from sheep’s milk. I laid out the breakfast on a dining table by the window that had the best views of Aconcagua. Anja and Gunnar entered as the morning sun was rising over the western wall.
“G’murnin, Vicia,” said Gunnar. “Look at this spread. And stunning views too. We are living the high life, literally.”
I laughed softly.
“Another gorgeous day and more yummy food,” said Anja. “Thank you, Vicia. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “And, yes, we have blue skies forecast for today, but not such cooperative weather further out, I’m afraid.”
“Oh?” said Gunnar. “What’s the word?”
“Viento blanco in five days,” I explained.
“At the summit?” asked Gunnar.
I shook my head. “Everywhere above thirteen thousand feet.”
“Yikes, not good.”
I showed them the weather models, then shared my conclusion that the prudent course would be to abort.
“As much as I hate to say this, I agree completely,” said Gunnar. “We can’t play around with a storm system like that. It’s serious business.”
“Hold on a second,” protested Anja. “We still have five days to see how this develops. Why give up now?”
“I understand what you’re saying,” said Gunnar, “but even if all five days were hikable, that’s not enough time to get to the top.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Okay, let me revise that statement. Potentially, yes, it can be done. But certainly not safely, and especially not for our experience level.”
“Whose experience are you referring to?” she asked. “Yours or mine?”
Gunnar laughed. “Touché, you got me there. I may be making some unfair assumptions. I know you’re a very, very strong hiker.”
“I think what Gunnar is concerned about is altitude sickness,” I interjected, “more than stamina.”
“Yes, true,” he said.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I continued, “but the standard strategy for reaching the summit from here calls for a carry day, a move day, and a rest day for each of the three upper camps. That means we would need nine days, plus a summit day. And technically, today should also be a day of rest, so that would mean we actually need eleven days.”
“Those recommendations are for conventional climbs,” said Anja, “but keep in mind, our gear is being transported for us, which means we’re eliminating a good deal of stress and exertion.”
“You’re right about that,” said Gunnar. “Mules were not allowed past base camp, so before zero percenters, everyone had to carry their own gear from here.”
“Also,” added Anja, “we have a safety feature that no other biological humans ever had. If anything goes wrong, Jake, Gil, Stefan and Andreas can just fly us back down.”
“True enough,” said Gunnar. “In the past, helicopter rescues were capped at about fifteen thousand feet, so climbers who faced an emergency situation above that were on their own.”
“Which is why I really don’t see what we have to lose by trying.”
Gunnar paused to consider Anja’s proposal. “This is really important to you, isn’t it?”
“I just want to know we gave it our best shot.”
“There is one other possibility to consider,” I offered. “In my research, I came upon an alternate acclimatization strategy that some climbers have implemented successfully.”
“What is it?” asked Anja.
“Instead of climbing to Camp 1 and returning here to sleep, we could climb to Camp 2 and then go back down to Camp 1 to sleep. We’d keep following this pattern all the way up the mountain. It’s a much more aggressive approach, needless to say, and there hasn’t been any rigorous testing of its efficacy.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Gunnar. “You’re saying that we can beat altitude sickness by always going up higher than where we actually sleep, but still maintaining a daily upward ascent?”
“That’s right,” I affirmed. “If we iterated the approach for three days, we would wake up at Camp 3 on day four. We could then take a day of rest and attempt a summit on day five.”
“So you mean, no days of rest until then?”
“Correct,” I said. “Of course, if we preferred, we could take our rest day earlier in the sequence, but all the research suggests it’s best to have a rest day before summiting.”
“I’m impressed,” said Gunnar. “You’ve really studied this stuff.”
“That’s my job,” I replied, smiling.
“I’m up for it, if everyone else is,” he said. “But only with the understanding that if any one of us is feeling the slightest bit compromised or if the storm looks like it could arrive ahead of schedule, we fly down immediately.”
“I’m in,” said Anja without hesitation.
“In that case,” I said, “we’d better get going, as we have no time to waste.”
Jake popped his head into the hotel dining room as I was performing our second round of medical checks. We explained our new strategy to him and he agreed to pack up our gear for transport to Camp 1, also known as Plaza Canadá. Fortunately, Gunnar and Anja’s heart rate, blood pressure and blood oxygen levels easily passed the checks. Then we suited up and got back on the trail.
Altogether, we had to cover about six more miles to reach the summit—Camp 1 was 1.8 miles away, Camp 2 another 1.4 miles, Camp 3 another 0.8 miles, and the summit an additional two miles. We’d already hiked twelve miles from Confluencia. However, the big difference was that in these last six miles we would ascend over eight thousand, five hundred feet at an average gradient of over twenty-six percent.
As we trudged out of Plaza de Mulas, we immediately felt the increase in steepness. At least the path was well marked and the scree on this part of the western wall seemed tight
ly packed. There was no snow on the ground, perhaps because it received direct exposure from the strong afternoon sun. After about a half mile, we came to a rocky formation called El Semáforo.
“We’re making good time,” said Gunnar. “If anything, I suggest we slightly back off on our pace. We need to start concentrating on taking slow, deep breaths as we climb. Getting enough oxygen is going to be one of our biggest challenges.”
“Got it,” said Anja curtly, not wanting to expend any unnecessary energy.
We came to a still steeper section of the slope where the trail zigzagged with successive switchbacks. Even though I didn’t need to breathe, Gunnar’s tip helped me considerably, as I began to perceive hiking and meditating as related activities. I was eager to apply my insight to our next round of meditation.
Soon we passed another rocky spot known as Las Piedras de Conway, which was named after Sir Martin Conway, an English art critic and professor who had climbed Aconcagua in 1898. Here we were 126 years later, passing the same terrain, two biological humans and one concierge. None of us knew exactly why, but somehow it all seemed significant.
Gunnar let out a shrill cry and we saw Jake, Gil, Stefan and Andreas soaring above us in the form of teratorns, our gear strapped to their backs. We gave them the thumbs-up and they responded with shrieks of encouragement. They circled around us once and then proceeded upward.
We were at 15,583 feet now. Instead of switchbacks, the trail began to follow a long diagonal cut across the side of the mountain. Gunnar and Anja took swigs from their water bottles, but none of us spoke. The austerity of the landscape suited our silence.
Zero Percenters Page 11