Interrupting our dreamlike state, four small flying saucers approached and hovered beside us. They were Jake, Gil, Stefan and Andreas.
“What up, dudes!” Jake called out.
“You’ve joined the twenty thousand club!” shouted Stefan.
A robotic arm reached out from Gil’s saucer and offered Anja a hot flask of peppermint tea with honey and coconut oil. Likewise, an arm reached out from Stefan’s saucer and offered Gunnar a similar flask. They both grabbed the beverages gratefully.
“Keep sipping as you climb,” said Jake. “It’ll help you stay hydrated and warm.”
“Will do,” said Anja. “Thank you!”
Gunnar updated the four of them on our insight regarding the puma. They all agreed it was a significant concern and they promised to keep on the lookout for any suspicious activity. Then they shot ahead in the direction of the summit, making the ascent look ridiculously easy.
“Are you tempted to join them, Vicia?” asked Gunnar.
“Not at all,” I said. “I love the way we’re doing it. I wouldn’t want to change a thing.”
“Ten points,” replied Anja with a smile, as she sipped her tea.
We pressed upward through a scree field mixed with broken larger rocks. I could see Anja and Gunnar becoming more affected by the higher altitude. It wasn’t the oxygen level that was decreasing—air contains 20.93 percent oxygen everywhere on earth—but rather the barometric pressure.
“Nice deep breaths,” coached Gunnar. “Make sure to inhale fully until your stomach expands.”
Anja flashed a thumbs-up.
“There’s also something called pressure breathing that’s supposed to help,” I offered. “When you exhale, you purse your lips.”
“Good call,” said Gunnar. “I forgot about that.”
As we stepped onward through the scree, they both worked on their breathing technique. The passage of time felt increasingly nonlinear. Each moment seemed to blend into the next.
We topped a small ridge and stepped through some moraine tower formations. As we rounded a bend in the trail, a lone shack appeared in the distance. This was the Refugio Independencia hut.
“Welcome to be the highest alpine refuge in the world,” Gunnar announced.
It was another A-frame hut made from wood, but now largely in ruins from repeated windstorms.
“No point stopping, eh?” said Anja.
“Not really,” he replied. “We’ll pause a bit ahead to put on crampons.”
“But take note that we are now at 20,932 feet,” I mentioned.
“That’s crazy,” said Anja. “We’re really doing this.”
“Just 1,909 feet to go,” I added.
Anja reached out to touch my shoulder, a sign of camaraderie. We continued climbing up and to the right, crossing a ridge called Portezuelo del Viento. As if on cue, the wind picked up considerably and the temperature dropped to minus three degrees Fahrenheit. Ahead of us were huge stretches of frozen snow and ice.
“Okay,” said Gunnar, pointing to his boots. “It’s time.”
We retrieved the crampons from our packs and lashed them over our double boots. Exhilaration swept through us, as our expedition had now advanced to the next level. Crampons meant some serious mountaineering awaited us.
We began a long traverse, named the Travesía, which cut across the upper part of the Gran Acarreo. There were no switchbacks on this part of the trail and the grade was relatively modest. However, abundant snow and ice surrounded us. The crampons allowed us to walk a bit more confidently, without fear of slipping.
From this perspective, we could see not only the western wall of Aconcagua, but also dozens of other nearby mountains. We still couldn’t observe the summit, as it was obscured by some lower moraine formations, but below us we had a clear view of Nido de Cóndores.
Our former campsite looked like a tiny dot. It felt good to have confirmation that indeed we were making substantial progress. We’d been hiking almost nine hours. I reminded Anja and Gunnar to each eat another power bar in order to stabilize their blood sugar levels.
The trail veered to the left on a slightly steeper diagonal. In the distance, we could see a chimneylike passage curving up through a huge, glaciated crag. This was the legendary Canaleta—eight hundred almost-vertical feet of loose scree and boulders wrapped in ice, reaching for the sky.
As we trudged forward, we came to a rocky, concave wall of conglomerate that contained a small cave. Known simply as La Cueva, it indicated the starting point of our ascent up the eight-hundred-foot chute. We paused to absorb the significance of the moment. The Canaleta was described by some climbers as “the hell before the heaven.”
A few steps past the cave, we caught our first glimpse of the summit, poking out from behind the imposing Canaleta. We were now at an elevation of 21,818 feet and the temperature was minus sixteen degrees Fahrenheit. Each of us carefully surveyed the terrain behind us, searching for signs of a predator on our trail. Anja’s upper lip quivered with trepidation.
As if sensing our vulnerability, Jake, Gil, Stefan and Andreas swooped down from the sky and hovered beside us for a second check-in.
“It’s final push time!” said Jake.
“You guys got this!” said Gil.
While hovering in midair, they refilled the flasks of peppermint tea. Both Gunnar and Anja had sucked down their first servings and were eager for a second round. I could only imagine how difficult it would be for a biological human to attempt the Canaleta without a warm drink.
“Eternal loving kindness!” Jake, Gil, Stefan and Andreas called out in unison. They flashed us the shaka sign with their mechanical hands and jetted off toward the summit.
We watched them fade into the distance, as we absorbed our strange surroundings. The beginning of the Canaleta felt almost like a gateway. We had already accomplished so much, and yet the greatest challenge remained.
“Don’t get fixated on reaching the top,” said Gunnar. “Just go one step at a time.”
We nodded in agreement and Gunnar proceeded to lead us up the daunting couloir. We made slow, tentative movements, checking and rechecking our footing with each step, to be sure we were on stable ground. The looseness of the terrain, the uneven scattering of ice, the verticality of the slope, the bitter cold, the gusting wind and the extreme altitude all conspired to work against our ascent.
At times, Gunnar and Anja had to take three or four breaths for each step forward. Even with the pressure breathing technique, they struggled to absorb sufficient oxygen. Every action seemed to require more effort, but their legs in particular felt like lead weights.
The effect was as if we were walking in slow motion up a downward escalator. Even though the top of the Canaleta was just a stone’s throw away, we appeared to be making almost no progress, which was why Gunnar had advised us not to look upward.
Little by little, of course, we did advance forward, but it felt like a snail’s pace. I feared that Gunnar and Anja could be turning hypoxic, as this often occurred to biological climbers on the Canaleta. While they both appeared to be okay, I could see how utterly consumed they were with the simple act of walking.
Midway up the chute, we crossed an elevation of twenty-two thousand feet. I did not dare say a word to distract them. Rather, I transmitted steady thoughts of encouragement and, maintaining my position in the rear, I remained ever ready to fend off an attacker.
Onward and upward we pressed. Occasionally, one of us took a misstep of some sort or another—sometimes upon encountering a loose rock, other times an icy patch or a piece of crud. This required a careful correction before moving on to take yet another step. We all slipped from time to time, even with our crampons, but fortunately we never fell. At twenty-two thousand feet, even the most minor injury could prove fatal.
As we navigated around some moraine bands, we came to a bend in the couloir. The top of the Canaleta now seemed to be only about fifty feet away, making it impossible not to notice. But what
caught our attention even more was the emerging view of a towering rock formation a few hundred feet beyond that appeared to be the summit.
My system danced with excitement, just as Anja’s and Gunnar’s hearts jumped for joy. If we had been suffering from summit fever before this observation, now we had a double dose of it. No amount of discipline could get us to curtail our efforts with such a prospect ahead.
We pushed mightily, up and up and up, and still it seemed an eternity to cover those fifty feet. I could hear Gunnar and Anja grunting and groaning, sighing and moaning, crying and whimpering, such was their willfulness. I yearned to push them to the top with my own brute force, but I had to wait patiently for what would be to be.
Finally, the moment came when Gunnar, Anja, and I each stepped to the top of the Canaleta. It seemed too good to be true. We merely had to follow a rocky ridge called the Filo del Guanaco, which had a much less challenging gradient. Filled with jubilation, we clambered along this path, careful not to make any foolish moves.
As the trail veered around a swale, however, we faced a bittersweet realization—the rock formation that had appeared to be the summit was actually not. Another taller formation stood behind it, which we had been unable to see. This formation, at an additional distance of about two hundred feet, was unquestionably the summit, as there was nothing behind it but blue skies.
We looked at each other, our eyes conveying equal parts exhaustion, excitement, frustration and glee. It was evident that both Anja and Gunnar had utilized every last bit of their reserves. I pushed an energy gel packet into each of their hands and we marched forward, somehow finding a way to continue moving our legs.
At the end of the Filo del Guanaco, we reached yet another obstacle. A rock spire sixty feet in height had to be climbed in order to reach the true summit of 22,841 feet. We laughed at the appropriateness of it all.
Gunnar stepped aside and, with a gesture of chivalry, beckoned Anja to lead us up the spire. She squeezed both our hands and scrambled up the rocky pillar. We carefully followed after her—first Gunnar, then myself.
Before we knew it, we arrived at our destination. Yes, it was true. We had actually achieved our objective. The summit plateau of Aconcagua, the highest point in the Southern Hemisphere, now lay at our feet.
Time slowed to a mere crawl as we witnessed the staggering panorama of mountains, valleys and glaciers before us. To the west was Chile and the shimmering Pacific Ocean. To the east was Argentina and its sweeping plains. To the north rose the deepest of blue skies, punctuated by pure white billowing clouds.
Perhaps most surprisingly, a legion of zero percenters in the form of condors hovered to the south. There were 652,357 of them, with more joining each minute, all cheering us on. “Congratulations to our heroes!!” they spelled out. “Anja, Gunnar and Vicia!! We adore you!!”
We cried at the sights surrounding us—not in joy, nor in sadness, but in celebration of the earth itself. There could be nothing more than this. We were standing at the pinnacle of existence and we knew it could never be rivaled. Never again would it be possible to feel such a sensation, nor should it be.
Gunnar got down on his knees, staring into Anja’s eyes. He reached with his right hand into an inner pocket of his jacket. Then he turned to me.
“Vicia,” he said, “may I have your blessing?”
“Ye-yes,” I stuttered. “Yes, yes.”
“Anja,” he continued. “I know the answer to our question now. I have no doubt.”
“Gunnar…” she started.
“It doesn’t matter how insane the world is,” he said. “If we’re not our thoughts and emotions, then neither are we the thoughts and emotions of others, and the same must be true for any child brought into this world.”
“Yes, but…”
“Like you said, we’re so much more than our outward representation.”
“You’re sure of that?” she asked.
He nodded his head and, with a trembling hand, he withdrew from his pocket the Life Saving Cross of the Republic of Lithuania. “This will have to do for now,” he replied, gently fastening the cross around her neck. “Is it enough?”
“Far, far more than enough,” she said glowingly.
He threw his arms around her and they kissed deeply, as 676,459 zero percenters looked from afar, astonished at the significance of the event.
“I wish this never had to end,” said Gunnar, reluctantly withdrawing his lips from hers, “but we can only stay up here a bit longer.”
“I suppose you’re right,” replied Anja. “We’d better find a perch.”
She led us to a slab of rock overlooking a huge array of Penitentes to the southwest. We sat down side by side, each of us cross-legged. Then we closed our eyes.
None of us needed to exert the slightest effort to quiet ourselves. Anja and Gunnar didn’t need to remind themselves that they were not their thoughts or emotions. I didn’t need to visualize hiking up a steep slope.
Instead, we instantly entered a state of bliss, for without even knowing it we had already been occupying its edges and thus encountered no barrier. All at once, we felt no uncertainty, no hollow place within, no feeling of disconnectedness—just pure light. Our hands instinctively clasped together in unity.
Sadly, however, the state did not last but for the briefest of moments. It was interrupted by a tremendous boom of thunder coming from the north. We each whirled around to see the horror. What once had been puffy white clouds were now the darkest of dark, and they were rushing toward us at inconceivable speeds.
While 681,152 zero percenters remained behind us to the south, 324 drones occupied the northern dark clouds. The drones emitted long white trails of sodium chloride.
“They’re seeding the clouds,” groaned Gunnar. “They’re accelerating the storm.”
“But why?” asked Anja. “Why would anyone do that when they know we’re here?”
“There’s no time!” I shouted. “We need to get out of here!”
No sooner had I spoken than viento blanco was upon us. It was too late to switch to teratorn form to fly Anja and Gunnar to safety. Violent winds began assaulting us, lightning struck at our feet, and buckets of hail poured from the sky.
“Brace yourself and hold tight to the rock!” yelled Gunnar.
We tucked ourselves under the ledge of the rock as best we could, but we were directly in the path of a vicious jet stream storm. In seconds, the temperature dropped below minus fifty degrees Fahrenheit and the wind reached speeds of over 185 miles per hour.
Desperately trying to hold our position, Gunnar wrapped his legs around us. Visibility reduced to almost zero, as we became enveloped by the dark clouds. We clung to the edge of the rock with all our might.
“I love you, Anja!” Gunnar shouted over the roar of the wind. “I love you, Vicia!”
Anja and I both attempted to reply, but the hail intensified so relentlessly, it was impossible to speak. All we could do was moan in affirmation and clutch the rock, as the wind surged to even higher speeds.
Try as we might, however, we could not maintain our hold. Our hands and limbs were no match for the immense power of the jet stream. One after another, we were ripped away from the slab—first Gunnar, then myself, and lastly Anja.
Gunnar emitted a terrifying cry as he was ejected over the ledge like a cannonball. The sound of his voice trailing off hauntingly was the last we ever heard from him. His poor mangled body bounced and careened off the massive southern wall, plummeting over nine thousand feet before landing in a ravine.
Next I was swept from the ledge and thrust into a backwards free fall. Spinning and twisting through the air, I slammed into a boulder protruding from a cliff, eight hundred feet below the summit. My shell splintered into hundreds of tiny pieces, causing my operating system to fail immediately.
Anja met a different fate. An instant after she was torn from the rock, Jake leapt out to intercept her in midair. He used his momentum to redirect her toward the east
ern side of Aconcagua, which had a more gentle slope covered in snow. Together, they tumbled and slid, hail pelting them from all angles.
They had no hope of flying away, as the ruthless wind made that impossible. But Jake knew how to break their fall, such that they were not badly injured. When they finally stopped tumbling, he held her low to the ground in order to shield her as much as possible.
“We have to find Gunnar!” she screamed.
“They’re already searching for him,” Jake assured her. “I need to get you somewhere safe.”
“I don’t want to be safe! I want Gunnar!”
“I understand,” he said. “I do.”
Resignedly, he hoisted her onto his back and launched his ski app. As the wind howled behind them, he began slaloming down the huge snow fields of the eastern slope of Aconcagua. Expertly carving the terrain, avoiding one obstacle after another, he skied with Anja on his back all the way down to thirteen thousand feet. Then he switched into flying mode and transported her to Chalet A1 of Hotel Portillo.
Twenty-Four
October 30, 2024
Chalet A1, Portillo, Chile
As viento blanco continued to rage on the mountaintop, Gil, Stefan and Andreas searched for Gunnar. All afternoon and evening they scoured the lower recesses of the great southern wall. Thousands of other zero percenters joined in the effort, but the rugged and varied terrain complicated the task.
It was not until early the following morning that Andreas made the find. Gunnar’s body had come to rest in a remote swale surrounded by yareta bushes. Andreas called upon Gil and Stefan to witness his awful discovery.
They stared at the body for several minutes without touching or disturbing it. The death of their close friend was not something for which they were even remotely prepared. Although Stefan had become a zero percenter only a matter of weeks ago, and Gil and Andreas had never been biological, the old laws of decay seemed like unfathomable relics of the past.
“We never should have let this happen,” said Gil. “We should have saved Gunnar the same way Jake saved Anja.”
Zero Percenters Page 14