With Dick's story finished, Frank and I left the group tent for the smaller two-man tent we were sharing. Outside we could see in the moonlight the huge west face of Aconcagua laced with fresh snow. The cloudless sky had opened the air to drafts of cold that slid from the upper slopes and we felt our cheeks glow and we could see our breath in puffs. The clear cold sky put an optimistic capper on a delightful evening: the barometer was climbing and all indications boded fair weather and a morning departure to locate camp 1. When we were warmly cocooned in our mummy bags I wished Frank a good night.
“You know, tonight has underscored for me the importance of choosing the right guys for these climbs,” Frank said. “And I don't mean guys just because you know they can help you get to the top.”
I thought, You're learning, Frank. There's a lot more to this mountain climbing than just that exhilarating moment you reach the summit. No, the parts that matter most are those intangible ones like tonight, those moments of camaraderie that are like sips of good brandy that give your body and spirit a nice, warm glow.
“Drink up boys,” Chouinard said. “We'll need all the liquid we can hold today. It's going to be a hot one.”
Chouinard had a four-quart pot full of steaming water for the morning brews. The dawn sky was cloudless, there was no wind, and although some of the upper slopes might yet be unstable with new-fallen snow the slopes leading toward camp 1 looked safe, and all of us were anxious to stretch our legs, since the storm had kept us tent-bound for three days. We planned to carry a load that day to the campsite, then the following day move up and occupy it. Then another load would be carried to camp 2, and the pattern repeated for another camp or two above that before we would be in position to attempt the summit.
“That way we should be acclimatized for the summit bid,” Chouinard had said. “We'll take the mountain slow and easy, and drink like crazy the whole way.”
Frank was encouraged. He was sure this route would be nothing more than a steep trail, and if he could get properly acclimatized, and if there were no long-term storms, and with the support from the rest of us, he should be able to make it. On that last point Frank was pleased none of us seemed overly disappointed changing from the Polish Glacier. In truth, it didn't really make that much difference any more because we were having such a good time enjoying each other's stories, and the challenge of a harder climb now seemed unimportant. Frank noticed that with this group there was none of the competitive jockeying that had colored the Everest climb, and he concluded there was more than one way to climb a mountain.
For Frank and Dick those weeks of carrying loads on Everest had paid off. Frank had about thirty-five pounds in his pack, Dick about forty-five, and finding that almost trancelike mind-set, they followed hour after hour the steps of us lead climbers as we switchbacked up the virgin snow. The white slopes reflected the noon sun and sweat dripped from our brows. We were down to our last layer of long johns and would have stripped to bare skin except we knew the sunburn would have been worse than the heat. For both Frank and Dick it had come as a surprise, when they first started mountaineering, to discover that often on high altitude climbs you suffer from heat as much as from cold.
We made a short stop to take a drink. Each man carried a plastic one-liter water bottle.
“Dick, could I borrow a packet of that energy stuff you put in your water?” Frank asked.
“How do you know I have any?”
“You always have at least two of everything. That's what I like about you.”
“Frank, you've got to learn to bring your own things. I swear, you'll go to your grave still not knowing how to care for yourself. You know, just before we left on this trip Luanne pulled me aside and said, ‘Dick, please look after Frank. He doesn't know how to take care of himself.’ “
“And what did you tell her?” Frank asked with a sly grin.
“I said, ‘Don't worry, we'll look after him.’ “
“Well then, how about a packet of that stuff?”
After Frank had made his drink mix we rested a few more minutes, then saddled our packs and continued. The sun was past meridian when we found a good spot for camp 1. There was another tent at the campsite, but no one was home and we guessed they were up carrying a load to the next higher camp. We cached our loads of food and cooking fuel and returned toward base camp. Just above the tents Frank yelled ahead to Dick, “Bass, I’ve got fifty more yards, and if I make it this will be the first day of the trip I haven't stumbled and fallen.”
“Well get your buns down here, then,” Dick said. They joined arm-in-arm and came into camp whistling “Marching Along Together.”
The next morning was again clear, and we packed up tents, stoves, personal equipment, sleeping bags, and clothing to move up to camp 1. We decided to leave a tent at base to store some of our backup food and equipment, and since the other climbers in camp who were recently returned from the upper mountain told us there were no technical sections above, we decided to save more weight and leave our ropes.
“But we can't leave our two sixpacks of Budweiser,” Dick said. “That's how we're going to pay for this extravaganza.”
Budweiser was still interested in sponsoring the Seven Summits. Frank had now talked to the executive vice-president of marketing and told him that for only two hundred grand he and Dick would take a sixpack on each climb and bring back footage of them toasting their success on the highest summit of every continent on earth. The vice-president loved the idea, and all he had to do was clear it with his other marketing people.
We knew we had all day to reach camp 1 so we took our time packing. When we were finally ready to go it was 11:00.
“Might as well cook a hot meal before we leave,” Chouinard said. “Otherwise we'll just get started and have to stop for lunch.”
“Away by the crack of noon,” I quipped.
After finishing a full lunch it was even harder to get going, and once on the trail we complained of a malady common to climbers called high altitude foot disease: the inability to place one foot in front of the other. It was late afternoon when we finally reached the cache, and after we set up camp and made dinner it was 8:00 but still an hour before sunset. Some of us read or wrote in our journals, and Dick hauled out his blueprints for a future Snowbird addition, a high-rise hotel/condominium and restaurant complex he had now decided to call the Seven Summits Tower.
“I’m gonna have these penthouses called Summit Suites,” he told us. “They'll be the McKinley suite, the Everest suite, the Aconcagua suite … I’ll do up each one eclectically in the decor of its continent.”
“I think it's great,” Frank said impishly. “To be working on blueprints of Snowbird while you're at 16,200 feet on Aconcagua.”
“Wells, it's better than lying over there reading some paperback.”
“You guys better come out here,” Chouinard interrupted. “There's a fantastic sunset.”
Anyone inside now crawled out to have a look. The sun was casting low slanting rays through Venetian-blind clouds that tinged the snow a pale yellow. The soft light glowed orange on the faces of Frank and Dick, placing a sparkle in their eyes and a warm gleam on their smiles.
“There's no place I’d rather be this moment,” Frank said, “than right here doing what I’m doing.”
That night a cold south wind buffeted our little tents. Morning brought clear skies and though the wind continued we carried loads to camp 2, halfway up the northwest side of the mountain. Returning to camp 1 we noted multiple lens-shaped clouds hovering to leeward of the summit, foreboding bad weather, and vapor streamers whisking over the bare rocks at 22,000 feet, indicating extreme winds at higher altitudes. It would not have been a good summit day.
Back at camp 1 it started to snow, and a 15-knot breeze made it uncomfortable. Chouinard and Emmett were on dinner detail and despite the grim weather chose to cook outside. Two Basque climbers on their way down stopped for a moment and told us a number of climbers were in the upper camps waiti
ng for the wind to abate to try for the top. There was still no sign of the missing Korean, and the Basques thought he was surely dead.
“There's no way someone could survive up there in these conditions without a bag,” Chouinard agreed.
It snowed through the night, then cleared next morning. It was windy and cold. Our plan was to dismantle camp 1 and carry the remaining gear to camp 2, at about 17,500 feet. The route was again up a low-angled snow slope, and the hours passed placing one cramponed boot in front of the other. The slow pace seemed to agree with Frank, and both he and Dick carried substantial loads. All indications suggested Frank had a good shot at reaching the top of the first of his seven summits.
We set our three tents up on a flat bench free of snow. The altitude was now high enough to see beyond the bordering ridges to more distant mountains. Even at this elevation we were higher than most summits, and the multitude of lesser peaks spread to the horizon, interrupted here and there only by a few innocent cumulus. Aconcagua was clear, and the threat of storm had disappeared. That evening there was a strategy session, and as everyone was feeling well—other than Emmett, who had a sore throat—we talked about risking a direct move to the next camp, at 19,700 feet.
“So instead of ferrying loads we would pack everything tomorrow and move up in one carry,” I explained.
“That would mean heavier packs,” Chouinard added, “but since we would do it only once, and that way save at least a day, overall the weight would be less because we wouldn't need as much food.”
“So if the weather holds, and it looks like it will,” I continued, “we would make our summit shot day after tomorrow.”
“So what happened to your idea of climbing the mountain slow and easy?” Frank asked. “That still seems best to me.”
“Unnecessary work,” Chouinard countered. “Because of the storm, we spent more days than planned at base, and that was a good altitude for acclimatizing. We should be in good enough shape now to shoot for the top and get out of here before any of us has a chance to get sick.”
“This is turning into a bad weather year, and it makes sense to take quick advantage of a good spell,” I added.
“What do you other guys think?” Frank asked.
Neptune and Marts didn't care one way or the other; they said they both felt strong. Dick was the same. Emmett, despite his sore throat, was anxious to get home to his expecting wife and favored the quick plan.
“Guess I’m out-voted,” Frank said.
We broke camp the next day, caching all but the food, fuel, and clothing absolutely essential to our get-up-and-get-out strategy. Even so our packs still weighed in at fifty pounds and more, but we were all in good cheer as we moved at a plodding pace toward the next camp, known on the map as Camp Berlin. The slope steepened but the grade was still comfortable and the trail firm, so there was little danger of a slip or fall and no regret at having left our ropes at base camp.
Camp Berlin centered around a ruined hut whose roof was gone, and an interior filled with snow. We pitched our tents, started stoves, and collected snow to melt to water. Both Emmett and I weren't feeling well. I had a headache from the altitude, and Emmett now had congested lungs to add to his lulu of a sore throat. But neither of us felt our ailments were severe enough to keep us off the summit.
Other tents at the camp housed an international assortment of mountaineers: three Argentinians, two Basques, one Japanese, and two Alaskans. Dick introduced himself to the Alaskans and learned they had been the pair always one day ahead of us in the camps.
“I just want to thank you all,” Dick said, “for such a marvelous job kicking that trail in.”
They told Dick that Aconcagua was part of a climbing habit they had kept for several years of spending the northern summer on McKinley and the southern summer on Aconcagua. This was their fifth year in a row on Aconcagua.
The first Alaskan explained, “We come with lots of food and take our time. We meet a lot of intriguing folks. You wouldn't believe the goofballs on this mountain, and McKinley too.”
The second Alaskan added, “Look at this Korean who's missing. I guess he made it to the top, but was slow coming down. There were a few other people to the top that day, but they came down at a faster pace. When they got back to this camp, the Korean never showed up, and then that storm came in. Everyone's been keeping an eye out for him, but so far no sign. Most people think he got stuck in the storm, crawled in some rock hole and froze.”
The first Alaskan concluded, “Like we said, goofballs.”
Dick took an instant liking to the pair and invited them to Snowbird.
While Dick was inviting the Alaskans, a solo Spaniard arrived, a slight, elfin man who had walked in to base camp the same time as we had but then worked ahead. He was now returning from the summit, and though clearly bone-weary he smiled and said the route to the top was straightforward and that none of us should have any difficulty. Encouraged, we finished dinner and turned in early, planning to wake about three, start melting snow for hot drinks, and get away by five.
That night was windy and cold, and Chouinard, wakened by Emmett's wrist alarm, started the stove and warmed his fingers over the blue flame. It took a half hour until the first drinks were ready, and another hour to eat breakfast and dress. We left in predawn and as we walked in a row up the pumice trail our bobbing headlamps, each suspended in blackness, looked like torches of a cabalistic procession. At one stop we turned off our lights and could see the southern sky: here, floating above the summit like two celestial cotton balls, the Magellanic Clouds, there, askew on its austral axis, the Southern Cross. Dawn revealed we were walking among black basalt towers, and as the sun rose behind the mountain we could see the giant shadow of Aconcagua cast for twenty miles across the blanket of lesser peaks that spread below us.
Though the sun was now clear of the horizon, the wind stole any warmth from the slanting rays, but moving at a steady pace we stayed comfortable. Ahead the trail switchbacked up a snow slope and disappeared behind a complex of jagged rock. Frank was slower than the rest of us, and on occasion we had to wait for him to catch up. We still made adequate progress, and soon arrived at Camp Independencia, a small wooden A-frame long destroyed by wind and weather. We were now at just over 21,000 feet. It was 9:00 A.M. and we decided to stop for a half hour and rest. With the increasing altitude our pace had slowed, but we still felt confident we had the summit.
Above the ruined A-frame the route followed a snow crest bifurcated by dark shadow and bright sun. Neptune led, walking the twilight edge into the shadow of the great summit pyramid. We knew the route worked around this formidable rock castle to a weakness in the rampart called the Canaleta, a lower-angled gully that led to the summit. After a half hour's climbing Neptune was at the end of the crest and the beginning of a long, steep snow slope at the base of the summit pyramid. Across this slope the snow trail sliced upward to the opening of the Canaleta. It was more exposed than we had reckoned, which wasn't a problem for those of us more experienced with using an ice axe, but for Frank and Dick a slip could mean a 2,000-foot slide to the base of the huge snowfield. And that wouldn't be something you would be likely to walk away from.
“Frank, you should go between Gary and me,” Chouinard pointed out. “We don't want you lagging.”
“We're all going to the top of this together,” Emmett added.
Frank wasn't the only one moving slowly; I was suffering from the altitude, and had to push to keep up. Emmett still had a bad cough and was trying his best to ignore it. With Chouinard leading in the frozen steps of the established trail, the rest of us followed, inching our way across the traverse, pacing ourselves to Frank's rate. Dick was keeping his balance and feeling strong but Frank was awkward, adding a tension to the traverse that Emmett later described in his journal:
Frank scared us to death. His balance isn't that good, and he tottered for two hours across the abyss, just in front of me. He was at his physical limit as well as beyond his lim
ited skill, but he kept going until we crossed the traverse, and then followed the others up some loose rocks to the base of the Canaleta.
Other than Neptune and Dick, both of whom seemed to gain strength with altitude, the rest of us felt the enervation of thin air. Frank, using the “pressure breathing” technique learned from the Rainier guides, sounded like a Lamaze trainee in labor. I was ashen and in beginning stages of mountain sickness. While the rest of us rested, Chouinard, also beginning to weaken, scouted around the corner into the base of the Canaleta. It was a mix of hard snow and loose rocks and while he nosed around for the best footing, a half dozen baseball-sized rocks whizzed by.
“I don't like the looks of it,” Chouinard said. “Rockfall danger, hard snow, steep route, and no ropes or crampons. So much for our walk-up route.”
Now we really regretted not bringing our ropes from base camp, and we also felt foolish leaving our crampons at the last camp. We had depended too much on what other climbers had told us, and not enough on our own experience.
But even if we had been equipped properly it wouldn't have helped my physical condition. My altitude sickness must have showed on my face.
“How you feeling?” Emmett asked me.
“Not too hot. Dizzy and nauseous.”
Neptune, Marts, and Dick said they were okay, but Emmett and Chouinard admitted to feeling the altitude. And Frank was still not in good shape.
“Looks like we better bag it,” Chouinard said.
“You mean give up and go back?” Dick asked.
“Yeah, back to Berlin and rest. Then maybe come up with crampons and ropes, and try again.”
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