We started at almost exactly noon, and followed the banks of the Vacas river, winding up and down, sometimes skirting the banks, sometimes rising a few hundred feet up on a bluff above the river.
The trail, if you can call it that, is little more than a jumble of fist- to head-sized rocks. I had to pay sharp attention to the placement of my feet. One misstep and I could end up with a severely twisted ankle, or a bloody gash in my knee. Either one could end this trip for me. The ski poles we use for support saved my ankles on more than one occasion, when I placed my foot down on an unstable rock. I’m already dreading the trip back out, when we will be traversing these same “trails,” only this time our legs will be much more tired, and our attention will be on getting home, rather than on the placement of our feet.
At one o’clock we stopped for lunch on some rocks near the banks, but a half hour later we were moving again, and from then on we stopped like clockwork after an hour’s walking. The temperature hovered in the mid-eighties, but it seemed much hotter, and every time we stopped for a fifteen minute rest, I swilled half of one of my water bottles. In all, I drank almost four quarts of water in six hours, and I still feel totally dehydrated. This is supposed to be the easiest day of the entire climb, and the way I felt at the end of the day, I realized that I am in for a very difficult time. I know I have to keep a positive mental attitude, but it’s going to be difficult, especially with the next two days of trekking to base camp, where we finally get our first day of rest.
We arrived at the Las Leñas ranger station at about six o’clock, and after setting up camp, we had a chance to catch our breath, and get off of our feet for the first time. I was totally exhausted. The tragedy is, that even though we gained about 1,300 feet from the trailhead, we ended essentially at the same altitude as Puente del Inca, being that the trailhead at Punta de Vacas is lower down the valley than the hosteria.
A little mutt, belonging to the ranger down by the river, came into camp, and in an obviously playful mood, began running around barking and nipping at us. It was pretty funny at first, but when he started nipping at our packs and sleeping bags, we all got a little concerned. A few of us tried to gently shoo the dog away, but Robert, the Englishman, took a swipe at the dog and must have connected pretty good, because the little dog went yelping back to the ranger hut in obvious pain. I didn’t see the blow, but it immediately lowered my opinion of Robert. If someone had hit my dog that hard, especially if the dog was only trying to play, I’d break his arm.
We had a huge dinner, potato stew, and beef, bacon, and green pepper shish kebab. I wolfed down more than I thought I needed, because I wanted to keep my strength up. I’m getting more than a little concerned about my lack of stamina. If a day like this wipes me out, how on earth can I hope to reach the summit?
The guides had planned to have us sleep under the stars tonight, but with some high clouds moving across the sky rapidly, they debated whether to break out the tents. In the end, they decided to take a chance, and they kept the tents in their bags.
At dusk, we all climbed wearily into our sleeping bags. No one said much of anything. Even to speak seemed a waste of precious energy.
Las Leñas to Casa de Piedra
We rose at sunrise and had a breakfast of instant oatmeal and a hot drink, then packed up our gear for day two of the trek to base camp.
Our first task was to cross the Vacas river, and in order to do this, we needed the assistance of the mule drivers who are carrying the bulk of our gear to base camp. By agreement, they were supposed to meet us at eight o’clock, but when we wandered down to the river at eight, they were nowhere to be seen. A group of climbers, who were descending the mountain, were waiting on the other bank. Perhaps more interested in getting moving than we were, they began to attempt to cross the river without the mules.
One of them took off his shoes and waded out into the swiftly flowing, freezing-cold water. His buddies on the shore kept him on a thin tether, but I doubted that they could have hauled him in if he did slip. He quickly gave up as the water reached mid-thigh, and struggled back to the shore. They tried a spot further down, with the same result.
It was still cold, and I knew this guy’s feet must have been frozen in the attempt. I had packed my warm clothes in the bag that went with the mules, so I pulled out my rain jacket in hopes of warding off the early-morning chill. It helped a little, but I still shivered.
Finally at eight-thirty, the mule drivers showed up, and the first of us, Loren, mounted the designated mule to be ferried across the river. The mule went in and quickly was up to his belly in the icy water. I could see that it was a struggle for him, and I didn’t relish having to make the crossing myself. But I knew I had no choice, and besides, the only way for me to get warm was to start walking again, and the only way to start walking was to cross the river.
Crossing the Vacas River
Meanwhile, the mule had made it up the opposite bank, and one of the other party was getting on for the ride to our side. I watched a few crossings before I decided to go for it, and with misgivings I swung myself up onto the mule’s back and entered the rushing river. It didn’t take long before I was safe on the other side, and soon we were all assembled again, and within minutes were back on the trail.
The sun was still behind the high peaks on the side of the river, and for a while the going was easy in the shade. But as we climbed higher, we eventually emerged into the sun, and the heat bore down on us again.
We climbed steadily up the Vacas valley, stopping only for our hourly breaks. The monotonous pace made my mind drift to thoughts of Vilma, and how I wished I could be rid of this bone-jarring exercise, and be home with her again. But instead, I plodded on.
One of the things I began to realize is that I go to the mountains to be alone, and to find in that mountain solitude a kind of peace and spiritual rebirth. But I will find neither on this trip. I have to constantly keep my eye on the footfalls of the climber in front of me. If I lift my eyes to the beautifully stark scenery around me, I risk stumbling and injuring myself, and I have to keep pace with our leader, Robert, in order not to disturb those following behind me. No doubt Robert has our best interests in mind, and after all, the summit is the goal here, not the scenery. But I find myself -wanting to pause and reflect on all that is around me, and I can’t. It leaves me unsatisfied.
We stopped for lunch in a spot where the river widened into a maze of smaller streams. Nearby was the body of a dead guanaco. I don’t know how long she had been dead there, but in the dry thin air, it could be some time before her body decays completely. The discovery didn’t spoil my appetite, however, as I ate two sandwiches and a slice of melon.
My appetite has been good so far, and I am pleased to see that the altitude has not given me any other problems either. No doubt it will, but it is good that I find myself immune so far.
At about four o’clock we reached camp at a small meadow at the convergence of the Vacas river and the Relinchos creek. It was there we were greeted with the first glimpse of our ultimate destination, the peak of Aconcagua. Above us up the Relinchos valley, it was being swept by fierce winds at its peak. We could not yet see any of the route we hope to take to its summit, but it looked more than formidable. It looked like that which it is; the highest mountain in the western hemisphere.
Our First Glimpse of Aconcagua
We set up the tents for the first time this afternoon. I’m sharing one with Mike, the lawyer from Atlanta. I’m pleased with this arrangement, as I have gotten along with him very well so far.
After dinner, Robert called us all together for a rundown on the next few days activities, and warned us that once we reach base camp tomorrow, we need to switch into “mountaineering mode,” whatever that means. But he left the impression that until now, this has been all just preparation, the real work begins in a couple of days.
Casa de Piedra to Plaza Argentina
We began this day with a bone chilling crossing of the Vacas river. Right after breakfast, we shouldered our packs and trudged the 100 or so yards to where the river had spread out into several channels, many of which we could jump across. But the main channel, even this high up in the valley, was too wide to hop across, so we took off our shoes and put on whatever footwear we had brought for these river crossings, and waded through the swiftly flowing, icy, knee-deep water.
I had unfortunately forgotten my sandals back at the hosteria in Puente del Inca, so I had the dubious honor of being the only one to wade across in my bare feet. Fortunately, the rocks in the river were worn fairly smooth, and I made it across without injury, but the icy water froze my feet very quickly, and since we were still in the shadows of the surrounding mountains, we all raced to put our boots back on.
Again we threw the packs on our backs and began to ascend the Relinchos valley. The climb was very steep, and we began rest stepping and pressure breathing right away. The rest step is simply the motion of keeping the downhill leg rigid, thereby “resting” on it, while swinging the uphill leg forward. By quickly switching your weight to the uphill leg, and locking it, you are able to advance up a steep slope with much less effort than if you are putting weight on both legs at the same time. You might get up the mountain quicker by avoiding the rest step, but at this altitude, that is not necessarily an advantage. Up here, you need to ascend slowly, and allow your body to acclimate to the lower oxygen level.
Pressure breathing is simply exhaling forcibly through semi-pursed lips. The theory is, by forcing your breath out through a smaller opening, you will increase the air pressure in your lungs, and hopefully force more oxygen into the oxygen receptor cells of your lungs. I don’t know if anyone has ever done a controlled study to see if it actually works, but I’m not prepared to argue the point with my guides, so I do it. It must look fairly comical though, to see a line of climbers advancing jerkily up a trail, all the time puffing like a line of locomotives.
So we advanced up the very steep Relinchos valley until we came to a spot where the trail suddenly ended at the creek bed. We waited while the guides strung a rope across the rushing stream, and then we handed our packs to them one at a time. The line allowed us to more safely hop from boulder to boulder, but the violent waters below us made it a tricky crossing. Wedged against one of the boulders slightly upstream was the carcass of a dead mule, and if one of those sure-footed animals had slipped to its death there, then surely we might meet the same fate if we weren’t careful.
Crossing the Relinchos
We all made it across, and save for the loss of one of Steve’s ski poles, the crossing went without incident. The trail continued steeply upward, and by now the sun was high in the sky and beating down on us mercilessly. The vegetation was getting sparser and lower to the ground, until the only thing that grew were lichens and a few mossy-looking plants, carpeting a small patch of dirt. Soon, all life, except ours, was to disappear. We were reaching an altitude where nothing grows, a zone of lifelessness where even we, with all our twentieth century technology, would not last for long.
At length we reached a small plateau, a moonscape littered with huge boulders left by the retreating glacier, and we stopped there for a brief lunch. The wind was starting to kick up, and it was impossible to keep the grit out of our food. Above us towered Aconcagua, and we stared at it silently, each measuring ourselves against the massive mountain. This was the best view we had had so far, and in the thin mountain air it seemed we could reach out and touch the summit. But it was still over eleven thousand feet above us.
The chill from the wind made me don a windbreaker, and for the first time on this trek, I wasn’t sweltering in the heat. We trudged upward toward the glacial moraine, where we knew base camp at Plaza Argentina lay. Every ridge we crested, we hoped to catch a glimpse of it, but every ridge begat another, and another, and the trail wound on across the wind-swept barren valley.
Finally, at about four in the afternoon, we spotted a few yellow dots on a level area ahead of us. They turned into tents, and we quickened our pace into camp.
Plaza Argentina lies on a moraine which actually sits on top of the Relinchos glacier, but the thickness of the rock is such that you can’t see any of the ice. Only the bitter cold gives a clue to the fact that you are on top of a field of ice.
Approaching Base Camp
We trudged over to the area where the muleteers had dumped our gear, and broke out the tents to set up camp. Mike and I set our tent in a level area surrounded by a short wall of rocks left by previous climbers. Then we collapsed inside and tried to recover from the arduous climb. The three-day trek had taken its toll on all of us. Though I had managed to escape blisters, many of the others had not, and we all had sore legs and shoulders.
Still, I felt fairly good at this altitude, considering that it is a mere 800 feet lower than the summit of Mt. Whitney, the highest point in the continental U.S. I expected to have at least a headache, and nausea, but I have escaped those symptoms so far. Others were not so lucky, and the long, gray faces at dinner lent evidence of the fact.
I ate my fill and then some at dinner, knowing that soon my appetite would wane as we climbed higher. I am determined to keep to a rigid schedule of eating and hydration, knowing that I have no chance to make the summit unless I keep my body stoked with fuel.
Tomorrow is our first rest day, and I look forward to it. The climb has worked on me, and I need to recover, even if it is only for a day.