I remembered that I had a few sips of water left in my water bottle, and I slowly rolled over in search of it. Then I recalled that I had taken the precaution the night before of slipping my water bottle into my bag with me to keep it from freezing. I located it with my toes, and managed to roll it towards the top of the bag. Painfully, I propped myself up, and took a couple of sips. Immediately, my throat felt better, and I started to remember more of the previous day’s ordeal. God, I hurt, but it was so good to be alive.
My tent mates were still out cold, and I heard no noises from outside the tent. Evidently, all of us were equally exhausted. Robert had told us that we’d be moving down to Base Camp at about noon, and since it was only nine, I saw no need to move yet. Slowly, I did an inventory of all the parts of my body, and determined that I was in remarkably decent shape, considering what I had put my body through. My eyes had cleared by then, but I was a little concerned for my kidneys, since I hadn’t peed in a long time. But then I remembered that I hadn’t drunk in a long time either, or eaten, for that matter. But strangely, I had no appetite whatsoever.
I’m not sure how long I lay there, but after some time I stirred, pulled on my fleece gear, and crawled out of the tent into the bright sunlight. I felt dizzy, and all my muscles ached, but I needed more water, and some food. I found my way over to the guide’s tent, and saw them lying inside, awake, but not moving. Someone from one of the other climbing teams had started melting some snow for us, and I scooped my drinking bottle into the water, and took some slow sips until I had emptied half the bottle. It was very difficult to keep from gagging, but the liquid felt like gold.
No one seemed to be making any effort to boil any water for hot cereal, so I wandered back to my pack and dug out some snacks that I hadn’t eaten the day before. They tasted like dirt, but I knew that my energy reserves were severely depleted, and I needed to get some fuel into my body. Slowly, I began to recover, and was able to function again, more or less.
By now, others had pulled themselves to their feet, and we began to go about our morning routines, operating more on habit than with any awareness.
Loren was up, sitting on a rock with his head in his hands, but Mike was still inside the tent, and I began to wonder if we might not have to stay at Camp 2 until those two had recovered sufficiently to move. The plan was to load up with all our gear and head down to Camp 1, then grab all the stuff we had left there. With very heavy packs, we’d then continue on down to Base Camp for the night. The thought of trudging down to Camp 1 was bad enough, but the idea of the descent to Base Camp, with the heaviest packs to date, seemed impossible in the state we were in.
Sitting at Camp 2 wasn’t going to do us any good though. At that altitude the body has a very hard time recovering from any stress, and the need to descend was obvious to everyone. The only question was, how soon would we be able to move?
Pretty much on schedule, it turned out. The guides eventually rousted themselves, and boiled some water, and after we all had something hot inside us, we packed up our gear and tents, and headed slowly down the slope on weakened legs. I held myself up by relying on my ski poles most of the way down, though I did slip a couple of times and skin my knuckles trying to support myself. My legs just didn’t have the strength to hold me up.
Still, I did better than most, and when I reached Camp 1, I earned a longer rest than the others did, waiting for the entire group to reassemble. After packing up all the gear we had left at Camp 1, my pack seemed impossibly heavy, but I figured I had no choice but to continue. No one was likely to volunteer to carry my gear for me.
But the trip down wasn’t all drudgery and pain. Soon after leaving Camp 1, we encountered a group of climbers on their way up. I asked one of them if he knew the results of the Super Bowl, and for the first time, 9 days after the fact, I discovered that the Niners had beaten the Chargers for their fifth championship trophy. It made my day.
But the pain in my legs, by the time we hit Base Camp, was almost unbearable, and when we finally stopped walking, I felt almost as bad as I had the previous evening. I quickly set up the tent and collapsed inside until dinner.
The others straggled into camp in ones and twos, and by the time Chris had prepared dinner, we all looked beaten. It was then that Robert informed us that the folks from Expedition Inspiration had effectively taken all the available mules, and we would be stuck for an extra day at Base Camp. I took this news as a mixed blessing. Yes, it would mean delaying our departure for Puente del Inca by a day, but it would also give our bodies a much needed rest. So we all staggered off to our tents in hopes of finally getting a chance to recover from our ordeal on the summit.
Base Camp
There’s not much to say about this day. We woke late, the others spent most of the day playing hearts in the cooking tent, and I updated my journal. The rest was spent drinking a lot of water, and eating. My appetite had recovered enough that the thought of food didn’t make me feel physically ill, and the color of my urine wasn’t brick-red anymore. A good day, and a very helpful recovery.
Base Camp to Las Leñas
The day that began our real escape from this mountain commenced in warm sunshine. The extra day of rest had done wonders for my spirits, and after breakfast I was one of the first to have all my gear ready for the trip out. My pack was lighter than it had been the entire trip, because I had loaded up my duffel bag with anything I didn’t deem absolutely essential for the hike out. All I had was a little food, some water, a fleece top, my rain shells, cameras, and my first aid kit. The rest was for the mules.
If the mules ever showed up. After striking all of the tents, and giving away the extra food to some of the other groups at Base Camp, we still weren’t sure when—or if—the mules were going to show up. But that wasn’t going to stop us. By eleven, we were on the trail, heading down the Relinchos valley.
Happy to Be Descending
The mood was pretty jaunty, that day of rest had allowed us all to recover better than I had expected. I no longer looked on it with mixed feelings, it had been essential. In two hours, even with several pauses to pose for pictures with Aconcagua in the background, we had made our way down to the confluence of the Relinchos and Vacas valleys. At this point we needed to cross the Vacas river, as we had on the way up, and my plan was to borrow Mike’s shoes from him, after he had negotiated the icy river.
Halfway across, however, Mike lost his footing, and fell face down into the water. He stayed down a long time, as one of his ski poles floated away from him. Briefly I considered racing out into the stream in my bare feet to help him, but he got up, dripping with icy water, and struggled to the far shore. By then I figured I’d better just forgo the use of his shoes, and proceeded to gingerly pick my way across the rocky bottom of the river bed. At the first dry spot, I stopped and put my hiking shoes back on, and by the time I caught up with the others by a grassy meadow a little downstream, Mike and the others were already sharing a laugh about his misadventures. Mike had been very subdued and drawn-looking since summit day, and it was good to see him have a laugh again, even if it is was at his own expense.
We paused there for lunch, and while we sat there we were passed by a mule-driver with three mules making his way down the valley. Robert went over to talk to him, in hopes of securing a ride across the Vacas river when we reached Las Leñas at about eight that evening. He came back with the bad news that the mule driver was supposed to be at the trail head at Punta de Vacas by eight, and if we wanted rides, we’d have to be at Las Leñas by six-thirty at the latest.
This news stunned us, as it would take a forced march for us to get down there in time, and we had hoped that we’d be granted a little more slack on the way out. But it was not to be. Without any hesitation, we all got up, shouldered our packs, and began hustling down the trail. The choice was between running our feet to the bone and getting a ride across the river, or getting there in a leisurely pace, and having to wade across hip-deep, fast-moving glacial runoff. It was a no-brainer.
I set off as fast as I could, and soon our group was spread out down the trail. Above us I could see clouds gathering, and as time went on, thunder rolled in the peaks. Soon a few raindrops started spattering the rocks around me. I briefly considered stopping to don my rain shells, but decided I didn’t want to risk missing the ride across the river, so I hurried on, hoping that the rain would stay light.
It did, and by six-fifteen I caught a glimpse of the stone ranger hut on the small clearing at Las Leñas. I wasn’t sure if I could make it in time, but I thought I could see some mules milling about by the ranger hut, so I redoubled my effort to make it down.
In the end, I missed the deadline by fifteen minutes, but the mule driver took pity on us, and by the time the last of us straggled to the shore, he was still there, and ferried us all across.
Back Across the Vacas
Then the rain started falling hard, and the guides pulled out some tarps which we made into makeshift shelters with the aid of our ski poles. We huddled under the tarps like drowned rats, miserable, but happy to be across the river, and only a half day from getting off of the mountain.
After the rain stopped, we quickly disposed of dinner, and lay down in our sleeping bags for one last night out in the open. Before I closed my eyes, I looked to the south, where the southern cross rode high in the sky. It was the first time I had seen it on this entire trip south of the equator. Strange.
Las Leñas to Puente del Inca
Robert rose with the sun that morning, as we all still lay in our bags, recovering from the sprint down the mountain the day before. His plan was to hustle down to Punta de Vacas, and then try to hitch-hike back up to Puente del Inca to secure a truck to pick us up.
Las Leñas to Puenta del Inca
With Robert gone, we all sort of got up as we felt like, snacked on some breakfast bars, packed our bags, and set off by ourselves, whenever we felt ready. It was the most relaxed departure we had had on this trip, but I still managed to be one of the first ones on the trail. Our side of the river was still in shadows, so I kept my fleece top on as I set out. But within fifteen minutes I emerged into the sunshine, and now that we were back to the lower altitudes (8,000 feet) it quickly got warm. I stripped down to shorts and a T-shirt, and kept plodding down along the river bank. The trail was mainly created by the mules, and whenever the ground flattened out, a number of minor trails criss-crossed each other, sometimes making it difficult to know which way to go. But most of them eventually reconnected, so it usually didn’t matter which one I chose.
At one point late in the morning, however, I followed one of the trails up alongside the steep bank, away from the river bed. It seemed to be the main trail, but quickly rose higher and higher until suddenly, at a very steep part of the slope, the trail was bisected by a two-foot wide gully. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have been any problem, but the track was gravely and slanted downhill, and I was carrying a pack. I thought I could leap across, but I knew that if I slipped, I’d tumble down a rocky ravine for about a hundred feet, probably scraping myself up badly in the process.
Briefly I considered turning back, but I mustered my courage and made the leap, landing without incident. No sooner had a I finished congratulating myself, however, than I saw another washed-out gully blocking the trail ahead. This one was more than twelve feet across, and almost as deep, and I knew that it was hopeless to try to cross it. So I was faced with turning around and jumping across the smaller gully again. Another nerve-wracking leap, and fifteen minutes of wasted time and energy. I resolved to stay near the bank from then on.
I continued down the trail, remembering landmarks from our first day on the trail, and reliving all that had occurred since then. Soon I could see the other side of the Mendoza river valley, and I knew that I was less than an hour from the trail head. At last I turned a corner and saw some poplar trees that had been planted near the highway, and when I reached them, I paused for a moment, cooling in their shadows, and listening to the sound of their leaves rustling in the breeze. The first rustling leaves I had heard in a couple of weeks.
Bruce and Win were already waiting there under the trees, and when I showed up, they rose, and together we walked the last hundred yards to the highway. Robert or the trucks were nowhere to be seen, so we strolled across the highway to a little cantina to have some lunch and beers. It was fine beer, and great steak sandwiches, but putting down that pack was the finest of all.
About an hour later, a guy from the muleteer company drove up in a tiny Ford pickup, and it looked like we were going to have to take two trips back up to Puente del Inca, but in the end we all managed to cram in there somehow, and in fifteen minutes we were standing in front of the hosteria again.
They assigned us rooms, and after dropping my pack, I went straight to the phone to call Vilma. Luckily, she was home, and the relief in her voice when she first heard mine was palpable. All I wanted was to get on the first plane out, after a long shower, of course.
I got my shower, right after Robert, the dog-beating Brit, and must have spent an hour in there, luxuriating in the warm water, and scrubbing every inch of my body.
That night we all gathered around the dinner table and ate and drank like pigs. Though exhausted, all of us stayed at the table until almost midnight, toasting each other and the mountain. Occasionally, I glanced over at the others in the dining room, who were on their way up, and I thought I could see the apprehension in their eyes, much as it had been in mine, my first night in Puente del Inca. We all looked like we had been through the wringer, and though we all laughed and smiled, it was a weary joy. Well, I thought, they have their own mountain to climb. Nothing I could do or say will make any difference to them. I’m done with this adventure. I just want to go home.
Puente del Inca to Mendoza
That morning our mules showed up at about ten, and we all hustled to repack our gear for the bus ride back to Mendoza. Carlos and the bus were expected at about eleven, and so we just threw things around in our hurry to get ready.
It turned out to be a wasted effort however, as eleven rolled around and there was no sign of the bus. At about noon we got word from Robert that Carlos had called, and there was again some trouble. He told us that Carlos said that he’d be there in about a half an hour. Oh no, I thought, I know all about Carlos’s half-hour bus repairs.
My distress was intensified by the fact that it was Saturday, and in order to get the dates of my tickets home changed—they were scheduled for the following Thursday—I’d have to get back to Mendoza in time to visit the airline offices before they closed. I figured that the airline offices would be closed on Sunday, and I had no desire to hang around in Mendoza until Monday, when I figured I could get a flight out.
So we sat there and waited. I spent the time talking with a group of Danes who had just come down the same day we had. They hadn’t made it to the top, but didn’t explain why, and I didn’t ask.
One o’clock rolled around, and then two, and still no bus. Robert and Chris and Win were sitting in the bar drinking beers, and I was getting pissed at their lack of action. Finally, I strolled in and asked them if we could arrange for other transportation, or if not, at least get some lunch. I settled for lunch. And it was just after we sat down that Carlos finally showed up with a minibus that looked as if it could barely hold us all. I was starving, so we finished lunch before loading up, but I figured by now, my chances of getting my airline tickets changed were pretty much shot anyway. So I ordered another beer.
At three we loaded up and set off toward Mendoza. I dozed most of the way, and by about six we drove into town. I stashed my bags in the hotel room and hustled downtown to the airline offices, but just as I feared, they closed at one o’clock on Saturdays, and were closed all day Sundays. So I went back to the hotel and tried calling the airlines, but all I got was a recorded message. Shit. It seemed unlikely that I could get out of there until Monday at the earliest, but I resolved to head down to the airport the next morning, and see if the gods were smiling.
We were scheduled to have a farewell dinner that night, but I wasn’t much in the mood anymore. Robert and the guides seemed perfectly content to hang around Mendoza until their flight left on Thursday, and it pissed me off that they couldn’t understand my hurry to get home. Still, when they knocked on my door at nine to head to the restaurant, I was starving, so I tried to put on a friendly demeanor, and went out to dinner.
The ride to the restaurant was an adventure in itself. Carlos Menem, the Argentine president, was in town, and the usual traffic mayhem was exacerbated by the detours caused by his presence. I felt more danger that night on the streets of Mendoza than I had on the mountain.
Dinner turned out to be pretty anticlimactic. We had made all of our toasts and speeches the night before, so we just sort of sat there, chewing on huge Argentine steaks and drinking a lot of beer until it was time to go home. All attempts to brighten my mood failed miserably.