Energy and motivation was at a blue-collar-worker-in-a-recession low in base camp. It had been 16 days since my last lomo saltado and beer, and since then I had been fighting diarreheo and the drain of altitude. We had suffered on 2 6000m peaks already and I was seriously wondering what the point of this business was. I was ever so aware of the fine line between giving up or quitting, and being honest with yourself and moving on in life. I still don’t know if I went up for the love of climbing, or because I’m a stubborn bastard and don’t like to quit.






Whatever the reason, going up was probably the best thing for me. It is funny how after recovering and being lazy in camp for the requisite number of days, you don’t wake up one morning strong and motivated again. Not until we had a few hours hiking and 1000m behind us, did I begin to feel better. Some air (or less of it to numb the pain) and exercise to pump the blood through the system had both Patrice and I feeling fresh and strong again. The higher we went, the better we felt.

Nico and Pascal were going to join us, but I had my concerns. They had just finished a trek circumnavigating the Huayhuash and only reached 5200m whilst trekking. They were far from acclimatized, but what they did have in their favor was energy. Climbing at altitude is a balance between acclimatization and fresh legs. Patrice and I were well acclimatized, but our previous adventures had left us perpetually exhausted. The boys on the other hand had full strength for a short and sharp assault on the mountain. Fresh and fast versus acclimatized and tired.






The deal was that each party of 2 would take a rope, eliminating the need for climbing on 2 ropes. It meant we would be lighter, but if one party had to turn around, both parties had to retreat in order to pair the ropes for rappelling. Not really my style where I go up only when I know conditions, weather and my party are ready and geared for success. I felt like we were essentially hinging the success of the climb on Nico and Pascal who theoretically weren’t prepared to go up. If anyone started to have trouble, we would just turn around, but it seemed absurd to bother to go up if we might just turn around a long way from the top.

We reached base camp in the early afternoon and mingled nervously below the hulking mass that is Yerupaja as the sun faded, casting an incredible alpin glow across the mountains. Gazing at the SW ridge, we knew it was going to be long and involved. Directly in front of us though, the West face looked enticing due to its directness. The guidebook showed some routes on the face, but only included them for historical reference. The face is much deteriorated and broken making all but one line unclimbable. To make matters worse, a school bus sized cornice runs the length of the summit ridge and looms above the face. There was, however, a notch in it where a chunk had fallen and this gave access to the ridge. The climbing would be quicker and more interesting, so we finally resolved to attempt the face.






We all crammed into the one 3-person tent and slept in fits, broken by the psychotic, lucid dreams that come with altitude.

Meandering by flashlight through the lawnmower-sized-chunks of ice from the collapsed cornice above, we moved in silence. Only the crisp crunch of crampons on the overnight freeze gave any indication that we were in fact human and not just ambition floating by on the wind. We turned the bergschrund and began front pointing and finding the monotonous rhythm that becomes meditative. The ice was hard; 4 swing, short stick, dinner plate in your face hard. It was nothing like the first swing, plastic ice that we encountered on Jirishanca and it meant we were working a lot harder for every tool placement.






The lower skirt of the face was glassy and scary, offering no comfortable rests and had a solid serac band above. Fresh and eager to turn the band, we set a good pace and made our way slowly through the steep 85° sections. As efficient and fast as we tried to be, the steep sections were difficult and required pitching, a time consuming process. Above, we could move simultaneously, and as the sun came upon us, we were well and truly into the climb and feeling good.






The next serac band proved a little more technical with an overhanging section that took some grunt and awkward climbing to turn. Above this though, the fluted upper shield came into view and seemed to go on forever. The light was flat and the clouds swirled, with the sun breaking out occasionally, but we could see where we needed to go and focused on keeping our rhythm- swing, step, step… swing, step, step.






We traversed up and across to the flute that would land us on the top and pulled over the final bergschrund. We weren’t far now, or so it seemed, and the day was starting to make its effects felt. Nico and Pascal were doing well, but tiring. Patrice and I were in the same boat, but had the conditioning to keep on the pace. We pulled away and after what seemed like 4 pitches in fact became 10, we stepped up onto the shorter summit ridge north of the true summit.






It was 4pm and we had been on the go since 3am. The clouds parted and gave us an uninhibited view of the summit and the 10ft crack that ran the entire length of the cornice. We giggled meekly at the thought of what we had been climbing underneath all day, and quickly pushed the thought to the back of our minds. We waited 45mins for the boys to catch up and discussed our options. We were still ~300m below the summit and perhaps 500m on the x-axis. With the crack in the cornice, it would be more involved to traverse to the summit and it just didn’t really seem important. The clock was ticking, exhausted and all too aware of the long, cold descent that awaited us. Reaching the summit didn’t even really factor into the equation. The ego wasn’t dented, the pride not spoiled. It just didn’t seem important anymore. The altitude was licking us like flames on the devils breath and we tossed the ropes back the way we came and began descending in the approaching darkness.






The ice was plentiful and we found good anchors, but dehydration, hunger and inactivity made it frigid, boring and never ending. We lost count of the number of rappels after 20 and we still had a ways to go. Patrice and I were relieved that it was far more straightforward than our near epic on Jirishanca, and fought hard to concentrate on where we were exactly on the face.

Eventually, as the clock struck 1am, we got our land legs back when we could walk across the flat of the glacier. Stumbling down the subtle rolls of the glacier, we finally found our tent and once again squeezed inside to pass out 23 hours after we had started. We were safe and sound, and that was our biggest achievement.


We broke camp the next morning and hauled all the food, gas and gear that we had stashed at moraine camp back down to the lake. We took a short siesta in the long grass above camp where we always declared we would. It was the ideal place to rest a while and give the knees respite from the brutal impact of hiking downhill with a pack. Fischer, our donkey driver greeted us in camp with some beers and the others cooked up a feast of chapattis. I began popping Imodium like Advil after a night on the drink in a pre-emptive strike against the grumbly tummy I could sense raising it’s stinking head again.






The next morning, tired and moving in slow motion, we pulled down the mess tent and delivered all our left-over food to Estella and her family who lived in complete squalor amongst their chickens, sheep and dogs. Grateful and sad to see us go Estella chirped good tidings as readied to leave. We gave Fischer the nod and he rallied his donkeys and we turned our backs on our home for the last 20 days.

In a tired stupor we plodded out the 15kms to Llamac, passing lots of locals. The valley seemed busier than when we bounced in. The trek seemed longer though, and Fischer left us in his wake as he drove his donkeys home.

Dropping into the lush green of the valley, the ancient Inca terraces with hand tilled soil seemed modern beyond belief to our sunblind, mountain cast eyes. I don’t even know if I had a shower that night, but Fischer’s humble roof over our heads felt like security enough for our crumbling mental fabric.

Fischer scored us a dove-tail taxi back to Huaraz for S.20 instead of the regular S.250. Bouncing along those bumpy, dusty roads back to civilization, the landscape became less dramatic, and the mountains were once again just a novel idea on the distant horizon. In Huaraz we stayed at La Casa de Zarela and she took care of us. At La Brasa Roja our eyes were far bigger than our shrunken stomachs and we each gave the better part of our half chicken and potato fries to the homeless people knitting or weaving on the street. We were so full, we felt like we were pregnant with twins, but somehow we still found space for our favorite ice cream form the Chinese restaurant around the corner.

We drank heartily and by 10pm I was ready for bed. Zarela jibed me, asking why I was so tired.
“You probably slept 12 hours a night out there, huh?”
“Yeah, that is true. I don’t know why I’m so tired,” I mumbled in reply.
She laughed wickedly and said I had jetlag from the mountains. We were in bed by 6pm every night and the city hours were a shock to the system.











In the immediate aftermath, after loathing the experience and the exhaustion and the sickness, I felt like quitting climbing. I had done more than I could have ever expected in climbing, and maybe it was time to move on- surf and relax and be social. Not 3 days later though, I got to thinking what I might be capable of next time with this experience under my belt. Patrice read my mind.
“Want to go to Pakistan next year?”
“I’d love to,” I replied, “ but I dont't."