Seven Summits (17 page)

“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 limited 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.”

“In that case, I’m going to cache my load right here,” Dick said.

“What do you have in that pack, anyway?”

“Why heck, I got the Bud for our summit movie and celebration.”

Back at Camp Berlin Emmett announced he'd had his shot at the summit and was returning home.

“I’m feeling guilty with my wife only a few weeks from popping. And guilt is not something I usually subscribe to.”

Neptune volunteered to go down with Emmett as far as base camp and come back with our ropes. He estimated he could easily get to base before nightfall, rest there, and since he would have a light pack, make it back to Berlin the following day. That would give the rest of us an extra day to acclimatize before again attempting the summit.

With Neptune and Emmett gone some of the conviviality left with them and we weren't quite the same merry band of storytellers.

“Feel better today?” Frank asked me.

“Much. It's amazing what one extra day of acclimatization can do.”

“I just had an idea then. What if you and I were to climb up to Camp Independencia this afternoon. Then tomorrow when the others head for the summit, they could pick us up on the way. It would decrease the distance I have to climb on the summit day, and maybe increase my chances.”

It sounded like a good idea so after lunch we set out, arriving at the A-frame with plenty of light to pitch our tent behind the ruined hut and begin the long job of melting snow. Frank was very tired, but I insisted he drink some hot soup, which perked him up a little. Back at Camp Berlin Neptune arrived just before sunset, having made it from base camp to Berlin in one day, a vertical gain of over one mile.

That night the sky was again jeweled with high-altitude stars and in the early predawn I started the stove to begin the brews. As planned, the lower team arrived at 7:30, and while they rested I served up a round of finger-thawing, as well as belly-warming, cocoa. Chouinard said he was still suffering a headache, but the rest were strong and we again completed the upward traverse to the opening of the Canaleta. This time we were prepared. Strapping crampons and tying with ropes into two teams we entered the gully.

In an unspoken arrangement I tied Frank on the end of my rope, and Neptune tied Dick on his. Chouinard and Marts, both comfortable without a rope, climbed on their own; this also allowed Marts the freedom to get the best camera angles.

Climbing a little faster, the others moved ahead while Frank and I set our own pace. I climbed up hard snow the length of the rope, found a place to anchor next to the rock that bordered the gully, and belayed the rope as Frank climbed. Frank was slow but steady, and when he reached the belay I again led the rope length while he rested.

An hour passed. Frank looked up to see Neptune and Dick several hundred feet higher, on the ridge that lead to the summit. Neptune's bright yellow parka was vivid against the cobalt sky. Frank knew he still had a long way, and lowering his head, returned to the task. He wasn't certain he could make it, but he kept telling himself to go at an even pace, to put one foot forward, balance, breathe five, six, seven times, then move the next foot. He could see I had stopped at the base of a large sweep of boulders, and was coiling the rope.

“We're off the snow from here,” I said. “We'll leave the rope.”

“How much further?”

“The others have disappeared over the ridge. I think they're on top. We should get there in an hour, I’d guess.”

I led up the slope, balancing one rock to the next, waiting when Frank lagged. Soon we could see a figure in a maroon parka coming down. It was Chouinard. Had he turned back?

“You two better get up there,” Chouinard shouted when he was a little closer. “They're waiting for you.”

“You made it?”

“Yeah, but I’ve still got a terrible headache so I’m going down instead of waiting.”

The altitude was now nearly 23,000 feet, and Frank could feel with each step the weight of his boots. I was just ahead, zigzagging between rocks. Frank picked out a rock thirty feet ahead, and started working toward it, as though it were the only goal that existed. When he reached it he breathed several times, then looked for another higher rock and drummed up the resolve to make it to this next goal. He wasn't sure he could keep going. He recalled what Dick had said about his climb the year before, how he had climbed several times toward what he thought was the summit only to discover it was a false crest. Frank now wondered if he had it in him to go from one false summit to the next.

Clouded in the amnesia of high altitude, Frank was forgetting that Dick had been on the other side of the mountain, that this side might be different. He glanced up and saw me going over the edge of the ridge, with only sky behind. He lowered his head again, hunched his shoulders and took another step, trying to set his mind to the long task ahead. He made three more steps, breathed several times, and glanced up.

Who was that? Was it Dick, looking over the edge? And what was that next to him? An aluminum cross?

“Get your bod up here, Pancho,” Dick yelled. “We're freezing our buns off waiting!”

Frank leaned on his axe, breathing hard. When he thought he could speak he said, “You mean this is it?”

“Five more steps, Frank.”

One, two, three … rest, a few more breaths … four, five. Dick grabbed him in a tight bear hug, and Frank slumped down onto the ground.

“Got to sit here. Just for a minute.”

Frank sat next to the cross, breathing hard. After a few seconds he looked at Dick and holding his hands over his ears as though he were afraid his head might explode exclaimed, “You mean I made it? I mean, I made it!”

“I’m telling you, Pancho, this is the beginning of a streak. We're going to knock ‘em all off. Where's Marts, anyway? Steve, get over here with that camera and turn it on. This is history.”

With the camera going Dick reached in his pack and pulled out the sixpack of Budweiser. When Frank had sufficiently regained his breath Dick looked at him with a wide Texas grin and said, “Frank, this Bud's for you!” and popped the top. Nothing. “Keep the camera rolling,” Dick said as he reached for another can. He popped it, and—nothing. All six cans were frozen solid.