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Why do you keep stopping? the guide asked with an irritated expression on his face and agitation in his voice.
Mmm...because I can't breathe!?! I replied in turn.
The monster had flicked his switch. The previous morning Christophe and I were left waiting in vain for our departure. C's guide had called in sick and the agency was desperately (in Bolivian terms) trying to find a replacement. Low and behold, an hour later Mr. Sick shows up smelling of liquor. An exchange of words followed between him and the agency owner and things seemed to be settled. C was looking kind of nervous. Never having done any serious climbing, let alone high altitude ice climbing, he didn't want his first experience to be his last. He needn't have worried. In a twist worthy of a James Clancy novel, we showed up at the base camp lodge to find that a sober, sane, confidence inspiring guide there will be C's chaperon while the drunken old fart will be my antagonist. As C jubilously celebrates I give in to destiny. Two days, that's all I'll have to put up with. I hope he can at least find the way.
Nothing more.
Slowly shedding his drunken cloth, Mr. Sick remained gracefully silent as we ascended from 4.600 to 5100 metres. The sun was out and as we rose higher and higher the peaks of the Cordillera Real began to expose themselves to view. To the south the majestic snow-capped dormant volcano, Sajama, at 6.500 metres Bolivia's highest mountain, showed itself for the first time. Soon we reached Old Glacier. The jumble of rocks and debris it was pushing before it soon gave way to pure ice and as we climbed its side moraine we got to see the whole scope of this beauty. Stretching a few kilometres it reached an end at the steep slopes up ahead...our goal for the night. Bursting with energy and warm from the blazing sun it came as a minor disappointment that we reached Rock Camp in a mere hour and a half. The climb to the top and all the way back to Base Camp would be done in the wee hours of the morning.
Catching up with Noreen with whom we had partied thirty hours earlier in La Paz, the mood was jovial and expectations high. Except for an unfortunate Israeli
lad the rest of the ten odd climbers who were here for the night were free from altitude sickness. This, along with being paired up with a week climbing partner were the single biggest factors for not making the summit. Suffering no ill at La Paz's 4.000 metres and having been to almost 4.800 without problems in Venezuela, getting soroche was not my fear. In a bid to increase my chances of summitting I opted to pay a little extra and do the trip solo with a guide and not as part of a group. What I had not counted on was that my guide would turn out to be a complete wanker.
After his last insulting outburst I put him in his place.
Listen, mate. You're my guide and I'm the tourist. You're up here twenty times a year and I'm used to the air at sea level. If I need to take a rest every other minute because I'm out of oxygen, then so be it. You need to adjust to my tempo and not vice versa. And quit pulling on the damn harness! I'm not a horse and it's not going to make me go up any faster. So we're going to miss the sunrise? So what! I'm not about to sit on top in a wind-chilled minus 25 degrees Celsius waiting for a little orange ball to rise. We get there ten to fifteen minutes after it's up. That's when the light is best and the sky gets interesting.
We left camp at two a.m., the last to set off but had already passed half the climbers on the mountain. Wearing extra clothes borrowed from the agency still wasn't enough. The night's evil chill joined by a nasty wind was creeping into my bones in a full on assault of my body. A couple of fingers on my right hand were the first to start failing. Mr. Sick, in an attempt to gain favour so his antics would not be reported, spent a few minutes blowing warm air on them before they were able to regain feeling. A couple of local chocolates were quickly devoured to boost my energy levels and my body's heat producing abilities but failed miserably. Whatever was in them, it sure wasn't sugar. In a last ditch attempt to save the climb I burrowed through the contents of my
rucksack. I would have given the world for a Kit-Kat but a wish was enough. Since I had now lost feeling in two fingers on my left hand, I needed Mr. Sick to open the wrapping for me. Holding the chocolate in my cupped hands, I munched away. My energy, at an all time low, started to soar. Heat which I was desperately lacking began to be restored. The summit, for the last hour seemingly out of reach, was now almost a certain reality. I'm not a religious man but...thank god for Nestle and Kit-Kats!
A simmer of light illuminated the peak above. Finally, after four hours of darkness, I could see where I was going. But did I want to? After scaling an almost vertical wall of ice fourty metres high, I found myself on all four scurrying up a ridge barely wide enough to stand on and one kilometre drops on either side. What would of been a challenge even at sea level turned out to be what I christened as the Death Path. Six thousand metres elevation, little oxygen, wind, cold and space consuming crampons on a flaky, icy path with who knows how much if
any rock base below it. And then you need to pass people...
Three Dutch guys, members of the first party to leave that morning were already making their descent. The sun wasn't quite up yet but they could stand the conditions no longer. They had reached the summit in the dark and tried to wait out the sunrise but the cold got the better of them. I had got it right after all, with my late departure.
As I sat on the icy, wind-swept top at 6.088 metres, gazing across the Royal Range, the sun crawled above the horizon and I could appreciate the achievement. It's one of those things you need to do once in your life but never repeat, I mused as I sauntered down Huayna Potosi's flanks.
In a patriotic gesture uncommon to me, I decided to match if not better the scribbles on Rock Camp's walls. Oblivious to the care-taker's objections, I wrote on the front door:
Putting Slovenia on the map. Yeah, baby!
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