30 days to go: December 11, 2019
The months have flown by, time is running out, and in just three weeks, I’ll be flying to Argentina. It’ll be my first time in the Southern Hemisphere, and I can’t wait to lose myself in a language I don’t speak, in a place where I have no points of reference, and to savor the freedom that comes with nomadism and uncharted territories.
Tomorrow I’ll turn 49—I can’t quite believe it. This isn’t me, this aging forty-something who still dreams of new horizons like a little girl. My body is fit, my mind open, just as it was 20 years ago; the latent anxiety—often unfounded—that sometimes gnaws at me may be a sign of the passing years; I’ve lost some of my nonchalance but not my desire.
I’m already picturing myself on the long trek that will take me to the summit of Aconcagua, at 6,962 meters—the highest peak outside of Asia and one of the Seven Summits. It will be hot the first few days despite the starting altitude (3,000 m); the pack will be heavy, and the nights short and uncomfortable. I want to immerse myself in the long, slow rhythm of the approach hike, to feel the sun of another hemisphere, to cross unknown rivers, and to lose myself in the simplicity of movement.
The freezing cold that awaits us at high altitude feels very abstract to me here in Provence, where the winter sun still warms the air. The hallway of my apartment is littered with fleece jackets, down jackets, extreme-cold mittens, and other gear—all of which will soon be on my back, in a massive backpack that will stick out more than 30 cm above my head.
The team consists of Sunny, our leader—a professional mountaineer, holder of the speed record for climbing Aconcagua, and a seasoned ultra-trail runner. Andrea works in environmental conservation in Oregon and lives with her husband and two children in an American school bus. Alex is a sommelier in the U.S. Northeast and a former professional climber. I round out this all-female team—a few years older, perhaps with a little less experience, but with a lifelong passion for the mountains. We’re a great team of resourceful women who know how to handle the hardships of long endurance efforts.
I’ll be in Mendoza on January 10; we’ll begin our approach hike on January 13, we plan to be at Camp 1 on January 18, at Camp 2 on January 22, and at Camp 3 two days later for a summit attempt on January 25, weather permitting and if we’re in good shape. Then we’ll descend to the valley and return to France on February 1. We’ll have climbed 9,753 meters in elevation gain, most of it above 5,000 meters in altitude, and covered a total of 67.5 km. The lack of oxygen, the cold, and the weight of our packs will be the most challenging factors to manage; the climb itself won’t be very technical, although the lack of snow this year makes certain sections more dangerous.
My overall fitness is very good, aside from a minor seasonal cold and end-of-semester fatigue. I spent my summer running in the Alps and climbing peaks; my body is resilient, and I can now handle significant elevation gains and losses without any muscle soreness in the days that follow. Above all, intense physical challenges don’t scare me—they even seem achievable. I already have some exciting projects in mind for 2020 once I return from this expedition: a 100-km run in the Aubrac region and a solo crossing of the Alps from Lake Geneva to Menton via the GR5 and its variants.
Some see my constant projects as a headlong rush, never satisfied. I would say that it is in this movement toward the horizon of possibilities that I aspire to fulfill myself and to inspire every woman to find within herself that little spark of madness, that childlike playfulness, and that wonderful dose of strength and resourcefulness that make up our full humanity.
I thank from the bottom of my heart everyone who has supported this project over the past few months. Thanks to you, I’ll get a little closer to the sky and bring back a piece of a dream.
Chase your dreams, no matter how crazy they may seem.
Day 1: January 10, 2020.
I’m flying off to the Southern Hemisphere
The flight tracker shows that I’ve crossed into the Southern Hemisphere and am somewhere over Latin America—maybe São Paulo. I have only a vague idea of how much time has passed—maybe 12 hours. I don’t have a watch and am letting myself drift along with the stretched-out time of the journey.
I’ve slept a little—more than on any other transatlantic flight, for that matter. It’s cold; the young woman to my left has disappeared under a pile of orange blankets. The silent images on the surrounding screens dance before my eyes and strain my vision. Still, I try to piece together the plot of the action movie the passenger in front of me is watching. It’s exhausting, so I close my eyes.
Earlier, I got up to stretch my body, which was aching from sitting. I’ve had few opportunities to do so; the constant turbulence over the Atlantic has kept me glued to my seat for several hours. I then listened to a group of somewhat boorish French people talking about Aconcagua. I felt a twinge of disappointment that the secret of my final destination had been revealed by their boisterous anticipation.
I’m glad to be alone, and the length of the flight is a welcome relief. It’s a necessary transition so that my imagination—which has been so active these past few days—can finally settle down. This week has been saturated with the constructs of my mind, with all those stories I build to imagine possibilities, only to have them gently upended by reality.
Here I am suspended in limbo; my imagination is weary and sluggish, and I can let myself drift into that half-awake state that is the privilege of long journeys.
Buenos Aires Airport
Buenos Aires. Waiting for the flight to Mendoza. Lots of mountaineers. Colorful technical gear. Some even have “7 Summits” emblazoned in big letters. The holy grail to accomplish in a single lifetime.
Their presence gives me a sense of belonging and also takes away some of the exceptional nature of the experience I’m about to have. Now the boorish French have made their entrance into the waiting area; they’re talking loudly, and I take off my glasses as if not seeing them would help me hear them less.
It’s very hot, and fatigue adds to my sense of lethargy. A Buddhist nun is sitting across from me. I tell myself it’s a good sign to have the literal presence of the Dharma right before my eyes. She, too, is speaking loudly in Spanish to a young hipster sitting a few meters away. It’s an unlikely pair; I try to take an interest in the conversation but can only grasp the surface of it.
So I write, because it’s in words that I see the beauty of these ordinary situations.
Day 2: January 11, 2020
Mendoza at the foot of the Andes
Mendoza. At the edge of a vast plain, nestled against the Andes mountain range. In this earthquake-prone region, the buildings are new and charmless. The streets are surprisingly quiet; tall plane trees line the broad avenues, their shade offering relief to a few slow-moving passersby.
I’m going to spend the night here—in a large, culturally neutral hotel that could just as easily be in Dubai or Tokyo. I met Alex, who arrived on the same flight. We’re sharing a huge bed for the night. Luxury comes at a price.
Alex is young and lively. Her muscular, well-trained body intimidates me, and for a moment I feel awkward in my own, tired and weighed down by the journey. She speaks quickly; her eyes sweep the room before settling on mine, seeking my agreement.
I’m blessed with a natural authenticity that makes my interactions with others easy and direct. I tell her about France, about nature—which I love so much—about my hopes, about some of my doubts, and a little about her, too. She’s worried; her boyfriend has gone skiing in Japan—it’s their first long separation. We quickly become real with one another—the only way to cope with the challenge ahead. Yet we say little about what lies ahead, except to agree on the difficulty and the unknowns associated with high altitude.
We both wander along the wide avenues as night falls. The cafés have come alive; the crowd is young and trendy, bare forearms reveal tattoos, and lips are pierced. I enjoy the evening warmth—less oppressive and full of anticipation. I watch all these young people sitting at tables with their beers; their tanned bodies exude longing and desire. It’s summer here.
As my expedition begins, I, too, am getting a taste of this budding excitement. It’s good to travel and to be reminded of the sweetness of life.
Day 3: January 13, 2020
Preparations
Sunny has arrived. Andrea is stuck in Houston and will join us tomorrow morning, just in time for our departure for Pénitentes, where we’ll spend one last warm night.
Sunny is impressive in both stature and charisma. She speaks very quickly and becomes animated when she talks about the challenges of high altitude, which she knows so well. She holds the speed record for the ascent of Aconcagua, as well as for the Annapurna Circuit—she knows what she’s talking about.
It’s going to be tough—she’s very clear about that. Especially after base camp at Plaza de Mulas, when we’ll have to carry all our gear up to Camps 1, 2, and 3—that is, above 4,500 meters. With 18 to 20 kg each on our backs, every step will be exhausting, oxygen will be scarce, and the nights will offer little rest. “You’ll feel like shit.” However, she’s confident; she’s been overseeing our training for a year and reassures us.
We go over the gear; Sunny checks everything and makes sure the base weight of the pack is manageable. She describes the conditions we’ll have to face and doesn’t mince words: a wind that cuts through the skin, dust that irritates the throat and makes breathing difficult, a scorching sun that forces us to cover our entire bodies, and cold temperatures dropping to minus 40.
We’ll have to try to eat as much as possible, especially at high altitudes. And our bodies will reject the food. We need to account for 600 extra calories per day on top of our three meals. We’ll spend 16 days in total in the mountains—that’s a lot of calories. Alex has planned everything and unpacks kilos of snacks; I have much less, as I’ve often underestimated my needs. The three of us take a trip to the local supermarket, and I stock up on cookies, nuts, and granola bars.
Then Alex and I repack our bags, separating out what the mules will carry to base camp—all the high-altitude gear, crampons, ice axes, helmets, and extra-warm clothing—and what we’ll keep with us for the first four days of the approach—tents, sleeping pads, sleeping bags, food, water bottles and water filters, headlamps, and solar chargers. Just the bare minimum of clothes to lighten the packs—no pajamas or extra clothes. We’ll be dirty—very dirty.
One day before setting out for the highest peak outside the Himalayas, I feel less ready than I did a month ago, when I ran 50 km with relative ease. For the past 15 days, a persistent pain in my lower back has slowed down my training, and the prospect of 10 to 12 hours of exertion a day for 16 consecutive days in extreme conditions intimidates me. But I can’t wait. Earlier, Sunny asked me, “What got you into extreme adventures?” My answer was: my penchant for a challenge and my love of the mountains. Yes, we take on these challenges precisely because they’re difficult and because we have no guarantee of success.
Day 4: January 14, 2020
Arrival in Penitentes
Penitentes. A few kilometers from the entrance to Aconcagua National Park, a handful of buildings with peeling paint that may have had their moment in the sun 20 or 30 years ago. We spend one last warm night in a hotel worn down by the years and the wind before setting out tomorrow on our hike to the Confluenzia base camp.
We arrived earlier by bus, traveling through landscapes of striking beauty and ruggedness. The peaks are jagged, the slopes dry and red, and the sun so intense that I often had to close my eyes. I followed the route of an old railroad line connecting Mendoza to Santiago, Chile, for as long as possible; its path was sometimes interrupted by landslides, but its outline remained clear against the rocky slopes. I don’t know what moves me so much about these rails from another era—the futile effort to tame these mountains, or the remnants of a dream to connect two worlds separated by the Andes.
I’m beginning to grasp the full significance of what I’m experiencing, and I feel immense gratitude for this land, which is, after all, so inhospitable. It’s a rare privilege to be able to explore it, and my heart is heavy with gratitude.
We’re at 2,800 meters—already so high, and yet still so far from the summit. At the hotel, lively conversations are taking place among climbers from all over the world. Some are on their way back, their faces gaunt and sunburned. I’m beginning to understand that a whole human world is opening up here as well. There’s no room for arrogance or bragging here, nor for competitiveness. The unspoken assumption is that the mountain is unforgiving and that there’s no guarantee it will yield to us, whether we’re experienced or not.
Sunny is well-known here; many climbers come to talk to her and ask for advice on various routes. She’s about to tackle her ninth ascent with us—she’s already completed four. I’m bold enough to think that together we’ll accomplish a fifth one in about ten days, but I also know that I’m truly among the greats—nothing here is artificially constructed for the sake of sport, it’s raw nature that demands caution and humility—this expedition will be unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
I’m talking with Paul and Lauren, who are going to take the Polish Glacier route on the south face. Paul has intensely blue eyes that hold mine for a fraction of a second too long; his handshake is firm and a little intimidating. He’s a former U.S. military man; he’s climbed all over the world and tells me about the Verdon. It’s so far away, and I’m having a hard time reconciling these two places in my mental geography.
Tomorrow we’ll finally see her. A majestic feminine presence that may welcome us.
Day 5: January 15, 2020
Confluenza, base camp, 3,600 meters
After a few hours of hiking along a muddy stream, we finally see it. Massive and intimidating. Its proportions are impossible to grasp. Its south face is streaked with glaciers and impassable cliffs.
I’m beginning to realize that the real challenge on Aconcagua isn’t summit day itself, but all those approach days spent in the dust, the heat of the day, the freezing wind at night, the pounding of the heart struggling to adjust to the altitude, the lack of hygiene, and the accumulated fatigue.
After barely two days, all four of us are already filthy and worn out from the effort. It’s not just a matter of walking and setting up camp. You have to carry gear, climb, set up camp, fetch water, filter it, boil it, try to eat, and hope your stomach can handle it.
I’m having trouble sleeping; I feel out of place here, and my mind is both weary and restless. As is often the case, my sense of self-deprecation keeps me from taking myself too seriously—I act the clown—but deep down, I’m a little afraid of the real risks associated with high altitude. A pulmonary or cerebral embolism. The helicopter evacuations from the base camp above serve as a constant reminder of my vulnerability and mortality. This is no game. Andrea is scared too; she can’t quite make sense of this strange hangover-like state that follows every exertion. Sunny tells us: “You should feel hung over but not drunk.”
Day 7: January 17, 2020
Plaza de Mulas, base camp, 4,300 meters
I’ve been at Aconcagua base camp for three days now. My acclimatization is slow; I’ve just gone through a pretty rough 24 hours. I feel like I’m suffocating, especially at night, and I’m experiencing severe fatigue and trouble sleeping. All of this is well beyond my control, and my disappointment, frustration, and discouragement only add to my anxiety.
We’re at Plaza de Mulas, the last point reached by mules and the helicopter before the upper mountain and the three higher camps. Our elevation is still relatively low, at 4,300 meters; the summit is just above us. It seems so close, yet it’s 2,600 meters higher—which is roughly an 8-day hike.
The distances and elevation gains are disproportionate here and hard to grasp.
Sunny decided to put me on Diamox this morning, a medication used by many mountaineers to speed up acclimatization. It alters the pH in the blood and aids adaptation. The side effects are well-known and quite unpleasant: a metallic taste in the mouth, strange dreams, tingling sensations, and it’s very diuretic. My blood oxygen saturation level has been good since last night, but my overall condition is still not good enough to tackle the next stage, Sunny told me this morning, after another less-than-restful night.
Andrea, Sunny, and Alex went up this morning to drop off gear at Camp 1 at 5,050 meters. They’re each carrying very heavy packs—20 to 35 kg—containing everything we’ll need on the upper mountain.
I accompanied them to the start of the trail; my heart was heavy at the thought of letting them go and feeling so unfit to climb this mountain. It’s not so much my strength and cardiovascular fitness that are the problem here—they’re still excellent—it’s this dazed state, this lack of mental clarity, and these debilitating headaches that prevent me from following them this morning without putting my health at risk.
So I try to enjoy the atmosphere at base camp. It’s amazing, this little high-altitude village, with its colorful characters and diverse interests. There’s Max, a Brazilian guide who has climbed 80 peaks over 6,000 meters. He’s young, with a frank and charming gaze. There are very few women here, so “hookups”—one-night stands at high altitude—are common. Max seems to have a reputation. Felipo is an Argentine guide; rumor has it that he slept with an American woman at Camp 3. It makes everyone laugh when you consider the filthy state Camp 3 is in after so many days on the mountain.
There’s also Sherpa Nims, the Nepalese guide known for his photo of his butt at the summit of Everest, which was published in newspapers around the world. Here, he’s famous for being the only person to have climbed fourteen 8,000-meter peaks in six months. He’s surrounded by 22 Argentine guides, all of them filthy but always ready with a smile. We also met Jacob, a Danish guide who’s setting out to climb K2 next month—the deadliest mountain in the world. “I have to try,” he says.
Sunny is welcomed here with open arms, and so are we. She still holds the speed records on the Normal Route and the 360 Route. She’s a celebrity at camp, and everyone comes to talk to her.
Thomas Summer from Austria and Mia Farrow from Australia join us for meals. They’re both going to try to break the records in the coming days. Mia won the Everest Marathon and has every chance of beating the time set by Sunny on the 360. Sunny is advising her; there’s no rivalry between them—they’re in this together through the challenges. Thomas is very thin and speaks with a strong accent. He’s a professional mountain runner and reassures me about my condition. “It happened to me on Kilimanjaro,” he tells me.
In the evening, the camp comes alive. The climbers who made it to the summit come back down, looking haggard and incredibly dirty, but with huge smiles on their faces. Tradition dictates that we pop open the champagne and try to shoot the cork through one of the windows of the dining tents. It’s a real celebration for them—the success rate is 30 percent—and everyone congratulates them and appreciates their effort. Others return without having succeeded—the weather was too bad, or, more often than not, the altitude prevented them from continuing, and some had to turn back 60 meters from the summit because their bodies could go no further. They seem both disappointed and relieved to be back at a more forgiving altitude and in a more welcoming atmosphere.
After dinner, there are massive games of foosball, lots of laughter, and comments in a mix of languages with attempts to translate into rough English. High up on the camp, below the glaciers, is the world’s highest art gallery. Apparently, it’s in the Guinness Book of World Records. I’ll go check it out later.
I’m alone at camp today. For a long time, I watched my team make their way up the mountainside toward Camp 1. I can’t see them anymore. It’s barely 3 km with a 700-meter elevation gain. Still, Sunny estimates it will take them 3 hours; they’ll drop off some of our gear and water (no snow at Camp 1 this year, so there’s no way to melt snow for drinking water). Then they’ll head back down in barely 30 minutes. These times are nothing like what I’m used to; the steps are tiny on the ascent to maintain a steady breathing rhythm and avoid getting winded, which can be potentially fatal at this altitude.
Alex and Andrea seem to be in good shape. Alex is now able to eat and has regained his strength. Andrea has severe headaches but is managing to sleep well. Sunny is a force to be reckoned with on the mountain; she already made it up to Camp 1 yesterday carrying nearly 40 kg on her back.
Tomorrow it will be my turn to carry my crampons, ice axe, warm clothes, tent, food, and gas canister. The Diamox will have taken effect, and I’ll be feeling better overall. I’ll head back down later today to spend one last night at base camp. Then we’ll go for a medical check to get authorization to access the upper mountain and its three high-altitude camps. We’ll spend 8 days up there, with a summit attempt on January 25 or 26. We don’t know if we’ll set out from Camp 3 or Camp 2. We sleep better at Camp 2, which is lower in elevation, but the summit is an 18- to 22-hour hike away.
After the first few easy and almost euphoric days, I’m having doubts. I can see the summit from inside my tent as I write these words—it’s so close and yet so out of reach. I’m fascinated by this environment, which for now remains beyond my reach. The physical discomfort is also a heartache. I hope the coming hours will bring me restful sleep and give me the strength to make my way into this space.
Day 10: January 20, 2020
Life at base camp. Plaza de Mulas, Aconcagua Base Camp, 4,300 meters
Last day here in this strange atmosphere of a small town perched for the summer on the flank of one of the world’s highest peaks.
After three nights here and an ascent to Camp 1 yesterday, I feel better and more confident. My nose is still bleeding, but it doesn’t hurt at all; I’m not paying much attention to it and haven’t mentioned it to Sunny. We’re finally heading up the upper mountain today. We’ll spend nine days there in conditions much more challenging than here at base camp. Cole, our “adopted son”—an American climber who moves at about the same pace as us and with whom we’ve become good friends—has already gone up, and there’s something reassuring about heading toward familiar faces.
Yesterday, the camp doctor gave us the green light; she confirmed that my blood oxygen saturation level is perfectly fine—maybe I just needed a doctor’s opinion to get my legs back under me. There’s such a contrast between the comatose state I’m in and my physical abilities—it’s confusing. Yesterday, during the carry to C1, I was in good spirits and made it up much faster than the rest of the team. Yet my nights are more difficult than those of Sunny, Alex, and Andrea, who get 8 to 9 hours of sleep wrapped up in their thick sleeping bags.
I’m starting to get used to being very dirty and to the basic hygiene of high-altitude mountaineering. There are four toilets at camp—we call them “shit barrels”—and that’s exactly what they are. Barrels you definitely shouldn’t peek into if you want to do your business later. They’re picked up by helicopter from time to time. There was a mishap yesterday morning—the helicopter dropped a “shit barrel,” which fell and spilled all over the lower part of camp. No comment.
Andrea quickly spotted the most acceptable toilets; she dubbed them the Taj Mahal, and we each make sure that this “palace” isn’t too crowded and is kept in a relatively sanitary condition. It sparked a few fits of laughter; there’s a lot of camaraderie among us despite the age differences. We get along well and support each other. Andrea said earlier that she couldn’t imagine reaching the summit without all of us. Yet that’s one of the possibilities—no team from Sunny has ever reached the summit 100%.
It’s right there, a little higher up—sometimes hidden by a cloud that’s clung to it, other times towering and silhouetted against a blue sky. I wonder what drives us to seek out heights, to want to get closer to the sky by taking risks—calculated, certainly, but very real nonetheless. I feel both incredibly vulnerable and fragile in the face of this raw, rugged nature—and yet so full of my human potential. I lose myself in this paradox, which I no longer try to unravel.
Day 11: January 21, 2020
Camp 1, 5,100 meters
Night at Camp Canada, or Camp 1. I’m much calmer, and even the icy wind that blew all night couldn’t rouse me from a certain drowsiness. Argentine guides were listening to music and talking late into the night in the neighboring tents, and I fell asleep amid a hubbub of various sounds. I thought I heard the voice of Max, the Brazilian guide, and I remember wondering if, for him too, the evening experience on one of the world’s highest peaks still held a sense of adventure.
It’s still hard to eat this morning. Yet we try to consume as many calories as possible. “Eat to summit,” Sunny keeps telling us. Alex barely touches his breakfast—a lumpy porridge that sticks to the bottom of the bowl. We busily tackle the dozens of small tasks necessary for survival at this altitude. Checking that the tent is secure, making sure the guy lines are angled properly toward the wind so they don’t rip the canvas. Fetching snow from the glacier, filtering it, boiling it, filling our water bottles, and forcing ourselves to drink: we need 5 liters a day. Taking inventory of our food, checking our oxygen saturation levels, and rating our headaches on a scale of 1 to 10. I’m at a 2 today; Alex is lying down at the back of the tent—she rates hers a 7.
We then climb to Camp 2, Niedo, at 5,550 meters. The packs are heavy, and our steps are very slow on the dry slope. The porters smile at us—few teams manage without their help. People look at us with admiration; one of the few female Argentine guides takes a photo of us—“las chicas!” We’ve all mastered the rest step by now: shifting our weight to the front foot, we pause briefly for balance before stepping forward with the other foot. There’s something very meditative about this way of walking; we speak little and let ourselves sway to the rhythm of our steady, measured strides. The dust bothers me; I try to breathe through my buff, but the air comes in with difficulty, and a vague sense of panic stirs in the back of my mind. I make a conscious effort to slow my breathing even further, calm my mind, and look up toward the sky to find comfort. The effort is as physical as it is mental. I know I excel at this game, but here no one is playing—everything is literal.
My eyes are burning; the dust mixed with the sun dries out my contact lenses and creates an opaque filter over my vision. Yet I still grasp the rugged beauty of the landscape—those rocks set against expanses of golden and ochre sand, with the glacier’s “penitents” watching over them.
Once we arrive at Camp 2, we set up the tents, starting with the “social tent,” which is where we’ll eat, nap, and chat. It’s quickly filled with climbers who come by to say hello. Chase and Jaden, glacier guides from Alaska, join us, followed by Cole and Thomas. We’re all crammed into this small tent, enjoying the human closeness we all crave. I listen to the conversations with curiosity; I’m much older than they are and envy the freedom to be, the dreams, and the possibilities of their curious youth. We talk about peaks, love, and human relationships; the conversation is easy and candid. Like the surrounding mountains, we, too, are stripped of pretense and the need to put on a show. I intuitively and effortlessly connect with a genuine authenticity of the heart. There is no catharsis or revelation on this journey, but rather a confirmation of the undeniable beauty of being human.
Day 13: January 23, 2020
Nido de Condores — Camp 2, 5,550 meters
I barely slept. I had excruciating headaches all night; I took three Ibuprofen without finding any relief. I stepped outside into the darkness to get some fresh air and was met by an icy wind and a sky sprinkled with stars. It was freezing again last night; the water in my water bottle froze even with its insulated sleeve. I put my electronics, contact lenses, food, and headlamp inside my sleeping bag to protect them from the nighttime temperatures, and spent much of the night adjusting my position to avoid painful contact with these various items.
Sunny came to wake us up around 9 a.m. with a cup of coffee in hand; I grabbed the cup with a shaky hand, my stomach in knots and my mind exhausted; a few incomprehensible sounds came from Alex’s sleeping bag, and she immediately fell back asleep. I envy her ability to take refuge in sleep and curse my own alertness and imagination, which are sometimes so hard to calm. Today is a rest day; it’s supposed to give us the acclimatization we need to climb higher tomorrow.
I go back to bed after a breakfast I wolfed down without any appetite and manage to get about thirty minutes of sleep. The helicopter wakes me up—another evacuation. We’re so small in the face of this mountain; I’m a little scared but too tired to act on that thought. I feel terribly dirty; I’d like to wash my hands. I tried dipping them in the water flowing from the glacier yesterday afternoon, but it was muddy and left my skin dry and covered with a new, opaque film. I slather on another layer of sunscreen and decide to ignore the discomfort.
Alex and Andrea dread rest days—the emptiness of waiting, the cries of the body and mind that are harder to ignore. Sunny is busy: she fetches water from the lower glacier—which is less dirty and easier to filter—discusses a few urgent matters with her husband Paul via GPS, reassures Thomas and Cole, who are worried about the upper route to the summit, restacks rocks around the social tent to stabilize it, and manages to whip up a fit-for-a-queen lunch for us: fajitas with fresh onions.
I’m in a half-awake state; the sun keeps me from staying in the tent for long—it’s too hot inside, and the light is just as blinding as it is outside. Still, I read a few lines on my Kindle, write in my journal as I do every day, walk to the far end of camp, and chat about this and that with the passing climbers. I received an unexpected message last night—just a few lines that warmed my heart; I think about it and find the energy I’ve been missing all day.
Mia passed through Camp 2 this morning; she’s trying to beat Sunny’s speed record on Route 360 (a record of 47 hours). Sunny woke up at 5 a.m. today to go meet her and cheer her on. Mia was crying, exhausted from the effort; she left Arcones last night at 7 p.m., ran all night, got lost in the lower part of the mountain, had trouble crossing the river, and was almost at her limit before finding a second wind with Sunny. We’re waiting to hear from her; she must be near the summit by now.
Around 4 p.m., Mia contacts us again via GPS; she is indeed at La Cueva, the final stretch before the summit, at an altitude of about 6,600 meters. Mathias, the porter, is there too; he’s stopping her from continuing—it’s late, she’s moving too slowly, and it’s too dangerous. She puts up a feeble resistance, then resigns herself to giving up. She tells us she’s heading down. Two hours later, she arrives in tears; we hug her, give her something to eat, and she collapses in a corner of the social tent. We cover her with clothes we can spare; she’ll sleep straight through until early morning.
It’s January 23; our summit day is scheduled for the 26th. We still don’t know whether we’ll set out from Camp 2, where we are now, or from Camp 3. How we feel tomorrow will determine our strategy. I wait without impatience; I don’t know how to approach this situation other than with my heart—it touches me, moves me, and frightens me all at once.
Day 15: January 25, 2020
Final preparations for the summit push
Last night was freezing; the strong wind tore off a piece of the social tent despite Sunny’s repairs during the night. I slept with two down jackets, my hood reinforced with my beanie, and my puffy pants inside my -40 sleeping bag. The wind died down this morning, and we’re focusing on preparing for the climb. We pack and repack our bags, try on and retry our mountaineering boots, and complain about how uncomfortable they are; Sunny is adamant—they’re mandatory; it’ll be far too cold up there to even consider wearing anything else. I still manage to negotiate a pair of trail running shoes for the descent, weather permitting.
We set aside some snacks—we need to plan for about 1,000 calories; I’m only bringing energy gels, since I know I have a hard time chewing solid food when I’m exerting myself. The food will need to stay close to our bodies so it doesn’t freeze; we’re thinking about the easiest ways to grab it without having to unzip too many layers or take off our huge mittens. I’ll wear a technical base layer, two down jackets, and a Gore-Tex jacket on my upper body; three layers on my lower body. In my pack is the huge high-altitude parka—I’ll only put it on if the wind is too cold, since it restricts movement. We’ll need something to protect our faces from frostbite, a helmet, and a headlamp with fresh batteries for the four-hour nighttime climb. I can’t wait—I love running and hiking at night.
Yesterday we climbed up to 6,000 meters—I’d never been that high before. We passed through Colera—Camp 3—which is quite spectacular due to its location in a rocky hollow on the mountainside, with barely any shelter from the wind. There were a good dozen tents flapping in the freezing blizzard. Higher up, I ran into a Frenchman I’d spoken with at base camp a few days ago; he was coming down from the summit. “It’s very difficult,” “getting harder and harder,” “you absolutely have to save some energy.”
I tried to explain this expression to the girls; it made us laugh. We were in excellent shape throughout this acclimatization hike—a little under two hours to climb to Camp 3, for a total of four hours; Alex and I hummed the whole way; it all seemed easy and smooth to me, even though this altitude intimidates me and I’m listening to every signal from my body with more care than usual. Sunny was impressed; so we’ll set out directly from Camp 2 tomorrow night for the ascent. We plan to leave around 3 a.m.; Alex and I, who share the same tent, will get up at 1:30 a.m. Since Alex still has trouble eating, he needs some time. As for me, I’m always the first one ready—a special talent, Sunny tells me.
Luchi, an Argentine guide living in Patagonia, will accompany us on summit day. No all-female team has yet managed to reach the summit together, so we might have to split up—that’s what Luchi is there for. Chase and Jaden—both glacier guides in Alaska—ask to join us; they feel more at ease being with us and having a group to set the pace for them. So the seven of us will set out tonight.
Cole is currently making his ascent; he turns 25 today and wanted to celebrate on the roof of the Americas. We’re waiting to hear from him via radio—he should be at the summit this afternoon. Mika, the base camp manager, is coming up to visit us. It’s her day off, and she’s tackling the 1,200-meter climb just to give us a hug and wish us good luck. She has a smile and a contagious good mood; like everyone here, she’s wearing a very dirty cap and a down jacket that might have been green or gray. I really like her; we only met four or five days ago, but we became friends right away. Her presence feels familiar and reassures me.
I’m in a great mood; the summit feels closer, my body is holding up better, and I feel like I can count on my experience with long-distance endurance.
Summit Day: January 26, 2020
It’s January 26—today is summit day.
The night is still very windy; the gusts threaten to tear the tent apart, and not even the urge to pee can get me out of my sleeping bag. We slept very little. Alex was worried and kept fidgeting and sighing all night. For a moment, I hesitated to tell her she was keeping me awake, but then I gently pointed out that I wanted to get an hour or two of sleep. She grunted in agreement and calmed down a bit.
At 1:30 a.m., Sunny came to wake us up. I was ready in barely 30 minutes, but Alex tried to eat her breakfast—nothing went down. She stared at her porridge, playing with her spoon for nearly an hour, so I went to join Luchi and Sunny in the social tent. The temperatures are well below zero—maybe minus twenty. It takes Andrea a while to wake up, but when she finally pops her hooded head out, her bag is meticulously packed: bags in pockets inside pouches, all zipped up tight and in their specific places.
I’ve just stuffed everything haphazardly into mine, as usual, and have taken only the essentials — 2 liters of already frozen water, my high-altitude parka, spare batteries for my headlamp, a spare pair of gloves, some cord, and two carabiners — my food is close to my body, and my phone is in my sports bra to protect everything from the cold. I’m glad I only have to carry a few kilos. We’re all already wearing our helmets, headlamps on, high-altitude boots laced up, hands in mittens and overmittens, and multiple layers on our bodies. Jaden and Chase join us, and we begin our silent ascent at 3 a.m. in the pitch-black night and freezing cold.
I feel incredibly good, my stride is light, and I’m climbing with Luchi in the lead. Behind us, further down the slope, Andrea is feeling dizzy; she’s panicking a little, her heart racing and nausea setting in. Yet it’s Alex who throws up first—I wonder what she’s throwing up, since she’s had almost nothing to eat this morning. Luchi and I keep moving forward but have trouble finding the gentlest path. By the light of our two headlamps, we try to avoid the very steep sections taken by the porters on their descent, but we repeatedly find ourselves on extremely steep stretches where we can’t put our feet flat on the ground.
Around 5 a.m., we arrive at Camp 3. Alex and Andrea are still feeling very weak, so Luchi suggests we take shelter for a moment in one of the tents belonging to Inka Expeditiones, the agency she works for. All six of us huddle close together to shield ourselves from the wind. I want to keep going; I’m cold, and the break feels endless. I swallow an energy gel; my fingers freeze immediately on contact with the air, and I have trouble warming them up afterward. I’m getting a little impatient—I understand that Alex and Andrea need time to regain their strength, but I feel like I’m being held hostage. I try to push aside this thought, which isn’t very considerate of the rest of my team; I know that I, too, could feel terrible at any moment and that I’ll need them. I don’t speak, I don’t complain; Sunny turns to me and tells me that my mental strength is exemplary. It’s true—I’ve tackled the first 400 meters of elevation gain without saying a word; I feel strong and ready to take on this summit, with no fear or apprehension. Just this relentless cold that’s starting to seep into my bones.
A few headlamps flicker ahead of us on the slope as we leave Camp 3, still shrouded in darkness and silence. We begin a long climb toward Independencia and Windy Ridge. I’m still in good shape; I take the lead and set the pace for a good two hours. Alex is doing much better and isn’t far behind; Andrea is struggling, and the gap is widening—she must be a good twenty minutes behind, her stride heavy and weary. She’s accompanied by Luchi, while Chase brings up the rear. Sunny shouts at me several times to slow down—I’m going too fast. The climb is still long and will get harder and harder as we gain altitude.
We’ve now passed 6,000 meters; the sun is rising, and I’m eagerly waiting for a few rays to warm me up. I wiggle my toes and fingers as much as possible to warm them up, but I’ve had no feeling in my left thumb for quite some time now. I’ve only had one energy gel since we set out, I know I need to eat, but I’m too afraid to take off my mittens and face the cold; I can’t quite remember which pocket I put which gel in, the effort of trying to remember tires me out, and I tell myself I can hold out a little longer.
It doesn’t last much longer, actually; when I reach Windy Ridge, I start shaking like a leaf. This stretch lives up to its name—the wind is incredibly strong, and the cold seeps into every part of my body. I nearly fall several times, pushed by the gusts and weakened by a lack of calories. I stop and try to open a pocket to grab something to eat. I don’t even have the strength to unzip it and have to wait for Sunny to do it for me. The dreaded hypoglycemia has set in—truly a rookie mistake; I’m a little ashamed to have let it come to this, given my experience with long-distance endurance. Sunny forces me to swallow a gel; I’m shaking so much that I can barely swallow. My balaclava has slipped down, my face is exposed, and my jaws are starting to freeze. Jaden has joined us and pulls a buff over my face. I’m having trouble breathing through the fabric; I keep pulling it down, and Sunny yells at me, “Cover your nose or you’re going to lose it.”
What follows is very hard; I’m constantly stumbling, and every step demands energy I don’t have. The trek to La Cueva is certainly the most difficult effort I’ve ever made in my life. Alex and Jaden head out ahead; they’re moving slowly but very steadily. Sunny stays behind me and catches up to me several times when I’m on the verge of collapsing. I don’t know where I find the mental strength to keep going; sometimes my hands are on the ground, almost on all fours. I encourage myself out loud: “Elise, you’ve got this, Elise, take one more step.” Andrea must be feeling much better; I can see her a few minutes behind me—she’s picked up her pace and held her head high. It reassures me to know that we can get through all of this together, even though the experience of the difficulty of the moment is horribly lonely.
I don’t know how much time has passed since our last break—three hours, maybe four? I finally reach the Cueva, a sort of cave that offers some shelter from the wind, before the final stretch, the Canaletta, considered the most difficult part. There’s no snow at all this year in the Canaletta, which makes the climb even more arduous; the terrain is a vast, very steep scree slope where our footing gives way beneath our already exhausted bodies. We can see the summit from the Cueva; I collapse into the dust and rocks for a few minutes’ rest.
The summit seems so close
The summit seems so close, yet Sunny warned us that there are still several hours of climbing left. Alex and Jaden are already sitting out of the wind and seem optimistic; their strength has returned. I think they’re joking, but I don’t have the energy to listen to what they’re saying. I’m shaking so hard that I can’t unzip my jackets or reach the energy gels I’m keeping next to my skin. I ask for help, and icy gloves brush against my body. I swallow as many calories as possible; I feel so weak that I can barely chew. I manage, nonetheless, to down four gels in a row—about 800 calories. I’m still freezing even with the huge puffy jacket I’ve added over my other layers; but the gels don’t take long to kick in, and I quickly start to feel better—my vision clears, my breathing evens out, and I regain feeling in my legs.
I take a moment to look around; the view is endless, the Andes stretching out on either side, an entire continent at our feet. The icy south face stretches out to our left, glistening and almost within reach. Its radiance is pure and contrasts with the red, dirty dust that’s been covering us for more than 15 days now.
Sunny leads the way up the Canaletta; I follow her, with Andrea, Alex, and Luchi behind, and Jaden and Chase a little further down. We’re now at an altitude of over 6,600 meters; our movements are very slow and laborious. I can hear Sunny’s struggle—the heaviness of her steps, the rasping of her breath. It’s hard for her, too—even though she’s a force to be reckoned with in the mountains, an outstanding athlete, and a seasoned mountaineer. Rest Step: one step, three or four breaths, another step, and so on. We pass a team of three, so our slowness is relative.
6,963 meters, the roof of the Americas
Time flies by; once again, I can’t estimate how long it’s been—two or three hours? The summit is getting closer; the final meters are very rocky—we have to use our hands, haul ourselves up onto large boulders, and move forward almost on all fours. Suddenly, we’re there. It happens almost out of the blue. 6,963 meters, the roof of the Americas. There’s the cross marking the summit, the Tibetan flags surrounding it, peaks stretching as far as the eye can see, and that wind that throws us off balance. I see all of this but don’t fully grasp what we’ve just accomplished.
We’re here, I keep telling myself; I’m waiting for tears or shouts of joy, but there are none. We hug each other, but my heart isn’t quite in it—it’s too soon, it’s happened too fast. Down below, I’ll be moved by our achievement, by our courage, by our shared humanity. Right now, I’m cold—I’m so cold. We’re too high up; everything is too vast, too inhuman. I think I want to go back down.
Once again, I don’t know how long we spend at the summit. Ten or fifteen minutes, maybe. We take photos, try to make our voices heard over the wind, and then begin the descent. It took us 10 hours and 25 minutes to reach the summit—an unexpected time that was celebrated by all the climbers we met afterward. Luchi and I take barely 3 hours to descend; the rest of the team takes an additional hour and a half. Back at the Cueva, I swap my mountaineering boots for trail running shoes and run with Luchi straight down the slope toward Camp 2 and our tents. We take a “shortcut”—the porters’ trail that cuts straight through to lower, more forgiving altitudes. I fall several times, carried away by my momentum; my legs are so tired they’ve almost become numb. I tear my Gore-Tex and don’t care. I think about the champagne at base camp in two days, the wine in Penitentes in three, and the luxurious shower at the Diplomatic Hotel in four.
I have an unparalleled appreciation for life
It’s only now, a few days later, as I write these words—after a long descent, an impressive portage, a few beers, and a little more sleep—that I understand what we’ve accomplished. I didn’t have a revelation or an epiphany on this mountain. It was inhospitable, harsh, and cold. Yet I have within me an unparalleled appreciation for life, a fervor and a confidence I’ve never experienced before.
I feel it in my body, which, though tired, is hungry for life and adventure, fears nothing—or almost nothing—and scoffs at its age and limitations. I feel it in my heart, which is brimming with desire, open to possibility, love, and uncharted territories. We speak little in the days that follow, but we are all immersed in this experience where every action is reduced to mere survival and where the preciousness of human life asserts itself directly and undeniably. I feel both very small on this mountain and immense in my humanity.
A huge thank you to everyone for your support
Without you, none of this would have been possible. The expressions of friendship and love I’ve received have moved me deeply—whether through your donations, your messages, your smiles, or your presence by my side.
Special thanks to my coach Megan Roche, who always believes in me and pushes me toward adventure; to my fantastic mental coach, Danielle Snyder; and to Sunny Stroeer, who is an incredible guide, mentor, and expedition companion.
