He looks fatigued, and is much quieter than his usual self, but he’s an experienced mountaineer and knows how to pace himself. He winks at me and smiles. We scout the barren campsite for some reasonably sheltered, unoccupied tent spots. We claim them with our sacks and loiter a bit, quietly appreciating the views and the aware ness that we’ve already reached 5,000m. Gian and Hulk have gone to have a look at Nido, 500m above. At this pace, those two will be on the summit before breakfast. The sky is covered in clouds in the morning, and a chilly wind scours Plaza de Mulas. We’re packed for our first night in Plaza Canada, except Roberta and Barbara, who are going for their cache today. Of course, first up is a collective visit to the doctor. “You’ve got high blood pressure, low heart rate and arrhythmia,” she tells Sylvain. “But I know you now. You can go, but keep taking your pills. You, however,” she says as she turns to Roberta. “It’s OK to go up and down today. But if I don’t see an improvement tomorrow, you’ll have to stay at Plaza de Mulas”.
Another night here would make it impossible for Roberta to catch up, especially if that’s due to a slow acclimatisation. “I’m going up with or without you,” Sylvain almost bursts in a surprisingly harsh tone. Roberta looks at him in silence. This mountain is testing our mental strength as much as our physical endurance. Going up with the bulk of the equipment and the heavier double boots is a completely different story. We’re also carrying some of Roberta’s equipment in the hope she can make it to Canada tomorrow. It starts to snow lightly, the wind picks up in intensity, the scree and rock we trod on yesterday under a blue sky turn grey and white, head scarves and balaclavas are damp from our breathing and the melting snowflakes. We stop frequently to rest and lifting each foot is a fight against gravity.
Much to our surprise, we arrive in roughly the same time as yesterday. But Plaza Canada is a different place. The wind bends every tent down, it swirls and dances around them and blows the snowflakes down the cliffs like an ethe real waterfall. Barbara and Roberta head back to the relative comfort of Plaza de Mulas and we wish one another well. We’ll keep in contact by radio. We hasten to pitch our tents, securing them with rocks as the terrain is too hard for pegs. I build a miniature wall around my tent to stop the wind blasting into the porch while Sylvain, my tent mate for tonight, stocks up on snow. Moving rocks at 5,000m is hard, slow work. In fact, everything is. There isn’t much socialising in this wind, so we all with draw under our tents and start the ice melting routine. Taking turns at the stove, we fill our flasks and melt additional snow to cook. My menu is risotto milanese and mash potatoes all genuine, dehydrated stuff.
“So you live in England?” asks Sylvain, before continuing almost immediately. “I’ve been abroad too. I worked in the States some 20 years ago.” He talks of his life, politics and his climb of Alpamayo Chico until words fade into sleep. Then he starts snoring. My side of the tent glows a bright orange. Reluctantly, I pull down the double zip and peep out. The clouds have lifted just above the western ridges and the setting sun has painted them an incandescent yellow, orange and purple. I stare in awe for as long as I can before my nose begins to freeze and threatens to fall off my face. Our game with the mountain has started. Or perhaps it’s with ourselves. It’s all about how well we adjust to a life stripped down to walking, melting water, sleeping and waiting in the tent for the wind to relent which it never does; how well we cope with altitude, tiredness, going up and down between the same camps and with the continuous proximity with each another.
