We see Sylvain apprehensively wait for Roberta to reach camp, breathless and exhausted. We work tirelessly to protect the tent from the ever increasing build-up of snow and learn to keep everything under shelter or inside the sleeping bag, as whatever is left out is either frozen or blown away. Each day at 6pm I switch on the radio and listen to Pablo’s weather forecast over the static noise. We discover that Gian, the quiet walking machine, is in fact a ski instructor, yet he almost burns down his tent while cooking inside it. We break trail in knee deep snow to reach Nido de Condores and watch as Barbara collapses out of sheer exhaustion, only to start laughing after some glucose and water. Above all, there’s the wind. It blows incessantly and relentlessly.
It’s with us every single minute we spend on the mountain. It roars loudest at night, when it grabs the tent and shakes it with blind fury. It gusts during the day, shooting icicles into our faces and tugging us as we walk. Against the wind, we can’t even play the waiting game, as it will just blow harder and harder until it throws every living thing off this mountain. Pablo radios in with the latest on the weather: “Ready? Summit wind, tomorrow: 80kph. After tomorrow: 110,110, 90. Did you get it?” “Positivo,” I reply after a couple of seconds. There will be no summit window until, well, after our flight home. In the face of such news, it’s a small consolation that nobody has reached the summit for a week and nobody will for at least one more. “I’ve come here to get to the top” says Sylvain. “If I can’t make it, there’s no point staying”. Roberta is with him, and so is Hulk. Alex speaks next: “I’m tired. This is not Kilimanjaro, and I’m eight years older. I’m going down”. Victor and Barbara nod, this is as far as they’ve come. I look at Gian. “How about a look at Berlin? At least we’ll make it to 6,000m.”
He winks. “Well, in that case, count me in,” adds Hulk. We make radio arrangements with Pablo and with some luck we’ll all meet back in Penitentes in a few days time. We make our last trip to Nido in good time on the now familiar path. There aren’t many tents up here, and most have been left flat on the ground, held fum with large rocks by those who have enough time and money to wait in Plaza de Mulas. We have no problems finding a good spot. But trouble comes with the pitching of the tent. In normal conditions this would be a matter of minutes, but up here I have to say with some embarrassment it takes us one and a half hours. Every movement is made slow and strenuous by the altitude and the wind’s fierce resistance. We take turns. One searches the frozen ground for rocks and ties them to a guyline, until becoming too exhausted to continue, while the other holds the tent tight against the wind until it becomes too cold to remain still.
We’re greeted in the morning by a solitary patch of blue sky which swiftly travels away across neighbouring valleys. Against a uniform grey background, the familiar lenticular cloud wraps Aconcagua’s summit. Swiftly, in silence, we reach the triangular frame of Berlin’s shattered wooden hut. There’s no one else here, not one tent left waiting. We feel fine, perfectly acclimatised and surprisingly fresh. We’ve climbed those 400m through knee deep snow in under two hours and at an altitude of 6,000m. We look at each another and say nothing. The wind has picked up and snow is falling heavily now. Visibility is deteriorating by the minute and the tracks we left but a moment ago have already disappeared. Aconcagua’s infamous viento bianco (white wind) will soon arrive and compared with that, what we experienced so far is a summer breeze. I finally accept that we can go no further and we start the journey back to Plaza de Mulas.
