Argentina: It’s All About The Memories

Christmas is approaching and our flights to Argentina are confirmed. On a Sunday afternoon I fmd myself at home, surrounded by the largest collection of gear I’ve ever assembled for a single trip: rucksacks and duffel bags, stormproof tent, my warmest sleeping bag and double boots, sack upon sack of dehydrated food. And a fluorescent green plastic pee bottle, marked with a large skull sticker. We’re heading to Aconcagua. It’s a journey which started a long time ago. It slowly came together over sparse talks with friends and was postponed year after year for injuries, weddings and financial crises. But then, the phone and email traffic increased, lists of food, equipment and trekking providers appeared, and we found ourselves running, cycling and sweating up and down the stairs under a big pack as the neighbours’ watched on with a bemused stare.

Christmas has come and gone. All nine finally meet at the airport: Alex and I, friends from previous hiking trips, Barbara, Gian, Victor and his tent-mate Rick, and Roberta, a lively 50-year-old lady from Bolzano with her partner, Syl-vain, who decided to attempt Aconcagua (6,962m) at 64 after defeating two cancers.

Our bags are so heavy and unwieldy that I’m shocked they’re even allowed near the economy check-in desks, but soon we’re all in an airplane flying over the Atlantic. We see it for the first time many hours and a few flights later, drowsy from the long journey. The Horcones Valley lies beneath the airplane like a giant wound in the earth. Above it, so high we can almost touch it, rises Aconcagua. The black, enormous, frightening piece of rock stares back at us, daring us to climb it. There’s no time for apprehensiveness in Mendoza as we meet Nicolas, our provider’s contact and are immediately confronted with the bureaucratic ordeal of getting our climbing permits.

The streets of Mendoza are blocked by a raucous crowd. “Macri supporters”, says Nicolas as we negotiate our way past the demonstration. National elections are near, and the two main candidates have split the public opinion. He continues: “Yes, this is still a divided country”. We leave Nicolas at the park headquarters and head straight for the outdoor shop where we’ll get our fuel and last bits of gear. Then it’s the bus ticket office and, finally, a restaurant. “Did you say you’re a plasterer?” I ask Barbara as we sit on the coach to Penitentes, plains and mountains rolling away under a low cover of clouds. “Yes,” she smiles, “I actually graduated as a chemist, but after one day at work I realised I wasn’t cut for an office job. My boyfriend was a plasterer, so I started working with him. If that sounds odd, ask me of the house I bought in Mongolia”. Penitentes looks like an abandoned outpost.

A few houses line the windswept road where big lorries speed and never stop. Rundown hotels and chair lifts are leftovers of the time when this was a popular ski resort. But Penitentes is where trekking providers have their stores and tomorrow morning they’ll carefully weigh and label our bags, load them on the mules and take them to Plaza de Mulas, where we’ll arrive in three days. There’s just enough time for a last as a do, Argentina’s famous grilled meat, before we sort out our packs and enjoy our last night in a proper bed. Fernando’s minivan drops us at the entrance of the Aconcagua National Park, the rangers check our permits and give us our rubbish bags and a detailed briefing of all the regulations. In practice, anything you do will trigger a $1,000 fine. Outside the window, framed by the deep blue sky, Aconcagua stares down at us while the ranger keeps talking.

The trek begins. We walk through the vast landscape and the sparse, hardy vegetation. We dance over a suspended bridge, a line of mules overtake us as we negotiate the steep, eroded banks of another stream. Confluencia is a small group of coloured tents, each quarter occupied by a different agency. Alex and Sylvain look a bit tired, but this is the first day and we’ve reached 3,200m of altitude relatively fast. The crazy thing is, round here 3,200m is low. The ranger on duty greets us with a friendly smile and quickly stamps our permits, all the while without taking his eyes off Barbara’s long hair. We spend two nights at Confluencia, hiking up to Plaza Francia to better acclimatise and give a close look at Aconcagua’s imposing South Face. As we walk along the Horcones Inferior Glacier, Lorenzo and Victor discover a common passion for rugby, and their tales of matches and drinks fill the grey, red and brown valley.

Plaza Francia is a silent, empty site with a lonely signpost in the middle. The immense, white wall of the south face looms over it while a small cloud dances on the summit, perhaps there’s someone now at the top, looking down on us from 6,900m. We’re back at Confluencia for the medical check. Just in time before the doctor calls it a day, he’s got an invitation to the rangers’ barbecue, which has exceptionally been extended to Barbara. The doc clears everyone for the next leg, apart from Sylvain. “Your blood pressure is too high. Take these,” he frowns, handing him a few pills. “But if it’s like this tomorrow, you’ll have to go down”. While the rest of the group sets off in the early morning, Sylvain, Rob and I wait for the doctor to open shop for another check. If the evening party has taken a toll on him, he hides it well when he opens the door.

Sylvain’s pressure has dropped considerably, and with another handful of pills we’re good to go. It’s a long way to Plaza de Mulas, and over 1000m of height gain. After an hour or so we enter the long, endless Playa Ancha: the valley floor is almost flat here, so empty and featureless that it looks like we aren’t even moving. We carry on walking, staring ahead with minds as empty as the land scape itself. We approach the final, steep ascent. It’s all grey scree and dust now we left the last shrubs a long way back. Aconca gua’s western buttresses tower above us. It’s almost evening when we reach Plaza de Mulas, a surreal village of plastic domes huddled in a vast rocky bowl, inhabited by strange humans all wrapped in duvet jackets. With the possible exception of Gian and Rick, we’re all tired from the long day and some are feeling the altitude: Victor is a bit nauseous, Roberta has a light headache.

We stop to check with the rangers while a few porters play football outside, just behind the sign ‘Plaza de Mulas 4,300m’. They don’t even break a sweat. A rest day at Plaza de Mulas will help us acclimatise and give us time to sort out the equipment for the ascent. The usual strategy is to cache some gear and food at the higher camps and return to sleep at the lower ones, before climbing back with the rest of the stuff as the sleeping altitude is progressively increased. A large commercial group has just arrived: a jumble of duffel bags and boots lies on the gravel by the agency’s white and yellow tent. A spirited girl with black hair and a matching ‘Mountain Madness’ vest is talking with Pablo, the man in charge of logistics. Victor and Rick walk past as I wait for my turn. “Can you please tell Hulk here to stop destroying my tent?” Victor says in a half joking tone. “Hulk?” I grin, looking at Rick’s big, muscular frame.

“Yes, he occupies three quarters of the space, scatters all his stuff around and can’t open the zip without tearing the whole thing down”. Rick looks down sheepishly. Pablo emerges from his conversation and my two friends decide to move on. “Nevermind,” says Victor, “I’ll sort him out”. I wonder. We’re definitely not your orthodox mountaineering team, but I’m proud that we chose to rely only on our forces no organised expeditions, no guides, no porters. Let’s see how far we get. Pablo hands me the VHF radio I requested to keep contact with base camp during the climb, mostly for weather updates, but also in case of emergency. I confirm the dinners we booked with him and recap our ascent plan. “I’m not feeling great,” Roberta says when we emerge from our tents. Her face is swollen and she’s had hardly any sleep. The doctors are already looking after a man with severe acute mountain sickness (AMS) when we get there.

He’s lying on a bed with an oxygen mask, and will soon be helicoptered down to Mendoza. We’re all authorized to proceed with our first cache at Camp Canada, with the exception of Roberta who must stay at Plaza. Barbara decides to remain with her, and after a quick discussion we decide to rearrange our spare days so that the girls can catchup as soon as possible. Gian and Hulk are the first to go in the morning; I follow with Victor, as we seem to have the same pace. The weather is fine, although a fearsome lenticular cloud has appeared on the summit. It’s an ominous sign, but we try to ignore it. We’ve got several days to go, and the forecast shows a window of calm just at the right time for our summit bid. Victor and I climb the steep 700m to Plaza Canada in a very honourable two and a half hours including stops. Alex arrives with the others about an hour later.

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.

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.