Aconcagua--February 1--Base Camp to Pampa de Lenas

Liz, Stuart, and I slept on the wooden-palette floor in the domed meal tent. I woke up and whispered to Liz, "Best sleep I've had in 2 weeks." Stuart, who I thought was still asleep, piped in, "I'll call Home Depot and have them deliver some of these palettes to your house." I told him our wooden deck would suffice.

The weather was sunny and clear, and the top of the mountain appeared tranquil and calm, but I knew better. We were told that there were not any groups heading for the summit that day. All hell broke loose at breakfast when Jim K started blabbing. After my asking him which technical climbs he had done and his replying, "I'm really more of a hiker," he launched into an analysis of Stuart and Dan's decision to turn back. He claimed he was there only to climb the mountain while many of the rest of us were just there for social reasons. Our crampon skills were not good enough to make the traverse ("Julie, you were still trimming your crampon straps up there!"). When he told me it wasn't cold at Camp III, I told him it wasn't worth a discussion. Thankfully, Dan intervened and told him, "Shut the fuck up, Jim. We've been listening to you for the last 2 weeks and we've had enough. If you'd like to go back up to try to summit, I will arrange it for you." Music to my ears.

I walked out of the room and into another domed tent to tape my feet. Dan came to find me. He was shaking and I was in tears. He made me promise to write on my evaluation that Jim should not be allowed to sign up for any group climbs in the future. A total pompous ass, and he has no climbing experience whatsoever. It wasn't even worth trying to explain to him why my crampon straps needed trimming (I had to replace them right before leaving Seattle because my old straps didn't fit my new boots). At least I've used crampons to climb 7 peaks, something he's never done.

We spent the next few hours hanging around BC packing up all our gear while Dan negotiated at length with Luciano and Mauricio (Grajales porters) to see if they would take Jim back up. They were concerned about the winds and weather, but Dan told them Jim didn't care. In the end, they quoted him a price of over $5300 to be dragged up and down the mountain and then be helicoptered out to Penitentes. Good riddance.

Finally the deal was sealed. We left Jim the with the porters, and Dan, Stuart, Liz, Ritesh, and I started the long hike down to Pampa de Lenas. And a long hike it was: 18 miles through sand and scree and two river crossings. Liz and Ritesh likened it to the Bataan Death March. Stuart carried me across the first river, but the water was running too high at the second. I donned my Tevas and relied on my poles to help avoid falling. The tape all came off my feet, but somehow my heels survived the rest of the hike. What didn't fare so well were the calluses on the bottom of my toes--blisters on every one by the time we pulled into camp around 8:00. Some had even split open.

Camp was filled with climbers on their way up the Vacas Valley--still clean-shaven, pale-skinned, with no signs of embedded dirt, learning how to put up their tents. We must have been quite a sight as we edged towards the campfire--clothes covered with dirt and stains, matted hair, wind-burned faces, and painfully parched lips.

The arrieros (muleteers) were in fine form. They barbecued us huge slabs of beef and chicken, dripping with juices and slathered on large chunks of bread. Bottles of wine and champagne were continuously passed around the circle. There was lots of raucous laughter, probably at the expense of us gringos.

Before darkness completely descended upon the motley scene, I tracked down my duffel and dragged it to the edge of camp where we had decided to sleep under the stars. There was a soothing tepid breeze, and the sky was stunning. I lay in my sleeping bag looking at the sky, unable to sleep because of the pain in my lips. Sounds trivial, but the pain was excruciating.