Day 13 - Base Camp to Pampas de Lenas (4,200M to 2,800M)

A Very Long Enjoyable Reprise

Who would have ever thought that thick leather Asolo hiking boots would be the epitomy of hedonism? One of the surprising great joys of the day was slipping on my hefty leather trekking boots. Typically, these great, trusted, companions feel a little on the heavy side of things, but after wearing weighty, monsterous, torture devices known as double plastic boots for the better part of a week these old friends were light as feathers and comfortable as moccasins.



This may qualify at TMI, but I had to laugh at myself this morning, after having a “tin box” experience. A welcome break from the infamous “blue tent” is the Asian style drop box in Base Camp. The humorous part is that my sinuses were so clogged this morning that I thought it a good idea to take advantage of the available toilette paper to blow my nose. The increased nasal oxygen flow was a welcome change, but the sudden and situationally shocking return of the olfactory sense was not. Now why didn’t I just wait for a different location? Blame it on altitude induced logic fog.



After a final Base Camp breakfast the expedition was ready to descend.  Simon was lacking a mirror and wondered just how many layers of skin remained on his nose, so I obliged with a digital rendering. He lives very near Gibraltar, on the Spanish side of the border, and works for an oil company, insuring rigging safety on North Sea floating derricks.



This morning we said an early “Good bye” to Alex, as he was suffering from altitude induced symptoms, lingering from the summit day, and needed to seek immediate lower levels to appease his edema taxed body.



We all watched the helicopter swoop in, while Stewart and Aussie Dan monitored the entire loading and departure process.



It was a mixed descent off the immediate slopes of the mountain. The natural beauty was hard to leave, but the exhaustion of continuous exposure needed to be quenched. Plodding down the descending valley, I promised myself that a proper training period and return to summit the “normal route” was in the indelible future.



The group had splintered in a matter of hours, but Cacho the consummate lead guide pulled us all together for a lunch break. He is a strong guide with an even more important sense of humor. When his guides screwed up and got gravel into the rice at a Camp I dinner, he made a joke of the fact that we would have rice again at Camp II and of course it would include small stones.



Texas Dan is a strong cognitive type and the other Eagle Scout of the expedition. He has a careful manner about him, with bursts of openness. Trust is never in doubt with Dan and his genuine nature.



Wally was my original roommate, the first night in Mendoza, and an eager mountaineer. To prepare for this trip he enrolled in a mountaineering curriculum outside of Seattle, Washington and completed several winter climbs (complete with frostbite) in Utah. He has a common sense passion for the alpine world. His magnetic pull to elevation is driven by a love of innate beauty and less a push to conquer alpine duress. Others dream of pounding the seven summits into submission, while Wally envisions precious opportunities to experience nature at levels hardly conceived by the distracted common man. His meticulous preparation and practical boundaries for climbing demand respect.



Leigh appeared to be “over” any lasting affects of his altitude sickness, however, his mood had changed from the consilatory greeting on summit day. He was all business and forward progress. It is a difficult thing to “tick off” the miles with a large group of triumphant summitters, still exhilerated from recent success. I have no idea if this played a role, but after lunch Leigh led the charge to the Vacas Valley.



English Richard is an exercise in careful dissemination of information. For days he sat in practical repose from discussions concerning altitude and then things gradually changed at base camp. He began to interject when altitude discussions began to waver into the realm of speculation. Gradually, we began to learn that it is his profession to train elite athletes in customized and synthesized altitude chambers. English Richard was actually the pensive expert of the group. Other fine details that emerged were related to his own athletic prowess, in having rowed for England and competed in a trans-Atlantic rowing competition. One was left with the impression that there was far more to be learned about and from this London native.



Finally leaving the approach to Mt. Aconcagua, we struggled to find the perfect pictorial summation of the trek.  Water, ice, and rock certainly played a continuous role.



Turning towards the “T-junction” of the Vacas Valley, no explanation for the return to the desert environ was needed, as it was visually apparent.



This was when I made a conscious decision to walk with Stewart. He is such and interesting character and great guy that I figured, “When else am I ever going to have the chance to hang out with Stewart for ten hours?”



One of the things that I really respect about Stewart is that he knows “himself”. There is no doubt that he can make the distance, at “his pace”. This afforded not only opportunity for great conversations, but the chance to slow down and enjoy the finer details of desert life.



We were amazed by the vibrant coloration of a crumbling rock that appeared to have a high copper content.



Huge bolders had made their way to the valley floor and we speculated about their current and previous positions.



Taking time to enjoy the scenery, Stewart and I mulled over our commonality of being “preacher’s kids” and in his words over time we found solutions to “solve the worlds problems”.



Off in the distance, there was a spec, which grew in size as we approached and turned out to be Jim. We now had a three way discussion group.



Then, not to soon after, two of our guides caught up with us and we were officially "the end" of the group. This didn’t bother any of us as the miles continued to pass.



The second greatest obstacle, beyond the 17 miles of trekking, was the river. Sometime it maintained a mellow ankle banging level and at others a torrent.



We would have three crossings today and the final was to be the greatest. Jim rolled his pants up to the knees and our guide Pablo simply shook his head and laughed. This was to be a “full on” acqueous exploration. Shoes, socks, and pants were shed in preparation. The waist belts of our packs were unbuckled, in case we were dragged under the pack could be jettisoned in favor of preventing drowning. We linked arms and headed for the glacial runoff. (A tricky self-portrait.)



The crossing was actually accomplished in two stages: the first a narrow bit to the center island, and the second a deep thrashing to the other side. There was a moment in the adrenaline rich melay where there was real doubt about reaching the other bank in tact, but when one link of our five-person chain faltered the others pulled strongly. Surprisingly, the water didn’t feel cold but refreshing. We were all truly invigorated after reaching the stability of the loose river stones on the bank. I think our excited minds were making our mouths move faster than the rushing river. Overlapping, exhilarating stories built one upon the other.



The good news was our final “wet crossing’ was behind, the bad news was that in the fading evening light there were still roughly four hours remaining.



Not to worry, we had Pablo to lead the way ahead of us and Stewart’s eternal optimism to carry homeward.



I don’t regret a moment of the extended version of the day, even setting up camp in the dark. It was a real pleasure to spend the better part of a day walking and talking with Stewart, to learn about his family and what “makes him tick” beneath the surface. Given the choice, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.