Argentina

To experience the adventure you must be willing to be uncomfortable,
and enjoy the loneliness by being happy with your own singing.
Frosty Wooldridge

This is it! After two years of training and three weeks of grunt it is finally time to go for the summit of Cerro Aconcagua, highest point in all the Americas. We stuff our packs with gear and grub, wrap our bodies in hi-tech layers, then unzip the tent to greet the early morning (translation-12:01 a.m.) with an unenthusiastic whine. Chad, our head guide, is looking laudably perky, scarfing down eggs, cheese, and porridge with greedy smackings. He is full of early-morning happiness that draws looks of disapproval from his troops, none of whom has an appetite. After the morning hygeine, I force down coffee, two Snickers bars, and some raisins, while staring at the stars to soothe my nerves. A sliver of moon, brilliantly white, hangs in the pitch black sky. The mountain is still there, naked of life, warmth, and safety. At half past midnight some unknown force launches us into the new millennium and toward the summit of the Americas.

Like pack mules we plod ponderously along, laden by heavy loads and breath, heads down, eyes fixed, a march of the dead. We see nothing and hear only the cadence of rock under boot. One of my Snickers wants to come up for air but I refuse. Soon I am feeling better. Not gladiatorial mind you, but pretty pumped up. My mantra is "It's only walking." All I have to do is put one foot in front of the other. For 18 hours. Going uphill. With 40% of the oxygen at sea level. I follow Chad and his pumping testosterone, and try to draw on his strength.

We stop occasionally, to rest and breathe and survey the craggy splendor. It is a perfect day. Smaller mountains recede to infinity, sparkling with sunlight. We are at 21,000 feet. Only one peak towers over us now-Aconcagua-tallest peak in the world outside the Himalayas. How hip can it get?

Return to Collection	Next Photograph

To experience the adventure you must be willing to be uncomfortable, and enjoy the loneliness by being happy with your own singing. Frosty Wooldridge This is it! After two years of training and three weeks of grunt it is finally time to go for the summit of Cerro Aconcagua, highest point in all the Americas. We stuff our packs with gear and grub, wrap our bodies in hi-tech layers, then unzip the tent to greet the early morning (translation-12:01 a.m.) with an unenthusiastic whine. Chad, our head guide, is looking laudably perky, scarfing down eggs, cheese, and porridge with greedy smackings. He is full of early-morning happiness that draws looks of disapproval from his troops, none of whom has an appetite. After the morning hygeine, I force down coffee, two Snickers bars, and some raisins, while staring at the stars to soothe my nerves. A sliver of moon, brilliantly white, hangs in the pitch black sky. The mountain is still there, naked of life, warmth, and safety. At half past midnight some unknown force launches us into the new millennium and toward the summit of the Americas. Like pack mules we plod ponderously along, laden by heavy loads and breath, heads down, eyes fixed, a march of the dead. We see nothing and hear only the cadence of rock under boot. One of my Snickers wants to come up for air but I refuse. Soon I am feeling better. Not gladiatorial mind you, but pretty pumped up. My mantra is "It's only walking." All I have to do is put one foot in front of the other. For 18 hours. Going uphill. With 40% of the oxygen at sea level. I follow Chad and his pumping testosterone, and try to draw on his strength. We stop occasionally, to rest and breathe and survey the craggy splendor. It is a perfect day. Smaller mountains recede to infinity, sparkling with sunlight. We are at 21,000 feet. Only one peak towers over us now-Aconcagua-tallest peak in the world outside the Himalayas. How hip can it get?

© Danny Kimberlin 2015