I had no idea how long the journey would take or what obstacles I would encounter. The food in my bag was meant to last me a maximum of ten days. If I was still up the mountains by then, I would just have to keep going till I dropped.
To help me climb I’d torn an aluminium pole off the plane and strapped it to my wrist. I ascended up the valley side, feeling like a hairy yeti or a stuffed, furry matryoshka doll in all my layers of clothing. Movement was limited and I took it slow so as not to sweat. There was no obvious way up the slope so I chose a north-west route for easier walking, knowing that sooner or later I’d have to turn west and climb directly up the mountain.
Around noon I decided I was getting too far off course and turned west. I quickly discovered I’d made the wrong choice earlier and should have been climbing straight up all along. By now the snow was melting in the sun and even in my improvised snowshoes I sank up to my knees. It was very heavy going and every few yards I had to stop for a short rest.
I persevered and by mid-afternoon was already very high. Beneath me, I could see the Cessna, looking small and indistinct. After some slivers of meat and another rest, I continued upwards, planning to reach the top before dark. If I failed, it would be almost impossible to sleep on the acute slope of the mountain. As I climbed, I imagined the view that would greet me on the other side; a lush green valley, busy farmsteads, Chilean gauchos herding cattle.
By the time the sun dipped behind the mountain I was still nowhere near the top. Somehow I would have to sleep here without tumbling down the slope and breaking my neck. I looked around for a level spot; of course, there was none. In fact, the higher I climbed, the steeper the slope became. Tiredness was setting in and my legs felt like heavy logs, the backpack now a lumpy, brick-filled burden. I clambered over an enormous rock, so that I wouldn’t have to trudge around it, and nearly toppled off when the weight of the bag on my shoulders pulled me backwards.
Suddenly, total exhaustion came over me and I knew that I couldn’t go on. It was rapidly growing dark and I was getting panicky and desperate. I dug into the snow at the top of the rock, hoping to excavate a hollow where I could lie flat for the night, and found only more rock. In sheer frustration, I punched it with my fist, my gloves and lack of strength keeping me from seriously hurting myself. Then I started to weep uncontrollably. I felt utterly depressed and dejected.
Eventually I stood up and got going again. A little further on, I came to another boulder, even bigger than the last. This time I went around it. At the top, the wind had blown a deep furrow in the snow. It was not horizontal, but the wall of snow would keep me from rolling down the mountainside.
The sky was clear and the air on my exposed cheeks as cold and sharp as knives. I covered my face with extra layers and used the rubber mat for a bed. The view was magnificent, with the snow-covered landscape laid out before me, though its beauty was hard to appreciate in my circumstances. I closed my eyes, prayed, and utter exhaustion dragged me into fitful sleep. Later, I was woken by lightning illuminating the black sky in the distance. I wondered if a storm was coming my way, soon to break over me. But there was no wind, no flurries, and I quickly went back to sleep.
Cold and the hard snow kept me semi-conscious, and as soon as it was dawn I was wide awake. While I waited for the sun to thaw me out a bit, I drank water from one of the bottles and ate some meat.
When the sun came up above the eastern mountains I started to climb again. My limbs were stiff and aching from yesterday but I found a sort of fold in the rock which seemed to lead to the summit. By now I was so high that the air was rarefied and my heart was beating fast. After every few steps I had to pause and rest, clinging to the sheer wall of snow. I no longer dared to look down and the thought of a slip and fall sent tremors of fear through me.
I reached the top of the peak and found it was a false one, no more than a ridge in the snow, the real summit still far off. I climbed on and by the middle of the afternoon still hadn’t reached the top. Ascent was becoming increasingly difficult as I tired and the wall of snow became almost vertical. I had to dig steps for my feet and hollow out handholds in the snow. One slip and I knew I would fall for hundreds of feet. Only the thought of trying to go back was worse than that of continuing upwards.
I had to be near the real summit by now. For the first time in my life I felt the excitement of the mountaineer arduously approaching a peak, his triumph almost at hand. As I climbed I kept repeating in my mind optimistic phrases about what I was soon going to see on the other side; a waterfall tumbling into a lush river, cows drinking in the shallows. Sheep, goats, green grass, trees, well fed people, people, people . . .
Suddenly the white vertical face, in front of my eyes for so long, was gone. It eased off to a slight gradient and then became completely flat. I knelt on a level surface about ten feet wide. The top of the mountain.
I scrambled across to the far side and looked for the expected landscape. All at once, elation gave way to despair. Instead of a green valley leading down to farmsteads and food, in front of me there was an endless expanse of snow-covered mountains. Peak after peak after peak, all the way to the far horizon. I hadn’t a chance in hell of getting through it all.
I was finished. This was the end. I slumped to my knees again and quietly wept.