I try not to overuse superlatives, as there´s always the possibility of going off the deep end into hyperbole, but sometimes they really are the absolute best expression of an activity. I am well aware I already characterized climbing Cotopaxi as ¨the hardest thing I´ve ever done,¨ and I don´t want readers to think that I throw that phrase around lightly, but - quite honestly - I found something that surpassed Cotopaxi in difficulty. Its name - quite innocent, actually - is Huayna Potosi (¨Young Mountain¨ in Quechua).
Standing at 6,088 meters above sea level, this snow-capped peak can be climbed in two days, though three is recommended. Savoring the end of a 5 bolivano ($0.90) meal and leisurely drinking a beer at around 7pm one evening in La Paz, Scott and I considered the options. He really wanted to ¨bag¨* a 6,000-plus meter peak (*Lonely Planet Language), and I wasn´t about to be left behind in La Paz, although the idea absolutely terrified me. Maybe it was the half-beer, maybe it was the incredibly drunk Bolivian man who kept coming over to our table and yelling, ¨My name is...?¨ but I decided I´d go for it. Less than an hour later, we´d paid our Bs. 700, heard the spiel about what to bring (including chocolates, altitude pills, coca leaves), and committed to attempting this ridiculous feat.
The next morning, we arrived on time to the office, although it took quite some time for all of the equipment to be assembled. Only one other climber - an affable 36-year-old Danish man named Karsten - had opted for the two-day trek; most of the group was already at Base Camp. Two hours and one incredibly bumpy van ride later, we were eating lunch at Base Camp, listening to the warning of the group that had just returned.
¨This is the hardest thing you will ever do.¨
¨I only made it to 6,000 meters...the last 88 really kill.¨
And, audibly, as they were climbing into the van, ¨Hah. They have no idea what they´re in for.¨
We packed our bags: ice pick, crampons, helmet, boots, snow-protection for our ankles, pants, jackets, and neck gators - combined with our sleeping bags and extra warm layers, it was about 35 pounds of equipment. So laden, we began our climb to High Camp. About two hours later, exhausted by the packs and the beauty of the surrounding peaks, we stumbled into High Camp, where bright sunshine, loud French people, and comfortable bunk beds greeted us. We spent the afternoon pretending to be bravely contemplating that night´s venture, including reading - and scoffing at - the myriad graffitis inside the refugio´s walls, mostly suggesting we turn back immediately.
We ate dinner of soup and pasta at 5pm, and a helpful Australian doctor suggested I could safely take up to twice my prescribed dose of altitude pills, should I begin to feel ill. Although, he warned, I might get tingly fingers. In my head I thought about punching him in the nose; I´d take tingly fingers over headaches, vomiting, diarrhea, upset stomach, loss of concentration, and temporary dementia any day of the week.
Around 6pm, we were urged to bed, and everyone spent the next 6 hours trying not to think. I took the opportunity to visualize myself reaching the top, ice pick waving valiantly in hand.
The only time I got up was to use the restroom, and when I went outside, the moon had not yet risen. The stars were clustered thick and bright over the blanketed snow, and the clouds - below me - glimmered in their faint light. I breathed deep and thought, ¨I can do this.¨
We got up to pitch darkness around midnight, put on our gear, and slung our light packs (water, chocolates, sunglasses, camera, my avalanche-whistle) over our shoulders. Then, headlamps turned on, crampons attached, and ice picks in hand, we began the long, slow climb into Moria. I mean Huayna Potosi. Now, if you are unfamiliar with crampons, as I was, you should know that they are basically heavy, inch-long spikes of metal that are attached to the bottom of ski boots; not exactly idea climbing footwear. In addition, my boots were a bit too big, since the next smallest pair was made for babies (incidentally, one of the graffitis at High Camp said, in sprawling, uneven handwriting: ¨Llegue con 9 años¨ - a 9-year-old summited).
The first hour felt surprisingly good; I got into a rhythm with my ice pick on the steeper parts, where it was necessary to walk sideways. Plant ice pick and cross right foot over left, step left foot, extend knee and rest. One, two, three. One, two, three.
I purposely didn´t check my watch, nor did I ask our guide, Silverio, how high we were, since I had decided fewer indications of our (lack of) progress were better. At around 3:15am (we´d started at 1:45), we paused, and were informed we´d reached 5,500 meters. Scott was elated; I was crushed. We weren´t anywhere near halfway. I´d like to credit the altitude, but I got snappy. The words ¨no puedo¨ (because I was inexplicably speaking to myself in Spanish throughout most of the hike) crept into my mind. I forced myself to think about ten positive thoughts to counteract that single negative one that had crept, unbidden, into my mind. But the seed of doubt had been planted.
Before continuing on, we switched off our headlamps; the moon was plenty bright to guide us. Up ahead, inconceivably high on the dark wall of snow ahead, we could see the lights of little triplets of climbers, tied together by safety ropes...they looked like the lights of the Polar Express, winding up, zig-zagging back and forth in the impossibly steep cold.
We switched our lights back on when suddenly a hulking darkness blotted out the moon. It was the steepest part in the trail, where we´d be ice climbing. The switchbacks grew narrower and steeper as we ascended the face, and soon Silverio turned to us and, without speaking, indicated how we were to dig our picks into the ice face directly above us, readjust our footholds a few inches higher, then loosen the pick and re-attack the face. A few harrowing minutes later, we were perched upon the top of the wall, shaking with cold and the nearness of disaster. By this point, it had gotten hard for me to breathe, and I could barely swallow the water Scott offered me. It was impossible to stop for long, as I was also freezing in the snow, and Silverio pulled my hood up over my helmet and zipped me deeper into my jacket. Unfortunately, it was almost impossible to continue without resting, so I slipped into a personal hell of cold fatigue. While we were moving, I did fine, wondering if llamas had to acclimatize at altitude, and mentally humming (for whatever reason) ¨Home on the Range¨ and the UCSB fight song, but changing the words to ¨Olay, olay olay olay, cum-bre, cum-bre¨ (cumbre means peak in Spanish). But when we stopped, however briefly, I had to fight down the panic that was rising within me, as I imagined the blood freezing in its arteries on the way to my brain. At one point, breathing hard, Silverio instructed Scott to feed me altitude pills to fend off the terrified feeling.
Just before the sun rose was the hardest part. We´d been hiking for over three hours, my body was exhausted, my mind was reeling, I demanded rest at every flat spot, and putting one foot in front of the other required all the strength I felt was left in my body. It was then that Silverio paused, turned to me, and said simply, ¨el sol viene.¨ Behind me, just beyond his outstretched finger, beyond the clouds that blanketed the world below, beyond the edge of oblivion, I could see the faint glow of the sunrise.
The next half hour was made slightly less difficult by the knowledge that soon the world would be thawed, softened, and warmed by that life-source. And yet the doubt kept growing. It was before the sun was fully in the sky, sprawled painfully in the snow during a brief rest, that I finally gave voice to my doubts. I knew Scott would summit, and the travel agent had explained to us that if one person wanted to descend, they would do so with a guide, but that the other person could continue with another group. This was seeming more and more like an option. I felt so panicked by not being able to breathe that I was almost crying when I turned to Scott and told him, ¨I´m not sure if I can do this.¨ He was understanding, relaxed, unworried. Which actually endowed me with more motivation; maybe no one expected me to summit, which would make it all the more satisfying if I did.
But at the next break, I was in even worse shape. We´d reached a natural bridge over a crevasse, the sun was full in the early-morning sky, and another steep face rose above us, just to the right of a sheer rock face. I was lying in the snow, trying to summon whatever power was left in me, when Silverio pointed again. ¨Ves las rocas aca? Esta es la cumbre.¨ The summit was in sight. It was an hour and half of steep snow ridges from where we were sitting to the very highest point on the mountain. The despair in my chest turned to relief. I was half-crying, half-laughing, and because my cold lips and reeling mind had lost the ability to form words many hours before, Scott looked alarmed. But I stood up with renewed vigor, and - for the first time - I realized I might make it to the top. We were at 5,900 meters.
And so we pushed on. At the top of the next steep face, we ran into Karsten (we´d named him Captain Denmark for his nonchalant, but modest mentioning of the four Iron Man competitions he´d completed, along with Adventure Racing - a sport invented for those who think Iron Man leaves something to be desired, intensity-wise). He´d left before us, and made it to the summit before sunrise. He smiled and hailed us from afar, shouting questions and exclamations and taxing my ability to choke words out. He also said I looked better than Scott, a comment that Scott took very personally, and although I knew it to be far from the truth, I appreciated nonetheless.
But as he descended, and we´d had a moment to pause, the panic and inability to breathe came back with renewed force. I bent double over my ice pick, breathing shallowly and fighting tears. Again, I hope I can attribute this apparent loss of sanity to the altitude, but I felt truly terrible. Silverio turned to a descending guide and asked him to wait. Then he turned to me, and put his hand understandingly on my shoulder.
¨Si sientas bien, puedes subir. Pero si sientas mal, es mejor bajar, porque vas necesitar energia para bajar. Pero la decision es tuya.¨
- If you feel ok, you can summit. But if you don´t you should turn around, because you´re going to need energy for the hike down. The decision is yours.
I knew the answer, but it took me a few seconds to muster my voice. I breathed deeply a few times, calming the panic, looked him in the eyes, and gasped, somewhat savagely, I assume:
¨Voy a subir.¨
- I´m going to summit.
Silverio smiled, Scott probably grimaced, and I took another step forward. The final ascent was hard, maybe the hardest of the whole trek; it featured icy pinnacles, full jumps across 50-foot crevasses, and narrow shuffling over windy ridges.
The path upwards looked impossible, and there was one pause where we sat with a full thousand-meter vertical drop at our backs. But I could see the peak, and I was no longer worried; it might take three hours, but I was going to the top. I counted the steps in my head, and first I took 30 stops before pulling on the rope to indicate to Silverio, at the lead, that I needed to rest. The next time I took 40. The next time, I didn´t need to count, because we´d reached the summit.
There are no words in the English language to express what it felt like to reach the top. I don´t even think it´s worth it to try. I no longer felt like crying, but the simple, pure exhaustion that flooded my body was augmented by a small, cool pride, which grew as Scott and I rested at 6,088 meters, and Silverio took photos of us. It was 7:20am, 5h35 minutes after we´d begun.
We were at the top maybe ten or 15 minutes, and then we started back down. As it turned out, Silverio was right; you couldn´t just roll back down the mountain. Though the steps moving down were incomparably easier than those ascending, they still required a concerted effort.
Just after we descended from the rocky peak, too, a heavy cloud rolled in, bringing snow and silence with it. We´d hoped to see the startling vistas we´d missed at night, but the snowy clouds were too thick. They also made it impossible to measure progress, so I found myself lost in an impenetrable fog of timeless fatigue.
We reached the refugio at around 9:30am, where we were fed soup (I had no appetite; the altitude also affects the digestive system) and allowed about 45 minutes to rest. Scott and I climbed into our bunks, laughing that we were expected to sleep while surrounded by a group of guffawing French 60-year-olds who hadn´t made it to the top, but who had apparently been guzzling booze all morning, then promptly fell asleep.
Silverio woke us what felt like minutes later. We packed our heavy bags, put our normal hiking shoes on, wrote our own graffitis, and spent an hour and half more descending to Base Camp. We deposited our equipment, climbed into a van, and rode back to La Paz, almost sleeping on the way, despite the violently potholed road.
Back in our hostel around 2:30pm, we fell into our beds. I awoke almost 18 hours later, exhausted and proud. I still can´t believe I did it.
 |
| Huayna Potosi in full glory |
The next morning, we arrived on time to the office, although it took quite some time for all of the equipment to be assembled. Only one other climber - an affable 36-year-old Danish man named Karsten - had opted for the two-day trek; most of the group was already at Base Camp. Two hours and one incredibly bumpy van ride later, we were eating lunch at Base Camp, listening to the warning of the group that had just returned.
 |
| Scott on a scree slope below the snow line |
¨This is the hardest thing you will ever do.¨
¨I only made it to 6,000 meters...the last 88 really kill.¨
And, audibly, as they were climbing into the van, ¨Hah. They have no idea what they´re in for.¨
We packed our bags: ice pick, crampons, helmet, boots, snow-protection for our ankles, pants, jackets, and neck gators - combined with our sleeping bags and extra warm layers, it was about 35 pounds of equipment. So laden, we began our climb to High Camp. About two hours later, exhausted by the packs and the beauty of the surrounding peaks, we stumbled into High Camp, where bright sunshine, loud French people, and comfortable bunk beds greeted us. We spent the afternoon pretending to be bravely contemplating that night´s venture, including reading - and scoffing at - the myriad graffitis inside the refugio´s walls, mostly suggesting we turn back immediately.
 |
| The route to the top |
Around 6pm, we were urged to bed, and everyone spent the next 6 hours trying not to think. I took the opportunity to visualize myself reaching the top, ice pick waving valiantly in hand.
The only time I got up was to use the restroom, and when I went outside, the moon had not yet risen. The stars were clustered thick and bright over the blanketed snow, and the clouds - below me - glimmered in their faint light. I breathed deep and thought, ¨I can do this.¨
We got up to pitch darkness around midnight, put on our gear, and slung our light packs (water, chocolates, sunglasses, camera, my avalanche-whistle) over our shoulders. Then, headlamps turned on, crampons attached, and ice picks in hand, we began the long, slow climb into Moria. I mean Huayna Potosi. Now, if you are unfamiliar with crampons, as I was, you should know that they are basically heavy, inch-long spikes of metal that are attached to the bottom of ski boots; not exactly idea climbing footwear. In addition, my boots were a bit too big, since the next smallest pair was made for babies (incidentally, one of the graffitis at High Camp said, in sprawling, uneven handwriting: ¨Llegue con 9 años¨ - a 9-year-old summited).
 |
| Sunset at 5,300 meters |
I purposely didn´t check my watch, nor did I ask our guide, Silverio, how high we were, since I had decided fewer indications of our (lack of) progress were better. At around 3:15am (we´d started at 1:45), we paused, and were informed we´d reached 5,500 meters. Scott was elated; I was crushed. We weren´t anywhere near halfway. I´d like to credit the altitude, but I got snappy. The words ¨no puedo¨ (because I was inexplicably speaking to myself in Spanish throughout most of the hike) crept into my mind. I forced myself to think about ten positive thoughts to counteract that single negative one that had crept, unbidden, into my mind. But the seed of doubt had been planted.
Before continuing on, we switched off our headlamps; the moon was plenty bright to guide us. Up ahead, inconceivably high on the dark wall of snow ahead, we could see the lights of little triplets of climbers, tied together by safety ropes...they looked like the lights of the Polar Express, winding up, zig-zagging back and forth in the impossibly steep cold.
 |
| All geared up and rarin´ to climb! |
 |
| I swear, it´s steeper than it looks |
The next half hour was made slightly less difficult by the knowledge that soon the world would be thawed, softened, and warmed by that life-source. And yet the doubt kept growing. It was before the sun was fully in the sky, sprawled painfully in the snow during a brief rest, that I finally gave voice to my doubts. I knew Scott would summit, and the travel agent had explained to us that if one person wanted to descend, they would do so with a guide, but that the other person could continue with another group. This was seeming more and more like an option. I felt so panicked by not being able to breathe that I was almost crying when I turned to Scott and told him, ¨I´m not sure if I can do this.¨ He was understanding, relaxed, unworried. Which actually endowed me with more motivation; maybe no one expected me to summit, which would make it all the more satisfying if I did.
But at the next break, I was in even worse shape. We´d reached a natural bridge over a crevasse, the sun was full in the early-morning sky, and another steep face rose above us, just to the right of a sheer rock face. I was lying in the snow, trying to summon whatever power was left in me, when Silverio pointed again. ¨Ves las rocas aca? Esta es la cumbre.¨ The summit was in sight. It was an hour and half of steep snow ridges from where we were sitting to the very highest point on the mountain. The despair in my chest turned to relief. I was half-crying, half-laughing, and because my cold lips and reeling mind had lost the ability to form words many hours before, Scott looked alarmed. But I stood up with renewed vigor, and - for the first time - I realized I might make it to the top. We were at 5,900 meters.
 |
| Sunrise, somewhere over the altitude where breathing´s possible |
But as he descended, and we´d had a moment to pause, the panic and inability to breathe came back with renewed force. I bent double over my ice pick, breathing shallowly and fighting tears. Again, I hope I can attribute this apparent loss of sanity to the altitude, but I felt truly terrible. Silverio turned to a descending guide and asked him to wait. Then he turned to me, and put his hand understandingly on my shoulder.
 |
| Summit: Lake Titicaca in the background |
- If you feel ok, you can summit. But if you don´t you should turn around, because you´re going to need energy for the hike down. The decision is yours.
I knew the answer, but it took me a few seconds to muster my voice. I breathed deeply a few times, calming the panic, looked him in the eyes, and gasped, somewhat savagely, I assume:
¨Voy a subir.¨
- I´m going to summit.
Silverio smiled, Scott probably grimaced, and I took another step forward. The final ascent was hard, maybe the hardest of the whole trek; it featured icy pinnacles, full jumps across 50-foot crevasses, and narrow shuffling over windy ridges.
 |
| Descent |
There are no words in the English language to express what it felt like to reach the top. I don´t even think it´s worth it to try. I no longer felt like crying, but the simple, pure exhaustion that flooded my body was augmented by a small, cool pride, which grew as Scott and I rested at 6,088 meters, and Silverio took photos of us. It was 7:20am, 5h35 minutes after we´d begun.
 |
| Scott´s graffiti |
Just after we descended from the rocky peak, too, a heavy cloud rolled in, bringing snow and silence with it. We´d hoped to see the startling vistas we´d missed at night, but the snowy clouds were too thick. They also made it impossible to measure progress, so I found myself lost in an impenetrable fog of timeless fatigue.
 |
| My graffiti (please excuse the effects of altitude) |
We reached the refugio at around 9:30am, where we were fed soup (I had no appetite; the altitude also affects the digestive system) and allowed about 45 minutes to rest. Scott and I climbed into our bunks, laughing that we were expected to sleep while surrounded by a group of guffawing French 60-year-olds who hadn´t made it to the top, but who had apparently been guzzling booze all morning, then promptly fell asleep.
Silverio woke us what felt like minutes later. We packed our heavy bags, put our normal hiking shoes on, wrote our own graffitis, and spent an hour and half more descending to Base Camp. We deposited our equipment, climbed into a van, and rode back to La Paz, almost sleeping on the way, despite the violently potholed road.
Back in our hostel around 2:30pm, we fell into our beds. I awoke almost 18 hours later, exhausted and proud. I still can´t believe I did it.
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