El Plomo Epic

Plomo Epic

Haha just pushed some car off the road. Our driver was hilarious.

After weeks of gathering as much information as possible about the glaciated giant northeast of Santiago, I was finally putting the finishing touches on constructing a plan to scale the 17,700 ft giant under my own power, in the middle of the Chilean winter. The upcoming week (7.16-7.20) we were to have off from school and thus provided me with ample time and indispensible opportunity to make an attempt at the Andean pinnacle. However, that Wednesday evening, as I was returning to my house under one of those rare red skies, I realized that the weather this entire week has been spectacular and, furthermore, was to remain stable until Sunday. With Friday off for USAC’s field trip to Isla Negra, I had three days of fantastic conditions before me. Hurriedly, I purchased all of my food for the trip and a band of willow wands of which I would spray paint the tips neon orange (I've gotten lost too many times to forget the value of such wands).

On my final night in Santiago, I came home to find that my host family was preparing to go skiing the next day! Those boogers hadn’t even told me! This was a fortunate turn of circumstance for me though as they would be able to drop both my gear and I off at SkiTotal the next morning early enough for me to catch the shuttle up to Valle Nevado- one of the many premier ski resorts in the Andes. After arriving at SkiTotal and purchasing my relatively overpriced one-way ticket to the resort, I was off on my own little adventure to the famed peaks that have drawn high-altitude mountaineers from all over the world to their remote beauty. Everyone in the van ride going up the 40-hairpin turn to the resorts could hardly believe what I had intended to accomplish and were even more astonished that I had no concrete means of returning home. I realize that there are many who criticize such seemingly careless, unplanned, random, hapless, impromptu antics that I am characteristic of, however, I find that such means are often the most fun when all you can define are your goals and all you know for certain is what you are aiming to do. I came to Chile without a plan and because of this, I live each day separate from the previous one; each in of its own a tiny, encapsulated adventure of come whatever may. My voyage to El Plomo would be no different- and while I ended up being hauled out on a snowmobile (moto de nieve, as I came to find out) sick, hypothermic and on the frayed ends of sanity, this excursion would be everything and more that craved in terms of soul-searching adventure.

Words cannot describe how majestic the Andes are under clear skies. As our caravan arrives after several stops to either chain-up or push broken down vehicles out of the way, I am in absolute awe over the treeless landscape that produces arguably the best snow conditions for skiing in the world. The resort is massive, comprised of 4 separate hotel/lodges, all $150-300+ a night, I immediately set out to gain the permission of the resort managers who are quick to check out the adequacy of my equipment as well as my own personal credentials as a mountaineer. All of the resort managers are skimountaineers with a multitude of impressive accomplishments and I am proud to be given the green light and their blessing on my journey. They also provide me with the tremendous service of allowing me to use their high lift to clear the first section of the resort completely. This easily saves me 40 minutes of skier-dodging and senseless uphill labor. Past the lift named “Mirador” I descend another valley where the second half of the resort lies. Here, two Palmer lifts relay skiers to opposite sides of the broad expanse and I bee-line it for the col that separates the valley. After this, I realize that it is relatively early in the day and I am poised for gaining significant distance on my first day out. At this point, my excursion becomes a personal race against time and distance. I push myself harder than I have ever worked in my life. Ascending ridge crest after ridge crest and descending valley after valley, I am beyond exhausted by the time the sun sets at around 5 pm. My camp is at 12,300 ft, protected from the wind by a magnificent icefall overlooking the monstrous Valle de Piedra Numerada I make enough water for tonight and tomorrow and sleep very warm despite the frigid conditions.

AI

At 4:30 a.m. I awaken and quickly prepare my essentials for the attempt. I am going very light today and can hardly believe the distance that I have covered so far according to my topographical map. This ‘map’ that I purchased from a legitimate store in Santiago for a small fortune suggested that I had covered 11 miles on snowshoe the day before wearing a 60+ pound pack. Quite the feat I’d say. Furthermore, the Plomo massif bore straight ahead- 5 or 6 miles according to the map that is. I quickly consumed an entire chocolate bar justifying the calories by the brisk pace of my movement and thus abandoned the safety of my warm tent for the thin, haggardly cold, early-morning air. I make incredible ground as I steadily gain altitude though the long valley. After consulting my map, I reason that due to crazy snow conditions (I had been post-holing in snowshoes just past my ankles) it would quicker for me to ascend the first of three grand couloirs rather than take the second one. In all my life, I have never seen such a massive, glacially pulverized couloirs and I decided that my only hopes of achieving a top-out would be to cache as much as possible before ascending. After stowing my snowshoes, bivy/sleeping bag, extra food and shovel, I start up the vertical expanse. It is noon by now and the sun still has yet to kiss this forsaken stretch of valley. I labor up the couloir with all my strength and yet I am slowed down bitterly by the gaining effects of altitude. I have been in atmospheres exceeding 14,000 feet many times in my life and while it has driven those around me to their knees, I have fortunately remained unaffected. This would be the day my fortunes would run dry. Two-thirds up the couloir and still only at 14,600 (I hardly celebrated when I passed the 14,500 ft threshold signifying the highest point in the contingent U.S. and consequentially the highest point I had previously ever achieved) I put my head onto the surface of ice that blessed me with safe purchase and recalled an instance up in the Palisades with my best friend Weston. While attempting a 3-day assault on the impressive Mt. Sill, we were nearing a snow/rock exchange on a +55° slope when he looked up to me in the midst of our precarious circumstance and exclaimed “this is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.” I said these exact words, out loud, as sweat beads froze in place down the side of my face. It was cold. Miserable cold. Torrents of frozen wind gusts blasted me from all sides, threatening to cement me into the side of that mountain were I to stop moving. But movement was slow and laborious and I was beginning to realize that my ability to think concisely was becoming increasingly impaired with each kick-step taken. I cursed the wind and shook a mental fist at the cold. It was 1:00 and the sun had yet to make its brief appearance. Finally, I top out the wretched couloir and exhaustedly flop onto my back in the glory of a well-earned solar bath. The sun seemed to be waiting there for me this whole time and tears came to my face as I was so happy to become acquainted with it once again. I pass out here.

Misery Couloir

After 40 or so minutes of unintentional bliss I am raptured back into reality by a spindrift of a thousand frozen spears which tear at my exposed, freshly sunburnt face. Gasping in pain, I reach for my facemask and place it beneath my goggles for protection. I ready the sunscreen only to discover that, like everything else above 15,000 feet, it had frozen solid. In a chronic state of carelessness, I stashed it back into my bag and continue my surge upward through yet another small couloir. I quickly realized that I had began to talk to myself more than usual here and that furthermore, my words were becoming ever more slurred and disorganized. I thus began the spiral down into mental hypoxia and altitude sickness. Ever since my haul through the first couloir, my stomach had been churning furiously at the chocolate-ladled fuel I had mindlessly fed it. Now, my stomach was relaying to my hypoxic brain its intentions to reject the rarely consumed substance and as I was beginning to cross the final glacier towards the summit crest at 15,800 feet, I spewed the pathetic contents of my stomach over the beautiful nimbus blue ice that gave El Plomo its incandescent beauty. I was weak. Mentally, I could no longer hold back the relentless forces of my extreme conditions nor the lurking sprites of self-doubt and despair. I gave up on the side of that wind-scorched glacier and strangely felt compelled to lay there and let it take me all away.

So close…

I woke up again near the site of my rather charitable chocolate donation to the Incas (there was an Incan sacrifice site just 500 ft above me) and through my hypoxic state, realized that I was in dire straights and had to get down. FAST. Looking west, I saw that the second grand couloir was much more forgiving in terms of descent and at once began to kick-step downwards towards the famous penetentes that were visible from my dangerous position. Though it seemed impossibly far down and even more despairingly far to my tent, I knew that I had been here before in my mind: South Sister. Drawing from that horrid day last winter in Oregon, I forced myself down the mountain- doing whatever it would take: that’s what was going to me home. After several stops to rest (see also: die) and allow my stomach time to adjust, I arrived at my cache site and weakly stowed my valuables into my pack. I was so weak that I could not put on my gaiters and my snowshoes bore only one strap apiece to get me home. After hours of slogging hopelessly towards my icefall, I finally came across the yellow beacon of salvation that is my tent and cry again as I am beyond relieved to reach some manifestation of safety. I am psychologically fractured and my moods ebb back and forth to the extremes; joyously celebrating even the smallest of victories and furiously pouting at the most indiscriminant of frustrations. I am nearly out of water and haphazardly toss my stove out onto the snow-kitchen with every intention of melting ice for water soon. I also place my fuel bottle, open, beside my cooking essentials and return to my tent not two feet away where I pass out from exhaustion atop my open sleeping bag. In one of the most senseless acts of natures proclivity to hate mountaineers, I awaken to the sound of a nightmare. At once, my tent takes a large hit on the side closest to the icefall and I am violently awoken to the sound of an avalanche. In my deteriorated state, I manage to utter the words “who the fu-“ as I thought that someone was throwing boulders at my tent. I am again pummeled by more snow chunks as the cornice overlooking the icefall fell away towards my remote home. I shield my head in disbelief as more and more falls on the side of my tent. The sound is horrific and sickening and as soon as the small spat is done transforming my camp into something uninhabitable I rush outside to make sure that my high-priced tent is okay. As soon as I try to leave my tent however, I trip as my bootwell is filled with random chunks of consolidated snow and ice. As I fall, I see that my stove is buried and my open fuel bottle is with it as well- undoubtedly knocked over, its precious cargo contributing to the pollution of the environment. FML. “Senseless” I utter at this disgusting turn of circumstance. I give up on it all. Piss on this cursed place. I return to my half-assed relocated tent and fall into a dreadful night of strange dreams and sick spells.

The next day the rush is on to get back to the resort. I wake up at 5 a.m. and doggedly unbury my trekking poles, stove and empty fuel bottle. I haven’t drunken anything since I spewed up atop the mountain and I haven’t eaten anything since the chocolate bar breakfast that prior morning. I have no energy and still, though I have tons of food, I know that I cannot hold anything down. I leave all extra weight behind and cache over 2/3 of my food supply. Screw the environment I ration. After the avalanche, all bets are off on me getting home and anything to tip the odds in my favor goes into that cache hole. Extra carabineers, straps, food, willow wands, matches- anything that I wasn’t going to need or had cost more than 20 bucks went down and soon I was slogging back down the rolling valley with a relatively light pack.

I cannot describe the journey back because I have mentally chosen to forget about it. It was hell and that much I know for sure. In short, my map was wrong often and my inadequate mental abilities and physical weakness didn’t help much either. All I know, is that at 3:30 pm, I crested the final ridge overlooking the second section of the Valle Nevado ski resort. I trudged downwards like a drunken Chilean and after an hour of downward slogging/stopping I came to the base of one of the Palmer lifts where I collapsed alongside a group of bewildered skiers and dry-heaved until I spewed out a mass of both blood and where-the-hell-have-you-been-the-whole-time saliva. Before I knew it, a medical team had me placed on a snowmobile bound for the main lodge where I was looked over and given tons and tons of water. After an hour’s rest in a warm room with several people looking over me and asking so many questions about my journey, I was told that I was free to leave when I liked unless I wanted to be checked in for the night at the hospital there ($$$). I hopped off the bed and ventured out into the parking lot looking for a ride. After asking several SkiTotal people for a return trip, one finally agreed and didn’t bother looking at my one-way ticket with the same scrutiny that the others had. Soon, I would be back in Santiago. Soon, I would be home-home. Soon, I would be safe. I slept hard the whole ride down.

Looking back after the token death march. The storm had consumed El Plomo beyond visibility. Perhaps my sickness was a blessing…