searchingtheedge: July 2012

Cordillera Blanca – Peru

June 15 2012– July14 2012

Spectacularly beautiful Central American women kept Lucas and I entertained for hours. We were connecting through Costa Rica on our way to the High alpine playground of Peru’s Cordillera Blanca. Months earlier I had enticed my great friends; Lucas and Kristy, with stories of blue bird skies, lofty snow covered summits, culture, and adventure.

We landed in Peru, and were quickly greeted by its dirty, smoggy, crowded, and often violent capital city of Lima. A third world city of 11 million can often be a rude introduction to the North American traveler. Kristy had booked a room for us at one of the nicest hotels in Lima, free on points of course. We found her name on a sign held by our driver, and loaded our stuffed 80 liter packs into the Corolla. A violent smash and grind over the speed bump, and we were on our way. Our Westin room turned out to be a massive three bathroom suite, loaded with two hundred year old furniture, and stunning balcony views of the city. We dined on complementary sushi, brie, Champaign, and various foods, and sweets often reserved for the rich and high of class.

Lucas, Kristy, and I jumped a cab back to reality and the bus terminal the following morning. We agreed on a price, started down the busy city street, and promptly passed the Movil Tours bus terminal. Kristy lost her shit. Twenty minutes later, with a lot of pointing and spanglish, we had the cab turned around and stopped at the terminal, mere blocks from the hotel. It turns out cab drivers will always agree on an overpriced fare, even if they don’t have a clue where you want them to go.

Our 8 hour bus ride eventually broke its way through the bounds, and smog of Lima, passing one poor man who paid the ultimate price on South American roads. We crossed the side slopes of thousand foot high sand dunes, flowing unobstructed into the south Pacific. The highway inexplicably supported by the unconsolidated sand. The bus drove through twenty foot high sugar cane fields, like a ship cutting through a tropical sea. Hour after hour of twisty mountain roads, and white knuckle passes went by, as we steadily gained altitude. We eventually arrived in Huaraz, a mountain town sitting at over ten thousand feet above the sea, and the main staging point for mountaineers keen on the Cordillera Blanca’s snowy summits.

Acclimatisation

To the fog bound Canadian Maritimer living only several body lengths above the ocean, a 24 hour jump to 10000 feet can be a dangerous and often uncomfortable process. We took it easy, walked the streets, and experimented with local restaurants, some of us more than others. Clouds flowed passed the mountains from our roof top patio at La Casa De Zarela, as we drank one litre beer in the sun. After one night in the altitude we felt fine so we headed out for some high altitude sport climbing.

Hatunmachay claims to be the world’s highest sport area, single pitch towers break over 13000 feet, from a high altitude meadow. We climbed beautiful, pocketed faces for two days, spending one night at the higher altitude. Lucas and I felt well, Kristy did not. She was laid flat by pounding headaches, and nauseating stomach pain; the noise of late night partying Argentineans adding to her discomfort. Kristy felt much better in the morning, the three of us climbed till the collectivo came to bring us back to Huaraz. Feeling good and fit we made plans, and packed up for our first trip into the hills.

Llaca Valley

I was keen, motivated, and ready to push big. Lucas and I had our sights set on the 650 meter south face of Ocshapalca. The guidebook describes solid blue ice; up Andean snow Flutings, breaking through a few short mixed bands to the 5881 meter summit. We also hoped to warm up on Vallunaraju’s north ridge with Kristy.

A barely taped and wired together all-wheel drive Corolla taxi picked us up at our hostel. We beat up steep, rocky, mountain switchbacks; roads that most Canadians would question taking their trucks up. At one point 70 percent of the road had collapsed, thousands of feet to the valley below. The driver put the car into the cliff-side ditch, closely avoiding the corniced edge of the deadly drop.

The road came to an end at Laguna Llaca, we unloaded the car in the rain and fog, bought park passes, and somehow managed to rent a couple beds at the park rangers’ station.

The following morning we worked slowly up the steep sided valley towards our intended high camp. Fog and snow showers obstructed our view, as we worked through the high altitude boulder field. Somewhat lost and exhausted, we setup camp and passed out for the night. Having already lost time on the approach we decided to abandon our attempts on Vallunaraju, and instead focused all our energy on Ocshapalca. The three of us climbed up a slope to a small col, gaining access to Ocshapalca’s south face. Lucas and I decided to walk towards the face, and break a trail on the heavily crevassed glacier. We walked across the moraines, and quickly gained the base of the glacier. The snow grew deeper, and deeper, as I weaved a complicated trail through the shattered ice sheet below the face. Hour after hour passed by, as the waist deep sugar snow expended the last of our precious energy. We returned to camp, having broken the first trail of the season, 80 percent of the way to the face. Alarms set for midnight, we passed out. The morning came cold, clear, and dark; with no moon to guide us. Lucas and I lost a lot of time wondering the moraines in the black darkness of night, and eventual found our trail on the glacier in the early twilight hours of morning. We made quick progress to the end of our trail; I exhaustingly broke the final section to the bergschrund. The face looked amazing; with blue alpine ice flutings leading high up the face. Lucas remained at the end of the rope below me, exhausted. He was done, this attempt was done. After a while I accepted defeat, we returned to camp, and back to Huaraz the next morning with lessons learned.

Ishinca Valley

After a couple days of face stuffing, and Pisco Sours, we were once again fit and ready to hike into the mountains. The season was later than usual, and bottomless, unconsolidated sugar snow guarded access to the south faces. We adjusted plans; from south faces, to warmer, consolidated north, and west faces. Kristy asked the owner of our hostel, Zarela, to tell the cab driver to drive slowly. At the speed of smell through the dusty streets we drove towards the Ishinca Valley, as cars, busses, and rickshaws weaved a delicate dance around us. Lucas and I eventually convinced the driver to speed up. We packed our gear, and a week’s supply of food, onto donkeys, and enjoyed a leisurely 15 km hike past stunning cliffs into the base camp. The camp was full of guided groups; with porters, cooks, and guides, doing all the work, and making all the decisions. Begging the questions; why are they in the hills? What do they hope to find? And if they do summit, what have they achieved? One of those groups was a babbling, unfit, and generally unprepared group of Canadians form the Toronto, and Ottawa divisions of the Alpine Club of Canada.

The three of us woke early the next day and tagged our first summit, working up rocks, and eventually snow to the summit of Urus Este at 5420m. It was the highest any of us had ever been and offered stunning views of the surrounding peaks.

Lucas and I pushed a high camp to 5000 meters the following day, intent on the season`s second ascent of the mixed, and icy west face of Tocllaraju. The sun set crimson red, lighting the remaining clouds on fire.

We woke early to cold starlight night, and plodded up the glacier. My feet were frozen in damp boots. The sun slowly lit the eastern sky as Lucas and I racked up below the face. I pulled through a short section of overhung ice guarding access to 60 degree ice of the lower slope. We move quickly on the beautiful blue alpine ice, simul-climbing under a few small seracs. Nature called fast and loud on me, which proved to be a very memorable experience on a ledge-less 70 degree ice face. I led through an easy pitch of m3 shale. Pitch after pitch of 80 degree ice flowed by, as we broke through the serac barrier, and we eventually made it to the south ridge. The ridge was packed with unprotectable sugar snow, making for exhausting work around 6000m. We were breathing hard, swimming upwards; I hadn’t felt my feet all day. The summit was a welcome relief, sitting at a proud altitude of 6032m. We ate, took pictures, and I made one more failed attempt to warm my frozen feet. We dropped quickly down the northwest ridge, packed up our camp, and returned to base camp with light in the sky. The next day was a well deserved rest.

We had found success, and good climbing on a high peak, but I wanted more. At one a.m. I left base camp, starting a solo push up the 900 meter north face of Ranrapalca. I climbed up 50 to 65 degree snow, weaving through most, but not all of the mixed rock bands. The sun beat down, warming the snow. I made steady progress, as a crowd of over 20 climbers gathered on the Ishinca glacier below me. I eventually made it to the short 5.3 granite rock band at the top of the face. A couple gloved hand jams, and mountaineering axe hook moves on the near vertical rock, and I was finally free of the face. I was a mere 100 meters shy of the summit, and started the soul sapping plod across the summit plateau. After an hour and a half of waist deep snow wading went by. I was only a third of the way across the plateau, and I was running on my final reserves of energy. Having a long and involved descent ahead of me, I made the difficult decision to bail on the true summit. I dropped down the upper rock bands of the northeast face; rappelling, and then down climbing snow slops. The glacier had broken up in recent years, I weaved through crevasses. Snow collapsed around me, as I launched forward in a final effort to free myself of a deadly hole. The mountain gods were with me that day. One final rappel from a snow bollard, over an overhung serac, and I was once again safely back on the Ishinca glacier. The stumble back to base camp blurred by. I was greeted by friends and food in the cool night air. It took me a few days to recover from that day’s effort.

Santa Cruz

The three of us enjoyed all Huaraz had to offer for a few days. We rented mountain bikes, and were guided down a 35 kilometre descent back to town. There was barely a functioning part on my bike by the time I clunked into town. Kristy and I danced and drank, from disco to disco, often waking up a grumbly Lucas during our drunken stumbles into the hostel. Lucas and Kristy boarded a bus back to work, and responsibility. I boarded a collectivo to Caraz, and solo adventures in the Santa Cruz valley.

I sat in a baking car in Caraz, the driver was waiting till the car was packed full, to drive us up to the small town of Cashapampa. After a few hours I broke down, and paid him double my fair so we could be on our way. At one point on a mountain switchback he stopped the car; everyone got out, and said a prayer. He explained to me that a week earlier a van had plummeted down the drop, killing everyone on board. By late afternoon I`d made it to the trial head. I told the park ranger that I was meeting my ``Amigos`` at the base camp, presented my fake alpine club card, bought a park pass, and started hiking. It took me a day and a half to reach the Alpamayo base camp, passing by beautiful lakes, sand flats, meadows, and herds of Burros carrying all manner of tourist airport luggage along the popular Santa Cruz circuit trek.

I woke early in base camp, and started hiking through rain and fog to the glacier camp, at 5400m. Eventually passing by an empty moraine camp, and gaining the base of the glacier. I followed a faint trail upwards; visibility had dropped to less than 10 feet. I jumped a few crevasses, and exhaustingly slogged up the final 100 meters of 70 degree snow to the col. Winds blasted, but I could see the faint red dots of tents below me, and quickly descended to the camp. I dug a body sized hole in the glacier, lay my bivy bag down, and quickly stuffed everything in it, in a meager effort to keep things dry. I stood in the snow and wind for a couple hours, cooking supper, and making water for the next day’s climb. The guides thought I was crazy. An extended session of squirming was needed to get everything laid out in the bivy bag. Winds and snow pounded all night, completely burying me, and packing snow into the small slit I’d left opened for air.

I started late, and followed tracks to the bergschrund below Alpamayo’s Ferrari route. Spindrift blasted down the face. I goggled up, cinched up, and with music blasting prepared for battle. Climbing gradually steepening alpine ice up the central snow fluting, I finally passed the guide and his client a few pitches from the summit ridge. In the final meters to the summit the clouds parted, and the sun shown for the first time in days. I stood looking out on a sea of white, all but the 6000 meter peaks obscured in the mist. The sun’s warmth felt amazing. The guide showed up, we decided to rappel together, using our combined 3 ropes to move quickly down the short 270 meter face. I was back at camp 4 hours after I had started. We ate food, and exchanged stories; the guide no longer looking at me as the idiot, who showed up on a high altitude glacier, in a whiteout, alone, but as a fellow climber.

I dried gear in the late afternoon sun. The lingering clouds on the ridges light up, as the sun set, outlining the mountains in a pink glow. I tucked in for another cold night at 5400m. Waking during the night I could feel a sticky fluid flowing down my face, it felt like blood. In the morning I realised it was not blood, but layer upon layer of blisters; the sun is a mean mistress at 6000 meters.

That morning, with a full moon to guide me, I walked accost the virgin glacier, keen on Quitaraju’s north face. An extremely large bergschrund blocked my progress, and with the slightest touch the only snow bridge collapsed. I climbed 50 feet down into the hole, and thinking light, crossed the fake bottom to climbable terrain on the other side. Kick kick, breath, swing, breath, swing; I made steady progress up the 55 degree snow face as the sun slowly rose behind me. I gained the central snow rib and 200 meters later stood on the summit ridge. I climbed the final 100 meters of corniced ridge, and stood alone at 6040 meters, an extraordinary feeling. The skies were clear, and I took as many pictures as my frozen fingers would allow before starting the descent. It took me over 20 rappels to get down the 400 meter face with my single 60m rope, carving snow bollards, and leaving pins and nuts along the way. Heat blasted me, in stark contrast to the cold of the rest of the day, as I walked the quickly melting glacier back to camp. I packed up, and dropped down to base camp that day. A day and a half later, I was back in Huaraz, sun burn and all.