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Fred Ayres cuts a trail for the final assault in the clouds swirling about Lasunayoc's twenty-thousand-foot summit. |
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Fred Ayres cuts a trail for the final assault in the clouds swirling about Lasunayoc's twenty-thousand-foot summit. |
Saturday Evening Post, March 2nd 1957
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It was a puzzle. In planning the expedition, back in the United States, we had anticipated difficulties in reaching the peaks of Pumasillo. We knew that they were not shown on most maps of Peru and that they were misplaced on the few maps where they appeared. Yet, although no European or American had ever been in these mountains, we had been confident of our ability to find them. But now we had passed three frustrating weeks in Peru without getting near our peaks. We had met a party of the foremost British mountain climbers who had just spent a month wandering around the jungle valleys looking for the peaks of Pumasillo without success. We met a party of Dutch climbers who swore no such peaks existed.
But, finally, we proved that the peaks of Pumasillo were very real. Too real, they seemed, when we were later groping through the storms on their icy flanks. Too real, when Fred Ayres was desperately fighting his way out of an avalanche or when David Michael clawed out of the blackness of a bottomless crevasse which nearly got him. Too real, when Corky Matthews was starting what she thought would be her last slide down a steep ice slope. The peaks of Pumasillo proved challenging and at times dangerous. But we rose to the challenge and climbed three of the highest summits. More satisfying still was the thrill of exploring and opening up a new and spectacular area to the mountaineering world.
Our expedition was inspired by a flight which Austen Riggs and I made around Pumasillo in 1952. Austen had flown a small plane down to Peru from the United States and I was accompanying him as photographer and excess baggage. I was to join the Franco-American Andean Expedition of 1952 on the first ascent of the then-unclimbed peak of Salcantay. While we had the plane at Cuzco, Peru, we wanted to take pictures of all the big mountains in the area. These mountains, which are called the Cordillera Vilcabamba, are largely surrounded by the jungles of the Amazon basin and hence difficult of access and unexplored.
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The only way to get an over-all view of this formidable Cordillera is to fly over it as Austen Riggs and I did. After photographing Salcantay, we flew westward toward unexplored regions. Soon we found ourselves flying over an unknown area of jagged, savage peaks. Several we judged to be about 20,000 feet in altitude and offering challenging climbs, but unfortunately we had no time for them in 1952.
In the fall of 1955, several veterans of previous climbs in Peru began to exchange letters. Thus was born the North American Andean Expedition, 1956. We soon, were a strong expedition of nine members. Fred Ayres, who is professor of chemistry at Reed College, Portland, Oregon, has been climbing actively for about twenty-five years. He had been on our first ascent of Salcantay and was the most experienced member of our party. Graham Matthews, another real Peruvian veteran, liked the country so much that he decided his wife, Corky, should come along and enjoy it. She is in her own right a skilled rock climber, accustomed to scaling the sheer precipices of Yosemite. Graham teaches history at the Robert Louis Stevenson School for Boys in Pebble Beach, California.
Still another Salcantay veteran was David Michael, alias Georgia, who is sort of a struggling artist by profession. Georgia has a fine sense of humor, which makes him an ideal companion in the mountains. Then, like groups of athletes from other modern countries, we had our political officer: Andy Kauffman, of the State Department. Andy had first climbed in Peru in 1941, and has ever since, I suspect, been hoping to be transferred to our embassy in Lima. Arnold Wexler a physicist with the National Bureau of Standards in Washington, has spent many summers climbing, and George Arnis, our youngest member, had an advantage over the rest of us, in being a native of Leadville, Colorado (altitude 10,190 feet). Growing up at such an altitude, George was little affected by even the 20,000-foot heights of Peru.
The party was completed by me and Ginny, my wife. I am a physicist and Ginny is a biochemistry-laboratory technician and we both work for the Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory. Ginny had climbed quite a few of the Colorado Rockies, but this was to be her first encounter with big glacier-hung peaks.
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Fortunately, with so many members experienced in the pathways and pitfalls of expedition planning, the all-important chores could be shared among us. Arnold Wexler, a number of years ago, made a classic study of the rope stresses involved in arresting the descent of a body which has fallen from some height. So Arnold was a logical choice to take charge of expedition equipment. He devised a complete list, including such diverse items as "one Gerry Himalayan tent, four small whisk brooms, one rotary egg beater, 3000 feet Manila rope, three DDT bombs," and so on. After each item was a notation as to whether some member of the expedition owned and would supply it or whether it had to be purchased.
Ginny and I planned the food. The procedure was simple. Concentrated and dehydrated, yet appetizing and varied foods were the aim. We went over the lists of previous expeditions and profited from such marginal comments as "great, could have eaten twice as much," or more often "ugh, gave 40 lbs. to the Indians," and drew up a list. We figured on about two and a quarter pounds of food per man day. Various special items such as dehydrated soups, instant potato and dehydrated milk were purchased in the United States. But for the most part we counted on getting food in Peru.
Graham Matthews volunteered to serve as treasurer, We had estimated the cost of the expedition to be about $1000 per member. Of this amount, somewhat over half was transportation to Peru and back. This was handled on an individual basis. Food, equipment and transportation in Peru were expedition expenses and Graham kept the funds for these.
Fred Ayres had the tough job of arranging all gear for shipment. By mid-April Fred had seen to it that everything was crated and on a ship for Peru.
David Michael, George Arnis and Fred formed our advance party. By June fifteenth, when the rest of us arrived in Lima, they had pushed our gear through customs and bought the remainder of the food. But they had disturbing news. It seemed that an able British party was attempting to scale Pumasillo at that very moment. This group included George Band, who, in 1955, made the first ascent of Kanchenjunga, long considered impossible to climb. The British had left Lima a month ahead of us and were thus a formidable threat to our making the first ascent of Pumasillo.
In addition to the British unit, we found that another party of skilled climbers was active in the Cordillera Vilcabamba-led by one of the world's great climbers, the French guide Lionel Terray. Terray has made scores of difficult first ascents, including Makalu.
For a long time, in the bar of the Hotel Crillon, we debated whether we should change our objectives. Finally, one factor proved deciding. We had written Peruvian friends in Cuzco to expect us on June nineteenth and have all in readiness for our immediate take-off for the mountains. These friends, Abel Pacheco and Mayalay Flury, had gone with us to the base of Salcantay on that climb and became fans. They had volunteered to arrange for mules and high-altitude porters and to accompany us to base camp. They were, we assumed, waiting for us in Cuzco. Upon this assumption, we based our decision to fly at once to Cuzco. This decision was backed up by guess that the British might not find Pumasillo. Even if they had found it, we thought they could not climb all its numerous summits, for Pumasillo is more a range of mountains than any single peak. The pilot flew close by Pumasillo at our request and I tried to see how the deep valleys fitted together to give access to the mountains.
When we reached Cuzco, Abel and Mayalay were nowhere to be seen. Something had gone wrong with our plans. After settling ourselves in the government-operated Hotel Cuzco, we wandered about, sight-seeing.
Later that afternoon, the French climber, Terray, and his companions unexpectedly arrived at the hotel. They had climbed Salcantay and two other peaks, but we were even more interested to learn that they had been accompanied by none other than our Peruvian friends, Abel and Mayalay. Indeed, Abel had not received our last letter and was not expecting us until much later. No preparations had been made for us.
Bad news, for four of us were committed to return to the United States on July twenty-fourth. The next day we discussed plans with Abel. He had morsels of information. First of all, he had heard that the British had gone directly to the railhead at hacienda Huadquiña a month before. However, the owner was away at some of his mines and the British were unable to obtain mules to transport their gear. For ten days they had waited at Huadquiña before they decided to backpack their gear toward the mountains. Shortly thereafter, the owner and mules appeared, but the British had lost nearly two weeks at Huadquiña. They were committed to be back in Cuzco by June twenty-fourth to film the annual Indian festival of the summer solstice. So we were hopeful that they could do little on Pumasillo in such a short time.
Next Abel told us that there was no such peak as Pumasillo. Abel had never heard of it, nobody in Cuzco knew of peaks in that area—we would be wasting our time. Fortunately, we could produce our aerial photographs and convince Abel that we knew whereof we spoke. We then learned the facts of life at Huadquiña.
That hacienda was one of the richest in Peru. The owner, Don Alfredo Romaineville, was a self-made man and at Huadquiña his word was absolute law. Don Alfredo was a classic type, "un tipo clasico"— a huge bear of a man, now in his fifties and almost totally deaf. As a youth he had prospected in the Cordillera Vilcabamba for eleven years "with only the wild cows for company" and he loathed city life. Although immensely wealthy, he even now lived only to work. No one could obtain mules at Huadquiña except through Don Alfredo-and he was somewhat allergic to mountain climbers. But, added Abel with a flourish, "Don Alfredo is a good friend of mine." Abel has a substantial hacienda of his own near Cuzco and could thus deal with Don Alfredo as an equal-well, almost. Abel agreed to get in touch with Don Alfredo at once, but he thought that it would be at least a week before we could leave Huadquiña. We were unhappy to lose more time, but there seemed little that could be done. And this would give us a chance to meet the British and find what they had done. So we resigned ourselves to some of the tourist attractions near Cuzco.
We spent three days at Machu Picchu, sacred Inca city of stone. This ruin, about seventy miles from Cuzco, is on a precipitous promontory 1500 feet above the Urubamba River, where it knifes its way through the heart of the Cordillera Vilcabamba. The granite gorge of the Urubamba, 10,000 feet deep, provides a spectacular backdrop for the austere rock artistry of the Incas. Since the tiny Machu Picchu Hotel was full, we pitched our tents near the ruins.
Huadquiña is only about ten miles from Machu Picchu and while at the ruins we were surprised by a chance meeting with the British expedition, en route to Cuzco. George Band told us that they had followed high passes for two weeks and that they had gone completely around Pumasillo, but that they had found no way whatsoever to get to its base. The mystery mountains remained inviolate. He had heard that the valley we wanted to follow was impassable. Then came more bad news—Abel called to say that Romaineville had laid down the law: "No mules until July fifth."
Finally, on June twenty-ninth, we were made welcome at Huadquiña by the daughters of Don Alfredo Romaineville. That evening I asked Henrique Romaineville, Don Alfredo's brother, if there was any trail up the valley of the Rio Huadquiña where we wished to go. He told us that the British had misunderstood—there were two passable trails part way up the valley. One went through the jungle to the little Indian village of Sacsara, but, he added, "there are no big mountains near Sacsara, just hills." And so it went. The few people who had ever heard of Sacsara would tell us nothing of mountains there. It was a puzzle.
Our course of action was clear. A reconnaissance party must go to Sacsara and prove that Pumasillo was there. On June thirtieth, Andy, Arnold, Graham and George Arnis set off with three porters whom Abel had hired for us. At the same time the rest of us poked up another possible valley from Huadquina—namely, the one followed by the British. On July third, the porters returned from Sacsara with the wonderful news that they had found Pumasillo. The trail was more or less passable and the high valley of Sacsara was ringed with lofty glacier-hung peaks.
The next day it looked as if we might never reach it. Don Alfredo had returned to his hacienda and we told him the good news. But he was unimpressed. There were no mountains at Sacsara: it would be folly to take mules to Sacsara. Abel came to our rescue at that point. Mules he had promised, and mules we should have. Mules we got.
But the question remained in our minds for a long time: Why did Don Alfredo say there were no mountains above Sacsara? It is possible that he didn't know of them. But it is also very possible that he did not believe we were mere mountain climbers, but thought we were prospectors. Naturally, he would want to discourage the prospecting of mining country which he himself had not scoured for minerals. We had foolishly shown him a Geiger counter which we had brought for amusement. Perhaps this had confirmed his suspicions.
The trail from Huadquiña to Sacsara was a route we shall not soon forget. After the first six miles, the jungle abruptly closed in. Soon we were surrounded by a wall of vines, creepers and bamboo. Often the trail was hacked in the face of a cliff, but so thick was the vegetation that it was hard to tell whether you were putting your foot down on rock or thin air.
We spent the afternoon and night in Indian huts at a clearing called Incahuasi, or "place of the Inca." Those of us who were on foot arrived long before the mules and we were welcomed by the Indian women and children. They had never seen or even heard of Americans.
Abel arrived at the head of the mule train just after dark—and he brought bad news. A mule was missing: he had apparently somehow wandered from the trail. Abel was furious at the mule drivers. A search for the mule that night proved fruitless. Early the next morning. Abel retraced the trail for several miles and found where the unlucky mule had misjudged his footing and plunged through a fragile wall of greenery to topple 100 feet onto a boulder-strewn stream bed. The mule had been instantly killed. It was only with great difficulty that Abel and his aides could reach the animal and salvage the waterlogged load.
Shortly above Incahuasi, the trail became a miserable series of mudholes. It began to rain. But we persevered and eventually the jungle thinned. We moved farther up the valley, made rendezvous with our reconnaissance party and established base camp at 13.000 feet. We were 8000 feet above Huadquiña.
The campsite was, Andy told us, very convenient for attempts on several of the highest peaks of the Pumasillo chain. But while we pitched camp and for several days thereafter, the presence of high mountains was indicated by faith alone—for clouds and gently falling snow obscured any scenery farther away than a few hundred yards. At first we did not mind the snow. We had to pitch tents, organize climbing equipment, check food, sort personal gear—there was a host of other tasks to occupy us. But after the first day, this bad weather was most annoying. Time was running out fast.
We had one clear morning and took advantage of it to investigate two peaks. The word "Pumasillo" appears to mean "Claws of the Puma," and this was an apt description of the range. From the Sacsara valley we could count twelve snow-capped summits. The peaks were very steep near their summits and thus, from some distance, resembled the upthrust claws of a puma. Indeed, none of the three major summits we scaled was large enough to accommodate a standing man comfortably.
Four peaks, or claws, were higher than the rest. Together they formed a crest which, at about 20,000 feet, dominated the range. The highest point was probably at the north end of the crest; we knew from our aerial photos that it would best be attempted from the west. From the Sacsara valley, which was unfortunately east of the crest, it would be a very perilous climb. We called this peak "Hard Pumasillo". At the south end of the crest was the second highest peak of the range, only a few feet lower than the highest. We called this one "Easy Pumasillo," but it turned out that this was a misnomer. "Easy Pumasillo"— or Lasunayoc, as the natives called it—is a sublime symmetric pyramid of ice and rock which completely dominates the Sacsara valley. This was to be our first objective.
Because our party was so large, we decided to divide and try another beautiful ice peak, Ccollpachinac Human, which rose directly above base camp. When the weather finally improved, on July eleventh, we set out as two parties to attempt Lasunayoc and Ccollpachinac Human. The Lasunayoc party was composed of Andy, Arnold, Georgia and "Lonesome George." (By this time we had experienced some confusion with two Georges and one Georgia on the trip and bachelor George Arnis had acquired the nickname of "Lonesome George.") They swiftly followed a route up a glacier to the base of the final ice pyramid. The summit was still 1500 feet above, and all of that distance appeared to be hard blue ice, pitched at an angle between that of a roof and a steeple. For hours they hacked steps with their ice axes and tied themselves to long iron pitons which they drove into the ice to safeguard their advance. By late afternoon they had climbed only about 600 feet and were becoming convinced that another side of the mountain offered a better route.
Meanwhile, Fred Ayres, Graham and Corky Matthews, Ginny and I were attempting Ccollpachinac Human. We found a beautiful meadow for our camp near the snout of a glacier. The view was so splendid that next morning we wasted a precious hour taking photographs. We could see our friends at work on Lasunayoc.
Ccollpachinac Human is a peak of classic beauty and would have been a glorious climb had it not been for all the fresh snow which hampered our advance. We kicked steps up slopes of loose powder snow to gain a ridge which we hoped would offer better going. This was Ginny's first time on a glacier and I was naturally happy to see that my bride was getting a real thrill out of it. The ridge offered matchless views. But we soon had to cross some big crevasses, and then, as Ginny glanced down into their seemingly bottomless cold blue depths, she wondered if glaciers were much fun after all.
Gentle slopes led to some ice cliffs below the summit towers. Punching steps in the deep snow on these slopes was slow and tiring work. By this time clouds had settled around us, and Ginny, whose hands and feet were now soaked by melting snow, decided that glaciers had their definite drawbacks.
Fred and I turned to do battle with the deep snow. As Fred was plowing a waist-deep trench toward the cliffs, there was suddenly a sharp hissing sound and the snow around Fred began to slide down the mountain, I thought Fred was in serious trouble. But fortunately he was near the edge of the slide and a few frantic lunges carried him to solid snow. This had been only a small slide, but it made us acutely conscious of the hazards of a big one. After looking at all the snow on the route farther ahead and at the many big crevasses, we reluctantly returned to base camp.
The next morning we held a council of war. Two attempts, no ascents, and Andy, Arnold, Ginny and I would have to leave in a week. We agreed that Lasunayoc was now the objective, and finally decided to shift our attack to its southeastern side.
Accordingly, on July fourteenth, Georgia, Fred, Lonesome George and I set out for the southeastern flank of Lasunayoc with three sturdy porters. Graham, who had seen the southeastern side on reconnaissance and had a route in mind, went ahead to prove it out. Around noon he found an excellent site for camp on a prominent rock buttress between two big icefalls. We had climbed nearly 3000 feet from base camp and it was beginning to snow. We pitched camp and Graham and the porters returned to base camp.
In the morning we climbed to the top of our buttress to search for a route. Immediately ahead we found a large snow basin—above it rose a gigantic, tumbled icefall. Still higher there appeared to be another plateau, out of which rose the summit pyramid. Our first problem was clearly the big icefall.
This icefall was formed where the Lasunayoc glacier cascaded over a continuity of rock cliffs. These tended to break the glacier into a series of impassable ice cliffs. A route had to be found between them. The icefall, nearly 3000 feet high and a mile wide, was in many places a wilderness of tumbled skyscrapers of ice.
We set off across the plateau. At first we made good headway, but then we encountered deep snow. We could see where slopes had avalanched and we had to use extreme care to avoid being caught in any snowslide. Now the clouds, boiling up out of the Amazon basin, closed in on us. This proved to be typical-clear before ten A.M., then clouds and intermittent snow.
We paused for lunch on a level spot—a good site for the next camp. It was protected from anything falling from above by two crevasses, each perhaps forty feet wide and a hundred deep. That afternoon deep snow, avalanche conditions, zero visibility and crevasses made the route-finding tricky. For several hours we probed ahead but time and again we were brought up short in the maze of giant crevasses and ice cliffs. We groped back down to Camp 1.
The next day the porters carried up Camp II to our previous flat lunch spot. By the time we reached it, we were in the clouds again and could see little. But the visibility was slightly better than the previous day and we spent all afternoon looking for the route above. The deep snow not only made for avalanches and hard labor but it concealed crevasses. Of course, we always proceeded roped together with strong nylon line which can hold a 3000-pound pull. But Georgia had a close call. While casually crossing a most innocent-looking flat stretch of snow, his footing suddenly collapsed and he had the sickening sensation of plunging into a big crevasse. Fortunately his shoulder and elbow caught on one side and one of the spikes of a steel crampon which he had fastened to his boot stuck on the other. The combination threatened to break him in two, but after a few frantic seconds of struggle he was able to escape from this awkward position. After this, we would never allow slack to accumulate in the rope between two climbers.
The next morning we followed another promising route with high hopes. But it was blocked higher up by a crevasse twenty feet wide and five times as deep. Above rose two ice cliffs—each overhanging, and the height of a five-story building. This icefall just seemed to be built wrong. So we tried yet another route, which we called "Ski Alley." This was a gentle crevassed corridor which appeared to lead nowhere, but which, in fact, enabled us to sneak past all of the big ice cliffs and reach the summit plateau. Here we had a brief glimpse of the summit pyramid before it was swallowed by driving snow.
The next morning Fred was up cooking breakfast at the heroic hour of 3:45 o'clock. We left camp at dawn and before eight A.M. reached the upper plateau, where we spied a likely route to the base of an ice cliff some 200 feet below the summit of the final ice pyramid. But following it was another matter. The plateau was drifted with bottomless snow and it took three hours of steady toil to punch our way to the base of the pyramid. By then the clouds were upon us, as usual. We started up through recent avalanche debris. Above this was a steep slope—perhaps 400 feet in height and obviously prone to avalanche again. Our hearts were in our throats as Fred kicked the long flight of steps up this unstable horror. But it held. By the time we reached the ridge, visibility had decreased to only a few feet.
As I advanced along the ridge, nothing could be seen. Cloud-filled space was indistinguishable from snow, I would poke ahead with my ice ax to locate the crest of the ridge and then advance a foot. The snow was an evil formation known as "wind slab." This most treacherous stuff tends to fracture into great blocks, which slide off the mountain at high speed. But in due course the ultimate cliff loomed ahead.
Here we paused for lunch and quiet meditation. We thought that perhaps the cliff could be by-passed on the left. Accordingly, I tiptoed in that direction. The prospect was forbidding. I stood at the top of vertical rock cliffs that plunged out of sight into the clouds below. I was still separated by thirty feet of steep ice and snow from the ice cliff proper. But that cliff looked like an impossible overhanging honeycomb of rotten ice. I tip-toed back to the others and announced that, as a conservative married man, I judged the route to be impractical.
At that point, Fred, a fearless bachelor, tiptoed out for a look. He was not so easily daunted. He carved out a perilous route to the base of the ice cliff. He swatted at it in disgust once or twice, but to scale it was clearly hopeless. It could not be turned on the left and Fred rejoined us.
There remained hope that one could make a long traverse below the ice cliff to the right and finally get around it. But time did not remain for the attempt that day.
The next day I had to start out to Huadquiña with Ginny and Arnold. All hands retired to Camp I and base camp to regroup for the final assault on Lasunayoc. As soon as I left, I am told, the weather took a turn for the better. By July twenty-third, Graham, Georgia, Fred and Lonesome George were ready to renew the attack on Lasunayoc. The porters had moved up high camp to the head of Ski Alley. From this higher location they hoped the summit would be more easily attainable. Fresh snow had drifted into our old tracks across the plateau, so that a new trail had to be punched out. But by ten in the morning they had reached our previous high point and were beginning a delicate traverse to the right underneath the overhanging ice cliff. Beneath them still larger ice cliffs fell away hundreds of feet to the plateau. They scaled a short icicle-draped cliff to gain a long shelf between the two levels of big cliffs. They then followed the shelf for several hundred yards until finally the ultimate cliff eased back into a somewhat less than vertical slope which led them to the summit ridge.
The apex of Lasunayoc was a blade of snow so thin and insecure that they dared have only one man at a time inch his way to the top while securely held on a rope by the others. Clouds were billowing about, so they wasted little time on the inhospitable summit of "Easy Pumasillo."
Next on the list of unfinished business was Ccollpochinac Human. On July twenty-sixth all hands scaled one of its summit towers, only to find that strict honesty compelled them to note that another and much harder tower was at least five feet higher. So on July twenty-eighth Graham, Fred, and Lonesome George returned for this pinnacle. They left camp by moonlight and were only a few hundred feet below the top by dawn.
But what a few hundred feet. After a grueling treadmill section of bottomless snow, they were confronted by a final 175-foot snow steeple. Graham did some bold leading up this dangerous fluted slope. When, hours later, they reached the summit, it was to be greeted by a stomach-wrenching view down the north side. No one dared stand upright on the summit of Ccollpachinac Human—what held it together was a complete mystery.
Later, the party climbed one other nice peak—the Indians called it Ttiyuyoc—we nicknamed it "Ladies' Day." Here, too, the summit proved to be an incredible snow ornament, more the product of a disordered imagination than a bit of terra firma. With two more minor summits, the expedition had thus scaled six of the peaks of Pumasillo—about as many as we had ever hoped to get. I have to admit that my own recollections of the trip are tarnished by memories of unnecessary delay, and of having to leave before any climbs were completed. But these are merely minor elements in an otherwise pleasant whole. It was fine to open up a new area to the mountaineering world. I was happy to introduce Ginny to a land of high mountains and happier still that she enjoyed this land. But the primary joy was simply that of climbing on beautiful mountains.
I have learned that men climb mountains for as many reasons as there are climbers. I know that some have climbed with motives that are ignoble—spurred on perhaps by hate, or jealousy, or a mean ambition. But I like to think that usually this is not so and that in climbing we come to know a high religion, truly and deeply.
I remember one evening when four of us were standing outside the tents at Camp II on Lasunayoc. The storm clouds of the afternoon had cleared and all around us we saw the virgin whiteness of powder snow. The sun was low in the west and its slanting rays shone on the summits of the highest peaks of the Cordillera Vilcabamba. Finally, only the tip of Salcantay was lighted by the dying sun. Then at twilight we saw lightning flickering in gigantic thunderheads which stood up above the blackness of the Amazon jungle to the northeast. Such a scene spoke only of the majesty of nature and the vain and fleeting quality of human endeavor.
Then I heard the purring of the gasoline stove cooking supper; I smelled the boiling stew. And, looking around, I saw my three companions—and our two little tents perched here on the side of this mountain. The nylon ropes, crampons and ice axes were neatly arranged outside for the climb next morning. Then I knew that this climb we had set ourselves—to scale the ice slopes of Pumasillo—was a joyful affirmation of the vitality of the human spirit.
THE END
