Photo Credit: www.loveofmountains.com
Sometime around January 24, 2007, I will trudge up an icy hillock, gulping at thin air, and stand at the top of Mt. Aconcagua, at 22,841 feet. There will be nowhere higher to go. It’s the highest point in the Western Hemisphere.
To the north and south I will look down at the tops of two massive 21,000-foot peaks, Tupungato and Mercedario. If it’s cloudless I will also see the Pacific Ocean. Aconcagua lies within Argentina but is so high one can peer over Chile and into the deep blue.
I say this as if this summiting is a foregone conclusion. It isn’t. Any number of things could go wrong. Storms could blind our path, or I could be forced to beat an early retreat if my lungs or brain swell with fluid, as sometimes happens to climbers on high. I, or someone I’m tied to, could fall and we could slide to our deaths on the final 3,000 feet of glacier, God forbid.
My, what shadowy thoughts. My buoyant personality wriggles up from that gloom like a beach ball popping to the surface of a pool. I will get to the top, I just will. We have guides, we have experience and stamina. All I need is patience and the fortitude to endure pain. No problem, I say. It’ll be fun. Right?
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