Huascaran Sur - 22,200ft

Our burros & arriero en route to Huascaran base camp

Day 1:
Our plan was to do Huascaran in five days. We were going to skip base camp and go straight to the refugio, just below the moraine camp. To start, we got off on the wrong collectivo stop, which really only delayed us maybe 20 minutes. Once we arrived at the town of Musho from which we would start walking we caved and hired overly priced donkeys to help get us to base camp. The plan was to carry our stuff after this to just below the Moraine Camp in order to climb Huascaran in only five days. Our donkey driver was a character, and half the time we weren’t sure if he even knew the trail. At one point he had us stop and wait while he ran off frantically back down the path. We thought at first maybe he had dropped his sweater but then we realized that one of our donkey friends was nowhere to be seen. Eventually, the naughty donkey came trudging back up the trail wearing Andre’s backpack and being closely followed by our ariero. We arrived at Base Camp around 2, and decided to attempt to get to Moraine camp that same day. A guided group told us to use their rope to ascend and start the rocky traverse. There were cairns to follow, so we headed right, but the problem was there were cairns all over the place, most covered in moss, so we soon began to think that we may be off trail.  After spending about 30 minutes trying to get up one extremely steep and exposed step with heavy packs on, (in which Andre eventually had to climb down and carry my pack  up for me),  we checked the gps and found that sure enough we were well off the trail. By this time, the sun started to set, and we had not made it nearly as far as we had hoped, so we decided to bivy. Soon after we decided this, we came across a slab of flat stone  exactly the size of our tent and we set up camp and made successful pesto pasta as the sun set over the horizon.

Day 2:
Waking up at our perfectly sized bivy spot, Andre felt a bit ill, so we took a long morning to get ready and discussed whether or not we needed to slow down our itinerary a bit. Since we had brought 2 days of food we had the option of taking two slower days instead of pushing through two camp spots in one day, but as we started hiking Andre felt a bit better, so we just kept walking. By lunch time we ran into our friends from our hostal, who also were greatly mislead by the cairns, and Imran and Jiri, who had come up a different and apparently much easier way. We all made it to Camp 1 (on the glacier) that evening and enjoyed popcorn and the views while gazing up at what still appeared to be a massive slog to the top of Huascaran.

Camp 1 - 5,400m

The clouds really were black!

Day 3:
We think we will do a short hike to camp 2 the next day, so we left at 9am. I have come to really feel like waking up and leaving after dawn is a luxury. This tells you how used to getting up at 3am I have become. , it is very hard to keep moving. Anyway, the hike to Camp 2 took was more challenging than we had anticipated, and after we had climbed up the steep couloir I was struggling to get up even the slightest inclines. Nonetheless, we were crossing under dangerous serac fall area and we really couldn’t afford to stop and rest at all. Finally we made it out of the serac fall area and we absolutely had to stop and eat something if we were to continue. Like usual, we took  this snack break just around the corner from our campsite and managed to feed a hungry crevasse our entire bottle of sunscreen! Thank goodness Imran and Jiri had extra sunscreen to share, a sunny glacier at 19,000 ft is the last place you want to be without!

High camp -- about 19,300ft

Day 4:
Imran was feeling achy and unable to eat anything the day before, and so when we woke at 2 we found out that we would be a team of 3 with Jiri instead of two teams of four: Imran was simply too weak to attempt a summit. Our friends from our hostal were also a team of three, and they set off on the trail about 3 minutes behind us.  Fifteen minutes later I stopped to put on my warmest mittens (which I had bought specifically to climb this mountain!) and the other team passed us, beginning a game of leap frog we would play all the way to the summit.

This was the hardest mountain I have ever climbed. Mentally and physically, I was tested beyond what I had ever experienced before. After hiking long and hard days, for 3 days in a row before summit day, my body’s reserves of energy were running low, and my muscles were not able to repair themselves as easily at the extreme elevations we were at. The temperatures at the high altitude were so much colder that instead of stripping layers as we hiked and the sun came out, I added another layer every hour and ended on the summit with both my down jackets on! I felt like I was constantly coming up from being held under water for 30 seconds, which left me gasping for oxygen every 2 steps. The challenge was not only physical, but mental as well. One of my symptoms of being at altitude is the loss of motivation and the desire to sleep. I found that it helped me to push forward once I made the decision to dedicate my climb to my grandfather Jim. I knew he would have loved to be there with me, would have encouraged me to just suck it up and make it to the top, and that he would be proud that I had endured.

A large party had summitted the day before us so we had tracks to follow the route up, however it was less of  a slog to the top than we had anticipated. Due to the fact that there were so many crevasses to negotiate, the route wound under and around massive seracs, and Jiri led us up one steep pitch of ice.

This turned out to be a surprising challenge when Jiri belayed us up because we only brought one ice tool each and were tied to each other not more than 5 feet apart. I was most terrified because I could not get the image out of my head of what would happen to Andre’s face if I fell. Crampons + ice tools+ climbing steep ice tied close together = very very scary.

After this steep step my headache was definitely not getting better, and I was beginning to doubt myself so I stopped and announced that I didn’t know if I was going to be able to make it. Andre encouraged me by reminding me that the views from the top were going to make it all worth it, and Jiri gave me a goo. Afterwards, all that was left was a low-grade slog to the seemingly never-ending summit.

The final steps

Jiri, Kaeli, and Andre on the summit!!

Being that this was the hardest climb I have ever done, it was also the most celebratory at the top. All six of us were hooting and hollering, doing handstands and hugging.  (photos!) We had perfect weather, insane views (Andre claims to have seen the ocean!), but we still kind of wanted to get the hell out of there because we knew we had the very long, and much less exciting, retracing of our tracks all the way back to our tents.

Rapping down the steep-ish ice section.

Three and a half hours later, when we arrived at our camp, Andre and I decided out of sheer exhaustion (and laziness probably) to stay the night again at Camp 2. 19,000 ft. We put off packing up and walking down to Camp 1 until the next day. Imran however, who was feeling a bit better now, convinced Jiri to go down so they would be at lower elevation and not have to sleep on snow.

Day 5:
As it so turns out, we got about a foot of snow and drift around our tent in the morning, and a near-white-out to walk down in. The scariest part was that the snow was now possibly covering crevasses and snow bridges, making it a thrilling game of “guess the way and hope you don’t break through a snow bridge".

That day we hiked downhill a total of 1800 meters. We had enough food to split this torture up into two days, but I was at the point where had done what I had come there to do and just wanted a shower and a real meal. This trip had officially been the last straw with many meals for us. The smell of powdered milk makes me gag and Andre could not bring himself to eat another bite of Backpackers Pantry’s Hawaiian Chicken and Rice. We will definitely have to get more creative for our next few climbs!
It feels so great to have Huascaran behind us. Now we can gaze out at that massive snow lump we see from town with a sense of pride instead of anticipation and even fear.

Imran, Jiri, and Andre will go on to climb Shaqsha, but I am going to take longer to recharge my batteries for climbing than them. Could it be true that men enjoy the “sufferfest” more than us women? Or am I just a wimp? :)

Kaeli's summit handstand

A daylight view of some of the terrain we had to climb up and through

Trip to Lima & Anticuchos

Two Sundays ago (but now that I’ve taken so long to finally post this, it was about 4 weeks ago) I made a quick jaunt down to Lima to meet up with two friends from Seattle, Robert and Ian, who Kaeli and I recently met, through a mutual friend, after realizing we both had plans to climb in the Cordillera Blanca this summer.

I went down to Lima to complete a gear hand-off. With Robert and Ian set to depart Seattle at the beginning of July, we’d made arrangements a few essential items to make it to their carry-on luggage. My dad had graciously driven all the way up to Seattle from Portland to deliver my beloved laptop (which I’m absolutely thrilled to be using right now--on the second floor patio of a secret mountain lodge high in the Cordillera Blanca ). We were also forced to sell our 10lb behemoth Trango 2 tent, on account of excessive weight, to a Peruvian guiding agency last week in exchange for a smaller, lighter Black Diamond version of the same thing--the Stormtracker. After several fumbled orders from basegear.com (don’t shop from them if you’re ever in a pinch), we opted instead to have the tent shipped overnight from Eastern Mountain Sports to Robert’s parents’ house in Boston. Kaeli’s computer battery had also been dead for several years (!), without which we had surprisingly difficult time picking up wireless signals, not to mention the entire thing shut off every time you jiggled the power cord. So we had a new one of those sent down, too.

Nothing critical, but it all made life a little more comfortable down here in Huaraz. I can finally edit my photos properly and get reliable access to internet, and Kaeli is rediscovering the freedom of portable, cordless computing.

I took the 11pm overnight Z-Buss down to Lima. They ran out of super-bed seats, so I went for the super economico half bed, which put me at the very front of the second floor, with a direct view out the windshield. For some inexplicable reason, my Peruvian neighbors and I opted not to close the front curtains, which one should do to avoid being blinded by oncoming traffic… All I remember is waking up every half an hour to erratic swerving and blinding white lights. Jolted awake every 30 to 45 min, each time I was horrified by the sight of swiftly approaching, illuminated guardrails, behind which I saw nothing but eerie darkness. At the last possible moment, our 2-story bus would suddenly swerve, tilting an impossible degree onto its side, which flung limber bodies and floppy heads in the bus in the same direction. The Peruvians around me, of course, weren’t bothered--most were sound asleep.

Arriving in Lima at 6am on a Monday morning was a bit strange. Though the outskirts of the station were filled with taxis and aggressive taxi brokers to ferry passengers to the inner city, once I arrived in Miraflores (the relatively “hip, posh” part of town), there wasn’t a single soul in sight. Even the local, and awkwardly out-of-place, Starbucks didn’t open until 7:30. After breakfast of bread and yogurt at the local supermarket, I succumbed and found myself navigating the spanish menu and unbelievably high prices, feeling somewhat conscious stricken--Cafe con Leche, Cafe Americano. A cup of coffee here costs more than a Peruvian 2-course lunch, and nearly 1/6 as much as my bus ride (!). But, hey, I had just gotten back from a long climb on Shaqsha and was looking to isolate myself a bit and relax. Starbucks was the perfect place--just me, my German climbing novel, and that all-familiar, cookie-cutter Seattle coffee shop feeling.

Afterward, I met up with Robert at the South American Explorer’s clubhouse, where we spent awhile catching up and drinking free tea--one of the many great perks of their membership, might I add! We attempted to find some maps for his and Ian’s journey down the Urubamba River in the southern Peruvian jungle, but we didn’t find much. Switching our focus, instead, to culinary adventures, we made a list of potential “authentic Peruvian” eateries, including one that promised a luxury 13-course sampler menu for $50. Despite being insanely expensive by Peruvian standards, it was heralded, by one of the girls at the SAE anyway (and Lonely Planet), as some of the best and most famous local/fusion food in town. But as the afternoon adventure in the city continued on, our interest (and perceived wealth) had waned, so we settled on “Anticuchos de la Tia Grima,” also heralded as a “best.” In this case, however, the vibe seemed a bit more up our alley, and perhaps even more Peruvian: street-grilled cow hearts.

After a taxi ride and a 25-minute walk, we arrived upon the designated street corner but the food cart was nowhere in sight--just an impostor Anticucho restaurant located on an old street corner next to where the cart had once been (at least according to our reading of the map). Profiting from weary and unsuspecting tourists, perhaps? We almost stopped there, but the place just didn’t seem right, it was just dead and dark. “Arrive 30 minutes early to get a place in line,” the guidebook told us. There was no line--it wasn’t even a cart! We asked 4 other people for directions. Walked another 5 blocks. Asked for directions again. And then we ran into a two post-middle-aged Peruvian ladies in search of the same place. As we followed, this crazy man wandering in the middle street yelled something about anticuchos and directed us down the block. He later turned out to be the flagger--as in, he was the guy who directed traffic and told people where to park. We were astonished to see 50 people sitting in line on a sidewalk in front of a run-down auto repair shop. An 8ft long charcoal grill stood parked on the side of the street, meatless and cold. It was 7pm, opening time. A crowd of people were waiting patiently, as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Meanwhile, Robert and I were dumbfounded. We couldn’t believe what we’d stumbled upon. As we made our place at the end of the line, we mused: Either it was a cult, or these really were some of the best Anticuchos in Lima!

A man dressed in a white chefs outfit made his way down the sidewalk taking orders. What seemed like a perfect cross-section of Lima was waiting for him: old little ladies, men in power suits, young couples, every day Peruvians, and then us, the dorky two gringo tourists who’d stumbled off the beaten path. The price was 11 Soles (about $4) for 3 skewers of Anticuchos, plus 2 Soles for a side of over-sized Peruvian corn on the cob. We ordered 3 of the first and 2 of the second. We’d heard from several people that Anticuchos were some of the best beef they’ve ever had, so we ordered extra--duh!. Besides, 37 soles, plus 8 soles for our wait-in-line beer, was quite cheap compared to our proposed 13-course meal.

The scene that played out next was almost to good to be true. A small white van pulled up next to the grill. Inside we could see a tiny little old woman in the front passenger’s seat. She stepped out of the clunky, toy-looking van---I mean of the sort you can pick up and set on the sidewalk--in her official white chef hat and white coat. It was Tia Grima! Behind her was an entourage of apprentices and helpers, about 5 or 6 other cooks, all donning similar white coats. The lady of the hour had arrived.

We spent the next 30 min watching the magic unfold. Slowly, numbers were called, “catorce, quince… veinte!”. Throngs of the hungry made their way to the cart fr pick-up, then dispersed into the dark street to devour the juicy organs.

When our number was finally called, Robert and I were already huddled around the plate lady, almost jumping our turn anticipation. Each paper plate contained 3 massive skewers, 3-4 giant blocks of flesh on each one. 9 skewers in all. We had at least 27 chucks of cow heart to consume between the two of us. We couldn’t handle the challenge with just 4 hands, so we made a table out of the trunk of a parked car.

How can I describe it? It was tender, but also chewy. Not crunchy, but it had a certain styrofoamyness to it… firm and with a lot of volume. It wasn’t like a floppy, juicy, dense piece of steak, like I expected. Rather, it was almost “airy,” or had hidden internal juice pockets. It squirted. The flavor wasn’t quite as magical as I anticipated. I was hoping for the worlds best marinade or something--I guess something I would expect back home. Instead, it had been dipped/soak, I think, in some sort of oily/vinegary/chili broth and thereafter, on the grill, continuously lathered. It had a very natural, meaty sort of flavor-- good, but different. It was fully-cooked, not rare, so not quite like the meaty flavor you get from a normal steak--it was hearty!

The lack of magical seasoning got me thinking too much about the cow organs and their styrofoamyness. That, combined with excessive juiciness, had become slightly repulsive in my mouth. The sheer amount of heart flesh lying before us wasn’t particularly appetizing either, and the sight of it began to grate on my senses--more than one cow, probably less than 3. The first skewer was good, the second not bad, but the third took some real focus to get down.

Robert and I looked at each other. Neither us had the space or the gumption for another half a plate of skewers, so we gave it away.

So I can’t say that these were the best anticuchos in Lima, sine they were the only I’ve had, but I imagine it’s possible to do better. We’ll see. Every street corner in Huaraz has anticuchos and chicken feet stands--well, more accurately, at 6pm old ladies come out of their houses and starts up grills to make a few soles. It reminds me of the good old days when I use to sell pop out of a cooler at the Eastmoreland golf course--it feels like a lot of the local economy is organized this way. Anyway, I’ve eaten plenty of questionable street food, but haven’t had the heart to try these just yet.

I didn’t have my camera with me, but this is more or less what they looked like:



Read more about anticuchos here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anticuchos