It felt good to be underway again. The movement seemed to work out any stiffness, and the waist belt of my pack gave unexpected relief to the troubles in my low back. Our collective mood was ebullient, even when it became apparent we were momentarily lost and had to backtrack. The day's heat had not yet arrived, so I tried to take in the cool mist roiling up from the river beside our trail, hoping to somehow store it up for the afternoon.
We would cross many rivers this day, walking the slick bark of fallen trees in our equally slick rubber boots. Sometimes there would be a vine available to use as a handrail. Other times we were left to make do, with some team members straddling the log while scooting across on their bottoms. I was glad to not be troubled by this particular challenge. On the list of my climbing assets "A good sense of balance" appears right after "Is good at suffering".
During my climb of Denali in 2007 I became confused by the rope configuration before me after incorrectly passing anchored protection. It does not take much to confuse a person in the thin air of 20,000 feet. We were roped together and ascending the jump ridge leading the final 320 feet to the summit. The earth fell away 1,000 feet on either side of this narrow ridge the width of a boot. I stood for a mement trying to figure out why the rope was crossing in front of me. Ty, my brother in-law, was unaware of this dilemma as he waited at the lead of the rope for me to call out that I had passed the anchor and we could continue on. I would later learn that Big Sammy, next on the rope behind me, was watching with dread, preparing to jump off the opposite side of wherever I fell. My addled brain could not solve the puzzle of the ropes and at some poiint resolved to jump over them. Halfway over the ropes the crampons on my left boot fouled with one of the lines. I landed on the other side on just my right foot. Carefully, I reached down to my suspended left foot and untangled the rope, letting it fall free before placing my next step. I had just done something incredibly stupid and suddenly I could see this where a moment earlier it had not seemed like much of a problem. Though I would go on to trust my sense of balance, I also came to scrutinize my own judgment whenever at high altitude.
We hiked through a large landslide that had wiped out a thousand feet of the old trail through the jungle. Gold miners watch for these opportunities with the aid of satellite photography. As soon as a large piece of earth moves they are typically the first into the area, hopeful that a lucrative vein has been exposed. The Miners had come and gone a week earlier. It was rumored they had taken a few thousand dollars of gold with them. Hardly worth the trouble.
Soon the Porters began slipping by us on the trail. Barefoot and sparsely clad, they quickstepped past carrying duffels, provisions, and tarps. I was laboring up a steep muddy hillside whan a native woman eased by me. She was carrying a basket of yams strapped to her forehead and an infant riding her shoulders. She moved as casual as if she were pushing a shopping cart down the cereal isle of a supermarket. "Makanay," she said, offering the customary greeting of the Dani people. I tried to answer in kind, but was already reduced to a lumbering drooling beast incapable of higher thought. It came out something like "Maaakanoooooooth".
We lunched in a rare open meadow where the jungle allowed the light in. Palm trees dotted the scene, encouraging a mood of relaxation. The Porters ate yams retrieved from the ashes of the previous night's fire. A few of these were shared with us. Though I typically opt not to eat yams at Thanksgiving (even bathed in butter and brown sugar), these tasted quite good to me. They were sweet and rich, smooth and filling. One of the men climbed a tree with his machete and began hacking away at something. A strange spiny fruit the shape of a large football fell free to the ground. A woman with another machete carved the spines off and quartered the fruit lengthwise. The children and the elderly made quick work of it's contents. I was not offered any of this fruit, but one child did share his sugar cane with me. It was a bartered arrangement whereupon he had taken an interest in the gummy bears I was eating. At first he did not seem to know what to do with them. The rubbery candies bounced around in his mouth, popping out onto the ground. He looked confused. I took one from the packet and showed him how it yielded when clenched tight enough between the teeth. He then indicated that I was to do the same thing with the sugar cane. It had been split four ways lenghwise, offering easy access to its center. When I bore down on the cane it gave off a surprising volume of sweet liquid, both tasty and refreshing. Like most of the food eaten by the Porters and their families, the sugar cane had been harvested from trail-side as we moved through the jungle.
Back on the trail, we began a series of steep climbs up minor creek beds and washouts which formed four foot high steps. The mud collected deep at the base of each step as water trickled constantly down into it. The top of the steps were typically exposed rocky creek bed. I waited behind Carol as she struggled with one such step. Both her feet were sunk in the mud up to the top of her boots. As Carol lurched upward to gain the shelf her feet refused to come free. Her IBS condition had worsened by this time and Carol had given up her pack to a Porter's wife. It seemed senseless to squander what strength she had left, so, after watching three fruitless attempts, I devised a solution. Looking back, I probably should have shared my plan with Carol. I lowered my right shoulder behind her haunches and heaved upward. I suppose I expected the mud to hold on firmer or Carol to weigh more (she is but a bird), but she quite literally flew up onto the shelf, landing hard on the rocks with hands and knees. Carol groaned in pain, pausing for a moment as she was. I apologized profusely again and again. She would have been in her right to offer stern coaching to me, but Carol just stood up and commented "thanks for the lift," then headed up the creek.
We gained considerable altitude through the course of the afternoon, enjoying the cooler temperatures that came with it. The 95f sauna of the low jungle gave way to the 80's. Still, we were working very hard, averaging less than a mile an hour, and I drew my belt down to its last notch. I was melting away. This would normally not bother a person, but it clearly presented a problem for the many miles I needed to last in the coming days. In spite of my best efforts I had failed to consume anywhere near the calories I was burning. As well, the intestinal bug I was battling was exacting a toll. I loaded one pocket with trail mix at the next rest stop. From this point forward I would nibble constantly as we moved along the trail, tossing continuous handfuls of coal into my furnace.
We broke up out of the jungle and onto the high savannah at about 4pm. Sweeping landscape came as relief to the creeping claustrophobia that had been gathering in the dense growth below. Smoke in the distance marked the camp our Porters had built.
We washed our muddy clothes, still wearing them, in a river near camp 3. The water was very cold, but it felt good to be clean. I stripped down to my red boxer-briefs. Several of the native girls stood by and watched us. I noticed them gesturing to me and laughing. I assume they were amused by my funny red briefs. Later I returned to the river in trekking pants with my boxers in hand to wash them. A few of those same girls were still there and they began chattering and pointing to my red briefs. After ringing them dry I waved the shorts at the girls, who screamed and jumped back. With such a good reaction I could not help playing further. I leaped at them with the red boxers stretched out in front of me and roared. The girls scattered in the bush laughing as I chased them around, madly waving my crimson undergarment.
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