Everest.

We are going to Everest. You and Me. I have signed with International Mountain Guides (IMG) to climb Everest in 2013 and I intend to blog that experience along the way. I will arrive in Kathmandu March 31, 2013, but plan to begin writing in late November of this year. As well, I will feature Guest Bloggers. I have already asked a Biologist and a Physician to write articles. Please contact me if you would like to Guest Blog on some topic related to Everest.  

Many of you have been along for the entire ride, the six continental summits I have now been fortunate enough to stand atop. Only 64 Americans have managed to “touch ‘em all.” Join me at mauroeverest.blogspot.com as I attempt to become the 65th. 

Reach, 

Dave Mauro                                                             

Post Script

“I want nice rooms and good security,” I heard Dan say to the woman at the front desk. Our reservation at the Grand Tempaga had, through a miscommunication, been cancelled and there was no room for our team as we returned to Timika from the expedition. The apologetic staff of the Grand Tempaga was calling around town in an effort to secure alternate accommodations. Dan’s emphasis on security reminded me that the post-climb ebullience we had enjoyed would need to be set aside while we lay low again. 

Our vans took us to another part of the city, down alleyways of mismatched asphalt and wild-eyed roosters. We pulled into an ungated courtyard attended by a guard shack with two bare feet propped up in the window.  Pal and I paid the front desk attendant 100,000 rupiah to find us some beers, to which our lone security guard was promptly dispatched on a vespa. Dan asked that we not wander off the premises, promising we would dine together somewhere nice a few hours hence. 

There had been a Sheraton in Timika at one point, on the outskirts of town upon a high and defendable hilltop. At various times of unrest the resort had proven sanctuary for Freeport executives and others. Now it was owned by someone else, but still boasted both the grandness of a Sheraton and the fortifications of Viking brothel. I suspect the room rate was beyond our allotted budget, and thus we hunkered down in town behind an army of one. But the fabulous restaurant at the resort was fair game.  We drank. We ate. We toasted. I consumed a steak large enough to put me on the Hindu most wanted list. 

The next day we flew out of New Guinea, over hastily sketched trees and slums, the reef, surf and tiny islands with rocks arranged to spell SOS.  In Denpasar, Bali, that night we celebrated again. A restaurant on the beach took us into the comforts of it’s large padded booth facing the postcard waters of this exotic place.  The evening went on long enough for team members to slump over in the booth and sleep then wake and rejoin the party. I introduced the group to the merits of Vodka/tonic with a lime squeeze. When the bills arrived Pal was incredulous to see he had been charged for 22 of them. I pointed out that he had in fact only had 11 drinks, but they had all been doubles. Ivan and I saw Pal back to our hotel and i bade them good evening while I attended to details at the front desk. But voices beckoned me from the bar as I proceeded to my room. Pal had insisted on buying a round of whiskey for he and Ivan.  Not wishing to offend, I joined them.  When I finally got Pal to his room he gave me a big happy hug. “You’re my best friend,” he declared. 

Team members slipped away over the next few days, returning to the far flung lands from whence they had come. As Ivan departed I urged him to pursue a career in Politics, making him pledge to hire me to manage the finances of the Dominican Republic once he is President. “You will be my Advisor,” he stated. “With a big a-- mansion,” I added. “On the beach or the mountain,” he questioned. “But of course the beach,” I said, and we both laughed. 

I hired a cab to take me south to Nusa Dua. I had reserved a room there in a very nice resort for the next 8 days and Lin would be joining me, flying in this night from Munich.  The Nikko resort is a vast and well-appointed property in the best of Balinese tradition. The warm, over-employed staff had just completed the high season for Australian Tourists and now drifted rudderless in the high vacancy tides of Ramadan. I was “Mr. Dave” the minute I checked in and everyone seemed to know it. The Concierge obliged my unorthodox request for Balinese clothing and summoned the car to take me to the airport. 

Lin did not see me at first. I was standing behind the metal gate that held back the crush of Taxi Drivers and Tour Operators as Arrivals exited baggage claim. My sarong was stylish, my hair piece tasteful. I had enjoyed minor celebrity among my kind. Then she turned back, as though a replay of her scan had revealed my counterfeit. Lin smiled at me. I had not seen that smile in a month. I wanted to leap over the barricade but had no idea how to do so wearing a skirt. Lin came to me and we embraced. I instantly felt closure on the expedition, as though I had arrived back home. In a very real sense I had.  

Upstream

Photo by Dan Zokaites.

We left early the next morning. The Porters were excited to be returning to their villages and the Team relished the notion this would be our last day of trekking. We passed the salt pond where we had lunched on our way in, then the landslide crossing. Some hills brought back vivid memories of how miserable I had been. I recalled seeking relief by focusing on positive thoughts during these climbs.  It is a pleasant summer evening on Lopez Island. Lin is sitting by a beach fire. I am walking toward her with two glasses in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. She looks to me and smiles. I probably ran that film in my head two dozen times during the trek in. But we had all become much better at trekking in our rubber boots since then. We had also become much leaner and mentally tuned to the jungle. On this day it all seemed so much more manageable.  I had enough residual energy to offer up my truly awful Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation. 

We passed Dori's bridge without pausing, then into the series of steep hills we had already climbed three times prior. The Team rested at a river crossing, splashing cool water over our filthy bodies. Soon the village of Sunama was behind us. What had taken a day and a half to cover on the way in consumed just 5 hours on the way out. We were making excellent time so Steven and Dan decided to give the Team a rare 1 hour break, resting in the shade of a tiny wooden schoolhouse. They passed around fruit acquired along the trail; sugar cane, plantains, cooked yams, and a yellow citrus that contained sweet gelatinous globules that resembled tadpoles. 

A few hours more of trekking and we emerged from the jungle, moving easily now on the gravel road that leads to Sugapa. It occurred to me that I had yet to play one of my favorite games to pass time. "Hey Denis," I called ahead. "Yes?" " Jean Chretien and Celine Dion in a knife fight. Who do you like," I asked. "I don't understand," Denis said. "Jean Chretien." "OK." "Celine Dion." "OK." "In a knife fight." "OK." "Who do you think would win," I asked. "Is this joke," Denis queried with a confused tone. "I guess not. No, not really. Never mind," I said, retreating to the rear of the group. 

We took up residence in a tiny wooden shack in Sugapa. I was shown to an attached room with steel pipes for a floor. A 55 gallon drum full of rain water sat in one corner with a ladle hanging from it's rim. This was the shower. I retrieved a tiny bar of soap from my pack and a partially clean change of clothes. I wore the bar to a bare sliver, even washing my hair with it. Then I spooned the cold clean rain water over me. It was the first time in 2 weeks I had been truly clean. It felt marvelous. 

Several Porters milled around the outside of our shack. They knew we would be giving away some of our gear and each had a specific request. One very much wished to have my blue rain shell. He asked to try it on and I consented before realizing he intended to keep it. We had been warned to not make gifts, that this would result in trouble as jealousy bloomed. The Chief would receive our combined offerings then distribute them as he saw fit. I retrieved my coat from the sad-faced Porter. Besides, I liked that coat and had no intention of leaving it behind, though I somehow did anyway. I hope that Porter ended up with it. I also left my sleeping bag, rubber boots, fleece pants and socks. All of these were still very usable and I would normally have taken them home to clean up. But I had come to see where the value of these items to the Porters would be many times that to myself. The rest of the Team likewise gave generously. 

I woke at dawn the next morning as Ivan was going out the front door. Feeling I had taken in enough sleep, I decided to join him. I walked out in my flip flops and the boxer briefs that had proven so popular at the river. Ivan was seated on a wooden chair in the chicken yard, concentrating on the rising sun. I drug a chair out next to him and sat down to enjoy the view. A few moments later a man and woman appeared at the corner of our shack. They had come to watch the strange white people. Ivan was listening to his I-pod while taking photos of the sunrise. The man gestured that he would like Ivan to take a photo of him and his wife, all dressed up for something formal.  I stopped Ivan long enough to position myself next to them in the frame. It was the only time I had worn less clothing than the natives and the contrast was too good to pass up. 

Later, after dressing, I returned to the chicken yard with a hot mug of Starbucks instant coffee. Denis joined me. 

Voting in the Presidential Election was scheduled to begin this day in Sugapa and we did not wish to be around for it. Though it is customary that the Porters throw a traditional feast with music and dance at the end of an expedition we felt it more important to extricate ourselves, and thus caught the second flight out that morning. 

I watched the rugged landscape of western New Guinea pass below us; the tiny streams that fed into increasingly larger rivers which themselves culminate to then disgorge into the Arafura Sea. This is going home, I thought to myself. But then what did it mean to go upstream? As you fork off into smaller and smaller tributaries you give something up at each; the company of loved ones, familiar surroundings, the ability to be comfortable, to be clean, to rest well, to eat as you wish. You keep going, up the trickling creeks surrendering common language, cultural relevance, and whatever  paucity of control to which you still cling. Then, finally, you arrive at a bubbling spring. And whatever you find there is the reason you left home in the first place.  

I have thought a lot about what I found at that spring. It is something different every time I go there. This time it was a reawakening to the joy of others, a realization that standing next to it and saying "yes" only makes that joy larger. Carol's summit, of course, was a watershed moment in this regard. But I enjoyed similar experiences watching Pal interact with the native children, seeing Dan rise up to lead the expedition, seeing Ivan weep as he put away his country's flag atop Carstensz, and watching satisfaction blossom on the face of a quiet man, Denis, who had sacrificed so much. There were moments, too, among the Porters and their families. I watched the look on a father's face as his young son tried to shoulder his load. I heard the women sing as they prepared a meal. A bright-eyed infant smiled at me from atop his mother's shoulders. So much joy. And it was this joy that pushed back against the hardships we endured. When I tell the story of this experience people have a difficult time understanding why I did it.  But they are missing the joy part, and the only way to get it is to go upstream. 

I wanna live in a cinnamon world.

Ivan gave me the last of his antibiotics at breakfast. It was a noble gesture, the kind of thing done only by fools and saints. He was the one member of our team that had not been afflicted on some level. Such was his empathy that he surrendered his biologic life boat. I would like to have been larger than the offer, but we were headed into the jungle. 

We set out on the trail and soon enough descended into the hothouse of damp flora. But the weight of altitude was in our favor, with the down climbs being greater than the ascents. In the end it was not so bad. We arrived at camp 2 by mid afternoon. 

Camp two was empty. There should have been many Porters with their families. This should have been where we stopped, where I rested and blew my nose with impunity. It was a ghost camp. The message of this was clear, yet I campaigned against reality. "It's three o'clock," I complained," shouldn't they be here... in the longhouse... you know?" But the Porters had pressed on. We would be making camp somewhere between camp 2 and 1. I did not recall a clear space between camps 1 and 2, nothing larger than a vending machine in any case, and I simply did not have it in me to make camp 1. I uttered profanity. 

But there was a spot. It was small. So small that our tents all touched the Porters' tent. There was a modest ledge above a river where a tiny meadow of ferns clustered. These had been harvested for the evening meal and thus a space cleared for our tents. We consumed something caloric and retired for the night. As Denis and I lay there listening to the muddled conversation of the Porters the air filled with the scent of cinnamon. Resourceful as always, the tribal members used whatever dry wood could be obtained. On this night they burned a cinnamon tree. The smell was nothing short of intoxicating, other-worldly. With the weight of the climb behind me, I felt free to soak up the now, and now was very very good. 

A "different kind of Catholicism."

There was no question about it. I had the cold. The coughing fits began that night after the summit, while we were still at base camp. Denis was improving, but he too still coughed and blew his nose all night. We were an even match with germs pitted against each other in the close quarters of our tent. I ached from the sickness. I ached from the beating the rock face had dealt me. As we shouldered our packs to leave camp the next morning I looked  at the cold wet stone rising up about us. The rain clouds obscured Carstensz, and a chill rose up my back. With better weather and health this place might be beautiful in a raw manner, but on this morning it offered nothing. "Let's get the F--- outta here," I commented to Ivan, who seemed to find joy in my frank appraisal. 

We arrived at camp 5 at 2 pm. It was our plan to rest briefly, then continue on to the place where we had enjoyed that sunny lunch by the stream. But the Porters were cold and hungry, so we decided to hold there. The Porters could retreat to the warmth of the smoky longhouses still bustling with their families. It had been an uncomfortable 2 days for them and a recoup seemed entirely warranted. It also seemed a significant peace reckoning had occurred and they may wish to celebrate it. Earlier that day we had come upon a burned out fire at the overlook to the lake valley. It was fueled entirely by bows, arrows and spears. Pal noticed it first and cleverly labelled it "a cease fire." Our numbers included members of three different tribes, which in all likelihood have been at war, off and on, for many generations. To lay down their weapons and destroy them together was significant. 

A "cease fire." Photo by Dave Mauro

I prevailed upon Dan to let me use our backup tent for private quarters that night and rested better as a result. The next morning we set out across the high savannah, tromping through the bog-like swampy grasses. I lagged the team all day long, sneezing and blowing my nose constantly. 

We needed to make up time, so our plan was to press on past camp 4 and spend the night halfway between there and camp 3. But a miscommunication resulted in the Porters continuing on to camp 3.    Dan approached me to inquire of my condition as we set up tents. "I needed to stop about two hours ago," I said wearily. "I know. I'm sorry for that," he said, "but if you need a rest day tomorrow we may be able to work it out." We agreed we would see how I was feeling in the morning. As I turned in that night a great dread came over me realizing we would descend back into the jungle soon. 

The next morning I awoke to a chorus singing tunes I knew but words I did not. It was Sunday and the Porters were conducting Mass. I inquired of this with Raymond, the Pastor-in-training, and he confirmed the Catholicism of these indigenous peoples. When I pointed out the problematic nature of their polygamy Raymond simply said "It is a different kind of Catholicism." Indeed. 

Dan and Pal were checking on one of the Porter's wives. She had collapsed, lips blue, on the trail to camp the day before.  Pal  diagnosed pneumonia and the team all pitched in antibiotics from their dwindling med kits. She seemed to be marginally improved the next morning, but Pal insisted she should carry no load this day and the tricky business of negotiating the cultural norms of the Dani people took some discussion before honor could be maintained in compliance with this wish. 

Tatoosh and one of his friends appeared and broke down my tent without comment. "We could have someone carry your pack today if you want," Dan offered. It sounded like a good idea, but my pride would not allow it. "I'd like to at least start off carrying it. Thanks," I said. He gave my shoulder a squeeze then left to check in with the rest of the Team. 

Our first steps toward home.

(Ivan beamed this photo back to the Dominican Republic by satellite phone the same day it was taken. The next day it was featured on the front page of the Island's largest newspaper. He is a Hero among his people, and the flag he carried was later handed off to the Olympians representing his country in London. )

The Team retraced it’s steps back down the ridge to the Tyrolean Traverse. The giddiness of summiting was soon replaced with the kind of sobriety normally reserved for Coroners and Russian Tea Exporters.  More familiar with the routine, we crossed the gap in much less time than it had taken on our way up. Copy and paste this URL to your browser to see video of myself crossing the Traverse. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ki41vSxmeVk&feature=youtu.be

We then began down-climbing the rock face. This involved 
rappelling down the fixed lines we had used as safety during the ascent. These lines represented a variety of gauges, wetness, and disrepair. Thus the more typical use of a mechanical Grigri device for descending would not serve the task at hand. Each climber clipped a steel figure eight apparatus into his waist harness and ran the line through it. Then, leaning back out over the rock face, he allowed rope to feed through the figure eight, using his legs to push off and walk backwards down the rock face. There were 19 such lines strung end to end down the rock face.  

My leather climbing gloves were already warn through at the finger tips from the ascent.   The coarse limestone had chewed them off. Now it was a matter of making the leather palms last all the way to the bottom. At times the thicker line would load up instead of feeding through the figure eight. Then it would suddenly release, leaving me to sprint backwards as I crashed side to side off the rock. It was clumsy, but not awful. Occasionally I would dodge a rock loosed by a climber above me. A few bounced off my helmet with a loud "clack". Then the rain began. 

The lines refused to pass smoothly through the descender as they became increasingly soaked. A length would hang up, then zip through.  As I clenched the line back to slow, it would bite hard, leaving me to bounce like a squirrel on a bungee cord. The fissure we were working down became a creek of fast-moving water. The rocks grew slippery. I could see Dan working with Carol up above me. Denis was just below them, moving tentatively.  Ivan and Pal were already off the wall as I clipped into the second to the last rope. It was a modest grade that terminated at the top of the large round boulder formation. This had been the start of our climb the night before. The frayed outer casing of the line had not shown itself until I had already committed, swung out over the cliff to climb up the face. But now I would be denied the comfort of ignorance. I examined the line as I clipped into it. The inner strands were completely exposed like the tendons of an arm with no flesh. They were wet and filthy. But I knew each carried the capacity to withstand a considerable load, and collectively they were not likely to fail in unison. I backed out over the ledge and slowly released the first length of line. 

I lowered down to the level of our starting ledge and swung on the rope over to it. As my feet knew purchase I quickly unclipped and extricated myself from the area.  The occasional stones still whistled by and it seemed advisable to be out of their path. Denis was less willing to trust the frayed line. I watched him shuffle back and forth about the anchor point. Then Dan and Carol caught up with him. The rain was falling quite hard now, filling my hood and running down my chest as I looked up at the trio. A brief congress occurred among them, then Denis backed out over the edge. Soon we were all together on the ground, enjoying a short celebration. Then we started the trek back to base camp. 

The entire round trip ended up being ten and a half hours; a faster time than most expeditions I had researched. Back at camp we hydrated enthusiastically. Jaimie pan-fried french toast for us to eat. There was no syrup, which was just as well since it was not really french toast. The bread had been dipped in a mixture of reconstituted egg and powdered cheese mix from the boxes of Kraft dinner. But we were not inclined to be picky eaters. The sooner we ate something, the sooner we could collapse into our tents.  I could feel a raw area at the back of my sinuses and desperately hoped I was not coming down with the cold.  I crawled into our tent and removed my wet clothing, careful to sort the items I would have to wear again the next day. These garments would share space in my sleeping bag, where they might dry a bit overnight. I laid there in my sleeping bag; warm, comfortable, drained. The rain was falling hard on our tent. The sound reminded me of home. We were headed home now, and we would be taking with us what we had come here for. We had done it! I rolled to one side and reached an arm out the top of my sleeping bag. "Congratulations," I said, giving Denis a pat. "And to you," I heard him call back. 

The Summit!

On the Summit. (top row from left: Ivan, Jaimie, Carol, Pal, Dave, Denis. Kneeling: Dan, Raymond)

We could see the summit from where Denis and I sat. It was no more than five minutes away. Just a bit more ridge, then a steep scramble up about 20 feet. I could see colored flags draped over an ice axe wedged into the peak. This was it. We were going to summit. I felt tears welling up in my eyes and pushed them back. One blurry-eyed stumble is all it would take in a place like this. Better I should keep my edge a bit longer.

The Team had come together now and Dan called out for us to press on. He and Carol were the last two Climbers in the Que.  Denis and I stood up and, he in the lead, began picking our way along the ridge. We arrived at the base of the small rise leading to the summit. It was ten steps away now. Then Denis stopped. "Do you think we should let Carol summit first," he asked. "Absolutely," I answered. We each took a seat on the rocky incline, leaving an isle between us. Without discussion, each subsequent Team member likewise sat down until we had formed a path for Carol to walk up. I turned on my helmet camera to capture the moment. Click on the link below to see that video. I have uploaded  it to YouTube.

Carol Masheter sets a World Record.

Carol Masheter tags the last of the Seven Summits

This would turn out to be the most rewarding moment of the expedition for me. Having gotten to know Carol quite well, I knew of the hardships she had endured in life; failed relationships, career obstacles, health issues and an unceasing hunger "to do something remarkable." In the course of the trek I had watched Carol fall to the ground countless times, always picking herself back up without complaint. I had seen her unable to hold down nourishment, unable to carry her pack. Yet Carol never quit. I do not recall even hearing the notion discussed. She was one master-stroke away from completing her life's work and the energy to do so seemed to come from places and times far far away. Carol returned our respects, fist-bumping each Team member as she walked between us. Then, two steps from the summit, she was overcome with emotion, unable to continue until Denis comforted her. Carol then climbed atop the peak and, as is her custom, let out an enthusiastic "Silver Fox" howl. It was an immense honor to be present for such a moment.

We each took our turn standing on the summit for photos. I carry a picture of my Mom, another of Lin, and another of my Boys each time I leave for a summit. I hold each up for a summit photo. I also like to bring along a photo of a friend or acquaintance whom I feel a strong connection with relative to the mountain.  That person on this climb was Joe Luzzi, who suddenly passed away earlier this year. Joe was always very interested in my climbing adventures. He asked insightful questions,  offering equal portions of caution and encouragement. I later sent a print of this summit photo to his widow.
Click this link to see a video of my summit moment.
My Moment On the Summit of Carstensz Pyramid

Me and Joe.

I then removed a small plastic bag from the lining of my coat. I had hidden it there in the hopes it would not be discovered by customs, thus prompting difficult questions and or denial of entry ( Human remains in the form of ashes look similar to some controlled substances). I held the bag out over the edge of our summit perch and removed the rubber band, releasing my brother, Danny, to a land he never saw.

Man on a wire.

Starting up the Ridge. Photo by Ivan Gomez.

A few lite clouds were moving in by the time the entire team had made the ridge. It was still a stellar day, but we knew there would only be more clouds, and very likely rain, as the day progressed. Thus any celebration of having attained the Ridge was brief.

All of Indonesia fell away beneath us, starting with the flanks of Carstensz which abruptly dropped off 2,500 feet on either side. At times the ridge was generously wide. At others it was a ledge perhaps half the width of a boot sole. The air was cool, and small tufts of snow lay gathered in a few of the shady impressions. The wind, a climber's greatest concern, was slack. 

There is a complete mind shift Climbers go through walking a ridge. When climbing up the side of a mountain one focuses all his attention upward. There is little cause to look down and suffer the insecurities of height. Hand holds are plentiful and a taught rope offers immediate reassurance should one falter. All of this is lost on a ridgewalk. Though roped still, any fall would not be arrested until the climber has plunged some distance past the line. Our focus shifts downward, choosing careful foot placements, diligent to not trip on the rope. We are very very aware of how far "down" is. 

Twenty minutes up the ridge, we came to an 80 foot gap, the Tyrolean Traverse.  The only means for crossing the gap is to hang from a cluster of lines and pull one's self across the breathless drop, hand over hand. Our local Guide, Steven, told us about 1 in 10 climbers will end their expedition here, never reaching the summit. I found this easy to believe. 

Dave crossing the Tyrolean Traverse. Photo by Ivan Gomez.

There were four ropes and a steel cable already in place, gifts from prior expeditions. Our Guides inspected the condition of each as well as the anchors. Then Steven crossed first, followed by Dan. Together they inspected the ropes and anchors on the other side before signaling for the rest of the team to follow. When my turn came Jaimie helped to clip a large locking carabiner through my waist harness and around all four ropes. He then clipped my safety leash around the steel cable. It was hard to imagine the failure of a system with so much redundancy, yet primal instincts screamed to me as I leaned back into the void. My harness took the weight reassuringly, and the ropes loaded into shallow U shape. I could see team members waving encouragement from back on the rock, but  heard nothing over the roar of my own breathing. I was hanging from a wire 16,000 feet in the air. I looked over my shoulder at one point to view the world beneath me. This was a conscious choice. I had thought a great deal about this moment during the days leading up to it. For most of that time I had decided to not look down, feeling certain no good could come of it. But I changed my mind the day before. I would never come this way again. What a shame it would be to have had the opportunity and not taken a peek. Pearing through wispy clouds below me, I saw cascading terraces of lime stone shaded blue-grey in the shadows of their rocky relief. My stomach lept the way it does when driving fast over railroad tracks, but did not come back down. I felt a surge of adrenaline which came in handy as I pulled hard to ascend the uphill end of the lines. Now I heard the reassuring voice of Dan. "Three more pulls and you're here," he said. And then I was. Dan transferred my safety leash to the next rope above the anchors while I clung to the wall. Then he removed my harness carabiner from the four ropes while I climbed up over the anchors and onto the ledge. Ivan greeted me there with an enthusiastic knuckle bump. We moved higher on the rope to make room for the next team member to cross. 

Carol Masheter crossing the Tyrolean Traverse

With a confident smile on her face, Carol leaned back into the chasm and began pulling herself across. She was followed by Denis, Pal, Raymond and Jaimie. We then continued up the ridge toward the summit. 

Photo by Denis Vernette

I came to another gap, a miniature Tyrolean Traverse no wider than a full stride. But the approach was elevated, such that I had to downclimb into the gap before reaching a foot across it. This seemed little challenge given what we had just done, but I lost my footing and plummeted down into the gap. My harness went taught as the safety line held me dangling in the breach, several hundred feet off the ground. 

Dave crossing the gap. Photo by Denis Vernette

I have never relied so completely on a safety rope. I scolded myself for the mis-step as I scrambled up the other side, pledging to redouble my focus. 

We were approaching the summit now and Dan wanted us to arrive together. He called for those at the lead, Denis and myself, to let the team come together before taking the final pitch. We hunkered down on a ledge and nibbled the dried coconut chips I had loaded in my pocket. I thought about all the months of training that had led up to this moment, the sacrifices, the planning, the money. I thought about the people who had supported me along the way; my Boys, Lin, my Sisters and Parents. I thought about John in Anacortes, Greg and Linda in Walla Walla, my Assistant Sonia, David and Marian in Bellingham, my Barber, Eric at the Athletic Club and my longtime climbing partner, Ty. I looked over at Denis, seated beside me. We said nothing, but just smiled at one another. Then Denis offered his hand in congratulations.




 

A human windchime.

The Climb Route

Remember this part? 

We woke at 3a.m. to Dan's call. I zipped open our tent and looked up into a sky bedazzled with stars. The beauty of this might have been reason enough to celebrate, but to us it meant something much more practical--a dry rock face. The rains had been so persistent since arriving in the highlands that it had not even occurred to me that a dry climb was possible. I had so thoroughly fortified my spirits for a cold wet trial that I scarcely knew what to do when it became clear we would enjoy the best possible conditions. I often kid that "Low expectations are the basis of happiness and success in life". In as much as this may be true I was living it in this moment. "Damn," I exclaimed aloud. "What is it," Denis asked with concern. "Take a look at that sky," I answered, turning back with a smile. I could tell by Denis' expression he did not need to look. 

Our gear had been carefully arranged the night before; harnesses, ropes, ascenders, hydration bottles, and the likes. I had slept with my climbing clothes in the foot of my bag, and, following a Houdini-like contortion, emerged fully dressed for the day ahead. Carstensz was still unviewable but for the darkness about us. We ate something for breakfast. I cannot recall what. It did not matter. Then the Team set out on the 2 hour trek to the base of Carstensz. 

As an Improv performer, I have seen sick people, even performers with food poisoning, walk out on the stage and do a fantastic show. I believe we all have this ability when it comes to those things which truly matter in our lives. Our Team was not healthy as we readied ourselves for the first roped pitch up the rock face. I myself had relapsed into another intestinal bug. But the vigor we exhibited as each Climber clipped onto the fixed line belied any weakness.

Entering the fissure. Photo by Ivan Gomez.

A massive fissure runs down the lower half of the Carstensz rock face. This weak spot represented our best opportunity for climbing as one could perform wedging techniques with his feet while at once taking advantage of the many ample hand-holds. The downside of this approach was that the fissure would turn into a river when the rains began. We would have to get up and down before that. This is why we started our climb at night. The rains typically got under way in the early afternoon, and we calculated an eleven hour round trip. 

Another good reason for using this route was the many fixed lines left behind by prior expeditions. They were various gauges, and in various conditions ranging from new to stripped of their outer casing. But in any case would save us time, effort, and exposure to falls.  We brought along extra ropes to use when we did not trust the rope already in place, and replaced a few of the worst. 

The first pitch required the climber to clip onto the rope while standing on a narrow ledge, then swing out and around a massive orb-shaped stone face. At this point the Climber will have passed the point of no return and find himself hanging above a shear drop. Such moments are motivational. I immediately engaged the skills learned back home at the climbing wall. I could image Dave Hutch suggesting a toe hold beneath the overhang while I hung from one arm. My foot found something blockish. My other hand searched out a knobby protrusion. In short order I was standing on the orb, clipping into the next pitch. 

We fell into a rhythm that required little conversation. The sounds of our carabiners clinked pleasantly in the darkness all up and down the rock face. We were a living breathing wind chime in the night. 

The pitches fell below us at a steady pace. All the anticipation of the days leading up to the climb was being unleashed. I remember thinking "this is REALLY fun," and "we are flying up this hill!" The six Climbers who had persevered were all serious and accomplished mountaineers, and now they were finally free to do what they do best. 

There is a sweetness about daybreak in the mountains. It comes first to the peak, slowly working its way downward. Sometimes we shiver in the darkness below, counting the minutes until the promise of a new day wraps us in light and warmth. You pause then, perhaps to give thanks, and look down at a world still fast asleep. "Soon, my friends." One by one the new day gathered us up as it slid down the face, each climber switching off his headlamp and donning sun glasses. Now high enough to look out across the whole of New Guinea, I took in a full panorama of this marvelous place.

We rested on a broad shelf midway up the face. Far above us, interrupting the ridgeline, was a yawning gap with a line across it. This was the Tyrolean Traverse we had all heard so much about. We pointed it out to one another as we nibbled on energy foods and hydrated, but we did not speak of the Traverse otherwise. This would be getting too far ahead of ourselves. Good Climbers know better. Our immediate concern was the vertical face above us, a full 700 feet of work into thinning air. Everyone was breathing harder now. Our bodies were well conditioned to 13,000 feet, but here at 15,200 they struggled to gather oxygen sufficient to deliver on the demands we were making. 

The final pitch. Photo by Ivan Gomez.

We would have to progress at a more measured pace from here out, careful and exacting as we pushed for the ridge. This face had a fissure not unlike that of the lower wall. Some of us would use this path while others preferred to climb out in the open.The limestone surface felt solid and tacky beneath my tight leather climbing gloves. The flexible soles of my well-seasoned hiking boots held confidently to the coarse dry surface. I worked my way up the crack using holds and smears all around me. Even at this altitude the climbing felt easier than the routes on the YMCA climbing wall back home. I remembered Hutch telling me this would be the case. "He was right," I said aloud to myself. I exited the crack when it became too narrow for me and my pack, climbing the final forty feet on the open face. Raymond reached down toward me from the ridge, his familiar smile beaming from the buff pulled over his head. "Good climb, Mr. Dave," he said. I thanked him and found a place to sit atop the narrow ridge that would lead us the remainder of the way to the summit.

Base Camp!

Pal and Denis. Photo by Dan Zokaites.

I had not been aware that Denis shared a room with Pal back in Timika. This fact may have cast greater caution on my decision to tent with him, especially in light of his having "a small bit of sore in (his) throat." But the truth is I would have tented with a Leper if it meant just one solid night of rest. I had gotten that restful night at camp 4. But now, at camp 5, Denis deteriorated rapidly into the same horrible respiratory affliction that had cursed Pal. All night long Denis blew his nose with a long trombone-like honk that seemed to know when I was just about to fall back to sleep. This was interspersed with coughing fits that shook the tent. Together we suffered through the night. I felt bad for Denis. I could only imagine how much more difficult the days ahead would be for him, weakened by this cold. 

Denis is a quiet man, and we had not gotten to know each other very well until the evening before. He struggles with the English language and this may be part of the reason for his silence, but more so Denis seems to be one of those thoughtful observers, more interested in hearing than speaking. Denis is an Urban Planner for the city of Alma, just outside Quebec. He is diminutive in stature, yet accomplished as a Climber, having summitted Denali, Aconcagua, Kilimanjaro, and Elbrus; four of the seven summits. He is lean, well-trained and tireless on the trail. 

I had just changed into dry clothes and was lying in the tent, missing Lin and my Boys. Denis crawled in the door and set about organizing his things. I asked him if he is married or has children. He said "no" to both. "Maybe when I am done mountain climbing..." At age 47, Denis knows his first love is the mountains. He had spent the last two years saving and planning for this expedition. It had been his constant companion, his mistress, his child. 

We developed a cadence of communication where I would make short simple statements to which Denis would say "OK", indicating he was still with me. 
"I was married before," I would say. 
"OK."
"I didn't climb mountains then."
"OK."
"But I wanted to try."
"OK."
"I was invited to climb Denali."
"OK."
"But my wife said she didn't think I could do it."
"OK." Pause. "Well, this is a problem," Denis says, shaking his head.
"Now I have a wonderful woman in my life."
"OK."
"She believes in me."
"OK." Pause. "This is good."

That next morning at Camp 5 we shuffled, blurry-eyed, through the mud to the kitchen tent. Denis was apologetic for keeping me up all night. I told him I knew it could not be helped. Jaimie and Raymond had prepared Macaroni and Cheese for breakfast. It seemed odd, but I was glad to not be greeted by Mung Beans. Carol seemed improved, but would not be carrying her pack again today. Pal was also doing better. 

The Team with our lead Porter.

 We trekked out the last high hem of the Savannah, past a still lake surrounded on three sides by steep 1,000 foot walls of rock and scrub. I recognized this place from The Seeds of Singing.  It was here the extraordinarily attractive protagonists built a shack by the water and lived on their love for a year, safe from invading Japanese forces, hungry cannibals, and the jealous tyranny of a half-sister bent on controlling the family rubber plantation.

Photo by Ivan Gomez

All of this plays through my head as we trek the shoreline toward the far wall. I find myself smiling, the restless night forgotten. Our trail starts up the wall by way of narrow switchbacks and wedged logs. The path is no more than a foot wide, and steep enough that one can reach out and lean against the hill. 

Photo by Dan Zokaites

Any wide spot is a pool of mud. We struggle to keep the soupy crud from going over the tops of our boots. At times we scale limestone rock eroded to serrated edges by the steady forces of rain. We crest the wall and trek across a vast rock scape, then scaling up another steep hillside to the first of several passes. Before us is a deep rock bowl with an iridescent green lake in it's pit. I had seen photos of such a lake near Carstensz base camp and, for a moment, I celebrate our having arrived. Then I realize this lake is not the right shape. We were simply passing down and through, marching up the opposite side to the next pass. Like the synchronous cradles of an egg carton, the topography of this place formed an interconnected congress of such rocky bowls. 

The families of the Porters stayed behind at camp 5, gathered in the warmth of their smoky longhouses. Base Camp was not a place any of them wanted to be. Lacking the means for building any form of shelter, the Porters would  hold up there in a cave, wrapped in blankets while we went on to attempt the summit. Several Porters were huddled among the boulders taking a break as we attained New Zealand Pass, our final crest before descending down to Base Camp. Most were barefoot and wearing shorts. A few had coats. Some wore plastic rain ponchos handed out by our local Guide, Steven. I observed them from the comfort of my climbing layers, commenting to Dan with equal parts admiration and concern. "Look at them standing barefoot and bare-legged in the rain on cold rock." "I know," Dan said, "suck it up Snowflake." This is the kind of thing Mountaineers say to one another when the going gets rough and nothing can be done about it. It was Dan's way of suggesting we, the guys wearing a fortune in North Face gear, have no room to complain. He was right. 

We descended 1,200 feet down a steep rocky face into Base Camp. The rain was coming down hard and clouds obscured Carstensz, cheating us of what should have been our reward for a hard day of toil. Steven, Jaimie, Raymond and the lead Porter had already built camp by the time we arrived. As the tents were all assembled in the driving rain, a small pool of water occupied the interior of each. Denis crawled into our tent and began bailing water out the door while I carved a trench with my boot-heal, directing any further runoff away from out dwelling. Chilled and tired, we eventually set up our beds and changed into dry clothing. The Cooks made spaghetti for dinner, which we were strongly encouraged to eat as much of as possible. This was not just dinner. It was a "carbo-load" for our summit attempt. We had officially entered the "Game on" part of what we had all came here for. We would sleep if we could, rise at 3a.m. that night and leave for the summit of Carstensz Pyramid. 

Climber Ivan Gomez. near Base Camp, elev 13,500 ft.  Photo by Dave Mauro

 

Better.

The High Savannah. photo by Ivan Gomez.

I woke feeling the best I had in days. Though my 9 hours of sleep were interrupted a few times by Denis coughing, the night had been peaceful in comparison to tenting with Pal. Most mornings I struggled to gather momentum after the 5:30 wake up call from Dan. But this day came with such rejuvenation that I emerged from the tent in mere moments, sleeping kit packed and in hand. "I don't have to ask how you are doing. I can tell by what you are holding already," Dan observed. "Yeah. I feel good, rested, and it looks like a beautiful day of trekking," I said with a smile. 

Jamie and Raymond were busy in the kitchen tent making pancakes. They had probably sensed the team was at a low ebb and it was time to put the Mung Beans aside. I ate five plate-size flapjacks and would have eaten more if not for the need to get underway with the days miles. Pal was still fighting his lungs. He stood away from the dining tent hacking and coughing for several minutes before joining us, hand sanitizer in tow. Carol observed the morning meal with dread. I had watched her consume an energy bar the night before, one tiny nibble after another. Each morsel was chewed so long it became apparent Carol was stalling the point where she would swallow.  In the course of force-feeding herself the energy bar, she also drank a liter of water. I have never seen anyone focus so intently on the process of nourishing their body, but Carol understood that no matter how unpleasant they may be, eating and drinking were not optional. Within minutes of finishing she had vomited it all up and gone to bed. Things went a bit better at breakfast the following morning. Carol managed to consume some pancake and water fortified with electrolytes. 

We set out from camp 4 by 7:30am. A nearly cloudless sky stretched out above the open Savannah before us. The trail was firm and unfettered by obstacles of any manner. I remember feeling for the first time that this whole enterprise was "do-able." Modest hills rolled away from us in pleasing folds. I could see sharp ridges in the far distance, silhouetted by the rising sun behind them. It seemed I could see as far as the human eye is capable. Yet Carstensz was still not in sight. 

Crossing the river valley. Photo Dan Zokaites.

In spite of our compromised strength, the team made excellent time through the first half of the day. We crossed through a river valley and began ascending the soggy hillside that would take us to the flat upper plain. Again we were slogging through mud, always looking for a rock or some piece of high ground to step upon. But our reward came as we crested the hill and threw down our packs next to a clear slow stream meandering through the meadow above. Here the ground was firm and dry. We kicked off our boots and sprawled out in the tall brown grass.  Steven said we had made good enough time to take a full one hour lunch stop, a luxury we had not yet known. Several Porter families were already picnicking on the other side of the stream. They welcomed us with waves and smiles. 

We finished our lunch and napped in the warm sun. I woke after 20 minutes and, feeling restless, decided to pass the remaining time standing stones on point about us. It is not so difficult to stand a stone on point. One need only quiet his mind and think in progressively smaller increments.  In this fashion you can create a spontaneous trail-side sculpture which intrigues by virtue of its inorganic placement. 

This was actually in Russia, but you get the idea.

Several tribal members crossed the stream to study my standing rocks, looking all around the stones to see what trick I had used. In the end the stones were all toppled by playful children throwing long blades of grass like spears. 

The afternoon rains tended to come earlier in the day as we drew closer to the mountains. We were still an hour away from camp 5 when the skies turned grey. But the rains held off until shortly after we arrived.  Now at 12,208 feet, the air was much cooler and we all added warm hats and layers. Encouragingly, Carol seemed to have improved modestly. Where she had begun the day pausing frequently to dry-heave at trailside, Carol had finished the day keeping pace with the rest of the team. I even saw her smile. 

I filmed this short YouTube video at camp 5. 

  
 

The reason Porters disappear each afternoon.

Carol’s condition was worsening. She did not carry her pack as we moved to camp 4. This alone testified to her weakened state as doing so compromised a central point of pride among climbers. Gone was her quick smile and booming joyous proclamations. At each rest stop she would lie down and nap for a few minutes. We were all concerned for Carol, but nothing more could be done. If we halted the expedition where we were and her condition continued to deteriorate we could neither carry her out nor arrange a helicopter rescue. To turn around would mean subjecting Carol to the most grueling part of the trek all over again and would take longer than pressing forward to Carstensz, where there existed a suitable spot for med-evac extraction should it be necessary.

Pal was also off his game.  The cold and fatigue seemed to have robbed his strength. He lagged the team.  Though he carried his pack and still managed a smile from time to time, Pal was quieter, no longer interjecting interesting facts about things Norwegian, not even reflectors. At times he would go into coughing fits as he tried to clear his lungs.

The day’s trail moved through a transitional zone above the jungle but below the flattish grass savannah. Dwarf trees and woody scrub carpeted a benign series of rolling hills. I tried to occupy myself with music from my I-pod, but the brush kept grasping the ear plugs by their line, extracting them indelicately. We were now at 10,000 feet elevation, thus the heat was no longer an issue. Still I cinched my belt past its final notch and forced the spindle through the canvas. This would be my second day on Cipro so I could expect improvement with the intestinal issues that had dogged me.  I felt weakened, but not excessively so.

We stopped to lunch at the top of a steeper hill. Each climber brought their own lunch provisions on the trip. I had learned from prior expeditions what I could keep myself eating; beef jerky, trail mix and Gatorade. I supplemented this with dried fruit and chips of coconut. Other team members ate energy bars, candy and (in Pal’s case) dried strips of cod. We were all nibbling quietly when Pal suddenly asked “What is this? Ants!” He had seated himself near an ant hill and was now being fully explored by its residents. “Get up,” Dan ordered Pal, who seemed paralyzed by equal parts amusement and confusion. But as Pal stood the ants began biting him. He swatted and swiped at them furiously, turning in circles. I joined the fight, but seemed to discover ten new ants for each one extracted from the smited Pal. I told Pal to remove his shirt and shake it out. I found several ants on his bare back. They had attached themselves by their pinchers and were shaking their bodies freely as though trying to tear loose a bit of flesh. I exacted swift retribution upon these offenders. Judging our location to be unfortunate, the team cut lunch short and resumed trekking toward camp 4.

We arrived in camp a few minutes before the afternoon rains began. The Porters had constructed their own shelter next to our group tent on a small promontory overlooking the grassy savannah beyond. We ducked under our tarp as the sky opened up with heavy showers. I noted there were no tribal members wondering about camp and asked Jaimie where they were. He exchanged shy glances with Steven and Raymond. “It 3 o’clock,” he said, “ they go inside to make some love.” He gestured to the large common shelter next to us.  We agreed that this might explain their eagerness to get to camp each day.

Dan surveyed each team member as to their condition while we enjoyed a hot drink. Pal was worse than he was willing to admit. Carol could no longer keep food down. Ivan was strong and healthy. Denis, in a thick Quebec accent, reported “A tiny bit of sore in my throat. I don’t know. Maybe it is nothing.” Dan asked if the Cipro had helped me yet. I said I did not know. He said he had thusly tested his own condition a few moments earlier, then describing the experience in terms suggesting it to have been much more than satisfactory.

I gathered an aside of Denis, Pal, Ivan and myself to suggest we reshuffle the tent occupancy. Noting both Pal and Denis appeared ill on some level it seemed obvious they would tent together, leaving Ivan and myself to partner up. But before I could suggest this specific orientation Ivan and Pal chose one another and set about constructing their tent in the rain. This left Denis and I to share quarters, and though he might possibly be sick his symptoms appeared nowhere near as bad as Pal’s.  This seemed like an improvement to me.  We grabbed our tent bundle and stepped out into the rain, making our shelter on a less muddy area of what was all for the most part mud.