Gummy bears and underwears.

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. 

Mr. T and a Norwegian safety slogan.

One at a time!

Camp 2 was built on a sloping hillside next to a river. Many trees had been cut down to make room, but few had been removed. Aside from the small areas cleared for tents the whole area was a stumble-fest of branches and tree trunks. Still, it seemed wonderful for what it represented - progress. We washed our socks in a small tributary and settled into the tents. Dan advised we use our packs to level our sleeping pads by shoving them under the foot. This worked in the same sense that shoving a bicycle under the pads would have worked; they were level but just as uncomfortable. I slept awful and woke with spasms in my low back. I had shared the tent with Pal, who was now developing a hacking cough and cold-like symptoms. His struggle had kept me up much of the night. I took a dose of Advil and set about stretching my back out with some of my newly learned yoga positions. A crowd of Porters and their children quickly gathered to watch. It was hard to ignore their presence as some crouched down to examine me more closely. The men commented quietly to one another while a few of the boys tried to mimic my poses, smiling, laughing and falling over. I was in pain but could not help smile at the odd circumstance. 

For reasons I am not sure of, I chose to squander precious ounces of gear weight by bringing along a small plastic device left in my Christmas stocking by my sister Michelle. It has six buttons and for each emits a well known Mr. T quote. I brought it to breakfast at camp 2 and addressed the team in a confessional tone. "You know," I began. "It was a hard day for me yesterday. I struggled. I fell, I thought about quitting and complained to myself bitterly. Then a voice came to me; a firm voice, a voice of inspiration, a voice of possibility. And it said (at this point I pushed one of the buttons on the device) "Quit yo Jibba Jabba!" It would have been a comedic moment if not for  the roar of the nearby camp stoves. "What did it say," Carol asked. I held it close to her ear and pushed the button again. Turns out she was not familiar with Mr. T.  Carol nodded politely as Dan, who had taken my setup as genuine, started a discussion of the many trials of the trail. "No. Wait a minute," I interrupted. I held the device near Pal and tried again. Apparently Mr. T was never big in Norway. I looked to Ivan, then thought better of the notion. Denis was definitely out. Dan might know who Mr. T is but too much time had passed. Comedic window closed. I slipped the device back in my pocket and sat down. I resolved to try again later with the better known "I pity the Fool!" button. 

At each camp we had a tarp-covered area for the Team to gather beneath for meals or socializing. Jaimie set up the kitchen in one half of the shelter, a busy array of three to four white-gas camp stoves boiling water for drinking and simmering our next meal. A plastic foldout camp table was centered in the other half. Each of us had a small three-legged folding stool we brought to the low slung table. Jaimie kept an assortment of instant coffee, teas, cocoa (Milo), and dry biscuits there for us to choose from. The one luxury I afforded myself was a handful of Starbucks instant coffee packets. I brought one to each breakfast and combined it with a bit of Milo to make a mocha that almost brought tears to my eyes. 

Periodically one of us would suddenly heave to one side and tumble to the ground as a leg of our stool sunk into the soft soil. The natural reaction is to grasp at the nearest thing in an effort to arrest one's fall. This was typically another Team Member, who then also fell over.  After awhile we developed a kind of gentleman's neglect whereby one would override the temptation to grab the person seated next to him, and that person would override the temptation to help.

I had just fallen over and still lay sprawled across the branches that made up the floor of our group tent. A moment earlier Dan asked if anyone had anything to report about their health or injuries. "I have a loose stool," I responded. It was one of those rare opportunities to be literal in two senses at the same time. The group laughed at my apparent pun. "I started a course of Cipro this morning," I added, picking myself up. Intestinal bugs can be a serious problem on long treks, especially at high altitude. "OK," Dan acknowledged, "I have the same thing going on. Let me know how that goes for you after a couple days of Cipro." Carol reported early symptoms of a reoccurring Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) condition she has fought off an on for years. Pal declared himself to now be in a full-blown head and chest cold. Denis and Ivan were fine. Discussion of each health issue was followed by a marshaling of relevant medications and a promise to report any worsening of condition.

Dan dug a "cat hole" at each camp for team members to defecate in. It was typically a few hundred feet away in some private location marked by a trekking pole. Pal volunteered a reflective band he had brought along. This was placed on the pole to aid in discovery at night. "Reflectors save lives," Pal stated in the tone of a public service announcement. In the long dark winters of Norway people just keep on with their favorite outdoor activities. A government sponsored campaign to reduce injuries featured the "Reflectors save lives" slogan and a free reflector. This campaign had been highly successful in terms of reducing accidents and also ingraining the slogan into the subconscious of Pal. It became impossible to mention Pal's reflector without him saying "Reflectors save lives." He was being funny, of course, but it came across as some kind of verbal tic. After awhile I started setting him up with "Hey Pal, what do reflectors do?" "Save lives," he would respond on cue. It was how we connected. 

To access the cat hole at camp 2 one had to cross on area of inter-meshed tree branches, climb over a four foot tree trunk, weave through thick brush and side-step between tow huge rotting stumps. "Does anyone have any requests," Dan queried as we wrapped up our morning breakfast of Italian pasta. "I do," I said. "I would like it if the approach to the cat hole at future camps is not a steeplechase course." the Team laughed in agreement. "But don't you like my reflector to mark the spot," Pal asked, then adding "Reflectors save lives." "Yes," I responded, "it  helps me to see where I wish I were as I crap my pants." Dan gave up a good-natured laugh and promised kinder placement next time. 

The trek to camp 2

I had jettisoned my umbrella back at camp 1. I might regret this once we reached the savannah but all I could worry about at this point was getting through the jungle and that cursed umbrella had made a liability of itself snagging on anything I passed. As Ivan had advised, I also put one trekking pole away. I removed the basket from the pole I used as this too had proven susceptible to tangling in the brush. 

Having made a critical evaluation of my performance the prior day, I decided to fortify my water with Cytomax. It seemed plausible I had been shedding electrolytes too rapidly to compensate by other means, thus exacerbating the fatigue. The Cytomax would help with this. Lastly, I resolved to become better at walking in my rubber boots. I focused on where I stepped, chose where to plant my trekking pole, and used my free hand to grab exposed roots or tree limbs (also a tip from Ivan). I realized that better footing than the person in front of me had chosen often existed if I was searching it out. For the first time since the age of two, walking was complicated and challenging, offering risk and reward, worthy of one's best efforts. The dividends paid immediately. I fell much less. I also did no wast precious energy flailing to arrest stumble when traction quit me. It was still difficult, but things were going much better. 

We passed through the clear cuts and into jungle, over several steep hills, eventually descending down to the place where Dori had fallen the day before. The Porters had already built a better bridge replete with handrails. It was a touching gesture that said more than could be communicated with the sparse words we shared. Many of the Porters refused to pass us on the trail this day. It had been exhausting for them to be so fat out ahead of us the day before and have to turn back. They were taking no chances. 

I was glad to press on into new trail. There was redemption of a sort in knowing Dori would be alright and those of us who remained could focus on what lay ahead. Ivan had been right; the jungle trekking was going much better for us the second day. Though taxed, I felt capable. The times I did fall or stumble I gathered myself up and continued immediately. I had accepted that these and many other low speed collisions were part of handing life over to the jungle. Dan seemed very tuned into how we were doing. There were regular hydration stops each hour. Even thought these were typically only 5 to 10 minutes the effect was meaningful. If we scaled a particularly steep hill Dan would call for a three minute breath at the top. The Team was moving well and a playful banter emerged. Ivan broke out in spontaneous verses of the "Guns and Roses" song Welcome To The Jungle. Carol would offer the occasional Silver fox howl. Pal told clever Norwegian jokes. We were working very hard, but our collective spirit had coalesced and would not be denied. Everything was once again possible.

We lunched at a place in the river where a small pond had been built for gathering salt deposits leeching from the rock face next to it. The Porters and their families were already gathered there when we arrived. They were lounging about the rocky flowered terraces next to the rapids, eating strange fruits and a radish-like root they had floated in the salt pond. One mother was nursing her child and did not seem to mind that she was in plain view. Pal, as much physician as mountain climber, smiled to witness such a timeless human ritual. Though he lives a demanding professional life as head of cardiology at the hospital he works at in Tromso, Pal does not take himself too seriously. He could be clownish one moment and remarkably insightful the next. The children in our expedition quickly sized Pal up for an easy mark, extracting regular sweets from his willing hands. 

We arrived at camp 2 after 9 hours of trekking. We had ascended 4,000 vertical feet and descended 3,000 for a net gain of only 1,000 feet. Our pace averaged less than 1 mile and hour, yet felt like a victory.  

Click on this video to see lunch at the salt pool. 

Carol Masheter

Carol, myself, and Pal

Carol had at least one reason more than the rest of us for continuing on. At the age of 61 years 7 1/2 months, Carol, on May 24 2008,  had become the second oldest woman to summit Mt Everest. Since time she had sumitted each of the remaining seven summits --except one. 

Earlier this year Carol had arrived in New Guinea to climb Carstensz Pyramid. She had signed up for an expedition that would use helicopters to skip the grueling trek to Carstensz. It would be a chip shot for her, rounding out a world-class climbing resume and placing Carol in the rarefied company of those who have managed to "touch 'em all." But it was not to be. The promised helicopter never materialized and, after many days of frustrating delays, the expedition fell apart. 

So Carol was back to try again. Now 65 3/4 years old, she was going to do it the hard way. She would trek to Carstensz. If she were successful, Carol would be the oldest woman ever to complete the seven summits. A world record!

BTW- Carol published her own account of the Mt Everest climb and the events in her life leading up to it. No Magic Helicopters (Aventine Press) is an interesting and honest telling of what it means to climb Mt Everest today. 

The tale of another expedition.

 Dear Blog Readers- I do not wish to belabor the point of how dangerous and unpredictable circumstances are in Papua New Guinea. However, lest anyone question the reality of same he should read the account of the expedition that went in right after we left. This expedition was led by my Guide from the Elbrus climb in Russia, and used the same three local Guides our expedition used in New Guinea. 
-Dave

Carstensz Pyramid Trip Ends Abruptly
Monday 13th August 2012    

Yesterday morning (Sunday 12th August) in Illaga the Adventure Consultants Carstensz Pyramid Expedition was on schedule. We were taking our planned day out in Illaga to gain the necessary district police and tribal permissions. The local Dani Tribesman enjoyed entertaining us with an archery competition, fantastic to watch. The chief of the local Dani Tribe had insisted our equipment and belongings get searched; we willingly complied and we found that this was done in a careful non-aggressive manner.

By the very fact we had flown from Bali to Timika meant we already had our Indonesian Travel Visa and special visa for traveling in Western Papua. In addition to these Visas issued by the Indonesian Government, it is necessary to gain permission from the different local tribes. Everything appeared to be in order. Our agent Steven, a veteran of some 60 trips to Carstensz, had followed the complex local procedures to ensure the local tribes were 'on-board' with our expedition. Permissions had successfully been gained, payments made and the doors were all open for our expedition to proceed. Our universe was in order, so we thought.

After a relaxing chatty group lunch the situation dramatically changed. An unknown Dani militia leader suddenly arrived with a posse of armed warriors and aggressively started making demands. We were ordered outside into the blazing equatorial sun, surrounded by armed tribesman, while they commenced a search of the basic buildings we were staying in. There was a lot of very aggressive language and gesturing between our staff and the militia mobsters. Intimidation tactics included burning the local grass beside us. Eventually we were ushered inside and assembled in one room.

Negotiations with the rebel tribesmen then began and without going into the full detail of it, we were detained for about four hours, our passports confiscated and a blockade was placed on our being able to continue to Carstensz. They demanded an extraordinary sum of money, 1 billion Rupiah for our being present on "their" land. Eventually we negotiated a settlement of USD3500 and the proviso that we would leave.

All this was very nerve wracking and well beyond the realms of normal tribal negotiations and pay-offs. Nobody was hurt but some group members were quite shaken up. The question we are all asking is just who were these characters? What we know is that they are a highly militant militia group, composed of warriors from the Dani tribe, who are fighting for the independence of Western Papua from Indonesia. Intermingling with this they have their own centuries old tribal and family conflicts that overlap regionally. Throw into this mix disputes over recent government elections and other variables! They are from a distant region and for some reason were in the location of Illaga at this time. Steven had never encountered them before. The Dani are known to be a volatile aggressive group. Our expedition had specifically avoided starting from Sugapa as they are in the midst of local elections at present in that district. To have continued after this intense and intimidating encounter would have been to a take a great risk. Steven, our agent, made the decision that it was unsafe to continue.

This morning we returned to Timika. Everybody is gutted to have been forced to end the trip so unexpectedly and tomorrow we begin our return journey.

We will give you another update from Bali.

Best

Mike Roberts and Lydia Bradey

Not ready to quit.

It had not been clear whether the expedition was officially over. Team members chatted amongst themselves the day before as we took Dori back to camp 1 at Sunama. It did not look good. On the whole, things had gone quite badly from the start. Some members quietly expressed their hope we could somehow carry on. Ivan was  more outspoken. "This is not a camping trip," he groused a number of times, suggesting the Schmidts had no place being on an expedition like this in the first place. He lay responsibility equally at the feet of IMG and the Schmidt family. At one point he said this while two of the Schmidt boys were present. "Let's give it a rest," I suggested.

In fairness to Ivan it should be noted he was under pressures the rest of us did not have. Back home in the Dominican Republic Ivan is a national hero. He was the first person from his country to summit Mt Everest, a feat for which he was promoted within the army and received a commendation in person from the President. Ivan has stood atop four of the seven summits and been sponsored financially in each outing. In this, his fifth summit, he was again sponsored by a number of companies, including Dasani bottled water. Whether implicit or explicit, there is pressure to summit when a sponsor is involved. The Climber carries the sponsor's logo to the top and poses with it. In Ivan's case this would mean sharing a moment of national pride. Such advertising opportunities are rare indeed. But the dollars invested return almost nothing if the Climber is not successful. Thus one can assume no further participation on the part of that sponsor and a difficult time enlisting others on future climbs. I have considered seeking sponsorship for own climbs. Having now summitted on six of six attempts it would probably not be difficult to obtain financial backing. But I have known moments along the way where a critical call had to be made, a decision about whether to pursue the summit under deteriorating circumstances. In such moments there is only room for the influences of mountaineering, and I cannot say with certainty that the obligations to a sponsor might not creep into the mix.

We woke the next morning and set about packing our beds up while Jamie and Jeremy cooked Mung Beans for breakfast. Mung Beans, a small firm bean, are boiled into submission then drowned in a brown sugar gravy. It is a sweet, filling breakfast that hits the caloric target. However, very little joy is experienced in the consumption of Mung Beans and many a sideways glance was exchanged. While Jason and Dan were busy having a private consultation with Dori and the Schmidt boys out behind our shack we used their absence as an opportunity to discuss circumstances with each other. Ivan, Pal, and Denis were keen to continue on. Carol preferred to defer to the judgement of Jason and Dan. I myself felt undecided.  It had been very hard work trekking in the jungle. I was not sure I was up to many more days of the same. Indeed, I had considered the notion of dropping out during the trek back to Sunama.  As well, owing to delays of getting from Timika to Sugapa and our false start the day before, we would have no rest days. They had all been consumed. If the expedition set out again it would have to put in 12 straight 9 hour days. 

Jason called a team meeting after breakfast and informed us that, as expected, Dori would continue back to Sugapa, then Timika, then Bali to a hospital where her injuries would be more thoroughly assessed and treated. Her climb was over. Nathan "Nano", Jeremy, and Josh would also turn back. Being minors, they could not continue on without a legal guardian present. Ben, being 19, could stay on if he chose. He was considering that notion at the moment. Jason said each of us would meet with him and Dan privately to discuss how we might like to proceed. So this meant the entire expedition was not necessarily over!

Carol approached me while Ivan was meeting with our Guides. She was concerned that she would hold up the rest of us and perhaps jeopardize our summit chances. She also felt she may have brought an unsatisfactory climbing boot for the rock face.  I assured her I had every confidence in her abilities as a climber and would welcome any moderation in pace so as to spare my ego from otherwise having to call for it  myself. "Equpment is another issue," I continued,"you'll have to judge that for yourself." She nodded and walked off to meet with Jason and Dan. I was honored she had sought my counsel. 

Ivan pulled me aside to talk about my intentions. I was frank about what a struggle it had been for me trekking in clunky rubber boots on muddy uneven trails. I lamented the heat, the inclines and the dehydration. He told me he leads jungle treks back home in the Dominican Republic. He said people always do much better after the first day as they learn how to move through such terrain. "And only use one trekking pole," he coached. "Easier to keep track of just one and it will be out in front of you instead of getting caught up on the side." I told him that made sense. "And very important thing," he continued, "you must surrender to the jungle." This turned out to be the most valuable piece of advice for me. Life in the jungle gets much easier when you stop caring if you are covered in mud, if you stink, if you have fallen down for the fifth time this hour. I started to consider the notion of continuing on. First off I would have to lighten my pack. I discarded a few things in the shack to be found later by the tribe. My gift to them and me. I moved other items from my pack to my duffel. This would put it over our 37 pound weight limit. But I was betting we would skip weighing the duffels this day and rationalized the added burden to my Porter was fare exchange for the night he left me with nothing. 
If I was going to continue on I needed to stack the deck in my favor to create a win, a day that was not a complete drubbing. But I needed one more thing.

Jason and Dan called me over to talk. "I would like to continue on," I said immediately. I was surprised by the conviction in my voice considering a moment earlier I had been uncertain. It felt like my statement came from somewhere deep inside me, not a place of considered thought but a place of basic truth, the same source that had prodded me to sign up for this expedition in the first place. "But I need to know that whomever leads us is truly into it." I explained that circumstances had been hard on everyone, them included, and I would not blame them for wanting to just cash it in. But this is their job and quitting may not be an option. The Guide who continued on might execute his duties admirably, but with no joy for the experience. "It matters to me that you want to continue on." Jason explained that he would accompany Dori and the boys back, leaving us in the very capable hands of Dan Zokaites, his assistant guide. Jason expressed disappointment that he would not be a part of the expedition, and Dan promised "a lot of positive energy" from him as we pressed on anew. "Then I'm in," I announced and shook their hands. 

The two parties formed up, those turning back and those who would continue on. Ben had decided his place was with his family. He stood with an arm across Nano's shoulders as the Schmidts watched us put on our packs. I walked over to them and offered a favorite Niel Young lyric; "Schmidt Family," I said, "Long may you run." Dori hugged me and each of the boys shook my hand. I was sorry we had lost them. Our 14 person team had been winnowed down to 6 in just two days. Dan led us out of Sunama on the same trail we had already seen twice. I cleared my thoughts and surrendered to the jungle.

We turn back.

The plank Dori fell off of. 

Jason made the rounds to each team member once Dori's wounds had been dressed. He asked how I was doing and seemed to be listening more to the way I answered than what I said. Rightly so. A good Guide knows how to read people and relies on that read to form a workable judgement. "I'm concerned about Dori" I said. I told him I had seen her go over and recounted everything I could remember about it. This was moot, of course, but Jason paid attention and let me tell my story. Then he asked again how I was doing. "A little shook up, I guess. But I knew this sort of thing was part of the deal when I signed up." "OK," he responded and clenched my shoulder for a moment before moving on.

There had been a point when everything was coming unglued, when we couldn't see Dori but knew she was in the river. In that moment Dan had handed me his camera and the satellite phone. We locked eyes and I knew he was going to jump into the river. What I saw in his face was resignation. It was a powerful moment. When Dan checked in with me after Jason I handed the camera and sat phone back to him. As  I did I felt us both revisit the circumstances under which they had come into my possession. There was relief. 

Jason called an impromptu team meeting as we stood gathered on the rock. He explained that the expedition would be turning back. As Dori had fallen from a height three times her own, this was considered a critical fall and her head injury held the potential to develop into a much worse condition. He could accompany Dori back to safety, but if she worsened and could not carry herself out of the jungle he would not be able to do it alone. In fact it would take the considerable efforts of everyone on the team if we should need to carry Dori back over the brutal terrain we had already trekked in on. Dori argued that she would surrender her own expedition but was not willing to cost everyone else their own opportunity to climb. "It's not your call," Jason responded. 

All parties agreed that our first priority was getting Dori to safety. We shouldered our packs and began retracing our path back to Sunama. With the aid of lingering adrenaline, the trek back seemed easier than the trip in had been. We arrived in Sunama by early evening. Dori's dressing was changed. We all ate something. I can't recall what. At that point I was exhausted and just wanted to lay down. Dori developed a headache as she settled in for the night, but no other symptoms. The team was wiped out. It had been a very bad day. Yet it could have been so much worse. I lingered on this thought and felt grateful. Sleep.

A very rough start.

The Schmidt family held a private conference the next morning with Jason Edwards. It was already decided that Dale would be turning back, but I suspect Jason wanted to confirm that the other members of the family remained committed to the expedition. While no one wanted to see any additional Schmidts depart, we also would not blame them if someone felt his place was with Dale. Turning back would for all purposes not be an option at the advanced camps, so it was here or not at all. In the end, Dori and her four boys decided to press on with the expedition. 

But another team member did turn back with Dale. Roger, from Dallas, had already had enough. He surprised Jason and Dan by requesting a sidebar with them, then announced he was done. The trail into camp 1 had shown Roger all he needed to see, and it was his judgement he was not up to twelve more days of the same. "I'm guess I'm just a cold mountain guy," he explained to me when saying goodbye.  This is the kind of call a climber can only make for himself and no one judges him for it. Roger left behind the lunch rations he had brought along, which turned out to be the best of anyone's. Dan and I would run out of trail food many days later and speak of Roger with admiration as we ate his cheese sticks and beef jerky. 


Dale and Roger left for Sugapa with one of our local guides. Our team of 14 was now down to 12. We prepared to shoulder our packs, but there was a problem with the Porters. The Dani tribe, which hosted us that night, would not permit us to leave their village without hiring some of their tribe as porters. The night before we had come upon a roadblock of Dawa tribe members just before the trailhead. We had thus been compelled to to bring them into our employ along with the Monis we had already hired. We did not exactly need more porters the morning we prepared to leave camp 1, but we did need to leave camp 1. Thus a third tribe was added to our company. This brought our count up to 47 porters.


If you are a Porter in this part of the world the rest of your family accompanies you; your wives, children and parents all come along. While a Porter carries paying freight the rest of the family carries the blankets, tools and modest food rations (Yams mostly) that will sustain the clan. Along the way they will stop to gather ferns, roots, fruit and game to eat. I do not know what our final headcount was. We were usually so spread out along the trail that it was impossible to guess. As well, the tribes typically camped separate from us, sometimes separate from the other tribes. But to anyone watching from afar we must have looked like an invasion force. 


We finally got underway after a two hour delay. I was glad to not be trekking at night, feeling the difficulties of footing I had experienced the night before might be relieved by improved visibility. While this turned out to be the case to some extent, the heat that came with the light of day proved an even greater tax. I began sweating immediately as we traversed a steep hillside that had been clear-cut to build terrace gardens. I had ignored the advice of our guides to keep packs at no more than 15 pounds. Feeling I was capable of carrying more and wanting to take various extras along, I had loaded up with 31 pounds. Now I was paying the price and, as the humidity soaked through my clothing, could not think of one thing in my pack that justified it's share of suffering. 


We descended a steep hillside, slipping and sliding in our rubber boots, falling and lurching, getting hung up with the brush and vines. We had each been gifted an umbrella by our guide company, International Mountain Guides. This would be quite handy once our trekking had reached the savanah. But it proved an intolerable snag handle to every branch that swiped past our packs. When the umbrella lashed to the side of my pack was not getting caught up, one or both trekking poles were. We crossed a beautiful clear stream at the bottom of the hill. I dipped my baseball cap in the water and replaced it on my head. Then it was up the steep opposing hillside, cresting, then down again. 


Carstensz Pyramid is the lowest of the Seven Summits (16,024 feet). As such, it is likely many climbers erroneously assume it to be the easiest. Not so. On most mountains a climber will gain 2 to 3 thousand vertical feet a day. It is hard work, but at least one knows he is 2,000 feet closer to his goal. The undulating topography of the approach to Carstensz is a complete game-changer in this regard. While approaching the mountain we would typically ascend 3 to 5 thousand vertical feet a day. But we would also descend 2 to 4 thousand feet a day, for a gain of perhaps 1,000 feet. Then there was the mountain to climb. As  well, the trek out would involve crossing the same up/down topography. A climber who treks the route we were taking could expect to ascend over 40,000 vertical feet by the time he concludes the expedition. 


Three and half hours into our trek we descended another steep hillside. By this time our trail had disappeared into the jungle. It was a relief to be out of the direct sun, but I was still sweating so hard that it was necessary to wipe my face with a bandana every few minutes. As we reached the bottom of the hill I could see a large shear rock rising up from the turbulent river below. A suspension bridge fashioned from trees fallen across the 30 foot gap suggested our trail would cross here. I stepped across two wooden planks that I assumed to be bridging a muddy depression on the near side of the rock. Thick vegetation crowded up beneath the planks and around the sides. As I stepped off  I heard a loud "crack" and turned around. Dori Schmidt was crouched over, trying to arrest her fall as she slipped on the wet planks. She had grabbed the side of one and it snapped off in her hands. This caused her to role to the right. The weight of her pack then took over. She fell off the planks pack first and disappeared through the vegetation. 


For what seemed like a very long moment there was no sound at all. My brain was trying to sort out the logical disconnect of how Dori had just been swallowed by the jungle. Then there was a huge horrible splash. I realized that the river was racing around both sides of the rock and Dori had fallen 20 feet down into it. "We have one in the river," I shouted, and stripped off my pack. I ran to the edge of the rock but there was no way to get down it. I looked for Dori but could not see her. I ran to the downstream side of the rock to see if she was being washed away. There was no sign of her. No sound. Our guide Dan arrived, then Pale from Norway, Ivan, Denis and a few Porters. We were all scrambling. Jeremy Schmidt arrived and began calling for his mother. The tone of his pleading voice was heartbreaking. 


Then Dan spotted Dori on the edge of the river below the planks. She was climbing out of a pool formed by the rock's back-eddy. Four team members formed an arm chain and lowered one of the smaller porters down the side of the rock to Dori. He removed her soaked pack and helped her to the place where our chain could pull Dori up the side.  I grabbed her free arm as she neared the top of the rock and helped pull her up. There was blood running down the back of her head.  Jason arrived and opened up the first aid kit. Dori was fortunate to not only have Jason, a 20 year EMT, present but also Pale, a physician. They cut off a good bit of Dori's hair to assess and treat her injuries. Dan assisted, taking notes and keeping Dori engaged and alert. 

I found myself welling up with tears as the realization came upon me that the grim scenarios I had believed in a moment earlier had not come to pass. I crowded in close and put an arm around Dori. "God, you scared the hell out of me," I said. She smiled and patted my leg.