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