Bolivia

Seven years ago I came down to Bolivia to climb two mountains. After completing the first mountain (Illimani - 2nd tallest), I was pretty destroyed, distraught, and depressed. I opted not to go for the second mountain (Sajama - tallest) and instead flew home, with my dream of Everest on hold, if not extinguished. 

Now I have returned solely for the purpose of climbing that missed peak. It is the highest in Ecuador, and due to unforeseen circumstances on this trip, the highest I will have ever climbed thus far. Seven years is a long time to think about redeeming yourself on something that maybe you should have done the first time if you had just been stronger, tougher, more focused.

Like everything on this trip, the plans changed quickly. Upon arriving in La Paz, I was told by my guide that instead of driving to the park and climbing to base camp on the first day we would instead drive to the park and stay in a "hostel." Then we would climb directly to the high camp the next day. This would mean one less night in a tent and instead sleeping in the bed. However, it would make the climb longer on the first & last day, which considering we go for the summit at midnight is essentially the same day. I was cold all day and the ride took 8 hours to get there. I was not pleased and when we found our hostel, I learned it was just an adobe hut that had a toilet but no running water so I had to flush it by dumping a bucket of water in it. It did have electricity and there was a weak cell phone signal if I stood outside. Chilled to the bone I went to bed under four blankets with everything warm that I brought. 

Sajama morning, afternoon and night 

Morning was not much better. 6:00 a.m. breakfast and pile into the car to head to the start of the climb. It was cold but like all climbs it warmed up in time. We hiked from the road out to the base camp and then up the ridge. It was easy walking and did not take all that long. However, once we started up the Northwest Ridge, things got more difficult. It was all volcanic ash and scree and for every step I took I lost at least 50% of the distance sliding downwards. This was energy draining and frustrating. However, the climb that was supposed to take 7 hours was done in under 5. The problem for me was that we had porters and had not seen them the whole day. This meant that my climbing gear and warm clothes and the tents and food were with the porters hours behind us. I laid on a rocky plateau for 4 hours waiting for the porters to arrive, tired from the hike, wind, and sun. Our guide had to hike back down and help them. It would be after 5:00 p.m. before our tents were set up. We'd climbed 1000m to high camp (5650m) and still had more scree and scrambling before the snow ridge. The climb began after midnight.

Dinner (and the next day's lunch) of champions 

High camp looking up 100m to the summit 

This mountain is best viewed in about five parts. 

Part 1: The Scree

Even though most of the way up the mountain to this point had been scree, after a short rest at high camp we are greeted with another patch of disgusting, slippery, ash. For 1 hour we worked our way up this scree field, in huge mountain boots, sliding all over the place. The beginning of a climb is always tiring and you need to establish a rhythm by putting your head down and just moving up the mountain. This was impossible here. 

Part 2: The Gully

After 1 hour, we hit crampon point and put on the crampons to climb a steep snow gully. Normally this would present no problem but the ice on this mountain was pretty crusty. We roped up for about two and a half pitches and made it to the top. It would be the best part of the climb up. 

Part 3: The Ridge Traverse

At the top of the gully the snow stopped and rock resumed. Unfortunately, we were in our big mountain boots and crampons at this point so, while a little bit of scrambling over rock walls can be fun on a climb, it was torture at this point. The crampons made eerie scraping noises as we worked our way across rock, up cracks, and around boulders. 

Part 4: Penitentes 

Spanish for "huge pain in my ass," the next part of the climb were the dreaded penitentes. These are knee, often hip, sometimes even shoulder-high pinnacles of ice that have formed from the wind and the melt on the ridge. They're incredibly difficult to climb through, and my guide kept hacking the tops off these as we went. At first, I thought this was to make it easier for me to go through when I was following, then I thought it would be easier for us to climb down by having a clear route. At last, I decided that he wasn't doing this for any logistical reasons and was instead pounding the crap out of the mountain out of pure frustration. 

The dreaded penitentes 

Part 5: The Dome

The last part of the climb is the prominent snow dome that can be seen from all sides of the mountain. This should be an easy portion of the climb, but the ice was particularly bad making for slippery a sand and descent. 

Sajama is known for three things: the wind, the penitentes, and the scree. While the latter two were prominent, thankfully, the wind was down for the first part of our climb. It was an incredibly frustrating first hour up through the screen, constantly slipping off the trail, sliding backwards, and just not having any purchase in our footholds. It was incredibly draining to start a climb this way. My hands were cold immediately and I was concerned that this was the mark of more bad things to come. However, my guide swapped me gloves and using the mittens he provided and a hand warmer, my fingers soon came back to functionality and stayed that way for most of the climb. 

Climbing up the gully and traversing the rock ridge went fine early in the climb although not easy. When we hit the penitentes, our patience was minimal. This section of the climb is incredibly hard to navigate because you can't just keep moving forward. Each step requires careful foot placement and a lot of navigating around the obstacles. Not only was it challenging on the surface, but to this point we had seemingly gained very little elevation. My watch was showing that we were moving at just over 100m per hour, which is incredibly slow. I was willing to give up some pace for the technical difficulty, but this was ridiculous. 

The penitentes are supposed to end by 6,300m, but by 6100m we were out of the danger. Later, I would find that this was because my watch was not reading accurately. However, at the time, we still had quite a ways to go and I was growing increasingly tired of the pace my guide was setting. He was stopping often, which left me getting colder and colder. My mantra was to just put my head down and plow forward. The wind had now picked up and chilled me to the bone. Just as I was about to lose all of my patience, we hit a huge crevasse. The guy suggested we go sit in the bottom of it to get out of the wind and think about what to do. It was obvious his hands were freezing so I offered him a hand warmer. We started up the crevasse again and decided to work our way around it, safely passing. From here we continued up the dome, albeit much slower than I would have preferred. 

After trudging forward for a while, the slope lessened, and we were on the top of the mountain. At first I did not believe it. My watch was reading at only about 6,300m. All of the peaks around us looked just as high, if not higher. But as the sun began to rise, it became obvious we were on the summit; there just was nowhere else to go. It was very flat (they have even played a soccer match up here) and there was nothing reachable within miles, reinforcing that we were in fact on top of mountain. After taking the summit photo, we warmed up a little bit with the dawn, and then started back down. It would be one of the worst climbing experiences of my life. I have been very cold, I have been in bad wind, and I've been very tired. However, none of those factors were an issue this time. 

Summit 6,542 m (21,463 ft)

The mountain casts its shadow just after sunrise on our way down.

The route down was just a frustrating mess. Starting with the dome, the hard ice made down climbing particularly dangerous. We had to go much slower than I would have liked in order to not risk a slip and fall. After a long slog down one step at a time, we reached the dreaded penitentes. Navigating through these going down was 100 times worse than it was going up. Every foot placement had to be carefully calculated as the ice formations would crumble the slightest step. The height of the ice pinnacles made stepping down over them particularly challenging. If the ice broke or you slipped, you got an icicle the size of a toddler up your butt. This went on for far longer than I would ever wish upon anyone. When the awful section was over, we had some dangerous down climbing on rocks. Again, with crampons on, this was much harder than it should have been. All necessary rock technique was called upon to skirt this section of the ridge. Nearly exhausted, we hit the ice gully, and again, what should have been a simple down climb was far more challenging than expected. We alternated belays, not wanting to risk a fall so close to the end. What could have been 5 minutes of down climbing or 15 minutes of rappels was more like 30 to 45 minutes. Finally, we took off the crampons, but the work was not done. I still had to navigate the scree field and this became the crux of the climb. In all of my heavy gear I was sweating, tired, and frustrated with this peak, but it would not let me go. I hiked down with rocks sliding out from underneath me and I fell numerous times, covering my sweaty body and gear with silt and dust. After climbing all night, it is quite debilitating to fall on your ass repeatedly. 

We finally made camp and I had a few choice words for this mountain. We packed hastily, and thankfully the porters were there to take my bag down. However, it may have skipped my mind (or likely been blocked out) that we now had a huge down climb in the scree field. Again I fell repeatedly as any given step could send hundreds of pounds of rock sliding, not just a foot or two, but tumbling down the mountain. Not only is this incredibly frustrating and energy zapping, but it's very dangerous too. Huge rocks can tumble hundreds of feet and take out anyone that was hiking ahead of me. Rocks, dust, and dirt all seeped into my shoes leading to more discomfort than had already accumulated. The scree section lasted for long enough to drive me absolutely crazy. As the sun beat down, we struggled further and further away from the mountain eventually reaching the flats again. However, we still had several miles to hike out and although the trail was much better, it was hot and it was a long climb and I was very exhausted by the time we hit the road. I had been on the move for 14 hours and was quite ready to be finished. The climb had been about 900m elevation gain to the summit, and then about 2,500m down to the road.

View from near base camp (which we didn't use). High camp is on the ridge to the left.

Whenever you're on a mountain you're probably alone somewhat, no matter who else is around. It's just an isolating thing to be in such a huge space with so few people, sometimes confined to your tent alone or walking solitary along the trail. I was flabbergasted that on the country's tallest peak we were the only ones there. There was not another team going up or coming down. Only when we came down from on high past the base came did we see people heading up. I felt sorry for them, knowing what lie ahead. 

I was pretty exhausted, dehydrated, and disappointed. I'd been climbing for half a day (essentially all night) with nothing but a mad packing job at high camp as respite. A quick trip to the hot springs post-climb was probably the highlight of this endeavor. This may be the highest mountain in Bolivia, but that's all it has going for it. I would definitely recommend skipping it as there are far better climbs out there. However, at the end of the day, I summited, knocked off a peak that had sent me home earlier 7 years ago, and I'd also reached my highest altitude yet.

Hot springs post climb with Sajama in the background.

My last meal in the mountains: alpaca

Peru

Two plane rides, an 8-hour layover in a busy bus station, an overnight bus ride, and 6 hours in a hotel lobby waiting for a room is enough to make anyone irritable. Thankfully, I had my patience about me when I met my Peruvian guide who told me that the two peaks I had come here for were unclimable due to crevasse danger. We decided on two alternate peaks and while I would give up some altitude and a lot of technical skills, I would still get a chance to get up into the beautiful mountains and practice what I came here for. 

Hauraz, Peru 

The first climb was to Copa which would be 6200m. We drove to the road and met our mule driver, who loaded most of our gear onto donkeys and trudged up the mountain. It was hot, and we traversed back and forth along probably 200 switchbacks through woods and then exposed ridge until we reached the base camp (4550m) at the foot of the mountain. It took about 4 hours for this 10k of travel, gaining about 1300m. To one side was a thousand meter crevassed and avalanche-ridden icefall resembling the infamous Khumbu Icefall on Everest. To the right was the face of Copa itself covered in ice. Up the middle was a narrow gully containing loose stone and some snow which would take us to high camp. But because of the mules this was gourmet camping. We had a mess tent, a toilet tent, and very delicious food served up.

Copa on the hike up

Looking up at Copa. Summit is to the right, high camp sits at the top middle of the pic up the rock and ice gully.

View from camp

I slept terribly as I always do in a tent. Luckily, when I awoke I descended 10 minutes until I could get a phone signal where I was informed that my wife and both daughters had run exceptionally well on the 4th of July race. I also got to see that Mark Cavendish, one of my favorite riders of all time, had in fact broken the all time TDF stage win record. I had plenty of motivation as we started our climb, this time without mules, up the steep face to high camp.

Mules carry up to 1st camp. It allowed us to have a really comfortable low camp with good food.

It took about 3 and 1/2 hours to reach the high camp up a gully requiring crampons and some roping up. We had a few hours rest before darkness set in but thanks to our cook we were able to eat well, although the water source was a bit questionable. The alarm went off at midnight and we were on the trail by 1:00 a.m. As has been a pattern lately, the normal route was riddled with crevasses making it impossible. Therefore we decided to make our own route going left. The first three and a half hours were filled with crevasses of which we had to walk around climb up and over. We traversed that mountain so many times I think we saw all of it. As a team of three, we had to set up anchors and leads constantly due to the crevasse danger. This meant that for every time we set an anchor, I'd climb about 30 seconds and sit for 15 minutes while the other members climbed and established a new anchor. 

After 3 and 1/2 hours we finally cleared the last of the crevasses but we're only at about 5600m which was slow going. Unfortunately, we now headed up very steep snow, sometimes around 70 degrees. We were post holing up to our knees in deep snow on extremely steep cliffsides. We would go hand-over-hand with our legs plummeting deep with every step and this went on for about 4 hours. By the time the sun had risen we reached the top of the slope that we had been on for a long time. It was here we would go no further. At 6,000 m there was a large crevasse about 150 ft deep and kilometers long. We were just 188m below the summit, but there was absolutely no way we could reach it. Disheartened after all of our hard work, we turned and descended back to high camp where we rested briefly before packing up and heading down towards base camp. 

6000m, so close to the top

Job 38:11. "Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further." The crevasse that stopped us 188m below the summit.

Coming down the ropes after turning back

The climb down reminded me just how difficult that section of the mountain was. While it only took about 3:40 to go up it took about 3:20 to come down. Most of the time you can come down in half or even a quarter as much time as it took you to go up. We had on our full packs making it very difficult to descend the mixed ice and rock. We had to rope up and rappel down ice waterfalls and all of the rocks were extremely loose causing us to slide down the steep gully with each step. The sun was beating down hard as we came down the mountain, soaking with sweat under the weight of our packs and very tired from a long, very difficult climb. While this was supposed to be a relatively easy mountain, the route we took increased the difficulty significantly. My guide said this was the hardest climb he had ever taken a client on. While it was a good challenge, it was disappointing not to reach the summit after all of that hard work, again due to factors beyond our control. It also isn't the type of climbing that I'm really interested in right now. As I prepare for Everest, I am not looking for anything too technical. 

A day later:

After several hours' drive through the towns and national park, we arrive at the roadside, load up our gear, and head up from about 4200m. Today is an undulating scramble through meadows and along a moraine ridge before reaching moraine camp at about 5000m. The air is chillier here, and clouds sock in the mountain. Terrifying sounds of rock falling high above echoes through the valley - you just have to hope it isn't your time. Thanks to the grace of two porters - one of whom has gone back down - we again have a decent amount of food, gas, and tents, at least for the first camp. It is amazing what these guys can haul up, carrying probably double what I do faster than I will ever go.

The next day left us with one of the more difficult assents to a high camp that I've ever had. After some moraine scrambling, we roped up and put on the crampons. There was lots of vertical snow and glaciers to navigate. While it took just about 2 hours to do, it was a hard 400m to earn. With our packs it was difficult going, but thankfully fairly short. The views from high camp cannot be beat.

Chopicalqui high camp. Summit is 1000m higher on the dome at middle.

View from my tent at high camp

View from high camp 

Working our way up to high camp

Emerging from the crevasse field on the way to high camp 

I lie my tent riding out the time between arrival to camp and departure for the summit. My environment oscillates from a industrial meat freezer to the feeling you'd get if you stuck your head in a preheated oven. Layers come on and off just as quickly. My guide has moved next door to assist a German team, one of whom has altitude sickness. After vomiting for a bit, they have asked for help. My guide is packing his bag for him and encouraging him to go down as quickly as possible as it is late in the day and he is unlikely to get any better here. They were successful to the summit albeit not without its cost. Others did not make it. We are in for a challenge.

Sleep never comes easy in a tent at altitude but if you get a couple of hours you are lucky. By 11:45 I was up and packing. Another difficult thing to do in this environment is eat. I managed a piece of bread and a glass of cocoa, but it would never be enough. Wearing everything I brought with me we started up the hill. I was extremely hot, but with everything on is difficult to take off any one piece of clothing so I continued on. Inevitably, I start sweating which means when the wind picks up or we stand still I am now susceptible to cold. The climb is fair; we go up a snowridge for quite some time around the back of the mountain before reaching a significant wall. This changes us from mostly walking to having to climb almost vertically for about three pitches. We have caught another team of two, a Mexican girl and her guide, and we essentially stay together the rest of the way. Each time I check in with the guide he says that we are moving too fast and we are going to arrive at the summit too early. It is an incredibly clear night and I know that the view at sunrise is going to be amazing. However, sitting in the snow and getting colder is not a great option, the beauty of nature notwithstanding. 

We arrive at the summit ridge and have about 30 minutes left of climbing. The guy pulls over again. My frustration starts to mount as all of these breaks are making me very cold. Yes, if we wait a few minutes maybe we will get closer to seeing the sunrise. I tell him I don't care about the sunrise and I want to go up, tag the summit, and come down where I will see anything nature has to offer at that point. We creep up the final slope and are then standing on top of the mountain (6354m). However, we have arrived so early that it is pitch black. The guide say it is dangerous to go down to the rappel anchors without being able to see. Part of me wonders if this is just a ruse to see the sunrise. We begin digging a large snow pit on top of the mountain that we are supposed to stand and then eventually sit in to block the wind. The weather has been very good up until about the final half hour when the wind kicked up and now I am freezing, my hands don't work, and this has become not fun. We are on top of the mountain for less than an hour, but every minute feels like pure torture in our bivouac. I mostly keep my chin tucked to my chest trying to keep all air out of my coat. My hands are painful and my toes are becoming cold even in my big boots as I bounce to keep the blood going to my extremities. We are crammed in this hole and people start rubbing each other trying to get blood flowing. It is a strange feeling to be engaged in survival techniques when everything had been going just fine. With the sun not even on the horizon we start down. Unfortunately for me, soon after the summit are the three pitches of rappels that must be done. Not only is it incredibly difficult to abseil off a mountain with frozen hands, I am about worthless when it comes to tying into the rope and setting up the device. Luckily, that's why guides are there, to make sure that you are safe. So we roped down the mountain and soon we're back walking down the slope towards high camp. 

Chopicalqui summit: 6,354 metres (20,846 ft) So cold after nearly 1 hour bivouac in a snow pit. Hauscaran - the tallest peak in Peru - is behind me.

As the sun warms us we gain speed and confidence; the pain and danger has since passed. Up on the mountain the four of us decided that we would descend all the way to base camp which sits just about a half an hour's walk from the road (we skipped it on the way up). It would make for a long day having climbed up to high camp yesterday, gotten little sleep, climbed all night and then descended back through two camps, but it would leave a very short day on the way out. 

Chopicalqui summit pyramid. Small black dots high up are climbers.

Rappelling down the mountain with frozen fingers. It was not easy.

After a brief break, we broke high camp and started down the glacier and snow, weaving our way closer and closer to the moraine. After some tricky work across glaciers, we reach the end of the snow and ice, and took off the crampons. Now we had to navigate a giant boulder field with our mountaineering boots on. This is awkward at the best of times, but after an all night climb and with a full pack on your back, this is a nightmare. Is also very dangerous because there are rocks and snow falling from the peaks all around and we just don't want to be anywhere near where they end up. Rocks the size of BBQ grills shift without warning. This could roll over your other foot, breaking your leg, or slide out from underneath you, and send you hurtling down the mountain to your certain death. There's loose scree at times, which is very hard to find traction with the boots. After 90 minutes or so we reach the moraine camp, switch out of the mountaineering boots into hiking boots, and begin descending again, this time about another hour and a half to the base camp. We arrived just as the rain started. Nothing was going to come easy. 

Base camp on a cold morning 

Morning came revealing a frozen camp. We ate and packed with haste, eager to make the 1 mile walk to the road. I am justified in the decision to not sleep at moraine camp and leave 2+ hours of hiking this morning. When the climb is done, it's done. Back to town to reestablish connection to the world, eat decent food, and drink water that hasn't been boiled (free of floaties), address neglected hygiene, sleep in a bed, and do laundry. The next morning brought a 10-hr bus ride to Lima, a quick rest and flights to Bolivia for the final climb.

People we spoke to on the way up and down are impressed that we made it to the summit so quickly. I, for one, felt that we were moving quite slowly and we could have probably reached the summit 30 to 45 minutes earlier had we just kept steady pace and not tried to wait for the sunrise. The guide said I was strong and others who spoke to him said that the time we set was indicative of a strong performance. This was encouraging after missing out on the summits of Copa and Chimborazo (due to nature). I wish we had started a little bit later and reach the top when the sun was out, not just for the views, but to stay much warmer than we were. 

Going to bed the night before this last climb, I felt low. I wondered if this was really worth it. But in the end, it was a pretty good climb, giving me everything I needed to prepare for Everest. It was several days of walking to get to the highest camp with weight in my pack which allowed me to persevere as I gained elevation. The climate itself had great elements: first it had long slopes which I need to be ready for and just keep moving, and then up high, it had some steeper rope work to maneuver, which is exactly how Everest is set up. Again, I was able to not only complete the climb but also climb down a long way without being completely trashed. My training and my fueling has obviously helped me continue the work even after I have reached the highest point.

Off to Bolivia. One to go. Then home sweet home.

Ecuador

The end of the school year always brings a lot of festivities and on top of this I had to move an entire house without commercial support. Exhausted, we returned to the US only to fight jet lag while setting up the summer home. Luckily this only lasted a couple of days before I was off again taking three flights to South America, and landing in Ecuador where I would begin my quest to climb the highest peaks in three different countries.

Choosing a relatively Spartan hotel, rest continued to elude me. Early the next morning after my arrival, my guide Miguel arrived and we headed out for our first climb. While it would be classified as more of a hike, we chose to rope up and do some climbing/scrambling over some rock to make it a little bit more challenging. A cable car took us to the high plains and we began hiking into the clouds. After a relatively short distance we began climbing over the crags. He mostly led, belaying me off of the natural rock on the more steeper sections for safety. This went on for a while and my hands grew cold, but within a few hours we were at the top of Ruku Pichincha 4698m/15413ft. Our descent began with some rocky steps leading into loose sand which we could boot ski down before eventually returning to the trail and heading back to the cable car. While I did okay with the altitude, it was a reminder that nothing comes easy, even with all the training. The long hike back was also a refresher and how difficult coming down can be when you are tired. A husky accompanied us until we began climbing high on the rocks, met us at the summit, and walk the entire way back with us. He, like me, was just looking for food.

Rock climbing 

1st summit in Ecuador 

All fed, a full night's sleep again eluded me as it had for more than a week. And then we were back at it driving out to Cotopaxi, the world's third highest active volcano, and second highest peak in Ecuador. It didn't take long for the other shoe to drop. On the way to the mountain, my guide informed me that he forgot his wallet as we pulled into a gas station (Dude, can I bum some gas money?). Then I learned that the refuge we were supposed to hike to that night and stay at was closed due to a change of management. This meant that we would be staying further down in the park and have to drive to the parking lot and start a hike from there at night. This would only add 45 minutes to 1 hour up, but it would be costly.

The most I ever saw of Cotopaxi 

I actually slept. Going to bed at 7:00 p.m. was difficult but I got about an hour and a half of rest before waking up at 10pm to change and make a bone-rattling drive about an hour to the start of the climb. From the parking lot to the refuge was a very slow 45 minute plod through volcanic ash. Upon arriving at the closed refuge we put on helmets and harnesses and continued another hour up the slippery scree. A cloud surrounded the mountain and made us all completely soaked, which was a problem because the winds were whipping across the mountain. I had on lighter gloves thinking I would change into my thicker ski gloves once we hit the snow. This was a fatal mistake. My hands were absolutely frozen and by the time we stopped at crampon point, I could not move them. While I was able to get on my crampons I could not lace the safety strap nor tie into the rope without the guide's help. This was embarrassing and it took a good 20 minutes for my hands to return to once in my better gloves with hand warmers.

Steep climbing 

We continued up the snow for several more hours, reaching 5400m in about 4 hours. There was a mix of snow and ice which made for some difficult parts using crampons. There were also some very steep sections which required fixed anchors. The wind was powerful and relentless causing us to grow cold with every rest break and making each step difficult and dangerous as we were pushed all over the ridge. We were covered in a layer of ice the entire time. My energy began to flag and I struggled to move with a purpose. When I finally reached the summit, it was with indifference. I felt no passion and seriously questioned what I was doing with my time and money. Taking a photo at the top I stayed less than 2 minutes and began heading down, which was extremely difficult given that I had to lead while my guide roped me from behind as a safety precaution (everyone was on ropes).

My energy returned somewhat and even though I slipped and fell a few times on the way down, we were relatively safe. When we hit crampon point I was able to take off my own gear this time, a small win. We then slid or skied down the loose ash/sand to the refuge and all the way to the car. It was a 9 hour trip, but one I expected to be done in less than seven. I was extremely disappointed with my physical performance. Aside from my choice of gloves early on the rest of my gear performed extremely well. I just wish I had done the same.

Very cold and angry with myself on the summit of Cotopaxi (5897m/19,347ft)

After a day and a half of rest we were out there again, this time to Ecuador's highest mountain, Chimborazo. I had 4 hours of driving to contemplate on how to better approach this mountain. From the refuge (4800m) we hiked up an hour and 45 minutes to the high camp (5300m) which was a system of tents on the plateau before the snow. Dinner and some fitful sleep at high altitude led us to an 11:00pm wake up. The first two hours were relatively simple as we worked our way up the snow and ice im the darker. I was feeling much better than I did on Cotopaxi and I had a plan to fuel earlier and more often. The weather was also good, with very little wind and clear skies. As we began to get higher up on the snow slope, we had to start preparing for the danger above. This mountain is known to have a lot of avalanche danger and no one had summited all week. We stopped at about 5700 m to dig a snow pit. Conditions were average, not great but also detrimental. We climbed on a bit more and dug another pit this time in deeper snow. The stopping and waiting left me chilled and hands cold again. This time the snow pit revealed very dangerous conditions and we had to make the difficult decision to turn around at 5800m. While I was extremely disappointed because I was feeling good and wanted to obtain the highest summit in ecuador, safety came first and it was smart to go down. Safety is the most important measure of success. We continued our descent back to high camp where we crashed into our sleeping bags, very cold and very tired from being awake all day and all night. In the morning we descended back to the car.

Chimborazo ~ 6270m/20,570ft

The route to high camp (behind the black rocks at center)

High Camp (5300m): The summit is beyond the dome and up much steeper terrain than it looks. 

Sunset on Chimbo

While I was somewhat disappointed with my time in Ecuador, I did learn a lot. It felt good to get back into the mountains where long distances and high heights were the challenges I faced. Time spent preparing and moving up and down a mountain was what I came here for, and the summits are secondary. Most of my gear performed very well and I was happy with how warm my feet were, that my crampon stayed on, and my layering seem to work. My gloves are something I'm going to have to address as my hands continue to get too cold. In the past, when I have struggled on a high mountain I have rethought my commitment to the sport. While I did feel that momentarily on Cotopaxi, I quickly shook that off and refocused that this is a marathon, not a sprint. It takes practice to adjust to the altitude and get used to the slow moving pace as well as keeping your body fueled and hydrated in these conditions. If I don't go out there and suffer a little bit, I will never get the experience needed to do it when it really matters. I actually looked forward to the third climb after stumbling somewhat on the 2nd. In the past I have come off a mountain completely destroyed. But this time I was ready for more very quickly. I think this is a result of the harder training I have put in. I have a busy 3 weeks ahead of me, but I hope that I will walk away with a better understanding of myself and these mountains.

Off to Peru.

Everest Calling

This post comes long overdue. It is no secret that for quite some time I have envisioned myself attempting the world's highest peak. Dabbling with mountains and becoming frustrated with the solitude, cost, and time away from home, I have gone away and come back to mountaineering as many times as can be counted on both hands. Other personal endeavors like running and purchasing a home have divided my time and resources. But that flame still was smoldering deep inside and I was not yet ready to give up the dream.

Falling short of midlife crisis, I was looking for a change. Not happy with my lot in life in terms of work, something needed to happen in order to keep me in the status quo. I decided that in order to stay in my job I would need a carrot to dangle. With something to focus on daily and in the long run, I could tolerate a less-than-satisfying professional role, temporarily. I had always said that I wanted to climb Everest before the age of 45, not because climbing it over that age was impossible, but because I vowed to go there in the greatest physical shape possible, and that would be more difficult with increasing age. Crafting a proposal, I submitted this to my supervisors. While one was encouraging, the higher-ups were less so. I'll spare the details but I became more resolute in doing this even if it meant taking a year off work in order to focus on my goal. However, in the end, my leave from work was approved, and my training and planning had begun. In 2025, I would attempt Mount Everest.

Having scoured the internet for the better part of the last decade and a half looking at operators, I had a fair list of possibilities in going to the mountain. Cost was a major factor and that eliminated many of the high priced operators out there. After consulting with several experienced climbers I settled on Rolwaling, an operator out of Nepal. Another consideration was the route. The dangers of the Khumbu Icefall coupled with overcrowding, long lines, and a reputation of garbage, left little to be desired for the south side. I would go from the north, the Tibet side, along the original route taken by Mallory. Advantages would include being able to drive in to base camp as well as have yak support for gear up to Advanced Base Camp. Colder and more technically difficult higher up, the mountain had its challenges but with less people it could theoretically be safer. I made my deposit of 50% of the cost (in exchange for a small discount) and was on my way.

On November 12th, 2023, I was facing 511 days in front of me before my departure to Tibet. While a great amount of endurance was needed, I would have to balance out my greatest strength with areas that also needed improvement. In addition to running, I began cycling. Several days per week I would also hike. Most of the time this was on a treadmill with the incline taken to the maximum. Other times, about once a week, I would go outside with a pack weighing approximately 23 lb and hike in the woods. Other exercises supplemented the training as well, including hitting the StairMaster machine and doing high intensity interval training (HIIT). To prepare for carrying heavier loads and to supplement the inevitable weight loss at high altitude, I also adopted a lifting regimen. Mostly focused on legs and back, I tried to gain strength for what was to come, although with all of my endurance work, putting on weight was quite difficult. I rarely took a day off and averaged more than an hour of work per day. At my busiest and most exhausted, I might only get in 30 or 40 minutes of workout. However, it was not uncommon to do 3 hours of work midweek, and extending to four or more on the weekends helped. Typically I worked out between 1.5-2.5 hours per day during the school week. Like any training program it was difficult at first but became easier with routine and consistency. And like any running program, it also became challenging to face the same workouts day in and day out. I had highs and lows, but remained focused on the greater goal of not only doing my best on the mountain, but coming back safely.

In addition to physical training, I needed to get back to the mountains for some experience. My summer will be spent in South America, where I will climb the highest mountains in Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia. After a warm up climb to 4700m, I'll ascend a peak of 5700m, and then another volcano at 6300m, the highest peaks in Ecuador. In Peru, I'll "warm up" on a 6000m climb before tackling the country's highest mountain at 6800m. Then it will be off to Bolivia to 6500m. At Christmas time I will go back to South America to climb Aconcagua, the highest mountain in the Americas and also the highest mountain outside of the Himalaya. Meanwhile, I am sleeping in an altitude tent to help expedite acclimatization.

Chicago Marathon

"Have you run Chicago?"

After hearing how many marathons I have run, the most common question is about Boston, but it seems to be about Chicago after that. I have never run this historic race despite having a house about 4 hours away. After knocking out Boston again in the spring, I felt it was time to finally do it. With a guaranteed entry time qualifier, I signed up. 

My goal was to run Two Hearted in June. I wanted to run it years ago but something always seemed to get in the way. First, I ran Grandma's, the next year I blew my ankle out playing volleyball, then the pandemic canceled the race, then I was stuck in China for the pandemic, and after that, I had to run Grandma's again to get the Boston qualifier. In 2023, I finally went to do the race. We drove up to the UP and set up camp. At packet pickup, the guy said. "We are all running the half tomorrow." I laughed. There was a half marathon, a full marathon, and a 50k. I was in the full. But the guy was not joking. Extreme heat and fire danger had them call off the longer races. I was livid. I had trained since Boston for this and wouldn't have come all the way for a half.

The race itself was insane. It is mostly a single-track trail, hilly, and muddy. We went out like a bullet and I found myself in 3rd. We were sprinting and I felt for sure the 1st place guy would come back. This continued for about 5 miles and the guy with me and I felt we had missed a turn. As we were debating going back, 1st place came running at us. We all had a little chit-chat on the trail and decided to press on. Soon we found the next mile marker and continued. At this point, I left the other guy and tried to chase 1st. I could see him occasionally in the woods but never got closer. At 9 miles I stepped into a mud bog, lost my shoe, and crawled around trying to get it back for a few minutes. I finished in 2nd on one of the hardest runs through the woods ever. The guys in 1st and 3rd were entered in the 50k. I felt robbed of my 87th marathon and another win.

Fast forward to fall. Summer training was adequate as I kept some miles going. I even ran a few 5ks in 18:05 and 18:35. These were the fastest times I have run in a 5k in more than a few years. After getting back to work I started running some with the XC kids and tucked in a few 20 milers, although not really following any workout plan. There was a big event happening I was slated for and when that was canceled, I decided to do something drastic. On Friday night, with one hour left before the race closed, I signed up for the Warsaw Marathon happening on Sunday morning, less than 36 hours in advance. Again, the weather was great and I jogged along, mostly running with some Irish guys, and taking it easy. They faded at the end but I enjoyed a nearly flawless outing, feeling completely in control, and finishing in 3:20 with no issues. With focus, I am sure I could have gone sub-3:10. 

The next weekend was Oktoberfest. While the calories and the lack of sleep did a number, I returned home with an issue in the gut. This caused me to miss work and stay in bed on Monday and while it lessened over the week, it was persistent. I flew Friday night to Chicago. After being awake for 25 hours, I crashed for 4 hours and then proceeded to ride a bike about 15 miles to the expo and various shopping experiences. Sleep again was elusive, and I walked to the start line. The hype was incredible, the internationalism high, and the weather freezing. The race started when it was in the 40s and never got much warmer. 

As the throw-away clothes began to fly, the countdown was on. My goal was minimal: enjoy Chicago. I was thinking around 3:10, and if that didn't work, back off from there. Things were not in my favor; Warsaw in my legs from two weeks before, Oktoberfest, the stomach issue, flying overnight, and that beast (lack of significant miles). I did not expect to make it without feeling the repercussions. 

Chicago is the only race I have run where there is a separate start for each corral (not wave). Starting in B corral (wave 1), we watched the top people take off, and then we were held there for a few minutes before being sent off. This just added to the sprint that was the start as, combined with the hype of the race, we now had a clear road ahead. The pace was blistering and I frequently tried to slow down, to little avail. With the tall buildings and numerous underpasses, GPS was somewhat fickle and it was impossible to get a good gauge on continuous running pace. By 10k I was significantly under my fastest goal time of 3:10. Knowing that later I would pay for this, I resolved to just keep it steady and see what happened. 

At halfway I was at 1:29:52, just eight seconds under the split for 3 hours. For a few miles after, doubt began to creep in. Slowly the legs felt a bit more fatigued and I figured that eventually, the wheels would come off. Yet through 20 miles the pace held. My resolve hardened and my goal was to just hit one mile split at a time, doing nothing significant. With about 5K to go, I started to feel it, and I caught the 3-hour pace group by 24 miles. The 25th mile was a challenge as my stomach cramp returned. Going any faster was not an option, but I could hold on. with 1.2 mi to go I dug in. If I could run the last mile in 7:35, I could make it in under 3. A little hill with 400m to go sent one last message that this was a fight. Cruising across the line, I was ecstatic. 2:59:10, a negative split. 

To run sub-3 after all that happened, at my age, on this training - I could not be happier. Things just came together, and there is something to be said about talent and experience. The aches and discomfort on the long walk to the bag drop reminded me that there is complete bliss in spending all you have in the moment; to be your best and to keep aiming high gives a power that can't be taken otherwise. A chilly post-race beer and ringing the Boston qualifier bell (literally you ring a bell) was a great ending. Luckily, I was staying close to the finish line and was home soon after. I even jogged about a mile to the subway to head out for the night!

A little over a year ago I was resolute that I would never break 3 hours again. Now I have done it twice since. And while that time is not what really matters, it does feel good to do at 43 what took me until my 5th try in my 20s to do - crack 3 hours. Marathon #88 is in the bag. Where to from here???

100 km Swim Club

 I hate swimming. I really do. 

That's why when the 100km swim challenge came up at my school, I had to do it. If it was easy, it wouldn't be a challenge for me. So I signed up and pledged to swim 100km in the school year. That is more than manageable; however, I would have several periods of significant breaks due to focusing on running. 

Swimming is gross. Would you take a bath after someone else in the same water? What if that bath had loads of other people in it (think middle school kids that find peeing in a pool hilarious)? What if the bath water for all these people wasn't ever changed? What grosses me out more: cruising over and over the same band-aid on the bottom of the pool or watching the glob of black hair tumble along the tiles from lane to lane? Perhaps it is the goober of snot that gelatinously floats along, recently discarded from that COVID case? A fair amount of people do not wipe properly after defecating, so where do you think the leftovers go?

Turning laps in a pool is not enjoyable; yes, I know there are those out there that call it therapeutic, even cathartic, but they are idiots. I don't care what others say. One must survive the pitch-black bike ride into school at 6am, to the icy pre-swim shower (why do I need to shower if the pool chemicals are strong enough to kill COVID and disease from fecal matter?).  Speaking of chemicals, have you ever walked into a pool and been hit with that overpowering smell of chlorine? You take comfort in it, rationalizing it as the solution to all that urine and butt particles you are about to swim through. But then you think, no, I can smell these toxic compounds from the doorway, what happens when I am sucking deep breaths 1/4 inch off the surface of that pool for an hour? How can that be good for the lungs? And that toxic water goes in my mouth and up my nose with every turn. Is that destroying my gut? What could survive in me after this chemo-like treatment?

Swimming is a lonely sport. In fact, it might be the only sport that is better alone. A run, a ride, golfing - these are more fun with others. Go bowling alone and you might have a diagnosable condition. Softball, volleyball, football, and baseball cease to exist without multiple participants. But put more than one person in a lane at a pool.... then someone is staring daggers at you, always scraping your feet with their hands, and making a flip turn the most terrifying, near-death experience of your day and you avoid the head-on collision. It's an activity that begs to be done alone. 

Swimming is the only sport where you have to shower before you workout, but after the workout, it isn't as necessary. What's that all about? Pop in headphones on a run or bike and you get hours of music, podcasts, or audiobooks to focus on. Otherwise, connect with nature and enjoy. Listen to the wind in the trees, or watch people go by outside of interesting buildings. In a pool, you hear nothing and see nothing except for that same black line below you and my breathing which sounds like a little kid blowing bubbles in this chocolate milk through a straw. 

I crept into a categorical black hole from kilometer 1 to 70. I just did it. Some days I didn't, and others I did, and slowly but surely the distance added up. The last bit was the hardest. First, after many months away from swimming due to training for Boston, I worked myself to 10K to go. Then the weekly count came out, and it said I had 13k to go. No, says I, I remember last week it twas 17 and I swam me the required distance I did to make it to 10 and that's that. No, says he, the boyo that runs it, you see, and we have us a wee bit of a debate. Jame, says I, has 10 to go and I'll be a frog's uncle if yous says to me that this wee lass is going to best me. Aye, says he, you was at 20K for the start and you dones 7 so be you at 13. Nay, says I, I'd been at 17 and done me a round 7 and I be at 10. Well, back and forth did we row and callith upon the Google history did I claim, and sure enuff did it prevail a column switch and miscalculation. 10k to go be-ith the magic number. 

Well, shit if I didn't face it from there. 10K and every morning sunny and warm, which is about as rare in Poland as a winning lottery ticket. I tried to fit in a swim after work and sure enough, the fire alarm went off. So waved down in the pool, I put on a long coat of fleece, hobbled out among the elementary students, and checked in for the roll call. Went back in and with minutes left of open swim, hammered 200m freestyle in my fastest time. Still, the day dicked me out of 500m. I can't stand the idea of another bout in the pool to make up for this lost distance. But a week later I capped the 100k, fittingly doing my last swim (2.5K) 100% alone from start to finish in the pool. It was like a lap of honor, or maybe it felt like a funeral. 

The challenge was within me. If I had set out to do this, really do this, I probably could have been the first one done. If I had made this my daily routine and only form of workout, I would have crushed it early and moved on. The fact that I missed weeks (and months) of swimming at a time while focusing on running just prolonged this stupid challenge. There were many times when I was the first one in the water, often the last, and occasionally the only. I swam before school, at lunch, and in the evening. I swam before and after runs and rides. I swam when it was sunny out and I wished I was out there. I swam when it was cold, wet, and dark and wished I was in bed. But like all challenges, showing up at the start line is half the battle. 

I swam 100k and all I got was this stupid t-shirt.

Boston Marathon 2023

 At 2:49pm on April 15th, 2013, two bombs went off at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. Three were killed (with a police officer dying later during the manhunt), and hundreds were injured. The race was stopped, and the city shut down for the week while a search was conducted that has been unparalleled in recent memory. While several of my training partners were there (and safely finished) at the time, I was in South Africa, ignorant. Only when I awoke the next morning and the news rolled in did I begin to understand what had happened. It would be nearly 10 years before I could fully comprehend the impact, after reading books and watching documentaries of that fateful day. However, April 16th., 2013 marked the moment I committed myself to return to Boston, undeterred by terrorism. One year later, I toed the line in Hopkinton and tackled the best 26.2 miles of my life. Not only was it a beautiful, powerful day, but I also ran my best time ever. It was my 5th Boston.

To mark the 10-year anniversary of that horrid day, I vowed to return to the Boston Marathon with my friends who were there that day. It would be my 6th Boston, but 1st in 9 years. To get there, I had to qualify, and doing so would take my best effort in many years. I did so in June in Minnesota, nearly breaking 3 hours. I ran several fall marathons, but none had the promise of my former years. Training in earnest from January on, I fought the darkness, cold, rain, and wetness of a Polish winter to prepare. I avoided illness and injury, but my miles and pace did not progress at the preferred rate. In March I flew to London to do a training run with my friend, Kirsten, who would show no mercy. He didn't, but I got a great first 20 miler out of it. I only felt better from there. My workouts never took off, but I never felt sore or tired either. I still had many doubts arriving on the line. It felt like my time to run fast was behind me. While I was happy just to be there, there was a voice inside that said, "If you are going to go to Boston, go big."

My flight to Boston, slightly delayed, left me heading to the expo Saturday afternoon. It was packed, and I hustled out of there, catching a glimpse of the memorial outside Marathon Sports. I did bag a quick jog Sunday before dinner. Marathon Monday arrived as usual, with a long walk to the bag drop, then out to the busses, and the horribly long ride out of town. As usual, Athlete's Village resembled a refugee center, this year more than ever as bags had to be dropped in Boston so anything on a person was going to be left in Hopkinton. It was the most rag-tag bunch of flannel, ugly t-shirts, and broke shoes you have seen at a major race. It all goes to charity, but fashion sense had long left the building. 

At the finish line but before the race

Site of the 2013 bombing. RIP. 

Just a reminder there is a long walk from the village to the start, and although I was in Wave 1, I was in Corral 8, the last. I was a long way from the line, and the rain came down as we started the walk. I shed the pants and fleece but kept the t-shirt until the last moment. Although the rain was present, it wasn't too cold, and the early miles of running kept me suitably comfortable. I made a promise to hold back in the early (and easiest) miles, and to my dismay, I ran the first (and easiest) mile a bit slower than goal pace. By 5 miles I was on pace but it really should have felt easier to go under the pace at that point, and I was worried. It was here I caught Lindsey, who was going for 2:54 and was a coral ahead of me. He was not feeling strong and made the call early to let off the pace. Just then, I blew a tire. My shoelace was undone and I pulled to the side of the road. My wet, frozen fingers, coupled with the super laces on the shoes made it impossible to get the knot undone. I called for help but by the time a spectator jogged over, I managed to get it set and was off, having lost 40-50 seconds. It took me 2 miles to catch Lindsey again where we fist-bumped and wished each other well. I moved on toward Boston.

I ran very in control for the next 5 miles as the rain had let up into an occasional drizzle. I figured there was nothing to do now but wait. But the anticipation mounted as the inevitable noise neared, and soon enough we were rolling past Wellesley College and the notorious scream tunnel. Articles came out in the week prior asking students not to kiss the runners due to disease control, but it stopped not a single girl from being out there. They were deafening, and in an attempt not to blow by too fast, I swerved over for some high-fives. The pace here always drops a bit and I crossed halfway in 1:28:30, exactly as I wanted. Anything over two minutes fast at halfway is said to lead to a blow. But on the other hand, it is a rare person who negative splits this course, so you have to have time in the bank. I chilled further, cautioning a first-time Boston girl from Canada who qualified in 3:01. She was a metronome, but I advised her to hold back on the downhill into Newton Lower Falls. We did, gained 8 seconds, and yet loads of people flew past, only to face their fate in the coming miles.

The Newton Hills make or break runners. Either you thrive or you die. Most die. It is the culmination of 16+ miles downhill followed by 4 miles up and then another drop. Statistically, Boston is a net downhill course and can be fast, but if you run it poorly, you pay dearly. The first of the hills is not bad - it is the longest but the gradual profile makes it runnable. I was through the first without losing a step. The 2nd hill is a bit steeper but the very runnable distance after the hill allows one to get back on track. Two down, two to go. The third is perhaps the crux; it is short but steep and you've now done two and Heartbreak is so full of energy you know you can pull it off. I felt this hill in the past, but this time it was benign. Only Heartbreak loomed. As I rounded the curve and started up it, I struggled a bit. I could feel the pace drop and I did not have the turnover. Perhaps due to the weather, the crowds - albeit still awesome - did not seem as thick as in the past at this section of the course. Still, I passed loads of people and soon I was over the top. I knew there was a false summit here and after a dip, I was on my way up and over the next peak on the way to Boston College. My pace in the hills was solid and I lost no time. I started the second scream tunnel into BC and it was loud. Here I was on the lookout for a former student and there she was, as promised, and snapped a brief video of me. I only just saw her at the last second and the video shows just how quickly I was passing spectators. 

I held back on the descent from BC as well, having heard (and experienced) the problems that can come from going too hard here. Still, we were inside of 7K and that was a good place to be. The crowds are pretty consistent and although there were no rancorous Red Sox fans out (yet - they would go on to lose), the energy builds as the city nears. The road is long and straight and it does get challenging to keep plowing forward. It is the anticipation of the end but with that unfortunate distance between you and your goal. But soon the famous Citgo sign loomed in the distance. The journey was nearly over. A quick calculation with 2 miles to go suggested I would make my time barring any major blowout. Crossing the 25th mile, the route takes a nasty little rise over the turnpike. This hill did not register in my memory from previous attempts, but I had read about it recently, having forgotten its significance. Sure enough, it stung and it was just long enough to change the stride. The only solace is that under this gigantic sign is the 1 mile-to-go marker. It is a welcome site. 

The last mile at Boston is not an easy one. The little underpass, which at any other mile would hardly register, gives a little bit of sting, and climbing out of that tunnel seems to take longer than it should. For those close to their mark, this can really disrupt the flow. When the mind says GO! the body might struggle to respond. Rising out of that dip, the best 6 words in marathoning bounced around my head: "Right on Hereford, left on Boylston." Unfortunately, it is uphill. My friends expressed feeling this significantly in post-race recaps and, while in retrospect I think my pace slowed, I was still passing people heavily. I had my time in hand, but many who started minutes ahead of me did not. Because of this, I was able to cruise down Boylston with little worry and let people go. I ran firm but certainly not with the same emphasis as before. However, I must say I stuck to the middle of the road, not dismissive of the tragedy on the sidelines of 10 years prior. Seeing the finish line is exciting at Boston, but it looms. While Boylston is probably one of the shorter sections of streets on the entire course, the finish line takes quite a while to reach from when you can see it. Giving the obligatory wave to the many fans that were screaming, and a solemn nod to the site of the bombing memorial on my left, I crossed the line. 2:57:11.

Very cold and wet after the race. 

With a howl of accomplishment, I had run under 3 hours for the first time in 9 years, since I was last at Boston. I didn't know if it was possible, but everything went right. My training never missed a day, and while I never ran all that many miles, I did workouts and four - 20 mile long runs and four - 50 mile weeks. As Kirsten says, "Consistency is key." Fueling was an experiment. I was desperate to try Maurten for something new. They were sold out at the expo, so I had to buy 1 Gu. But I had Maurten on the course for the other two gels. I missed the first handout around mile 11 and I was worried I wouldn't have the fuel to get home, but the last two gels helped. It tasted rough, but those, coupled with the shake to start the day, probably did help. Having heard good things about the product, I think it paid off as I never had a sour stomach, which is extremely rare. While my legs were sore, they never locked up. Even with Boston's 2nd half much harder than its first, I nearly negative split this race. Just 11 seconds off an even split with all those hills. I may have run my perfect race, never getting out of control, and always handling what was to come. Buoyed by this achievement, I floated down the road. But after the medals and the mylar blankets were handed out, Boston rebounded. A wicked rain began to fall, ice cold, and the walk to the buses was suddenly far less celebratory. Grabbing my bag, I began limping toward the Irish pub that was the meeting point for our group post-race. By the time I got there I could hardly move, and shaking with frozen limbs, changing was nearly impossible. I tucked into a couple of beers and Guinness soup, but the discomfort was high. We had no place to sit and I began feeling ill; the noise was mounting as more finishers and fans poured in, and we had no plan. I excused myself and stepped outside. Instantly I felt better. The cool air blasted my face and life came back into me. Taking the train back to the hotel, I showered and crawled into bed. Life returned, and medals around our necks, we headed out to the Irish pubs of Boston to bask in the glory of having run (and run well) the world's greatest marathon.