Bad Things Happen in 3's (Or More)

I awoke on a Wednesday with a cold. It was the first time in a very long time that I was really sick. After making it through the day, I played in a softball game at night, sliding for a fly ball in the outfield and ending up with a raspberry leg wound that covered a third of my leg. Now, let's limp ahead a few days.

After not playing volleyball for many months, I wanted to get back out there. So on a Monday night, we played. The first hour went fine but then things turned. Passes weren't made, balls went out of bounds. Our 1-0 lead quickly turned into 13-1. It was terrible.  Their backcourt guy was creeping up, dumping shots short on us. I tried to burn him deep but he returned it. A moment later he dumped another one. Frustrated I swung hard - at best this was over his head and in play; at worst I would send the ball to the rafters and buy us a moment to recover.  It went sailing out by a mile and I put my hands to my head, exasperated. Then, WHAM! I am on the deck.

Just like that. Hit the ball, step left, step right and CRACK, CRACK CRACK! I felt my right ankle blow like fireworks, popping off three or four times. I dropped like a rock and put my hands to my face as pain raced up and down my leg. It hurt so bad I couldn't roll over to my back for a moment, even though my friend was telling me to get down. I laid on my back, hands buried in my eyes to push down some of the pain that seemed to be bubbling over.  I knew instantly that I was in trouble.

Within a couple of minutes I could pull my shoe off. Teammates rushed for ice and had my ankle wrapped in a bandage. I kept it elevated, unable to move for several minutes.  When the blinding pain had subsided, I hopped into a wheelchair and moved off the court.  But sitting there I grew dizzy and, fearing I would blackout from the pain, pulled myself back to the floor.  Sarah arrived, and I was wheeled to the gate, into a cab, and to the hospital, that sits - thankfully - about 2 min from our door.

This doesn't look good

Half cast

An very Indian experience later and I was back from the x-ray, my foot not broken, and half casted to reduce mobility.  I crutched around for a few days and had an MRI.  When I met with the doctor, he put the images on a light screen. "Oh no!" he said, eyeing the first image. "Yeeeeeshshh" he hissed, glancing to the next, then, pointing and speaking to his assistant, "Look how big that is."  Now, when different circumstances may have called that comment a compliment, it wasn't the case. He turned back to me and said, "This is a serious injury."  "Well, it felt serious," I said.

Diagnosis: Full thickness tear of the anterior talo fibular and calcaneo-fibular ligaments. Contusion on medial malleolus and medial aspect of the talar dome.
Translation: Two of the three ligaments that hold my ankle together are ripped and there is a sizeable bruise on the bone of my foot.

I am ordered off the foot for at least another week and told PT would take 2-3 months. He was happy with my fitness and said surgery was not needed.  I may be able to run and bike in the summer but I probably cannot do hiking, volleyball, or other lateral movement sports for 6 months or more.

Later that day, after watching my team play softball, I was crutching home and smacked my toe (other foot) on my crutches.  Instant pain, but the beer helped. The next morning after a restless sleep I tried to get around but couldn't walk. My toe was broken. Unable to move, I missed my team playing in the final game of the season.  Only via wheelchair could I go to the evening's closing ceremony. Oh, and MSU lost in the Final Four. Bad day.

Broken toe and bruising on top part of foot

Timing was not great -  I will miss: the softball tournament, the weekly Canada vs. USA softball game; the British History Half Marathon, the healthy challenge (and competition in our school that I have not lost in 8 years) and the Two Hearted Marathon (a trail race I was hoping to win this summer).   If I cannot come back and train, my trip to Venice in the fall for the marathon may be in jeopardy. I am still unsure if I can play weekly hockey this summer with my brother.  When it rains, it pours.

After 1 week, I cut the cast off. It was annoying and my foot floating in it, causing pain every time I moved. I was much more careful about my foot with it off than when it was on. 

Inside, non-torn side still bruised a week later

Bruising on torn side - 1 week later

Swelling on inside ankle - 10 days post injury

Swollen, gross elephant foot (lines from the Ace bandage wrap in skin) - 10 days post injury

So the above ends the summary of events and diagnosis. I am struggling, unable to do much of anything. All cardio is out and with the toe injury, just getting around is very difficult. People, kind as they are, have asked 1,000 times what happened, and it gets hard to answer. It is like reliving a trauma each time. They mean well. Other annoying comments have been the person who asks daily, "Any better today?" but not nearly as bad as the many, and I mean many, who have said, "Yeah, I have been there" or "I have dealt with this all my life." What? I mean, not to downplay it, but I can't imagine a ton of regular people being out for 2-3 months with full tears in most of their foot.  Not to mention, if this happens to someone regularly, they wouldn't play sports. I am so afraid to play again, knowing the pain it was to have it happen just once.

I am doing a lot of core work since it is the only thing I can do with my feet like they are. I started lifting a bit but 1) it is hard to get to and from the gym and around it and 2) lifting sucks.  My pushup streak is again in jeopardy as I cannot get on my toes (for a week I was doing 1-legged push ups, now I can't get any feet so I have to put my feet on the couch and do downward-angled push ups). After doing 6 months consecutive, my streak broke in the Grand Canyon. Since then, I have logged nearly 10 months straight, but I find myself in a difficult place to finish again. The thought of starting over demoralizes me. 

Pond Hockey in the Mountains

Before I moved to India, I learned of this great ice hockey tournament in the mountains. However, no matter who I contacted, no one could give me info. The next year I was determined to go, but again, it didn't pan out. This year I was resolute and, sure enough, the trip was on. The opportunity to play hockey, outdoors, on a pond, in the mountains of Leh at 12,000ft was worth the wait.

I played with a team of people from the Canadian High Commission. We were called the New Delhi Sacred Bulls and were 12 skaters in all. Luckily, most of us got a chance to play a few times before the tournament at a crappy rink in Gurgaon.  We flew out early on a Friday morning - or at least that was the plan. After arriving at the airport and boarding the plane, we sat on the runway for 3.5 hours due to "fog" (but we all know it was heavily influenced by pollution).

Can you see the plane next to us on the runway? No? It's less than 100ft away...

Eventually, we were off for the 1 hour flight to Leh, and were treated to some amazing mountain views on the way in. It was fairly cold in the mountains, with temps around -11 Celsius. We made our way to the hotel for lunch and a relatively uneventful day as acclimating was key.

Sleep is not easy at 3500m and we were up early for breakfast.  Because the games are on a pond, we dressed in our hotel rooms. Two teams boarded the bus, piling sticks and equipment in, and drove to the rink.  Snow had fallen over night and it took a good hour to "clean" the ice (shovel it then sweep it with straw brooms). I tell you, if you need a workout, try shoveling snow at 3500m. It leaves you gassed in seconds.

Dubai and Delhi riding to the rink

Overnight snow on the rink - it took more than an hour to clear the ice

Our first game was against the Dubai Buds.  This team had played together a bit in Dubai and that was an advantage for them (we had not skated as a team). However, we started out hot and I scored a few minutes in by coming across the middle and beating the goalie glove side.  We were tied  1-1 going into the second half when I scored a wrap around goal to give us the lead. We didn't have a team goalie so we had to have a local player in net, and this proved to be a disaster. He let in 4 goals, not one of them a legit shot. Long, half-ice shots bounced in. It was devastating to lose (4-2) when we could have skated with that team. I had both goals, and we now knew how to prevent the problem in the future - limit their shots.

AES Teachers - Michael, Kristin, and Justin

AES Teachers - Michael, Kristin, and Justin

The next game that morning was against the India Select team, basically an all-star team of the local players.  They were young and fast, but like the Qatari national team in Doha, they were one dimensional.  I didn't score in game 2, but I had to skate a lot on both ends of the ice to keep the attacking and defending happening. We rotated centers, so I played every other shift.  We played to a 1-1 tie with just a minute to go when one of our players got loose and scored. We won, 2-1, and had 30 min rest. Our final game was against a team from Bangalore who was very inexperienced. They mostly were learning roller hockey and some had never been on ice. They picked up a few women from the Indian national team.  We handled them pretty easily. I scored early, and then Kristin got one. An AES parent, Matt, wanted a goal since he was going to miss the 2nd day of the tournament, and I was able to bring the puck out from the corner and find him in front where he buried it for a 3-0 lead. Bangalore managed to get one but we still won.

I pull up on the boards against the India select team.

Our forward gets lose and scores against the India select team with under a minute to go to give us the win.

We loaded on to buses and headed down the mountain about 20 minutes to another couple of ponds. We were there to skate with several other teams in a charity event called the Ability Cup. One team was the India Army team, another a group of kids, and the last team a group of disabled athletes who played on sledges.  We laced up our skates and pushed some of the athletes on sledges around then joined them in a game. As tired as I was, it was invigorating to see all these different people of all ages and abilities learning the game and loving being out there.  We left, pretty toasted after 3 games and a fun skate event. We returned home to shower and had a few cocktails before dinner, which was  a banquet with local performers and music. If we weren't so exhausted, it would have been a wild night. 

Supporting the efforts of charities at the Ability Cup

Sunday was the final day of the tournament. I awoke extremely sore: my lower back was aching and my legs toast, but we had to get back out there. Luckily, there was no snow overnight so we didn't have to clear the ice. Unfortunately, cracks were forming in the ice and would only get worse throughout the day. We finished as the 2nd seed on day 1 so we drew the India select team for the elimination round. Again, I scored early in the game. Our task was to limit shots, but it made no difference: a long, rolling, slow shot trickled past our goalie. We did what we could but they just kept shooting and the goalie just didn't know how to stop the puck. We lost 4-2 in the semi-finals.

I scored this goal by going through 3 guys and roofing it while the D pulled me down

There was no time to lick our wounds as we played in the consultation game against Bangalore immediately after. I grabbed a water bottle and a puck between games to try and fill the cracks but it was to no avail. We started out strong and controlled the game from the start. I split the defense and buried a goal while being pulled to the ice. Then there was a hard shot from the point that rang off the post and behind the goalie which I tapped in with little effort. We were rolling and scored a couple of more. I tried desperately to set up Kristin and our defensemen for a goal. I won a few faceoffs back to them but they just didn't find that back of the net. We won easily.  We grabbed some beers and went to the rooftop to watch the final game: India select vs. Dubai Buds.  India won 2-1 with a goal late in the game. They completely out skated Dubai who looked like they could barely skate - altitude was definitely a factor. 

Leh hockey rink 

Watching the finals from the rooftop above the rink

Despite being exhausted, we wandered around town and stopped in Wanderers for some momos. We nearly froze waiting over 1 hour but all was well returning to the hotel where we enjoyed some drinks late into the night.  

I had 6 goals and 2 assists in 5 games, but more importantly, we played hockey outdoors in the mountains on the highest outdoor ice rink in the world. It was an amazing experience and I cannot wait to play again next year. 

Athens - The Original Marathon

In 490 BC, Persians landed at the Marathon plain with the intention of attacking through to Athens. Heavily outnumbered, the Athenians waged battle and against all odds, emerged victorious. As the legend has it, a messenger named Pheidippides was dispatched to cover the roughly 25 miles that lie between Marathon and Athens. He covered the distance on foot, and arriving at the Acropolis, announced "Nenikikamen" (Rejoice, we conquer) and dropped dead. 

Of course, this legend is riddled with skepticism as I have long known as a runner and have further confirmed after a visit to Greece. It is almost certain that Pheidippides did exist - he was a hemerodromos: a military member trained to run long distances and deliver messages. It was, after all, the 5th century BC. Every indication was that another runner delivered the news of victory in Marathon. Whether he dropped dead or not is unknown, but it adds a certain flare to the story now, doesn't it? In the meantime, we should not discount Pheidippides who is said to have run from Marathon to Athens to Sparta in an effort to rally the Spartans to come to the aid of the Athenians.  When it was clear that they would not reach Marathon in time, Pheidippides turned and ran back to inform the Athenians (a round trip of 300 miles in about 4 days) who lead the charge. It is in his honor of this journey that the Spartathlon was created. Read Dean's account of it here.

Either way, this folktale is why we, today, run the marathon and why I am sitting on the cold track of the Marathon town stadium, a short bus ride from Athens, Greece. We will (roughly) retrace the route run by the messengers to Athens.  The course itself is unimpressive; it runs between two iconic stadiums but every bit of it is just a paved suburban highway.  Historic sites are off the path and the hilltops and valleys could be many places. But it is the novelty we seek: paying homage to the original route that started this madness. For me, it will be my 75th open (non-ultra, non-Ironman) full marathon.  It is a loose milestone, not like 50 or 100, but the 75th has a bit of a draw. 

On the way to Marathon for the marathon with the Ropers

Marathon Stadium - pre-race

We almost didn't make it here. Our plan was to do some white-water rafting and trekking in Nepal. All plans were made, but in September, I felt the marathon calling again, and decided to make a trip of it. Never have I planned such an endeavor so close to the date.  Our travels took us first to Athens and immediately up to the ancient site of Delphi. Feta cheese, pork souvlaki, tzatziki, and wine fueled our travels. We then flew to beautiful Santorini for more indulgence. Seafood, wine tasting, horse riding, and hot tubs occupied our time. Back to Athens for a tour of the Acropolis.  Running was rough: short jaunts with huge climbs and descents. We walked everywhere, adding many miles to the legs. But this trip was more about the run. It was about seeing an amazing country that should be on most anyone's bucket list.

Red Beach

The view from our lodging

Sunset on Santorini

Santorini

The sun slowly warms runners in Marathon though the air is chilly.  A stiff tailwind promises a benefit on the course but causes problems during the 1.5 hour wait for the gun.  Despite the rigorous seeding process, unwelcomed people still make it into my corral - the front one after the professionals and invited runners. We make our way down the road, but I have to jump on to the cobblestone sidewalk to get around people, dodging metal barriers along the way.  We make a slight detour at 4km to loop the graves of the Athenians site (which I doubt is the route the ancient messengers took) before plowing on.  Most of the first 12km is downhill and I got out pretty fast.  Originally, there was no plan for this race. My recovery from the R2R2R kept me slow.  I figured a 3:30 or so. But then I did a half marathon in 1:28 flat and felt like I had some potential back.  I only did one 20 miler this fall, and even that was earlier than I would have liked. But overall, I was running more miles per week than I was last winter, so I felt better going into this run, minus the week of travel and gluttony. 

Having committed to a faster pace in the early miles, I stuck with it.  The net decline of the first 10km was met with some very difficult uphill.  From 7-20 miles, I only remember going uphill. Despite the trend, I tried to keep a similar pace, but the consistency was difficult over the varied terrain.

We passed through the area ravaged by forest fires earlier this year. It was well lined with supporters and I could taste the charred wood in the air.  It was sad that such a landscape was destroyed.

The climbing continued until about 32km where it was, literally, all downhill from there.  I paid for my early pace, the net downhill start, and the difficult climbs.  My knee began hurting and I just grew tired.  However, after running 75 of these things I have a point where experience takes over from training, and I began getting consistent again. While I can't say I felt good, I kept it together.  The last 10km of the run were constantly downhill, so much so at times that it hurt. I grew very tired of the run but was determined to finish in a similar pace as I set out.  We dropped down the final hill as crowds lined the street. The final stretch angles into the Panathenaic Stadium, site of the original (modern) Olympics.  I crossed in a little over 3:13 which is the 2nd fastest I have run in 5 years (but a solid 16 minutes from my best, set just 5 years ago).

I would love to blame the post race beers, dash to the airport, two long flights and a layover for my sore legs, but they hurt pretty damn bad right from the finish.  Perhaps it was the training, the lack of training on hills, the week of walking around a lot, or maybe just the early pace. It doesn't matter. One thing remains true, whether it's your first or 75th, when it is done, it is done, and it cannot be taken away from you.

Very tired at the finish

Laurel wreath, sparkling wine, 75

Temple of Poseidon

Temple of Zeus

Parthenon

Running Angry

This is India. I was supposed to play in a nationally televised, promotional ice hockey game Saturday night against the Indian Police.  Hours before game time it was called off. Never mind that I rearranged my entire weekend to make this happen.  Oh well, shit happens in India.  At least I got to watch MSU play that night...except that after nearly two hours of broken internet viewing, weather delays had ensured that I had a choice to make: watch the whole game and end up with about an hour to rest, or go to bed around 11pm and rise at 3:45am for a half marathon....I hit the sack.

Two weeks ago I finished work and headed out for an evening run, angry with things. I just needed to get out and run and with no plan, I headed toward Lodhi Garden.  My first mile was fine, but the next a big drop. Then again. By halfway I was humming along, running harder until the pain went away, and then a new pain came, different this time, but it beat the feeling from before. So I pushed.  I dropped every one of those 6.3 miles faster than the last, and still had room to go. Then a funny thing happened: I started running faster on all of my subsequent runs without having to try harder. It was suddenly easier to run a faster pace on a normal run.  This is the point in the season where a runner has a "rust buster" - the run that moves him from that stagnant pace of training into the realm of control. At a month out from Greece, I now knew I would be ready.

Pollution headache aside, I felt fine (considering the hour) heading to the race on a slightly warm Sunday morning. We wandered through the throngs of humanity and I tried to poop in the bushes but the result was minimal and disappointing. As we jostled to hold our position in the corral, more people bumped passed but the race went off right on time. Unfortunately, narrow roads and too many ignorant people meant the first mile was a disaster.  I weaved and bobbed through, passing people walking at 1km and those destined for a 3 hour half marathon. It had a few choice words for these folks.  Soon the crowd thinned and I settled into a pace.  My friends were off ahead, both of them eyeing 1:28-1:30. I had not been running fast and with a softball game just a few hours off, and a marathon in a few weeks, I decided not to push. But the miles came quickly and easily as I passed person after person and soon I was locked in.

Delhi, like many parts of the world, is strange for running - or by that definition, maybe it is on par. I saw shoeless people, those that started too fast, and those that went by in sub-6 min miles at the 8 mile mark (must have been asleep for the start). I passed a man who was belting out "huh-huh" on 5 second intervals.  He was wearing headphones but that didn't stop me from saying, "You know you are making that noise out loud, right?"  He either ignored my chirp or was too distracted from his 50 Shades of Grey audio book to notice. Must have been the good part by the way he was huffing. I moved ahead, but soon ran into a woman steadily moaning as she rolled past 4 miles.  I thought, damn, she must be a firecracker in the sack, but then thought, no, she expends too much energy on the run...

Luckily, I didn't encounter any running/sexually confused participants again. I did roll by some aid stations sponsored by Nature's Valley but instead of delicious granola bars, they had pork rinds. I passed. With about 6k to go I caught and passed my buddy Michael who runs steady but tends to go out faster than I. I rounded India Gate and headed back, content not to push the pace, never feeling like I was really getting after it. I crossed in 1:28:01 which is just on 6:40/mile.  I had run about 10 of the 13 miles faster than all but any two miles during training this fall (see earlier paragraph on angry running). I have done no speed work in the past 7 months and still ran a decent time.  Sure, it's about 10 min off my best but any day you can show up and lay it down way outside of your training pace is a winner. In fact, it must be one of the fastest half's I have run in many years since I haven't been racing much the last 5 years and we used to do these things as post-marathon recovery runs or as part of long runs in Joburg. But it's not always about the time...

The negative splits and consistency speak to experience

I regretted not waiting for Michael and the amazing Mercedes that would have been my ride home had I not hustled out of there and grabbed a tuk tuk. Sweat drying, I started to get chilly in the morning air - air that was no doubt slowly killing me, which I tried to ignore as my driver, who tried to rip me off on the price before I lost it on him, drove up the wrong way of a highway off ramp and nearly killed me. Home and a shower. I absolutely hammered two breakfasts at ACSA before going 5-for-6 at bat in our 9:30am softball game (we won 18-10). Of course, I indulged in the post-game beers to cap it off, before heading home to watch the replay of the MSU game. There was foul language hurled at the television in the loss. I hate Michigan!  However, despite the loss, all in all, not a bad day.  I should run angry more often. 

Mountains - Part 1: Elbrus (Russia)

This post is the first in a two-part series where I recap climbs from the past that was never posted.  The first installment is going back exactly 3 years ago to 2015 where I ventured alone to Russia to scale Mt. Elbrus, the highest peak in Europe, and one of the Seven Summits.  They are posted in the present so they do not get buried under previous posts. 

June 27, 2015
This rich, prep-school kid next to me with his Rolex Submariner is nice enough, but he wont shut up about vacation homes, collecting cars, and the string of hotels his daddy owns back in Mother Russia. Luckily, I am on the nicest flight of my life from London to Moscow - Business-class seats that are wide and recline, and I sleep the whole way there, a nice rest after toting the kids around London for the past week. My reward is 12 days alone in an attempt to tick off my 2nd of the 7 Summits: Mt. Elbrus in Russia.

The bliss is over when I touch down and have to make my way across the city from one airport to another. On my puddle jumper from Moscow to Mineralnye Vody, all of the announcements are in Russian. A mighty cheer goes up upon landing and I think, I have heard this on risky landings but on a nice day? Perhaps a safe landing is not a foregone expectation of purchasing a flight ticket in Russia, or maybe the landing gear was broken, how am I supposed to know?

I load into a van with a group (unsure if they are climbing partners as I cannot understand them) and travel 3 hours north to Elbrus region. The drive is flat save a few mining piles. I arrive and thankfully find a single room waiting for me (the rest have doubles) as no one else speaks English. They try to engage me, the obvious foreigner, in a bit of chit chat but it soon dies out and they return to themselves, which suits me just fine. I prefer to be left alone and focus on my goal. I do need to walk across the street to rent some gear as my down jacket is in the USA and my crampons and trekking poles are not up for the task anymore.  Returning I try to call home but it won't connect and the power is out. My shower will have to wait.

The next day we took a chairlift up to 2500m for an acclimatization hike. It was immediately clear many people had never done this. One guy asked, "What are crampons?" and I had to show another how to use trekking poles.  We went up very slowly and stopping too often for too long. The weather went from fair to poor with rain and sleet. We finally crested Mt. Cheget at 3400m.  Down in town, though I only needed two items, I had to wait while almost ever other member of the group was fully outfitted for gear.  I should have been done in a few minutes but instead watched the entire movie "Brave" in Russian before my turn. Only one other member of our group is experienced, and the lone female member looks fit, but I am concerned about this squad as the mountain sees 15-30 deaths a year due to the quick changes in the weather. Our weather has been poor and we have yet to see the sky.

Vladimir, our guide, takes us up the mountain to practice ice techniques. No one but I has used an axe before, but we don't do crampons because he says it will be too hard for them to learn both at once...We rode a chairlift up today that was 60 years old. If I hadn't seen a scrap pile of old chairs, I would have sworn we were riding the originals.

On the 27th we headed up Elbrus for the first time. The chairlifts take us from 2350m to 3400m just like that.  When then hiked up snow nearly 3 hours to 3900m as slow as possible and then worked on technique. It was a good refresher. My reward was purple chucks for dinner....beets.  After that was beetroot soup.  If there is a worse food out there, I don't want to encounter it. I managed to get through it by mixing them all together and adding tons of salt, pepper, and butter.

July 1: We are up the mountain for good. Chairlifts and a snow cat get us to our huts at 3900m. We have wifi and toilets! We had heard horror stories of the huts on Elbrus but ours were plush with its own dinning room.  We left at 11:15am to head up to the famed Pastukhov Rocks at 4600m, got into crampons, and then climbed 200m more to the top of the ridge. It took 4 hours round trip and most of it was in a cloud with swirling winds. Others struggled but I ran down the final few hundred meters feeling good. Then I felt horrible. I had a splitting headache, my stomach was off, and I stepped out to puke. I didn't have enough water for the altitude and paid dearly for my aggressive descent. Some meds from the guide sorted me out. 

Our home on the mountain

The view from my bunk

July 2: Climbed up just 200m today and sat for a while on the memorial rock, watching the mountain. Then our group got into the snow and built a snow woman, boobs and all. I guess a bunch of Russian men are longing for more women out here.  I sit at dinner and watch as people take the communal bowl of sour cream and eat from it with their spoon, or individually eat the veggies out of a bowl of salad.  I get translated to me about 25% of what the guide instructs, and about 1-2% of what is said at dinner but I manage to be ok.  It is lonely on the hikes with no one to just banter with.

Do you want to build a snowman?

July 3: Midnight. Summit day. After little sleep, I rise and get ready in the vestibule, trying not to wake the others. I shovel a quick breakfast because, as the Russians say, "No porridge, no summit." By 1am I am in full gear, including crampons, and take a 10 min snowmobile ride (that costs me $100) to the top of the Rocks at about 4800m opting for a long climb than my team. I feel this is criminal but it is the way of the mountain. Most of the lower slopes are as wide as a football field and during the day, climbing with snowmobiles and snowcats plowing by is like finishing in a canoe with jet skis all around.  I begin hiking with a new guide who says nothing during our hour and a half together. We stop only once for a break but otherwise we inch up, step-by-step, the steep face. I feel terrible and once at the top of the ridge, we sit in the snow, freezing, until the rest of our party is brought up to 5000m by snowcat. They arrive but mill around, and I am eager to leave.

We plod in a line up the ridge of the East summit, mostly in a cloud but occasionally a break in the sky showed glimpses of the impending sunrise before stealing it away again. Eating and drinking is near impossible as the slope is about 45 degrees and the blowing wind threatens to pull us off and freeze our extremities in minutes.  We are not roped (nor would I want to be to these people). Eventually, in the light, we dropped down into the saddle between the summits. The wind was so strong we had to hunch down to speak to each other, like the army under the blades of a helicopter.  We dropped one trekking pole in exchange for our ice axes and faced the West summit. The climb was unbearable. The wind would yank someone off the mountain so we threw ourselves forward, buried the axe, hunkered down, and took a few steps when it abated, only to repeat frequently. 

At this point several of our party decided to turn back. We almost lost another when his hat blew off and he tried to run after it across the slope. He tripped in the snow and on his crampons and started to skid down the mountain before he slowed and the guide dove on him. After pushing on in the hurricane, we hit a fixed rope and clipped in.  Halfway across the traverse of the face the guide pulls his head from the radio and yells "Turn around!"  What?!?!  The winds are punishing on the top and the final ridge is unclimbable.  I beg him to proceed to the turn and just wait and see and we do.  We are at 5555m and the summit lies at 5642, just 87 vertical meters above us, over a few rocks, all fixed rope. But it is clear we have no choice. We must turn after 6 hours of effort to get here.  The summit is 20 minutes of climbing (on a good day) away, but today is not that day.

Instantly we are in trouble.  The wind, which has been awful the whole time, now is raging in our face. I am wearing glacier glasses but can't see anything as specks of ice blast me in the face. Thankfully the guide swaps me for his ski goggles and that part improves. The wind has turned the snow into balls so it is like walking on Dipping Dots. The footprints in front are blasted away instantly so footing is difficult and the going is slow.  What should have been a relatively quick jaunt down is hindered by exhaustion, bad weather, and the fact that we have been climbing for hours and have no summit to show for it. During some of the more technical portions there are a few slips and lucky catches. Once on the main slope I would walk until collapsing in the snow, wait for others, and plod on, over and over. I crash into camp with 15cm of snot hanging from my nose and I am too tired to change out of my wet socks and pants.

A day of hydration, rest, and refueling still leaves me smashed and I know that there is no chance of a repeat attempt, and no one here wants one. The next day we pack out and return down the mountain.  My day gets weirder from there. We males head to a Russian mineral spring. During the 2 mile walk, we follow a garbage-lined path in the woods to a market where Gypsie woman are selling goods. I am told to sip water from a pump spewing water out of the ground. I do so reluctantly. In the banya, we strip and enter a sauna that is between 80-100 degrees Celsius. I can only do about 5 min in there before stepping out. My choices are to jump into a small pool or go to the shower. I choose pool and instantly bolt out of it. It was ice cold.  Back in the sauna and I come out to the shower, pull a cord, and a bucket of ice water falls on me. We repeat this charade. Back in the sauna I meet Sasha, a man who makes me lie down, bare ass in the air. He takes a branch of leaves from a bucket of water and starts smacking me with the branch up and down my body.  When I don't think I can take the heat and pain any more, he tells me to flip over. No Way!  I eventually do, balls to the sky, and he beats me again. Thoroughly sore and somewhat embarrassed, I leave, into the ice pool, and onto the bench for hot tea again. They ask me (I assume), "How was it?" and I tell them they are all crazy and sit down with welt marks in the shape of oak leaves on my back.  I decline a repeat round of the torture, convinced it is a prank on the American. I then turn down a chance to do it to someone else and learn I got to go first as I was the guest.

Team votes to go out for dinner. I did not, as it meant spending more money and having no one to talk to but majority rules. I enjoy a few beers, lamb, veal, and even tried liver (of what animal I cannot say).  I get my t-shirt and certificate and walk home.  I awake about to burst. Convinced I ate too much I try to sleep.  Nope. I vomit in the toilet and spend the next 4 hours doing so every 30 minutes. It stopped at 530 and by 7am I was showered - weak legged and bubbly stomach. No breakfast for me. I said goodbye to the team and tipped Vladimir 4000 Rubles and left in a van, solo. The driver seemed to think it was a challenge to double the speed limits and take lots of chances on the curvy mountain road going down the valley. Dehydrated, nauseous, and with no air con, I was in pain for all 3 hours of the drive. I spent 3 more sitting on the floor or standing in line in the hot, noisy little airport before my 2.5 hour flight to Moscow.  From there I had 2 hours transferring by train and wandered with this big pack to my hotel where I ate crepes, my first meal in over a day. I slept 11 hours.

My trip capped off with a self-guided tour of Red Square.  I wanted to see Lenin but it is closed on Tuesdays, the only day I was there. Figuring out the subway was an ordeal as the stops are all in Russian characters and don't go in order on the signs. It is difficult to be a stranger in a strange land.

A subway sign

Subway decor in Moscow

Red Square

Red Square

Kremlin

Lenin's Tomb

I am disappointed to not have made the summit and know I can climb these peaks. However, I survived an exciting , solo trip to Russia and have the story to tell so I am eager to do more.

Mountains - Part 2: Illimani (Bolivia)

This post is the second in a two-part series where I recap climbs from the past that were never posted.  This installment is going back 1 year ago to 2017 when I ventured alone to Bolivia to scale Mt. Illimani and Sajama, the two highest peaks in Bolivia.  They are posted in the present so they do not get buried under previous posts. Much of the language comes from my journal at the moment.

June, 2017
This trip started in the worst way possible. We didn't get the house we made an offer on. Then I dropped my phone, cracking it.  We drove to the airport and got stuck in 1.5 hours of traffic, only to find my flight delayed, then delayed again so that I would miss my connection.  I flew to Miami on a later flight and missed departing to Bolivia by 15 minutes.  I was put up in a terrible airport hotel for 24 hours until the next plane left.  Little did I know that check-out was at 11am, so by the time I got there and laid down, I had to leave and park my butt in the airport for most of the day.

Upon arriving in La Paz, I made my way to my hotel, albeit a day later than planned.  Thankfully, they amended the reservation and didn't charge me for it, which was nice, and warranted since the room didn't have hot water, an English-speaking television channel, or decent wifi, but they did have an ok breakfast. The elevation of La Paz is around 3,500m, which meant I had to arrive several days before my climb to acclimate. On my second day, I wandered the streets up to the highest ridge around town, and scrambled over crags, nearly falling to my death on the rocky outcroppings before heading back down, avoiding hordes of stray dogs.

The next day I walked about 3 miles to the minibus station and figured out how to get on the right bus that took me to La Cumbre, a high point about 15 miles from the city.  The elevation there is 4,400m so it was a good chance to acclimate some more.  The bus was crammed with people, babies, and supplies, we headed up, stopping for food for most just outside the city. 30 min later we arrived and I was dropped at the side of the road with odd stares. I hiked up for about 5 min but the wind was hammering and the temps far colder than I anticipated so I basically sat huddled for an hour before deciding to go back down.  I had a hard time hitching a ride back but a guy finally stopped and took me to town, for a fee, of course.

I walked 5k back to town and stopped in Wild Rover, this "Irish" hostel where I was to stay the days after my climb. It was gross: a bunch of 20-somethings all drinking and trying to hook up. At 1:20pm. On a Monday. They had no rooms for earlier than my date but I stayed for lunch anyway, getting through a BBQ burger and a salad as I hadn't had vegetables in three days.  Tomorrow, we go up.

June 27
With the anticipation finally over, I packed up my gear and met my guide. We threw my bags into the car and piled in with a driver and headed out of tow.  Long, winding roads took us up and out, some of them dirt, some of them paved, all of them with dangerous curves that every driver felt entitled to hug as tight as possible.  I remain entirely convinced the greater danger in climbing mountains is the trip there and back. It took several hours, all of it with Illimani in the distance, to reach the massif itself.  Luckily, there was new road put in due to some filming and research in the area.  Otherwise, the climb would have taken an extra day and a hike of about 4 hours from the road.

Instead, we pushed on, crossing not-so-small streams and weaving through some hefty rocks.  We bottomed out many times, scraping the car all over the so-called road.  But eventually we made it up to the fast plain that is base camp, just at the foot of the mountain peak itself.  There is not a prettier sight in the country, I am sure.

Base Camp 4,400m

Our driver dropped our gear and took off down the mountain with a promise to return several days later. After unpacking the loot and setting up the tent, there really wasn't much to do but drink tea and stare at the mountain.  I took a wander down the road and headed up a valley lined by rock walls.  There were llamas everywhere and waterfalls coming off the mountain.  I went up for quite a while, scaling some rock walls and hiking far, hoping to push acclimatization.

View of base camp from higher up

Looking back down on my hike

Temps dropped rapidly as dusk drew closer, and after glancing at the lights of La Paz and El Alto in the distance, I retired for some rest, of which I could get little of in a tent.  My borrowed sleeping pad had a hole in it so I felt every rock of the plain.  We woke early and tried to get warm as the sun was still working its way up.  Breakfast and a late start with a full pack up the trail. My guide and I shouldered decent-sized packs, but a porter grabbed the bulk of our load.  I cannot believe how much weight I still had and it was a good thing I could carry some. These guys show up from miles down the valley, come up in sandals, shoulder huge weight, and still beat most people up the mountain.  A ranger showed up at the last second and collected the climbing fee, which was about $3.

Our route traveled up and right across the mountain. The going was easy at first but became more and more steep as the day went on and the heat increased. More rests were needed as we inched our way up the difficult and sandy single track toward the high camp.  Moments of doubt began to creep in as the mountain loomed high above us; I looked back down and was amazed at how far we had come, but looking up, there was much more to scale.  Since we didn't have our tents in our bag, there was no sense in going higher without the porter.  We paused just shy of the high camp and rested until the porter arrived.  Other than being hungry and thirsty, I was feeling alright and not effected by the altitude. Usually, within 2 min of stopping, I had my breath and was itching to go. The stopping and waiting was the most frustrating. My endurance is good but my patience is not.  I just want to plow on and get it done.  This, however, is not a hurry-up sport.

High camp was a sketchy place.  Not bigger than about 30-40 feet wide and long, it was perched on the ridge just at the snowline. We were at 5500m (18,200ft), the Nido de Condor "Condor's Nest" and it was a precarious situation.  My tent was on a shelf not wide enough to hold it, and ropes were strung to keep it tied down.  A strong gust of wind looked to pull it down the huge gully to my left, with me wrapped inside. The entire place smelled of fecal matter and urine as there were no other options for doing your business. I had a pounding headache that abated after some hydration, Tylenol, and rest. Our time here was brief; we would make dinner and try and sleep, but we were leaving at midnight.

I, of course, could not sleep.  My Swiss cheese Thermarest was worthless and I felt every one of the rocks. My rest on the tundra last night was a gift compared to this place. My head is pounding and I have a 12-14 hour trip ahead of me when today's 3.5-hour trip was enough to put me in this state.  I think about the mountains as Cheryl Strayed said in "Wild", you may come to find yourself, and find meaning, but what you find, at least initially, is nothing but suffering. The summit may be bliss, but the journey is ripe with discomfort.  If it wasn't the rocks beneath me keeping me awake, it was the flapping of a tent-like kids' with a parachute in gym class - that sealed the deal. I stayed warm with two hot water bottles tucked in my bag, but no rest for me, again. At 1am the alarm went off and I pulled on whatever clothes I was not already wearing. Getting plastic boots on in a tent is a chore.  I choked down "breakfast" which was basically chocolate and tea.  Crampons, helmet, and 2:05am - we were off.

The route starts from high camp by hugging a rocky ridge. It didn't seem like it at the time, but this was some of the most difficult footing, as I would see coming down in the light. Instantly I was too hot and stopped to pull off my Goretex jacket, which was under my impressive down jacket. I ate some Gu and drank water but Andreas kept chirping about the power of cocoa leaves and how they make you strong and help stomach issues and headaches.  I took a couple of rounds just to appease him. I don't buy it, and it feels like you are chewing a handful of leaves you have raked in Fall time only you have to hold them in your lip, like dip. It tastes like sucking on an unused tea bag.

On we slogged making switchbacks across the mountain face, though it was hard to gauge distance when only 3 feet in front of me was illuminated. But it was probably best, because as I would later find out, the route is surrounded by cliffs and crevasses, and it was terrifying. After about 2 hours we were going well but my new crampon popped off. This was not a problem as it was not too steep, but elsewhere this could be an issue. Then it came off again!  Andreas helped me get it on, which was nice, but I felt like a bit of a wad. Would you believe it? My other crampon came off. I don't know if I was having a boot or crampon issue but it wasn't good.  Andreas checked his watch and it was 5:00am. He said we would be on the summit in 1 hour. This was good news but since the sun rises at 6:30, it would be hard to get a good summit picture.  My mistake, like in an ultra, was taking this opinion as fact. Spurred on by the finish, I felt good, yet after an hour I could now see the peaks across from me, and they were higher yet - a problem since I was on the tallest peak around.  My hopes sank, the headache peaked, and my stomach went south. I couldn't go 5-10 min without needing a rest. "30 min" Andreas would say, and then 15 min later, "30 min."  I started to bonk hard; his concern started to rise. We rounded a corner and popped out onto the summit ridge. "30 minutes," Andreas said. I sat in the snow.  "Todas bien?" he asked. No, I said, feeling poor.  I considered turning around at this point. The summit was only halfway (and since we had to go to base camp, not even halfway). I decided to press on.  We arched around the dome in a cloud, with a swirling wind obscuring the view.  Eventually, it relented and we stood, unceremoniously, on the unassuming summit, 6438m (21122ft). Andreas hugged me and I posed for a picture.  We left quickly with me in the lead and on belay.  However, the wind obscured the view, and not wanting to walk into a crevasse, I sat in the snow while Andreas wandered around for 10 minutes looking for the route.

I felt good heading down for an hour or so. My battery died so I took no pictures of the amazing ice walls.  I grew tired and started tripping on my own leg often and would sit in the snow to recover. We could see high camp but it never seemed to come.  The last hour was painful and riddled with stops. I crawled in and the waiting porters laughed at me while I stripped off each piece of clothing an chucked it aside.  Sweaty and exhausted, it was 9:45am. It took 5:35 to get up and 2:05 to get down to high camp but I swore it was twice that.  We were hustled out of there within a half hour for the long, dusty descent to base camp.  The craggy rocks and precarious footing were made all the more tenuous by wasted legs.  The extra weight on my back made cutting switchbacks difficult. I was roasting from wearing my fleece and Goretex pants still.  We were down in about 2 hours but it was a tortuous route that felt like it took all day.

We drove downhill on twisting, rocky roads for about 4 hours.  I faded in and out as it was too bumpy to drink.  We had to switch cars once and then drove around downtown for about 40 min. I thought they couldn't find my hotel but the cab was restricted from certain roads (traffic control rules). We ended up at the company headquarters and switched cabs again. 25 minutes later I was at my hotel and on the phone with Expedia for the next 2 hours.  On the Illimani, I had made the decision to leave Bolivia without climbing the second mountain, Sajama. Each call would drop; I would call back and repeat my story to a new representative. They would ask me for a number to call back, just in case, and I would repeatedly tell them I was in Bolivia. They called my mom (the number on my account) many times. $725 later I got a new flight, 3 days on. I just wanted to go home. The summit was bittersweet; I made it but felt disappointed with the adventure.