Mountain climbing - there's a good idea

'Let's climb a mountain!' we said. We've been at altitude for months on and off and done a fair amount of walking. We've looked up at the mountains and they are magnificent, so what could be better than getting to the top of a snow-capped peak? 

What were we thinking? 

Things got off to a ropey start when we met our mountain guide, Teo, at the base refuge. In contrast to our gentle, kind and friendly trekking guide who we had walked with for the previous three days, Teo was petulant, chauvinistic, and far from helpful. The whole time during our first afternoon's ice climbing activity, when we learnt to use the equipment on a glacier, was spent enduring his bad humour and grating remarks concerning the weakness and inability of females. Rachel understandably didn't react to this too positively and the atmosphere between us all was as cold as the mountain air.The ice climbing was fun when I got stuck in (literally).

The next morning, climbing up to the top refuge at 5200m with a heavy backpack full of equipment (snow boots, crampons, ice pick etc) was a tough enough start, especially when it included scrambling up rock faces, but we managed admirably. There was a nice bunch of people at the refuge apart from one loud Canadian with bad wind.  We rested there for the afternoon and evening hopping in and out of the sleeping bag fully clothed to try and stay warm. It was bitterly cold and the snow started falling heavily making the descent to the rather exposed toilet (gaping hole) more than a little tricky.  Still, we were feeling fairly positive about our ascent of the mountain Huayna Potosi which was due to commence at around 1am. 

When the snow finally stopped falling and the skies cleared, the views were breathtaking. It was the loveliest part of the whole mountain climbing adventure.Outside the top refuge. Snow for miles around. A nice post-poo view for an Austrian fellow climber (enclosure on right is loo).

We woke at midnight still feeling relatively good and donned our equipment. Following a warming cup of coca tea we left the refuge, got roped together with our prat of a guide and headed off at about 1.30am. From then on it was simply 8 hours of the most unenjoyable, relentless, exhausting physical exertion either of us had ever endured or could have possibly imagined. People usually get to climb on a surface of compact, icy snow which is perfect for the crampons and ice picks. The deep snow, due to the snow fall the previous evening, made things much harder going. Even on the rare occasions when the incline levelled out slightly every step was still exhausting. 

It was pitch black, freezing cold and the guide offered no encouragement. The only thing that kept us going and raised us from the snow when we periodically collapsed with exhaustion was doses of Thornton's Special Toffee which my mum had brought for us from England a few weeks earlier. 

Despite the awfulness of it all, we kept plodding on. As nice as it got was when the sun rose and revealed magnificent views all around, although we were so tired, it was hard work even appreciating it.

Over the next hour we got closer and closer to the top whilst the sun got hotter and hotter. We were 60 metres from the summit and felt as though we would at least now make it to the top. At this point things turned slightly stressful and farcical. A nice Israeli man had unroped himself from the struggling Canadian and his guide in a desperate bid to reach the top. The last thing on our guide's mind was supporting us as he hurled rascist abuse in Spanish and demanded that we translate it back down the mountain to the oncoming solo Israeli. Whilst this was going on, an unusually kind and friendly French man and his guide who were slightly further up the zigzagging track to the summit dislodged some melting snow, which turned into a mini avalanche sufficient to knock the Canadian and his guide, who were further down the slope, off their feet and several metres down the steep mountainside. The Canadian lost the plot and started shouting at people to stop 'hollering at him' even though nobody was; our guide continued to berate the Israeli; yet another small avalanche came down and we took the decision that enough was enough, it was time to turn back despite the injury to our guide's pride in failing to get us to the summit. 

All we had to do now was get back down the mountain. At that point, we really couldn't have imagined that getting down would be as awful as getting up. With the snow melting all around we were very keen to get back but our guide instead chose to unrope us next to a gaping crevass whilst he went to help the Canadian's guide find his ice pick lost in the avalanche. After several minutes of shouting at the guide we persuaded him to come back, which he did, whilst mocking us in a stupid voice.

The trudge down the mountain was just horrible. Every few steps we had to remove clumps of melting snow from our crampons to avoid slipping. The red hot sun was full in our faces and beneath our many layers of clothing and climbing gear we were sweltering and uncomfortable. This was more like a march through the desert in ski gear with lead boots. On and on we went until we reached 'the wall'. On the way up, this section of the mountain had merely been one long awful bit in the middle of a longer awful bit. On the way down, in full daylight, slipping about in clogged up boots, it was horrific. 'The Wall' is a very steep section, 150 metres long, on about 50 degrees incline, and on a narrow ridge, with a sheer drop to one side and a steep slope to crevasses below on the other. It didn't feel too good going down it, stumbling and digging in the ice pick to keep balanced. In fact, the other four people who ascended with us and descended after us had to take a two hour detour to avoid this 'unsafe' part of the mountain. About half way down Rachel gave up her wonderful attempt at coping with this situation and sat down in complete exhaustion, terror and tears.  Luckily at this point our fool of a guide did his one useful act of the trek, hammering in an anchor and encouraging Rachel to abseil down the mountain while I walked on the rope in front of her. This trauma over, we carried on down in abject misery. Towards the bottom of the mountain and nearing the refuge, things again became farcical. The hill was slightly safer but with our legs gone to jelly we were walking like drunkards weaving from side to side and slipping down sections of the mountain on our bums. 

We finally got back to the refuge looking and feeling like tired messes, but after a warm bowl of soup, we didn't look half as dreadful as the sorry states who came in two hours after us cursing the mountain, the conditions and their guides. 

We were almost hysterical with tiredness and vowed never to climb another snowy mountain as long as we lived. Far from going to a warm bed, we had to slog it with our heavy backpacks back down the rocky path, now covered with slippery snow and slush. 

During our taxi ride back to La Paz we again realised just how much nicer the mountains are when you perceive them from below the snowline.