| Mt. Artesonraju, Southeast Face, UIAA D+ July 2000 Some organizing and negotiating and we were on our way in a rented collectivo, porters in tow. We got up to camp, set up our tents in one of the best camping spots I've ever seen, and planned our ascent. Roberto and Jeff, the two best skiers in the group wanted to ski the Southwest Face, which looked a little on the steep side for me. "If you fall you die" didn't sound like a good ride to me, thank you very much. A5 boarding isn't my bag. But the route we were going to climb up looked good, so I agreed to drag my board along and part ways with the boys at the summit. The Colombians had no illusions to skiing and were in it for the peak. After a day of planning and negotiating, including hauling our snowboards and some gear to the base of the route, 2:30 dawned early. We rolled out of our tents to pop-tarts and the news that we had lost a member already. Robertoīs Italian partner, Mikele, was sick as a dog and decided to bag. The Colombians were en route, so we took off as a team of three. A quick traverse to the base and we headed up the climb, full of energy. The normal route up the peak is a long, long snow slope. Gaining 2000 feet of vertical, it goes mostly at 50 to 55 degree snow (I don't remember too much high school geometry, but that sounds like almost a mile of steep climbing!). As we headed up we quickly got into the routine of moving. The snow was great for climbing, firm, taking bomber axe placements the whole way. Plant the axe, move up, plant the axe, move up, rest. On and on and on it went. I found the routine of this kind of alpine climbing similar to easy aid climbing... the brain begins to turn off non-essential functions and you just get into the groove of moving carefully and continuously. Once in a while I found my thoughts wandering to warm beaches, easy, well shaped waves, and women in bikinis. I would love to rant and rave some more about the majority of the route, but really, it just went on and on. The beauty of the day and the setting were spectacular! After three or four hours of this I must admit, though, I did get sort of bored with the climbing. Finally the final crux to the summit presented itself. It was about a pitch and a half of steeper hard snow, maybe 70 or 75 degrees. Roberto was a machine on the snow slope and had gotten to and passed the crux long before Jeff and I reached it. So as we approached, we (or I at least) briefly contemplated roping up, but figured wed move through it quickly and nab peak. After some negotiating to pass the Colombians who had chosen to rope up, I moved up a steep trench in the snow to pull onto the ridge that separated the southeast face, where we were, from the southwest, which was the proposed ski route. I had both axes out and was in ice climbing mode, moving easily and comfortably. 20 feet or so and I pulled over the ridge. The moves were easy, but the snow was bad, looser than it had been throughout the climb and not the confidence inspiring security that I was looking for. Thud, Swoosh, Thud, Swoosh, Thud, Swoosh. Three insecure moves and I pull onto the ridge. Mistake #1, I look down. Imagine straddling a perfect knife edge of snow, angled at 75 degrees. El Capitan sized faces of snow drop off to your left and right. No rope, just four pieces of metal attached to each appendage embedded in the snow. It was fantastic and terrifying and beautiful and exhilarating all at once. There it is, the climbing epiphany. It explodes on my mind, burning away all the thoughts of beaches and jobs and anything else that might not be pertinent to staying alive in a flash of cathartic pyre. I start to get really scared even as I get extremely focused. I look down again and inform my partner of my august opinion of the quality of this section of the route. "Dude, I am gripped. This sucks." No encouraging words from below. Then, as always happens, the focus wins over the fear and I realize the way off is up. I start moving carefully, finding much better placements on the ridge proper, even steps somewhat kicked into the snow by frightened climbers before me. I start moving more confidently, the climbing eases and my body recalls two winters of ice climbing twice or three times a week. The engrams awaken and I cruise up the ridge smoothly to join Roberto for the magnificent view. Whew, the endorphins flood out of my system and I feel drained and happy, wandering around the broad summit platform to the actual high point. The view from here is incredible, we can see Alpamayo and the entire Santa Cruz range to the North, Pyramide, Huandoy and the rest of the Paron Valley cirque to our South. It is an amazing vista, and as the other members of our party wander up we take pictures and generally congratulate ourselves on a fine climb. Jeff and Roberto take off to ski / ride the Southwest face, while I agree to take the Colombians down the rappels to the base. They've neglected to bring a second rope, and really need an escort. SO I volunteer. The skiers have an amazing ride, Jeff falls a couple of times but recovers like a pro, they return to camp heros. The rest of us begin what becomes a total epic. We start rappelling, and rappelling, and rappelling. If we did one rappel, we did 20, off sketchy snow bollards, what must have been avaloks, but appeared to us as little pieces of cord sticking out of the snow, and pickets left by kind souls. We just about make it down to the base before dark. As dusk turns to night we get two lucky breaks: Javier finds a snow bollard that I missed in the dark, and I find a fixed picket, only the very top showing, shining in a sea of dark, white snow. We rap from the picket to the base, slowed by Jamey's inadvertent descent into a crevasse on rappel. "Derecha, derecha," I yell as she slides slowly into the icy gash. I help her pull herself out and we begin the three hour walk back to camp. A stop to pick up Mikele's skis and an hour wandering lost through the talus field above camp and we finally stumble home, dehydrated and exhausted. The descent turns out to be much harder than the climb on the body, without food or water for hours on end, moving on sheer force of will. A couple times I ponder stopping, but there is nowhere to go but to camp, forward. The water, food, and welcome of our friends at the end of our own private Batan almost makes up for the drudgery. In retrospect it was a spectacular climb. The route is a long and sloggy, but the ridge and final moves are brilliant. Much of my climbing is the search for the perfect pitch, where everything strips away and the bare soul contends with Godīs nature. The top of Artesonraju is close.
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