Early in the morning on January 11th, 1976, I caught a taxi out of Santiago. After a few miles, the taxi broke down. I got out and within minutes a VW van stopped. A Uruguayan family traveling all over Latin America in their van, American style, invited me to ride with them. We had a delightful time laughing and sharing stories of our adventures. They drove me all the way to Puente de Inca—far out of their way.

The major at the Puente de Inca army base informed me that the priests were already on the mountain, assuming that I would not return. The major forbade me to climb alone, so I resigned myself to waiting for another expedition to arrive.

Without my Ecuadorian climbing companions, the atmosphere of the army base seemed lonely and less inviting. I had to be on my guard with some of the macho, women-hungry soldiers.

By a stroke of luck, an Argentine expedition from Buenos Aires arrived, led by a sixty-one year old Italian, named Ernesto, a well-known climber in Argentina with the reputation of a diehard. He had led seven expeditions to Aconcagua, three of which had made it to the summit. His eighteen-year-old son, Alberto, and two other friends, Raúl in his late twenties and Carlos in his early thirties, accompanied Ernesto. The press gave much publicity to his expedition. The officers at Puente de Inca treated Ernesto like a VIP, giving him free room and board, all of which made me wonder if he had connections with one of the commanding officers.

I related to Ernesto the story about my time on the mountain and then requested permission to join his group. He expressed concern about having a woman on his team, but after I presented my credentials, he enthusiastically welcomed me aboard.

After being ordered to run one kilometer, we had to submit to a physical examination, similar to the one I had received with my Ecuadorian friends. The doctor said I had a set of lungs “like a horse” and that my red blood count had increased by about one million since the last checkup. I was pleased knowing that now my body had become even more acclimated, making this expedition less grueling.

In the evening, one of the officers invited us to his house to drink champagne and eat dessert with his wife. He told us that the Japanese expedition had reached as far as the hut called Independencia at 21,000 ft. but had to turn back because of a snowstorm. During my time in Santiago, Chile, the weather had become stormy, making access to the summit difficult.

After his wife excused herself to go to bed, the officer regaled us the rest of the evening with his storehouse of information about Mt. Aconcagua, including vivid tales of the tragedies that had occurred on the mountain. With difficulty we pulled ourselves away for bed.

As we were leaving, the officer pulled me aside and whispered that he would like to meet me later. When I said that I wasn’t interested, he countered with, “I thought all American girls like a little fun.” He reached for my breasts. I shoved his hands off my body. As I walked out the door, I said, “That’s no way to treat a woman. What would your wife say about your behavior?”

We finally got underway at 11:30 the next morning. I felt happy, full of energy and anticipation.

After walking a few hours, the four men began slowing down and showing signs of fatigue and shortness of breath. They had to take frequent rest stops, probably from living in Buenos Aires at sea level and not being acclimatized.

I offered to carry Ernesto’s fifty-five pound pack the rest of the way while he carried mine, which was considerably lighter. At first he declined my offer, probably due to embarrassment by the prospect of a woman carrying the heaviest load, but eventually he accepted gratefully. It made me happy to feel I could contribute something to this party that was so generous in letting me join them and partake of their food and company.

In the late afternoon we passed two people on mules. The soldier on the first mule led a second mule that carried a Mexican climber sick with pneumonia. The sick man looked flushed with fever and appeared delirious. The soldier stopped briefly to tell us what happened.

The Mexican was with his compatriots in Antartida when he suddenly became ill with a high fever and a hacking cough. One of the members of the expedition rushed down the mountain to get help. Fortunately, he found a soldier in Plaza de Mulas, a courageous man, who set out at once, ill equipped for such an unforeseen undertaking. In record-breaking time he climbed to Antartida, a feat in itself, and then carried the large, 200-pound Mexican down the mountain in the middle of the night. He slid his body, bundled in a sleeping bag, over the snow and ice, but oftentimes he had to drape his body over his back when the terrain was rough. When he encountered smooth terrain, he dragged the body. They arrived back at Plaza de Mulas at five in the morning. The soldier had worked nonstop for a total of twenty hours to save the Mexican man’s life.

I woke everyone up at 5:45 the next morning with the intention of getting underway early to avoid the hazardous crossings of the rivers, which swell in the late afternoon at the end of Playa Ancha. Only after I had washed the dishes from dinner the night before, fetched water, made breakfast, and began packing up my equipment, did the group become motivated enough to get up.

At noon, just as we were entering Playa Ancha, a tremendous wind came roaring down through the valley with a force that continued for several hours, making the soil airborne. Our bodies became covered with dirt. We looked like children who had played in the mud all day. We walked with our heads bent low, and sometimes could not walk at all. This wind served as a blessing in disguise for us, for it meant that it was very cold above on the mountain, preventing the snows from melting and the rivers from rising.

In this barren landscape, we saw few animals outside of rabbits, hawks and eagles. As I walked, I heard a low, trumpet-like call from above. Ernesto said that it was a guanaco, an animal related to the llama but smaller. His call warned his harem that we were approaching.

We arrived at another small, cave-like shelter called Ibañez, named after the first and most famous Argentine climber. Carlos and Alberto did not want to go any further. Carlos said his legs ached and Alberto complained of blisters on his feet. We agreed that they would camp in the cave for the night. They planned to catch up with Raúl, Ernesto and me at Plaza de Mulas the next day.

The next morning, as we hiked to Plaza de Mulas, Ernesto vomited all his breakfast along the way. I didn’t know if I should be concerned. Ernesto advised me not to worry about him.

At Plaza de Mulas, about six different expeditions filled the large shelter that served as the base camp. We saw eight Swiss mountaineers asleep on the floor on their mats. One of the Swiss men said that the high level of freshly fallen snow prevented them from reaching the summit. A British climber said he couldn’t get beyond Antartida due to the bad weather.

A group of ex-soldiers, formerly stationed at Puente de Inca, had chosen Plaza de Mulas for their annual reunion. Ernesto said that everyone in the group of ex-soldiers had extensive experience as skiers and mountaineers, and had participated in many rescue operations, bringing climbers, dead or alive, off the mountain. With them was a German, Willy Noll, who caught my attention because of his demeanor as a natural leader.

It was late before our excited conversations subdued and we crawled into our sleeping bags.

We waited all of the next day for the mules to bring up our food supplies. We passed the time getting to know each other, taking pictures, greasing our boots to make them waterproof, exploring the surroundings, and sunning ourselves. We listened to the soldiers brag about their exploits on and off the mountain. All from elite, upper class families, they had served their obligatory time in the army. They were friendly, but their machismo behavior sometimes grated on my North American sensibilities.

By evening the mules still had not arrived. Raúl, Ernesto and I decided to leave for Plaza Vieja, the former base camp located one hour above us. There is a steep hill called La Questa Brava—The Terrible Hill— not far from the shelter. It is normally a twenty-minute hard climb. When I got to the top I saw a group of soldiers below cheering and waving. They had timed me in their competitive spirit. I had reached the crest in nine minutes with a full pack. This act won their approval. They nicknamed me Cabra Montés—mountain goat—a nickname that stuck throughout the rest of my time on the mountain.

When we reached the little shelter, we received a warm welcome from the two priests I had met earlier, along with two other members of their party. The shelter felt cozy, located near a stretch of unique and dazzling ice formations, called Los Penitentes.

The priests left the next morning for the shelter Antartida. I felt torn between going with the priests, who were more acclimatized and had a faster pace, and staying with Ernesto and his group who were not well acclimatized. After much reflection, I decided to stay with Ernesto’s group since I was well acclimatized and could offer them moral support and encouragement, as well as helping them with the chores and with their heavy packs.

Raúl, Ernesto and I spent the morning exploring and climbing around in Los Penitentes using our ice axes to feel more secure with our footing. These ice formations look like huge towers that grow from the bottom up. Ernesto said that only Aconcagua and the Himalayas have similar ice formations.

 

At noon Carlos and Alberto, still tired and weak, finally joined us. They reported that the mules had arrived with our provisions. Three of us went down to Plaza de Mulas to fetch part of our food.

The ex-soldiers climbed to Plaza Vieja and camped in their tents beside the shelter. Through a pair of binoculars we saw that the route to the top was improving as the snows melted from the bright sunlight.

Our group had a slow, labored pace when we left the next morning. Sometimes I waited half an hour for them to catch up. My body became chilled while I waited. Soft, mushy snow lay on the ground. Our boots got wet in spite of all the greasy treatments we had carefully given to the leather. The group expressed discouragement. I tried to raise their spirits. The three younger members agreed that this was the hardest thing they had ever done in their lives. Little did they know what was still in store for them.

After eleven long hours of struggle they finally arrived at Antartida with their last gram of strength. Carlos arrived at the shelter without his pack. He said he couldn’t go on with it so he left it a few hundred feet below the shelter. I retraced my steps and retrieved his pack. When I arrived back at the shelter, Alberto and Carlos were arguing heatedly. Alberto was apparently angry at Carlos for his strange behavior. They were both victims of altitude and fatigue. Alberto had become irritable and Carlos irrational—two symptoms which I knew all too well from the previous expedition, although this time it struck at a much lower altitude.

I realized that the group would have to spend at least a day acclimating themselves before they could continue. I decided to continue my climb up to Berlin to join the priests, and then re-join Ernesto again in a day. But I was not gone for more than a couple of hours before I realized that I could not make Berlin before midnight. I repeatedly sank to my knees in the wet snow. I turned back.

The moon was full, illuminating the snow and casting strange shadows. It was a comforting feeling to get back to my friends in the matchbox shelter at 17,820 ft. The ice still remained inside, but this time we had better insulation pads. Our major problem was how to fit all five of us in this tiny space. Four of us lay lined up on our sides while Alberto lay across us. I offered to prepare dinner, but no one was hungry. They had eaten nothing all day except for a light breakfast. They drank some liquids and then went to sleep. We passed the canteen around at intervals all through the night to fight off dehydration. I heard Alberto moaning from the pains in his head.

Ernesto awoke with a burning sensation in his eyes. He had lost his vision. He had gone an hour or so the day before without his goggles, enough time for the reflection of the sun off the snow to burn his corneas. He spent the day in bed with his eyes bandaged.

All four of Ernesto’s group suffered from puna with excruciating headaches. Medicines offered no help. Carlos feared that his head would split open. He packed his belongings and said he was going home. He left without saying goodbye. I felt sad to see him go, but also relieved to know that his physical suffering would soon be over.

The other three spent the entire day in their bags trying to sleep. Persistent nausea prevented them from eating. In the afternoon I went off by myself to climb a neighboring peak, Cerro Manso. It was an easy climb with a magnificent view at the top. In the thin air, I could see all the way to Plaza de Mulas.

The three of them, Ernesto, Raúl, and Alberto, felt wretched the next morning with puna. But Ernesto’s vision had returned. At noon the Argentine priests stopped by on their way down the mountain. They got as far as Independencia at 21,000 feet before exhaustion stopped them.

In the afternoon we left Antartida. Soft snow and mud still covered the route, making walking tedious and slow. After four and a half hours we arrived at Berlin. Ernesto, Alberto and Raúl were panting and bleary eyed.

In Berlin, while waiting for the others, I talked with the Mexican expedition whose friend had been evacuated due to pneumonia. The beer company where they worked in Mexico City had sponsored their trip—all expenses paid, including a trip to the States to buy their equipment at REI in Seattle. Why? So they could get a picture of the company flag flown from the highest piece of land in the Americas.

The group finally made it to the summit after a fourteen-hour struggle. Rosa Maria, the first Mexican woman to reach the summit, had become barely able to function during the last five hours of the climb due to profound exhaustion. They had already been off the summit for a day, yet the altitude still showed its effects. Their bodies looked swollen, especially noticeable in the face and hands, and their skin had a grayish hue. Their speech was unclear and they had a look of apathy. They had spent six days at this altitude. The army doctor told me that brain cells begin to die after a prolonged period at this altitude and can result in permanent brain damage. I was relieved to hear that they planned on descending the mountain the following day.

I spent most of the day walking around, melting snow, writing in my diary, and preparing for the ascent the next day. People accomplish very little in a day because everything has to be done in slow motion so as not to waste any energy and overextend oneself.

In the evening, in a moment of relief from his headache, Ernesto told me of how he discovered Jeanette Johnson’s corpse. A year after she had disappeared, Ernesto climbed the Polack Glacier with a party from Buenos Aires. At about 20,000 feet, not far to the east from where we had been climbing, Ernesto spotted something in the snow. He hiked over to the object and found a perfectly preserved corpse of a woman. Ernesto immediately assumed the body was that of Jeanette Johnson. Her skin had blackened and her eyes were burned out from the sun.

Ernesto removed the ring from her finger to present to the police as proof of his story. He piled up many rocks to mark the spot in case the snows should once again entomb her body. She had frozen into a solid block of ice. In the later part of 1976 a team of soldiers finally brought her body down the mountain and shipped it back to the States.

Weeks after leaving the mountain, when I visited Ernesto at his home near Buenos Aires, I saw the gruesome slides he had taken of her corpse to show to the police. Her face looked twisted, her mouth open in an expression of terror. She was entangled in her rope and her body and face were bruised.

Ernesto also told me about a time, a few years ago, when he found a boot with a foot in it, not far from Independencia. No one at the army base had any explanation for the grim discovery.

Ernesto’s headache finally subsided enough for him to fall asleep. The next morning, he noted that he had an abnormally low heart rate, considering the altitude. He felt lightheaded and feared that low blood pressure caused his symptoms. I made up a quart of tea for him to drink and gave him my bottle of Coramina, the heart medicine that the army doctor gave me in case my heart rate dropped lower than normal.

When I saw no improvement in Ernesto, I told Alberto and Raúl to take him down off the mountain. Another climber heading down the mountain agreed to accompany the three of them all the way to Plaza de Mulas. We gave each other heartfelt hugs and wiped away a few tears. I thanked them for having allowed me to join their group and said that I would go to Buenos Aires to visit them.

I remained on the mountain waiting to see if I could join a group heading for the summit. I had never been in better shape in my life.