Sweet Summit

What concerns us on this occasion is the story of a dream come true—in particular, a summit that had kept us waiting after a first attempt. Some years ago now, I took up the habit of wandering about, traversing mountains, taking trips, and packing rucksacks to set off on some outing; that custom came to me unexpectedly and, like many traditions that arise in life, it stayed with me forever. I am not very different from most people. I used to be a young man absorbed in his studies, his career, daily obligations, money, health, family, with a monotonous routine whose sole aim seemed only to strip life of its beauty and to make one forget to appreciate what surrounds us. The sedentary way of life to which today's society is accustomed cost me, for some time, a good deal of embarrassment and a few health problems; I found myself faced with the need to improve my physical condition, and I succeeded—but then came the real challenges. A basic mountaineering course at university opened the doors for me to a universe of destinations and activities that at another time I would never have imagined: twelve weeks of intense training, outings to El Ávila in Caracas, a great deal of learning, and then the friends began to arrive. After a glorious summit on the majestic Naiguatá Peak, the crown jewel of our beautiful coastal range, a final group signed up for a trek that the veterans painted for us as epic—and the truth is they were right. I remember it was the first of January when I set off on the trip by bus bound for Caracas, leaving my family for the first time in the midst of the Christmas and New Year's celebrations. Alone, I thought about what awaited me, whether I was carrying all the necessary gear and enough food, anxious and worried about a slight cough and allergy I was carrying with me; but those worries did not stop me, and before I could process it I was already gathered with my fellow travelers on another bus, bound for the city of Mérida, with the magnificent páramo of the Sierra de la Culata awaiting us as our final objective. I must admit it was the first time I had made such a long journey across the country, but the group's conversation and company made the trip more than bearable. The hours passed, and around midday I was already growing used to a new smell: the cow dung and horse manure that perfume the trails of those valleys. The worst part of the journey—and all because of the excess weight I was carrying—was not the fatigue or the extreme conditions, but having no idea how long the distances were; yet, luckily for us, that day we reached the first camp without setback before the sun went down. My tent and cooking companions were ideal; there was always synergy and harmony, and each of us did the work that fell to us. The next day, after a horrible night of cold feet, my body was feeling the effects of the altitude, and we were already preparing to go higher, close to 4,000 meters, to the base camp known as the black mud camp, which was the point from which we would later set out for the summit of the Pan de Azúcar peak; that sweetness awaited us at some 4,675 m of altitude. We agreed on a fatal rule of taking turns carrying all the group gear, one day per member, and as if the weight I was already carrying were not enough, I was now obliged to carry more. When I asked what awaited us, I received no encouraging news: unlike the previous day, a far steeper slope lay ahead. For many hours my steps were hesitant, my energy scarce, a devotee of rest breaks and resentful of the marches. Midway through the day we approached a very pretty waterfall called Cascada del Duende; while everyone seized the chance to punish themselves with icy-water baths, that hour's rest was revitalizing for me—but the respite was brief, because we were already leaving the pleasant plain to head for the steep incline. It was one of the longest and most exhausting stretches of the trip, the deepest sighs and the scarcest breaths; the weight on my back was a karma, and my energies were so carefully managed that thinking about nonsense was not an option. I weighed every step, and I believe the only thing that spurred me on was seeing how far I was getting, because once at the top the full view of the valley was the best reward of the day. 'Destroyed' would fall short of the state in which I arrived at the black mud camp, so called because before reaching the camping area you will most likely sink your foot a couple of times into a bog that practically surrounds the camp. Here the effects of the altitude were critical; that night, malfunctions with the stove delayed the preparation of our food, and I refused to go out for more than five minutes and expose myself to the intense cold that froze even my snot that night. One of the worst nights of my life threatened my will to continue; at times I thought my heart would burst—the tachycardia, the headache, and then the nausea were far from pleasant sensations that the acetaminophen struggled to relieve; in the eyes of my guides it was something normal that we all had to endure. The night was eternal, and one of the symptoms I cannot forget was the loss of feeling in my hands and feet; the tachycardia had ceased, but the nausea was betting I would vomit at any moment. In the early morning came the call to the summit, for which, until the last moment, I was preparing to go—but I decided to give up on the objective. I thought that if I wanted to go farther later on, I had to let them go. They all set off, while inwardly I mourned the summit from the camp. Later, revitalized, I welcomed back my companions, who boasted of the magnificent experience. That trip ended two days later as it was meant to end, at the exit of the national park, at a spot called 'Collado del Cóndor,' where our first contact with civilization was a few food stalls offering Andean pastries, sweets, and strawberries with cream. The trip was a success; I gained some incredible friends, and one of the guides was attacked by a bat while climbing a rock in broad daylight. But something you should know is that I am persistent, and like a first love I never forgot that summit; it became my fixation, an unfinished matter I had to resolve—and, of course, after improving my mountain skills extraordinarily, I was destined to return and conquer that peak with dignity. Three years later, following a long track record as a guide on numerous outings, I returned to that páramo to savor that peak with eager purpose, now sufficiently prepared to enjoy the journey, much lighter, with a smaller group in my charge. I set off on another early morning with dreams of the summit, leading the group, serene, running toward the top, happy, discovering that the summit was making itself resistant, deceiving me at every plateau into thinking I had arrived, only to realize afterward that yet another hill still remained; and so, in that game, I reached the highest point still expecting to climb higher, finally understanding that I had not conquered the summit, but myself. © Alejandro Guipe | All Rights Reserved.