Acancogua - Day 2

I woke to the sound of a propane burner being used to heat up our breakfast. Sleep was was hard to come by the last night. Between the blistering cold, the tree root under my back that we somehow happened to miss while laying out our tents and my cough that kept me up all night I just couldn´t find my quiet happy place. The rented sleeping bag was warm and cozy and definately worth the 10 pesos I was paying for it, but finding the motivation to get up and unzip the tent was not easy.

After a few more minutes Cristian, our guide, let us know that food was ready. Hot tea and cookies proved to be the perfect breakfast. We had a long day ahead of us and it was time to get moving. We were starting out from our base camp at 3300 meters and treking towards Plaza Francia at 4200 meters. I´d already done the mental math and figured out that was freaking high. The hike was supposed to take about 4-5 hours each way, which would make for a full day. But we were promised spectacular views of the highest peak in the Americas at Plaza Francia along with a vantage point to a beautiful glacier.

The five of us loaded up our day packs and put on all the layers we had. Cristian had let us know that we´d need every single bit of clothing we had when the wind started kicking in a couple of hours. We set out from base camp saying our good-byes to the only two other souls we would see that day. They´d done the trek the day before and were heading back to Mendoza in the afternoon.

The hike started out wonderfully. The valley we were walking through was enclosed on both sides by mountainous cliffs that were sea beds who knows how many thousands of years ago. They shimmered in the morning sun with a spectrum of colors, soft yellows, dull greens, mesmerizing blues and of course furious reds. The air was crisp but clean, the views were spectacular, and the valley was earily silent. There didn´t seem to be any life here besides the group of 5 would-be trekkers. The sun beat down on us and we haphazardly pulled off a few layers.

Fousto, the Ecuadorean journalist, kept us all giggling with his bathroom humor. Well actually I was the only one giggling but I attribute that to the fact that it was all in spanish. Joanna and Michael, the Russian-Israeli student, did ok with their spanish, but if I do say so myself, mine has progressed to the point where I can find the jokes of others funny, but unfortunately not make my own. We stopped and took pictures and laughed and told stories.

After a few more hours of treking the mood had changed. The winds had started and were hammering through the valley. The same wind that took thousands of years to rip the face of these mountains bare took only minutes to cut us to the bone. Piece by piece we had all put those layers back on. Our conversation had slowly trailed off. Everyone seemed to be lost in their own thoughts. The only words we would hear would be a request for water or a 5 minute break. Michael started to complain about the headaches first, but I could already feel mine coming on. We knew beforehand that altitude sickness was going to be an issue. I quit smoking three days earlier, but aparently it takes the human body longer than that to recover from months of poisoning.

With every step we took the peak of Acancogua grew closer. Every time we turned a corner we saw a cleaner crisper shot of our goal. It´s strange when you see it approaching slowly in the distance, one footstep at a time. You know there´s not going to be an ah-ha moment where it jumps out at you. Just slowly and steadily more spectacular.

Another hour later and my head was throbbing and my heart pounding. When we stopped again I asked Cristian for the 10th time how much longer we had to go. ¨Oh maybe 15 more minutes¨ he said. This was the best news I had ever heard. After another 1/2 hour of trekking I asked him how much longer. ¨Oh maybe 30 more minutes¨ he said this time. Since I was no longer sure in which direction time flowed I decided not to argue with him.

I found my mind racing as we continued on. I started reading some Hemmingway on the long bus ride to Mendoza and all I've been able to think of lately are the struggles that define us. This trek was proving to be a perfect example. There's something about setting a goal for yourself, a hard-to-reach goal, one you have to work for, one that at times you're really not sure if you're going to make it or not. There's something about goals like that defines the person you are. Nothing that comes easily is worth having, the sheer act of struggling to overcome makes victory that much sweeter.

The thought of stopping and heading back to base camp did actually enter my head, but with a single step towards our destination it passed with alarming haste. As I continued pondering this theme Cristian pointed up ahead to a tattered white-flag set in a rock formation. Plaza Francia. I was tempted to run up that little hill and jump in celebration, but the energy wasn't there, and neither was the need. I knew I was going to get there in due time, there was no reason to change pace.

As we reached the opening I did have to admit, the view was more spectacular than it was from the previous clearing, if only for the fact that this was where we set out to get to, and this is where we wound up. We took a few more pictures, drank some water, ate some cheese, I collapsed for a few minutes, and then we turned around and headed back to base camp.

The hike back was far easier. I knew I was getting back, there was nothing to push for, no doubt in my mind. I already felt the satisfaction that comes from reaching an ellusive goal. Our dinner that night of rice with cut-up pieces of hot dogs followed by tea was far more satisfying than all the steak and red-wine I'd been eating in Buenos Aires. I was tired and had a long list of aching body parts to complain about but when Fousto asked me "Estas content?" I answered honestly, "Si, muy".