Climbers are often chasing a rush. Was I cheating by using help to get there?
By Charles Bethea
Ojos del Salado
rises more than twenty-two thousand feet above sea level, on Chile’s
northeastern border. It is the world’s tallest volcano, towering over
the world’s highest desert: an ash-and-scree-covered behemoth that
exceeds Elbrus, Kilimanjaro, and Denali in size, if not renown. Its name
means “sources of the salty river,” or, possibly, “eyes of salt,” which
is what the brackish lagoons on its lower reaches resemble when your
brain is starved of oxygen. The wind and cold are trouble, too.
Hypothermia and high-altitude pulmonary edema invisibly patrol the peak,
which a pair of Poles were the first to reach, in 1937. Nonetheless,
Ojos is what mountaineers call a “walk-up.” There are no crevasses or
technical features on its standard route, just a relatively simple rock
scramble beneath the summit block.
I
gathered this much from reading trip reports, back in 2016, while
planning an Ojos expedition of my own. One particularly memorable account
of failure there described temperatures of twenty degrees below zero
and winds that drove “head-high icy particles which cut our faces like
sandpaper.” At the time I encountered that chilling sentence, I was a
thirty-five-year-old freelance writer living in Atlanta. When asked why I
wanted to climb this volcano—rather than a slighter one, or maybe a ski
hill—I sometimes lazily cited George Mallory. “Because it’s there,” the
English mountaineering legend said, before one of his pioneering
attempts at Mt. Everest, where he would die in 1924.
I did not want to die. I just wanted to kick my tires a bit, to let nature throttle me again.
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