Carstensz Pyramid Attempt 2012

The #1 Bestseller taken from this blog.

2018-06-09T11:30:00.001-07:00

If you enjoyed this blog you should check out the book it inspired.

Everest.

2012-10-21T19:31:00.000-07:00

We are going to Everest. You and Me. I have signed with International Mountain Guides (IMG) to climb Everest in 2013 and I intend to blog that experience along the way. I will arrive in Kathmandu March 31, 2013, but plan to begin writing in late November of this year. As well, I will feature Guest Bloggers. I have already asked a Biologist and a Physician to write articles. Please contact me if you would like to Guest Blog on some topic related to Everest.

Many of you have been along for the entire ride, the six continental summits I have now been fortunate enough to stand atop. Only 64 Americans have managed to “touch ‘em all.” Join me at mauroeverest.blogspot.com as I attempt to become the 65th.

Reach,

Dave Mauro

Post Script

2012-10-21T19:01:00.001-07:00

“I want nice rooms and good security,” I heard Dan say to the woman at the front desk. Our reservation at the Grand Tempaga had, through a miscommunication, been cancelled and there was no room for our team as we returned to Timika from the expedition. The apologetic staff of the Grand Tempaga was calling around town in an effort to secure alternate accommodations. Dan’s emphasis on security reminded me that the post-climb ebullience we had enjoyed would need to be set aside while we lay low again.

Our vans took us to another part of the city, down alleyways of mismatched asphalt and wild-eyed roosters. We pulled into an ungated courtyard attended by a guard shack with two bare feet propped up in the window. Pal and I paid the front desk attendant 100,000 rupiah to find us some beers, to which our lone security guard was promptly dispatched on a vespa. Dan asked that we not wander off the premises, promising we would dine together somewhere nice a few hours hence.

There had been a Sheraton in Timika at one point, on the outskirts of town upon a high and defendable hilltop. At various times of unrest the resort had proven sanctuary for Freeport executives and others. Now it was owned by someone else, but still boasted both the grandness of a Sheraton and the fortifications of Viking brothel. I suspect the room rate was beyond our allotted budget, and thus we hunkered down in town behind an army of one. But the fabulous restaurant at the resort was fair game. We drank. We ate. We toasted. I consumed a steak large enough to put me on the Hindu most wanted list.

The next day we flew out of New Guinea, over hastily sketched trees and slums, the reef, surf and tiny islands with rocks arranged to spell SOS. In Denpasar, Bali, that night we celebrated again. A restaurant on the beach took us into the comforts of it’s large padded booth facing the postcard waters of this exotic place. The evening went on long enough for team members to slump over in the booth and sleep then wake and rejoin the party. I introduced the group to the merits of Vodka/tonic with a lime squeeze. When the bills arrived Pal was incredulous to see he had been charged for 22 of them. I pointed out that he had in fact only had 11 drinks, but they had all been doubles. Ivan and I saw Pal back to our hotel and i bade them good evening while I attended to details at the front desk. But voices beckoned me from the bar as I proceeded to my room. Pal had insisted on buying a round of whiskey for he and Ivan. Not wishing to offend, I joined them. When I finally got Pal to his room he gave me a big happy hug. “You’re my best friend,” he declared.

Team members slipped away over the next few days, returning to the far flung lands from whence they had come. As Ivan departed I urged him to pursue a career in Politics, making him pledge to hire me to manage the finances of the Dominican Republic once he is President. “You will be my Advisor,” he stated. “With a big a-- mansion,” I added. “On the beach or the mountain,” he questioned. “But of course the beach,” I said, and we both laughed.

I hired a cab to take me south to Nusa Dua. I had reserved a room there in a very nice resort for the next 8 days and Lin would be joining me, flying in this night from Munich. The Nikko resort is a vast and well-appointed property in the best of Balinese tradition. The warm, over-employed staff had just completed the high season for Australian Tourists and now drifted rudderless in the high vacancy tides of Ramadan. I was “Mr. Dave” the minute I checked in and everyone seemed to know it. The Concierge obliged my unorthodox request for Balinese clothing and summoned the car to take me to the airport.

Lin did not see me at first. I was standing behind the metal gate that held back the crush of Taxi Drivers and Tour Operators as Arrivals exited baggage claim. My sarong was stylish, my hair piece tasteful. I had enjoyed minor celebrity among my kind. Then she turned back, as though a replay of her scan had revealed my counterfeit. Lin smiled at me. I had not seen that smile in a month. I wanted to leap over the barricade but had no idea how to do so wearing a skirt. Lin came to me and we embraced. I instantly felt closure on the expedition, as though I had arrived back home. In a very real sense I had.

Upstream

2012-10-13T16:30:00.000-07:00

Photo by Dan Zokaites.

We left early the next morning. The Porters were excited to be returning to their villages and the Team relished the notion this would be our last day of trekking. We passed the salt pond where we had lunched on our way in, then the landslide crossing. Some hills brought back vivid memories of how miserable I had been. I recalled seeking relief by focusing on positive thoughts during these climbs. It is a pleasant summer evening on Lopez Island. Lin is sitting by a beach fire. I am walking toward her with two glasses in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. She looks to me and smiles. I probably ran that film in my head two dozen times during the trek in. But we had all become much better at trekking in our rubber boots since then. We had also become much leaner and mentally tuned to the jungle. On this day it all seemed so much more manageable. I had enough residual energy to offer up my truly awful Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation.

We passed Dori's bridge without pausing, then into the series of steep hills we had already climbed three times prior. The Team rested at a river crossing, splashing cool water over our filthy bodies. Soon the village of Sunama was behind us. What had taken a day and a half to cover on the way in consumed just 5 hours on the way out. We were making excellent time so Steven and Dan decided to give the Team a rare 1 hour break, resting in the shade of a tiny wooden schoolhouse. They passed around fruit acquired along the trail; sugar cane, plantains, cooked yams, and a yellow citrus that contained sweet gelatinous globules that resembled tadpoles.

A few hours more of trekking and we emerged from the jungle, moving easily now on the gravel road that leads to Sugapa. It occurred to me that I had yet to play one of my favorite games to pass time. "Hey Denis," I called ahead. "Yes?" " Jean Chretien and Celine Dion in a knife fight. Who do you like," I asked. "I don't understand," Denis said. "Jean Chretien." "OK." "Celine Dion." "OK." "In a knife fight." "OK." "Who do you think would win," I asked. "Is this joke," Denis queried with a confused tone. "I guess not. No, not really. Never mind," I said, retreating to the rear of the group.

We took up residence in a tiny wooden shack in Sugapa. I was shown to an attached room with steel pipes for a floor. A 55 gallon drum full of rain water sat in one corner with a ladle hanging from it's rim. This was the shower. I retrieved a tiny bar of soap from my pack and a partially clean change of clothes. I wore the bar to a bare sliver, even washing my hair with it. Then I spooned the cold clean rain water over me. It was the first time in 2 weeks I had been truly clean. It felt marvelous.

Several Porters milled around the outside of our shack. They knew we would be giving away some of our gear and each had a specific request. One very much wished to have my blue rain shell. He asked to try it on and I consented before realizing he intended to keep it. We had been warned to not make gifts, that this would result in trouble as jealousy bloomed. The Chief would receive our combined offerings then distribute them as he saw fit. I retrieved my coat from the sad-faced Porter. Besides, I liked that coat and had no intention of leaving it behind, though I somehow did anyway. I hope that Porter ended up with it. I also left my sleeping bag, rubber boots, fleece pants and socks. All of these were still very usable and I would normally have taken them home to clean up. But I had come to see where the value of these items to the Porters would be many times that to myself. The rest of the Team likewise gave generously.

I woke at dawn the next morning as Ivan was going out the front door. Feeling I had taken in enough sleep, I decided to join him. I walked out in my flip flops and the boxer briefs that had proven so popular at the river. Ivan was seated on a wooden chair in the chicken yard, concentrating on the rising sun. I drug a chair out next to him and sat down to enjoy the view. A few moments later a man and woman appeared at the corner of our shack. They had come to watch the strange white people. Ivan was listening to his I-pod while taking photos of the sunrise. The man gestured that he would like Ivan to take a photo of him and his wife, all dressed up for something formal. I stopped Ivan long enough to position myself next to them in the frame. It was the only time I had worn less clothing than the natives and the contrast was too good to pass up.

Later, after dressing, I returned to the chicken yard with a hot mug of Starbucks instant coffee. Denis joined me.

Voting in the Presidential Election was scheduled to begin this day in Sugapa and we did not wish to be around for it. Though it is customary that the Porters throw a traditional feast with music and dance at the end of an expedition we felt it more important to extricate ourselves, and thus caught the second flight out that morning.

I watched the rugged landscape of western New Guinea pass below us; the tiny streams that fed into increasingly larger rivers which themselves culminate to then disgorge into the Arafura Sea. This is going home, I thought to myself. But then what did it mean to go upstream? As you fork off into smaller and smaller tributaries you give something up at each; the company of loved ones, familiar surroundings, the ability to be comfortable, to be clean, to rest well, to eat as you wish. You keep going, up the trickling creeks surrendering common language, cultural relevance, and whatever paucity of control to which you still cling. Then, finally, you arrive at a bubbling spring. And whatever you find there is the reason you left home in the first place.

I have thought a lot about what I found at that spring. It is something different every time I go there. This time it was a reawakening to the joy of others, a realization that standing next to it and saying "yes" only makes that joy larger. Carol's summit, of course, was a watershed moment in this regard. But I enjoyed similar experiences watching Pal interact with the native children, seeing Dan rise up to lead the expedition, seeing Ivan weep as he put away his country's flag atop Carstensz, and watching satisfaction blossom on the face of a quiet man, Denis, who had sacrificed so much. There were moments, too, among the Porters and their families. I watched the look on a father's face as his young son tried to shoulder his load. I heard the women sing as they prepared a meal. A bright-eyed infant smiled at me from atop his mother's shoulders. So much joy. And it was this joy that pushed back against the hardships we endured. When I tell the story of this experience people have a difficult time understanding why I did it. But they are missing the joy part, and the only way to get it is to go upstream.

I wanna live in a cinnamon world.

2012-10-12T21:37:00.000-07:00

Ivan gave me the last of his antibiotics at breakfast. It was a noble gesture, the kind of thing done only by fools and saints. He was the one member of our team that had not been afflicted on some level. Such was his empathy that he surrendered his biologic life boat. I would like to have been larger than the offer, but we were headed into the jungle.

We set out on the trail and soon enough descended into the hothouse of damp flora. But the weight of altitude was in our favor, with the down climbs being greater than the ascents. In the end it was not so bad. We arrived at camp 2 by mid afternoon.

Camp two was empty. There should have been many Porters with their families. This should have been where we stopped, where I rested and blew my nose with impunity. It was a ghost camp. The message of this was clear, yet I campaigned against reality. "It's three o'clock," I complained," shouldn't they be here... in the longhouse... you know?" But the Porters had pressed on. We would be making camp somewhere between camp 2 and 1. I did not recall a clear space between camps 1 and 2, nothing larger than a vending machine in any case, and I simply did not have it in me to make camp 1. I uttered profanity.

But there was a spot. It was small. So small that our tents all touched the Porters' tent. There was a modest ledge above a river where a tiny meadow of ferns clustered. These had been harvested for the evening meal and thus a space cleared for our tents. We consumed something caloric and retired for the night. As Denis and I lay there listening to the muddled conversation of the Porters the air filled with the scent of cinnamon. Resourceful as always, the tribal members used whatever dry wood could be obtained. On this night they burned a cinnamon tree. The smell was nothing short of intoxicating, other-worldly. With the weight of the climb behind me, I felt free to soak up the now, and now was very very good.

A "different kind of Catholicism."

2012-10-11T20:18:00.000-07:00

There was no question about it. I had the cold. The coughing fits began that night after the summit, while we were still at base camp. Denis was improving, but he too still coughed and blew his nose all night. We were an even match with germs pitted against each other in the close quarters of our tent. I ached from the sickness. I ached from the beating the rock face had dealt me. As we shouldered our packs to leave camp the next morning I looked at the cold wet stone rising up about us. The rain clouds obscured Carstensz, and a chill rose up my back. With better weather and health this place might be beautiful in a raw manner, but on this morning it offered nothing. "Let's get the F--- outta here," I commented to Ivan, who seemed to find joy in my frank appraisal.

We arrived at camp 5 at 2 pm. It was our plan to rest briefly, then continue on to the place where we had enjoyed that sunny lunch by the stream. But the Porters were cold and hungry, so we decided to hold there. The Porters could retreat to the warmth of the smoky longhouses still bustling with their families. It had been an uncomfortable 2 days for them and a recoup seemed entirely warranted. It also seemed a significant peace reckoning had occurred and they may wish to celebrate it. Earlier that day we had come upon a burned out fire at the overlook to the lake valley. It was fueled entirely by bows, arrows and spears. Pal noticed it first and cleverly labelled it "a cease fire." Our numbers included members of three different tribes, which in all likelihood have been at war, off and on, for many generations. To lay down their weapons and destroy them together was significant.

A "cease fire." Photo by Dave Mauro

I prevailed upon Dan to let me use our backup tent for private quarters that night and rested better as a result. The next morning we set out across the high savannah, tromping through the bog-like swampy grasses. I lagged the team all day long, sneezing and blowing my nose constantly.

We needed to make up time, so our plan was to press on past camp 4 and spend the night halfway between there and camp 3. But a miscommunication resulted in the Porters continuing on to camp 3. Dan approached me to inquire of my condition as we set up tents. "I needed to stop about two hours ago," I said wearily. "I know. I'm sorry for that," he said, "but if you need a rest day tomorrow we may be able to work it out." We agreed we would see how I was feeling in the morning. As I turned in that night a great dread came over me realizing we would descend back into the jungle soon.

The next morning I awoke to a chorus singing tunes I knew but words I did not. It was Sunday and the Porters were conducting Mass. I inquired of this with Raymond, the Pastor-in-training, and he confirmed the Catholicism of these indigenous peoples. When I pointed out the problematic nature of their polygamy Raymond simply said "It is a different kind of Catholicism." Indeed.

Dan and Pal were checking on one of the Porter's wives. She had collapsed, lips blue, on the trail to camp the day before. Pal diagnosed pneumonia and the team all pitched in antibiotics from their dwindling med kits. She seemed to be marginally improved the next morning, but Pal insisted she should carry no load this day and the tricky business of negotiating the cultural norms of the Dani people took some discussion before honor could be maintained in compliance with this wish.

Tatoosh and one of his friends appeared and broke down my tent without comment. "We could have someone carry your pack today if you want," Dan offered. It sounded like a good idea, but my pride would not allow it. "I'd like to at least start off carrying it. Thanks," I said. He gave my shoulder a squeeze then left to check in with the rest of the Team.

Our first steps toward home.

2012-10-10T16:51:00.000-07:00

(Ivan beamed this photo back to the Dominican Republic by satellite phone the same day it was taken. The next day it was featured on the front page of the Island's largest newspaper. He is a Hero among his people, and the flag he carried was later handed off to the Olympians representing his country in London. )

The Team retraced it’s steps back down the ridge to the Tyrolean Traverse. The giddiness of summiting was soon replaced with the kind of sobriety normally reserved for Coroners and Russian Tea Exporters. More familiar with the routine, we crossed the gap in much less time than it had taken on our way up. Copy and paste this URL to your browser to see video of myself crossing the Traverse.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ki41vSxmeVk&feature=youtu.be

We then began down-climbing the rock face. This involved
rappelling down the fixed lines we had used as safety during the ascent. These lines represented a variety of gauges, wetness, and disrepair. Thus the more typical use of a mechanical Grigri device for descending would not serve the task at hand. Each climber clipped a steel figure eight apparatus into his waist harness and ran the line through it. Then, leaning back out over the rock face, he allowed rope to feed through the figure eight, using his legs to push off and walk backwards down the rock face. There were 19 such lines strung end to end down the rock face.

My leather climbing gloves were already warn through at the finger tips from the ascent. The coarse limestone had chewed them off. Now it was a matter of making the leather palms last all the way to the bottom. At times the thicker line would load up instead of feeding through the figure eight. Then it would suddenly release, leaving me to sprint backwards as I crashed side to side off the rock. It was clumsy, but not awful. Occasionally I would dodge a rock loosed by a climber above me. A few bounced off my helmet with a loud "clack". Then the rain began.

The lines refused to pass smoothly through the descender as they became increasingly soaked. A length would hang up, then zip through. As I clenched the line back to slow, it would bite hard, leaving me to bounce like a squirrel on a bungee cord. The fissure we were working down became a creek of fast-moving water. The rocks grew slippery. I could see Dan working with Carol up above me. Denis was just below them, moving tentatively. Ivan and Pal were already off the wall as I clipped into the second to the last rope. It was a modest grade that terminated at the top of the large round boulder formation. This had been the start of our climb the night before. The frayed outer casing of the line had not shown itself until I had already committed, swung out over the cliff to climb up the face. But now I would be denied the comfort of ignorance. I examined the line as I clipped into it. The inner strands were completely exposed like the tendons of an arm with no flesh. They were wet and filthy. But I knew each carried the capacity to withstand a considerable load, and collectively they were not likely to fail in unison. I backed out over the ledge and slowly released the first length of line.

I lowered down to the level of our starting ledge and swung on the rope over to it. As my feet knew purchase I quickly unclipped and extricated myself from the area. The occasional stones still whistled by and it seemed advisable to be out of their path. Denis was less willing to trust the frayed line. I watched him shuffle back and forth about the anchor point. Then Dan and Carol caught up with him. The rain was falling quite hard now, filling my hood and running down my chest as I looked up at the trio. A brief congress occurred among them, then Denis backed out over the edge. Soon we were all together on the ground, enjoying a short celebration. Then we started the trek back to base camp.

The entire round trip ended up being ten and a half hours; a faster time than most expeditions I had researched. Back at camp we hydrated enthusiastically. Jaimie pan-fried french toast for us to eat. There was no syrup, which was just as well since it was not really french toast. The bread had been dipped in a mixture of reconstituted egg and powdered cheese mix from the boxes of Kraft dinner. But we were not inclined to be picky eaters. The sooner we ate something, the sooner we could collapse into our tents. I could feel a raw area at the back of my sinuses and desperately hoped I was not coming down with the cold. I crawled into our tent and removed my wet clothing, careful to sort the items I would have to wear again the next day. These garments would share space in my sleeping bag, where they might dry a bit overnight. I laid there in my sleeping bag; warm, comfortable, drained. The rain was falling hard on our tent. The sound reminded me of home. We were headed home now, and we would be taking with us what we had come here for. We had done it! I rolled to one side and reached an arm out the top of my sleeping bag. "Congratulations," I said, giving Denis a pat. "And to you," I heard him call back.

The Summit!

2012-09-30T15:51:00.002-07:00

On the Summit. (top row from left: Ivan, Jaimie, Carol, Pal, Dave, Denis. Kneeling: Dan, Raymond)

We could see the summit from where Denis and I sat. It was no more than five minutes away. Just a bit more ridge, then a steep scramble up about 20 feet. I could see colored flags draped over an ice axe wedged into the peak. This was it. We were going to summit. I felt tears welling up in my eyes and pushed them back. One blurry-eyed stumble is all it would take in a place like this. Better I should keep my edge a bit longer.

The Team had come together now and Dan called out for us to press on. He and Carol were the last two Climbers in the Que. Denis and I stood up and, he in the lead, began picking our way along the ridge. We arrived at the base of the small rise leading to the summit. It was ten steps away now. Then Denis stopped. "Do you think we should let Carol summit first," he asked. "Absolutely," I answered. We each took a seat on the rocky incline, leaving an isle between us. Without discussion, each subsequent Team member likewise sat down until we had formed a path for Carol to walk up. I turned on my helmet camera to capture the moment. Click on the link below to see that video. I have uploaded it to YouTube.

Carol Masheter sets a World Record.

Carol Masheter tags the last of the Seven Summits

This would turn out to be the most rewarding moment of the expedition for me. Having gotten to know Carol quite well, I knew of the hardships she had endured in life; failed relationships, career obstacles, health issues and an unceasing hunger "to do something remarkable." In the course of the trek I had watched Carol fall to the ground countless times, always picking herself back up without complaint. I had seen her unable to hold down nourishment, unable to carry her pack. Yet Carol never quit. I do not recall even hearing the notion discussed. She was one master-stroke away from completing her life's work and the energy to do so seemed to come from places and times far far away. Carol returned our respects, fist-bumping each Team member as she walked between us. Then, two steps from the summit, she was overcome with emotion, unable to continue until Denis comforted her. Carol then climbed atop the peak and, as is her custom, let out an enthusiastic "Silver Fox" howl. It was an immense honor to be present for such a moment.

We each took our turn standing on the summit for photos. I carry a picture of my Mom, another of Lin, and another of my Boys each time I leave for a summit. I hold each up for a summit photo. I also like to bring along a photo of a friend or acquaintance whom I feel a strong connection with relative to the mountain. That person on this climb was Joe Luzzi, who suddenly passed away earlier this year. Joe was always very interested in my climbing adventures. He asked insightful questions, offering equal portions of caution and encouragement. I later sent a print of this summit photo to his widow.
Click this link to see a video of my summit moment.
My Moment On the Summit of Carstensz Pyramid

Me and Joe.

I then removed a small plastic bag from the lining of my coat. I had hidden it there in the hopes it would not be discovered by customs, thus prompting difficult questions and or denial of entry ( Human remains in the form of ashes look similar to some controlled substances). I held the bag out over the edge of our summit perch and removed the rubber band, releasing my brother, Danny, to a land he never saw.

Man on a wire.

2012-09-23T14:29:00.000-07:00


Starting up the Ridge. Photo by Ivan Gomez.

A few lite clouds were moving in by the time the entire team had made the ridge. It was still a stellar day, but we knew there would only be more clouds, and very likely rain, as the day progressed. Thus any celebration of having attained the Ridge was brief.

All of Indonesia fell away beneath us, starting with the flanks of Carstensz which abruptly dropped off 2,500 feet on either side. At times the ridge was generously wide. At others it was a ledge perhaps half the width of a boot sole. The air was cool, and small tufts of snow lay gathered in a few of the shady impressions. The wind, a climber's greatest concern, was slack.

There is a complete mind shift Climbers go through walking a ridge. When climbing up the side of a mountain one focuses all his attention upward. There is little cause to look down and suffer the insecurities of height. Hand holds are plentiful and a taught rope offers immediate reassurance should one falter. All of this is lost on a ridgewalk. Though roped still, any fall would not be arrested until the climber has plunged some distance past the line. Our focus shifts downward, choosing careful foot placements, diligent to not trip on the rope. We are very very aware of how far "down" is.

Twenty minutes up the ridge, we came to an 80 foot gap, the Tyrolean Traverse. The only means for crossing the gap is to hang from a cluster of lines and pull one's self across the breathless drop, hand over hand. Our local Guide, Steven, told us about 1 in 10 climbers will end their expedition here, never reaching the summit. I found this easy to believe.

Dave crossing the Tyrolean Traverse. Photo by Ivan Gomez.

There were four ropes and a steel cable already in place, gifts from prior expeditions. Our Guides inspected the condition of each as well as the anchors. Then Steven crossed first, followed by Dan. Together they inspected the ropes and anchors on the other side before signaling for the rest of the team to follow. When my turn came Jaimie helped to clip a large locking carabiner through my waist harness and around all four ropes. He then clipped my safety leash around the steel cable. It was hard to imagine the failure of a system with so much redundancy, yet primal instincts screamed to me as I leaned back into the void. My harness took the weight reassuringly, and the ropes loaded into shallow U shape. I could see team members waving encouragement from back on the rock, but heard nothing over the roar of my own breathing. I was hanging from a wire 16,000 feet in the air. I looked over my shoulder at one point to view the world beneath me. This was a conscious choice. I had thought a great deal about this moment during the days leading up to it. For most of that time I had decided to not look down, feeling certain no good could come of it. But I changed my mind the day before. I would never come this way again. What a shame it would be to have had the opportunity and not taken a peek. Pearing through wispy clouds below me, I saw cascading terraces of lime stone shaded blue-grey in the shadows of their rocky relief. My stomach lept the way it does when driving fast over railroad tracks, but did not come back down. I felt a surge of adrenaline which came in handy as I pulled hard to ascend the uphill end of the lines. Now I heard the reassuring voice of Dan. "Three more pulls and you're here," he said. And then I was. Dan transferred my safety leash to the next rope above the anchors while I clung to the wall. Then he removed my harness carabiner from the four ropes while I climbed up over the anchors and onto the ledge. Ivan greeted me there with an enthusiastic knuckle bump. We moved higher on the rope to make room for the next team member to cross.


Carol Masheter crossing the Tyrolean Traverse

With a confident smile on her face, Carol leaned back into the chasm and began pulling herself across. She was followed by Denis, Pal, Raymond and Jaimie. We then continued up the ridge toward the summit.


Photo by Denis Vernette

I came to another gap, a miniature Tyrolean Traverse no wider than a full stride. But the approach was elevated, such that I had to downclimb into the gap before reaching a foot across it. This seemed little challenge given what we had just done, but I lost my footing and plummeted down into the gap. My harness went taught as the safety line held me dangling in the breach, several hundred feet off the ground.

Dave crossing the gap. Photo by Denis Vernette

I have never relied so completely on a safety rope. I scolded myself for the mis-step as I scrambled up the other side, pledging to redouble my focus.

We were approaching the summit now and Dan wanted us to arrive together. He called for those at the lead, Denis and myself, to let the team come together before taking the final pitch. We hunkered down on a ledge and nibbled the dried coconut chips I had loaded in my pocket. I thought about all the months of training that had led up to this moment, the sacrifices, the planning, the money. I thought about the people who had supported me along the way; my Boys, Lin, my Sisters and Parents. I thought about John in Anacortes, Greg and Linda in Walla Walla, my Assistant Sonia, David and Marian in Bellingham, my Barber, Eric at the Athletic Club and my longtime climbing partner, Ty. I looked over at Denis, seated beside me. We said nothing, but just smiled at one another. Then Denis offered his hand in congratulations.

A human windchime.

2012-09-21T08:49:00.002-07:00


The Climb Route

Remember this part?

We woke at 3a.m. to Dan's call. I zipped open our tent and looked up into a sky bedazzled with stars. The beauty of this might have been reason enough to celebrate, but to us it meant something much more practical--a dry rock face. The rains had been so persistent since arriving in the highlands that it had not even occurred to me that a dry climb was possible. I had so thoroughly fortified my spirits for a cold wet trial that I scarcely knew what to do when it became clear we would enjoy the best possible conditions. I often kid that "Low expectations are the basis of happiness and success in life". In as much as this may be true I was living it in this moment. "Damn," I exclaimed aloud. "What is it," Denis asked with concern. "Take a look at that sky," I answered, turning back with a smile. I could tell by Denis' expression he did not need to look.

Our gear had been carefully arranged the night before; harnesses, ropes, ascenders, hydration bottles, and the likes. I had slept with my climbing clothes in the foot of my bag, and, following a Houdini-like contortion, emerged fully dressed for the day ahead. Carstensz was still unviewable but for the darkness about us. We ate something for breakfast. I cannot recall what. It did not matter. Then the Team set out on the 2 hour trek to the base of Carstensz.

As an Improv performer, I have seen sick people, even performers with food poisoning, walk out on the stage and do a fantastic show. I believe we all have this ability when it comes to those things which truly matter in our lives. Our Team was not healthy as we readied ourselves for the first roped pitch up the rock face. I myself had relapsed into another intestinal bug. But the vigor we exhibited as each Climber clipped onto the fixed line belied any weakness.


Entering the fissure. Photo by Ivan Gomez.

A massive fissure runs down the lower half of the Carstensz rock face. This weak spot represented our best opportunity for climbing as one could perform wedging techniques with his feet while at once taking advantage of the many ample hand-holds. The downside of this approach was that the fissure would turn into a river when the rains began. We would have to get up and down before that. This is why we started our climb at night. The rains typically got under way in the early afternoon, and we calculated an eleven hour round trip.

Another good reason for using this route was the many fixed lines left behind by prior expeditions. They were various gauges, and in various conditions ranging from new to stripped of their outer casing. But in any case would save us time, effort, and exposure to falls. We brought along extra ropes to use when we did not trust the rope already in place, and replaced a few of the worst.

The first pitch required the climber to clip onto the rope while standing on a narrow ledge, then swing out and around a massive orb-shaped stone face. At this point the Climber will have passed the point of no return and find himself hanging above a shear drop. Such moments are motivational. I immediately engaged the skills learned back home at the climbing wall. I could image Dave Hutch suggesting a toe hold beneath the overhang while I hung from one arm. My foot found something blockish. My other hand searched out a knobby protrusion. In short order I was standing on the orb, clipping into the next pitch.

We fell into a rhythm that required little conversation. The sounds of our carabiners clinked pleasantly in the darkness all up and down the rock face. We were a living breathing wind chime in the night.

The pitches fell below us at a steady pace. All the anticipation of the days leading up to the climb was being unleashed. I remember thinking "this is REALLY fun," and "we are flying up this hill!" The six Climbers who had persevered were all serious and accomplished mountaineers, and now they were finally free to do what they do best.

There is a sweetness about daybreak in the mountains. It comes first to the peak, slowly working its way downward. Sometimes we shiver in the darkness below, counting the minutes until the promise of a new day wraps us in light and warmth. You pause then, perhaps to give thanks, and look down at a world still fast asleep. "Soon, my friends." One by one the new day gathered us up as it slid down the face, each climber switching off his headlamp and donning sun glasses. Now high enough to look out across the whole of New Guinea, I took in a full panorama of this marvelous place.

We rested on a broad shelf midway up the face. Far above us, interrupting the ridgeline, was a yawning gap with a line across it. This was the Tyrolean Traverse we had all heard so much about. We pointed it out to one another as we nibbled on energy foods and hydrated, but we did not speak of the Traverse otherwise. This would be getting too far ahead of ourselves. Good Climbers know better. Our immediate concern was the vertical face above us, a full 700 feet of work into thinning air. Everyone was breathing harder now. Our bodies were well conditioned to 13,000 feet, but here at 15,200 they struggled to gather oxygen sufficient to deliver on the demands we were making.

The final pitch. Photo by Ivan Gomez.

We would have to progress at a more measured pace from here out, careful and exacting as we pushed for the ridge. This face had a fissure not unlike that of the lower wall. Some of us would use this path while others preferred to climb out in the open.The limestone surface felt solid and tacky beneath my tight leather climbing gloves. The flexible soles of my well-seasoned hiking boots held confidently to the coarse dry surface. I worked my way up the crack using holds and smears all around me. Even at this altitude the climbing felt easier than the routes on the YMCA climbing wall back home. I remembered Hutch telling me this would be the case. "He was right," I said aloud to myself. I exited the crack when it became too narrow for me and my pack, climbing the final forty feet on the open face. Raymond reached down toward me from the ridge, his familiar smile beaming from the buff pulled over his head. "Good climb, Mr. Dave," he said. I thanked him and found a place to sit atop the narrow ridge that would lead us the remainder of the way to the summit.

Base Camp!

2012-09-17T20:37:00.000-07:00


Pal and Denis. Photo by Dan Zokaites.

I had not been aware that Denis shared a room with Pal back in Timika. This fact may have cast greater caution on my decision to tent with him, especially in light of his having "a small bit of sore in (his) throat." But the truth is I would have tented with a Leper if it meant just one solid night of rest. I had gotten that restful night at camp 4. But now, at camp 5, Denis deteriorated rapidly into the same horrible respiratory affliction that had cursed Pal. All night long Denis blew his nose with a long trombone-like honk that seemed to know when I was just about to fall back to sleep. This was interspersed with coughing fits that shook the tent. Together we suffered through the night. I felt bad for Denis. I could only imagine how much more difficult the days ahead would be for him, weakened by this cold.

Denis is a quiet man, and we had not gotten to know each other very well until the evening before. He struggles with the English language and this may be part of the reason for his silence, but more so Denis seems to be one of those thoughtful observers, more interested in hearing than speaking. Denis is an Urban Planner for the city of Alma, just outside Quebec. He is diminutive in stature, yet accomplished as a Climber, having summitted Denali, Aconcagua, Kilimanjaro, and Elbrus; four of the seven summits. He is lean, well-trained and tireless on the trail.

I had just changed into dry clothes and was lying in the tent, missing Lin and my Boys. Denis crawled in the door and set about organizing his things. I asked him if he is married or has children. He said "no" to both. "Maybe when I am done mountain climbing..." At age 47, Denis knows his first love is the mountains. He had spent the last two years saving and planning for this expedition. It had been his constant companion, his mistress, his child.

We developed a cadence of communication where I would make short simple statements to which Denis would say "OK", indicating he was still with me.
"I was married before," I would say.
"OK."
"I didn't climb mountains then."
"OK."
"But I wanted to try."
"OK."
"I was invited to climb Denali."
"OK."
"But my wife said she didn't think I could do it."
"OK." Pause. "Well, this is a problem," Denis says, shaking his head.
"Now I have a wonderful woman in my life."
"OK."
"She believes in me."
"OK." Pause. "This is good."

That next morning at Camp 5 we shuffled, blurry-eyed, through the mud to the kitchen tent. Denis was apologetic for keeping me up all night. I told him I knew it could not be helped. Jaimie and Raymond had prepared Macaroni and Cheese for breakfast. It seemed odd, but I was glad to not be greeted by Mung Beans. Carol seemed improved, but would not be carrying her pack again today. Pal was also doing better.

The Team with our lead Porter.

We trekked out the last high hem of the Savannah, past a still lake surrounded on three sides by steep 1,000 foot walls of rock and scrub. I recognized this place from The Seeds of Singing. It was here the extraordinarily attractive protagonists built a shack by the water and lived on their love for a year, safe from invading Japanese forces, hungry cannibals, and the jealous tyranny of a half-sister bent on controlling the family rubber plantation.

Photo by Ivan Gomez

All of this plays through my head as we trek the shoreline toward the far wall. I find myself smiling, the restless night forgotten. Our trail starts up the wall by way of narrow switchbacks and wedged logs. The path is no more than a foot wide, and steep enough that one can reach out and lean against the hill.

Photo by Dan Zokaites

Any wide spot is a pool of mud. We struggle to keep the soupy crud from going over the tops of our boots. At times we scale limestone rock eroded to serrated edges by the steady forces of rain. We crest the wall and trek across a vast rock scape, then scaling up another steep hillside to the first of several passes. Before us is a deep rock bowl with an iridescent green lake in it's pit. I had seen photos of such a lake near Carstensz base camp and, for a moment, I celebrate our having arrived. Then I realize this lake is not the right shape. We were simply passing down and through, marching up the opposite side to the next pass. Like the synchronous cradles of an egg carton, the topography of this place formed an interconnected congress of such rocky bowls.

The families of the Porters stayed behind at camp 5, gathered in the warmth of their smoky longhouses. Base Camp was not a place any of them wanted to be. Lacking the means for building any form of shelter, the Porters would hold up there in a cave, wrapped in blankets while we went on to attempt the summit. Several Porters were huddled among the boulders taking a break as we attained New Zealand Pass, our final crest before descending down to Base Camp. Most were barefoot and wearing shorts. A few had coats. Some wore plastic rain ponchos handed out by our local Guide, Steven. I observed them from the comfort of my climbing layers, commenting to Dan with equal parts admiration and concern. "Look at them standing barefoot and bare-legged in the rain on cold rock." "I know," Dan said, "suck it up Snowflake." This is the kind of thing Mountaineers say to one another when the going gets rough and nothing can be done about it. It was Dan's way of suggesting we, the guys wearing a fortune in North Face gear, have no room to complain. He was right.

We descended 1,200 feet down a steep rocky face into Base Camp. The rain was coming down hard and clouds obscured Carstensz, cheating us of what should have been our reward for a hard day of toil. Steven, Jaimie, Raymond and the lead Porter had already built camp by the time we arrived. As the tents were all assembled in the driving rain, a small pool of water occupied the interior of each. Denis crawled into our tent and began bailing water out the door while I carved a trench with my boot-heal, directing any further runoff away from out dwelling. Chilled and tired, we eventually set up our beds and changed into dry clothing. The Cooks made spaghetti for dinner, which we were strongly encouraged to eat as much of as possible. This was not just dinner. It was a "carbo-load" for our summit attempt. We had officially entered the "Game on" part of what we had all came here for. We would sleep if we could, rise at 3a.m. that night and leave for the summit of Carstensz Pyramid.

Climber Ivan Gomez. near Base Camp, elev 13,500 ft. Photo by Dave Mauro

Better.

2012-09-09T18:37:00.001-07:00


The High Savannah. photo by Ivan Gomez.

I woke feeling the best I had in days. Though my 9 hours of sleep were interrupted a few times by Denis coughing, the night had been peaceful in comparison to tenting with Pal. Most mornings I struggled to gather momentum after the 5:30 wake up call from Dan. But this day came with such rejuvenation that I emerged from the tent in mere moments, sleeping kit packed and in hand. "I don't have to ask how you are doing. I can tell by what you are holding already," Dan observed. "Yeah. I feel good, rested, and it looks like a beautiful day of trekking," I said with a smile.

Jamie and Raymond were busy in the kitchen tent making pancakes. They had probably sensed the team was at a low ebb and it was time to put the Mung Beans aside. I ate five plate-size flapjacks and would have eaten more if not for the need to get underway with the days miles. Pal was still fighting his lungs. He stood away from the dining tent hacking and coughing for several minutes before joining us, hand sanitizer in tow. Carol observed the morning meal with dread. I had watched her consume an energy bar the night before, one tiny nibble after another. Each morsel was chewed so long it became apparent Carol was stalling the point where she would swallow. In the course of force-feeding herself the energy bar, she also drank a liter of water. I have never seen anyone focus so intently on the process of nourishing their body, but Carol understood that no matter how unpleasant they may be, eating and drinking were not optional. Within minutes of finishing she had vomited it all up and gone to bed. Things went a bit better at breakfast the following morning. Carol managed to consume some pancake and water fortified with electrolytes.

We set out from camp 4 by 7:30am. A nearly cloudless sky stretched out above the open Savannah before us. The trail was firm and unfettered by obstacles of any manner. I remember feeling for the first time that this whole enterprise was "do-able." Modest hills rolled away from us in pleasing folds. I could see sharp ridges in the far distance, silhouetted by the rising sun behind them. It seemed I could see as far as the human eye is capable. Yet Carstensz was still not in sight.


Crossing the river valley. Photo Dan Zokaites.

In spite of our compromised strength, the team made excellent time through the first half of the day. We crossed through a river valley and began ascending the soggy hillside that would take us to the flat upper plain. Again we were slogging through mud, always looking for a rock or some piece of high ground to step upon. But our reward came as we crested the hill and threw down our packs next to a clear slow stream meandering through the meadow above. Here the ground was firm and dry. We kicked off our boots and sprawled out in the tall brown grass. Steven said we had made good enough time to take a full one hour lunch stop, a luxury we had not yet known. Several Porter families were already picnicking on the other side of the stream. They welcomed us with waves and smiles.

We finished our lunch and napped in the warm sun. I woke after 20 minutes and, feeling restless, decided to pass the remaining time standing stones on point about us. It is not so difficult to stand a stone on point. One need only quiet his mind and think in progressively smaller increments. In this fashion you can create a spontaneous trail-side sculpture which intrigues by virtue of its inorganic placement.


This was actually in Russia, but you get the idea.

Several tribal members crossed the stream to study my standing rocks, looking all around the stones to see what trick I had used. In the end the stones were all toppled by playful children throwing long blades of grass like spears.

The afternoon rains tended to come earlier in the day as we drew closer to the mountains. We were still an hour away from camp 5 when the skies turned grey. But the rains held off until shortly after we arrived. Now at 12,208 feet, the air was much cooler and we all added warm hats and layers. Encouragingly, Carol seemed to have improved modestly. Where she had begun the day pausing frequently to dry-heave at trailside, Carol had finished the day keeping pace with the rest of the team. I even saw her smile.

I filmed this short YouTube video at camp 5.

The reason Porters disappear each afternoon.

2012-09-02T17:49:00.000-07:00

Carol’s condition was worsening. She did not carry her pack as we moved to camp 4. This alone testified to her weakened state as doing so compromised a central point of pride among climbers. Gone was her quick smile and booming joyous proclamations. At each rest stop she would lie down and nap for a few minutes. We were all concerned for Carol, but nothing more could be done. If we halted the expedition where we were and her condition continued to deteriorate we could neither carry her out nor arrange a helicopter rescue. To turn around would mean subjecting Carol to the most grueling part of the trek all over again and would take longer than pressing forward to Carstensz, where there existed a suitable spot for med-evac extraction should it be necessary.

Pal was also off his game. The cold and fatigue seemed to have robbed his strength. He lagged the team. Though he carried his pack and still managed a smile from time to time, Pal was quieter, no longer interjecting interesting facts about things Norwegian, not even reflectors. At times he would go into coughing fits as he tried to clear his lungs.

The day’s trail moved through a transitional zone above the jungle but below the flattish grass savannah. Dwarf trees and woody scrub carpeted a benign series of rolling hills. I tried to occupy myself with music from my I-pod, but the brush kept grasping the ear plugs by their line, extracting them indelicately. We were now at 10,000 feet elevation, thus the heat was no longer an issue. Still I cinched my belt past its final notch and forced the spindle through the canvas. This would be my second day on Cipro so I could expect improvement with the intestinal issues that had dogged me. I felt weakened, but not excessively so.

We stopped to lunch at the top of a steeper hill. Each climber brought their own lunch provisions on the trip. I had learned from prior expeditions what I could keep myself eating; beef jerky, trail mix and Gatorade. I supplemented this with dried fruit and chips of coconut. Other team members ate energy bars, candy and (in Pal’s case) dried strips of cod. We were all nibbling quietly when Pal suddenly asked “What is this? Ants!” He had seated himself near an ant hill and was now being fully explored by its residents. “Get up,” Dan ordered Pal, who seemed paralyzed by equal parts amusement and confusion. But as Pal stood the ants began biting him. He swatted and swiped at them furiously, turning in circles. I joined the fight, but seemed to discover ten new ants for each one extracted from the smited Pal. I told Pal to remove his shirt and shake it out. I found several ants on his bare back. They had attached themselves by their pinchers and were shaking their bodies freely as though trying to tear loose a bit of flesh. I exacted swift retribution upon these offenders. Judging our location to be unfortunate, the team cut lunch short and resumed trekking toward camp 4.

We arrived in camp a few minutes before the afternoon rains began. The Porters had constructed their own shelter next to our group tent on a small promontory overlooking the grassy savannah beyond. We ducked under our tarp as the sky opened up with heavy showers. I noted there were no tribal members wondering about camp and asked Jaimie where they were. He exchanged shy glances with Steven and Raymond. “It 3 o’clock,” he said, “ they go inside to make some love.” He gestured to the large common shelter next to us. We agreed that this might explain their eagerness to get to camp each day.

Dan surveyed each team member as to their condition while we enjoyed a hot drink. Pal was worse than he was willing to admit. Carol could no longer keep food down. Ivan was strong and healthy. Denis, in a thick Quebec accent, reported “A tiny bit of sore in my throat. I don’t know. Maybe it is nothing.” Dan asked if the Cipro had helped me yet. I said I did not know. He said he had thusly tested his own condition a few moments earlier, then describing the experience in terms suggesting it to have been much more than satisfactory.

I gathered an aside of Denis, Pal, Ivan and myself to suggest we reshuffle the tent occupancy. Noting both Pal and Denis appeared ill on some level it seemed obvious they would tent together, leaving Ivan and myself to partner up. But before I could suggest this specific orientation Ivan and Pal chose one another and set about constructing their tent in the rain. This left Denis and I to share quarters, and though he might possibly be sick his symptoms appeared nowhere near as bad as Pal’s. This seemed like an improvement to me. We grabbed our tent bundle and stepped out into the rain, making our shelter on a less muddy area of what was all for the most part mud.

Morning at camp 3.

2012-09-02T17:12:00.001-07:00


Morning at camp 3. photo by Dan Zokaites

I tented again with Pal at camp 3. It was another difficult night for him. Pal’s cold was in full swing and he fought to clear the congestion in his lungs, coughing and hacking in a cadence only broken by want of blowing his nose. I felt bad for Pal, but after two nights of broken sleep I was starting to also feel bad for myself. Pal was taking various cold remedies gathered from team members and nothing more could be done for him. I, however, needed sleep if I was going to keep up the grinding pace of our trek. As well, I most sincerely did not wish to acquire Pal’s cold. It had been suggested by Jason, our now-departed Lead Guide, that team members rotate tent partners regularly to keep a fresh dynamic going. I resolved to renew this idea at day’s end.

Our tent had been pitched on a slope sufficient to gather myself and sleeping bag in a fetal position at the downhill wall several times during the night. Again I rose with a troubled lower back. I pulled on my cold wet rubber boots and trudged down to the cook tent. Raymond, the cook’s assistant, had gathered our wet clothing the night before and prevailed upon the Porters to dry them on a wooden rack over the fire in their long tribal tent. “Good morning, Mr. Dave,” he said, offering up a broad smile. Like Jaimie, our head cook, Raymond is vastly tattooed. Images of fish scales, spider webs and vaguely ominous symbols share space across his shoulders, back and chest. When I ask about them Raymond eludes to his mis-spent youth. He is now studying to become a Pastor with the Calvinist church back in Jakarta. “Making up for past life,” he explains in a tone of regret. The Blogger in me would like to invite further comment, but I do not wish to risk prying. We are a climbing team first, the chemistry of which must be guarded at all times. My brother in-law Ty, an Emmy winning news journalist, would cringe at my cowardice.

I gather my stiff smoky clothing and head back to my tent with a hot mug of Starbucks & Milo Mocha (“Stilo”). After gobbling a handful of Ibuprofen I begin the long process of stretching out my back. The sun has just risen. Warmth comes with the first rays of light to touch me. It is a Zen-like moment. I imagine my Yoga instructor, Loren, speaking soft words as I move from pose to pose. Two boys from the tribe come to watch as I contort oddly. I have come to know one by the name “Tatoosh.” He is 12 years old and likes to hang around me at the camps. Tatoosh and his friend have figured out that I am having difficulty. They breakdown the tent Pal and I had used and package it up neatly. As they resume watching my Yoga I pause to demonstrate the Mr. T device. Much celebration results. I let them play with the device as I finish stretching, the calming voice of my Yoga instructor now replaced with “I pity the fool!”


Pal (in orange), Me, Tatoosh and his friend. Photo by Dan Zokaites.

Gummy bears and underwears.

2012-08-30T09:35:00.001-07:00

It felt good to be underway again. The movement seemed to work out any stiffness, and the waist belt of my pack gave unexpected relief to the troubles in my low back. Our collective mood was ebullient, even when it became apparent we were momentarily lost and had to backtrack. The day's heat had not yet arrived, so I tried to take in the cool mist roiling up from the river beside our trail, hoping to somehow store it up for the afternoon.

We would cross many rivers this day, walking the slick bark of fallen trees in our equally slick rubber boots. Sometimes there would be a vine available to use as a handrail. Other times we were left to make do, with some team members straddling the log while scooting across on their bottoms. I was glad to not be troubled by this particular challenge. On the list of my climbing assets "A good sense of balance" appears right after "Is good at suffering".

During my climb of Denali in 2007 I became confused by the rope configuration before me after incorrectly passing anchored protection. It does not take much to confuse a person in the thin air of 20,000 feet. We were roped together and ascending the jump ridge leading the final 320 feet to the summit. The earth fell away 1,000 feet on either side of this narrow ridge the width of a boot. I stood for a mement trying to figure out why the rope was crossing in front of me. Ty, my brother in-law, was unaware of this dilemma as he waited at the lead of the rope for me to call out that I had passed the anchor and we could continue on. I would later learn that Big Sammy, next on the rope behind me, was watching with dread, preparing to jump off the opposite side of wherever I fell. My addled brain could not solve the puzzle of the ropes and at some poiint resolved to jump over them. Halfway over the ropes the crampons on my left boot fouled with one of the lines. I landed on the other side on just my right foot. Carefully, I reached down to my suspended left foot and untangled the rope, letting it fall free before placing my next step. I had just done something incredibly stupid and suddenly I could see this where a moment earlier it had not seemed like much of a problem. Though I would go on to trust my sense of balance, I also came to scrutinize my own judgment whenever at high altitude.

We hiked through a large landslide that had wiped out a thousand feet of the old trail through the jungle. Gold miners watch for these opportunities with the aid of satellite photography. As soon as a large piece of earth moves they are typically the first into the area, hopeful that a lucrative vein has been exposed. The Miners had come and gone a week earlier. It was rumored they had taken a few thousand dollars of gold with them. Hardly worth the trouble.

Soon the Porters began slipping by us on the trail. Barefoot and sparsely clad, they quickstepped past carrying duffels, provisions, and tarps. I was laboring up a steep muddy hillside whan a native woman eased by me. She was carrying a basket of yams strapped to her forehead and an infant riding her shoulders. She moved as casual as if she were pushing a shopping cart down the cereal isle of a supermarket. "Makanay," she said, offering the customary greeting of the Dani people. I tried to answer in kind, but was already reduced to a lumbering drooling beast incapable of higher thought. It came out something like "Maaakanoooooooth".

We lunched in a rare open meadow where the jungle allowed the light in. Palm trees dotted the scene, encouraging a mood of relaxation. The Porters ate yams retrieved from the ashes of the previous night's fire. A few of these were shared with us. Though I typically opt not to eat yams at Thanksgiving (even bathed in butter and brown sugar), these tasted quite good to me. They were sweet and rich, smooth and filling. One of the men climbed a tree with his machete and began hacking away at something. A strange spiny fruit the shape of a large football fell free to the ground. A woman with another machete carved the spines off and quartered the fruit lengthwise. The children and the elderly made quick work of it's contents. I was not offered any of this fruit, but one child did share his sugar cane with me. It was a bartered arrangement whereupon he had taken an interest in the gummy bears I was eating. At first he did not seem to know what to do with them. The rubbery candies bounced around in his mouth, popping out onto the ground. He looked confused. I took one from the packet and showed him how it yielded when clenched tight enough between the teeth. He then indicated that I was to do the same thing with the sugar cane. It had been split four ways lenghwise, offering easy access to its center. When I bore down on the cane it gave off a surprising volume of sweet liquid, both tasty and refreshing. Like most of the food eaten by the Porters and their families, the sugar cane had been harvested from trail-side as we moved through the jungle.

Back on the trail, we began a series of steep climbs up minor creek beds and washouts which formed four foot high steps. The mud collected deep at the base of each step as water trickled constantly down into it. The top of the steps were typically exposed rocky creek bed. I waited behind Carol as she struggled with one such step. Both her feet were sunk in the mud up to the top of her boots. As Carol lurched upward to gain the shelf her feet refused to come free. Her IBS condition had worsened by this time and Carol had given up her pack to a Porter's wife. It seemed senseless to squander what strength she had left, so, after watching three fruitless attempts, I devised a solution. Looking back, I probably should have shared my plan with Carol. I lowered my right shoulder behind her haunches and heaved upward. I suppose I expected the mud to hold on firmer or Carol to weigh more (she is but a bird), but she quite literally flew up onto the shelf, landing hard on the rocks with hands and knees. Carol groaned in pain, pausing for a moment as she was. I apologized profusely again and again. She would have been in her right to offer stern coaching to me, but Carol just stood up and commented "thanks for the lift," then headed up the creek.

We gained considerable altitude through the course of the afternoon, enjoying the cooler temperatures that came with it. The 95f sauna of the low jungle gave way to the 80's. Still, we were working very hard, averaging less than a mile an hour, and I drew my belt down to its last notch. I was melting away. This would normally not bother a person, but it clearly presented a problem for the many miles I needed to last in the coming days. In spite of my best efforts I had failed to consume anywhere near the calories I was burning. As well, the intestinal bug I was battling was exacting a toll. I loaded one pocket with trail mix at the next rest stop. From this point forward I would nibble constantly as we moved along the trail, tossing continuous handfuls of coal into my furnace.

We broke up out of the jungle and onto the high savannah at about 4pm. Sweeping landscape came as relief to the creeping claustrophobia that had been gathering in the dense growth below. Smoke in the distance marked the camp our Porters had built.

We washed our muddy clothes, still wearing them, in a river near camp 3. The water was very cold, but it felt good to be clean. I stripped down to my red boxer-briefs. Several of the native girls stood by and watched us. I noticed them gesturing to me and laughing. I assume they were amused by my funny red briefs. Later I returned to the river in trekking pants with my boxers in hand to wash them. A few of those same girls were still there and they began chattering and pointing to my red briefs. After ringing them dry I waved the shorts at the girls, who screamed and jumped back. With such a good reaction I could not help playing further. I leaped at them with the red boxers stretched out in front of me and roared. The girls scattered in the bush laughing as I chased them around, madly waving my crimson undergarment.

Mr. T and a Norwegian safety slogan.

2012-08-23T07:49:00.001-07:00


One at a time!

Camp 2 was built on a sloping hillside next to a river. Many trees had been cut down to make room, but few had been removed. Aside from the small areas cleared for tents the whole area was a stumble-fest of branches and tree trunks. Still, it seemed wonderful for what it represented - progress. We washed our socks in a small tributary and settled into the tents. Dan advised we use our packs to level our sleeping pads by shoving them under the foot. This worked in the same sense that shoving a bicycle under the pads would have worked; they were level but just as uncomfortable. I slept awful and woke with spasms in my low back. I had shared the tent with Pal, who was now developing a hacking cough and cold-like symptoms. His struggle had kept me up much of the night. I took a dose of Advil and set about stretching my back out with some of my newly learned yoga positions. A crowd of Porters and their children quickly gathered to watch. It was hard to ignore their presence as some crouched down to examine me more closely. The men commented quietly to one another while a few of the boys tried to mimic my poses, smiling, laughing and falling over. I was in pain but could not help smile at the odd circumstance.

For reasons I am not sure of, I chose to squander precious ounces of gear weight by bringing along a small plastic device left in my Christmas stocking by my sister Michelle. It has six buttons and for each emits a well known Mr. T quote. I brought it to breakfast at camp 2 and addressed the team in a confessional tone. "You know," I began. "It was a hard day for me yesterday. I struggled. I fell, I thought about quitting and complained to myself bitterly. Then a voice came to me; a firm voice, a voice of inspiration, a voice of possibility. And it said (at this point I pushed one of the buttons on the device) "Quit yo Jibba Jabba!" It would have been a comedic moment if not for the roar of the nearby camp stoves. "What did it say," Carol asked. I held it close to her ear and pushed the button again. Turns out she was not familiar with Mr. T. Carol nodded politely as Dan, who had taken my setup as genuine, started a discussion of the many trials of the trail. "No. Wait a minute," I interrupted. I held the device near Pal and tried again. Apparently Mr. T was never big in Norway. I looked to Ivan, then thought better of the notion. Denis was definitely out. Dan might know who Mr. T is but too much time had passed. Comedic window closed. I slipped the device back in my pocket and sat down. I resolved to try again later with the better known "I pity the Fool!" button.

At each camp we had a tarp-covered area for the Team to gather beneath for meals or socializing. Jaimie set up the kitchen in one half of the shelter, a busy array of three to four white-gas camp stoves boiling water for drinking and simmering our next meal. A plastic foldout camp table was centered in the other half. Each of us had a small three-legged folding stool we brought to the low slung table. Jaimie kept an assortment of instant coffee, teas, cocoa (Milo), and dry biscuits there for us to choose from. The one luxury I afforded myself was a handful of Starbucks instant coffee packets. I brought one to each breakfast and combined it with a bit of Milo to make a mocha that almost brought tears to my eyes.

Periodically one of us would suddenly heave to one side and tumble to the ground as a leg of our stool sunk into the soft soil. The natural reaction is to grasp at the nearest thing in an effort to arrest one's fall. This was typically another Team Member, who then also fell over. After awhile we developed a kind of gentleman's neglect whereby one would override the temptation to grab the person seated next to him, and that person would override the temptation to help.

I had just fallen over and still lay sprawled across the branches that made up the floor of our group tent. A moment earlier Dan asked if anyone had anything to report about their health or injuries. "I have a loose stool," I responded. It was one of those rare opportunities to be literal in two senses at the same time. The group laughed at my apparent pun. "I started a course of Cipro this morning," I added, picking myself up. Intestinal bugs can be a serious problem on long treks, especially at high altitude. "OK," Dan acknowledged, "I have the same thing going on. Let me know how that goes for you after a couple days of Cipro." Carol reported early symptoms of a reoccurring Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) condition she has fought off an on for years. Pal declared himself to now be in a full-blown head and chest cold. Denis and Ivan were fine. Discussion of each health issue was followed by a marshaling of relevant medications and a promise to report any worsening of condition.

Dan dug a "cat hole" at each camp for team members to defecate in. It was typically a few hundred feet away in some private location marked by a trekking pole. Pal volunteered a reflective band he had brought along. This was placed on the pole to aid in discovery at night. "Reflectors save lives," Pal stated in the tone of a public service announcement. In the long dark winters of Norway people just keep on with their favorite outdoor activities. A government sponsored campaign to reduce injuries featured the "Reflectors save lives" slogan and a free reflector. This campaign had been highly successful in terms of reducing accidents and also ingraining the slogan into the subconscious of Pal. It became impossible to mention Pal's reflector without him saying "Reflectors save lives." He was being funny, of course, but it came across as some kind of verbal tic. After awhile I started setting him up with "Hey Pal, what do reflectors do?" "Save lives," he would respond on cue. It was how we connected.

To access the cat hole at camp 2 one had to cross on area of inter-meshed tree branches, climb over a four foot tree trunk, weave through thick brush and side-step between tow huge rotting stumps. "Does anyone have any requests," Dan queried as we wrapped up our morning breakfast of Italian pasta. "I do," I said. "I would like it if the approach to the cat hole at future camps is not a steeplechase course." the Team laughed in agreement. "But don't you like my reflector to mark the spot," Pal asked, then adding "Reflectors save lives." "Yes," I responded, "it helps me to see where I wish I were as I crap my pants." Dan gave up a good-natured laugh and promised kinder placement next time.

The trek to camp 2

2012-08-19T21:39:00.001-07:00

I had jettisoned my umbrella back at camp 1. I might regret this once we reached the savannah but all I could worry about at this point was getting through the jungle and that cursed umbrella had made a liability of itself snagging on anything I passed. As Ivan had advised, I also put one trekking pole away. I removed the basket from the pole I used as this too had proven susceptible to tangling in the brush.

Having made a critical evaluation of my performance the prior day, I decided to fortify my water with Cytomax. It seemed plausible I had been shedding electrolytes too rapidly to compensate by other means, thus exacerbating the fatigue. The Cytomax would help with this. Lastly, I resolved to become better at walking in my rubber boots. I focused on where I stepped, chose where to plant my trekking pole, and used my free hand to grab exposed roots or tree limbs (also a tip from Ivan). I realized that better footing than the person in front of me had chosen often existed if I was searching it out. For the first time since the age of two, walking was complicated and challenging, offering risk and reward, worthy of one's best efforts. The dividends paid immediately. I fell much less. I also did no wast precious energy flailing to arrest stumble when traction quit me. It was still difficult, but things were going much better.

We passed through the clear cuts and into jungle, over several steep hills, eventually descending down to the place where Dori had fallen the day before. The Porters had already built a better bridge replete with handrails. It was a touching gesture that said more than could be communicated with the sparse words we shared. Many of the Porters refused to pass us on the trail this day. It had been exhausting for them to be so fat out ahead of us the day before and have to turn back. They were taking no chances.

I was glad to press on into new trail. There was redemption of a sort in knowing Dori would be alright and those of us who remained could focus on what lay ahead. Ivan had been right; the jungle trekking was going much better for us the second day. Though taxed, I felt capable. The times I did fall or stumble I gathered myself up and continued immediately. I had accepted that these and many other low speed collisions were part of handing life over to the jungle. Dan seemed very tuned into how we were doing. There were regular hydration stops each hour. Even thought these were typically only 5 to 10 minutes the effect was meaningful. If we scaled a particularly steep hill Dan would call for a three minute breath at the top. The Team was moving well and a playful banter emerged. Ivan broke out in spontaneous verses of the "Guns and Roses" song Welcome To The Jungle. Carol would offer the occasional Silver fox howl. Pal told clever Norwegian jokes. We were working very hard, but our collective spirit had coalesced and would not be denied. Everything was once again possible.

We lunched at a place in the river where a small pond had been built for gathering salt deposits leeching from the rock face next to it. The Porters and their families were already gathered there when we arrived. They were lounging about the rocky flowered terraces next to the rapids, eating strange fruits and a radish-like root they had floated in the salt pond. One mother was nursing her child and did not seem to mind that she was in plain view. Pal, as much physician as mountain climber, smiled to witness such a timeless human ritual. Though he lives a demanding professional life as head of cardiology at the hospital he works at in Tromso, Pal does not take himself too seriously. He could be clownish one moment and remarkably insightful the next. The children in our expedition quickly sized Pal up for an easy mark, extracting regular sweets from his willing hands.

We arrived at camp 2 after 9 hours of trekking. We had ascended 4,000 vertical feet and descended 3,000 for a net gain of only 1,000 feet. Our pace averaged less than 1 mile and hour, yet felt like a victory.

Click on this video to see lunch at the salt pool.

Carol Masheter

2012-08-19T21:36:00.001-07:00


Carol, myself, and Pal

Carol had at least one reason more than the rest of us for continuing on. At the age of 61 years 7 1/2 months, Carol, on May 24 2008, had become the second oldest woman to summit Mt Everest. Since time she had sumitted each of the remaining seven summits --except one.

Earlier this year Carol had arrived in New Guinea to climb Carstensz Pyramid. She had signed up for an expedition that would use helicopters to skip the grueling trek to Carstensz. It would be a chip shot for her, rounding out a world-class climbing resume and placing Carol in the rarefied company of those who have managed to "touch 'em all." But it was not to be. The promised helicopter never materialized and, after many days of frustrating delays, the expedition fell apart.

So Carol was back to try again. Now 65 3/4 years old, she was going to do it the hard way. She would trek to Carstensz. If she were successful, Carol would be the oldest woman ever to complete the seven summits. A world record!

BTW- Carol published her own account of the Mt Everest climb and the events in her life leading up to it. No Magic Helicopters (Aventine Press) is an interesting and honest telling of what it means to climb Mt Everest today.

The tale of another expedition.

2012-08-16T08:16:00.002-07:00

Dear Blog Readers- I do not wish to belabor the point of how dangerous and unpredictable circumstances are in Papua New Guinea. However, lest anyone question the reality of same he should read the account of the expedition that went in right after we left. This expedition was led by my Guide from the Elbrus climb in Russia, and used the same three local Guides our expedition used in New Guinea.
-Dave

Carstensz Pyramid Trip Ends Abruptly
Monday 13th August 2012

Yesterday morning (Sunday 12th August) in Illaga the Adventure Consultants Carstensz Pyramid Expedition was on schedule. We were taking our planned day out in Illaga to gain the necessary district police and tribal permissions. The local Dani Tribesman enjoyed entertaining us with an archery competition, fantastic to watch. The chief of the local Dani Tribe had insisted our equipment and belongings get searched; we willingly complied and we found that this was done in a careful non-aggressive manner.

By the very fact we had flown from Bali to Timika meant we already had our Indonesian Travel Visa and special visa for traveling in Western Papua. In addition to these Visas issued by the Indonesian Government, it is necessary to gain permission from the different local tribes. Everything appeared to be in order. Our agent Steven, a veteran of some 60 trips to Carstensz, had followed the complex local procedures to ensure the local tribes were 'on-board' with our expedition. Permissions had successfully been gained, payments made and the doors were all open for our expedition to proceed. Our universe was in order, so we thought.

After a relaxing chatty group lunch the situation dramatically changed. An unknown Dani militia leader suddenly arrived with a posse of armed warriors and aggressively started making demands. We were ordered outside into the blazing equatorial sun, surrounded by armed tribesman, while they commenced a search of the basic buildings we were staying in. There was a lot of very aggressive language and gesturing between our staff and the militia mobsters. Intimidation tactics included burning the local grass beside us. Eventually we were ushered inside and assembled in one room.

Negotiations with the rebel tribesmen then began and without going into the full detail of it, we were detained for about four hours, our passports confiscated and a blockade was placed on our being able to continue to Carstensz. They demanded an extraordinary sum of money, 1 billion Rupiah for our being present on "their" land. Eventually we negotiated a settlement of USD3500 and the proviso that we would leave.

All this was very nerve wracking and well beyond the realms of normal tribal negotiations and pay-offs. Nobody was hurt but some group members were quite shaken up. The question we are all asking is just who were these characters? What we know is that they are a highly militant militia group, composed of warriors from the Dani tribe, who are fighting for the independence of Western Papua from Indonesia. Intermingling with this they have their own centuries old tribal and family conflicts that overlap regionally. Throw into this mix disputes over recent government elections and other variables! They are from a distant region and for some reason were in the location of Illaga at this time. Steven had never encountered them before. The Dani are known to be a volatile aggressive group. Our expedition had specifically avoided starting from Sugapa as they are in the midst of local elections at present in that district. To have continued after this intense and intimidating encounter would have been to a take a great risk. Steven, our agent, made the decision that it was unsafe to continue.

This morning we returned to Timika. Everybody is gutted to have been forced to end the trip so unexpectedly and tomorrow we begin our return journey.

We will give you another update from Bali.

Best

Mike Roberts and Lydia Bradey

Not ready to quit.

2012-08-12T13:41:00.000-07:00

It had not been clear whether the expedition was officially over. Team members chatted amongst themselves the day before as we took Dori back to camp 1 at Sunama. It did not look good. On the whole, things had gone quite badly from the start. Some members quietly expressed their hope we could somehow carry on. Ivan was more outspoken. "This is not a camping trip," he groused a number of times, suggesting the Schmidts had no place being on an expedition like this in the first place. He lay responsibility equally at the feet of IMG and the Schmidt family. At one point he said this while two of the Schmidt boys were present. "Let's give it a rest," I suggested.

In fairness to Ivan it should be noted he was under pressures the rest of us did not have. Back home in the Dominican Republic Ivan is a national hero. He was the first person from his country to summit Mt Everest, a feat for which he was promoted within the army and received a commendation in person from the President. Ivan has stood atop four of the seven summits and been sponsored financially in each outing. In this, his fifth summit, he was again sponsored by a number of companies, including Dasani bottled water. Whether implicit or explicit, there is pressure to summit when a sponsor is involved. The Climber carries the sponsor's logo to the top and poses with it. In Ivan's case this would mean sharing a moment of national pride. Such advertising opportunities are rare indeed. But the dollars invested return almost nothing if the Climber is not successful. Thus one can assume no further participation on the part of that sponsor and a difficult time enlisting others on future climbs. I have considered seeking sponsorship for own climbs. Having now summitted on six of six attempts it would probably not be difficult to obtain financial backing. But I have known moments along the way where a critical call had to be made, a decision about whether to pursue the summit under deteriorating circumstances. In such moments there is only room for the influences of mountaineering, and I cannot say with certainty that the obligations to a sponsor might not creep into the mix.

We woke the next morning and set about packing our beds up while Jamie and Jeremy cooked Mung Beans for breakfast. Mung Beans, a small firm bean, are boiled into submission then drowned in a brown sugar gravy. It is a sweet, filling breakfast that hits the caloric target. However, very little joy is experienced in the consumption of Mung Beans and many a sideways glance was exchanged. While Jason and Dan were busy having a private consultation with Dori and the Schmidt boys out behind our shack we used their absence as an opportunity to discuss circumstances with each other. Ivan, Pal, and Denis were keen to continue on. Carol preferred to defer to the judgement of Jason and Dan. I myself felt undecided. It had been very hard work trekking in the jungle. I was not sure I was up to many more days of the same. Indeed, I had considered the notion of dropping out during the trek back to Sunama. As well, owing to delays of getting from Timika to Sugapa and our false start the day before, we would have no rest days. They had all been consumed. If the expedition set out again it would have to put in 12 straight 9 hour days.

Jason called a team meeting after breakfast and informed us that, as expected, Dori would continue back to Sugapa, then Timika, then Bali to a hospital where her injuries would be more thoroughly assessed and treated. Her climb was over. Nathan "Nano", Jeremy, and Josh would also turn back. Being minors, they could not continue on without a legal guardian present. Ben, being 19, could stay on if he chose. He was considering that notion at the moment. Jason said each of us would meet with him and Dan privately to discuss how we might like to proceed. So this meant the entire expedition was not necessarily over!

Carol approached me while Ivan was meeting with our Guides. She was concerned that she would hold up the rest of us and perhaps jeopardize our summit chances. She also felt she may have brought an unsatisfactory climbing boot for the rock face. I assured her I had every confidence in her abilities as a climber and would welcome any moderation in pace so as to spare my ego from otherwise having to call for it myself. "Equpment is another issue," I continued,"you'll have to judge that for yourself." She nodded and walked off to meet with Jason and Dan. I was honored she had sought my counsel.

Ivan pulled me aside to talk about my intentions. I was frank about what a struggle it had been for me trekking in clunky rubber boots on muddy uneven trails. I lamented the heat, the inclines and the dehydration. He told me he leads jungle treks back home in the Dominican Republic. He said people always do much better after the first day as they learn how to move through such terrain. "And only use one trekking pole," he coached. "Easier to keep track of just one and it will be out in front of you instead of getting caught up on the side." I told him that made sense. "And very important thing," he continued, "you must surrender to the jungle." This turned out to be the most valuable piece of advice for me. Life in the jungle gets much easier when you stop caring if you are covered in mud, if you stink, if you have fallen down for the fifth time this hour. I started to consider the notion of continuing on. First off I would have to lighten my pack. I discarded a few things in the shack to be found later by the tribe. My gift to them and me. I moved other items from my pack to my duffel. This would put it over our 37 pound weight limit. But I was betting we would skip weighing the duffels this day and rationalized the added burden to my Porter was fare exchange for the night he left me with nothing.
If I was going to continue on I needed to stack the deck in my favor to create a win, a day that was not a complete drubbing. But I needed one more thing.

Jason and Dan called me over to talk. "I would like to continue on," I said immediately. I was surprised by the conviction in my voice considering a moment earlier I had been uncertain. It felt like my statement came from somewhere deep inside me, not a place of considered thought but a place of basic truth, the same source that had prodded me to sign up for this expedition in the first place. "But I need to know that whomever leads us is truly into it." I explained that circumstances had been hard on everyone, them included, and I would not blame them for wanting to just cash it in. But this is their job and quitting may not be an option. The Guide who continued on might execute his duties admirably, but with no joy for the experience. "It matters to me that you want to continue on." Jason explained that he would accompany Dori and the boys back, leaving us in the very capable hands of Dan Zokaites, his assistant guide. Jason expressed disappointment that he would not be a part of the expedition, and Dan promised "a lot of positive energy" from him as we pressed on anew. "Then I'm in," I announced and shook their hands.

The two parties formed up, those turning back and those who would continue on. Ben had decided his place was with his family. He stood with an arm across Nano's shoulders as the Schmidts watched us put on our packs. I walked over to them and offered a favorite Niel Young lyric; "Schmidt Family," I said, "Long may you run." Dori hugged me and each of the boys shook my hand. I was sorry we had lost them. Our 14 person team had been winnowed down to 6 in just two days. Dan led us out of Sunama on the same trail we had already seen twice. I cleared my thoughts and surrendered to the jungle.

We turn back.

2012-08-10T21:39:00.000-07:00


The plank Dori fell off of.

Jason made the rounds to each team member once Dori's wounds had been dressed. He asked how I was doing and seemed to be listening more to the way I answered than what I said. Rightly so. A good Guide knows how to read people and relies on that read to form a workable judgement. "I'm concerned about Dori" I said. I told him I had seen her go over and recounted everything I could remember about it. This was moot, of course, but Jason paid attention and let me tell my story. Then he asked again how I was doing. "A little shook up, I guess. But I knew this sort of thing was part of the deal when I signed up." "OK," he responded and clenched my shoulder for a moment before moving on.

There had been a point when everything was coming unglued, when we couldn't see Dori but knew she was in the river. In that moment Dan had handed me his camera and the satellite phone. We locked eyes and I knew he was going to jump into the river. What I saw in his face was resignation. It was a powerful moment. When Dan checked in with me after Jason I handed the camera and sat phone back to him. As I did I felt us both revisit the circumstances under which they had come into my possession. There was relief.

Jason called an impromptu team meeting as we stood gathered on the rock. He explained that the expedition would be turning back. As Dori had fallen from a height three times her own, this was considered a critical fall and her head injury held the potential to develop into a much worse condition. He could accompany Dori back to safety, but if she worsened and could not carry herself out of the jungle he would not be able to do it alone. In fact it would take the considerable efforts of everyone on the team if we should need to carry Dori back over the brutal terrain we had already trekked in on. Dori argued that she would surrender her own expedition but was not willing to cost everyone else their own opportunity to climb. "It's not your call," Jason responded.

All parties agreed that our first priority was getting Dori to safety. We shouldered our packs and began retracing our path back to Sunama. With the aid of lingering adrenaline, the trek back seemed easier than the trip in had been. We arrived in Sunama by early evening. Dori's dressing was changed. We all ate something. I can't recall what. At that point I was exhausted and just wanted to lay down. Dori developed a headache as she settled in for the night, but no other symptoms. The team was wiped out. It had been a very bad day. Yet it could have been so much worse. I lingered on this thought and felt grateful. Sleep.

A very rough start.

2012-08-05T21:36:00.000-07:00

The Schmidt family held a private conference the next morning with Jason Edwards. It was already decided that Dale would be turning back, but I suspect Jason wanted to confirm that the other members of the family remained committed to the expedition. While no one wanted to see any additional Schmidts depart, we also would not blame them if someone felt his place was with Dale. Turning back would for all purposes not be an option at the advanced camps, so it was here or not at all. In the end, Dori and her four boys decided to press on with the expedition.

But another team member did turn back with Dale. Roger, from Dallas, had already had enough. He surprised Jason and Dan by requesting a sidebar with them, then announced he was done. The trail into camp 1 had shown Roger all he needed to see, and it was his judgement he was not up to twelve more days of the same. "I'm guess I'm just a cold mountain guy," he explained to me when saying goodbye. This is the kind of call a climber can only make for himself and no one judges him for it. Roger left behind the lunch rations he had brought along, which turned out to be the best of anyone's. Dan and I would run out of trail food many days later and speak of Roger with admiration as we ate his cheese sticks and beef jerky.

Dale and Roger left for Sugapa with one of our local guides. Our team of 14 was now down to 12. We prepared to shoulder our packs, but there was a problem with the Porters. The Dani tribe, which hosted us that night, would not permit us to leave their village without hiring some of their tribe as porters. The night before we had come upon a roadblock of Dawa tribe members just before the trailhead. We had thus been compelled to to bring them into our employ along with the Monis we had already hired. We did not exactly need more porters the morning we prepared to leave camp 1, but we did need to leave camp 1. Thus a third tribe was added to our company. This brought our count up to 47 porters.

If you are a Porter in this part of the world the rest of your family accompanies you; your wives, children and parents all come along. While a Porter carries paying freight the rest of the family carries the blankets, tools and modest food rations (Yams mostly) that will sustain the clan. Along the way they will stop to gather ferns, roots, fruit and game to eat. I do not know what our final headcount was. We were usually so spread out along the trail that it was impossible to guess. As well, the tribes typically camped separate from us, sometimes separate from the other tribes. But to anyone watching from afar we must have looked like an invasion force.

We finally got underway after a two hour delay. I was glad to not be trekking at night, feeling the difficulties of footing I had experienced the night before might be relieved by improved visibility. While this turned out to be the case to some extent, the heat that came with the light of day proved an even greater tax. I began sweating immediately as we traversed a steep hillside that had been clear-cut to build terrace gardens. I had ignored the advice of our guides to keep packs at no more than 15 pounds. Feeling I was capable of carrying more and wanting to take various extras along, I had loaded up with 31 pounds. Now I was paying the price and, as the humidity soaked through my clothing, could not think of one thing in my pack that justified it's share of suffering.

We descended a steep hillside, slipping and sliding in our rubber boots, falling and lurching, getting hung up with the brush and vines. We had each been gifted an umbrella by our guide company, International Mountain Guides. This would be quite handy once our trekking had reached the savanah. But it proved an intolerable snag handle to every branch that swiped past our packs. When the umbrella lashed to the side of my pack was not getting caught up, one or both trekking poles were. We crossed a beautiful clear stream at the bottom of the hill. I dipped my baseball cap in the water and replaced it on my head. Then it was up the steep opposing hillside, cresting, then down again.

Carstensz Pyramid is the lowest of the Seven Summits (16,024 feet). As such, it is likely many climbers erroneously assume it to be the easiest. Not so. On most mountains a climber will gain 2 to 3 thousand vertical feet a day. It is hard work, but at least one knows he is 2,000 feet closer to his goal. The undulating topography of the approach to Carstensz is a complete game-changer in this regard. While approaching the mountain we would typically ascend 3 to 5 thousand vertical feet a day. But we would also descend 2 to 4 thousand feet a day, for a gain of perhaps 1,000 feet. Then there was the mountain to climb. As well, the trek out would involve crossing the same up/down topography. A climber who treks the route we were taking could expect to ascend over 40,000 vertical feet by the time he concludes the expedition.

Three and half hours into our trek we descended another steep hillside. By this time our trail had disappeared into the jungle. It was a relief to be out of the direct sun, but I was still sweating so hard that it was necessary to wipe my face with a bandana every few minutes. As we reached the bottom of the hill I could see a large shear rock rising up from the turbulent river below. A suspension bridge fashioned from trees fallen across the 30 foot gap suggested our trail would cross here. I stepped across two wooden planks that I assumed to be bridging a muddy depression on the near side of the rock. Thick vegetation crowded up beneath the planks and around the sides. As I stepped off I heard a loud "crack" and turned around. Dori Schmidt was crouched over, trying to arrest her fall as she slipped on the wet planks. She had grabbed the side of one and it snapped off in her hands. This caused her to role to the right. The weight of her pack then took over. She fell off the planks pack first and disappeared through the vegetation.

For what seemed like a very long moment there was no sound at all. My brain was trying to sort out the logical disconnect of how Dori had just been swallowed by the jungle. Then there was a huge horrible splash. I realized that the river was racing around both sides of the rock and Dori had fallen 20 feet down into it. "We have one in the river," I shouted, and stripped off my pack. I ran to the edge of the rock but there was no way to get down it. I looked for Dori but could not see her. I ran to the downstream side of the rock to see if she was being washed away. There was no sign of her. No sound. Our guide Dan arrived, then Pale from Norway, Ivan, Denis and a few Porters. We were all scrambling. Jeremy Schmidt arrived and began calling for his mother. The tone of his pleading voice was heartbreaking.

Then Dan spotted Dori on the edge of the river below the planks. She was climbing out of a pool formed by the rock's back-eddy. Four team members formed an arm chain and lowered one of the smaller porters down the side of the rock to Dori. He removed her soaked pack and helped her to the place where our chain could pull Dori up the side. I grabbed her free arm as she neared the top of the rock and helped pull her up. There was blood running down the back of her head. Jason arrived and opened up the first aid kit. Dori was fortunate to not only have Jason, a 20 year EMT, present but also Pale, a physician. They cut off a good bit of Dori's hair to assess and treat her injuries. Dan assisted, taking notes and keeping Dori engaged and alert.

I found myself welling up with tears as the realization came upon me that the grim scenarios I had believed in a moment earlier had not come to pass. I crowded in close and put an arm around Dori. "God, you scared the hell out of me," I said. She smiled and patted my leg.

A night not in Sugapa

2012-07-30T10:38:00.000-07:00


Dori Schmidt towers over the Moni Tribe

The Moni tribe occupy the village of Sugapa. Most are barefoot. Their wide feet have spread out to half again that of our own. Some wear western clothes, gym shorts or T-shirts endorsing sports teams they cannot possibly understand. Others are nearly naked, a few men wear the traditional penis gourd.

The penis gourd combines the simplicity of the fig leaf with the pride of Trojan battle armor, resulting in a gift to fashion that somehow implies the present to be larger than the package it comes in.

Several men and women sit atop the hill just inside the crude wooden fence that defines the yard of the "hotel" we are shown to. They stare at us and comment to one another in a language we do not understand. I imagine they are discussing which among us would look best in a penis gourd. Sometimes they smile at us. We smile back. We have been encouraged to be extra friendly. Our team cook and coordinator of the Porters, Jeremy, is negotiating wages with those looking to join our expedition. Jeremy is from Jakarta. He speaks several dialects of the local tribes, as well as excellent English. The careful balance of power he seeks to establish does not allow him to smile when dealing with the locals. Otherwise Jeremy always wears a warm smile and encourages the rest of us to do the same. "Remember," he reminds us, "always smile." Finally a price is agreed to. Each Porter carrying a 37 pound load will receive $70 a day for his efforts whether the team is moving or not. This is a VERY good wage relative to anything else these people can do to earn a buck. A man can work two expeditions a year and nearly support his family on that alone.

A new problem arises. The traveling ballot boxes for the upcoming election will be in Sugapa just two days, on July 17 and 18. If the expedition runs long the Porters will miss their chance to vote. Jeremy and our local lead guide, Steven (also from Jakarta) reassure the Porters of the fitness of our team and their confidence we will return no later than July 17. The Porters are dubious. A local Official is summoned. He assures the Porters they will get to vote one way or another. This video shows the scene.

The shack in this video is our hotel. The floor is wooden instead of the more typical dirt, making this a 4 star hotel by Papuan standards. We are fine with this. It beats pitching a tent for the night. We eat some Ramen Noodles and discuss how we will configure the sleeping bags. We are asked to not leave the yard area and go off exploring. But soon our guides become itchy and decide to move the team on to camp 1, the village of Sunama. They allude again to safety considerations. The motorcycle boys are called in to jumpstart this move.

There are no roads into Sugapa. The only motorized transportation is motorscooters flown in by cargo plane. These are largely concentrated in the hands of young local men who go out of their way to throw a pose of dashing mystique while hiring out as taxis for people clutching live chickens. The Motorcycle Boys were hired to give each of us a ride to the end of the dirt road 15 kilomoters away. It was exciting. It might have worried me to be a passenger wearing a full pack on the back of a small scooter driven by a man I could throw 15 kilometers, but I had already seen families of four weaving through traffic on a single motorscooter in Timika. But things did not go well for all of us. Dale's driver, who probably did not realize he weighed more than an Indonesian family of four, came into a corner a little hot and lost control. The dusty crash which followed left Dale scratched up and bruised. But he was still keen to press on, so our marshalled band set out up the trail to Sunama.

Soon it is nightfall and the rains begin. We don waterproof layers and headlamps, then continue up the trail into dense jungle. Our course traverses steep hillsides, descending occasionally to cross a river. Our pace is fast. The trail is narrow. We fumble to keep up with one another in our clunky rubber boots. A few team members fall off the trail and have to scramble on hands and feet back up to it. The air is so saturated with humidity that my breath clouds like a steam engine before me. It feels like we are being herded.Between the warmth of the air and the heat my body was generating I became far too hot inside my rain shell. Realizing I was as wet with sweat inside of it as I was wet from rain outside, I removed the coat and stuffed it into my pack. If I was going to be wet I might as well be cooler.

After 3 hours we arrived at the village of Sunama, a tiny collection of huts on a hillside. Dreading the notion of then having to set up tents in the mud, I was pleased to see ready shelter for night. We were led into a 13 x 13 wooden shack, all fourteen of us and our soaked gear. Dale was last to arrive. He immediately stretched out his sizable personage on the floor and commenced groaning. Dale complained of various difficulties which seemed to stem from his earlier motor scooter crash. After considerable prodding on the part of Jason, Dale sat up and ate some Ramen Noodles. Our duffel bags began arriving and team members changed into dry layers. They set up their inflatable cushions and sleepingbags, hung wet clothing from ceiling beams. My duffel did not arrive. Jeremy made inquires with the other Porters and learned that the Porter carrying my duffel had called it a night at the village just before Sunama. I would have no mattress or sleeping bag that night. It helps that I had spent a good bit of time preparing myself for hardship before the expedition. As well, Jason and assistant guide Dan Zokaites seemed busy enough dealing with Dale. So I said "no problem. I'll just put on an extra layer from the gear in my pack. One of the Schmidt boys offered me his sleeping bag, feeling he would be warm enough packed tight among his brothers. But Jason insisted I take his bag and Dan gave me his mattress. The two shared a mattress and sleeping bag. I was grateful.

The decision is made to take Dale back in morning. We lay in silence for a moment taking this in. The loss of a single team member affects the team in excess of their proportion. We have bonded, imagined succeeding together, helping each other, relying on the other member to be there for us when events turn difficult. When a team member is lost there is a complete recalculation that each of us must do to then assess the viability of the expedition. As well, it is sometimes necessary to equip that departing team member with stove, tent, fuel and food rations for his trip out. This leaves the remaining members without backup in the event their equipment fails.

My attention drifts to the night sounds of the jungle around us. The rains have rested and in their place I hear birds of the darkness. We are packed together so tight that I feel it when someone two places over moves. Still, it is good. We are dry and warm and fed. Sleep comes.

The Schmidt Family

2012-07-29T21:37:00.001-07:00

Fully half our team consisted of the Schmidt Family. Dale, 47, and Dori, 46, own a company that prepares medical school aspirants to take the MCAT entrance exam. They brought their four boys along, and though the family's collective climbing resume did not list any major mountains, they did bring an impressive list of ice climbing successes including "The Devil's Thumb" and "Ham and Eggs." As well, they brought a physical presence which testified to their promise in this endeavor. Dale stands 6' 4", Dori 6', Benjamin (19) 6' 4", Josh (17) 6' 3", and twins Jeremy (14) 6' 3", and Nathaniel "Nano" (14) 6' 1". I imagined easily sneaking my gear into their packs without them knowing it.

It was fun watching the Schmidt boys. Like any brothers they would pick at each other during moments when boredom offered no better alternative. But it was always good-natured and the brother receiving it would typically just ignore the fact that a sibling was pulling his ear or jabbing a finger between his shoulder blades. Just as often they would hang off each other like tired puppies or drape an arm across the shoulders of one another. Sometimes I would miss my own boys as I watched the Schmidts.

The warmth and personable nature of Dori and Dale set the tone for the members of the family crossing over to become members of a larger team. I looked forward to this dynamic and was pleased to connect quickly with the boys, who showed enthusiasm for my tattoos, labeling them "sick" ...which means good.

Flight to the other side of nowhere.

2012-07-25T23:11:00.000-07:00

Two weeks later I would have a conversation in Bali as I checked into a hotel after the climb. The friendly Concierge asked where I had come from. When I said I had just spent 18 days in Papua he commented "Oh. Papua. I think you look for trouble." Mountain climbing and jungle trekking did not enter into his opinion. The concierge was referring to the political unrest throughout Papua.

There just seems to be something about the places my mountain climbing takes me. When I climbed Kilimanjaro in 2008 there had just been a highly disputed election result in Kenya. Which is to say people were killing each other. In one particularly horrible incident a group of villagers were locked inside a church and it was set fire. Not fully aware of this, I was delighted to find my flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi half full. I stretched out across an entire row of seats and slept the sleep of babes. But in Nairobi we were led around the airport by well-armed military. Our departing flight was delayed until after sundown. We were ordered to run from the terminal to our waiting jet. Remarkably, all my bags arrived in Tanzania in good order, something Delta Airlines cannot accomplish even with an absence of hot whistling lead.

A year later I traveled to Russia to climb Mt Elbrus. A tense ceasefire was in effect between Russia and neighboring Georgia. Mt Elbrus sits on the border of these two countries. Though we got in and out without incident, a village near our base-camp was attacked a week after we left by Georgian rebels. The police station was bombed, killing 7.

There is no tourism in Papua. For the vast majority of Papuans, the only Caucasian people they have seen in Papua work for the Freeport Mine, an employer which is viewed to have taken much and given little to the residents of the world's second largest island. In some respects that same Freeport Mine may be viewed as having interests that are not consistent with an independant Papua. So I believe there was concern the members of our team might be mistaken as Freeport Proxies and become unwilling pawns in a volatile circumstance as a new round of elections was getting underway. I say "believe" because no one was willing to talk about the reasons for our hieghtened caution. When I asked our lead guide Jason about it he would simply comment "this is Papua and you need to be careful." He probably did not want us to get distracted from the climb or caught up in worries over things he and his team were addressing. But even the odd Taxi driver demured to discuss Papuan Politics. In one instance a driver expressed a few opinions then quickly added that I did not hear it from him. http://asopa.typepad.com/asopa_people/2012/06/elections-in-papua-new-guinea-are-just-different.html This link covers a story about the lengthy process of voting in Papua.

Our walled-in hotel had gated security. Whenever we traveled somewhere uniformed officers would stop traffic and our motorcade of three dark vans would leave the compound at a running start. At some point I realized that traffic lights did not apply to us. We were someone going somewhere and it was best to stay out of our way. One might reasonably ask if going to Papua is a wise choice during such times. But since the Independant Papua movement began in 1961 this has largely been the state of affairs. At various times access to Carstensz has been closed entirely. So this opportunity was better than some years, not as good as others. We are mountain climbers. This is what we do.

The morning we flew out of Timika for Sugapa our team dispatched in two groups. The first group, consisting of the Schmidt Family and lead guide Jason Edwards, got on the early morning flight. This was the third morning they had spent at the airport hoping to get seats. The rest of us loaded up a few hours later and drove to the airport. It was a busy scene with many locals sitting on the grass or curbs, carrying armloads of food or belongings they would take back to their village. Many of the men were chewing Beetle Nut, a red hard fruit that gives off similar sensations to smoking. It permanently dyes their teeth and gums orange. Like chewing tobacco, Beetle Nut is spat out afterward, leaving red splatters mindful of a slasher movie on the ground. We were told to wait in the vans as our local guide, Steven, tried to secure passage for us on the next flight. A half hour later we were led from the vans to a small crowded terminal. We were coached to keep a low profile, which was difficult given the spectacle of our gear and climbing clothes. As well, we towered in height over the average Indonesian. There was chatter and staring. We smiled. Then Roger , who had been absent-mindedly swinging his daypack around and bumping people, took out his camera. The next thing we knew security was removing us from the terminal to wait in a cargo shed out near the airstrip. There Roger tried to strike up a friendly conversation about firearms with the security guard standing watch over us. In general it is ill-advised to gesture toward the weapon of a man who does not speak your language. Again there was tension which we all labored to smother with smiles and light-hearted laughter.

Our flight to Sugapa gave us our first good look at the topography we would be working with, a lush green series of ridges that qued up like dinner plates in a drying rack. Rivers gathered from myriad tributaries reaching up the valley walls. There was no sign of civilization. Not even a village hut. The top of one hill had been scraped away to create a flat area. This was our landing strip, a dirt and gravel runway. We were greeted by an audience of local Dani tribe members, who still marvel at the sight of aircraft landing and taking off. One of the Schmidt boys, Nano, said a man shook his hand as he stepped off the plane and offered "Welcome to the other side of nowhere."