Lessons Learned from Failing to Summit the Tallest Mountain in the Americas by 400 Feet
My plane touches down in Argentina at 6:30 am. I’m in a daze as we taxi to the jetway. The nonstop turbulence from Miami to Mendoza and the conjectures of a conspiracy theorist two seats over feel like a dizzy dream. The faint murmurs of American mountaineers gradually bring me to life. They have come to South America for the same reason I have — to attempt to summit Mount Aconcagua, the tallest mountain outside Asia.
I arrive at the Park Hyatt as my driver, Sylvio, a 40-something local, tells me there was a heat wave in the city the day before that claimed the lives of thirteen people. The vacant streets and closed storefronts that are a trademark of South American Sundays reveal no sign of the carnage that swept through the heart of Argentina’s wine country. I don’t know if I believe Sylvio, or perhaps I choose not to.
I wander the city for several hours to shake off my jet lag before finding a park at the end of a long avenue. I try to nap on a grassy knoll, but my rambling thoughts keep me awake. I stare at a mid-morning sky peppered with clouds that resemble cotton balls as joggers and young couples walk the trail nearby. I mentally review the gear checklist, waivers, and fees each climber was sent weeks ago. There’s an angst that belies my poise. I feel less as though I’ve forgotten something and more that I don’t quite grasp the scope of what I’ve signed up for.
My adventures, however impulsive they appear, are carefully crafted to push me beyond my perceived limitations. But the self-imposed tests of mettle and grit always come later than I would prefer. Like Kilimanjaro five years before, my attempt to climb Aconcagua has had false starts and setbacks. COVID-19, milestone family birthdays, and a new job forced me to postpone the expedition for three years. The feeling of finally arriving after years of planning is a familiar one. I have grown accustomed to playing the long game. The opportunities in my life have generally sauntered, not rushed, endowing me with a patience that eluded me in my youth.
At around 5:00 pm, the group of nine gathers in the hotel lobby as our three guides walk us through the first days of the eleven-day expedition. The lead guide is a handsome 43-year-old Argentinian named Millie with dirty blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He is easygoing but doesn’t mince words about the risks of climbing a mountain nearly 23,000 feet in elevation. He introduces his team, which consists of a 32-year-old Chilean named Maurizio and a late 30-something from Mendoza named Carlos. Maurizio, affectionately known as Mauri, is pleasant and funny, while Carlos is kind but doesn’t suffer fools. I am struck by how none of the men appear to be especially fit before realizing I don’t know what a mountaineering guide is supposed to look like.
The drive from Mendoza to Aconcagua Provincial Park is three hours. After taking a group photo in front of the hotel, we pile into a large van. My fellow mountaineers' unique backgrounds and good nature do not surprise me. You meet interesting people while doing strange and niche things with your time.
There is Tara — the heart and soul of the group. At 6'1, she seems exceptionally tall walking the streets of Mendoza. She is an outgoing and energetic 33-year-old consultant from the Netherlands who has lived in Lebanon for seven years.
Shimer is a Chinese national who decided to move to the United Arab Emirates three years ago. Her tranquility and quiet self-assurance instantly put everyone at ease.
Jody is a quirky and lovable 40-something doctor from New York City whose defining trait is chiming into conversations she is not a part of, often while sitting on the opposite side of the room.
Katia is the youngest member of the team. She is a bright and self-aware nineteen-year-old medical student from Los Angeles, whom we quickly become protective of.
Padmaja is a soft-spoken and thoughtful 50-something from New Jersey who accompanied her friend, Vinny, a gregarious 51-year-old father of two.
Tongay is a concert pianist from Paris in his early 30s whose compassion and sensitivity belie a quiet grit and determination.
Finally, there is Steffen, whom Millie nicknames “the machine.” Steffen is a German national in his mid-30s who has lived in New York City for the past eleven years. He is brilliant and straightforward, holding a Ph.D. from Columbia University. Having summited Denali and Vinson, he tells the group during our first-day introductions that he is climbing Aconcagua to prepare for Mount Everest in May. I can’t help but think he is the only one among us for whom Aconcagua is merely a warm-up. His tall and wiry frame is nothing imposing, but he is undoubtedly the group's strongest and most experienced climber.
We arrive at Aconcagua Provincial Park in the late morning and begin our walk with daypacks and light coats, while our gear is transported by a pack of tireless mules followed by an arriero. Our journey starts at an elevation of nearly 10,000 feet, which is my first day of acclimatization. I later discovered that I was the only group member who did not request the hypoxia tent, a sealed space sent to your home that simulates altitude conditions. While everyone spent the last two months attuning their bodies to the demands of climbing with less oxygen, I trained in a city 200 feet above sea level with practically no hills. “Why didn’t you get the tent?” Steffen asks me one night before dozing off. “I didn’t know about it,” I tell him. “It was on the PDF they sent us,” he explains.
The group begins the four-mile hike together but soon becomes staggered. Personalities start to reveal themselves on an uphill but mostly merciful first day. I spend most of the morning up front speaking to Millie, asking him questions about everything from growing up in Argentina to how he became a mountain guide. He is gracious and forthcoming, occasionally pausing to ensure he understands my English. He tells me the best part of his job is meeting clients from around the world, reassuring me that my curiosity is not a nuisance.
We reach the first base camp of the expedition in the late afternoon. Our trek to Confluencia is the shortest walk of the trip and the only time we will sleep in the same tent as a group. I try to nap before dinner, but the altitude has left me with a throbbing headache, and the tent is unbearably hot. I toss and turn before discovering Katia is the only other person in the tent. We talk for the next hour or so about everything from religion to the meaning of life. The symbolism of climbing a mountain is not lost on either of us; our reasons for doing such a rigorous and strange thing with our time feel similar despite the nearly twenty-five-year gap between us. She is insightful and wise beyond her years, though I sense her early successes and career path belie an uncertainty about navigating a life so young.
Breakfast is served at 6:00 am the following day in a large tent shaped like a children’s climbing dome. Walking zombies bundled in parkas and ski hats roam in and out of a cumbersome metal framed door. The temperature is in the 30s as people sip coffee and nibble on pastries. The group of nine has already become eight, as Padmaja has decided to turn around. The altitude has sapped her energy and left her with a headache that will not surrender. Vinny tries to encourage her to push on, but she is firm in her decision.
Skittish mules with gas tanks and giant duffle bags draped across their backs gallop past us. Trying to spot our backpacks becomes a game. I marvel at how sure-footed the mules are, inching up and down steep trails and loose rocks challenging for even the most adept hiker. We walk in a valley framed by glorious peaks and snow-capped mountains that only illuminate how small we all are. I feel as though I’m walking through an Ansel Adams photograph.
The wind becomes a reliable companion, cutting hard across the vast canyon for nearly eight hours straight. Few words are exchanged as we journey in formation, and the sound of wind against gore-tex becomes a familiar tune. Later that evening, Millie tells us that the wind might compromise our chances of reaching the summit. “We’ll wait and see,” he says.
We arrive in Plaza de Mulas at about 4:00 p.m. and are wrapped in warm hugs by the staff. The base camp is a small city of about a hundred tents, bustling with mountaineers and mules coming and going. The camp is a melting pot of different cultures from all over the world. I hear Mandarin, Russian, French, and Hebrew on a short walk to the communal tent. There is even an art gallery showcasing the paintings and sketches of an artist named Miguel, who moonlights as a climber. According to the Guinness Book of World Records, his gallery is the highest in the world.
There is also a large dirt patch where helicopters land to drop off supplies and transport the weary who don’t want to walk the final two legs of the journey home. I’m told the eight-minute ride costs $800. I feel like a boy as I watch one helicopter after another touchdown, the staff hustling and transporting people and supplies like the pit crew at a Formula 1 race. It is poetry in motion and a good way to pass the time.
My body is exhausted, but my spirit is energized as we complete the second-longest day of the expedition. At 14,500 feet, I grow winded by small movements like walking to the toilet or removing layers from my weary body. Soon, we are ushered into a tent where medics check our heart rates to ensure we’re fit to continue. I’m half convinced they’ll send me home. Thankfully, we all pass.
The wind thrashes violently against the tent all night. I worry the guy lines will tear or be pried from under the large rocks holding them down. I look over at Steffen, who is dead asleep, unfazed by the commotion. He may as well be at the Four Seasons or swinging on a hammock. The wind never abates, but I gradually grow comfortable being uncomfortable. My eyes grow heavy as the clamor outside rocks me to sleep.
The next day, we go to Camp 1, also known as ‘Canada.’ It sits at just over 16,000 feet. Steffen and I are the only ones who have decided not to hire porters, opting to carry all our gear instead. I reach the top just behind Steffen, which is as exhausting as rewarding. After dropping off our belongings, we return to Plaza de Mulas to acclimate. Mauri tells me to think of adapting to the high altitude like the teeth of a saw — up and then back down.
There is a fulfilling sense of accomplishment when we return. Though I’m seasoned enough to know the climb will become more grueling, I’m confident, however briefly, that I will reach the summit. I’m also comforted by the sense of ease in the communal tent as faces are buried in touchscreens while others take turns standing before a propane heater. After dinner, Tara and I have a spirited conversation about love and the tendency to conflate it with infatuation. It dawns on me that this, not the climb itself, is the entire point of being here: participating in a community.
The following day, I stumble out of my tent for something warm to drink. My throat is sore, and my head is throbbing. Not feeling well in the morning is a tradeoff I’ve already learned to accept, but I worry about whether I’ll be well enough to climb today. Gradually, the camp comes to life. We have breakfast together before taking down our tents and posing for a group photo. Today is considered the first actual day of the expedition. There will be no more acclimatizing. For the next week, the only direction will be up.
Climbing back to Camp 1 feels significantly easier today. My bag is lighter, and the day off has benefitted the team. We move steadily as Millie, Carlos, and Mauri alternate from the lead position. The group is staggered with Steffen, Tara, and me upfront while Shimer, Katia, and Jody move slowly in the rear of the line. Breaks are a chance for water, snacks, and a little ribbing while gazing out toward the stunning snow-capped peaks of the Andes. Porters pass with ease, carrying enough gear for three mere mortals. “Hola,” they say, without breaking a sweat before disappearing above the clouds.
The following day, we leave at 10:00 a.m. We begin the hike at 5,500 meters, nearly Kilimanjaro's altitude. I struggle from the beginning, opting again to carry some communal gear alone. My bag feels heavier today, and the elevation is making it harder for me to breathe. I watch as the group marches on; soon, even Jody and Shimer are out of sight. Mauri hangs back, ensuring I reach the top. I apologize profusely for holding him up, but he tells me not to worry. Still, I can tell my pace has become a red flag. I know each guide has been watching us, however gradually, to decide if we’re fit enough to climb the summit on the final day. I’ll need to redeem myself.
Camp 2 has a communal tent, which proves crucial for the group's morale. We play dice and share a warm meal as Millie checks the weather forecast. The winds seem to wane and then return, leaving our prospects of climbing the summit in doubt. Millie tells us we’ll rest the following day, suggesting we use the time off to learn how to use our crampons.
Time slows when you are thousands of feet above sea level on the side of a mountain. Journaling and reading in a cramped tent have a shelf life, while opportunities for solitude are limited. I take short walks in my stiff mountaineering boots, occasionally pausing to take in the vast space of nothingness. My thoughts vacillate from the profound to the trivial. One moment, I wonder if there’s still time to see and do all the things I have planned for the remainder of my life, and the next, I’m thinking about the first meal I’ll have when I get home. Your hangups and frailties follow you wherever you go, no matter where you try to hide.
The night before Christmas Eve, I toss and turn for hours. At this altitude, rolling over in my sleeping bag is enough to make me winded. Climbing a mountain means almost always being uncomfortable. The expedition is humbling in countless ways, from cold feet to altitude sickness to not shaving or bathing for a week. A 3:00 am nature call means negotiating whether or not to bundle up and walk to a makeshift stall in the frigid cold or hold it until dawn. Lying in my tent one evening, I wonder how I would describe the feeling of climbing a mountain. The word “fun” feels as far as the summit. I value the satisfaction of doing something hard — avoiding comfort and living life rather than conceptualizing it. Whether happiness is somehow a byproduct matters less than starting and finishing something a part of you didn’t think you could do.
We begin the climb to Camp 3 at about 10:00 a.m. I have the worst headache of the expedition and have serious doubts about continuing. Within less than a minute, the straps on my bag feel too tight, and the weight distribution is uneven. The bag is fastened to my body so firmly that I have trouble breathing. I drop from second to last as my objective shifts from being one of the first to reach the camp to just surviving the day. It dawns on me that grit and heart may not be enough. I am missing the extra gear to push my frame higher into the sky. Yet, somehow, hours later, I am standing at Camp 3 with just one day of the climb left before reaching the summit.
Millie and Mauri make the rounds that evening, checking on each us. They tell a few people they likely will not make it to the summit and advise them not to attempt the climb the following day. As Mauri brings a bowl of bland pasta to our tent, I await the same admonishment. Somehow, it never comes, and I’m cleared to climb.
I don’t sleep well the night before the final climb. The pressure of making it to the top feels as heavy as my gear. I think of all the people I’ve told I’m climbing Aconcagua and dread the possibility of telling them I fell short. I know better, but it’s hard not to equate failing to reach the top with some character flaw or semblance of self-worth. However warped my logic may be, I can’t completely shed my conditioning.
I remind myself of the Swahili motto for climbing Kilimanjaro—words I uttered under my breath for days before making it to the summit in time to watch the sunrise over Kenya: “Poli, Poli,” — slowly, slowly. I unzip the tent to find a sea of headlamps dancing across the otherwise pitch-black snow. They look like searchlights in pursuit of an escaped inmate. The first few hours of the climb go well. I maintain pace, just behind Steffen, as my doubts gradually abate. I start to think I might make it after all. During breaks, Millie and Carlos share updates on who’s turned back. By mid-day, we’re informed that Jodi and Shimer have returned to camp.
The day's first test is a steep incline covered in tightly packed snow. Carlos tells us we’ll need to put on our crampons, which proves nearly impossible on loose gravel on the side of a mountain. He tries to help me clasp the steel spikes to my boot, but they slip off with each attempt. His patience has waned like most of my strength. He curses in Spanish like some disgruntled father. Eventually, I stop sliding long enough to place both crampons on and begin my way up the sharp slope. I zig-zag the length of a football field vertically before reaching gravel again and a place to rest. I look down the mountain and see Vinny and Tara are gone. Half of the original group remains, including Tongay, Katia, Steffen, and me.
By the time I reach a resting place, I am so spent that I don’t have the energy to remove my crampons. Even as the gravel moves beneath me, I am content to be still. I must rise on my shaky legs soon because time is running out to reach the summit. A common misconception about climbing is that the most significant risks lie in the ascent, but coming down is often more dangerous because most of your energy has been expended going up. Three people died climbing Aconcagua last year, and at least one because he defied the warnings of his guide to turn back. The compulsion to reach the top at any cost, also known as “summit fever,” is especially risky when the end is in sight.
As I push down on my poles and rise to my feet, I see Millie and Steffen bolt up the mountain as if the first hours of the climb were a warm-up. Meanwhile, Mauri remains with Tongay, Katia, and me as we hike the second-to-last leg of the climb. Tongay and Mauri are nearly fifty yards ahead, while Katia trails behind me by roughly the same distance. I can see Tongay is exhausted, but his soft-spoken and reserved demeanor conceals a resolve that indicates he finishes what he begins. Katia is slow but consistent. Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks tired but otherwise poised. By now, I am running on sheer grit, but I am encouraged by what I can see for the first time in over a week — the summit.
Mauri and Tongay are perched on a pair of stones when I reach them beneath an overarching rock. Mauri waits for Katia before telling the two of us to turn around. “You won’t make it at the pace you’re going,” he says. My heart sinks before something starts to stir within. My mind flashes back to the six months of training, the red-eye flights, missing Christmas with my aging parents, and the relentless discomfort of not being able to breathe or sleep without a migraine for days on end. What was it all for? I wonder. “I would still like to try,” I tell him. “I can keep up.” Katia echoes my sentiments as Mauri rises and Tongay follows. He says, “Okay,” resignedly, in a way we both understand there will be no handholding — that we must keep up or turn around.
For the first few minutes, I keep pace with Mauri and Tongay as they navigate around the last rocks before the final path that leads to the summit. The three of us rest as I try to conceal my exhaustion. Just as Katia joins us, Mauri and Tongay begin the final ascent. I follow closely behind when my crampons become dislodged from my boots. I expend energy I don’t have trying to get them back on before deciding to drag them as the straps remain tangled precariously around my ankles.
I cannot shuffle more than two steps without pausing to collect my breath. My frustration mounts as I see one climber after another reach the summit. Then, the unexpected happens. Katia passes me, her stride slow but consistent. “Come on, Nick,” she says. We can make it.” I nod and tell her I’ll be right behind her.
Twenty minutes pass, and I’m idle nearly the entire time. Katia is now within sixty feet of reaching the top when I see Mille and Steffen descend from the summit and start to make their way toward her. Please don’t make her turn around, I think. She’s so close. The three of them are nearly 400 feet away, yet their words pierce the crisp air clear enough for me to hear every word. “Congratulations, Katie,” I hear Millie say. “You made it.” He tells her not to spend too long at the summit and that we must head back to camp soon.
I try to hasten my stride as Millie and Steffen head to me. I’m convinced Millie will let me go if I can get closer. My theory proves wrong when the two stop me in my tracks. “I’m sorry, Nico, but you have to turn around.” By now, the altitude has clouded my thinking and compromised my decorum. “But, I’m so close!” I say, pleading for Mille to change his mind. Even in my frazzled state, I know he won’t budge — that in his twenty-two years of leading expeditions, he’s heard it all before. He keeps his poise but is firm in his decision.
I turn around and almost collapse instantly. “No bueno,” I hear Steffen say. My legs feel like jelly as we descend a sea of jagged rocks. Part of my frustration has altered into relief, yet I can barely stand, let alone walk, even if the remainder of my journey is downhill. This infuriates Millie, causing him to lose grace for the first time since we’ve met. “Nico! What’s wrong with you, bro?! How can you be so selfish?!” I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry. Steffen takes my bag as Millie wraps a strap around my waist, guiding me down the mountain like some unruly dog.
He steers me to the same overarching rock where Mauri warned Katia and me to turn around. His words now seem eerily foreboding, echoing with profound resonance. Millie tells me to sit down as he contacts Carlos from his walkie-talkie. Steffen stands by awaiting word on how he can help. His role has shifted from tourist to the fourth guide. Carlos joins us as Millie brings him up to speed. “Okay, Nico,” Millie says. His voice is now even-keel, and his poise back intact. “We’re going to give you a shot so we can get you home,” he tells me. Carlos then injects me with a dose of steroids just below my left hip then tells me to sit and wait.
After fifteen minutes, I start to come to life, much to the relief of everyone, especially myself. As much as I hate the idea of steroid compounds coursing through my body, they have given me a second life and a chance to be less of a burden. Yet, despite my artificial vitality, I still need to be sure-footed enough to navigate the steep ascent. It is soon apparent that I am not. Carlos takes the reins from Millie, who returns to the summit for Katia and begins guiding me down the mountain.
I walk as if in a drunken stupor, more than once coming perilously close to tipping over a precipice. Carlos tightens the reins while unleashing some tough love. “Nicholas!” he barks. “Come on!” An hour later, my stride is steady enough to convince him the strap around my waist is no longer necessary. We reach camp shortly after sunset. The first person I see is Tara, who can see I’m exhausted but mostly devastated. I hug her tall frame, and she breaks down in my arms. This was her second attempt at climbing Aconcagua, which makes falling short especially heartbreaking.
As disheartened as I am, I know there is still business to settle. I must apologize to Millie, Mauri, and Carlos for my behavior and hubris. I go to the communal tent and ask if I can speak to the three of them privately. They oblige, stepping outside as wary climbers pass by. “I wanted to apologize to the three of you. I should have listened to Mauri when he told me to go back. I let my ego compromise the safety of the team. That was inexcusable, and I am sorry.” The three are grateful for my words and tell me not to worry. “It’s okay, Nico,” Millie says before offering a hug.
The walk to my tent feels long. I dread facing Steffen because I feel as though I let him down. Nearly eight years my junior, I still wanted to earn the respect of someone so talented at climbing. The two of us have gotten along well the past several days. We’ve spoken late into the night as the wind howled outside our cramped tent while also finding comfort in the long silences that marked the evenings of demanding days. Still, we are different in distinct ways. Unlike me, he is direct and unsentimental, so I am surprised when the first words of comfort come from him. “You gave it everything you had and came within 400 feet of summiting the tallest mountain in the Americas. That’s not failing,” he tells me.
Spirits are up as we head back down. The team's gear and morale feel lighter knowing that the daily comforts we often take for granted are within a few days’ hike. We hurl good-natured jabs at one another while posing for pictures with backdrops that look as though they were photoshopped. My thoughts are still tethered to the last day’s climb, but my mind offers a long enough respite to appreciate my good fortune of spending time with a group of people who will likely never be together again.
The realization that one day, not so long from now, the days behind will outnumber the ones ahead has also given me perspective on what matters most. Though reaching the summit would have been deeply fulfilling, the feeling would have been fleeting, and the lessons gained not nearly as meaningful, namely, that what one achieves is not nearly as important as who one becomes in the process. I’ll need to remember this when I return.
