Altitude:1, Ben:0

I could see the lights of the city Cayambe thousands of feet below.  They were glowing orange like lava; And against their glow I could see the outline of the rocky ridge I was laying on.  I glanced up at the unfamiliar constellations and felt again a pushing from my stomach.  My head felt like a half-chopped piece of firewood with a wedge still lodged in it.  I was on my side, my legs in the mud and I turned and vomited again, melting a hole into the patch of snow by my head.  "I groaned a frustrated "Uhhhhhhhhhh!" when I could breath again.

I rested a while longer and drifted off a moment.  I awoke to the taste of bile in my mouth, knowing I needed to keep descending, so I pulled off my glove and turned the headlamp back on.  The rocks and mud and snow zoomed close in a circle of white.  I wiped my nose on my glove and saw pieces of rice and chicken smeared across it's finger.  Another profound "Uhhhhh!", then I stood up, shouldered my pack, and trudged on.  Before the mountain Cayambe was hidden behind the ridge, I turned and stared back at its pale, hulking mass.  Yellow specks of light were still ascending the lower glacier.  I silently wished them luck and continued.

This is what came out my nose

I had prayed earnestly to God to help me acclimate faster and not be affected by the thin air.  I had done my best to have faith.  "Faith can move mountains, surely it can climb mountains," I had thought.  His answer was probably acetazolamide, the medicine Dad had told me about.  But I chose not to use it just to see if my body could acclimate without it.  It couldn't.

I laid down again in the mud and the pulsing in my head grew stronger.  "Again?! I don't have anything left to throw up!"  When I was finished, I spit into the mud and rested my forehead on my glove breathing heavily.  I lifted my head and saw my headlamp's beam stopped short by the clouds that now concealed the ridge.  "Where is the hut?  It's gotta be close?"

I knew I would get through the immediate circumstances just fine.  I was uncomfortable, but not in any significant danger.  I had a clear trail of footprints to follow, I had a radio, I had warm enough layers to easily sleep there all night.  The altitude sickness was uncomfortable, but not dangerous at that point.  I was miserable, but mainly I was concerned about the future courses I had to lead.  "What if my body will never acclimate?  What if I can never climb at high altitude?  How am I supposed to lead the mountaineering aspect of these courses?  Summit Adventure will have to pay more money for local guides because of my stupid body."  

The new headlamp Dad got me has a super-bright, burn a hole through paper, setting I hadn't used yet.  I remembered this feature and pressed the button for it.  The beam cut through the cloud and shone bright against a stone wall.  "That's one less thing to worry about."  I slept in a hut bunk until daylight.

I woke up feeling significantly better.  Apparently sleeping at altitude is the fastest way to acclimate.  I hadn't been able to sleep before the climb.  I just laid on the bunk breathing.  Every breath was a conscious decision.  "Make your chest go up.  Good.  Let it go down." So I was never able to sleep.  When I awoke in the sunlit hut that morning after my descent, I felt much, much better.  The headache was gone and I felt rested.  

As I sat in the sun, looking out at the broken blue seracs, the glaciers, the cloud-obscured ridges, a strong disappointment seeped into me.  "I could have gone further.  I could have pushed myself harder.  I gave up.  I quit."  I grappled with these thoughts all morning.  "Could I have gone further?  Why was I weaker than everyone else, even the participants? Will I ever be able to climb high altitude peaks?  What am I going to do on the next course?"

Around noon, I got news from our driver that the team was descending the final ridge.  I walked out into the parking area and watched them descend to the hut, their helmets gleaming and ice axes sticking out from their packs at awkward angles. 

All the students made it to the summit.  They came down off that ridge meek and quiet.  I perceived a sense of awe--awe of the mountain and awe of themselves doing what they thought they could not do.  Watching a sunrise from the top of the world. They didn't escape the thin air unscathed either; One participant vomited on the summit, another had diarrhea in his pants.  

 I am proud to say that I was very happy for them to have made it to the Summit, but, as you can tell from my writing, I would lie if I said I did not feel a strong sense of loss and separation.  I wanted to see the ice caves and windblown ridges at 19,000 feet.  I wanted to walk where men can only walk by passing through suffering.  I did not know if I had given up too early.  I had no signs of HAPE or HACE.

The drive back to Quito is three hours.  It begins at the hut in the rugged, lonely country of broken rock, glacial silt, and snow.  The land cruisers are shaken like cardboard boxes by the boulder-ridden switchbacks of the road, until they descend into the enormous foothills of the mountain.  The hills would be mountains in Indiana.  They are covered in drab yellow and gray grass and wet clouds slide over them all day.  Eventually the road turns to cobblestone and remains so for many miles.  Pastures and villages emerge along the road, and villagers stop to stare into the vehicles as we pass.  I remember a lady in a crimson shawl walking on a steep pasture with her cattle.  Clouds flew low over her head.

I tried to sleep in the Land Cruiser but couldn't.  The windows were open so that occasional raindrops peppered my arm.  I waved to the people we passed and smiled.  Some were Quechua women wrapped in colorful shawls and skirts, always topped with a fedora.  Usually they waved back and offered tenuous smiles.  Two tiny children, probably brother and sister, ran along the road with plastic, american backpacks.  They were so small it looked like the backpacks had sprouted arms and legs and were running down the road.  As we passed them, I saw their dark faces inlaid with bright eyes and wide, white smiles.

I let the wind blow against my face and enjoyed the absence of conversation.

In a couple of days a new set of students will show up here in Quito.  Just like last week, we'll be working with a ministry called Remanso de Amor (Heaven of Love) adding a fourth floor to a school, going on home visits with social workers, and teaching English at a school.  We'll also be attempting to climb Cayambe again.  Half the course is service, half mountaineering.  Both offer excellent opportunities for growth in the students (and myself).  I'm praying and hoping that God will choose to use these experiences to work in the students that come here.  I can see he's working in me, often in ways that are difficult and hurt, that's a big reason why i came down here; but it's harder to see when he's working in other people.  I'd appreciate any prayers for the students down here, for Remanso de Amor (who is struggling a lot financially right now), and for me.  I'll be armed with a fistful of altitude medicine pills, more experience, and a greater appreciation of the culture this time around.  Feel free to write me an email anytime.  I'd love to hear from you.

ben