When you arrive to the La Paz airport, you are essentially sitting atop the highest of the peaks in the Lower 48. Once you walk outside, or onto the tarmac, you get a feeling for why Bolivia is such a dramatic and special place. On the horizon to the north and west you see nothing but flatness, the "Altiplano". This leads out to Lake Titicaca, and eventually drops off to Chile. If you look south, once again you see only one thing, but it is a giant wall of white. Illamani sits directly behind the city of La Paz, guarding it from the Amazon Basin which lies behind it. It is the southernmost peak in the Cordillera Real, or Royal Range, of the Bolivian Andes. At 21,350 feet, it is the second highest mountain in the Cordillera, and one of the ten highest in the Americas, topping even America's fabled Denali. On May 17th I headed off as part of a 3 man team to climb it.

"The next morning we woke up and looked at each other slightly worried. Although we were only at Base Camp, we had both not slept well as a result of the cold...."

Climbing is easy to write about, and easy to describe. The insatiable pull I have towards snowcaps, and being up on them, is not. I have spent a sizeable chunk of my vacation days as a PCV with RPCV Bob Benson freezing our asses off at elevations where breaths are hard to come by. However I have no regrets in doing so, and some of my most amazing memories from Bolivia have come above 18,000 feet.

I knew that this years climbing season would be no different, and a trip would have to go. I suppose Illamani came together because it simply had to be done. You cannot go anywhere in Bolivia without seeing its image. The main radio station in the country is called "Illamani". There are little restaurants in the far corner of the Bolivian Amazon called "Illamani". It is the national emblem as much as the White House (or a Wal-Mart) identifies the United States. We had to do it. All of our other trips as PCV's and before (Bob throughout Europe and myself in Alaska and New Zealand) had led us to Illamani. It was slightly lower in elevation than what we had done, and slightly less technical as well. However, it combined a level of technical and elevation challenges we had not yet come across. It was the logical next step in a sport with no logic.

For a while it looked like we'd have to bag the trip. I had come down on Bob's foot in a heated basketball game on the blacktop of Tarija, and torn my ankle to bits. It was so severe I was sent to the U.S. on med-evac to be examined by doctors. This was a month before our summit bid began. I came back to Bolivia off crutches, but weak and out of shape. We tried to convince ourselves we'd just play it by ear, all along knowing that unless my ankle fell off, we'd be going. So, go we did. Along with Bob and I was a Bolivian friend, Juan Villaroel, an amazing fellow, and super climber who was the first Bolivian to summit Aconcagua, the highest peak in the world outside the Himalaya. Juan runs a great outfitter agency in La Paz called Azimut, and has given us excellent support with all of our other mountaineering trips while in Bolivia. He also has the only pair of boots in Bolivia, which would fit Bob's size 12 foot! We departed La Paz feeling confident, especially having Juan with us on the team.

"This was a major difference in this climbing trip for us - people die on Illamani...."

We left May 17th, which is at the very start of the climbing season in Bolivia. Not ideal timing because the snow is still very soft, and is prone to fall in on you when you put your wait on it. However, it is safe weather wise, as storms are virtually non-existent until the rainy season rolls back in. With my wedding set for June 5th, and Bob the best man, we made our plans as late as we could before departing to the States, and took off as the 5th trip of the year. One team had summited, and there was another group on the mountain who we would see at Base Camp who also summited. Two trips isn't much, but it was enough to give us a small trail to follow, and combined with Juan's knowledge, a solid idea of the route to the summit.

The drive out to Estancia Una, where the walk up to Base Camp begins, is stunning. You climb up through Zona Sur and come to a saddle which overlooks La Paz behind you, and Illamani out in front. Below it lies wonderful green valleys, and the town of Palca. In many ways you feel like you are off to the Yungas, and not to Illamai. You follow contours along lovely green valley walls, with water rushing below, and seemingly every type of fruit and vegetable growing. However, soon you begin climbing up again, and enter a steep valley which winds it's way towards the base of Illamani. The road narrows to a bumpy one-laner before petering out in Estancia Una, a storybook village of about 250 souls, many of whom work on the mountain as porters, cooks, or guides.

From Estancia Una we walked up the valley for about three hours before reaching a large flat area at 16,000 feet where Base Camp lies. It is a wonderful Base Camp, topped only by Condoriri, and affords amazing views of the mountain and the route to the summit. The next morning we woke up and looked at each other slightly worried. Although we were only at Base Camp, we had both not slept well as a result of the cold. Base Camp, and the entire route up Illamani for that matter, stays in the shaded Southwestern Face of the mountain for the majority of the early morning hours. These precious hours are the ones we would be using to climb. Since we were going higher up the mountain, it would only get colder. We decided not to talk about it too much, but to hurry up and get moving. The three of us left Base Camp and began a five hour trip up loose scree to High Camp. Scree is a slog, especially on a bum ankle, but patience paid off, and we advanced quickly.

High Camp is a place called "Nido de Condores". It sits at 17,500 feet, and gives an amazing view of the Altiplano, and La Paz itself. Even Lake Titicaca is visible. One of the more haunting stories from Illamani also has its roots near Nido de Condores. In 1985 an Eastern Airlines flight coming in from Paraguay just after dark became confused about their level of altitude. The pilots noticed the sky lightening, then realized that the light was in fact snow, and the mountain lay directly in front of them. They pulled the throttle back, attempting to clear the summits, but the tail clipped the Pico Centro (Central Summit), and the plane tore to pieces. There were no survivors. The glacier next to Nido de Condores houses the wreckage of the plane.

Nido is where the snow line begins for the route we chose, and also the site of several large iron crosses marking the spot where 5 years ago a group of five Chileans fell off the mountain, still roped together. This was a major difference in this climbing trip for us - people die on Illamani. While deaths are common in Andean climbing, and on some of our other peaks (Hyana Potosi 1996, Sajama 1997), the technical difficulty and simple cold of Illamani makes it much more common. We knew it from the start, and it was the unspoken thing we carried with us up the mountain. Turning around would not have been a problem, but nobody wants to do it.

"Illamani is steep. In the almost 4000 feet from Nido de Condores to the summit, there are 2 flat places where one can stand and rest. All other resting has to be done suspended from a fairly steep wall...."

We left high camp at 1 o'clock in the morning in -35 degree temperatures. Unfortunately I had come down with a case of giardia and had to make several untimely stops to fight with my harness and pants, and really experience the cold. Bob had it too, and I am sure Juan will never quite understand what was wrong with the gringitos. Eventually we got some momentum, and continued up.

Illamani is steep. In the almost 4000 feet from Nido de Condores to the summit, there are 2 flat places where one can stand and rest. All other resting has to be done suspended from a fairly steep wall. Because we had chosen to go so early in the season, powdery snow often found us making a "two steps forward-one step back" type of progression, as we slid in the soft powder. Most climbing on Illamani is done at a 60-70 degree angle, and involves using the front points of the crampons. Needless to say this is not conducive to resting. So we plugged on up the southwest face, watching the sky turn purple, realizing that because we were climbing the shaded side, we would not be able to warm up until the summit, if in fact we made it. This was a grim thought, as fingers and toes were beginning to lose feeling, and all of our water supply, as well as sunscreen, had frozen solid.

At 8 o'clock we crossed the widest crevasse and made a 20 foot climb of a completely vertical wall. This was the hardest part of the climb both technically and physically for us. We spent a good half an hour standing at the wall, with no noticeable route to follow, trying to determine our best strategy. What we ended up with was relatively comic, but successful. We had two challenges: how to clear a 4 foot wide crevasse, and then connect ourselves to a 90 degree wall and climb it. Being the shortest and lightest, we decided to use me as a step. I would piggyback both Bob and Juan, then lean across the crevasse, resting against the wall. They would then attach their axes and crampons into the wall, often using my head for the final step, then climb the 20 vertical feet. Once secured at the top, they pulled me across the crevasse, and onto the wall so I could complete the climb myself. After making it we all crumpled over our axes and caught what breath we could to finish the climb. We were exhausted, and standing at 20,000 feet.

"Above 20,000 feet the body begins to shut down selected organs and muscles in an attempt to find oxygen...."

However, at 8:30 we were on the summit ridge in the sunlight. The next 200 steps probably took us an hour. Above 20,000 feet the body begins to shut down selected organs and muscles in an attempt to find oxygen. For us, the legs and brain started to dim. Nobody spoke. It just took too much energy and our faces were pretty frozen as well. Despite the challenges, at 9:15 on a beautifully clear Andean morning, we stood on the summit looking at what seemed like all of Bolivia. Summits are always quiet and the celebration you talked about at Base and High Camps, never really materializes until you are in a warm hotel, or at least the hell off the summit. You are essentially reduced to a group of laconic second graders, standing around looking at one another. After some photos and smiles, we turned and started walking, not stopping until 8 o'clock at night, when we crawled into our sleeping bags at Base Camp, and passed out.

The next day we drove into La Paz. We were worked. The cold had burned the nerves in our fingers, making our fingers (3 for Bob and 2 for me) useless and without feeling for at least the next few months. Our cheeks were charred from sunburn and wind damage, and our bodies were so totally dehydrated from having no water that we couldn't seem to get enough down. Finally the words to match the situation appeared. I looked over at a leathery faced Bob and told him, "I am hanging up the axes for a while". He nodded and laughed, telling me he had come to the same decision about 4 o'clock in the morning on our way up, probably in one of the moments when giardia was striking.

It was an amazing experience, and I feel so fortunate to have had the opportunity to climb on Illamani, and to have had a successful trip. However, I will not climb any more this season. When I climb again next year, it will be in the midst of climbing season, in ideal conditions, on something a little lower. My dreams of Himalayan climbing are now on the back burner and even Aconcagua, which was planned for January of 2000, doesn't sound good. Sounds too cold. I am ready to take up sports like: hot tubbing, coffee drinking, and showering. Illamani was an experience I will not forget, but the axes are up on the wall for now. Or at least that is what I keep telling myself.

—Ken Goodson, MountainZone.com Pubster