From Ridge Camp looking South towards the Pole Photo: Robert M. Anderson

Round I

Looking at the Face straight on it doesn't look laid back; it actually does look straight up. I learn later that nobody else really comprehended that we were going to go right up the center of the face. Maybe that was better. It did look pretty steep. I had told them it was only 30 plus degrees in angle. Okay, maybe it was a little more, which is why we all had two ice tools. "Don't be a fool, carry two tools."

The glacier rolled up towards the mountain, a gentle glide with the sleds tagging along mindfully for once. Sun shining, breezes blowing. On each side of us the ridges leading to Vinson rose up and we settled in between them, becoming part of the mountain. Occasionally the glacier cracked up, gaping holes looming into blue depths, skied over on bridges that linked us to the heights. At the head of the glacier we hung a right and the slope just allowed us to creep up onto the ridge where it connects to the Mountain above.

It was a magic rounded ridge, room for the tents and to stretch the legs. Best of all it connected directly to the mountain, gained us 500 feet from the foot of the glacier and provided a highway to the heights. On the far side from where we came up, the ridge droped straight down into another glacier - so we rested, suspended on the ridge, glaciers falling away on both sides, Face rising in our face.

A day later we scrambled higher, five on a rope, crampons sharp, picks flashing, real climbing at last. Not steep, not too deep. One thousand feet of vertical in an hour. Maybe we could just do this whole climb in a day? But what about the summit plateau, the two-mile long climb across the top of Antarctica, all at over 15,000 feet with teeth inevitably bared to the wind. But there is no place in between to stop on the climb, a few crevasses dot the route and one snowy peaklet I dub the Snowy Mountain. From far below it is impossible to tell if it could be a campsite, such vagaries in a big mountain usually mean they hide big holes. The only way to know is to go.

So we sleep. And we start. Crampons, overboots, Gore-Tex spacesuits, very dark glasses, very light ice axes, very warm hats. We hit 9,000, then 10,000, then 11,000 feet and the Snowy Mountain. It is a bit flat and not too holey, just big enough for a tent if we should need it, but not this time. Perhaps this time we will just sneak through to the top.

Onward and upward, 12,000, 13,000, 14,000 feet and we climb into the rock band on the upper reaches of the face. Our calves and thighs tell us the climb is very big. We are shrinking. Altitude is expanding our heads, water is depleting. We have had as much heat as cold so far and our personal fuel is running low.

The rock cliffs at the top of the Face now seem oh so close. But the climb, mountain typical turns into icy hard snow and the supposed 30-degree plus angle has now more than doubled. Good snow, but slipping is not an option. The view down between the front points, along the rope, exposes an expansive view, or a very big void, depending on ones confidence in ones crampons.

The final steep headwall is the only escape off the top of the Face so we must do it, squeaking around the final rock cliff and onto a blocky ledge. It is the first real place to unrope in 15 hours and 7,000 vertical feet of climbing. Now of course the cold hits, the wind, a bit of light snow, the first real blast of the true Antarctica, where a few moments of bare skin in the breeze turns skin white. We all admit to being just a bit tired, being the resolute type, but Bob is also extra tired. It is worrying to be so high and have him feel so low. He isn't able to really look after himself as he should. I remind him I can help him get up, but I cannot carry him down.

Robert Anderson, MountainZone.com Correspondent