“Retreat Was Out of the Question”
This story, originally titled “Mushroom Kingdom” appeared in our 2024 print edition of Ascent. You can buy a copy of the magazine here.
A rickety cart clatters down the cobbled street toward the Huaraz indoor market, its driver well hidden by a heaping payload of slaughtered chickens and pigs. Trying not to stare at the iodine-yellow snouts, I follow the cart down a ramp, through a small entrance, and into the labyrinth of underground stalls below. Alik, my compadre, is standing among hanging pieces of cured meat watching the stall’s owner grind an egregious amount of local coffee for our upcoming month in the Cordillera Huayhuash. I hold my breath as I walk through the meat stench toward the golden aroma beyond.
It’s our second time in Peru. In 2017, Alik and I teamed up for 18 days in the Cordillera Blanca. I was ablaze in my early 20s, had little experience at altitude, and didn’t yet respect the dull process of acclimatization. We went from Huaraz (ca. 3,000m) to a 5,000-meter col within several days of landing in Lima and then immediately climbed Alpamayo (5,947m) … and then Quitaraju (6,036m) the following day. The mountain had fluted shards of white granite, which rippled to the north and south, soaring above the equator like the glaciated foam of a breaking wave; great beauty marred slightly by gastrointestinal destruction and a screaming headache. At our bivy, I lay groaning in the tent while Alik, less affected, boiled water and encouraged me to eat.
This time, we want to go to the Blanca’s neighbor, the Cordillera Huayhuash. The two mountain ranges are both tropical, with similar snow features, but the Huayhuash is built on limestone turrets as opposed to the Blanca’s signature granite walls. The limestone can be immaculate or terrible. The Huayhuash is also known for its remoteness and worse weather.
Learning from our 2017 trip, we have planned to acclimatize at a slower pace. It’s Alik’s turn to be sick, and we spend a few weeks making short trips from Huaraz and preparing our equipment for a month in basecamp. We have decided not to hire a private van to Queropalca, the last village before the Huayhuash mountains begin. Instead, we plan to figure out how and if we can pile eight duffels of gear and food onto a bus and later into several different colectivos (small shared vans packed with people), which will take us to Queropalca.
We decide it is worth trying, both for the saved cash and the experience of doing it the local way, thereby engaging more closely with Peru. From Queropalca, those duffles will be carried by arrieros and burros to our basecamp at Laguna Chaclan (4,526m). From there, it is only a few hours walking to the base of the East Face of Jirishanca (ca. 6,000m), the elusive summit of which sits another 1,100 meters above.
The last two-hour leg from Baños to Queropalca is in a cab. Our duffels are tied on top, and five friendly Peruanos are crammed in with us. We’re as chuffed as two self-sufficient gringos could be, but as we roll into the village, the atmosphere changes. We’ve left the land of bright colors for that of rutted roads and country huts. A local gaucho stares us down through the open car window. His leather hat shades his wrinkled face, and there’s not a wisp of kindness on it. He disregards Alik’s friendly hola and walks toward us with locked eyes as we drive away. It’s an unnerving introduction.
I recall the fellow Canadians I met in Huaraz talking about “doing Peru” and then “doing Bolivia next,” as though the places were actions that could be accomplished and left behind. I wonder if it’s them that the gaucho is resentful toward, or maybe it is toward us—the climbers. After all, expedition climbing is often wasteful and conquest-focused. I try to convince myself that our attitude is different and that our impact on these people and this place can be socially and economically positive. But even when we arrive in Queropalca later and find everyone more welcoming, I still can’t get the man’s burning eyes out of my mind.
The Cordillera Huayhuash was a historical stronghold for the left-wing guerilla group Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path). These violent Maoists launched their “people’s war” in the ’80s, and it wasn’t until the end of the century that the government regained control. It was a gruesome time in Peruvian history that left 70,000 people—mostly civilians—dead. Queropalca was under the control of Sendero Luminoso during the war. Though Peru is safer now, I can’t help but wonder if the reverberations of that era still exist.
Due largely to violence, alpine climbing in the Huayhuash slowed significantly from the mid-’80s to the early 2000s. Elsewhere in the world during that era, a bold, lightweight climbing mindset—and huge leaps in equipment standards—allowed climbers to venture onto some of the world’s hardest and steepest walls with little more than what they could carry in a backpack.
Attention returned to the Huayhuash once the violence settled down. The East Face of Jirishanca (6,125m) saw its first alpine-style attempt at the turn of the century, when the local Peruvian guide Aritza Monasterio, along with Slovenians Pavle Kozjek and Marjan Kovac, attempted the left side of the face. They climbed on the steep glacier behind the low left pillar, plowing up snow flutings toward the ridge that connects Jirishanca and Yerupaja Chico (6,121m), hoping to summit via the unbreached headwall, a striking garrison of ice-riddled stone. However the time-consuming nature of deep-snow wallowing exhausted the trio, and they turned back just below the ridge.
That attempt reminded the greater alpine climbing community of Jirishanca’s striking east side, and nine more expeditions were launched up the face in the early 2000s. Only one young French team summited, making them the second party to climb the mountain from the east since Toni Egger and Siegfried Jungmair’s first ascent via the Northeast Ridge in 1957. The French team did not climb in alpine style, but they did climb their route without placing any bolts. Jirishanca hasn’t seen another complete ascent from the east in nearly 20 years, and that’s what Alik and I are hoping to do.
Alik trudges ahead of me, carrying seven days of food back to basecamp. We’ve just bailed on the East Ridge of Yerupaja (6,635m), the tallest mountain in the Huayhuash. We’d hoped to connect unclimbed rock with the monstrous upper right, but we bailed after sprint-dodging a volley of rockfall while roped up on the glacier. Thankfully, we ran in the same direction when we heard the rocks clattering toward us. Bailing on Yerupaja feels liberating in some ways, as we can focus our efforts around Jirishanca, our main objective. We spent the next few days scouting the East Face from basecamp, glued to the binoculars, trying to learn as much about the route as possible.
As we explore the approach to the left side of the East Face, our intended line of ascent, colorful tents start popping up in basecamp. Josh Wharton and Vince Anderson have arrived with Cheyne Lempe, Drew Smith, Chris Alstrin, and Dionicio Huaranga. Everyone’s here to help document Josh and Vince finishing their long-term project Suerte: a not-yet-freed and not-yet-finished route established by an Italian team in 2003. The Italians used a generator and heavy drill power, ending their route on the mountain’s Northeast Ridge, not the summit. Thanks to the difficult free climbing, the colossal number of bolts, and the relative safety of the line, Suerte is a prime candidate for Josh and Vince’s preferred style of “Daddy Alpinism”: a self-deprecating label they wear with pride. Josh and Vince have tried Jirishanca several times before, turning around excruciatingly close to the summit on their last attempt in 2019. I admire their dedication—both their commitment to a single project and their toned-down tolerance for risk—and it’s cool to hang with people who know the mountain so well. We enjoy the new company and the odd donation of Dionicio’s excellent cooking.
Soon after they arrive, the mountain gets a fresh dump of snow. This is bad news for our planned line of ascent: The rock climbing on the lower pillar is slabby and runout, and when the snow melts, it will trigger constant rockfall down the feature. We could wait for it to dry, but our weather window is already shorter than we’d like. We’ve only got four days of clear weather before there is more precipitation in the forecast, and we need to wait for the mountain to shed before we can climb. We had decided to pack extra food and fuel in case we needed to wait out a storm, and we changed our plan to avoid a good portion of the rock climbing. Instead, we’ll aim to skirt the pillar via its south side and mixed climb to the ridge. It’s a shame not to tackle the pillar directly. However, our planned line is still far from trivial, and there is nearly a vertical kilometer of unvisited mountain to uncover above the detour.
The weather on this trip is a far cry from 2017, when we had clear, stable weather every day. After acclimatizing on Alpamayo and Quitaraju, we hardly had time to reset in Huaraz, where we huddled over two-dollar dinners and discussed our plans like thieves. In a matter of days we were back in the Blanca, climbing a new route on the East Face of Chacraraju Este (6,001m), the Devil’s Reach Around (5.10 M6 90°; 900m). It was an empowering climb for me in my early 20s and an experience that cemented a deep connection between Alik and me. Alik is as solid as climbers come and an absolute master of his craft. I’m thankful for his companionship as we embark on Jirishanca despite the suboptimal conditions.
We sit in camp for the first day of good weather, wishing that the melt-water streaks would grow faster and eventually deciding to give the mountain another day to shed its snow. On the second day of good weather, we meander toward the base of the wall and try to sleep early, hoping to stockpile our energy for the climbing above.
We start climbing at sunrise the following day. Alik takes the morning charge, connecting slabby ledge systems with our one pair of rock shoes. Several pitches later, he performs an exposed boot change when the rock slabs become caked in aerated snow. It’s comically intense watching him, way runout on the steep slab with a big pack on, carefully weighting and unweighting small foot edges as he transitions. I’m relieved when he finally gets his boots on and finds some slippery gear under the snow for an anchor. I take over at the transition, leading a simul-climbing block up snow flutings and serac ice to several steeper mixed pitches in the cliff bands above. The pitches go quickly with a real belay, and the Micro Traxions soon come back out again. Eventually I pass the lead off to Alik for the final shift of the day, worn down by relentless breathing and the view of an unencumbered rope dangling between my feet.
At this point, the late-evening sun hovers orange above the horizon. Alik crests the south ridge and finds our first bivy in an ice cave below a bus-sized cornice that overhangs the lower pillar. The cave is a wind-sculpted blue room with windows into an abyss. It’s nice to tuck in after so much facet swimming; the sun touches the mountain here, and we’re relieved to be on top of the hazard instead of frantically daring fate beneath it.
The snow is better compacted on the ridge thanks to the sun’s warmth, but the toothy ice features are far more complicated. As a result, we will be wholly committed once we start up tomorrow; backtracking through the traversing, runout terrain would be a nightmare, and rappelling into the threatened drainages on either side would be worse. I hand Alik the bag of half-cooked freeze-dried pad thai and drift off to the security of sleep.
The next morning, I clamber out of the bivy cave and look up to see the ridge snaking above me like a petrified dragon’s back. Three-story ice towers are glued to the spine of rock like iron filings on a magnetic blade. Simul-climbing, we weave our way around them, climb over them, and tunnel under them. Each mushroom and gargoyle is its own puzzle to solve. Some hold hidden walkways, while others force us through overhanging roof cruxes of suspect ice, but somehow they all allow passage. As daylight fades, we are surprised to have navigated most of the ridge, which is only a few hundred meters from the upper headwall. It looms above, laced with bulbous ice roofs and compact stone.
We tuck in for our second night on the mountain and watch with muted angst as thunderclouds gather on the eastern horizon, high above the Amazon. They’ve been steadily building over the last two days, a sign that our weather window is ending. At night, distant thunderheads flash through the tent walls. A dusting of snow is forecast for tomorrow and heavier snowfall the next day. Our plan this whole time has been to summit and then descend the Northeast Ridge until we gain the fixed anchors of Suerte—essentially descending the route that Josh and Vince are attempting. But even though we are more than halfway up the mountain, we don’t know how long the upper headwall and final summit ridge will take us—or if it will even be possible in a whiteout. Retreating down our line of ascent is out of the question. If we can’t go up, we will be forced to descend blindly to the west and hike 50-odd kilometers back to basecamp. We knew such a circumnavigation might be our only option, so we packed food and fuel for seven hungry days.
We shoot Josh and Vince a message: “Bivy 2 under the headwall. Hope you guys are going well. Going to push for the top tomorrow. Will see how it goes!”
I indulge myself and think about them, wondering how they’re doing on the other side of the East Face. What a different experience we’re having, with me and Alik potentially marooned high in unknown terrain while Josh and Vince, less than one impossible kilometer away, follow their hard-earned footsteps toward last year’s highpoint, knowing they can retreat at any time. I hope they’ve freed the crux and are still charging despite the snowy conditions.
Alik takes the morning lead block as I belay him, swinging my arms and feet, trying to regain feeling in my extremities. When the rope goes taught I follow, simul-climbing. His lead begins with a steep pull onto a massive overhanging snow-ice blob, followed by a surprisingly tricky ridge. The unstable snow climbing requires a magician’s touch to surmount—each step and axe placement is made gently, distributed evenly, and weighted slowly—but before long, we’re at the headwall. Catching my breath, I pay attention to the slack in the Micro Traxion as Alik quests into the steep mixed terrain and his climbing pace slows. He goes a pitch and a half up the headwall before belaying. I dutifully follow, chuckling in admiration: He’s hardly got any gear in, and the ice is only centimeters thick.
Already racked up, Alik’s got the next pitch planned: a yawning chimney to a snow shelf. Alik makes it look graceful, but when it’s my turn to follow, I find myself huffing at the thin air and fighting my second’s pack. I pull out of the steep chimney exhausted and struggle to get established on the ledge, a sugar-snow-covered down-sloping slab. The rock beneath is bullet-hard and featureless. The rope drapes lazily rightward without any directional protection. I pause to remind myself that Alik has just successfully climbed this bold traverse and skitter across after him, relieved not to fall.
I take the sharp end for the first time that day and stall beneath what will become the crux pitch. It’s a slammed-shut, overhanging corner, and I can’t see much for gear. I climb up and back down before committing to a powerful layback sequence capped by a long reach to a secure hook. As I climb higher and higher above my last piece, my mental warning bells start ringing. This would be a disastrous place to fall. I mantle the hook and find a stem from which I can hammer in two decent Pecker pitons. The Peckers quiet the bells a little, but the climbing above stays intricate and insecure. I must embrace the ringing while climbing through another runout, eventually finding a bad hex placement in a flared water runnel. I hammer on it with my axe to improve its chances. Breathing like a flustered rhino, I pull the final steep moves onto a splattering of ice, locating, finally, a decent stubby ice screw placement and an opportunity to catch my breath. With oxygen back in my blood, I quickly climb the remaining vertical ice to the snow ledge above. I’m relieved, exhausted, and in a state of bliss—a perfect pitch.
The crux unlocks an ice ramp on the upper headwall. Ice roofs crisscross like frozen waves on the face. Used well, as walkways underfoot, they can be a huge aid, but they are difficult to surmount from below. We simul-climb across these ephemeral sidewalks, cross the street via a stout, free-hanging ice dagger, and then join another walkway to the summit ridge. After several hours of tricky snow-mantling, mushroom navigation, and steep runnel climbing, the angle of the ridge eases off; we are getting closer to the summit.
It’s early afternoon and clouds are swirling around us, giving brief glimpses of the erratic ridgeline toward the summit. Alik weaves a brilliant and sneaky traverse to avoid climbing on top of the more unstable cornices, and I obediently simul behind. When I next see him, he’s punched through the final cornice and is sitting at the summit with Josh and Vince. Ours are the only two known summits since 2003, and I can’t believe we’ve pulled it off within 10 minutes of each other. We grin from ear to ear, and our summit embraces are from the soul.
The weight of uncertainty about our descent is lifted massively now that we’ve bumped into Josh and Vince. We follow their lead down the mountain, and the descent is relatively straightforward, especially once you’re rappelling from the Italian bolts. The snow starts to fall more heavily as we touch down on the glacier and make our way back to camp. Dionicio caught trout from the laguna, and we feast that night. Our slow submission into the mountains is brought quickly to an end, and we join the others on their exit the following day.
On the drive back to Huaraz, I wondered why everything went so well. Our patient acclimatization and trip length certainly played a role, as did our friendship and trust, but there’s no question that we also had a huge amount of luck. This route involved more uncertainty than I’ve ever taken on in the mountains, but instead of fighting for certainty, we surrendered to the whims of a wild peak in a wild place. We’d ducked left of the lower pillar and followed our noses up fluted ridges of snow and ice. We’d embraced runout slabs and overhanging ice and danced delicately between cornices over a yawning rift. Our weather window was short, and the feasibility of retreat completely unknown. But we welcomed the uncertainty, and were granted passage through Reino Hongo, the mushroom kingdom of Jirishanca.
It is only when you expect nothing that you get everything.
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