So, why do we climb mountains?

Written by Rob Wyatt

Mountain climbing, like so many things these days, has a wealth of available information spread across books and the internet. The answer to questions how, what, where etc are rarely more than a few clicks away. If one googles ‘How to climb a mountain’, they are likely to be inundated with a plethora of suggestions. Yes, there may be multiple answers, for example: a Sherpa may talk about fixed lines and oxygen tanks, a French alpinist may say it only counts if you descend rapidly through some adrenaline fuelled means such as skiing or a nylon wing, and a Scot might mumble something about just putting your head down and accepting you’ll be wet, cold and might not see anything at the top. It’s then down to you to decide what you want and even get a guide to help narrow it down. The what’s and where’s are similar, everyone has opinions but ultimately an objective (for you) conclusion can likely be reached. Often supported by what you want to eat when you leave the hill, using the examples from earlier perhaps it’s a choice of a perfectly spiced curry, copious amounts of wine and perfectly cooked meats or a fried mars bar washed down with a Tenants (I love Scotland really).

The thing that stands out to me however, has always been the why? They’re cold, inhospitable and often come with a distinct lack of breathable air. Every year people tragically lose their lives and limbs in a never ending pursuit of summits, most of which have been climbed thousands of times prior. So, why do we climb mountains?

Day 1 - To Base Camp

As usual, the morning sun is out in Huaraz as I head towards the Quechuandes Agency. I don’t have many days here after my trip so as always, my self imposed rule of no headphones applies so I can take in the many sights and sounds. And trust me when I say, there are many. It’s just 30 minutes before I arrive there and I see David polishing his Land Cruiser. It’s a a thing of beauty and I can’t help but compliment it, drawing forth a huge grin to his face. Only 5 minutes later, Alessandro appears and we shake hands for our first meet. He is to be my guide for the next 6 days and already I feel less nervous for the task ahead. Our program: Urus (5495m), Ishinca (5530m) and Tocclaraju (6034m). We chat a little longer and do a quick stock check of technical and warm kit before bundling it all into David’s freshly polished Cruiser and set off. I message friends and family with the last of my signal as Led Zeppelin blares through the Cruiser’s sound system.

Our journey isn’t a long one, only 90 minutes later (60 minutes of gravel track) we arrive at a a small field - the trailhead for Ishinca base camp. I jump out the Cruiser (which is now somewhat less polished) and shake hands with our trip porter/cook/ donkey driver/ all round great man - Hernan. The kit is then bundled out, goodbyes are said to David, and Alessandro and I head off up the trail.

The trail starts quite low but is absolutely stunning. The first few kilometres fly by and Allesandro points out all the peaks in view: Huascaran (6768m), Chopicalqui (6354m) and his personal favourite Huandoy (6395m)) - to name a few. Of course, he’s climbed them all. The Ishinca Valley itself is guarded by a steep sided gorge carved by the bluest river I’ve ever seen. It’s quite the entrance point. The trees here are twisted and curved around the landscape. I’m told they’re hundreds of years old and with nothing to disturb them, will likely last for hundreds of years more. As we exit the ancient forest, the view begins to open up onto our objectives. First in sight is Palcaraju (6274m), not on our objectives as this is a highly advanced summit. As we follow the path further round, the huge pyramidal mass of Tocclaraju begins to show. The ridge attaching the two huge mountains looks spectacular, but I am relieved to hear that is not where our assault shall be mounted from. Urus’ pointy peak pokes from behind the valley sides and only Ishinca is left as a mystery, being further round the valley. Alessandro’s and my conversation varies from his recommendation for Huaraz’ best pizza (Italians should be trusted on these matters) and his thoughts on the commercialisation of Cordillera Blanca compared with ranges such as the Himalaya. I am relieved to hear his thoughts and he explains the guides have an agreement never to leave fixed lines to combat this. It’s nice to think some of the world’s mountains can stay somewhat wild.

We arrive at base camp (4350m) around noon and find a beautiful campsite upstream of the crystal blue river. We both find a perfect slanted rock and lay down in the sun for about an hour before Hernan arrives with his 4 laden donkeys and all our gear for the week. Set up is quick, basic and a little more hands on from me following my 12 days in the Cordillera Huayhuash. Our camp toilet is a small tent over a hole with a shovel. All is not that wild however, as we are only 250m from one of three of Huascaran National Park’s Refugios. After setting up camp, having some tea and christening the freshly dug hole, I stroll the 250m and pick up a Coca Cola for 7 soles before refitting myself to the slanted rock to do a spot of yoga and reading before dinner. I promise, the minor commercialisation ends at the base camp.

Throughout the many pages of literature on first explorers and ascenders, the same answer to my question seems to pop up - ‘Because it’s there’. To me, this is an unfortunately fitting analogy to what appears to be the human condition. The desire to conquer everything even if it really just wants to mind its own damn business. To give the benefit of the doubt, perhaps it suggests a level of curiosity and is just poorly communicated. Not to stereotype, but it is an answer one mostly reads from the immortalised greats who typically fall into a certain (slightly alpha-centric) demographic, and perhaps showing an ounce of emotion towards their feats could be met with mockery or diminishment. So, whilst this clearly has powered some great folk up some great hills, I’d like to think we can come up with a better reason to climb mountains.

Day 2 - Urus (5495m)

My wristwatch buzzes away and as always, I instinctively hit the snooze button. In what feels like an instant, it’s off again and I check it to see 02:00. I slowly begin to crawl out of my very warm sleeping bag and notice the ice crystals on the outside of my tent. In the Cordillera Blanca, mountaineering is an early morning game. At high altitude and so near the equator, the sun is extremely strong from the moment it rises. This means a) it’s good to get up the hill before it rises and boils you and the snow (leading to avalanches) and b) at about noon the clouds begin to roll in over the peaks and generally you want to be off them by this point. On the flip side, the freezing nights often make for beautiful clear star-filled skies to climb through and the mountains are beautifully lit by the full moon. I get myself briefly sorted and head over to see Alessandro and Hernan for some sweet porridge and toast. After, we pack our bags and head off just before 3am.

There’s a delightful first few hundred metres to walk as we cross the valley which is entirely flat. After this, the trail is practically vertical. With the air temperature sitting around 10 degrees below, we take heed of the old mountaineering adage ‘small steps, no sweat’ and slowly plod our way up switchback after switchback. For context, Urus’ peak sits about 1km above the base camp and 1km as the crow flies. With it being dark and us both fully focussed on our small steps, we don’t say much apart from the occasional request to de-layer or if we’ve spotted other climbers on other mountains. About two hours in, I notice we’ve passed 4877m. A seemingly inconsequential number outside of Europe, but to keep walking higher than this inside Western Europe is quite the task given it is the height of Mont Blanc. Not much further up, we start to reach the snow line (~5000m). A quick rest and snack break is taken before slipping on harnesses, crampons etc. As we rest, the first light of the day begins hitting the mountains on the other side of the valley, Alessandro gives me their names and details on how he climbed each. From our viewpoint, a faint red glow is silhouetting Tocclaraju’s huge frame ahead of us. We had spotted some climbers heading up earlier and it’s seems they haven’t moved for over an hour. We can only assume this will be a failed attempt for them and otherwise hope they are ok.

We head up the glacier for the next hour and a half, navigating some steep sections with care and pulling out a few climbing moves to get around some of the jutting boulders. We meet nothing too strenuous (lack of oxygen aside) or technical, but it’s a great warm up for what’s to come. We summit Urus just before 7am and we share a crisp high five, with the sun well risen by this point its warmth means we can afford a decent stop to admire the many visible mountains from our own. Alessandro shares his good thoughts on our pace and movement, saying we should be in for a good chance against our main objective of the week.

After some chatting and snacks, we begin our descent. Similarly to the ascent, it’s nothing too difficult with just a few awkward boulders standing in our way. It takes us about 2 and half hours to descend the 1km back to base camp and I again rejoice the few hundred metres of flat valley floor. At just 9.30am, it’s a weird feeling having already done everything I need to for the day but it allows us plenty of time for good food and rest for tomorrow.

Another common answer I’ve come across is ‘it’s just to get to the top and see the view’. What better reason to do something hard and dangerous than to enjoy some of the most beautiful sights nature has to offer. However, this slightly hypoxic 27-year old has something to say about this one also. Firstly, in my experience as a photographer I often find the best views are at the base of mountains or even from smaller summits nearby. In these places the awe and grandeur of the larger peak is there to see and admire - so why climb it? If you climb it, it’s under your feet and you don’t get to see it. Furthermore, many people will climb on well into the cloud where visibility is none (sorry again Scotland). So, not to say the pursuit of natural beauty isn’t a wonderfully good reason to get out into the world - I just don’t know if it answers why people risk their lives to climb the biggest and most beautiful mountains.

Day 3 - Ishinca (5530m)

Following my day of relaxing, stretching and trying to rest in my very hot tent, I was very surprised to realise that when my alarm went off again at 02:00 my legs still hurt. Apparently, plodding 1km upwards in stiff, heavy mountaineering boots can do that. Regardless, my routine from the previous day is repeated except this time the breakfast ham and cheese toasty is no surprise. Our target, Ishinca, sits out of sight and we head straight out of camp into a smaller valley to meet it. Compared with yesterday, this route is an absolute delight. The switchbacks are long and only a little steep and it’s not long before my legs stop moaning at me. Hiking in the dark (and in particular uphill), I find the mind tends to wonder into a state of thought. Perhaps because it believes it should be asleep, or perhaps for some other spiritual reason that I am far too simple to understand. Over the 3 hours or so of small steps (and only the occasional bit of sweat) I think my way through an endless list of things, each flittering into the next with minimal conclusion. First on the list was of course my appreciation for my cheese and ham toasty, followed by thoughts on how life might look next year when I return home and of course my ever repeating question of why the hell I’m really here. Each topic seems to get deeper and deeper and I feel like nothing more than a bystander to my brain as it sifts through its daily chores.

Finally, we hit the start of the glacier and, not wanting to end up in a crevasse, I call my brain back to support in the here and now. Harness, crampons and helmet are slipped on and I am delighted when I do in fact remember how to tie an untwisted figure of 8 (Alessandro was very polite yesterday towards my less than perfect looking knot). The first light is once again just in time to begin showing our path ahead, which is far larger and more spectacular than Urus’. Alessandro warns me not to fall into any crevasses (being tied together he definitely has a vested interest here) before heading onto the ice. The glacier flows beautifully leftwards up towards its summit and the 1km high sheer face of Ranrapalca (6162m) dominates off to the right. As always, I ask the way up this face which Alessandro happily tells me the way he went during a 16- hour single day mission. At this point, we make the dangerous remark that our side of the valley is the only part not covered in cloud. Tocllaraju is covered down to the moraine camp and even the relatively small Urus has a slight smattering. Enjoying our open views, we soldier on around the glacier’s flowing features and before long the sun is rising through a small gap in front of us. We stop for a while, enjoying the fresh morning light glistening off the flowing ice field (as well as a handful of snacks). I enjoy taking a few photos of what’s before me and we head off again towards our objective.

The last 200m or so of ascent pitches sharply upwards, on to the ice mushroom that makes up a good portion of Ishinca’s summit. Progress slows and, to our delight, our previous comments finally come home to roost and we are covered in cloud. The beautiful views disappear in an instant and an eerie silence washes over the mountain, with at least a kilometres drop on either side of the ridge I am very happy to be tethered to a highly experienced guide. After some huffing and puffing, we reach one last minor obstacle before the summit, a large crevasse (perhaps 0.5m wide) that requires hopping over straight into a small section of almost vertical ice. Obstacle navigated, I haul myself on to the top and enjoy all 10m of view and another crisp high five. Despite being in the cloud at 5500m, it’s not cold and we proceed to sit on the summit for a while.

Our commitment is rewarded about 15 minutes later, when the cloud starts to clear and most of our 360 view begins to show. All the largest peaks are shrouded making them look even bigger and the small foothills (still 5000m peaks) litter the landscape all around with lakes of a thousand different shades of blue at their bases. It’s a hard view to leave, but we take it in one last time before heading back down. A quick down climb and crevasse hop later we leave the summit and make our way back down the glacier. We stop a moment to admire the clouds pouring over Palcaraju’s massive ridge line like a slow motion wave. The way down is simple with far less huffing and puffing, but a momentary lapse in concentration from us both allows us to drift towards a series of big crevasses. We manage to navigate them with minimal effort and only a few nerves from me, before meeting the moraine marking the end of the glacier. We slip out of our safety kit and begin the 800m of rocky switchbacks down to base camp. On our return, the remainder of the day is spent relaxing, reading, stretching and taking an amazing dip in the bright blue river all to prepare for the main event: Tocllaraju’s 6034m peak.

It turns out escapism is also a highly common reason why people head off up into the mountains. Not to say this should always be a serious matter, you don’t need to be escaping anything monumental. The mountains (and outdoors in general) are a fantastic way to get out and forget the hustle and bustle of day to day life. Problems big and small can often flitter away when faced with a beautiful sunset, a nice view or when dangling of a cliff face somewhere. I’ve found this effect can be achieved greatly as a personal endeavour (ideally not the dangling) or within a group of good mates. Just the simple fact of enjoying oneself, whether getting away from everyday life or not might be the answer all along. So maybe we are getting closer after all, perhaps this is one of the finest reasons to get out into the mountains.

Day 4 - To Moraine Camp (5150m)

It’s moving day! Our base camp has been a delightful mountain view location but today we are to move up to the moraine camp as a starting point for Tocllaraju. As there is no huge rush to get up there, a slow morning is in order. I awake around 7am and my watch is delighted to tell me I’ve had 10 hours of good sleep. It’s nice waking up when it’s light outside and I take my time to head over for breakfast. Hernan has cooked up a real treat to power us up the hill today: a huge omelette with bacon. I wolf it down knowing full well by now that my appetite rapidly diminishes above 5000m so I may as well make the most of it now.

After some tea and chatting, it’s time to disassemble most of the camp and start packing our kit. On paper, today should be by far the easiest of the expedition, but the 20kg (each) of climbing gear, camp equipment and warm clothes that need lugging up with us means that there really is no rest for the wicked. Fortunately, Hernan is joining us up to high camp and is helping out with the load carrying. After a slow packing up and some customary stretching, we head off around 9.30am across the valley and upwards towards the moraine. The first hour is easy going, slowed by our burdens we take our time on the trail. After this first hour however, the trail spikes rapidly upwards and becomes more and more rocky. We take it slow, my legs feel strong by this point but the now very warm sun makes things all the more difficult. At around 4800m, we stop for a quick snack break and get chatting about trail mix of all things. Suddenly Hernan, who left about half an hour after us, appears with a grunt and proceeds to display what must be the most impressive physical feat I have ever witnessed. He bounds past us, barely out of breath, carrying what must be at least 30kg of gear. Rather than disturb our sitting area he leaps over a series of large rocks before disappearing off up the steep path at a pace I would be pleased with unburdened by such a pack whilst at sea level. At our next brief stop, I mention my awe to Alessandro who explains the folk born in these mountains are simply just some of the strongest (and kindest) people you can get the good pleasure of meeting.

About half an hour later we arrive at the moraine camp. Sat at just over 5100m, it’s by far the highest I have eaten and slept but the view of Tocclaraju’s enormous glacier is unbeatable. It takes just a moment to set up camp in full view of the massive ice field, and I just sit a while admiring the huge crevasses and seracs that make up its surface. The camp has a small rocky kitchen area that has been constructed to provide climbers with a home from home. It’s not long before we tuck into some salami and cheese for a far better take on afternoon tea than the usual. After this, more relaxing is done and Hernan cooks up the finest fried rice I’ve ever had over 5000m. Whilst we sit, the snow and sun are in constant competition with each other and we just hope that it settles for our summit push. With my alarm set, I go to bed around 6pm with a stomach full equally of rice and nerves

My question really started going through my head about 6 months ago, whilst walking the West Highland Way with my good friend Henry (check out the blog!). After a small rise over the Devil’s Staircase, I got to the top and shared my thoughts - “Do you know what Hern, all my life I’ve never regretted climbing a mountain.” We got chatting a little bit on the topic and he shared another line with me that had burdened his mind on his odyssey across the Pyrenees - “You can’t spend your life at the top of the mountain.” I couldn’t help but question how much this was really about mountains, given the topic of conversation we had shared just a few hours earlier through the stunning Glen Coe valley. Henry is one of few people I know who has a knack of extracting all my best kept secrets. Having just come back from an extraordinary year away, he was asking about my year, which he knew had been on the rough side. We had gotten well into the weeds and long story short, I explained how I’d managed to wind up with a series of unpleasant migraine type episodes resulting from the stress of it all (a diagnosis I dismissed for a while at the time). Fortunately, at the time of our conversation I was in a much better way having spent the year so far getting myself mountain fit, enjoying myself professionally and generally just trying to give less of a shit about things. As a result, my energy levels had improved, alongside my confidence, and most importantly my ‘episodes’ had all but vanished. And what had inspired all this change? Well of course, I’d decided that I was going to Peru - and I wanted to climb a mountain.

Day 5 - Tocllaraju (6034m) (sorry it was dark so no photos!)

My alarm gets just one buzz in before it’s switched off. I’ve been waiting for it for the best part of 3 hours, the mixture of altitude and nerves made it almost impossible to sleep. I’ve spent much of that time thinking, thinking again about my question and what’s brought me here. My alarm means it’s midnight, and I am hoping with every part of me that the snow has stopped and the cloud has cleared. The first good sign is how cold it is, my breath is condensing in front of me and I can see the ice sheeting on the outer fly. I whip on my warm clothes and poke my head out my tent to see Tocclaraju’s peak, cloud free with the moon rising just behind. Even in my sleep deprived, physically exhausted state - I can’t help but break out a smile.

I put on my boots and head over to our rocky table for some hot porridge and toast. The porridge is thicker than normal and warms me up from the inside out. We discuss our good fortune but not much else, it’s clear that everyone isn’t super keen on the midnight breakfast. Alessandro and I both gulp down some tea and then go to get sorted. Packing bags today is easy, all our clothes and gear is on us. I slip my lunch and my camera into my bag, and strap one of my two ice axes to the outside. Crampons in hand, we make the one minute walk to the start of the glacier and then attach them to our boots.

There’s no time for a warm up, the glacier kicks straight up at 45 degrees and before getting the chance to stretch my legs, I’m mixing between using previously kicked steps and front pointing my way up after Alessandro. It’s only like this for 30m or so but by the top I am already warm in my many layers. The next stretch is a relatively flat stroll across some rotten ice. As our crampon spikes pierce the surface, the cracks propagate rapidly making a highly satisfying pinging noise as they do. I don’t get to enjoy this for too long as the glacier then starts to rise relentlessly towards Tocclaraju’s peak, almost a kilometre above. Even in the dim moonlight, I can start to make out the sweeping ice field moving in natural switchbacks up towards the main shoulder that lies around 5700m. The final 300m to the summit is a sharp and steep ridge housing 4 pitches of good quality ice climbing.

Firstly however, we must navigate the steep terrain and many crevasses now present due to the dry conditions. After my enjoyment of flat terrain and pinging noises, I’m quickly reminded that this is a mountain and proceed to spend the next 1 hour slowly moving up a huge steep slope. Fortunately, it’s dark and I can’t really see behind me but checking my watch shows me we’ve climbed around 200m on this face. I guess it would be best not to slip at this point. Worst of all, my right hip which has bugged me for a while now has been doing most the work and is beginning to complain significantly. I stop briefly, secure my axe and park my bag carefully over it (I really don’t want to have to chase it down the 200m ice slope) and proceed to swallow a fistful of ibuprofen. Problem solved. Finally, we start to turn around and the ground flattens out. From here, I look up at what initially I think is a very weird cloud. As my eyes adjust away from the bright, headtorch reflecting ice, I realise it’s not a cloud but the very peak we’re aiming for towering into the sky.

Whilst the flat terrain is great for resting my hip, we quickly hit a section of thin snow bridges and huge crevasses. I never feel too nervous but I do take the opportunity to point my headtorch down some of them and see nothing but black and blue. After such good progress, we decide to take a short rest for a snack and some water. I check my watch and we’re sitting pretty at about 5500m, almost halfway up from camp. Alessandro asks how my hip is feeling, to which I explain the apparent 1000mg of ibuprofen seems to be working wonderfully. We start to set off and then that’s when I dare to say it, “You know what? I think we might just climb this thing!”

Of course, the mountain hears me. Not a moment later we come across another series of huge crevasses with no obvious way over. There’s a few snow bridges but they all look sketchy. After some back and forth, we decided to go for it. Leaving the rope with just enough slack to let each other jump, we take turns over the first at the site of one of the sketchy bridges. Success! The next one is much better with a bridge that looks solid but very narrow, some squeaky bum time ensues and we’re across. As I take a moment to look back and admire the huge abysses we’ve managed to not fall into, I hear the word “fuck” in a lovely Italian accent. I turn around to see what all the fuss is about, and as he takes his next step I hear the trademark hollow sound: windslab. A small, snowy face sits above us, maybe only 20m tall but it’s steep. We quickly survey the snow and it’s clearly not in a good way. The slab on top is quite thin, not large enough to do any damage if it were to slip, but with the crevasses we’ve just crossed as the only runout, it wouldn’t have to. We make the decision to go up carefully, the slab in question is quite sheltered and maybe it’s just an isolated case. After a few break throughs and a bit more cursing, we make it to the top to find the good ice is back. Or… so we thought. Five minutes later, that Italian cursing is ringing out again and it’s not good news. The slope is shallow at this point so we are not concerned about avalanche, but the snow pack is in such bad shape that we stop to take a look regardless. Alessandro begins digging down and breaks through 15cm of solid ice, beneath it is sugary powder. We place our axes in and it’s so soft they fall straight through down to the heads and I immediately agree with Alessandro’s initial, succinct analysis.

We look up to our remaining climb and chat through our predicament. At the moment, whilst it’s still cold and dark and the slab is quite strong. Therefore, we could likely keep climbing, but this is also the way we have to return - during daylight. Furthermore, the state of the snow is so bad, our axes could barely grip the top layer. This meant an attempted arrest (if required) would likely be useless and our 300m or so of good quality ice climbing would likely be impossible. So, that’s that. Game over. I snap a few photos the best I can in the dark and then one crisp high five of agreement later, we turn around. There’s no point arguing, as they say, the mountain always has the last word.

As we descend back down our first windslab ridden slope, it’s like the mountain decides it wants to show us what we’re missing out on. As I place my foot in a previously weakened step from the way up I fall straight through, and a large chunk of top layer breaks off and slides down the face in front of us, towards the crevasse. I take a moment to look back towards Alessandro and we share a nod to say “yep, let’s get off this thing!”. We get to the bottom with no more mishaps and navigate back over our squeaky bum crevasses. Being back on firm ice, I feel much better and plow on down towards camp. Past the crevasses, down the 200m ice slope, across the pinging ice and over the steep front pointing section. Before I know it, we’re back at the moraine. We go quietly back to our tents, take off our climbing gear and crawl back into our warm sleeping bags. Defeated.

Whilst sat in my hostel in Huaraz, I was reading a book called Wilder Journeys, a series of short stories on adventures far grander than my own appetite. I happened across a paragraph written by René Daumal way back in 1959. You can imagine my surprise when this paragraph started with

“You cannot stay on the summit forever, you have to come down again. So why even bother in the first place?”.

The response, in my opinion, is perfect.

“Just this: what is above knows what is below, but what is below knows not of what is above”.

I sat there a bit awestruck for a second. Firstly, I was unsure how a French writer had managed to plagiarise Henry’s words a whole 65 years prior. Secondly, my thoughts were being surmised into one beautiful word: perspective. Here is me thinking it’s not the best view, so who cares? But just because it may not be the ‘best’ view doesn’t mean it’s not a bloody good perspective. This delightful answer goes on to say one doesn’t just gain this perspective whilst up on the summit either, but holds it with them long after they have left. Again, one’s problems really can look very different when looking down at them from 5km up a hill. Granted, when you go back down they might look the same again, but you can still remember what they looked like all the way up at the top of the world. Of course, you do have to make it to the top of the mountain…

Feeling the warm sun coming through my tent, I wake up with an odd feeling that our attempt was all a dream. Crawling out of the tent and seeing my axes and boots strewn across a rock gives me the sense check that it was definitely real. Alessandro and Hernan are at the rocky table and I head over for what appears to be second breakfast. We chat a while and Hernan shares that he is in fact one of Nimsdai Purja’s go to cooks for his South American (and some Himalayan) expeditions. We rejoice in the mountain royalty sat before us. He proceeds to make us some cheesy wontons and fresh guac to secure his status and we enjoy them surrounded by 6000ers in the morning sun. I remark, “whilst the summit would have been great, this isn’t a bad second place.”

We pack up our temporary camp and head back down to base camp. On the way down, I feel conflicted. So much of me feels the need to feel failure and disappointment at our effort. After all, reaching that summit has driven me so hard for months now. I want to question our choice earlier that morning: Maybe we could have just gone on carefully, maybe it would have got better higher up (our experience showed it was getting worse as it got colder). But in reality I sort of don’t care, I had really enjoyed my week. Even more so, I had really enjoyed my month in Huaraz: I’d done amazing things, seen countless amazing views and met amazing people. How on earth could I be disappointed?

On making it back to base camp, I offer to go grab a beer for the team and we share a cheers in the morning sun. I finally pluck up the courage to get entirely into the crystal blue waters of the river and then enjoy some delighful ham cooked by Nims’ main man (who at one point may have also opened a bottle of Pisco). Then, despite the fact that in the last 27 years of my life you couldn’t have paid me good money to write anything down, I start doing exactly that. Split between my slanted rock from day one and the fly free oasis of my tent, I write most of the afternoon away in the sun.

After a while, having had a few beers, some Pisco and being a bit hypoxic / just generally exhausted; I think to myself if I’m any closer to answering my question. I have thought a lot about it, but having climbed only 2 of the 3 mountains I’d set out to, perhaps I am under qualified. But anyway, I’m sure we’re all dying to hear a young, relatively naive man’s thoughts on a completely random yet age old question. Even better, in order for me to entertain my tipsy self a bit longer, you can have it in poorly written verse - so hear goes:

Maybe because they are there?

Or maybe just the view?

Maybe we cannot stay on top forever,

When all we want in our life is to.

Maybe we’ll remember what it looks like,

Once the journey to the summit is through.

Maybe we can wish just to get up there,

We’ll likely not regret it when we do.