Artesonraju: The Darkest Night

An Andean Climbing Story

As the train snakes along the rocky coast of the Turnagain Arm, past rock tower & cove, below highway & mountainside, I sit with hot coffee and a reason to write. It’s back to work now. But I’ve only just arrived eight hours ago. Family by family strolls by, in sweltering excitement- its their day to ride the Alaska Railroad and take in the beauty of “The Great Land.” And I will too. Yet it is quite familiar to me and on this particular day my head floats away to a land beyond the comforts of our cozy railway car. A land which I’ve just returned from, foreign to me and in a still curious way, I wonder what I learned there. Perhaps in this piece that will come out. But for now, I’d just like to write. And tell you about a far away land- of towering mountains scraping the sky and of bustling towns below, from which people of great character live simply, intentionally, and kindly.

It was the fifteenth of June when the Aeromexico plane tires touched the tarmac in Lima, Peru. My ears hadn’t popped on the descent. They were in pain and everything sounded muffled. Oh wonderful… a great way to start a month of high altitude travel in a foreign country. The pain would burden me over the first ten days and slowly heal until it faded away. I met up with my friends and we got on a bus to Huaraz, where the great Cordillera Blanca loomed above town. Over the next two weeks, I tried to climb Alpamayo with my two friends Shaker & Alex. For Shaker, it was the chance to step away for a brief time from his committed life as a father in Minnesota and enjoy the mountains again. He showed up fit and full of excitement and even with a pretty decent tongue for speaking Spanish. For Alex, it was his first time climbing in a foreign country (where he’d already been for a month before I arrived) and his energy was focused on experiencing a new land, dedicating time into his picture making, and understanding the way forward with a sensitive foot that was damaged by frostbite this past winter skiing in the Tetons. The three of us had climbed Mt. Rainier together about six years ago, since that time Shaker had become a Dad, Alex had become a dedicated alpine climber, and I stuck to my guns following my dreams to climb in greater ranges around the world. I’d been to the Himalaya several times, to New Zealand and France, and put most of my efforts into Alaskan climbing which had changed who I was and how I saw life. Now it was my opportunity to travel to South America and learn about the Andes.

Now the 7th of July, it was Alex and I’s last day together in Peru, which we spent in town. Shaker had left a week earlier. On Alpamayo, we’d run out of time after a storm deposited more than a foot of fresh snow on us at our 18,000ft high camp on a glaciated col between the mountain and neighbor Quitaraju. We were all disappointed to not have climbed the famous peak. During the week of June 29th and July 6th, Alex and I returned to the mountains, this time to the Ishinca Valley with the goal of standing on a 6000m summit together, which would have been Alex’s first. A relentless wind in mostly clear skies kept our dreams in a cage and we walked out again without a summit. We’d tried- our fitness was there, our strategy on par, and the two times we’d hoped for low winds, we’d turned around at 18,300ft as the air tried to knock us off our feet. Alex had brought heated socks to mitigate the risk of further cold injury to his foot, but they failed him and thus we weren’t in position to push higher in a frigid wind chill, at least not on this trip.

I was sad Alex was leaving. He has become my trusted expedition partner. I had hoped our efforts would result in a high summit for him to hang his hat on and relieve the stress of his cold injury, ushering in the confidence I know him to have. Despite this, Alex is resilient and I expect he will put the injury behind him in the coming months and arrive to his next expedition full of fire. And probably with a new pair of socks! I have been fortunate to watch him grow and evolve as a climber, and he’s seen the same in me. Our partnership has shaped into a deep trust and relentless commitment to each other in which we are at the point we barely even speak in the mountains. I know his every move and have no questions of what he’s doing at any given time. On our last day together in Peru, Alex unselfishly helped me prepare for one last trip into the mountains- to the Paron Valley.

The last several weeks had been brilliant fun despite not bagging a major summit. I’d learned what the Andes were like, which was my ultimate goal before arriving. We’d ridden taxis high into the mountains, hired donkeys to carry our equipment, watched pink & purple sunrises & sunsets from many a lofty perch, and most notably, become close friends with a man named Antonio, our cook. When it was decided we’d bring a cook to Alpamayo, a small Peruvian man from Cochon Pampa arrived at Zarela’s (our trusty hotel) in a baseball cap and with worn mountain clothing. His bright smile immediately rubbed off on us and Alex and I looked at each other, “This is definitely our guy.” Antonio had worked tirelessly at Alpamayo to keep us fed, hydrated, and comfortable. Several days he even hiked up breakfast and dinner from our basecamp at 14,200ft to our camp on the moraine at 16,400ft. We enjoyed his company so much that when we left for the Ishinca Valley, we asked him to meet us in two days time. He had transitioned from just our cook to now our trusted friend whom watched after us. One of the important lessons I’ve learned from expedition climbing is that ultimately it’s about the people you share the experience with. You come for the mountains and you’ll return for the friends you made there. When Alex was set to head home, I knew I needed Antonio’s companionship to see through to my goals.

Now I set my sights on a solo climb. Climbing alone was something I was learning more about. For years I have climbed waterfall ice alone in the winter time and this past April I took what I learned at the crags, paired it with my big-mountain experience, and flew in alone to the Root Canal Glacier in Denali National Park in Alaska where I soloed the Moose’s Tooth via Ham & Eggs Couloir. The weather had been perfect, two other parties had climbed the route the day before me, and snow conditions were exceptional. In the morning on April 14th I climbed the final humps of the summit ridge and stood alone on the corniced top under clear skies and a warm sun. It was a proud achievement, but ultimately just plain fun and it gave me the confidence to desire further solo climbing in the high mountains. The mountain was one of the first I can remember seeing when I visited Alaska in 2016 with my mother. At the time it was too intimidating and only something I dreamed of climbing, now alone on the summit I was relished in my journey as a climber and felt deeply fulfilled. In hindsight I feel the Moose’s Tooth is a rather entry-level solo, though a grand achievement for many climbing parties seeking adventure in a greater range. It’s easy to access, relatively low commitment, and frequently visited. With others in basecamp and a boot-track on the route, I wasn’t challenged in the way I was looking for. What I did learn on that trip is that solo alpinism is high stakes. A simple mistake can result in a fatal accident and you’ve got to be on your best behavior and stay vigilant throughout the experience. There is no one to confer with, no one to belay you, no one to negotiate varying obstacles beside. It is only for certain climbers who’s ambition calls them to the moment and you must have one of your best days out to succeed. I found it was something I really enjoyed. As I’m still learning about alpine climbing alone, I currently view route selection. What mountain calls to me? Where is the most beautiful peak? Where can I challenge myself without taking on too much risk? What route is achievable? Where my odds of a summit are not absurd but the mountain will not let up easy. These are the questions I was asking myself leading up to my chance to climb alone in Peru. Thai Verzone, someone I really look up to, had soloed the South Face of Artesonraju many years ago and seeing his photos drew from me inspiration, desire, and a need to live the moment myself. During the Alpamayo trip we had gazed across it many times the mountain captivated me.

Artesonraju is an absolutely beautiful mountain from every side. At 6,025m (19,767ft) and generally steep, it fits the bill for a challenging solo adventure at altitude for someone at my level. Famously it is the mountain the Paramount Pictures logo is based on, to the reader this brings much excitement, but to the climber this is completely irrelevant. What is relevant is how the mountains looks, how it might feel to climb on it, and strangely, as I came to know, that I would not forgive myself for not trying to climb its South Face before leaving Peru. We knew conditions were sound on the Northeast Face and it had been climbed several times during our trip but as we fished around for information about climbing the mountain from the beautiful Paron Valley, we came to understand it had not been climbed to the summit from this side so far in 2022 and that perhaps the classic face was becoming less popular as time goes on. Local Peruvian climbing guides discussed its less frequented face as varying snow conditions, challenging, and highly avalanche prone. However the actual technical grades of the mountains are rather simple and I figured it would perhaps not be that challenging overall. I pondered all the opinions & insights throughout the day on July 7th and decided it was something I was going to try. It had not snowed in more than a week and I felt confident that if that remained true, conditions might be safe enough for me to summit. At the least, I told myself, “Let’s have a look.”

In the morning on July 8th I woke half-rested and drowsy. I staggered downstairs at La Casa de Zarela and sat down at the breakfast table with Alex and Antonio. A few cups of jo, a few eggs, a few pieces of bread. Soon I was hugging Alex goodbye, we wished each other well, and I was off in Hugo’s taxi with Antonio and our bags. Hugo was a stout looking guy, built like a freight train and with a clean haircut. He had driven us to the Ishinca Valley a week prior. I liked him and was happy he was driving me to the mountain. On the way out of town, we stopped on a street corner and the door swung open. A man with weathered skin, a few missing teeth, and a crooked nose hopped in: Eduardo. His smile was as big as Antonio’s. They were close friends and Eduardo was our third team member, he’d shoulder a heavy load to moraine camp as a porter. I was happy to have his help and now we sped off out of town. I suddenly got the feeling this was going to be one of the best experiences of my life. Three Peruvians and me, passing every car that dared get in our way, on the way to the Paron Valley! I put my headphones in, turned them up, louder! I rolled the window down and leaned my arm across the doorframe, hanging my head out and living in the moment. It felt like I was living in my own book and the suspense was building. Yeah baby!! As we entered the mouth of the narrow, canyon-like, valley I wrote a note on my phone:

“Three Peruvians and me. A taxi bouncing up and down, left and right, a road snaking improbably up a jungled canyon. Above- great rock towers as tall as the sky itself stand immovable. Yet still further, higher, guarded by rock & jungle, Artesonraju hidden from view…”

When we arrived, an emerald lake some three miles long stretched out before our eyes. On every side mountains grew like sacred monuments, first as jungle, then as rock, and finally as white knife. Caraz 1 to the left, the Huandoys to the right, Piramide De Garcilaso & the great Chacaraju Oeste in the back. Around the corner, as if tucked behind the secret gate of a mountain oasis, Artesonraju remained hidden. Wind blasted our faces and my beard, now a month unshaven, sheltered my skin as I squinted up at mountains being ripped by clouds at their tops. We packed our bags beside the Refugio and said goodbye to Hugo. We ate local meats on rice and potatoes in a strange red sauce off the blackened pots of two kind Peruvian women cooking beside the Refugio. Their fire rose from smoldering sticks and branches and their food gave off a tasty aroma. Now down to the beach, small row boats sat bobbing in the choppy waters. I thought the boat was quite a novelty, so we hired one. We hopped in and a seasoned man began to fight the wind with each heave of his oars into the swelling lake. Eventually I lay back against the bow, tired still from the Ishinca valley, and dosed off…

I woke to the chattering of my Peruvian companions and now calmer waters. The oars bit productively into the emerald lake and we were nearing the far beaches by which we’d begin our walk. In broken Spanish I asked the boat driver if other climbers were in the valley. He shook his head no. “No cumbre, no cumbre.” I was going to be the only one climbing here. But I did not feel so alone. I had Antonio and Eduardo. As the boat pushed off and left us behind on the beach, I noticed the valley was different from Ishinca and Santa Cruz. This was wilderness. There were no donkeys or other basecamps, no climbers or guides, the trail was more narrow and pushed its was through the bush. We only walked a short way before Antonio told me he wanted to camp here for the night. This would mean an easy day tomorrow and I would climb the day following. I agreed and began to grab the tent to set up.

“No Benny, Tranquillo, tranquillo.” Antonio said as he stopped me from setting up the tent. I was filled with gratitude as I watched him and Eduardo work speedily to set up camp and start cooking. It became clear they wanted me to be free to rest and relax, to save myself for the climb and generally have time to enjoy the experience. I went through the bushes and sat by the river. Now Artesonraju was in view and I looked up with butterflies in my stomach. A smile swept across my face and I was so happy to be there in the blowing wind and under cloudy skies. The summit was not visible, it hid behind a cloud. That night we sat in a cluster of rocks. Antonio had a trimmed down iteration of his cook kit. Cows surrounded our camp looking for food, licking up our urine after we’d relieve ourselves, and starring awkwardly at us as we ate fresh foods prepared by the caring hands of my dear cook. I brought extra clothing and an extra sleeping bag this trip, I distributed it between Antonio and Eduardo and they were happy to be warmer than normal. My grandfather was a caring man who always gave away warm clothing. I think because he grew up cold in the Great Depression. I wouldn’t be able to sleep comfortably knowing one of the guys was cold and I was wrapped up nicely in a lofty down bag. It made me happy to share what I had with them given their attitude towards helping me get to the climb. We tucked away to bed and that night was the coldest I’d experienced at 14,000ft during my month in Peru. I forgot to put my electronics in my sleeping bag and in the morning realized I was now super low on power on my inReach and phone. The clouds brewed overhead and the solar panel wouldn’t be of much use today. When I did use it, I focused the power on my 2 headlamps which I would surely need during the climb.

As we hiked up to moraine camp at 15,600ft, we crossed short bridges made of logs and chickenwire, we pushed our way past beautiful bushes of small violet flowers and then by memorials of climbers had died on the mountain. At each memorial, I stopped to read the plaque and try to honor the lost. I was sad to think this hike was the final hike they had been on and promised myself I would hike back out, summit or no summit. The hike was short and we arrived at noon to the moraine camp. Looking out now, I got my first real view of what I was getting into. The moraine dropped 50 or 60 feet down into a boulder field which butted up against a glacial lake with icebergs and a thin coating of ice covering its blue-green waters. A narrow up and down hill confined the lake to its occupied area and on the other side it dropped away several hundred meters in a near vertical cliff to another lake below, Laguna Artesoncocha, which glowed in a sea-foam green amongst the low forest. Up here however, the world seemed bleak. It was gloomy and ominous. The clouds were dark and the mountain rose from the lake by way of rocky cliff and glacier tongue, by crevasse and serac, in lifeless shapes. At the tip top, occasionally clouds would part and the summit was reveal itself in a lofty frozen manner. It hung high in the sky as a dream, somewhere to aspire towards, somewhere you might visit and not stay. This was no place for humans or any animals for that matter. It didn’t resemble that of the mountains I’d seen earlier in the trip. This area seemed more Alaskan… I brewed in me the same nervous excitement I’ve felt each time entering the Alaska Range. I knew I was in the right place. I spent the rest of the day lazily tossing and turning in my sleeping bag, sipping water, preparing my kit. The weather wasn’t great and I worried I wouldn’t get a fair chance to climb. I went to bed around 5:00PM, perhaps truly falling asleep by 6:30PM with a 10:00PM alarm.

The Glacial Lake, with the approach following the righthand side, and the glacier tongue. Taken at sunrise after climbing the route.

At 9:50PM I snapped awake and looked at the clock. I was restless and eager. I felt uncomfortable and lay still for a final ten minutes before my alarm went off. Antonio hopped up immediately and began brewing coffee. I unzipped my bag and crawled out of the tent to go to the bathroom. I looked out at a bright moon. It shined across the snowpack which twinkled in a friendly fashion back at me. The clouds were gone and all the summits were out. Barely a breath of air brushed my face and suddenly butterflies fluttered in my gut. It was game on. I crushed two cups of jo and tried to stay relaxed. I nursed a pack of crackers and slowly put my boots on. At 10:50PM or so I raced out of camp. The mountain looked down on me. It didn’t look so hard under that bright moon, it looked seemingly inviting and I scurried across the rocks, alongside the lake, and to the edge of the ice. Dawning crampons now, I took my first steps crunching into the hard and dirt-covered tongue of the glacier now on the way to the snowpack. During my research I’d read of hidden pools of water on the glacier beneath a shell of ice. It was common for people to fall through here and someone even wrote, “There’s nothing you can do about it.” But I thought, I’m a very experienced glacier guide in Alaska and I won’t be falling into one of those. That’s foolish. So on I went marching up the ice and suddenly…. CRASH!!! My right leg busted through into a knee-deep hole just as I’d read about. I quickly pulled it out and saw my pant leg and outer boot freeze with a clear shell of fresh ice. Damn it! What the heck! I couldn’t believe it! Did I really just ruin my chance to climb the mountain? But I felt no wetness against my foot or calf and decided I’d continue until it became a problem. Fortunately it never did, though my leg and foot felt colder than normal. As I neared the snow, suddenly the crevasses were sizable. Some were covered by a thin snowpack. Some were wide open bare ice. Even great moulins appeared. I began to feel scared and I walked gingerly, uncomfortably, along their edges and across thin bridges to a deeper snowpack. Now I was entering the mountain proper and the glacier steepened. Deeper into the mountain now. I looked nervously for signs of others in the form of foot tracks. Nothing. I went on slowly up the crevasse field, fearing that a hidden crevasse would surely be fatal. Alas, the bergschrund.

Crossing the bergschrund was uneventful and I began daggering up steepening snow. I was on the face now and it was brilliant fun. Conditions were good and I found a pace and rhythm in my movement. From ‘schrund to summit is apparently 800 meters or so. The face gets continually steeper and more engaging. Sometime after stepping onto the face, the moon set to the West and suddenly it was pitch black. I looked out around me, the valley no longer lit by the moon, I began to feel very alone and the face felt much more serious than in the moonlight. I continued climbing upward and the darkness grew in my mind. It was like a heavy weight and I wondered what it was I was doing here in the middle of the night. A breeze crept onto the face and the cold sank into my clothing and my fingertips. The sound of crampons crunching into the mountainside, of ice tools creaking as I pushed and pulled at them, of my breathing- these were the only sounds in my world. As fear grew in my mind, I kept saying to myself, “Stay in the game. Stay in the game.” Going into the climb I knew adversity was going to strike and push would come to shove. I thought of my favorite documentary, about Reggie Miller vs The New York Knicks and a quote that comes out:

“There’s a time to play and there’s a time to win.”

The Traverse to gain the summit. (Roughly).

With this my priorities reappeared and I was ready to summit. I realized now the exposure of my position. I had rolled the dice and it was all on the line. A great chess match was being played and it was winner take all. The face became steeper and I was moving well for quite a while. Finally, the air felt thin and my pace was turning sluggish. I looked upward and I’d climbed myself under a monstrous mushroom of ice & snow that hung overhead and stuck out from the mountain. I knew immediately it was the summit mushroom and it was the final feature before the top. But how the hell could I possibly climb this? I couldn’t. I stopped for a moment and thought about bailing. I could go down now and go home. But in the next moment I decided I wanted to stand on the top. I went head left, knowing that beyond the crest of the South Arete, a complete traverse of the upper West Face would lead me to the ridge and I could find my way to the summit from there. I slowly began kicking sideward steps across the steep and loose snow. Breaching the South Arete, I was now floating across Peruvian snow flutings on the West Face, delicately working my way and breathing deeper. Beneath my feet was a nothingness. I’d read of these flutings in books and always wondered what they were like. Now I was learning first hand well above 19,000ft exactly what they were like. On and on. Left and further left. Occasionally I’d look back right to the way I came. The light from my lamp splayed across the face, across the flutings, across deliberate and organized steps and daggers which lined the way until the light disappeared and was lost to the face of the night. Finally, the ridge. I’d made it! The ridge presented technical snow climbing that that wasn’t overly difficult but seemed consequential. I stopped often to breath deep. I was feeling really tired but the summit was in my future. “Stay in the game. Stay in the game.”

At 3:35AM I stepped onto the summit and kneeled into the snow. Perhaps not in exhaustion but in relief. I was somewhat cold, breathless, felt generally frightened- I was alone. My headlamp shined into the snow. One glimmer light on a perfect mountaintop! I took my phone out of my pocket and turned it on- 1%. I took a photo of my watch and one of my face, and then again it was dead. Happiness & celebration eluded me. All I could think about was Antonio & Eduardo in the darkness of camp wondering about me. I’d promised them I’d return safely so it was time go down! I got as far as I could off the summit before smashing two pickets and rapping off the mushroom. It was a thrilling experience to be on a free hanging rappel at 19,700ft! The excitement gave energy to put towards a swift descent. I was back on the South Face and rappelled a few more times before beginning the downclimb of 600-650 meters or so to the glacier below. It went down easy but felt like forever, the same repetitive motion over and over until the bergschrund came into view. Snow conditions were pretty good for downward movement and my tools daggered easily into the face. It felt good to be going down and getting further away from the summit. The air would get thicker and the exposure would surely be over sooner than later. I was relieved to have the summit behind me so early and working my way down the face before the sun would ever touch it, but it felt a bit ridiculous to still be in the dark!

Navigating the glacier downwards was surely easier than before and I followed my tracks gingerly past large crevasses and over snow bridges, snaking down until the snow turned to bare ice again. In this area there are very large crevasses that are easily navigated with some thought, but just before the snow ends, you’re overtop of some of them on bridges of a thin snowpack. I was happy to make it past that part and standing on the ice, I knew it was in the bag and the dangers of the night were behind me. The thought of falling in a crevasse had weighed heavily on my mind until then. I sat down for a moment in a small bathtub-like feature in the ice, avoiding the breeze, and I debated taking a nap there because I wasn’t too psyched about possibly falling in one of those pools again! I figured in the morning light maybe I could see them. Less than a minute with shut eyes I popped up realizing a nap on the glacier was surely a foolish idea- I can easily just walk to camp! So on I went stumbling down the glacier and I found my way back between two final crevasses near the face and to the spot I’d stepped onto the ice originally. The sky was beginning to grow from a black to a purple and the mountains were in sight with the new faint light. Stripping crampons, I started walking along the rocks with a now unmotivated pace. I’d been up through the night and I was tired. Shortly after beginning the moraine walk, as I was beginning to hike alongside the glacial lake on rolling bedrock hills, two headlamps turned on in the distance. I knew it was Antonio & Eduardo! I watched them start to move and now were coming closer. When we met on the moraine, we shared hugs and handshakes in joy of the summit. “Cumbre mi amigo! Cumbre!” They yelled with big smiles. They took my harness off me and my pack. We walked back together the final 15 minutes to camp under the purple morning light that brought in the new day.

The darkest night I’ve had in the mountains was over and the summit was a gift I would return home with. On the Moose’s Tooth, I’d felt like everything went down pretty easily and the mountain was good fun and enjoyable. On Artesonraju I’d gone on a true adventure on a 6000m peak in a land far away from home. I had thought the route would go down easier than it did and as I walked the final minutes across the boulders, I began to recall the ultimate chess match. I had summitted this beautiful mountain but it had pushed me mentally. In being alone, I had not shared any of the pressure of the night with anyone but myself. For nearly 8 hours now I had been on my own climbing high in the Andes. I had always wanted to experience something like this- going big in one of the world’s high ranges. But I wasn’t sure if I was strong enough to handle the hardships of climbing alone in that environment. It is hard to imagine myself up there- one little lamp making its way. During the walk I thought about how I would be a different climber now, I’m not sure how but it seemed obvious that this would yield growth in my mountaineering. But still I didn’t feel mass excitement- I was tired and staggering along humbled back to my tent. The mountain had offered a full-on adventure to me and I accepted. I felt like I was walking away from a mental boxing match. We both gave it hell and the result was a stalemate. A tie: Artesonraju 1. Me 1. Good game by all.

Back in camp, hot coffee was ready and a bundle of snacks appeared. Eduardo emptied my pack and recoiled my ropes. Antonio took photos and we waited for the sun to hit our camp and defrost our belongings. In the warm sun, we watched pink to yellow to white on snow-capped peaks above the valley. Chacaraju was out and Caraz and the Huandoys. Small figurines appeared in this distance on a col between Huandoy Este and Pisco, guided groups heading westward or the summit of Pisco along a gentle waving ridge. The sun felt rich and the air was near still. The light was the fulfilled promise of a new day that I had been looking for through the night on the mountain. And now, it came with the happiness of a hard earned summit and a gratitude for the mountain as it warmed from shady to shiny. As our gear became dry, we packed up and soon we were walking down towards Laguna Paron. I looked back often at the mountain, at the trail and the surroundings. I wanted to remember this experience. The further down we got, the more I thought of the mountain as a defining moment in my climbing. While I was ready for a rest, I was also sad to be starting my journey home and would’ve loved to have more time to attempt more routes now that I was fully acclimated and with some success in my pocket.

Artesonraju on the wall at La Casa De Zarela.

We stopped a while at a camp area near the head of the laguna. Antonio prepared fresh guacamole and tequenos. I laid on my sleeping pad and ate with a childish grin and dog-like pace. The fresh snack had been my favorite so far in Peru and it really hit the spot after climbing! We made our way back to the parking lot along a trail beside the turquoise water. It was midday now and a breeze swept along the hillside. The sun was out and the valley felt alive. High above now, the mountains basked in sunshine and small groups of clouds grazed their summits in passing. The night became a memory that only I held. I could go home now back to my life and be at ease. While I could write this story to share with you my time on Artesonraju, it would live on as a token in my mind and it came bearing the reward of joy, of self-fulfillment, and of gratitude. Back at the retufio, Antonio negotiated a ride while we stood with our bags and the daily tourists enjoying their visit to Laguna Paron. Shortly after we hopped in the back of a long tourist bus and we were off down the winding road. The high mountains went out of sight and became locked into memory. As we made the three-hour drive back to Huaraz, clouds grew over the mountains in a dark grey and gloom. We bumped along with Peruvian music playing over the speakers, the beautiful landscape and culture displayed out the windows, and I looked around reeling in the environment.

I left Peru with a reason to come back. Artesonraju grew in my mind as a grand experience. I felt thankful to have new friends there and motivated for future trips to the Cordillera Blanca.

Check it out

Artesonraju: The Darkest Night

An Andean Climbing Story

See also: “Artesonraju Kit” in the Rucksack.