| Nationalgeographic.com has neither edited nor researched this dispatch. |
| October 21 |
 I lay in my tent at base camp, dehydrated and my head pounding. It feels like the last 10 kilometers (6.2 miles) of a marathon, only here in perpetuity. But with tea and soup from my friend Zoilo, the cook, I slowly recuperate.We left Chilitia early in the morning—our gear stowed in the back of a pickup. We bounced down a makeshift road for a half hour to reach the dump site. At 4:30 that morning before the others woke, I set off to take some photos of Pichu Pichu, llama herds, and villagers. During breakfast, Johan had similar thoughts and decided to pursue the llama herd. Much to his surprise, though, the herd stampeded by him and trampled in his soup, ruining his breakfast. We all got a big rise out of it. |
At the dump site, we were met by our Peruvian friends, Carlos, Arcadio, and Marco. “The burros couldn’t make it yesterday,” José told Johan over the walkie-talkie. Bad news indeed. Provisions for almost 20 people, including tents, generators, water barrels, camera gear, and of course backpacks, takes more than a day of humping up the slopes. Improvising, we all shouldered the burden, literally, of our packs and set off for a three hour hike to base camp.The stamina and strength of our Peruvian guides could put any burro to shame. They sauntered while I keeled over every few steps, gasping. Arcadio said to breath deeply. I replied that any breathing would be nice. He laughed. By evening, most of us were functional. José, and two of his students, Orlando and Jimmy, were already at the summit camp, clearing away snow and ice from the burial platform. In a day or two, the entire team will be up there as well. |
 But for now, I settle in for the evening with my Peruvian friends in the mess tent. We grub on cream of tomato soup, spaghetti, and vanilla pudding. The number of languages tossed around seem like Babel. English, French, Spanish, Japanese (which Zoilo speaks), and, of course, Quechua—the native tongue of the Inca, which most of the group speaks fluently. We top off the evening with a drink called Mambo, that is spiced with a bit of Pisco. “Fuego,” or fire, Arcadio calls it. I agree with his assessment. My fatigue and headache have diminished, and we are chatting like brothers under candlelight. |
 Yet I am apprehensive about our equipment working. Tomorrow, whether or not we make the summit, will be a day of tinkering and wiring. Until then, hasta.
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