Mount Aconcagua and Mount Rainier Seven Mountain Story: Book III

By Walter Glover, MTS

The mountains are calling and I must go. -John Muir Another in his series of exciting mountaineering stories, senior citizen adventure author Walter Glover continues his quest to climb the world's famed Seven Summit mountains. After reaching Mount Everest base camp, the summits of Kilimanjaro, and the highest peaks in Russia and Australia, the popular series turns to South America. Mount Aconcagua is the highest mountain in the southern hemisphere, its peak reaching 22,000 feet. The expedition is marked by camaraderie and peril. Walter then turns his climbing boots homeward to Mount Rainier to prepare for the Seven's final two peaks. A fall and the discovery of three aneurysms, one which required open-heart surgery, sidelined him-temporarily. A retired hospital chaplain, reviewers frequently remark that the centerpieces of Walter's books are spirituality and inspiration. Walter's altruistic aim was to raise money with his climbs for children's wellness initiatives-$140,000 to date. Now more than going high, he goes long trekking the pilgrimage across Spain the Way of St. James, El Camino, and across England. In February 2019, he and friend Nancy Conner and his cousin Pilar French trekked, kayaked, and bicycled across South American Patagonia near Cape Horn. Book III contains vivid accounts of tumultuous weather, making friends, and unexpected challenges. Walter writes with the warmth of a real person and includes his spiritual journey as well as the physical challenges of high-altitude mountaineering at age 64. His stories are told with a healthy dose of self-deprecating humor as well as with prayers and psalms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644682616

Book preview

cover.jpg

Mount Aconcagua and Mount Rainier Seven Mountain Story

Book III

Walter Glover, MTS

Copyright © 2020 Walter Glover, MTS

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Advance Praise

Faith, hope, and love fuel this mountain climber’s passion to reach new heights.

—The Criterion, Indianapolis

Walter’s treks are inspiring to many people. It’s not just the challenge of the climb at his age when most people are slowing down, but it’s where his heart is while making the difficult grades.

—Times-Mail editorial, Bedford (IN)

Glover meshes with fitness as he does with prayer. He trains 120 miles per month, not simply walking or jogging but climbing any and every hill he can find while carrying a 40-pound backpack and wearing boots. One mile a day must be vertical, by the way.

—Dale Moss, The Louisville Courier-Journal (KY)

Glover has combined his passion for mountains with another passion, helping people, youth in particular. His expeditions to hike mountains in foreign lands are dubbed 2Trek4Kids. Overcoming the mountainous battle of knocking down childhood obesity will take more than one man on a mission—it’s going to take a change in society and its behaviors. However, thanks to people like Glover who point their commitment toward doing good, we know we’re taking positive steps in the right direction.

—Times Mail editorial, Bedford (IN)

Adventurous chaplain encourages kids to get up and moving.

—Catholic Health World

Former local hospital chaplain Glover chronicles two of his remarkable adventures in his new book. And all the while he displays his strong spirituality and faith, though not in a preachy or overbearing way. Rather, he does so by exhibiting a refreshing humanity.

—Plain Dealer, North Vernon (IN)

Adventurer’s efforts for FFY, and children are praiseworthy. What would you do to help children? Would you raise money for scholarships, or awareness about the need to fight juvenile obesity? How about something more challenging, such as climbing a mountain or trekking across a country? Columbus resident Walter Glover has done all of that.

—The Columbus Republic editorial, (IN)

Glover has combined his passion for mountains with another passion, helping people, youth in particular. His expeditions to hike mountains in foreign lands are dubbed 2trek4kids.com.

—The Salem Leader-Democrat, (IN)

Walter Glover of St. Vincent Jennings Hospital in Indiana was awarded the first national Eye on Wellness Award from Virgin Pulse-Virgin Health Miles. Walter is an active 61-year-old Virgin Pulse—Virgin Health Miles member committed to staying active and promoting activity within his community.

—Virgin Pulse—Virgin Health Miles, a Sir Richard Branson corporation

Walter goes to schools and tells students the rewards of getting naturally high and healthy. He tells students they can do whatever their heartfelt passion pictures.

—The Columbus Republic, (IN)

To Nancy Conner

And Foundation for Youth Kids

Their FFY Leaders

And 2Trek4Kids FFY Donors.

How beautiful upon the mountain are the feet of him who brings good news.

—Isaiah 52/7

Highlight

The afternoon drew on, and in little groups, we started to reconvene in the main tent as the guides had finished their work that necessitated our crew’s temporary displacement. What had been a windy condition grew windier still. The temp dropped and it was noticeably colder. When I closed the flap and left James’s and my tent to go to the loo, en route to the main tent, I thought I was warm enough in the coat and clothes I had on. It was nearing dinner as we regathered in the team tent. As I neared the team tent, in addition to the wind and cold, snow began to fall and accumulate. Darkness began to fall too. Then far off in the distance, to my amazement and concern, I saw lightning. This lightning occurred while it was snowing. How often have I seen that? Rarely—once or twice in the Rockies while snow skiing. And the weird thing was, we were so high here on Aconcagua’s slopes that we were looking down on the lightning in the valley below. Above the lightning, really.

Some of the fellas had their big puffy down jackets on inside our big tent. Of course, the meeting tents weren’t heated. We didn’t have hot water for our drinks yet. I rethought my decision about not having my big down jacket. I had a little time before dinner and reconsidered the need for wearing my big puffy extra warm coat. I went the hundred-and-more yards up and down to our tent to retrieve it. The wind had shifted into another higher gear and was right in my face as it blew at a stiff pace. My observation would shift to alarm in a few minutes as I reached our encampment.

For someone who wasn’t an expert at tent assembly, what greeted my eyes upon reaching our expedition’s tent area induced a panic. Oh no. The winds had grown so strong our tent was moving. The other crew’s tents were visibly shifting too. As I looked about, all of our tents were in chaotic motion. The wind had vibrated our homes such that the tent tie-down ropes were loosening. As rope tautness slackened, the tents were prey for fanged winds. Our camp was about to literally fly away. And darkness was falling along with the snow. It was noisy too as the wind crashed against the vinyl fabric. Oh my, what to do?

Later tentmate James would call my situation catch 22—Ready, Aim, but what next.

I grabbed onto our tent’s poles, holding on tightly so our home didn’t transition into a rogue magic carpet. Next I slid my hands along the rope and I tried to snug the central rope around its rock anchors tighter to secure it in place. This was unsuccessful as it was a two-person job—one to hold the tent and another to gather in slack rope and make it fast. I saw other tents nearby getting buffeted heavily by the winds. Houston, we have a problem, came to my mind. Was it my imagination or did I hear the wind howl at me? Lightning flashed closer, it seemed.

Emergency room MDs are called on to triage patients, to treat first the ones most in need. My thinking, as I held our tent, while looking at the other tents shake and quake, was, What’s the best use of my time right now? Do I try, with limited skill and resources, to make fast all our tents? Or, or do I run back up to the big tent where our guys and gal and guides are and call in the cavalry? I said a quick prayer. Answered quickly, the guidance was: best to run to the big tent to get help. I covered the football-field distance, dashing uphill in climbing boots—difficult for sure—to get reinforcements.

In record speed for me, no cross-country star, racing along, I reached the big tent and yanked open the flap. Nearly breathless because, after all, we were at 14,000 feet elevation, I yelled loudly, Come on! Our tents are blowing away! My face and tone probably eliminated the need for gestures, but I think I pointed the way as if anyone in the tent didn’t know where camp was. Shock or stupidity—no matter. Running back, I hoped our crew was in time to prevent the tents from sailing into space like those magic carpets I read about as a kid.

Gabby and several others were faster getting to the tents than I was, even with my head start. Like an MD in the ER, Gabby triaged which of our vinyl shelters were most imperiled and likely to blow into rocks and tear their fabric. Or worse, sail off into Argentine airspace. He, Pete, and Gilbert began snugging ropes and securing tents. The crew jumped in too. There were a few flashlights to help visibility in the dark so those were passed about. The snow continued, not to mention the wind; and the lightning too down in the valley. Thunder vibrated the ground. Mother Nature’s tantrum intersected with our Mountain Hardwear manufactured domiciles. Fortunately the task was completed without loss of a home.

Gabby, Pete, and Gilbert did a follow-up inspection to ensure the tie-down recovery jobs were optimal. Meantime the winds continued to blow and the falling wind-blown snow was slanting through the air horizontally—not a sight you see every day. All our tents were safe. It took maybe fifteen minutes to get our tents squared away. When you know exactly what to do and have the resources to do it, it almost looks easy.

When the danger had passed, Gabby gave me a pat on the back and said, Good job, Waltero. Others of the crew said complimentary things too.

As we headed back to the dinner tent, I noticed the beating of my heart had returned to more normal rhythms. I got amused, thinking, And a little one shall lead them. I, the guy who was probably the worst at tent assembly, helped save the vinyl village.

That windy welcome to base camp by Aconcagua, mighty that it was, would shrink in comparison to the winds that, soon enough, would hit us and keep hitting us and even stall us at camp 1. These rowdier big-brother-version winds eclipsed our climbing schedule, making for another problem. Our tents and we occupants were in for an even bigger blow. Buckle up!

Mount Aconcagua

Introduction

Mount Aconcagua in Argentina is the highest mountain in the world outside of the Himalayan range in Nepal. Aconcagua, at 22,000 feet-plus, is considered more of a challenge than many of its Himalayan cousins. I was there to climb it the month before I turned 64 years old. It would be my fourth of the Seven Summits since being at Mount Everest in 2007. It is known for its unrelenting winds. I experienced those winds, up close and in my face, in January 2012, when the wind blew steadily for 36 hours and gusted at 60 miles per hour, pinning us down at camp 1. Called the Stone Sentinel, this Andean mountain’s challenges also included severe heat and bitter-cold subzero temperatures (a record for me of -25 degrees Fahrenheit below zero on summit morning) and long linear distances to be trekked in addition to climbing. Conditions were bleak and harsh. I was away from home for longer than on any of my expeditions. And Aconcagua was my fifth of the famed Seven Summits—the highest mountains on each of the seven continents. Already I’d footprinted Everest, Kilimanjaro, Elbrus in Russia, and Kosciuszko in Australia.

Our expedition’s biggest attribute was team camaraderie and harmony. Our expedition team on Aconcagua was extraordinary. And as I was gone for a month, I was so grateful for the blessing of great companions and superb guides. Seven years later, in 2019, I continue to be in touch with members of the team.

At Argentina, I reached an elevation of 21,063 feet, four miles high, a PR. Alas my climb ended just below the summit. Yet I was confident I made a good decision to withdraw. This climb, my most challenging mountain, was another fundraiser to combat childhood obesity in rural Southern Indiana. My previous climb in Australia, a year prior, was my easiest and it had raised the most funds ever for a mountain climb with donations exceeding $26,000. I was hopeful for even more proceeds as Aconcagua was going to be my toughest mountain yet. But somehow, it raised the lowest amount of proceeds—only $14,000. I never did figure that out. But the good news was we had raised $84,000 total in three years, and St. Vincent Southern Indiana hospital ministries, where I served as the pastoral-care hospital chaplain, had three youth weight management clinics up and running and helping kids. And they all had endowments to scholarship overweight kids into each clinic.

Journal Chronicles

From Walter’s Journal

As with Books I and II, the narrative that follows, in part, is formatted by notes Walter handwrote each day into the personal journal he carried.

Welcome to Argentina

4–7 January 2012, Wednesday et al

Winter weather was mild in Indiana in January 2012 as I headed to Indianapolis International Airport en route to Argentina. I left surprisingly comfortable sunny blue-gray skies and mid-30 temps. On getting off the aircraft in Mendoza, I thought I had walked into a Hoosier Summer sweatbox—hot and with humidity. Three weeks later, on summit day, I would find out what a -25 temp below zero felt like—a brrr freezing personal record or PR courtesy of Aconcagua. Before summit day, we would endure 36 nearly continuous hours of 30-40 mile-per-hour winds which sometimes gusted to 50-60. I remember giving voice to what I learned, 50 miles per hour will bend me, 60 miles an hour will blow me off my feet.

I was gone for almost a month. My gear consisted of two stuffed army duffel bags and a loaded backpack. Checking in at Delta Airlines tallied $200 for baggage. Once all—and I mean all—the contents were unpacked on my twin bed at the Hotel Nutibara in Mendoza, I still laugh remembering what my climbing roommate, Larry, said. His eyes in big disbelief, himself also an experienced climber, Larry remarked, Walter, what are you going to do with all that shit?

This was my first expedition with Rainier Mountaineering Inc. out of Ashford, Washington. I would come to know and value their organization’s multifaceted skills. At Aconcagua, of the nine of our climbers, only one other climber had been with RMI on a previous expedition. At the expedition’s end, we were all seasoned believers in RMI tradition and practice.

Gabriel Barral was our senior and lead guide. An Argentinian, he had a ton of mountaineering experience. On Aconcagua, on our expedition, he was aiming for his 25th summit of that particular mountain. Pete Van Deventer and Anne Gilbert Chase were our additional two guides. I met Gabby early as he dropped by my hotel room to say hello and do a perfunctory gear check. The winnowing of redundant resources, I jokingly called what followed as Gabby weeded out gear which, as Larry observed, I didn’t need all of.

Larry was my hotel roommate whenever our expedition stayed indoors. And he was a good one. Early on, Bryan was in with us. As I had the room to myself for one night, its small quarters shrunk quickly! Gabby, on seeing the three of us in a room that did well to accommodate two, realized Bryan was supposed to be sharing a room with another climber and relocated him.

I liked Larry. Given to economy of language, when he spoke, he had thought first about what he was going to say. He didn’t waste words. He was friendly without trying too hard. And he knew mountains, although we did not share any of the same peaks. He’d done many climbs in his native California. When in Mendoza, we shared a hotel room pre and post mountain. And Larry and I shared another hotel room following our bus trip from Mendoza to a few miles from our climb’s trailhead.

I’d followed my practice of arriving at my Mendoza destination a day early. At Everest, in 2007, my kit, or luggage, was delayed at the Los Angeles airport as I unknowingly flew on from LAX to Thailand. Because the flight from Bangkok to Kathmandu, Nepal, only occurred every other day, I was reunited with my backpack and suitcase just the afternoon before the climb. On all future expeditions, I avoided that issue by arriving a day early—gear intact. Thus Gabby and I had an opportunity to meet early for him to peruse my gear. I liked our leader instantly; his smile, pleasant and easygoing manner, sense of humor, and approachability were his calling cards.

Table of Contents

Humility: Luggage Delay—Life Lesson 1

Transformation: Peak Denied—Life Lesson 2

Rainier I: The First Climb

First Day of the Rest of My Life Part II: Brown Co Hike and Soccer Champs

Humility: Luggage Delay—Life Lesson 1

Life Lesson 1

Before we left our hotel for the expedition, I vicariously lived the MIA-ness of my luggage at Kathmandu all over again this trip. Tom, one of my climbing partners who would prove to be a great tentmate high on Aconcagua, provided me and the rest of our crew with a great lesson around how to behave amid delay of gear delivery. Tom was coming from Calgary in Canada. His gear was delayed from reaching him in Mendoza. Unlike mine, for which I waited 48 hours in Kathmandu, his was delayed longer. And delayed even longer still.

Tom was saintly in his patience. He bit his lip to not verbally beat up the airline. He was long-suffering for days as our departure from Mendoza to our mountain climb drew near and nearer. Tom’s dilemma was, like me in Kathmandu, all he had were the clothes on his back. All his clothes, food, paperwork, and technical climbing gear for the mountain were somewhere between South America and British Columbia, Canada. His dilemma: a) Do I risk heading to the mountain without my gear? b) Do I continue to trust the airline which keeps promising me my gear will be delivered? c) Do I spend a small fortune to replace everything? D) Quitting the climb, however, was never an option for Tom.

Meantime his outward and inward calm, poise, and hesitancy to throw rocks at the airline was remarkable. I, all of us, were giving him this and that to patch him through. But collectively, all of us could not fill a complete and personal equipment list. Nor did Tom ask for any of this nor expect it from us. He remarkably rolled the dice and headed along with the rest of us when it came time to pull out of Mendoza for Aconcagua. Gearless yet hopeful, the gear would catch him in time.

I didn’t ask Tom if he were familiar with Psalm 37. That’s where the psalmist writes a kind of commandment telling the people of Israel, Do not fret. By commandment, I point to the first two words of zero-tolerance instruction—Do Not, like is written in the Ten Commandments. The writer begins the psalm with those three words—Do Not Fret. Within Psalm 37, for emphasis, the psalmist restates the commandment a second time. For added emphasis, he lays it out a third time. Fairly Non-Negotiable coaching, it would seem. Do Not Fret.

Tom never fretted, bitched, whined, nor complained. I was so struck by the manner in which he dealt with this calamity. It was a good lesson then and remains one now. He kept doing what he could do with the airline. He controlled what he could control; and we didn’t hear much if anything about what wasn’t.

Tom’s luggage caught up with him after two days of trekking to our base camp. Happy reunion for Tom. Humbling lesson for me and others in our group, I expect, on how to deal with adversity. It was a memorable and instructive way to begin the climb which would deliver much of the challenge a big major-league mountain may pose. Tom showed immense quiet strength. Let me be like him, I thought. And as we all shared to meet his need, especially Bryan, let me also share to help those in need.

James and I shared a tent our first few nights. He’d asked me about sharing and I accepted readily. He seemed like a good man and he was. Actually my first (and my lasting) impression was and is that all of the crew seemed like good men. Except, of course, for Gilbert who seemed like a good woman—which she was. A pain-control specialist physician, James was friendly, strong, and supportive. He was interested in the work I was doing to raise money for youth obesity and my aim for the Seven Summits. By then, I’d worked in hospitals for a quarter-century and more. James, as a medical doctor, and I had some things in common to visit about.

Vacas River Valley

8–9 Jan 2012, Sunday–Monday

Our first days took us through the Vacas River Valley. Our trekking followed a trail that was a dried-up streambed littered with broken stones, some big some small. It was uneven terrain. The temp was warm to hot, putting most of us in shorts, and everyone was slathered in sunscreen salve. Afterward someone estimated from the time we started our trek into the valley, the climb itself, and return through the valley was at a minimum 70 miles long. Many of those miles were alongside this Vacas River and a second river.

I liked being near or at the front of the group as I always seemed to match the climbing leader’s pace better there. I also did that best when I was fresh in the mornings. Many was the time I’d see James in his strong, purposeful, unrelenting gait press past me and others too, especially as the day drew on. I remember thinking, James has got sustainable energy, even at midafternoon in the heat. I didn’t ask his age that I remember, but I expect James was mid-30s and his level of fitness was excellent. He was younger than me by 30 years. Clearly I was the ancient one—again. Fifth expedition of five and I was senior in years by five more years since the trek to Everest base camp in 2007. I didn’t have James’s or others’ pace or strength but I was confident, for my age group, I was comfortably up the food chain. In eight months at Mount Rainier, I’d get a seismic shock that could have added inches to the height of Everest.

Among the shortcomings of the present was, I had my tent troubles despite our climbing leader’s teachings and despite James follow-up tutorials. I never got great at putting up our tent. Well, I was certainly better at disassembling it in the morning. James got stuck with the brunt of the work, try as I did.

The first overnight, our camp was probably a quarter-mile from the Vacas River gorged with water from the swollen force of snow and glacier melt. Flowing close by, the river sounded a pleasant melodious roar. Out of sight but relentless in presence, the cascading water poured and pounded over the rocks in its channel. The active Vacas reminded me of the name of the river at Mount Everest, the Dudh Kosi. I trekked and climbed to Everest base camp in 2007, at 17,600 feet. Translated to English, the Everest river’s name meant the milk river for the whiteness of its froth as it crashed over huge boulders the size of trucks—dump trucks, not pickup trucks! I laughed five years ago (still do), thinking it should have been called the Vanilla Milkshake River. I was reminded of the noise it made in Nepal, near Tibet, as I listened to this Vacas River situated thousands of miles away here in the southern hemisphere. The Vacas River was about as far south of the equator as the Dudh Kosi was north of the equator. Both rivers had glaciers as their sources. Glacial melt powered them. The rhythmic sounds of both rivers had a calming effect on my psyche, my soul. I went right to sleep and slept well. Despite the heat of the day and a scorching southern hemispheric sun, it got cool at night, low 40s and high 30s.

Our next day was much like today, many miles trekked alongside the river, relationships developing among our crew, good weather, gauchos leading mules carrying our gear, getting comfortable in the terrain carrying our thirty to forty-pound packs, adjusting to the RMI schedule of breaks, slowly acclimatizing as we gained elevation, in awe of our environment, getting stronger with each step, many of us expressing gratitude at the opportunity the expedition presented. I was struck by the easy friendliness among the men and one woman as we trekked onward. None of us had known one another. Except for the three guides who did know each other, all of us were strangers to the other and to the guides. I could see invisible threads beginning to connect us—well, certainly me—to others.

As we cruised to our destination for the night, James and I and our expedition pitched our tents on the edge of the encampment’s perimeter. Again the river was about a quarter-mile away, but here, it cut a broad lazy swath, shallow enough for mules to wade across as we’d find out the next morning.

In fact, there was a mule walk just beyond our tent perimeter. If you’re thinking, Here comes a mule story, you are right—except make it two stories.

Mules were used to transport the essential gear the climbers needed for the mountain. In the packs on our back, we carried the provisions we’d need for each day’s hike. All additional personal gear and community gear went onto the mules’ backs. The gauchos or muleteers formed up the mule trains and led the lines of mules from one camp to the next. The muleteers and animals had met us at the trailhead. Our expedition included maybe 15 mules. As all the expeditions shared the same trail, often there were many mules about. The mules faithfully ferried a considerable amount of gear to the lower camps. The third camp was our base camp, located at an elevation just above 14,000 feet, the elevation of Colorado’s highest peaks. Base camp was as high as the mules went. After that, we climbers became our own burros.

The burros were then herded back to the trailhead to support subsequent expeditions. From base camp, at 14,000 feet, we would do multiple carries to each of the subsequent high camps to get all our gear in place. These carries would help with the acclimatizing process of getting our bodies adjusted to the altitude. We’d climb high, cache gear, and then return to a lower camp to sleep. Thus, Climb high, sleep low, was the mantra. This process helped the human body with its necessary and slow physiologic transition to elevation. To go up high in a hurry was to foolishly risk acute mountain sickness (AMS) and, worse, the serious and often deadly medical circumstance of developing fluid on the brain or in the lungs. The latter is called pulmonary (lung) or cerebral (brain) edema. Cerebral edema may have been what I started to experience at Everest five years ago. And clearly, I suffered AMS (acute mountain sickness) at Everest. AMS is a compromising malady that makes the simplest of tasks complicated because it reduces mental clarity and physical acumen.

But for now, with the burros helping us reach the various camps, we appreciated the burros as they carried the additional weight. Each afternoon, the burros were unburdened of their loads and they were then watered and fed. Hooves would be tended to, sometimes old horseshoes removed and new ones affixed. And for safety of animals and people, they were hobbled and blindfolded. This prevented them from wandering away and endangering themselves or climbers—or both which is where this mule tale is headed.

After a long day of river-valley trekking, our group prepared for our second night in the Vacas Valley. James, mostly, and I set up our tent and stowed our gear, including the gear the mules hauled in. We had about an hour to chill before dinner and the team meeting.

I went to the loo up the hill and then meandered back down to camp. I stopped on the hill and looked at the river that we’d cross tomorrow at sunrise—atop our mules! For these people trips, the gear stayed behind. We already knew we’d be going across what was bone-chilling water, one person per burro at a time. I heard myself tell me, by way of practice for sunrise transport, Buckle up, when I got aboard my steed, eh, burro. One of the gauchos on a lead mule would hold the reins of our animal as guiding individual escorts. The river water was fed by snowmelt and thus was freezing cold. It was knee-to-waist deep where we’d cross. Stay in the saddle tomorrow, cowboy, I told myself. I didn’t want to discover how cold that river I looked at just now was. We learned, however, another climbing group would intentionally experience the freezing water.

I was soon back at our tent. Our expedition, one of several groups encamped on the river’s edge, included a half-dozen of the 20 or more tents scattered about—all parked at the same level spot for the night.

I considered the river crossing and the striking view of Aconcagua in the background. This, our first view of the mountain itself, was an awe-filling sight to behold. It thrust upward 22,841 feet in elevation, the highest peak outside the Himalayan range in Asia. It wore a white mantle and breathtakingly rose up as king of the Andes within, aptly, a royal-blue sky. Gulp, I thought as I viewed the majestic sight. My heart, as some say, was in my mouth.

My personal record for elevation was 19,340 feet atop Kilimanjaro’s Uhuru Peak, the roof of Africa, in 2009. Seeing Aconcagua clearly for the first time, I was stoked. And humbled. This mountain was 3,500 feet higher than Kili. Oh my—holy shit. Excuse my French.

A frisky visitor startled me out of my ponderings.

I heard a noise and looked around. One of the mules had broken from its nearby mooring post, freeing itself of being hobbled to a second mule. To my amazement, I suddenly found myself watching a blindfolded mule stumble into the tent next to ours, hooves stepping into all manner of gear, water bottles and food. The poor mule was scared and confused. He knew he was where he didn’t want to be. And blinded to boot from a blanket put about his head—for safety of all things. His sight absent, he was—cough—a bull in a tent encampment.

I looked around for a muleteer to collect his stray charge. None was close by. Only one thing to do—step in! I began talking softly to the animal and caught his harness, rubbing his furry wet nose, cooing to him like I’d done with horses growing up. We slowly backed out of the mess he’d gotten himself into, all the while me talking to him gently and patting and rubbing his long black damp nose. The mule collapsed a nearby tent but, fortunately, his legs were free. I needed us to calmly go in the right direction amid tight quarters of the tent neighborhood.

About then, some of my climbing mates noticed me with my new friend. Rick, from Cincinnati, took a picture (Hey, Rick, never did see a copy of that photo!). I joked aloud that my four-footed charge reminded me of my new mountaineering buds. In fun, to Rick nearby, I made catty references about the mule’s appearance and the way the mule walked and stumbled about, just like my climbing mates. He doesn’t know where he’s going, just like you guys, teasing that, You all are about as smart as this dumb a——. Rick, an NFL-lineman-sized fella, laughed—thankfully.

Still no muleteer was nearby. So I began coaxing my new friend toward where the gauchos were encamped with the other mules. Now on the trail, I spoke quietly to my charge and petted him. Thankfully he was gentle as we walked free of any hindrances underfoot. He was understandably a wee smelly from his day’s work; I considered to him, I probably was a foreign smell too. As we slowly walked along, one of the cowboys noticed his burro being led by the hands of a gringo climber and rushed to the beast’s rescue. I’d like to say I’d made a friend for the rest of the valley excursion but I believe my mule belonged to one of the other expeditions, not ours.

If that weren’t a sufficiently interesting encounter, the mule tales, as it were, resumed late that night. Seemed our location along the perimeter invited engagements with our cargo carriers. Or maybe it was that the mules wanted to befriend me. The river wasn’t so loud at this campsite. You could hear the hum of low voices in the camp. You could hear the trickle of water from a white plastic pipe which brought fresh water down from a neighboring creek for washing and cooking and for drinking after you added the sterilizing pills or boiled it.

I heard clearly what happened next. While the camp’s loo was up the hill, in the other direction, it seemed an exercise trail and dumping ground for the mules was in the other direction past our tent. I usually slept like a little boy but the sound of hooves going past just outside our tent awakened me. I almost thought my friend was loose again and headed into our tent to tell me thanks! for getting him home earlier. Next thing I knew, I thought someone who had too much vino, for whatever reason, was throwing buckets of water against James’s and my tent. Or maybe just throwing up. Further listening suggested it was a kind of used liquid and it wasn’t emitted by a bucket. Nor was it a vino-induced human prank. Seemed a mule eager to take a piss used the side of our tent for target practice before he arrived to where he was being led. When I say we got hosed, that was certainly what it seemed like—hit hard by the pissing power of mule with a fire hose. God love James, he slept right through the dousing! I could only guess what the morning was going to show and smell like. Thank goodness for small favors like overnight dew. It seemed to take care of odor and anything else of concern.

This second camp along the river had a spiritual side too. Earlier at the hotel, when we had our final team meeting before the trailhead, I was reading my morning meditation as people walked into our meeting site. The meditation I read was written by Cherokee spiritualist, Joyce Sequichie Hifler. Her brief daily reflections often referenced nature. I had been reading Cherokee, as I call it, for years. Rather than place the weight of the whole book into my pack on the mountain, I photocopied single pages to read each day. I carried Cherokee along with a minisized Bible and a Jewish prayer for journeys which my friend Rabbi Arnold gave me. I also carried another prayer crafted by Jim Passerini, a Lutheran who was our St. Vincent Salem pharmacist, that he personally wrote for my expeditions. These were my daily on-mountain morning reading practices.

I was reading the Cherokee reflection when someone, maybe it was fellow climber, Fred, (with whom, in 2019, I continue regular communication) or maybe was it Pete or Gilbert, two of our guides, who asked to see what I was reading. I had my sheaf of meditations for the rest of the trip and just randomly handed some out. All were struck by the beauty and power of the Cherokee spiritualist’s words. Whomever inquired about me carrying along such things.

This interlude allowed me to speak about how I value nature and my belief on the source of its origin. I touched on the words of Psalms highlighting creation in the Bible and how I was infused by the awesomeness of the mountain scenes of Everest, Kilimanjaro, Elbrus, and Kosciuszko, and how expectant I was for Aconcagua. And I mentioned Elohim the Creator God’s majesty. Admittedly I kept the biblical theme and spirituality low-key. However, with a master’s degree in theology from a renowned Catholic seminary who ministers as a pastoral-care chaplain in Catholic hospitals, spirituality is an integral part of who I am. I mentioned Elohim and nature matter-of-factly.

I was, after all, a pastoral-care chaplain in a faith-based Catholic hospital. Prayers for safety for our journey had been on my mind. Accordingly I had sought out our leader, Gabby, and asked him, Will it be all right to say a prayer or prayers for the journey? He politely discouraged it, saying, in my language, imposing my wishes/beliefs on the team would be offensive. I said I couldn’t agree more with him. He seemed surprised by my reply. Then I asked him, If the team is good with it and for this idea of prayer, would it be acceptable? I could ascertain this, I said, by simply asking each guy individually how he felt about a prayer. Gabby found that acceptable, and I told him I would get back to him with what the team members said.

I used the Cherokee reflections as a platform to ask the group members about saying a prayer. When I inquired, individually, of all the climbing members about this, everyone, all to an individual, endorsed the idea. I reported back to Gabby and he said okay but not to use the tents as a place for prayer. Okay, I said.

I guess I had seen this as a one-time prayer. It would be a time to ask God’s travel mercies, safety, good weather, as well as summit success for our expedition—much as I had asked people at home to pray for me.

Well, that evening by the river, before we turned in, one of the team members asked me to offer a prayer. Jeff, another physically big man in our group, gathered the crew together, saying, All right, come on over here, if you want. Walter’s got something to say. And all of us, minus the guides who were checking out our river crossing, gathered in a circle. What a sight; everyone dressed in some vestige of climbing or trekking gear and warm clothes to ward off the evening chill and appearing a little scruffy around the edges after days on the trail. But they were ready for a prayer. And so I offered a prayer out loud. It was one of those spontaneous prayers—sincere, authentic, requesting safety, summit success, fun, making a new friend, appreciating God in nature, and gratefulness for our bodies, minds, and spirits. It was succinct, short, and probably had a funny line in it. Afterward I think everyone said thanks, some shook my hand, and a number told me privately how they appreciated it. And many added that I should plan to do it again—perhaps every evening.

I was overwhelmed.

I still didn’t have everyone’s name straight, and here I was, being asked to lead a prayer for our group. Something about God writing straight using crooked