Aconcagua 2023–2024: “Scotty”

In early 2023, on an ordinary day, I was cleaning the bathroom at home and, while battling limescale on the fixtures, I got a message from someone named Scotty.

Scotty was a friend of John, who back around 2020 had tried to climb Aconcagua with me but hadn't managed to reach the summit. Even so, he'd come away very happy with my work as a guide.

John told him about me, and that's how Scotty ended up writing to me with the idea of climbing Aconcagua.

I sent him the necessary information: gear, expedition length, and a few important points. For example, in Argentina he wouldn't be able to use an ATM to withdraw enough cash, and in many places he wouldn't be able to pay by card either.

We stayed in touch, and once the expedition was confirmed, we met at the hotel on the agreed day. I'll call that day: Day 1.

I got to the hotel, in the city of Mendoza, and Scotty had all his gear spread out across the room. It looked more like an outdoor shop than a hotel room. Still, he was missing a proper pair of mittens for the mountain we were about to climb. Believe me: on Aconcagua, the cold is no joke.

After going around several stores, he ended up buying a pair; renting them would have cost almost the same.

That same day we had a juicy asado at "El Asadito," and before nine at night we said goodbye. We agreed to meet the next day at 8 in the morning at the hotel.

We met up, did one last gear check, and at 9 in the morning the transfer picked us up to take us to Puente del Inca (2,719 m a.s.l.), where we'd hand off the loads to the muleteers.

From the city of Mendoza to Puente del Inca takes roughly three hours, as long as there aren't too many trucks. Route 7 is an international highway linking Argentina and Chile, and cargo trucks are a common sight.

An hour and a half after leaving the hotel, we stopped in Uspallata.

Uspallata is an Andean town, at about 2,000 m a.s.l. It was one of the staging points for the Army of the Andes, where one of the columns, under the command of Juan Gregorio de Las Heras, prepared for the crossing.

In 1817, these forces crossed the mountains through the Uspallata pass, with the goal of freeing Chile from Spanish crown rule.

Pressed for time, we bought empanadas and something to drink, and continued the trip. There was no time to lose. The plan was to keep going that same day to Confluencia (3,400 m a.s.l.), where we'd spend the first night.

We arrived at Puente del Inca and, without wasting time, handed the loads over to the muleteers.

With a small daypack — carrying only three liters of water, sandwiches, fruit, and a warm jacket — we got on the transfer and set off for Horcones.

Horcones is the main entrance to Aconcagua Provincial Park (2,950 m a.s.l.), where most expeditions on the normal route begin. That's where entry checks happen, permits are shown, and you take your first real step inside the mountain.

We showed our permits and, once that was done, started the trek to Confluencia.

The day was perfect for walking: a light breeze took the edge off the heat, a few clouds — just enough to filter the sun — and an ideal temperature to keep moving without sweating, but without getting cold either.

After three hours of walking, with our bodies craving some good mate, we reached Confluencia. The Aconcagua Visión staff was waiting for us with fruit, juice, and welcoming hugs.

At seven in the evening we had dinner, as usual.

Our plan was to continue the next day to Plaza de Mulas (4,350 m a.s.l.), since Scotty had limited days and this was a shorter expedition than the traditional ones. Around 2 in the morning, though, he had his first symptoms of altitude sickness: headache, nausea, and vomiting.

"We're staying put tomorrow," I told him without hesitation.

He agreed and, after a good hot tea, went to sleep.

At nine in the morning breakfast was waiting for us. Scotty had barely slept, and he looked more fit for bed than for continuing the expedition.

But there's nothing a good round of mate can't fix. So, after working up the nerve to try some rich, bitter mate, followed by a coffee — he couldn't betray his habits, coming from the United States — minute by minute he started to feel better.

The day was sunny and warm. We left the dome and, mate in hand, went to sit in the sun.

Mate, laughs, conversation... and an unexpected visitor.

A client — from another group — who had decided to abandon his expedition was looking for help getting back to Mendoza. He said he didn't have enough money to pay for the transfer.

I made a few calls and got him transportation at half price, but he was hesitant to accept the offer.

Seeing him hesitate over our help, we didn't bring it up again that day. Still, a few days later, Scotty and I found out that, after trying to talk everyone in camp down on price, the stranger had ended up paying for the transfer he'd claimed he couldn't afford.

We just laughed about it.

The extra day at Confluencia came at just the right time. Scotty got his strength back, along with some of the spirit he'd thrown up along with dinner the night before.

Time for the medical check.

Despite how he'd been the night before, Scotty was now fit to keep climbing. The doctors gave us the OK.

That night, the Aconcagua Visión staff treated us to a delicious asado, which luckily Scotty was able to enjoy.

Mate, asado, and hot tea before bed; and that night Scotty slept like a baby, deep in the arms of sleep.

Scotty woke up with a smile. The first thing he said when he saw me was:

"I'm ready. Let's go!"

We had breakfast and, around 7 in the morning, set off for Plaza de Mulas (4,350 m a.s.l.).

The first few minutes were in the shade, with a rather cool breeze. As the hours passed, the sun came out, but even without a single cloud, it never got too hot.

It's common on that stretch to feel like you're in the middle of the Sahara, with the sun seeming to burn you and not a scrap of shade to rest under for hours.

Besides the temperature, that day was pleasant because we didn't run into too many people. That stretch can often feel more like a pedestrian street than a mountain.

After eight hours of walking, we finally reached Plaza de Mulas (4,350 m a.s.l.).

The Aconcagua Visión staff was waiting for us with a wide spread of fruit, pizza, juices, tea, and the odd beer.

What was left of the day was hydrating, resting, and eating — like it was the last meal ever, in my case — since Scotty made do with just a few bites.

Rest day and medical check at Plaza de Mulas.

Scotty slept well that night. His O2 saturation and pulse were normal. The doctors gave us the OK to keep climbing.

Rest day at Plaza de Mulas. We walked around the camp to keep acclimatizing.

Rest day and medical check.

Scotty's O2 saturation and pulse were normal, as was his blood pressure. Once again, the doctors gave us the OK to keep climbing.

The next day, we'd move to Canadá.

At nine in the morning we met in the dome for breakfast. That night, Scotty had slept a bit better.

We finished breakfast and, after checking our gear, packs, and tightening our boots, set off toward Canadá.

It was a slow ascent. We never went more than ninety minutes without stopping to hydrate, have a snack, and rest. And to reapply sunscreen to our faces.

You spend a fortune on sunscreen in the mountains. You have to keep reapplying it constantly, but a skin problem ends up costing a lot more.

Step by step, in a little over three hours, we reached Canadá.

That day, the porters, besides carrying part of our gear, had already pitched our tents for us. A real luxury.

A lot of people may not realize this, but arriving at a high camp and having to set up tents wears you out, and in the case of a storm — which wasn't our case — it's torture.

But not everything was luxury and comfort. The available drinking water was in terrible shape: it smelled more like sulfur than drinking water, and its effect was stronger than any laxative.

I remember someone who, between worried looks, resigned smiles, and a fair bit of disgust, kept heading back to his tent without ever having time to pull his pants down.

Scotty and I must have gone to the bathroom more than five times that day. That made us change our plans: we weren't going to spend another day at Canadá.

I radioed Plaza de Mulas and let them know that the next day we'd move to camp 2, "Nido de Cóndores" (5,400 m a.s.l.). I'd need the porters at ten in the morning.

They confirmed that time. We had pasta for dinner, barely drank any water, and went to sleep.

We woke up with dry mouths. We had barely a coffee for breakfast and, at ten in the morning, once the porters arrived, we started the ascent.

It was a long day. We arrived at six in the evening. It was very cold, and at times the wind seemed to want to knock us to the ground.

We arrived and the porters had already pitched our tents. True professionals.

Once settled in, I went to fetch water. It didn't smell like sulfur or act as a laxative, and we didn't stop hydrating.

We had dinner and drifted off to sleep.

Rest day.

Although, for someone not used to being above 5,000 m a.s.l., "rest" is a manner of speaking. At 5,400 m a.s.l., the body works hard just to stay alive.

That day we walked around the camp and, despite finding little ice, we put on our crampons and practiced walking in them.

As for water, we'd fetch it from a small lagoon. Even though it seemed to be the purest water on the planet, we had to boil it. You never know if — out of ignorance — other people have dirtied it.

That day we had to drink more than 5 liters of fluid, and we did. At the price of constant bathroom trips.

We had an early dinner. Scotty didn't sleep well that night; in fact, he didn't sleep at all.

Second day at Nido de Cóndores.

We left the tent only once the sun hit it.

We had a leisurely breakfast, and the plan was to climb up to 6,000 meters and come back down.

We reached 5,800 meters.

That night, Scotty was finally able to sleep.

Third day at Nido de Cóndores.

Scotty felt better. He was even hungry. Often, one of the symptoms of altitude sickness is loss of appetite.

We drank, ate, and rested. The next day we had to move to camp 3, "Cólera" (6,000 m a.s.l.), from where we'd attempt the summit, with no more rest days.

I let Plaza de Mulas know so the porters would arrive at ten in the morning. And we went to sleep.

Scotty had slept well. Again.

We had an early breakfast, sorted out our gear, and once the porters arrived, started walking.

There was no turning back: that day we'd reach 6,000 m a.s.l.

Repeating what we'd done the days before, roughly every hour — or less — we stopped. During one of those stops, while we were drinking hot tea, the porters passed us as if out for a stroll. Of course, they'd already pitched our tents.

Scotty and I walked more than three hours that day. But we finally reached camp 3, "Cólera."

"First summit": reaching 6,000 meters and sleeping there.

That day, coincidentally, was the birthday of Rodolfo, a friend who was in the city of Tandil, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina.

My porter friends didn't hesitate to send him a greeting, taking advantage of the good internet signal.

Dinner that night: pasta. The classic pre-summit-day meal.

At three-thirty in the morning I made breakfast: coffee, mate, tea, and cereal. The morning — still dark — was completely clear, with no wind, and the stars shone like never before.

With our boots properly laced and crampons on, we set off for the highest summit in the Americas.

Step by step, we kept moving. One step after another. But that day it seemed like the mountain was stealing part of Scotty's lungs with every step. Not from edema, but from exhaustion.

Still in the dark, we reached a big rock. He was worried, and struggling to keep his breath steady.

"Scotty, forget about the summit. Look up. Look at that sky, those stars. Just being here already is a summit," I told him, while we drank hot tea.

A few minutes passed and he answered:

"Let's go."

And we kept climbing.

Every step was a struggle for him, every breath sounded like a freight train, but Scotty, step by step, kept climbing.

With the sun warming his body, he kept following me without hesitation, but after every rest stop, his pace got even slower. As if the simple act of stopping drained more energy out of him.

Every minute that passed seemed to add more weight to his pack. And three hours after leaving Cólera, we'd covered what's usually done in under two.

It was clear there was no longer any chance of reaching the top. Especially because, with every meter we climbed, Scotty lost more and more strength.

It wasn't wise to continue. It might have served his personal pride to get a little higher... but that's not my style when it comes to guiding.

If there's one thing guiding is about, for me, it's offering safety. Anyone can climb a mountain. But doing it safely, with the certainty of coming back down sound and whole, is another thing entirely.

We made our last stop, drank hot tea and juice, put on sunscreen, and I explained the situation to him.

He understood perfectly, and we started the descent.

When we got back to Cólera, we realized it was still early. And, believe it or not, Cólera was a bit lower than where we'd turned back, and Scotty was feeling a little better.

We kept hydrating and I made him a suggestion: head straight down to Plaza de Mulas. His problem wasn't a lack of physical strength — altitude had taken its toll on his body and stripped him of all the strength he has at sea level.

Scotty didn't hesitate to accept the idea.

I radioed that we were heading down and, two hours later, at Nido de Cóndores, Scotty was already feeling much better.

We kept going with juice and tea at Nido de Cóndores and, three hours later, reached Plaza de Mulas.

A welcome-back asado at Aconcagua Visión.

The next day we'd head straight down to Horcones, but Scotty invited me to go down with him by helicopter. Happy as a dog with two tails, we celebrated that night and went to sleep.

We had breakfast and, minutes later, we were already flying by helicopter toward Horcones, where the transfer was waiting to take us back to Mendoza.

Of course, there was no skipping the empanadas in Uspallata, and the next day, another asado in the city of Mendoza.

Was it a failure? Not at all. It's never a failure to come back without the summit. A failure is losing a finger to frostbite, or dying. And in the high mountains, that's one of many things that can happen.

Because it wasn't a failure but a decision, in the 2024–2025 season, Scotty and I... made the summit. But that... that's another story.

Sebastián Satke

To Park-Hyatt, Aconcagua Visión, and El Asadito. To the porters and camp staff, and to Sabrina for her incredible service. To Scotty for trusting me, and to John.