Aconcagua 2024–2025: “Scotty & John”

In the 2023-2024 season, Scotty had made his first attempt at Aconcagua's summit, though we only got to about 6,200 m. Altitude, like it does to most people, put a stop to it.

Throughout 2024, whether about training or setting a date to come back to Aconcagua, we'd send each other a message every week. Of course, there was always some story about everyday life, jokes, and the like mixed in.

He was determined to try again.

Meanwhile, John, whom I'd met years earlier, also wanted to try again, since he hadn't made it on his first ascent either.

Since they were friends, John and Scotty decided to come back together.

As usual, it all started — you could say — months earlier, with the usual emails.

On the agreed day we met in the hotel room for the sacred ritual of checking the gear.

They had enough equipment to reach the summit of Everest. Nothing to worry about there.

We had dinner, talked a bit about the expedition, and the next day, with the permits ready — handled by Aconcagua Visión — we set off for Puente del Inca (2,719 m a.s.l.). I'll call that day: Day 1.

At 9:30 the transfer picked us up at the hotel.

As always, we stopped in Uspallata for the classic empanadas. Fried or baked, with that distinctly Argentine ground-beef filling, they're unbeatable.

We arrived at Puente del Inca. We handed the gear over to the muleteers, though first we had to reorganize it, since part had to go straight to Plaza de Mulas and another part had to come with us to Confluencia: warm clothing, sleeping bags, and a few other things we'd use there.

From Horcones to Plaza de Mulas we'd only carry a pack of no more than 35 liters, with what we needed for the trek.

The transfer dropped us at Horcones, we showed our permits, and started walking.

A breeze kept the heat away, and the sky was overcast besides. What is often a scorching, sun-baked day turned into a walk under the clouds.

In a little over three hours we reached Confluencia (3,400 m a.s.l.). The Aconcagua Visión staff was waiting for us, not just with hugs, but with juice, fruit, and an incomparable pizza.

On my independent expeditions, I usually choose Aconcagua Visión. Good food, always attentive people, always ready to solve any problem.

Hours later, close to dinner, Scotty decided to break in his new mate gourd. He'd seen several in a shop in Uspallata and wanted one of his own. I suggested he get one made of palo santo.

On this trip, he wasn't just eager for good mate — his stomach was asking for food too. The nausea and vomiting were a thing of the past.

Scotty, this time, had come better prepared. He'd been in Bolivia, above 5,000 m, days before arriving in Mendoza.

John, on the other hand, had been using an altitude tent that simulates high elevation. He used it at home, "sleeping" at different simulated altitudes each night.

That pre-acclimatization technique is used by many companies for fast ascents. If the person is strong, it usually gives good results.

We had dinner at seven and went to sleep.

Breakfast was served between six and six-thirty. Unfortunately, John told us he'd barely slept at all.

He'd slept in a tent with about six bunk beds, most of them occupied.

Despite his rough night, he was the first to have his gear ready. He looked like an anxious dog dragging its owners along, leash in mouth.

We started walking. I had to keep reminding John to slow down a little. For good acclimatization — no matter how physically strong you are — it's important to go slowly.

"Like tourists taking photos," I kept telling him.

More than once I've seen great athletes, climbers, runners, ironmen, soldiers, firefighters, and all kinds of strong people without altitude experience fail their summit attempt, or have to abandon the expedition in the first few days, from altitude sickness, just from going too fast.

Patience. One of the most important requirements.

Often, when I talk about rest days at altitude, people tend to think they can be used to keep climbing. I always make clear that's not the case.

Rest days are for resting. You don't do anything, except hydrate, eat, and watch the sunset.

Eight hours after leaving Confluencia, we reached Plaza de Mulas (4,350 m a.s.l.).

At Aconcagua Visión they were waiting for us with juice, fruit, and delicious pizza. But that pizza, after eight hours of walking at 4,350 m a.s.l., is something else entirely.

Scotty and John settled into their mini-domes.

They'd chosen to sleep in private domes, lined inside with Primaloft, with a bed, mattress, wood floor — and I'd venture to say they're nicer than a lot of rental studio apartments. Who else gets to fall asleep looking at Aconcagua through their window?

Dinner was at 7 p.m., and that night John went off to play with the Sandman in the world of dreams.

I'd asked for breakfast as late as possible. We had it at ten in the morning.

No leaving the tent early just to respect breakfast hours. On a rest day... you rest.

That day was for a good wash, sorting out the high-altitude gear, some reading, and drinking plenty of fluids. I'd set a rule for both John and Scotty: they had to drink at least five liters of fluid a day.

Then, for every thousand meters we climbed, one more liter.

It's not about drinking plain water, but fluids like juice, tea, coffee, and soup. I also made clear that if they used any kind of rehydration salts, they should always use half the dose listed on the package. Otherwise, they could overload the body with minerals and end up needing even more water.

At altitude, because of the lack of atmospheric pressure, the body fights every minute to maintain the homeostasis it needs. Of course, an occasional ice-cold beer is also part of any healthy person's balance, in just about any situation.

Even though it was just Scotty and John, my goal was to secure the summit. I hired a summit-day assistant. That's how I met Mariel Massarutti, whom you can find here: IG @mariel.massarutti.

Standing no more than 1.60 m tall, with more than enough energy to spare, she reminded me of "Atom Ant," the cartoon from the '70s.

As soon as we met, she told me that, although she'd already earned her guide certification and worked as a porter for Aconcagua Visión, she didn't have much experience guiding.

I told her nobody earns that certification with experience already in hand.

Scotty, John, and I had dinner at seven. We turned in early: the next day we'd touch altitude. The plan was to get as high as possible and come back down to Plaza de Mulas to sleep.

The ascent plan was to go from Plaza de Mulas to Nido de Cóndores. That would be a thousand meters of elevation gain in a single day, but I preferred that over drinking the water at Canadá, as camp 1 is called.

Otherwise, John and Scotty had their legs well prepared this time around; it was just a matter of getting comfortable with the altitude, day by day.

Altitude, I'd say, is like a non-Newtonian fluid: if you try to move too fast or too abruptly, you end up smashed flat. But if you ease into it gently... your body and the altitude end up becoming friends.

Breakfast: 8 in the morning. No need to be earlier.

Also, anyone who's never been to Plaza de Mulas won't understand what real cold is. Because cold exists in many contexts, but the cold of a Plaza de Mulas morning is practically its own language.

Because of how the camp is laid out, the sun arrives later than in other camps. But the moment it comes out, it brings no warmth at all — quite the opposite.

And if cicadas come out of the ground with the sunlight, at Plaza de Mulas it feels like the light wakes the cold instead. A cold that doesn't come out to sing, but to make every bone in your body ache.

We had breakfast, loaded our packs with just what we needed, and set off.

When I say "just what we needed," in my case that's three liters of juice, plus a liter of hot tea, lunch, a headlamp, and a warm layer.

Same for them. Of course, I also carry a first-aid kit, a radio, and whatever else might be needed for an emergency.

At ten in the morning we started walking. Or rather, doing the "rotation," as the process is called where the group goes up and down like a yo-yo, until the body acclimatizes enough to go a little higher each day.

Scotty, John, and I reached Canadá in a bit over three hours. A more than acceptable time, and even better because neither of them had a headache, and we never "rushed." We always respected the body's "natural" pace. In other words, we walked like tourists taking photos, but not so slowly that our backsides got cold.

After some tasty little sandwiches the Aconcagua Visión cooks had made for us, we continued our walk.

But it wasn't going to be all clear skies and beach-worthy sun. A "mummy" appeared over the Colossus of the Americas.

We tend to call a big storm that covers the mountain a "mummy" — flying in like Mumm-Ra, closing in to wreak havoc.

I don't know if anyone remembers that villain from the famous Thundercats of the '80s.

We had to bring out the mittens and goggles. Two hours climbing from Canadá, then back down. Back to Plaza de Mulas.

We arrived just in time for a snack spread. Tea, coffee, mate, pizza, cheese, and a few other things.

Later, at 7 p.m., dinner was served.

That night, after dinner, colleagues and acquaintances showed up, and the dome turned — as it usually does — into a round of stories, jokes, teasing, and a bottle of red wine passed from hand to hand.

Scotty joined in; John went to sleep, and the next day... rest.

I'd asked for breakfast to be as late as possible, but the answer was always the same:

"At 10 in the morning. And that's already too late!"

At 10 in the morning, breakfast. Scotty and I drank mate. He enjoyed his palo santo gourd; John, faithful and set in his ways, preferred a hot coffee.

Before lunch we had the medical check. They were both in perfect shape. Their O₂ saturation was 90, and their pulse under 70 bpm.

Although at altitude saturation is often just a number, what matters is whether there are other symptoms of altitude sickness. Personally, I've seen people with an O₂ saturation of 70 at Plaza de Mulas reach the summit without any trouble.

Other times, I've seen people with better numbers get evacuated with pulmonary edema. Always talking about above 4,000 m, where everything is lived and felt differently.

That day we finalized the details for the following day. It was going to be a long one.

Every hour, Scotty and John reminded me how many times they'd had to go to the bathroom to pee. That made me happy, since oliguria — a clinical condition defined as a lower-than-normal urine output — is another symptom of altitude sickness.

If you're not expelling fluid as urine, chances are an edema is forming somewhere in the body.

I sorted out the food, the high-altitude gear, and at seven in the evening we had dinner.

That was the moment they met Mariel.

At 8 in the morning we met in the dome. Mate, coffee, tea, and a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs, ham, cheese, bread, and other little things.

We said goodbye to the camp staff and set off.

It was cold, but not too bad. Just enough to keep us moving at a good pace. Though that didn't last long.

A couple of hours before reaching Nido de Cóndores, it felt as if Aeolus, Mumm-Ra, and other storm deities had gathered together and, like cats, were playing with us as if we were small rodents with no way out, stuck in the middle of a mountain.

The cold cut to the bone, the snow made it hard to see, and the wind sliced through us.

Sinking into the snow, snow hitting us in the face, step by step we got closer to Nido.

John kept his own pace, alongside one of the porters, who was moving slower than the rest.

Scotty stuck with me, keeping it simple, but safe.

At Nido, in the Aconcagua Visión dome, they were waiting for us with hot water. The porters had already pitched our personal tents, and without wasting time, Scotty and John crawled into theirs.

Now it was time to change, hydrate, and, at seven in the evening, dinner.

The wind whipped the tents back and forth, the snow piled up, and within minutes, just to get out of the tent you had to dig a path.

We had snow up to our knees.

We had dinner and everyone went to sleep.

All night Aeolus tried to rip the tents away from us. Nobody slept.

We woke up with no set schedule.

Above us you could see a storm that seemed determined to feed on the mountain.

That day was for hydrating, eating, and sleeping.

Because of the storm, and depending on how they were feeling, we kept adjusting the days to find the best window for the summit attempt.

They didn't have many days left, and if we let ourselves lose one extra day, they could lose their shot at the summit. But on the other hand, if we rushed, they could get exhausted or develop some symptom of altitude sickness.

Like in a chess match, I moved the Rook and the King.

Castling.

The decision was not to rush, and to make use of the storm to stay put at Nido; that way, once we moved to Berlín, we could go for the summit the very next day. But if, by some chance, one of them felt unwell, we'd have another day to try again from Berlín.

Another day of snow.

The tents were practically buried.

It wasn't cold, but it was very uncomfortable moving around with all that snow, which mixed with the clay soil into an annoying mud.

Past noon, despite everything, we went out for a walk. I wanted to climb a bit higher and come back to sleep at Nido.

Last day at Nido de Cóndores. The sun had come out, the wind higher up was strong, and I... had my doubts about the forecast.

It wasn't good: we only had one "window," meaning a single day to go for the summit, because the days after were bringing winds over 90 km/h.

Around 10 in the morning we moved to Berlín (6,000 m a.s.l.). It took a bit more than 3 hours. Neither John nor Scotty had a headache; just the typical exhaustion in the body.

All that was left was to hydrate, eat, and get ready for an early start, because at 3:30 in the morning we'd have breakfast and, before 4:30, start walking.

Mariel had arrived earlier with the porters.

At 3:30 in the morning we had breakfast. We checked the gear and, with crampons on, poles in hand, tea, juice, and lunch in our packs, started walking.

What had taken more than three hours a year earlier with Scotty, we now covered in under two. Always without pushing too hard, just fighting the low atmospheric pressure that makes your body feel twice as heavy, and breathing like a boa constrictor is squeezing your chest the whole time.

We moved forward step by step. John kept pace with me, but Scotty was struggling.

Back to the chess match. I moved the Queen.

"Mariel, keep going with John. I'll stay with Scotty."

She continued at John's pace and, within minutes, they were well ahead of us.

Mariel reached Independencia. A few minutes later she called me on the radio.

"It's cold. John wants to keep going."

"Keep going. They're going to summit. Just take it easy, the way you're going now," I answered.

"But... alone?" I remember her asking back.

"Of course. This is exactly when you show what you've got. I know you two will do it."

"Don't you want to go and I'll stay with Scotty?" she asked me.

"No. You can do this. It's the only way," I answered. "Radio in every 30 minutes. Go make that summit happen."

We were hours apart.

The Queen moved slowly, a little afraid, watching over John closely, but I never doubted her ability.

The ego of being the first to reach the summit — while guiding — I'd let go of a long time ago. And moving the Queen was the only move that secured the summit for the whole group.

Mariel, poles in hand, helmet fastened tight. She told John to put his on too; he admitted he'd refused to wear a helmet his whole life. That day, he wore one.

Hours later, I heard over the radio:

"Summit! We're on the summit, Seba!"

On the way down we crossed paths with them at an altitude of 6,850 m, very close to the top. So close.

That's when, like some kind of nightmare, every step you take, the summit seems to pull a little further away.

Every step costs as much as if part of your lungs were being torn out.

"Come on, Scotty. Let's go!" I kept telling him.

Even though, much lower down, more than once I'd had my doubts about him, there we were. With every step, a meter higher.

But another factor started working against us: time. It was already late, we were the last ones on the mountain, and at the summit there was a Rescue Patrol team that, on their way down, tend to bring everyone else down with them.

They do it to prevent accidents.

Scotty saw them and felt he'd already lost, but we kept going anyway.

Meter by meter we got closer, but there was still a stretch left. The hardest one.

The Patrol team didn't head down, and step by step, we kept moving forward.

It was one step, breathe twice, another step, breathe twice... and so on until we got there.

Scotty sat down every twenty meters, but I never had to "pull" him with a rope. Maybe a lot of guides do that, but I have "my own rules."

I never bring anyone to the summit dragging them like a horse. Nobody. I might tie in to keep someone from slipping, but drag them, never.

If someone can't get there under their own power, that person, on the way down, means a lot of trouble.

"Come on, Scotty!" I kept saying.

His determination and mental toughness seemed to have taken over his body, and he kept moving forward with a single goal in mind.

We were getting closer and closer, until we reached the final steps.

That's when only two meters are left. It's like a staircase.

I stopped, showed him which way to go, and said:

"Scotty, your summit! Go!"

I helped him with his poles, he cleared those steps, and I lost sight of him.

I followed, and there was Scotty, in the arms of one of the Rescue Patrol team. They were waiting to congratulate us.

We had tea, juice, a bite to eat, and the most special part was that we were alone. The Patrol team and us. Once again on Aconcagua, alone. That's what I call: beauty.

The clouds that had been circling seemed to want to give us a moment, and vanished for a while.

Minutes later, just as we started the descent, the snow began.

On the way back, when we reached La Cueva, the snow had erased every track.

Cristián, a friend and colleague from Mendoza, was also at La Cueva with his group. He'd summited several hours before us.

We went down together as a group.

Snow, wind, and cold. Serious cold. Every one of us had small icicles forming on our noses.

We could barely see a few meters ahead of us.

The wind pulled at us, but we kept going.

The snow was already up to our knees. And everyone was exhausted.

By this point, more than fourteen hours had passed since it had all begun.

Luckily, the wind eased, but the cold, real cold, made itself known. Now we couldn't afford to stop and rest. There was a risk of frostbite.

We had to keep going.

With snow up to our knees, breaking trail and with almost no visibility, we reached Berlín. With the last hours of daylight.

John was asleep. Scotty and I had hot tea, ate, and went to sleep.

We went down to Plaza de Mulas and, that same day, reached Horcones by helicopter.

Today, the Queen, Scotty, John, and the weight — not the weight of a backpack, but of those moments when everything comes down to a decision — are memories that make it all worth it.

Because the cold, the icicles hanging from our noses, the snow up to our waists, the wind and the fear... that, that is living, I'd say.