Aconcagua 2025–2026: 2nd

I'd just finished my first expedition of the season, thrilled at having summited with Richard. I had two weeks before my second one, but...

So often, everything starts with a "but."

A guide from Aventuras Patagónicas had gotten frostbite on one of his toes. Nothing serious. No amputations. Just a big blister, and with good treatment his recovery began — a recovery of months, by the way.

Rodrigo calls me, tells me what happened, and just as I, as a guide, sometimes feel like I'm moving chess pieces, now he was moving me from one expedition to another.

I was happy. I'd be working again with Cacho and José. But the two weeks of rest turned into 4 days.

In one day we had the tents and gear ready, a second day was enough for the food. There was only one celiac client, but to keep things simple, on that expedition we all decided to eat like celiacs. Rice noodles, rice croquettes, and meals everyone — without exception — could eat. Of course, there was cheese, salami, pickled onions, and pickles. Nobody says no to a snack spread at altitude.

Like a time loop, we went back to the hotel, the three of us checked the gear, and helped people rent or buy equipment.

A couple needed gear, and it worked out cheaper to buy it than to rent it.

I've never understood prices in Argentina. Anyway.

It's Argentina... you wouldn't get it.

The meeting day arrived. Alexia, in charge of logistics and all the tedious paperwork in Mendoza, was there with us. So was Rodrigo, the owner of Aventuras Patagónicas.

But when the group introduced themselves, two of them kept glancing at each other, looking again, unable to stop staring. Until the Mexican guy said something like: "I know you."

Turns out they'd gone to the same university together decades earlier. Yes, it's a small world.

Laughing about that reunion, we went to have dinner as a group. The next day, early, the van would pick us up. Surely the driver would be "El Pepe."

El Pepe is the kind of driver everyone tells everything to. If the world is small, imagine how small the Aconcagua community is.

The next day. A Sunday, the van showed up — it wasn't him.

An hour and a half after leaving the city of Mendoza, as usual, we made the stop in Uspallata.

Soda and homemade empanadas. A delight.

But... barely out of Uspallata, five minutes later the driver pressed the clutch and we heard a loud crack! The clutch had gone.

Luckily, we hadn't gotten far, so we still had signal. Because even though it's National Route 7, there are stretches of many kilometers without signal. Let alone wifi.

After a couple of messages, the problem got sorted out. Since we'd left in two vans, we all squeezed into one, mate in hand, and continued to Puente del Inca.

We arrived, handed over the loads for the mules, and went straight on to Horcones. We didn't have much time, because for some reason they close access to Aconcagua quite early, and with the clutch trouble we were cutting it close.

Just in time, at Horcones we presented the permits and credentials, and continued on toward Confluencia, at about 3,400 m.

The Aconcagua Visión team was waiting for us with juice, tea, mate, snacks, and pizza.

It wasn't long before the routine medical check. Everyone was in perfect shape. The next day, everyone headed straight for Plaza de Mulas.

We had dinner at seven in the evening, and everyone turned in.

The next day, breakfast was at six-thirty. It wasn't cold, there was a breeze — just enough, I'd say, to walk at a good pace without sweating.

Almost nine hours later we reached Plaza de Mulas, at an altitude of 4,300 m. A long walk — and even though all that walking is tiring, that day we were all basically "tourists taking photos."

At Plaza de Mulas the Aconcagua Visión staff was waiting for us with fruit, pizza, and hot water. And, of course, welcoming hugs, always.

The whole group chose to sleep in the mini-domes, with a mattress, pillow, windows looking out at Aconcagua, and heating.

And to think that the first time I went to Aconcagua, I used a tent with a mosquito-net body. Luckily it had a rainfly, though the cold still made itself known.

Second day at Plaza de Mulas: rest day. For us guides, a day to prepare things for altitude: dividing up food, tents, and checking the group's gear for summit day.

Since this was the second expedition Cacho, José, and I worked together, we barely had to talk to make decisions. Everything flowed. Even when someone lost their lighter, it would turn up in someone else's pocket. Pure magic.

The whole group chose to use porters, and step by step we moved up.

At Canadá, around 5,050 m, snacks, juice, mate, and we only spent one night.

The next day, we went straight to Nido de Cóndores, at an altitude of 5,570 m.

It was a long stretch, but we didn't run into a storm, or much wind.

Days earlier it had been snowing a lot, and a track had formed. But it was a descending track. A straight line from a spot called Cambio de Pendiente down to Nido.

I wasn't going to go straight up that line, so with plenty of patience, I traced a zigzag so as not to burn out people's legs, and above all to make it easier on the day we'd be sleeping above five thousand meters.

As I always say, chatting the whole way and acting like tourists taking photos, we reached Nido. Nobody sounded too winded, and on the way up, we stopped to hydrate whenever needed.

Next day, rest at 5,570 m. If you can call that resting.

It was a sunny day, no wind, and we got to play in the snow with ice axes, self-arrest practice, and crampons. Nobody in the group felt anything beyond a slight headache. Everyone ate without trouble, and the forecast was in our favor.

We could see that the day after summit day — our built-in extra day — was going to be windy, but the plan was not to need it. There was no reason to.

The day came to move to Berlín, around 5,940 m, and we all arrived nearly chatting the whole way. And the next day was the day.

In fact, many had chosen to use supplemental oxygen.

But... while oxygen can help, it's several extra kilos in the pack.

On the morning of summit day we set off around four in the morning, but a few hours in, one of them felt he was breathing better without the O2 mask. He's a strong guy.

We kept moving, but the weight of the tanks drained the strength from a lot of people's legs. Still, we kept going.

Slow, but we kept going.

Along the way a couple had given up from exhaustion, or from not being able to breathe well, and also just not wanting to keep feeling the way they'd been feeling. Simple as that.

A couple of hours before La Cueva, around 6,400 m, we saw someone running, heard shouting, and in the distance saw someone waving their arms in desperation, until they started performing CPR on another person.

We learned what was happening over the radio. But we were lower down, around 6,500 m: they'd already given adrenaline and the person showed no signs of life. Their heart had stopped beating minutes earlier.

From further down, we saw it from a distance, and it isn't pleasant. Of course it isn't. But someone had just died. That's the mountain. That's life.

And even though I love the mountains, and I like writing about them... I don't like romanticizing them. The mountain is dangerous. People die, lose fingers, get frostbitten limbs, there are edemas, and none of it is pleasant, even if you eventually grow used to it.

We kept moving with the group. Now, the silence weighed heavy. We reached the body, and members of the Rescue Patrol nodded to us, and there was the lifeless body. Their soul seemed to greet us as it left that body behind.

José looked at me, and I saw his face. We reached La Cueva, around 6,650 m, and he hugged me and broke down in tears.

The silence in the group continued. One of them decided to stop his ascent at La Cueva. He felt too exhausted.

Three of them went on.

I kept moving, slowly. The day was like few others. No wind, no clouds, warm, and the summit right there. Getting closer with every step, yet somehow drawing further away too.

Of the three who came with me, José went down with one of them, and Trey and Amy continued on with me.

Slowly.

They had oxygen, but their legs were already tired.

Every so often I'd turn around, they'd give me the OK sign, and we'd keep going.

Closer to the top, we'd stop for a few minutes at every rock we could. Even with the forecast on our side, it wasn't early anymore.

A police officer from the Rescue Patrol was waiting at the summit. Inside, I hoped he wouldn't start heading down, because that could only mean one thing. Everyone turning back.

We kept going.

One step, then another. I could hear their effort to breathe, even with the oxygen.

I'd turn around, see them still following, and take another step.

Every step weighed more than the last, but at last we reached the final stretch of steps.

I stopped, told them to go on all fours — it was easier that way — held their poles, and said:

"Your summit, guys! There!"

They covered those last meters on their own.

I followed, and there they were, at 6,962 m. Hugging each other with joy.

"Seba!" I heard.

My apologies for not remembering his name. But that Rescue Patrol officer and I had known each other for a long time.

We hugged. We celebrated.

For me, it was my 30th summit. But it was the first for Amy and Trey. An incredible summit. Many hours of walking, witnesses to a death.

But...

what better way to honor life than... by living.

And living was how we celebrated the expedition, with an asado. A big one.

Not at a restaurant. An asado with friends.

Today, the expedition that once had just a number is a group of friends. Not just a WhatsApp group, but friends who still share achievements, celebrations, trips, reunions, and even emojis.