Laram Q'awa
by Harlan Yarbrough
Ron had climbed Laram Q’awa the previous year with a guide but wanted to make the ascent on his own. The tour company had provided a comfortable camp-bed in a roomy tent along with a delicious breakfast; Ron’s solo plans were more spartan. He rented an old Land Rover in Arica for three days and drove it as close to the massif of Laram Q’awa as he safely could. That left him several hundred vertical feet below the tour company’s rarely-used base camp and therefore a longer walk on the morrow, but he had expected that and planned for it.
Leaving Arica in the middle of the day got the solo mountaineer to Caquena a little before four o’clock that afternoon and to the limit of the vehicle’s capability just after five. He parked the Rover on the most nearly level spot he could find and ate a few handfuls of mixed nuts and a big handful of greens. By the time Ron got his foam rubber mattress spread out behind the front seats of the Land Rover and his old Gerry Himalayan sleeping bag spread out on top of the mattress, dusk had begun darkening into night, so he slid into his bag and dropped quickly into a peaceful sleep.
He woke from an upsetting dream of his ex-wife and her new boyfriend and wanted to go back to sleep to change it but thought checking the time worthwhile. His cellphone told him the hour approached four, meaning he’d slept for eight hours, so he pulled on his clothes after covering a big bowl of muesli with UHT-treated skim milk from a new box. After consuming the muesli and milk, he ate a handful of peanuts, a handful of greens, and a carrot.
Ron remembered the ascent as more of a walk than a climb—that is, it involved a considerable elevation gain but no technical climbing. Even so, remembering a great deal of snowpack and ice on and just below the peak, he put his crampons in his daypack with his first-aid kit, two days’ trail rations, and two large water bottles, then lashed his ice axe to the outside of the pack. Wanting to begin walking at first light, he pulled on his Zamberlan hiking boots—and, thinking of the elevation gain ahead of him, wished he had his old and long since discarded but much lighter Fabianos—and laced them up.
Wondering if he could follow the obvious trail to the tour companies’ little-used base camp area by starlight and the little sliver of moon, Ron decided to make the attempt. By the time he had pulled on his gloves, shouldered his daypack, and locked the Land Rover, the sky above the eastern horizon revealed an almost antelucan glow. He picked his way carefully and slowly for about twenty minutes but strode normally after little more than half an hour, although the sunrise remained almost an hour away. Bypassing the tour groups’ deserted camping area, he picked up the route he walked a year earlier and pressed on.
The last of the llareta or yareta, which always reminded Ron of the cushion plants he knew from Tasmania two decades before, dropped behind as his path rose above them into a more barren landscape. Climbing steadily and stopping not at all, Ron covered five miles of trail in ninety minutes and gained twelve hundred feet. The next nine hundred feet cost him almost two more hours, at which point he stopped, ate a bigger handful of trail mix than he consumed while walking, and likewise took a bigger drink, emptying the half-full water bottle lashed to the right side of his daypack. He took a moment to enjoy the view and watched the sparkle of sunlight reflecting from the little Laguna Vitacollo, then set out again somewhat refreshed but breathing hard in the thin air.
Determination and another three hours put the solo mountaineer on the 17,247-foot summit a few minutes after noon, breathless and tired but triumphant. He ate and drank and enjoyed the 360-degree view—but, out of respect for the mountain, walked several feet down from the summit to void his bladder. Sitting on a small piece of closed-cell foam he’d retrieved from his daypack to keep his pants off the snow, he again looked south at the little Laguna and then looked west to the snowy summit of Taapacá.
Ron recalled the dream from which he had awakened that morning, which set him to thinking about Ilse, the ex-wife he still loved with an undiminished intensity but who had moved out of his life almost five years earlier. He woke most mornings to the agony of remembering she was no longer beside him, no longer sharing their lives. After more than four years of grieving too much even to think about another relationship, he had managed to accept a girlfriend into his life in Iquique a few months before his ascent of Laram Q’awa. That she was merely enjoying a fling became apparent in less than a month. The previous week she had announced her departure.
The sting of Isadora’s absence from his life did not torture Ron as memories of his ex-wife did, but it hurt and made him feel hopeless about the future. Looking east at the nevados, the snow-capped peaks, of Phaq’u Q’awa, Kuntutiri, and Q’isi Q’isini, he wondered why he bothered to think about a future at all. Maybe I should just stay right here, he thought. It’s a beautiful spot, a fine spot to spend the millennia until the sun gobbles up the earth.
Looking all around, he found the idea appealing. If I had a satellite ’phone, I could ring Ilse and tell her I’m not coming down—just like Rob Hall did from the top of Everest twenty-five years ago. The idea made Ron lament not having bought a satellite ’phone. I could’ve rung Isadora, too, he thought with a heavy heart. I could even ring the company that rented me the Land Rover and tell them where to find it. The last thought reminded him he had an obligation, so he stood up, returned his foam seat to his daypack, ate a handful of trail mix, drank a big mouthful of water, slung his pack on his shoulders, tightened the waistband, sighed, and started down the mountain.
Leaving Arica in the middle of the day got the solo mountaineer to Caquena a little before four o’clock that afternoon and to the limit of the vehicle’s capability just after five. He parked the Rover on the most nearly level spot he could find and ate a few handfuls of mixed nuts and a big handful of greens. By the time Ron got his foam rubber mattress spread out behind the front seats of the Land Rover and his old Gerry Himalayan sleeping bag spread out on top of the mattress, dusk had begun darkening into night, so he slid into his bag and dropped quickly into a peaceful sleep.
He woke from an upsetting dream of his ex-wife and her new boyfriend and wanted to go back to sleep to change it but thought checking the time worthwhile. His cellphone told him the hour approached four, meaning he’d slept for eight hours, so he pulled on his clothes after covering a big bowl of muesli with UHT-treated skim milk from a new box. After consuming the muesli and milk, he ate a handful of peanuts, a handful of greens, and a carrot.
Ron remembered the ascent as more of a walk than a climb—that is, it involved a considerable elevation gain but no technical climbing. Even so, remembering a great deal of snowpack and ice on and just below the peak, he put his crampons in his daypack with his first-aid kit, two days’ trail rations, and two large water bottles, then lashed his ice axe to the outside of the pack. Wanting to begin walking at first light, he pulled on his Zamberlan hiking boots—and, thinking of the elevation gain ahead of him, wished he had his old and long since discarded but much lighter Fabianos—and laced them up.
Wondering if he could follow the obvious trail to the tour companies’ little-used base camp area by starlight and the little sliver of moon, Ron decided to make the attempt. By the time he had pulled on his gloves, shouldered his daypack, and locked the Land Rover, the sky above the eastern horizon revealed an almost antelucan glow. He picked his way carefully and slowly for about twenty minutes but strode normally after little more than half an hour, although the sunrise remained almost an hour away. Bypassing the tour groups’ deserted camping area, he picked up the route he walked a year earlier and pressed on.
The last of the llareta or yareta, which always reminded Ron of the cushion plants he knew from Tasmania two decades before, dropped behind as his path rose above them into a more barren landscape. Climbing steadily and stopping not at all, Ron covered five miles of trail in ninety minutes and gained twelve hundred feet. The next nine hundred feet cost him almost two more hours, at which point he stopped, ate a bigger handful of trail mix than he consumed while walking, and likewise took a bigger drink, emptying the half-full water bottle lashed to the right side of his daypack. He took a moment to enjoy the view and watched the sparkle of sunlight reflecting from the little Laguna Vitacollo, then set out again somewhat refreshed but breathing hard in the thin air.
Determination and another three hours put the solo mountaineer on the 17,247-foot summit a few minutes after noon, breathless and tired but triumphant. He ate and drank and enjoyed the 360-degree view—but, out of respect for the mountain, walked several feet down from the summit to void his bladder. Sitting on a small piece of closed-cell foam he’d retrieved from his daypack to keep his pants off the snow, he again looked south at the little Laguna and then looked west to the snowy summit of Taapacá.
Ron recalled the dream from which he had awakened that morning, which set him to thinking about Ilse, the ex-wife he still loved with an undiminished intensity but who had moved out of his life almost five years earlier. He woke most mornings to the agony of remembering she was no longer beside him, no longer sharing their lives. After more than four years of grieving too much even to think about another relationship, he had managed to accept a girlfriend into his life in Iquique a few months before his ascent of Laram Q’awa. That she was merely enjoying a fling became apparent in less than a month. The previous week she had announced her departure.
The sting of Isadora’s absence from his life did not torture Ron as memories of his ex-wife did, but it hurt and made him feel hopeless about the future. Looking east at the nevados, the snow-capped peaks, of Phaq’u Q’awa, Kuntutiri, and Q’isi Q’isini, he wondered why he bothered to think about a future at all. Maybe I should just stay right here, he thought. It’s a beautiful spot, a fine spot to spend the millennia until the sun gobbles up the earth.
Looking all around, he found the idea appealing. If I had a satellite ’phone, I could ring Ilse and tell her I’m not coming down—just like Rob Hall did from the top of Everest twenty-five years ago. The idea made Ron lament not having bought a satellite ’phone. I could’ve rung Isadora, too, he thought with a heavy heart. I could even ring the company that rented me the Land Rover and tell them where to find it. The last thought reminded him he had an obligation, so he stood up, returned his foam seat to his daypack, ate a handful of trail mix, drank a big mouthful of water, slung his pack on his shoulders, tightened the waistband, sighed, and started down the mountain.
Harlan Yarbrough was educated as a scientist and graduated as a mathematician. She has earned her living as a full-time professional entertainer most of her life, including a stint as a regular on the prestigious Grand Ole Opry. Harlan's repeated attempts to escape the entertainment industry have brought work as a librarian, physics teacher, syndicated newspaper columnist, and city (land use) planner, among other occupations. Harlan lives, writes, and continues to improve her dzonkha vocabulary and pronunciation in Bhutan but visits the US, Europe, or Australia to perform and thereby to recharge her bank account. She has settled in Bhutan but in previous decades has lived, performed, and taught in the US, Australia, New Zealand, and Denmark. Harlan has written five novels, three novellas (of which two have been published), three novelettes (two published, one forthcoming), and eighty-some short stories, of which fifty-three have been published in sixty literary journals in nine countries.