Horcones Glacier

By Jed Neill

My hand stopped working ten minutes ago. I hope I’ve written everything down. It’s so hard to tell, the damn page betrays me each time I hold it. Shaking as if scared of taking note. The pen is somewhere here, let me have a look, hold my intentions will you. In the meantime, it might be worth recapping how I got here. I’m a 47-year-old man born in the Home Counties, well, to be specific, Surrey in the…actually let me stop myself right there. I wouldn’t want you to tire of me this early on. As to where you now find me, it wasn’t meant to go like this. I set out on this expedition because I needed to burn the fat of mundanity. A woman I used to call my wife is in the opening stages of finding me repulsive which is handy as it allows me to do (whatever the hell) I want. We haven’t told the kids what’s coming but I’m pretty sure they already despise me, so at least I won’t surprise them. That’s the thing about becoming a father. At some point, you cease to be the fountain of all knowledge and your actions become wholly predictable. Whether I’m already there, I’m not sure, but when they’re inevitably told that their daddy has been a naughty boy, I’m sure it’s something they’ve already foreseen. That, ultimately, is why I resent my wife. Because she had to leave me as I was unable to leave myself. Anyway, I’m back, couldn’t find the pen. So where were we? 

Ah yes, I was telling you how I ended up in this spot of bother. You see, it all started when we went hiking in the Alps two years ago. Back then, we were in great form, my wife and I. Freshly minted from a new promotion. I felt an overwhelming sense of purpose. Money no longer left that transactional aftertaste in your mouth, instead it was just numbers moving around, being deducted then added on. A kind of dry rhythmic dance that you can imagine accountants would do. Utterly unromantic yet a consistent hum that signalled they could sway all night long. I booked the holiday so we could spend time together. Arriving at Chamonix in the summer was great. It was busy but not as suffocating as it is in the winter. One day, we rented bikes and put them on the ski lifts to go up to the top. Always weird that, putting bikes on ski lifts, you feel like you’re not supposed to be there, like you’re cheating nature somehow. My sons and I zoomed down, racing one another as we flew over the bumps and grassy slopes. I thought about letting them win, but decided what would they learn if I did that? Isn’t it better that they keep trying, getting better and better. That’s how I learnt, and I’ve turned out alright. 

We named our eldest Septimius because he was born on the 7^th of April. He’s languid, confident, and bullied remorselessly. I’d find it sad if I didn’t find him so annoying. We named our other son, Isis, after the Egyptian healer. It just so happened a few years later, the Arab Spring began; you can imagine how that went. 

After beating both sons to the bottom of the slope, I felt incredibly happy. I thumped them on the back with my big hands, in an encouraging way it must be said. I’m not that type of man. They said they wanted to race again, I agreed, and I beat them again. It was the best day of my life. I felt so free, so unencumbered by everything. Just me and the great outdoors. 

When we got back home, I immediately wanted to leave again. I had got the itch you see. The feeling of being enslaved by an idea you can’t quite define and subsequently exert a considerable effort in trying to do so. With each attempt, you feel like you’re arriving closer to a definitive point that explains why all the auxiliary possibilities that your life could have taken. Something akin to a peg to put your coat on after a long day trudging in the mud, wondering what’s the point. That’s what I define as an itch. An inexhaustible march to purpose. A second factor came from living in the Home Counties. As many would attest, it’s rather like living in a colonial outpost. Orbiting our masters in London, we take trains, cars, bicycles to visit them and reinforce our servitude. They know we will always visit for they clip our paycheques onto their washing lines and, like ravenous dogs, we bolt over to retrieve them. If we do this enough, they reward our obsequious nature, by allowing us to set up our own territories, preferably in the sun, maybe the Caribbean, where we build settlements to tend to our flocks, largely in the image of our masters. 

I live in Shere, an idyllic village with chocolate-box houses. In the summer it weeps beauty and people come far and wide to see this small village nestled in rolling English hills. Secrets are a rare commodity, and as soon as you open your door you can hear the distinct mutterings of nosy neighbours. The focus of which is how so-and-so selfishly parked their car, or how so-and-so was seen holding hands with blah-de-blah. Trivial nonsense. 

So, it’ll probably come as no surprise to you that I needed to start burning that fat. The first mountain I conquered was Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. A gateway mountain as they say for those dipping their toes. I bought one of those fancy all-inclusive tickets. All you have to worry about is fronting up six grand and they take care of the rest. There were ten of us in a group, and each person had their own guide. I was under the impression that if we got tired or needed a rest, the porters would huddle together, raise us up, and carry us. I’d arrive like a prophet on a cross, one by Cartier hanging by my neck, and as I walked past the gormless supporters, lining the mountain path, I’d say ‘you should put your faith in more tangible ideals.’ Ones you can taste, touch and feel. But I suppose none of this matters anymore. 

As we reached the summit, our group of ten started being whittled down. First one, then a few more, the higher we went, the more intoxicated people became. Altitude sickness has that uncanny ability to affect everyone differently; there’s no set point where you can say this will happen. It just sort of evolves. It didn’t help that by the time we reached the top, we were scaling a scab of ice, as hard as concrete. Our crampons became blunt as we tried to drive them into the mountain. Out of the ten, four summitted, myself included. Although for the last four hundred metres, I was retching constantly, vowing I’d never do this again. I missed my wife and kids terribly, seeing their silhouettes loom large over the ice. Daybreak arrived with a melancholy I didn’t think possible. The sun warmed my brittle skin and for a brief moment, I was able to open one eye and feel completely whole. 

Once I returned to Shere, I’d forgotten all about the pain. I thought what an amazing time I had climbing that mountain. I then immediately looked up the next challenge, the next thrill that could satisfy me. That’s when the affair started. A woman at work wished me happy birthday. I said I’m not happy and it’s not my birthday. She said it’s someone’s birthday somewhere in the world and that was good enough for me. Psychologists will say affairs are a symptom of a deeper issue. But I don’t think amidst all their analysis, they factor in that sometimes people are just bored (and horny), there’s not much more to it than that. Of course, people who have a far greater purpose in life, or those with a strict moral code, will not fall for such idle lust. But I am not that man. If you show me a cake, I will eat it. If you tell me not to do something, I will almost certainly do it. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just I simply lack the inhibition to say no. As Oscar Wilde once wrote, ‘I can resist everything but temptation,’ and I’d add to that and say I’m tempted by everything. 

The following year, I found myself on a flight heading to Argentina. I was to climb Aconcagua – the highest mountain outside the Himalayas. The perfect steppingstone from Kilimanjaro, at least that’s what everyone said. Aconcagua was a thousand metres higher than Kilimanjaro and 1800 metres lower than Everest. So, a middle of the range type mountain. The types of people who go on these trips are always an interesting bunch. A cross-section of adventurers looking for their next fix. Soldiers, doctors, lawyers, businessmen, ski guides, teenage thrill seekers, divorcees, amputees, and the recently unemployed. This time round, most of my comrades were doctors; I felt in safe hands. The night before our ascent, I attended the safety briefing. They said, ‘you must respect the mountain,’ and that ‘the weather can change in an instant.’ But am I not the one climbing? Surely, to respect the mountain, I must make it respect myself?

The first three thousand metres were a joy. Climbing in the Andes is like walking on another planet. At the bottom of the mountain, the ground is so hot it has turned red. Mules carrying our equipment kicked up the rusted dirt in plumes as they trotted ahead. Occasionally, I’d see a group coming the other way, speechless and gaunt. I asked them what it’s like, but they waved me on like I was a gnat. One did stop and told me their whole group didn’t summit, and the other groups they were with didn’t either. In fact, I only met one person who had. But I wasn’t worried. I hadn’t come all this way not to summit. We reached the camp and I was so hot and sweaty, I undressed and jumped into the stream. The guide was aghast as it was so fast flowing but I kept telling him I’m strong. I can hold myself. Arms outstretched, I let the gushing water flow over me, ridding me of the sticky puddles of sweat from my body. 

On the second day, I saw a group of llamas grazing. I didn’t know on what, but the baby llamas hogged the ridgeline as mama and papa llama guided them across. Then two others broke away and followed us to where the river bent round, and we began to hike up again. At the top, we saw Aconcagua for the first time – just her tip – wedged between two other mountains. Her snow-capped shoulders poked out and she looked back at me as if saying ‘what are you waiting for.’ Tomorrow, we will see her full profile. 

We arrived at Base Camp exhausted. The altitude had started to needle its way into my brain. It started light, just a minor headache, but the more you moved around, the more it began to throb. At 4000 metres the air becomes thinner, and every step is a small jog. I had been told as soon as you get a headache, you must drink water. As I guzzled down my flask, my eyes caught her in full. Aconcagua, the majestic, white-tipped figure. Up close she seemed different than the pointy tip I had seen the previous day. She had a long back and arched over her underlings like she was lying down. The summit, a nipple of rock and ice, pointed upwards. Below other mountains lined up like suitors to proposition this queen of ice, scrambling over one another to get a better view. Trees, their furry endowments were nowhere to be seen. They did not belong at these heights. I need a piss. I still have a headache. 

Base Camp was a sea of tents amid the different tour companies. We nicknamed it Basecamp Beverly, on account of all the elaborate tents on display. One company even had a jacuzzi and a wellness centre. In our tent, they served us cold Quilmes beers and I held the fizzy pops in my mouth, swallowing piecemeal at first, before letting it trickle down my throat, guiding the little explosions into my stomach. The sensation made me feel alive and I drank this way for some time, staring at the mountain letting the pops ping all over me. Someone asked me a question; I pointed at my mouth and shook my finger. They understood. 

We had already been hiking for four hours before the sun leapt to such a height, we had to stop. I’d noshed through the prescribed five litres a day and was now using an extra’s to keep hydrated. Five litres. I was essentially replacing my whole body’s water weight every day. I felt like I didn’t have skin to contain the liquid and it was just falling through my skeleton. But it could have been worse. For some of the doctors were walking pharmacies. They were taking Diamox and had to drink 10 litres a day. Just as we left Base Camp, a condo of condors came to say goodbye. They rose weightlessly up in the air and dove down behind us. On their throats they had white tuffs of fur that seemed to resemble a bib to protect their thick black feathers from whatever food they were scavenging. I asked if they ever scavenged on people who never made it down. The guides said, ‘sometimes, depends on where they fall.’ If I fell, it’d have to be somewhere awkward so the condors couldn’t peck at me, I thought. 

I was kneeling adjusting the ice axe on my bag when a violent screech rattled down the valley. One of the medics had slipped and was tumbling down the scree. I looked up and saw a mist of grey dust swirl around an undefined clump. Wielding my ice axe, I threw myself out in front. Stabbing the unreliable rock, I drove my axe into the mountain as an anchor and outstretched my free arm. As he summersaulted above me, I saw an arm meet mine, my fingers clenched his and I gripped hard. Harder than I ever gripped anything before. I saw his eyes wince as I squeezed his hand. Everyone was running towards us, and the dust had a metallic taste like it was not natural for humans to be there.

‘You saved my life,’ he said. 

‘We’re brothers now, I’m sure you’d do the same,’ I said. 

That night we were silent. Each of us took stock of where we were. For tomorrow we would make our summit attempt. Earlier in the evening as we sat around in the tent the man who I saved kept telling me that stuff like this climb was ‘type two fun.’ I liked the phrase ‘type two’. He said you hate it while you’re doing it but then once you look back on it you think there was nothing better. Later that evening, he wasn’t in a good way and was taken down the mountain by mules. All I saw was his arm flopping against the belly of the mule and thought that was certainly type two climbing. I felt bad for him but had to concentrate on the summit. The hours were closing in.

As the night gave way to the unsocial hour, I unzipped my tent. It was pitch black, save for a glacier in the distance. Softly lighted by moonlight, it had long wings of ice that came together in a body that ran across the valley of Aconcagua’s surrogates. It looked like a fierce dragon, not sleeping but not quite awake either. A somnambulist that wandered along the mountain ridge. I asked my guide what it was, and he told me the locals called it Horcones, a nickname that meant the fork in the mountain. 

We attached our head lamps and set off. ‘Slow, slow’ said the guide and I responded ‘slow, slow.’ After half an hour, I’d lost most of the feeling in my hands, it was so cold. We’d been told, we’d only have one attempt at summitting as the weather window wasn’t great. Anything outside of that, would be cheating death. 

It’d been almost 9 hours of solid climbing when things started to change. My body was exhausted. We’d been pigeon-stepping for hours and I was the last person left. The other doctors were taken down after they’d collapsed at different heights. The absence of air had extracted their willpower, only a body remained.  

‘Two more hours,’ the guide said, attempting a smile, ‘then we summit.’

Hunched over gasping, I just managed a thumbs up.

Time no longer mattered, the further we went up, the more I surrendered to this dream-state. I couldn’t have told you my name or what day it was. All that mattered was the mountain, the next step, and the next one after that. 

It was here that I slipped on a scraggly rock. In my mind, I stood up using my walking poles as support and carried on. But I couldn’t move, I just sat there fighting the premonitions of success in my mind. 

The guide said, ‘you need adrenaline, energy not good.’ 

Helping me up, he took out a syringe and tried to stab my leg. I stood there wobbling. After a couple of attempts he looked at it. The tip was frozen. Delirious, he swirled it around in my mouth and then stabbed me again, pressing the liquid in.

Above us the clouds swooped in. The wind had picked up, blasting us with an icy breath that could freeze steel. 

‘We must go down,’ shouted the guide.

I shook my head and said: ‘take me to the top, I paid to go to the top.’

‘No,’ he screamed. ‘The mountain says yes or no. Today, she says no.’

‘We have to finish it.’

I took a step forward and another after that. I looked down and the guide was still behind me. But the landscape had changed. It no longer looked familiar. I lifted my foot, and it was then there was a slight rumble. Suddenly, the ice gave way and the world fell apart beneath me. I kept falling and falling until I landed on a slab of ice. I cried out in pain. I couldn’t move my legs and my hands no longer felt cold. That’s when I started to write this letter. I’ve been whispering it to the wind all this time so my kids can listen out for it when the trade winds take me home in a few hours. I am no longer in pain but there is a deep itch at the bottom of my back. I fear I won’t be able to scratch it in time. 

I must go now. The mountain is coming.  

All my love. 

Dad.

Jed Neill is a London-based writer. Born and raised in Ealing, he graduated from the University of Manchester, where he studied English Literature and American Studies. Since then Neill has worked as a journalist in Spain and the UK. He’s worked as a journalist for The Sun, BBC and Bloomberg, covering stories from the Middle East to Ukraine. Previous published work can be seen in The Writing Disorder, Litbreak Magazine and Personal Bests Journal. You can follow him @jedtneill on X.