Travel Highlights - Huayna Potosi

Priyanka Kaushal - 6th Year, Medicine

Step by step we trudged through the snow, dark and shadowy in the clouded moonlight. My feet felt clumsy and heavy with our newly-donned crampons, and my ice pick dangled threateningly out of the top of my rucksack. Quite quickly it dawned on me that this was going to be different to the chilly Munroe climb I had envisioned. In reality, I had little idea of the epic journey that lay ahead, or rather above!

Huyana Potosi is only the 6^th tallest mountain in Bolivia, but still looms high at an impressive 6088m. For context, that’s almost 200m taller than Kilimanjaro and over 700m more than Everest base camp! The climb is popular with tourists and locals alike, both due to its proximity to Bolivia’s capital, La Paz, as well as the low-level of technical experience needed to summit. Despite it being dubbed as a ‘beginner’ snow-peak climb though, the determination it requires shouldn’t be underestimated!

Going into the climb, our group had a clear advantage over most, as by then we’d been acclimatising to the altitude for over 2 weeks. The APEX expedition camp was in fact located at the base of the mountain, where the refugio sat at 4750m. Every morning we’d stumble outside, squinting into the sunlight and gazing up at the snowy peaks of Huyana Potosi standing proudly in front of us. In the week we spent there it felt like we’d developed a connection with the mountain as much as with each other. By the time for our ascent came, almost half the entire research group were signed up to attempt the climb. We were split into three groups, with mine including a range of medical students from different years as well as the trip’s expedition doctors.

On the morning of the climb, we filled up on a hearty breakfast in La Paz before heading by bus along the windy road to basecamp. In our old refugio our group chatted excitedly over lunch, slightly giddy with the altitude and anticipation of the journey to come! We were given some surprise snack bags by Dennis, our much-loved expedition guide from the past few weeks. By just past midday he packed off with plenty of sugar and advice to ‘only come back if we reached the top’. Good old Dennis.

The first part of the climb was a short but fairly steep, rocky path up to high-camp. We had already traversed much of this path on a group-glacier-walk during the previous week on the research expedition. This was very reassuring, as it meant that in the trickier parts I could tell myself with some confidence that it was going to get better round the next bend! Unfortunately, on the very first day of our climb, nature’s curveball struck and my period arrived. Though I knew the climb was going to be tough with the high altitude, this meant my body was going to be even further strained. Since returning home, I’ve read a bit more into the impact of altitude on the menstrual cycle, which has revealed that the regular menstrual-hormone profile pattern is in fact altered at higher altitudes (Escudero F. et al, 1996). The exact consequences of this are currently unclear. Whilst a recent study suggests that the influences are minimal up to 3375m (Tagliapietra G., et al 2024), any impacts above this point have not yet been studied. Perhaps this poses a problem for a future APEX mission to solve?

After clambering over the last few rocks up to high-camp I took a few moments to take in the scene below, squinting to spot the red clay-tiled roof of the base-camp refugio in the distance. Dennis’ snack pack of salty crackers and (surprisingly convincing) knock-off oreos had kept us fuelled as we walked, but now I felt my energy falter. On the way to high camp we had passed another APEX group who had summited the day before and, though most of them had made it up, their weary faces stuck in my mind. Those I spoke to had admitted that the road ahead was pretty tough, and someone even joked that we should turn back while we had the chance! If I was already feeling tired at this point, with the longest and steepest part of the trek yet to come, was there any hope of making it all the way?

That night in the high-camp refugio, the group was in surprisingly high spirits. The building itself was quite big and we all shared one airy room, with bunk beds lining the walls and small dining tables at one end. Our dinner was similar to those at base camp, starting without-fail with some form of soup, followed by the Bolivian classic - pasta bolognese. Contented with this hearty meal, we sat comfortably, sipping tea and chatting. Most people were excited about the rest of the journey to come – the thrill of scaling the icy mountain-face and the awesome views that we would get from the summit. Bets were made about who would be able to make it to the top even before sunrise. I kept quiet during this, thinking that if I made it up just before sunset I would be pleased. Perhaps noticing my silence, one of the doctors asked how I was feeling about the climb. After admitting shyly that I wasn’t actually sure if I would make it up or not, she smiled and let out a low chuckle. “None of us really know if we’re going to make it!”, she replied happily, “And it’s okay if none of us do. All that we’re really here for is to enjoy trying”.

Though I already what the doctor had said to me was a truth I already knew deep down, hearing it in that moment immediately lifted my mood. She was right. Whatever happened the next day, as long as I tried to enjoy the process, everything would be fine. And it really was, until about half-an-hour in.

Our final ascent had begun in darkness – daylight melts the glacier making it too slippery and dangerous to climb. Hence, our day had started at midnight, after maybe two hours of sleep. We were handed our gear to carry and sorted into groups – 2 climbers to each guide. The first half-hour passed quickly as the road at this point was still rocky and fairly flat. We moved fast and for once I was at the front of the group, keeping my eyes firmly planted on the ground below so as not to trip up. It wasn’t until we stopped that I then had the chance to look up at what lay ahead of us.

In the darkness a wall of snow loomed, with small lights blinking across it, as if Christmas lights were draped along the sides. At this point my thoughts about enjoying the climb evaporated, and the drive to survive kicked-in. We were instructed to put on our crampons and showed how to hold our ice-picks. Then before I could think about turning around, we were roped to our guides and set off into the snow.

Initially, the slope was so steep that we had to scale it by walking sideways, with strong, precise movements to ensure our crampons stuck into the ice. The slow, repetitive movements quickly made my calves ache and each minute my breaths seemed to get shallower. The first few hours of the climb crawled by in this way, as with each peak we reached, another even bigger one emerged just behind. Between us and the halfway point stood one particularly steep and scarily narrow ridge. Our guide, who until that point had been fairly nonchalant about the sheer drops along the way, stopped us before we went further. With an unfamiliar stern tone to his voice, he told us that in this part we had to be strong, but also careful. Each step we took up that ridge seemed to be in slow-motion. My palms were sweaty under my gloves and every time I planted my foot down on an unsteady patch of snow I drew a sharp breath. I went through a list in my head of over a hundred other places I would rather have been, and wondered at why I didn’t choose to have a beach-holiday this summer instead. At last though, we made it to the top of the ridge, and I felt grateful to be alive.

Another few hours of tiring, but only marginally scary, slopes and the summit was then in sight. We were the last of the groups at this point and the sun was slowly beginning to rise. All around us the sky was coming alive, being painted in a deep red hue. We sat on a snowy mound to watch, feeling some warmth come back into our frozen feet and some hope creep into our tired minds.

Around 100m stood between us and the very top - we were so close that for the first time it actually seemed possible that we were going to make it. In that final push, it seemed like sheer determination was the only thing keeping us going. I had barely any energy left in my legs and even less in my lungs. The very last section of the peak was also one of its steepest, and the melting ice meant that we had to pull ourselves over the widening cracks with our ice-picks. By this point though I was too tired to be afraid, and so inch-by-inch we rose further into the sky.

As we stepped shakily along the final stretch, I couldn’t quite take in what we saw beneath us. The land stretched out for miles around revealing vast lakes, rugged mountains, and the sprawling city of La Paz perched on the horizon. The sun had risen fully by this point and everything was bathed in a soft, yellow glow. We sat on the peak in silence, too stunned to speak. The whole scene was surreal, it was hard to believe that we were really seeing it, that we had really made it up to this point so far above everything. If it weren’t for the photos we took, I would honestly have believed that the whole thing was just a dream, a symptom of the altitude. But somehow it wasn’t – by a minor miracle, we had made it up the mountain.

References

Escudero, F., Gonzales, G. F., & Góñez, C. (1996). Hormone profile during the menstrual cycle at high altitude. International journal of gynaecology and obstetrics: the official organ of the International Federation of Gynaecology and Obstetrics, 55(1), 49–58. https://doi.org/10.1016/0020-7292(96)02697-5

Tagliapietra, G., Citherlet, T., Raberin, A. et al. Effect of menstrual cycle phase on physiological responses in healthy women at rest and during submaximal exercise at high altitude. Sci Rep 14, 27793 (2024). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-024-79702-7