First Published in 1978
“You never conquer a mountain. You stand on the summit a few moments; then the wind blows your footprints away.”
Arlene Blum, Born 1945, American mountaineer, expedition climber, author, lecturer, impassioned feminist
The account which appears below describes a December, 1977 ascent of Mexico’s Pico de Orizaba. This 18,600 ft. extinct volcano lies some 55 miles east of Puebla, an attractive city of about 2,100,000 people. Our group consisted of John Cooley who back then lived in Louisville, Colorado; and Joe McConnell, Bruce Squires, and me, all of whom lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Probably due to global warming, snow conditions on Orizaba, also known as Citlaltepetl or Star Mountain, have changed dramatically since 1977. People who made the climb in recent years have told me how much the glaciers have receded and how little snow there is around the summit cone.
Back in the seventies there was plenty of snow, sometimes extending all the way down to the huts. And on our own route which led up the Jamapa Glacier on the north side of the mountain climbers had to contend with a series of hidden crevasses into which unlucky people sometimes fell. In fact, although Orizaba is not considered a really serious climb, people die on this mountain almost every year. The primary hazards they face result from darkness, an icy route, altitude, rapidly changing weather conditions, exhaustion, and lack of experience. Roping up is generally a good idea. My understanding is that only about 60% of the climbers actually make the summit on their first attempt. The 1977 trip was my fourth to the volcanoes.
Some the best current information on ascending Orizaba and other Mexican volcanoes is R.J. Secor’s “Mexico’s Volcanoes – a Climbing Guide”, published by The Mountaineers, Seattle, 2001 edition. And even this book is somewhat out of date.
Herb Kincey, May 05, 2010 (Revised)
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At 1:00 a.m. Sunday morning the alarm went off in Piedra Grande’s Augusto Pellet (chicken coop) hut built to hold 6 people. We were a miserable, sleepy foursome:
John, Joe, Bruce, and I. The previous day (Saturday) had been a bad one. First there was a 1 a.m. group decision not to attempt the climb because of unsettled weather conditions. This meant hanging out an extra day at the two Piedra Grande huts which were located at about 14,500 feet. At this time we were nearly alone staying in the almost new, large stone hut, Octavio Alvarez, which actually had room for over 60.
Another group discussion took place after waking up later Saturday morning concerning whether we ought to backpack on up to the top of a broad rock band at 16,000 ft. called the Sarcofago and camp out there overnight as some people do before climbing. Again the decision was “no” because of the heavy cloud cover.
So Bruce and I spent the morning building stone cairns along the boulder field trail leading up to the Jamapa Glacier. We were surprised to run across almost at the foot of the glacier a large, marginal crevasse at the edge of the east rock band. Later on in the day I hiked down just east of the two huts to inspect Piedra’s springs. Both were in good shape and had an adequate flow. This water must be purified.
That afternoon things started to happen. By 4:00 an assortment of 4-wheel drive “taxis” began to arrive from Tlachichuca 14 miles down the mountain with some of the seventy Mexican climbing club members who would show up at Piedra Grande before nightfall.
Our party saw the handwriting on the wall and immediately hustled over to the “chicken coop”, which contained only 6 bunks. Soon afterward two Canadians, whom we had befriended while climbing Ixtaccihuatl several days earlier, also came over and asked whether they could join us. This filled the small shelter, or so we thought.
By 6:30 Saturday evening our group had finished eating dinner, had packed up our gear, and was preparing to hit the sack in anticipation of a 2:00 a.m. departure for Orizaba’s summit. Fortunately the sky now was completely clear of clouds, a good omen.
It was then that Antonio, a Mexican climber from Jalapa, appeared at the door with two friends, all obviously inebriated. “Hut filled up? That’s O.K.” They would sleep in the 24-inch wide aisle. “Plenty of room. No problem.” Our protests that we would be up at 1 a.m., eating and packing gear, fell on deaf ears. With a promise to return soon, we could hardly wait, Antonio and his amigos headed back over to the large hut where all the action was taking place. At this point our two Canadian pals abandoned us, preferring to take their chances on the cold ground outside. I passed around Dalmane sleeping pills, and we four hoped for a few hours of rest.
We should be so lucky! An hour later the door burst open, and at least 10 strangers piled into the hut, singing and dancing. They just couldn’t understand why a bunch of Gringo climbers would be in bed at this time of night when there was such a great
party going on. We begged off from joining in all the fun and games, but promised to come on over at 1 a.m. and wake everyone up to accompany us in an early ascent. Since this idea didn’t go over too well, the evening revelers were soon gone.
At last all was quiet again, but not for long. Suddenly I was awakened by a loud gagging sound and Antonio shaking me violently. “Senior, I am poisoned – Aggggh!”
Realizing that he must have quietly come back and gone to bed in one of the two empty bunks, I crawled reluctantly out of my own bag, exclaiming, “Antonio, what happened?” Holding his throat with one hand, Antonio pushed at me with his other a 1-gallon plastic water jug, the container on which Bruce had drawn a large skull and crossbones.“Uh,oh! The Chlorox solution used for sterilizing pots and pans.”
As the only emergency medical technician in the crowd, it fell on me to decide whether Antonio would live or die, and judging from the noises coming from the other bunks I knew the outcome my friends were hoping for. Actually, Antonio had not swallowed much of the evil tasting mixture, but enough, as he expressed it, to feel like a swimming pool.
Fortunately, instructions for preparing an antidote were printed in English on the original Chlorox bottle: “If swallowed, feed milk.” And milk (powdered milk) we had in large quantities, since nobody would touch the stuff. So, it was with a certain amount of pleasure that I mixed a big pot of the antidote and made Antonio drink it all. By ten o’clock our candles had been extinguished for the third time that night, and the only sounds in our hut were those of Antonio’s burps reverberating up from the bunk below me.
At 1:00 a.m. the alarm went off. Everyone except for Antonio crawled out of the bags, shivering in the frigid night air. By 2:00 a.m. all the extra gear had been locked up in our GMC Suburban (thefts were common at Piedra Grande), and we stumbled up the trail under a vast, star-filled night sky, happy to be away from the huts and finally on our way. Everyone else at Piedra Grande appeared to be still asleep. Except for Joe falling into a crevasse the climb itself was uneventful. The fact that all of us were in great physical shape helped significantly.
We reached the lower tip of the Jamapa Glacier (16,000 ft.) a little after three, put on crampons, and went up from there two on a rope, using our headlamps. Shortly before dawn Joe, who was in the lead, fell part way into a crevasse which was completely hidden. Fortunately, his Kelty pack caught on the edge, so that only his legs were swinging free inside the hole. He couldn’t see the same humor in his situation as the rest of us did and seemed to feel we did not regard his predicament in a serious enough manner. But the extraction worked without any hitches; and after planting willow wands on each side of the opening as a warning to other climbers, we were soon on our way again.
Several more crevasses had to be crossed or avoided before we finally reached the 18,000 ft. rim about 8:30, and the summit itself at 9:25 after taking a thirty minute break. Except toward the south, where clouds were building up fast, the views were
spectacular in all directions. To the west we could see 14,600 ft. La Malinche, 17,300 ft. Iztaccihuatl, and 17,900 ft. Popocatepetl from whose crater smoke was rising. To
the east we thought we could just make out a faint blue Gulf of Mexico beyond almost 50 miles of hazy, green tropical forest and the city of Vera Cruz.
While descending (it only took about 2 hours) we passed the huge, unroped Mexican climbing party at about the 16,400 ft. level. Antonio from the back of the line shouted “hello” and said his stomach was feeling fine.
Soon after this the nearby cloud bank which had been threatening us for the past hour or so suddenly swept over the mountain just as we reached the top of the Jamapa Glacier with its rock bands descending on each side. Within minutes we were enveloped in a complete whiteout, and visibility dropped to a few feet. But with the rock bands as guides all we had to do was go straight down until we reached the bottom where the trail winding through the rocks to the huts began.
By the time we returned to Piedra Grande it was snowing a little and time for lunch. We wondered whether the Mexican climbers had turned around or were still ascending through the clouds. But we didn’t wait to find out, because Puebla was out there: the Hotel Gilfer, hot showers, cold beers, and a big dinner at our favorite restaurant on the zocalo. So with a final “adios” to a couple of Tlachichuca “taxi” drivers whom Joe and I knew from previous years, we aimed the big GMC 4-wheel drive Suburban down the mountain toward civilization, and eventually home.
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(The above memoir, somewhat revised in 2010, was originally part of a much longer article, “Climbing Mexico’s Big Three Volcanoes, A Guide to Expedition Planning and Getting Around in the High Peak Region”, that was published in the February – March, 1978 issue of “Summit”, a climbing magazine no longer in existence.)
Herb F. Kincey
P.O. Box 5248
Santa Fe, New Mexico 87502
505.982.8948