There was so much ice, I could barely plant my ice axe into the mountainside.
We were in the middle of the driest desert in the world, about 2km away from the road. The nearest town, San Pedro de Atacama, was an hour and a half drive away. We had no service or radio.
Our guide had disappeared in the middle of the largest freshwater wetlands in the world.
No water, no way to get back. What the hell did we get ourselves into?
Never had I had less of an idea of what the hell was going on.
8 days, 120 km. A quarter of the way through, I was convinced I was a professional mountaineer. Halfway through, I cried. At three fourths of the way, I was riding the rescue horse with a fever.
The old hippie sat meditating outside our hostel dorm room. On the last night, we finally spoke to him.