"Burn them bridges down to the ground..."

Aconcagua, Andes, Argentina.

Just shy of 6000m above sea level, clinging to a rock strewn vista, more reminiscent of Mars (with a sprinkling of snow) than the roof of the Andes. I’m tucked away in my orange Mountain Hardwear tent and I am convinced that one of three things is about to happen - at high speed and with great ferocity. Either; A) a freight train is about to round the ‘sentinel ‘ and plow an almighty trail right through our fragile camp, B) a literal tsunami, a wall of water is about to descend upon us from the heavens and sweep us clear off the mountain, or lastly (and most probably) C) the jet stream of wind is making its way once more around the summit and is about to tear through our camp and take with it, whatever it deems ‘unsecured’.

It’s somewhere around midnight, the wind assaults us like a literal brick wall, I hear the tent next to ours simply explode. The gust has managed to find an opening and tears their tent asunder, trip suddenly, undeniably and irrevocably over for some of the American team also camped here. I’m wide awake and bugged eyed - waiting for the wind to claim us, our tent, our belongings, our hopes of a summit attempt. My thoughts turn to our lead guide, Mike, a veteran of monstrous mountains, I assume that someone of his calibre is probably sleeping like a baby through this, having seen it all before. Perhaps I could afford to drop the DEFCON alarm down a notch. Man up.

As that thought leaves my cranium, the tent zips open and Mike jams his head in, ‘Get dressed, in everything, boots, the works, pack your gear, sit in the corner of your tent and hold it down!’.

Zip goes back up, Mike departs and the DEFCON 1 siren triumphantly sounds in my head.

Outside I can hear the freight train once again rounding the Sentinel as it heads back for another assault.

Fast forward into the early hours of the morning. The jet stream has subsided, leaving in its wake a crystal clear sky and plummeting temperatures. Mike returns with news, “This is our chance. I’m happy for you guys (my tent partner and I) plus the Kiwi lads to make a summit bid. The rest are staying. Get ready.”

No more than an hour later and the four of us plus two local guides head off on a 12-15hr, 1000m vertical gain to make the summit, resting just shy of 7000m above sea level. If you want anything higher there is only one place on Earth you’ll find it - the Himalayas. It would be the beginning of a painful and crucial lesson for me.

The summit day can be divided into three sections, the initial ascent out of Camp 3 (aka Camp Cholera) up to a small hut like structure, from there you cross the over the ridge line and begin the long slow traverse up the west face before reaching some shelter by way of a large rock formation. Then the final soul crushing, energy sapping loose scree slope to the summit plateau. Where every footstep seems to slide back further than where you started. By the time I got near ‘the hut’ I knew it was over. I was exhausted to the point where if I stopped to rest on my poles, I immediately fell asleep, standing up. The cold seemed to have seeped into my very bones and taken up permanent residence. My feet were blocks of ice and despite my best efforts, my hands were staying well shy of acceptable functioning. I knew the deal.

I signalled one of the two local guides and indicated that it was time to make ‘the smart decision’ and tap out. There was still the descent back to high camp and days of trekking out. The summit was the best part of another 750 vertical metres away, which meant probably another 12 hours of climbing and descent to get back to camp. If things went well.

Of the six of us who set out that summit day (4 clients, 2 guides), four would summit and return - the guide and I being the only “DNF”. But the next day the helicopters would take one of others out with severe frostbite. I would make the long march back down the Sentinel with cap in hand. It take a few days but the very last step is the crossing of a small foot bridge, out of the valleys and into civilisation where we can grab transport by way of road back to Mendoza.

I remember walking across that bridge like it was yesterday - and for no logical reason a song popped into my head, “Burn Bridges” by The Grates, as I walked across.

“Burn them bridges down to the ground, because I won’t be coming this way again”

But to me, it wasn’t a signal that we wouldn’t becoming this way again. I already knew that I would be back. But mentally, walking across that bridge that day, I made a deal.

We would cross this bridge one more time.

And when we did we would burn it to the ground, for we would never need it again.

Next time we crossed, the job would be done. We would have stood on the summit, and for a brief moment, been the highest point in the both the southern and western hemispheres.

We would burn that bridge to the ground. The person crossing that day would never need this bridge again. Cortez burned his fleet to let his men know there would be no turning back. Caesar crossed the Rubicon and famously said, “the die is cast” ( “alea iacta est’ for those Latin buffs amongst you). I simply crossed a bridge - but inside I made a promise to take what I had learnt, to embrace the pain of defeat and sting of failure. I would immolate and annihilate everything else and leave nothing that was not worthy of a new evolution. Next time we saw this bridge the old me would be nothing but a memory. His experience repackaged and repurposed to fuel something new.

That climb was the first time I had returned ‘empty handed’. It would not be the last - but it was the one that made me truly realise that failure is part of the process. In some cases the very act of failing opens new doors - failure is only wasted if you don’t learn. If you don’t use it. If you don’t see it for what it really is.

It is a tool.

Take that tool and use it.

Use it to craft something new. Something stronger, smarter, wiser, calloused, hardened, experienced. Dig into the failure and find what you learned, what mistakes did you make, where did the wheels come off, where did the cracks overwhelm the dam wall. Take the sting, the pain, the disappointment, the hurt and remember it. Use it in training, in sacrificing, in preparing. Embrace it, it wasn’t free - you paid dearly for it - probably not just mentally, physically and emotionally but most likely financially as well. So do not waste it.

You paid for it in full.

Fast forward twelve months.

Same Sentinel.

New crew.

Of the brave new team that set out that season, deep into the Rio Vacas Valley before swinging up through the penitentes, only two would eventually stand on the summit.

I was one of them.

Nineteen days later as I crossed the bridge back out of the valley - I sang, ‘Burn those bridges down’