Here’s a part of Mark Horrell‘s book Feet and Wheels on Chimborazo

 Feet and Wheels to Chimborazo

Romel roped us together and led off, with Edita in the middle and me at the back. The first section had been easy. It didn’t prepare us for what happened next.

We stepped out onto an exposed, dusty ridge and the wind hit us with a whirl. Dirt whipped up and struck me in the face, as though an annoying child on a beach had thrown sand over me. I panted with exertion as we fought our way along the ridge. Grit blew in my eyes and I found myself swallowing a mouthful of sand.

‘This is the worst restaurant I’ve ever eaten in,’ I screamed at Edita in front of me. She held a gloved hand over her face; clearly she was finding it as unpleasant as I was. It was still pitch dark and much too early to put on our sunglasses.

Listen to my interview with Mark

Soft and crumbling pebbles rolled beneath our feet. It was like walking on marbles, but our crampons helped us to gain purchase. Luckily the exposed section of ridge was only short and soon we found ourselves beneath a rock wall. Romel scrambled up and we followed behind.

https://youtu.be/WxGBX5yD1wo//youtu.be/WxGBX5yD1wo

But now we had a new problem. The stone was so soft that it crumbled in my hands as I made my way up. Rock faces aren’t so easy to climb when they have detachable handholds. We were directly above the Normal Route, and I could understand how rockfall had turned it into a firing range.

‘This is like climbing a crumbly old cheesecake,’ I said.

‘Why do you keep talking about food?’ Edita replied.

‘It’s OK, we’ll soon be on the ice,’ Romel said.

‘That will be the icing on the cake.’

But the wind whipped up again, and I didn’t hear Edita groan.

When the ice began at 5,650m, it was probably the most atrocious ice I had encountered in my life. Like the rock, it was dry, crumbly and steep, a type where you couldn’t trust to arrest yourself in the event of a fall. If the British Army had designed this mountain as an assault course, they couldn’t have done a better job. I expected at any moment to come across a cargo net. In the darkness it felt dangerous, but we pressed on. We would have to worry about the descent when the time came.

The steepness and crappy ice conditions were relentless, but daylight’s arrival at six o’clock offered a measure of relief. Now I could see how dry the glacier was. It must have been a few weeks since it last snowed, and the powdery surface was like grey ash. I couldn’t recall ever having seen such dry snow. The clouds were far below us, and the twin summits of Iliniza appeared on the horizon to our left. Chimborazo’s summit cast a vast shadow across the Gran Arenal behind us.

We crossed a nasty section of penitentes as we approached the Veintimilla summit. These ice stalagmites are so-named because they are supposed to resemble a procession of penitent monks. They come and go with the seasons, and are formed by the action of sun and wind on newly fallen snow. Contrary to their name, they are far from penitent. They stood in our way like a troop of doormen at a nightclub, refusing you entry because you’re wearing the wrong shoes. My La Sportiva boots were bright yellow, which wasn’t promising.

‘You’re having a laugh – you can’t come in here with those on your feet,’ I heard one of them say to me. Or did I imagine it?

Most of the pinnacles extended well above our heads, and the passages in between were narrow. We frequently had to climb up onto ledges to find a way across into parallel passages – awkward when tied to teammates.

It was tiring work, but just before 7.15 we met a team coming the other way. This is always an encouraging sign on a busy mountain, as it usually means that you’re not far from the top.

Their guide congratulated us on our successful ascent.

‘He’s a bit premature, isn’t he?’ I said to no one in particular as we continued past them.

A few moments later, we stepped onto the Veintimilla summit.

Chimborazo’s second summit was not very obvious. The ice dropped slightly on the other side to a dip that you might describe as a saddle, but it was only a few metres, and it rose again to the obvious higher point of the Whymper summit a short distance away. There was a magnificent view north to the three distinct volcanic cones of Cotopaxi, Cayambe and Antisana rising in a line above the clouds. Cayambe – where we had stood two days earlier – was the more distant, peeping timidly between the other two.

The impenetrable maze of penitentes covered both summits completely. I was already worn out, and I hoped the trail to the main summit would be easier than the approach to the Veintimilla.

We stopped for a rest. Another rope team arrived, and again the guide held his hand out to congratulate me.

I must have looked bemused. ‘But we’re not there yet,’ I said.

The guide turned around and walked away from his group.

‘What’s going on?’ I said to Romel. ‘Why is everyone congratulating us? The ref’s not blown his whistle yet. The summit’s over there.’

I pointed to the Whymper summit, a black shadow curving above the penitentes field.

‘Most people are stopping here,’ he said.

‘But why?’

He let out a short burst of laughter, more like a cackle.

‘You guys are the strongest people here. It’s OK. Have a snack and then we will continue. It’s not going to be easy.’