"Hand's getting numb. Better change direction again."

I switched the ice axe to my left hand and pivoted ninety degrees clockwise, following a different angle up the glaciated hill.

"Hmmm. I might have stayed too long on that last tack. I can't feel my right hand anymore."

I stopped for a moment to warm my frozen digits under my armpit before continuing up the mountain.

"Must be past midnight. I should have reached the summit by now. Well, onward and upward."

I'd been talking to myself for hours but I'd given up wasting energy on moving my lips and evoking sound from my throat. Besides, it had become too painful to talk that way. Much better to talk inside one's head, letting the words bounce around and reverberate in the cranial cavity. Thoughts seemed clear that way, plus it distracted me from the headache and kept me from drifting into catatonic passivity.

A rocky outcrop jutting out of the ice began to command a large portion of my field of view.

"Only about 30 feet away. If I angle back to the other side I should be able to get out of this wind for a while."

I pivoted counter-clockwise and passed the ice axe back to my right hand, still numb but regaining some of the familiar tingling sensation to which I'd grown accustomed. It felt like about 5 minutes to traverse the 30 feet or so to the outcrop. It was probably more like 15 minutes. Perceptions of time and distance get muddled on mountains.

"Breathe, breathe, step. Breathe, breathe, step."

It had become like a mantra to me as I moved forward. Two deep breaths between every footstep - that was the minimum I needed to keep from going into oxygen debt.

"Almost there. Just a few more steps."

I reached the bottom of the outcrop. The rock seemed dull and jagged compared to the ice which, even by moonlight, had a distinctly glossy appearance. I moved around to the leeward side to escape the chilling wind, then stopped in my tracks as my eyes caught hold of the large grey sack dangling precariously on the slope. My reaction passed quickly from the initial shock of seeing something other than ice or rock, to mere curiosity.

"Hmmm. Never seen one of those before," I whispered inside my head. "Except on television of course."

Another climber was sleeping inside a fully enclosed cocoon type sack just steps away from the outcrop.

"I hope that thing is well anchored. If it comes loose that guy will be taking the last toboggan ride of his life."

I was thinking in muted tones now, hoping not to accidentally wake the other climber from his slumber. I'm not sure if you can wake someone tele-kinetically but I didn't want to take any chances. I hadn't slept in two days so I wasn't about to disturb another man's sleep if I could possibly avoid it.

My feet were begging for relief so I surveyed the outcrop for a suitable place to sit down.

"No rock to sit on, but there's a little shelf of ice there."

I moved a few feet up the slope and then gingerly turned round, facing downhill as I eased my butt down onto the perch. One cheek came in contact with the ice, the other hovered in the air.

"This feels a little precarious."

I planted my crampons and ice axe firmly into the ground and pushed back into the little cranny in the rock. There wasn't as much room as I'd thought and my head got pushed to the side, but I had improved my seating situation to one and a half buttocks and part of my left thigh.

"That's not bad. As long as I don't get a cramp in my neck from holding it sideways."

After covering so many miles at a relentless 45 degree angle, the slightest flat area was a welcome respite. I loosened the straps on my pack and allowed some of it's weight to shift back onto the ice. My shoulders were thankful to be temporarily relieved of their heavy burden.

I took advantage of my new vantage point to look down at the ground I had covered. My eyes shifted from foreground to background elements as I struggled to make out dark, distant formations.

"My God! Have I really gone that far?"

Two days ago, the 15,680 foot high summit of Las Torecillas had towered over me. Now, it was so far below me it's peak didn't even clear the horizon. It was lost in the darkness somewhere beneath the curtain of stars twinkling in the sky. At least, I think they were twinkling. Maybe I was just blinking a lot. The air was so cold and dry I had to squint even though it was night.

My mind shifted back to more immediate concerns. I couldn't feel my right hand again. I pulled off my mitts and turned on my headlamp. The fingers of my right hand had a dull gray appearance. Not a good sign, but as long as they didn't turn black I didn't have to worry about amputation. I wrapped my left hand around my right. The fingers felt like frozen wieners. My mother always used to keep our wieners and hot dog buns in the freezer. I don't know why. I suppose the buns would have gone stale if left out, but the wieners should have been safe in the refrigerator. I'm not entirely sure there's any meat in a hot dog. I doubt they would go bad too quickly.

My fingers didn't have much meat on them either but I wasn't sure freezing them was a wise method of preservation. I raised my hands to my mouth and breathed on them. They disappeared for a second in a fog of vapour but didn't feel any warmer. I guess the layer of ice encrusted on my balaclava should have been a good indication that hot breath was ineffective against the frigid air. I unzipped my pants and slid my hand down between my thighs. Much better. The crotch is even superior to the armpit for warming your hands - as long as you don't freeze your crotch in the process. I know sperm can be safely frozen, but not while its still in the testicles.

I shut off my headlamp and waited while my eyes adjusted to the dark again. The cold was starting to work it's way through my layers of clothing into my legs. I couldn't stay seated much longer. I glanced over at the other climber, nestled in his cocoon. I envied his warmth and comfort.

"How can he lie there sleeping comfortably while I'm freezing my ass off a few feet away?"

The chills were starting to come back from sitting still too long. My butt was nearing it's comfort threshold and my crooked neck was in danger of staying crooked if I didn't get moving. I tightened the straps on my pack, put my hands back into their mitts and heaved myself back onto my feet, leaning heavily on the ice axe with one hand and bracing myself against the rock with the other. I pulled one hand back out of its mitt for a second to zip my pants up before moving off.

"Onward and upward."

There didn't appear to be an easy way to get over and around the other climber's cocoon so I started moving slightly downhill as I approached him. As hard as it was climbing the ice slope, it seemed even harder to go downhill and maintain one's balance. I could use my calf muscles climbing but I didn't have any strong lower leg muscles to rely on when descending.

I moved slowly and cautiously, looking for good footing before taking each step, struggling to move silently so as not to wake my weary compatriate. Though we'd never met, I felt a kinship with him - born through the mutual struggles and hardships we had endured to reach this point on the mountain. I passed close by him, just inches below the dangling cocoon. The ice crunched loudly underfoot as my pointed crampons dug in for traction. I planted an ice axe and leaned forward onto it. My breathing grew heavy and laboured under the strain of my load.

"Why is this pack so heavy? Was it this heavy when I started?"

I stopped to think about that for a moment.

I had left my stove behind two days beforehand. So handy for normal camping, it seemed utterly useless in these conditions. Lighting it was an exercise in patience - the fierce winds kept blowing out the flame no matter how I endeavoured to shelter it. Even when I could keep it lit for more than a minute, the flame was fighting a losing battle against the frigid temperatures. The best I could accomplish was luke warm soup with crunchy bits of undissolved powder. The stove was now hidden behind a rock 5,000 feet below me - along with a couple of litres of water and whatever food required cooking.

My tent had been left behind the next night. It wasn't mountaineering quality - just a cheap little tent I picked up for $25 in Canadian Tire's sporting goods department. The polyester was hard and brittle at these temperatures. Besides, my breath would condense and freeze on the inner surfaces and then fall down in a shower of snowflakes whenever a strong gust shook the tent. I didn't care to have snow falling inside the tent when there was none falling outside. I decided I could manage without a tent so it ended up hidden behind a rock too. There was a cross nearby to mark it's position so I could find it on my way down.

I left some extra clothes and other sundry items like toiletries with the tent. Personal grooming isn't much of an issue at 18,000 feet. There aren't many people around to smell you up there and they probably wouldn't care what you smell like anyway.

By all accounts I'd left roughly half of my belongings behind me, yet the pack didn't feel an ounce lighter. My shoulders were aching and weary. They weren't accustomed to the strain. I wasn't accustomed to the strain. I don't do much hiking, especially not with such a heavy pack. I don't climb many mountains either. They're hard to find in southern Ontario, probably because there aren't any. That's what brought me to Mexico. Although famous for it's beaches, Mexico is also home to some of the highest mountains on the continent.

I began moving again, climbing the slope alongside my sleeping friend. As I moved a few feet higher I was puzzled to see an engine sticking out the top of the sleeping bag.

"What would he possibly need with an engine up here?"

"How did he even get it up here?"

The answer was in my head, but hidden in a hazy area where reality and imagination play tricks and try to deceive you. I struggled to peel away the layers of confusion and arrive at the underlying truth.

As the idea became clearer in my head, the image grew clearer before my eyes. It wasn't another climber at all. It was a plane wreck. The "cocoon" sleeping bag was really the badly mangled tail section of a small plane. Part of the wing and engine were there, but much of the fuselage was buried in the ice.

I wondered how it happened, how this plane came to such an untimely end on the side of this long dormant volcano. The wreckage was less than 100 vertical metres from the peak. It was so close to clearing the mountain and continuing on it's way to whatever destination the pilot had in mind. What went wrong?

Did the pilot fail to check his flight charts? Was he unaware that a mountain lay in his path?

Did his instruments deceive him - implying he was flying at a safe altitude when in fact he was not?

Was he flying at night - unable to see the mountain before him? Maybe a storm blew him off course and reduced the visibility.

Or perhaps, like me, he was running on automatic pilot.

"Onward and upward."

I continued up the mountain.

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