Murder on Aconcagua by Charles G. Irion

Author:Charles G. Irion
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mt. Aconcagua, seven summits, mystery, Charles Irion, Ronald Watkins, murder mystery, Aconcagua, Andes Mountains, Mendoza, Scott Devlon, murder, mountain climbing, climbing, inca
Publisher: Irion Books LLC

Thirteen

As we climbed, it became increasingly cold, especially in the afternoon shadows that filled the small river valley whose contours we followed. Not far above us was the snow line, portending what the coming days had in store for us.

Raul called a halt just once. The porters dropped their loads and the rest of us found somewhere to sit. Both Fowl and Zapata broke out cigarettes and were hacking before they’d finished the first. Higher altitudes are not forgiving of such abuse.

Ten minutes later, we set out again. We climbed into the snow over the next two hours, though the bottom of the river valley in which we hiked was largely free of it. The air had turned significantly colder. By late afternoon we entered an expanse of fine powder snow and trudged through it, one behind the other, following a narrow path showing us the way, Raul leading. It was after five when we reached the Las Lenas shelter, where we found the fourth porter, a young woman named Carmen, waiting for us.

Las Lenas was situated in a partial bowl whose gently sloping sides rose away from us in two directions. We were out of the river valley, but the canyon walls were sufficiently high to shelter us from the prevailing wind. All around us was that enormous carpet of snow. Oddly enough, Las Lenas means ‘firewood’ in Spanish. This barren area was either oddly named or at one time there’d actually been wood here. It was also the name of a prominent Argentine ski resort, but that was some distance away.

Four tents were set up for us, and aluminum and nylon camp chairs were neatly arranged for our use. On a summer climb, when the mountain received a steady stream of climbers, porters would set up chemical toilets for use and provide us with bottles of water to avoid the contamination so common along all popular climbing routes. But this was winter and we were alone on the mountain. There was no need for special toilets, and the porters simply melted ice and snow to provide us with water.

There would be no cheery fire this night—or on any of those to come. Stern and Kira had one tent, I was with Raul, Fowl with Zapata, while the porters shared a single, larger tent.

Carmen had seen us coming for some time, and dinner was nearly ready. We had only time enough to stow our gear, dig out a heavier coat, set a watch cap in place, and settle in before it was announced. We were served bowls of a prepackaged stew with rice—tastier than it sounds. That was all, but there was plenty of it. We sat in a semicircle in front of the portable stove as we ate and talked in the gathering darkness.

“In the summer, you must show your expedition permit here,” Raul explained between bites. “A ranger keeps a tent over there,” he gestured with a flip of his hand, “but I took care of that in Mendoza before we left.

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