Brightest of Silver Linings: Climbing Carstensz Pyramid In Papua At Age 65. Carol Masheter
from Timika at sea level to Base Camp at nearly 14,000 feet elevation would not provide the gradual acclimatization of walking several days through the jungle to Base Camp. Climbing another 2,000 vertical feet within a day or two after arriving at Base Camp would be at best very strenuous and at worst put members of our team at risk for altitude sickness. Also, daily rain storms and rugged terrain made flying dangerous, especially for helicopters.
On the other hand, flying by helicopter was seductive. The flight to Base Camp would avoid rumored dangers of the jungle hike -- the possibility of being kidnapped by tribal warriors, porters going on strike and abandoning us, being injured or becoming ill in the jungle, to name a few. Also, the jungle hike to Carstensz Pyramid Base Camp sounded really strenuous. Maybe I had done enough strenuous things in my life. Now that I was nearing age 66, there was no shame in taking the easier way to the mountain, I told myself and my friends. Besides, I had never flown in a helicopter and wanted to see what it would be like.
The positive aspects of the Mountain Trip expedition outweighed my concerns. A few days after I sent my application for their Carstensz Pyramid climb, Mountain Trip accepted me. Adventure Consultants graciously transferred what I had paid them to Mountain Trip. Frustration and anxiety shifted to happy relief. I was back on track to climb Carstensz Pyramid.
Within a few days Mountain Trip sent me a list of names and email addresses of the guide and two other client climbers. Mountain Trip suggested that we contact each other and tell a little about ourselves. This seemed like a good idea. I composed a short email, hoping I sounded friendly and competent but not too cocky. I pictured the guide and the other climbers as being leaner and younger than myself. I hoped I would be able to keep up with them. Kevin Koprek, our expedition leader, and Carina Raiha (pronounced KahREENa RYEya), the other woman climber on the trip, each sent friendly replies. I received no reply from the other climber, Dennis Uhlir. Perhaps he is busy getting ready for the trip, I told myself, but I felt a little rejected.
I looked up each of the team members on the Internet. Kevin had experience with high-angle rescues, skills I found reassuring for our steep climb. Carina was the first Norwegian woman to summit Everest. Dennis had summited Everest recently with Adventure Consultants. I looked forward to meeting them and sharing our Everest experiences. Our guide and my fellow climbers seemed well qualified to climb Carstensz Pyramid.
A couple of weeks later the Mountain Trip staff asked whether I wanted to share a hotel room in Bali and Timika with a newly added, fourth member of our team, whom they described as a young man from Malaysia. Sharing a room with a stranger sometimes works, but it sometimes does not. If he had different expectations than mine about what sharing a room meant, that could be awkward. Since I had not yet met him, I decided against it. I scraped together another 400 USD and paid Mountain Trip for a single supplement, so I could have my own hotel room.
As departure day approached, emails from Mountain Trip changed in tone. While they still seemed confident that they could provide helicopter access, they advised us to come prepared for the jungle hike as Plan B. Fine, I thought. I had been running, bicycling, snowshoeing, and hiking in preparation for the possible jungle hike. I already had knee-high mud boots. I would bring them in case we went with Plan B.
March 1, 2012. Today was the day before departure day. My former colleague, Tom Hudachko, had released a news advisory about my goal to become the oldest woman in the world to climb the Seven Summits. Tom had suggested that I be available for interviews from 4 to 5 p.m. at my home today. I was not sure what to expect, but I tidied up the usual chaos that takes over my house, when I am packing for a foreign trip. Just before 4 p.m. a reporter with a scraggly, gray pony tail and big belly showed up. He asked me to sit in my rocking chair, something I never do, while he asked me questions and videotaped my answers. He had me hold up some of my climbing gear and a copy of my first book for the camera.
In contrast to my previous encounters with reporters, this guy seemed uninterested and just going through the motions. I told myself, one bored reporter is better than no reporters. I compensated for his low energy by answering his questions with extra enthusiasm. At least I’m having a good time, I tried to convince myself, but in fact I felt awkward and a bit silly. This is the unglamorous side of being “a little bit famous,” I thought wryly.
Enchanting Bali
March 4, 2012. After three days of long flights and layovers in airports, I arrived at the airport in Denpasar, Bali, my first trip here. My expectation to spend a few relaxing days exploring the Denpasar area was shattered. My checked luggage, two duffels of mountain gear, did not arrive in the baggage claim area. My gut twisted in panic. Trying to find replacement mountain gear would be impossible in a city known for its tropical beach holidays. I reminded myself, the best remedy for panic is to take positive action. I looked for the desk to report missing baggage.
Lots of other passengers also were missing luggage. Instead of a queue, they formed an irritable mass several people deep around the complaint desk. Finding the appropriate forms and describing my missing duffels took a long time. I struggled to describe the colors of my duffels, bronze and purple, to an official whose understanding seemed to be limited to the colors, blue, red, and black. The rest of the members for the climbing expedition were not due to arrive for a few more days. My duffels could still show up, before we leave Denpasar for Timika, I tried to reassure myself.
Certain that my airport contact person would have left by now, I steeled myself to find an honest taxi driver, a task I had found daunting on previous trips to unfamiliar cities. I shouldered my climbing pack and wove through the crowds to the airport terminal exit. On my way I found a currency exchange booth and exchanged 10 USD for about 100,000 Indonesian Rupiah (100,000 R), hoping it would be enough for the taxi to the Sanur Beach Hotel, where I had made online reservations before leaving home and would meet the rest of the expedition members in a few days.
Near the exit from the airport terminal I spotted a slender little man in a sarong, holding a sign with my name. I smiled with relief. The driver greeted me, “hello, madam, how you?” I thanked him for waiting for me, while I had been dealing with my missing duffels. My Indonesian was limited to a few basic words, so I was glad that he spoke some English.
I settled myself and my climbing pack in the back seat of the taxi and tried to fasten the seat belt. It didn’t work. I must trust the local deities, I thought wryly. Traffic was very heavy, slowing our progress to a crawl, which lowered the risk of a high speed crash and gave me opportunities to take in the sights. The novelty of seeing Bali for the first time helped counteract jetlag and worry about my missing mountain gear.
The afternoon sky was thick with low clouds, the air heavy with humidity from recent rain. Narrow, muddy side roads branched off haphazardly from our paved street, merchant’s stalls jammed together almost on top of each other, and crowds of pedestrians tried to avoid dirty puddles. Bougainvillea vines, spangled with orange and purple flowers, spilled over walls dark with moss. Large, white magnolia blossoms shone against thick clusters of large leaves, so dark they were nearly black. Elaborate stone statues of deities and demons leered from entrances to gated court yards. Over some of the side roads, long bamboo poles arched gracefully, each ending with a mysterious pendant. Denpasar seemed to be a crazy quilt of the elegant, the mysterious, and the shabby.
Swarms of motorbikes darted among SUVs, mini-buses, and taxis. Slender Balinese men bent over their motorbikes like racehorse jockeys and wove through traffic with brazen abandon. Sometimes a woman in a bright sarong sat behind a motorbike driver, sometimes with one or two little kids behind her. Most of the motorbike drivers wore flashy helmets, but few of the women and none of the children did. One little girl dressed all in white – white dress, white hat, white stockings, white shoes -- sat side saddle, serene and spotless, behind her driver, while he drove the motorbike around muddy potholes.
I stared around in wonder, feeling like a stranger in a strange land. I wished I knew more about what I was seeing. I asked my taxi driver, but we had few words in common. Trying to converse overtaxed my jetlagged brain. We settled into silence, while he negotiated the complex currents of traffic. It took an hour to cover the seven miles from the airport to the hotel.
Behind a high wall of moldy stucco and down a narrow drive, the Sanur