Welcome to the pain cave: El Alto in Bolivia's Cordillera Real

We didn't come for fancy hotels. We didn't come for fiestas or for cheap cerveza. We came for the mountains. We came to climb--sans Diamox, sans bullshit.

The smell of trash and smog floats through the small crack in the car window; a 1990 Toyota rattles down an unpaved road. Three days of acclimatization in La Paz and Copacabana culminate with a 4 hour drive into the mountains.

My brother and I are eager to get to the Cordillera Real: a portion of mountains in Bolivia which are part of a larger range called the Cordillera Blanca. Crowded roads and the smell of pollution fade as the Toyota bounces toward the mountains. I watch old dogs and old men alike shuffle through trash on the side of the road: el desayuno.

We arrive in the valley at the base of the mountains and we latch our extra climbing gear to three donkeys. We begin our trek toward Lago Juri Kota. Fresh mountain air replaces smog, and mountain passes replace crowded roads. The mountain air we had wanted so badly proves less refreshing than expected: it is thin and unforgiving.

As we approach 5000m, a pounding settles at the back of my head. I breathe heavily and I think about the mountains that await in the coming days: the Condoriri Group, Pequeno Alpamayo, and Huayna Potosi. The pounding in my head worsens. I hate this, I love this.

We reach Lago Juri Kota in the afternoon. Stoves fire up in the cooking tent, donkeys arrive with the climbing gear, and the sun settles behind the Cordillera Real. I climb into the tent and try to sleep. I glance over at my brother and shake my head. He is struggling to keep down dinner but manages to offer his thoughts:

Welcome to the pain cave. This is what we came here for.

I unravel the headphones rapped around my old iPod nano and zip up my sleeping bag. The string plucking of Ben Howard can only partially overshadow the pounding in the back of my head. I close my eyes slowly, taking in a last glimpse of the great mountains that surround our first camp. My head spins and I squeeze my eyelids tighter, hoping that it will settle the nausea. I give in, embracing el alto, settling into a light sleep. Only the thought of the mountains and the climbing that awaits eases my mind. I hate this, I love this. The pain cave that is our tent becomes home and I finally rest.

Matt Bryan