Home / Dive Resorts / Live-Aboards / Snorkeling / Who We Are / Book a Trip |
�
Copyright
/
"� We are not the fastest & we are not the best,
Most of us are candidates for cardiac
arrest,
If we make it to Camp One, we'll all feel
mighty blessed,
And the Geezers wheeze along ..."
That was the
lyric intro to our fight song, "Geezers on Pumori," a caterwauling
parody of "Glory, Glory Hallelujah" that carried the name of our
dream peak, right next door to Mount Everest in
Fact is, the Geezers
never even made it to Pumori base camp.
Now, two
decades later, it's time for the back story on how that fiasco led to the most
wondrous alpine adventure of a lifetime, an expedition so joyful &
fulfilling that a few months after we returned to the USA, it jump-started the
founding of U.S. Dive Travel.
Yes, you
heard it right. A mountaineering
expedition to landlocked Bolivia actually sowed the soul seeds that started an agency dedicated to planning
tropical island vacations. Go
figure ... Shortly after that Bolivian
Andes expedition, I was so driven to recoup the taste of sunlit freedom, so compelled to see more of the world's mountains & oceans, I left the harried worried world of metro daily journalism
for keeps & never once looked back.
Not one person who knew us ever guessed our New Horizon would be over luminous
South Pacific atolls instead of crevasse-lined Andean glaciers. I can thank Bolivia's magical mountains & my lovely wife Susan's even more magical persuasions for this happenstance, as soon you'll see.
All because
seven ordinary working men from
The memories still linger, strong &
happy as a kid's when school's out for summer �
All the
mania started in the drizzly Pacific Northwest winter of 1988, when
And we were
ready to rock. We had the Nepalese
government permit & were locked into an $11,000 gear order with a fine
We were
stuck with a truckload of gear that littered Eddie's basement like battlefield
debris, not to mention 400 T-shirts pathetically trumpeting the Pumori mountain
climb that never was. My cheeky kid
brother, now in his 50s, still sings out "how's it goin' Pumori Man?" at family
reunions, milking that baby for all its worth.
But life
goes on. Dreams die hard. So we seven alpine bro's
paid our debt to the outfitters, gathered our gear & re-energized our
resolve. As expedition leader I
hit the alpine libraries like a mole on NoDoz.
Big time research.
After a
couple weeks of spirited digging, the upshot was a jolt. Pumori wasn't looking so seductive anymore. We were flying in the face of conventional
climbing community wisdom in those days.
Nuts to the noise of the Everest region.
We decided the place to be was not the garbage-flecked &
trekker-ridden Khumbu sector of
Unsung jewel
of the
Now we had an objective.
I hit the
phones in February 1989 & lined up a seven-man team from across the
We were so fit,
so stoked after two weeks of high altitude training on the more accessible western
flanks of the Cordillera, we felt ready to gargle barbed wire. By the third week of May 1989 we headed for fresh
terrain in the heart of
After the
stinging disappointment of Pumori, it was clear the only way to enjoy this
expedition game was to cut loose, stop taking our previously lofty Himalayan
objectives -- & ourselves -- too seriously. The North American & European
mountaineering scene of the 1980s was so
self-conscious & hubris-soaked as to be narcissistic. The
So we sought
a different soul vector for this Cordillera Real Expedition. Something leaner, cleaner,
lighter in spirit. Here's where we got our
team's official name, the one we put on the new T shirts: 1989 Real Time Expedition �
I remembered a really fun interview about
four years earlier with Howard Roberts
of
Howard was
one amazing gent, & I deeply admired his casual outlook on urban life, the
way he relaxed 120% in his art form, avoiding social pressures & status
symbols like they were leprosy lesions.
Good ol' Howard Roberts, he praised the crazy energies of playing guitar,
actually doing anything you love to do -- in "Real Time." That was
his label for an almost sacred state of mind that comes when you shuck the
workaday world of worry, competition & striving to achieve. Instead you reach for humor, creative
exploration & free-floating improv. Kind of like kids playing on a tropical beach while their parents look the other way.
Intrigued,
inspired by Howard's artistic freedom, I therefore resolved that this
expedition's goal would be to have no rigid goals at all -- we'd go
"Climbin' in Real Time" -- & nuts to the noise of Madison Avenue.
The idea was for seven guys to jump headfirst into an alpine jam session, & see where it led. "Climbin' in Real Time" would be spontaneous, impish, childlike yet bold & colorful like Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights, which as we all know are "what rainbows do when the teacher leaves the room," to quote my best adventure buddy Bob Shaw.
The Real Timers would embrace our mountain
rather than "conquer" her.
What a
singularly lame idea -- "to conquer a mountain" -- as if it were some
malevolent adversary who must be whacked into submission, so the world can be
safe for democracy again.
I checked
with the guys & they were all on board.
Howard's "Real Time" ideas resonated well with the team. Thus the Real Timers chose, instead, to place
team safety ahead of personal acclaim, spontaneity ahead of summit fever. We would climb with a calculated rebellion
against some selfish & suicidal thinking that has sullied the art-sport of
alpine mountaineering today.
If you scan
the major climbing magazines, for much of these last two decades one noisy Bolshevik faction
has lifted "extreme alpinism" to the pinnacle of respect. They
worship its Nuevo-Wavo-kamikaze-death-commando style & confer pop deity on
its handful of cocky practitioners. Year after year, these self-anointed
"hard men" gouge out faster, steeper death routes, after which they
regale the masses with tales of Cheating The Reaper,
oh so adroitly.
In short,
too many alpine climbers, too many rock climbers, have been taking themselves
far too seriously. For
far too long.
While the
magazines keep trotting out new solo ascents of incredibly desperate rock &
ice routes, they overlook the fact that novice climbers in high school &
college -- of whom there are hundreds in the Puget Sound region, also in
Oregon, California, Montana, Wyoming & Utah -- yes novices devour these
articles as if they were scripture. Many alpine newbies assume this
is the standard of the sport, the level to which all mountain men & women
with certifiable red cells must aspire.
And this lunatic assumption is killing climbers, year after year. Several old friends from Seattle, men & women alike, died chasing these delusions in the 1980s & the 1990s. Their smiles sometimes revisit me on quiet evenings when I am sitting alone in my office.
Like my Dad
used to tell me: "Death is nature's way of suggesting you
slow down."
The typical
American mountaineers are weekend warriors with regular jobs, family ties,
moderate incomes & limited free time to train. Thus, the so-called
"standards" of extreme rock & ice routes that are waved in our
faces by the full-time gear-hawking pros are so far removed from reality as to
be extra-terrestrial.
There are no
standards that matter -- except fun & safety. Period.
That's why I made a
decision: it was high time to celebrate -- & encourage -- the modest
exploits of the ordinary mountaineer again. In short, it is a healthy thing to
look up to -- not measure up to -- the alpine mountaineering superstars. Let them zoom about in their own eccentric
orbits. We will keep our boots firmly on
good ol' Mama Earth as we ascend to our chosen summits, maybe a bit more carefully
with our feet of occasional clay.
So � here is the gist of this Revolution of
the Regular Guys & Regular Gals:
�
Climbin' in Real
Time means a return to the pioneering spirit that propelled Fred Beckey to
first ascents of countless Cascade peaks with little more than a rope, a ragged
rucksack & a fistful of rusty pitons.
�
Climbin' in Real
Time means mountaineering as exploration of new ground -- both underfoot &
deep in the heart.
�
Climbin' in Real
Time means a celebration of the amateur ethic & rejection of merchandising
pressures that have swallowed many expeditions wholesale.
�
Climbin' in Real
Time means minimal interference with fragile alpine ecosystems. In fact, it means an assiduous TLC approach
to campsite impacts, with attention focused on burying organic garbage plus human
waste far from any leaching field that could intersect a stream. Plus you NEVER leave anything from the city
behind,except
footprints. To litter is to be a
slobbering Barbarian at the Gates of Heaven.
�
Climbin' in Real
Time means alpine-style ascents: light, fast, no mob of high-altitude porters,
no fixed ropes, no bottles of supplemental oxygen, no exotic drugs to soften the sting of
altitude.
�
Above all,
Climbin' in Real Time means rejecting a decade of alpine strutting & chest-thumping. Good-bye to The
Weighty '80s!
And here's how we cranked out the prelim logistics
for this Andean mountaineering adventure.
We first
spent a couple days researching aerial photos in the archives of the Bolivian
Military Forces HQ in
Approaching from a swing to the eastern slopes -- the hard way -- The
Real Time Expedition explored two remote high alpine basins in the
Records of
previous European & Argentine expeditions to
We did our mountain archive research with
good faith & due diligence.
To the best
of our knowledge, therefore, we earned three first-ascent routes to summits on
the eastern flanks of the Chearoco-Chachacomani massif.
Distinguished
by two 20,000-foot sentinel peaks, towering pink-granite walls & hazardous
icefalls riddled with 30-to-50-foot towers of teetering ice blocks called
seracs, this 8.7-mile-long massif is one of the principal geologic thrusts of
the Central Andes. Its southernmost crags are located about
44 crow-flight miles north of
After a Land
Rover caravan of 75 miles across the Altiplano, a strenuous three-day approach
march took us over three passes that averaged 15,000 feet in altitude. Again,
to the best of our knowledge, we are the only modern-era explorers ever to traverse
these high passes in succession, en route to a valley of cathedral beauty the
natives call "Chekap Kuchu," or "Valley's End."
Since 1962,
a few expeditions visited Chekap Kuchu before us. But they completely missed the most beautiful
of the neighboring valleys, hidden far above their lines of sight at Island
Camp. Alpine journal records show we
apparently were the first non-indigenous people ever to penetrate & fully
explore, from a base camp below Chearoco's Northeast Face, the two magnificent
high alpine basins to the northwest & south of Chekap Kuchu.
Each day we
hiked, hauled gear, refined our camps, cooked, chowed down, washed our faces in
45-degree glacial water & rested in those magnificent virgin basins, we
thanked the Good Lord above for this ineffable delight, for this privilege of
living for a moment in an untouched part of Planet Earth so remote that, most
likely, no other human beings ever had trodden there. It is a feeling so electric with happiness &
awe I still, after 20 years, never have been able to explain it fully to my
family & friends. It felt like
kissing the outstretched hand of God.
And it changed my life forever, just being there & breathing the
thin clean air & soaking up the perfect weather, the looming vistas, the high alpine sunshine.
Even half-cooked lentils with stale rolls tasted like manna in
Chekap Kuchu.
And this is
where the seminal idea was conceived, the spirit of confidence & seeking a healthier life that sparked the beginning of U.S. Dive
Travel. Imagine that.
Now back to
the gnarly business of the approach march to base camp, always a gringo grind. If your approach goes sour, it can wreck an
entire expedition before you even hit base camp, so we planned ours with impeccable caution. We were
helped by five Aymara tribal herdsmen whom we had hired in Jankho Khota village
back about 48 miles below "Base Camp Numero Uno." They were humble slightly-built young men
with deep earnest eagle
eyes & dark bronze skin, whom we treated like gold, because
their advice & route-finding wisdom were pure platinum. I also hired a 19-year-old kid back in the
village named Froilan Guarachi, to serve as our camp cook & to watch the
tents while we were away on summit days.
Froilan was loyal, cheerful & patient, never once griping or
sulking, as some of us "Soggy Seven" did after daylong gear hauls to high
camps. His meals were great, day after
day, & our team morale remained as high as the imposing summits above our
camps.
Actually
higher than three of those summits, as soon we'll see �
Now, back to the approach hike, which is to a successful alpine exploration as concrete foundations
are to tall buildings.
Starting at
that lower elevation village, about 11,000 feet, for three windy 12-hour days, hiking about 48 miles,
we herded a caravan of 49 llamas laden with 2,200 pounds of food & gear,
over three 15,000-foot passes to reach advance base camp. We built our
operations base, called "Island Camp," at 14,100 feet (nearly the
same altitude as the highest peaks in the Lower 48). Island Camp was ideally lodged at the
confluence of two rushing mountain streams that swept around a wide lump of
flat grassy ground & created an oval-shaped "island." We camped for 5 weeks smack dab under the
forbidding Northeast Face of Chearoco (20,072 feet), just outside the reach of
any avalanche chutes. We pitched 6
roomy North Face VE-24 dome tents: 4 for sleeping, 2 for gear stowage. It was a base camp paradise in every way. Best campsite I'll ever find anywhere on
earth.
Once more,
back to that pesky thang called reality. Yes, there were some epic moments on that
approach hike, such as the afternoon when the second pass we
reached, just into the 16,000-foot altitude zone, was too high for half the
llamas. These fuzzy beasts got so bushed they simply laid down & panted like
sick dogs in a summer heat wave, refusing to budge another inch.
I could feel
my heart sink that day. "Aw blast it all, not another Pumori!"
Mind you, we
already had been pampering those llamas to a faretheewell. We cautiously kept the weight loads under 48
lbs for each llama, on the advice of our local herdsmen, so we would never
stress-out their cardio-vascular capacity & exhaust them. And we used llamas, not mules, because the
latter specie is not only stubborn, but rarely can lug any helpful weight above
14,500 feet. Llamas in the Andes, like
yaks in the
Even as easy
as we were on our 49 long-necked cud-spitting llama buddies, we
apparently brought them to the very envelope of llam-anian endurance. So I was forced to relent, & we let those
dang llamas take so many breathers, day after day, that they stretched the
hikes from dawn to dusk & had me fretting like a ferret. Man, we kept on burnin' daylight. But the beat goes on �
The second llama epic occurred on day two
of the approach hike, when the alpha
male llama rounded a blind corner on an extremely steep trail, then he turned
& bolted back down that trail with a wide-eyed panicky look. Several other llamas began to go AWOL, too. Pretty soon the whole herd of 49 was balking,
groaning with anxiety, skittering about like water beads on a hot-oiled griddle. We had a mammal
mutiny on our hands.
"What now?"
I thought with a tar pit in my stomach. Turns out that only hours earlier, a massive rockslide had thundered
down that pass on the right-hand side where we were hiking, completely
obliterating the trail with truck-sized blocks of cold gray granite &
random piles of ankle-bending rubble.
The only way up was 70-degree ledge-infested Class 4 rock
climbing -- which
2-legged humans with 50-lb packs can do a lot better than 4-legged llamas.
The 49
llamas would have nothing to do with that rockslide-ruined pass. They loathed even looking at it. We were in deep llama-doo & something had to done -- but quick. So I ordered
the herdsmen to strip the saddle packs from many of the weaker animals, &
we dragged those bags, one by one, to a higher plateau, then
returned for the llamas. By then those bloomin' critters were resting blithely below the rockslide, like it was Picnic City, while we gasped & sweated doing their work for Pete's sake. I scouted a slightly easier detour route to the
west, & we then were forced into the hilarious indignity of standing squarely
beneath hairy dirt-clumped llama rumps, pushing with all our might to get a
240-lb beast up onto the next rocky ledge. One ledge, one llama at a time.
Yep, just as
you might guess, when llamas get stressed & pressed from behind their hams,
they sometimes choose to whistle the metabolic music of their last grassy
lunch -- in a manner most politely described as "the winds of doom."
Oh man. What had we signed up for here?
Finally
after 4 hours of shoving wooly llama butts skyward, grunting like ruddy-faced
farm blokes, zero humor left, we skirted the worst of the avalanche debris
& crested that windy snow-swept pass -- some 16,200 feet in elevation. Then elated as schoolboys at recess we
cavorted 3,000 feet down the other slope to our second approach camp just in the nick of
time before sunset -- spent but triumphant -- all 49 llamas in tow. Not a single beast was ever hurt; not even a scratch.
Late on the
third day we arrived at Chekap Kuchu, base camp was set without further ado & we rested like half-dead
coal miners after escaping a cave-in.
A few days
after we set Island Camp, we also hauled heavy packs up for 2-3 days each, establishing three additional high camps at
16,200 feet in separate valleys. From there several summit bids were launched.
These were the inspiring summits we reached with the Good Lord's gift of perfect weather for two months, sunny & cold, plus solid snow conditions & low avalanche risk on most slopes:
First ascent of
Peter Delmissier, Eddie Boulton, Steve Norris & Kevin Spooner joined me on the summit,
each of us taking turns to stand for a few minutes on the absolute crest
of Chachacomani. It was a perilous place,
no room for a barn dance. Maybe 10 or 12
square feet of knife-edged ice cornice bounded on the west by a sheer
4,000-foot ice wall, on the south by a steep slope of hard-packed neve (old
sun-baked snow) & the runouts were all terminal falls in 3 directions. So we took our time, took the photos gingerly
then cramponed step-by-deliberate-step off that peak before any storm could roll in & trap us.
Another thing I'll never forget: the American pride we felt when we planted
a small
What a day
of limitless joy & satisfaction. We
had reached the key summit we were seeking for months! Thank you Lord! I led the rope team up & down without a
single injury, though Steve-a-reeno on the descent, just below the summit blade, slipped into a crevasse up to his waist. The rope team wisely had left very little slack between men so his fall was Mickey Mouse. We were able to yank him out in less than a minute. Thanks again!
We'd left Camp Susana a couple hours before dawn to be safe & sound, just like we'd trained on stateside Mount Rainier earlier that spring. The climbing schedule flowed like cool buttermilk. Five of us reached the higher Northeast Summit
of Chachacomani in nine hours from high camp, then we hiked
southward about 400 yards across a high saddle, wading through drifts to the second Chacha summit for good measure, & were
back down to
Our view
from atop "Big Chacha" was impossible to forget: a 360-degree vista
of Lake Titicaca & the Peruvian Andes to the west & north, & the
fog-shrouded tropics of Solo first ski descent of Chachacomani's northeastern slopes - from
the Northeast Ridge to high camp -- by
Mercer Island WA's Peter Delmissier. He plied an astonishing crevasse-filled two-mile
icefall we named "Ome Daiber Glacier" in honor of the late Cascade Mountain Range legend who pioneered The first ascent of the Southwest Face of a new peak we named
Nevado Domine (18,721 feet) -- via a
steep 3,400-foot ice & snow route. Peter,
This climb of Nevado Domine dealt us some cruxes that were cause
for a pause: �
At 16,300 feet, a
skinny ice bridge, 100 feet long & guarded on both sides by gaping
crevasses, which called for balance-beam precision. Respectfully spent, we
named it "The Blade" while descending it with headlamps, rubber-legged,
en route to our high camp in pitch darkness. �
At 17,200 feet, a
400-foot wall of steep ice & snow, which we called "The Bonz
Headwall," to honor my best friend Robert "Bonz" Shaw of St. Paul. A crevasse-riddled runout added some spice to the ice. �
At 18,300 feet, a
25-foot section of 70-degree ice, reached by a half-imaginary ice bridge over
another troubling crevasse. �
A few feet from
touching the absolute summit nubbin with my ice axe -- perched tip-toed on a
cornice of windblown snow -- I felt a sickening sensation & suddenly sank
six inches. A deep crack from an incipient slab avalanche snaked out from
underfoot & girdled the entire face beneath the summit dome. In seconds the climb of Nevado Domine went from exhiliration to adrenal overload. I thought, "this is
it, this is how my story ends. He'p me Lord!"
But the slab held. We gingerly
back-stepped off that nasty slope, never knowing if it was going to slough,
& we made it back to high camp a few hours after dark -- utterly drained
but happy. There was
one more noteworthy archival highlight of the expedition: Solo first ascent by Billy Bays, Casper, WY, of the Northwest Ridge
of "Diablito's Tower" (17,500 feet) -- an enjoyably moderate rock climb up a granite crest that dominated
the northern terminus of Ome Daiber Glacier. We also named this prominence because it was smaller &
"cuter" than the original upthrust stateside, just west of Sundance Wyoming.
Billy worked so hard to get on this expedition & he almost had to
bag it mid-way when I sent him down to below 12,000 feet, to an Aymara Indian
village aided by one herdsman & one climber, to recover his health after he
started developing pulmonary edema a couple weeks into the expedition. Pulmonary edema has been known to kill unwary
climbers in their sleep at this altitude.
So we were worried as can be. But
Billy got some Aymara TLC, & he felt better. He hiked back to Chekap Kuchu with a big wide
grin & some lame jokes & we hugged him fiercely. We all were delighted later by his successful
solo ascent of the beautiful pillar we named Diablito's Tower, about 450 feet of gain from the ridgeline. Now it was
time for the team to celebrate! Back in base
camp, we threw an apres'-summit bash for the team, & sent a herdsman as
courier to invite our Aymara tribal neighbors, 12 miles down river, for the
feast. We divvied up a case of It doesn't
take much of the old suds to crack a smile at 14,000 feet after almost a week
at high camp. By 8 p.m., Island Camp
was hopping with music from a mini-guitar & a banjo we'd hauled in. Aided by annoying reserves of Everclear,
smuggled into base camp by Not stodgy
Dutch Uncle John, of course. The climbing
leader always has to remain Dull-Boy Stick-in-the-Mud + Rule-Enforcer +
Anchor-of-Propriety. But I hate hard
liquor anyway; always have. So I
relished the chance to be designated driver with no wheels, at Island Camp
beneath Several days
later, after trying another steep ice route that did not work out, due to
unstable boilerplate ice over a softer snow pack, we were sore &
skinny as whippets. The avalanche hazard was high, we waited below the crux for an agonizing hour, studying the face, pondering, guessing then second-guessing. We turned back at 17,300 feet from what could have been a slam-dunk first ascent of the Southeast Face of Chearoco. Too hazardous. Not worth the risk, coveted prize that it was. We all had wives, girlfriends, families back in the USA who mattered way more than another notch on our ice axes. Then we called it a trip, left Chekap Kuchu & began the grinding 3-day
march back to Jankho Khota village. We herded those rowdy llamas back to their home corrals, paid the herdsmen & gave them gifts, returned to La Paz, hurled ourselves at
showers & real food, greasy spicy food oh yeah, & rested for a blissful
3 days of 12-hour sleeps & easy city strolls to get even more food. Each of us
had lost more than 15 lbs during the two-month expedition. I looked like the poster boy for Kwashiorkor
Ribs. Then that pesky reality intruded once more; we had to prep for the long trip home. Pretty soon freeway overpasses & skyscrapers would supplant Chearoco's magnificent ice wall as our morning wake-me-up vista. A little dread began to gather, mixed with butterflies-in-the-gut delight we'd soon be seeing our special gals. First things first. Time to pay homage to our worthy host country. We
threw a formal victory dinner for our Bolivian outfitters plus the local
mountaineering honchos in La Paz. What a night of unabashed glee & banter! Then the next
morning, reluctantly, we flew back to the workaday world in The reunion
with my loved ones was marred only by a little hollowness somewhere in the back
of my heart. It nagged at me every day
for weeks, beyond definition or understanding.
I would get on the phone, call the Real Timers & commiserate. And they would say, "yeah
I know, I'm feeling that too." Rewind again ... now while I was chafing on re-entry back into Seattle, after the Cordillera Real, I never knew what it would feel like after an expedition that sublimely smooth. All seven of us climbers were unprepared for "la petite mort;" that gnawing limbic pain was relentless. Now after 20 years I finally understand what it was -- that sad restless feeling all the guys were grappling with for weeks... No matter
how intense of a joy any expedition may be, there's always the post-partum
blues when you return to sea level & embrace the city madness anew. You grow wiser in a harsh sort of way. You realize with rude clarity you'll never
again savor exactly that same blend of humor, team esprit, adrenaline &
cardio-pumping challenge. You'll never
again be able to relive that precise confluence of discovery & joy. But the
bittersweet blues are salved by one certainty.
You can climb any mountain, anywhere, in Real Time. Any mountain,
whether literal or figurative. In fact, you
can realize any dream you want in Real Time -- even one that connects folks
craving getaways from beleaguered cities around the world to
tropical islands like the jewels of Fiji & Papua New Guinea. That's it,
sunseekers. That is where the sense of
balance came from. That's how the inkling,
the goal, then the reality of U.S. Dive Travel first were
conceived. Not in the seas
of the South Pacific, but in the Andes mountains of Imagine that �
© Copyright John Hessburg, U.S. Dive Travel Network. All rights reserved.
Kevin Spooner takes five, a water break at 18,000 feet while descending Mount Chachacomani after the Real Time Expedition
placed 5 climbers on the summit. Looking NE across Chekap Kuchu Valley at the virgin Southwest Face of Dome 2 (18,721 feet),
which a week later was pioneered by 3 Real Timers. Camp Susana (16,200 feet), high camp for Chachacomani, was 1000 feet
below Kev, below his right shoulder in darkly crevassed sector of Ome Daiber Glacier. Camp Barbara (16,200 feet), high camp
for Nevado Domine, was just over the dark "V notch" in distant ridge. The 400-foot Bonz Headwall just above teardrop buttress.
© Copyright U.S. Dive Travel Network. All rights reserved.
Climbing leader about 50 feet below corniced crest of Bonz Headwall, a 65-degree 400-foot wall of ice & neve snow
that guarded the final approach to the summit dome of Nevado Domine (Dome 2). Three Real Timers made summit.
© Copyright U.S. Dive Travel Network. All rights reserved.
Climbing leader reaches summit of Nevado Domine (Dome 2) with two buddies, having completed 1st ascent of the
Southeast Face, & 2nd ascent of the peak, which rules the hidden high alpine valley 7 miles east of Chachacomani.
Photo by Peter Delmissier was shot just seconds before a sharp avalanche fracture cracked across the summit dome.
But during that aching period of adjustment something good was happening in parallel. That was when confidence started to bloom like a century plant. Big fun ideas, wonderful thoughts of a new career, the hopes of marrying Susan soon then starting a new adventure vector. I suggested we honeymoon in the Rocky Mountains, maybe Colorado right after a March wedding.
"Hey Sooz the ice conditions can be great in March & think how we can ski into base camp! It'll be sooo cool!"
Susie narrowed her eyes to slits, pressed her lips for emphasis, & lobbied inexorably for her native island of Oahu, then the South Pacific. She never gave up. "But Susie," I griped, "the Pacific will be so rainy & hot that time of year. Who needs all that tacky humidity? Yecchhh... let's go some place clean & craggy. C'mon hon' let's visit the Rockies for our honeymoon! You'll love it."
Susan's reluctance was more soul-driven, more persistent than 20 llamas at the rockslide. Day after day the Rockies were pounded, battered, buffeted by the South Pacific. Susie had lived for 20+ years on Oahu & she was adamant. Uninformed, misguided, I resisted for weeks like a rebellious, er, mule. Then in March of 1990 we got married -- most of Real Timers made it to the wedding -- & wouldn't you know it, we ended up honeymooning in Hawaii & the Cook Islands for a splendiferous month of sunshine, surf & sand. Susie had won the pre-nup tug-o-war, hands down.
No, actually, we both did .... a few months later, buoyed by an astonishingly good time on Rarotonga & Aitutaki islands, I was smitten by the SoPac forever & decided to make the Pacific our workplace & the Rockies our playground. Somehow, after the Perfect Trip to Chachacomani in Bolivia, we both knew U.S. Dive Travel would be blessed from its toddlin' days. And it was mates, it really was.
© Copyright U.S. Dive Travel Network. All rights reserved.
In mid-July '89, a couple weeks after the Chachacomani expedition, John & Susan took a relaxing weekend climb up in
the North Cascades, picking the Coleman Glacier Route on Mt. Baker's southern flanks. Just ahead on the glacier, next
to a gaping deep bergschrund (crevasse) John proposed marriage to Susie. She said yes & the wheels of goodwill began
to turn, inexorably, that led to founding U.S. Dive Travel. John still jokes about the location choice for his proposal -- right
next to that big crevasse. "If she said no, that was a convenient spot to tip over & disappear into the icy bowels of Mt. Baker!"
(About 15% of this article first was published Dec. 26,
1989 in a morning metro daily, the
FOR MORE INFORMATION or RESERVATIONS:
Please feel free to contact:
John Hessburg, General Manager
Susan Hessburg, Operations Manager
U.S. DIVE TRAVEL Network
PMB 307 / Suite # 116
15050 Cedar Ave. S.
St. Paul, MN, USA 55124-7047
Voice Mail: 952-953-4124
E-mail: divetrip@bitstream.net
Website: www.usdivetravel.com
******************************************************
Click here to view John Hessburg's
professional dossier & Linked-In Profile.
******************************************************
IMPORTANT REMINDER about PRICES & TARIFFS:
All vacation package prices from U.S. Dive Travel Network are subject to possible change in this steadily evolving travel market. Lodging, side tour & diving prices are traditionally stable, while air prices can fluctuate daily. Until air tickets are issued, all airlines reserve the right to change airfares without notice -- an industry standard per FAA rules. We at U.S. Dive Travel will price-protect you to the utmost of our professional ability; & that has been our pledge for one decade now. Our tropical vacation experts normally secure excellent wholesale discount air tickets for our clients who book early enough to secure limited seats in the best price categories. Remember please, the federal government has deregulated all U.S.-based airlines, so only they control their pricing -- not any travel professionals. Early is good when seeking the best air ticket rates.
Please feel completely free, sunseekers, if you want to research further into these topics: Andes Mountains, Andes mountaineering, Andes alpinism, Andes climbing, Bolivian Andes, Cordillera Real, 1989 Real Time Expedition, Bolivia climbing, Bolivia mountaineering, Bolivia expeditions -- just pick up your mobile & call us any time!
Unless specifically noted, these above scuba diving packages are prices for only the land-based portion of the dive resorts, in most cases reflecting double-occupancy rooms. At many dive resorts, there will be no triple-occupancy rooms offered. Some exceptions will be noted. International air tickets & commuter "island-hopper" seats are always extra above these land costs. Nominal service fees are also extra for air tickets & the vessel + side tour components. The baseline tariffs for all clients start at $55 per person for the land portion + $35 pp for the air tickets. Late-booking clients may receive slightly higher tariffs on the lodging + diving at many of our dive resorts.
The preferred payment mode for all of our dive resorts, side tours & air ticket specials is by cashier's check or wire transfer in U.S. dollars. All clients living outside the USA or Canada will need to pay for their dive vacations via direct wire transfer only. No personal checks will be accepted for the land portion of any reservation. Thank you for your gracious understanding. Our service level is the highest & our prices the lowest in this industry, & thus we need to preserve a reasonable margin. For published-fare air ticket bookings, USDT always accepts Visa & Mastercard.
Once again a friendly reminder, if you want to dig further into these topics: Andes Mountains, Andes mountaineering, Andes alpinism, Andes climbing, Bolivian Andes, Cordillera Real, 1989 Real Time Expedition, Bolivia climbing, Bolivia mountaineering, Bolivia expeditions -- please feel free to call us any time!
Best fishes too!
>////*> <*\\\\<
John Hessburg & Susan Hessburg, Mgrs.
U.S. Dive Travel Network.
Home  /  Dive Resorts  /  Live-Aboards  /  Snorkeling  /  Who We Are  /  Book a Trip |
© Copyright U.S. Dive Travel Network.