“This is as far as I get,” I thought, watching helplessly as one of my crampons slid down over the icy surface until I could no longer see it with my headlamp. I dug my ax into the glacier and dragged myself over to an exposed boulder, gasping for oxygen. My climbing partner Chad stood next to me. Though he remained silent, I could tell he was furious. After scrambling along paths of rocks and scree for three hours, I had done a poor job attaching my crampons in preparation for the more technical ascent over snow and ice. Now it looked like we would have to call off our summit attempt as a result of my carelessness. 

We were on Chimborazo, an inactive volcano located in a nature reserve of the same name about 100 miles southwest of Quito, Ecuador. British mountaineer Edward Whymper and Italian guides (and brothers) Jean-Antoine and Louis Carrel made the first ascent of Chimborazo in 1880, and for many years it was considered to be the tallest mountain in the world. With an altitude of 20,548 feet, Chimborazo is the highest peak in Ecuador. Due to the equatorial bulge, its peak also holds the distinction of being the closest place to the sun and the farthest point from the center of the Earth in the entire world. Although Chimborazo is approximately 8,500 feet lower in elevation compared to Mount Everest, its summit is 6,800 feet farther from the Earth's center.  

A few days before my trip, as I tucked my five-year-old daughter into bed, I told her about Chimborazo’s unique claim to fame. Her eyes widened and she whispered, “Will you be able to touch the sun?”  

With a laugh, I assured her the summit wasn’t quite that close. “We may not even make it to the top,” I said. “It’s not an easy climb.” My daughter’s brow furrowed, but she said nothing.  

On the night before my departure, my daughter pressed a piece of paper into my hand. “It’s you on top of the mountain, Daddy,” she said. “I know you can do it.” I promised her that I would carry the drawing with me and take a photo with it at the summit.  

On the night of our summit attempt, Chad and I departed from the Carrel Refuge -- a basic hut at 15,750 feet with a communal kitchen and a sleeping area lined with bunk beds -- at 10:00 pm. Due to unseasonably warm temperatures, a section of the normal route known as El Corredor (The Corridor) had experienced frequent rock falls. Our guide, Segundo, led us along a more roundabout route that involved two hours of additional hiking.  

Although we avoided El Corredor, we still had to walk beneath a high cliff known as El Castillo (The Castle) for several minutes. Segundo warned us to look up so we could spot falling rocks. I could not see the top of El Castillo in the darkness as we weaved through a field of boulders. We wore helmets, but I doubted they would be much use if anything larger than a pebble fell onto our heads. We picked up our pace and all breathed a sigh of relief when we left El Castillo behind.  

Soon afterwards, we stopped to put on our crampons, then continued walking for about 45 minutes along a narrow ridge of loose gravel that ended abruptly at a steep slope. While white snow blanketed the escarpment, Segundo emphasized that sheets of slick black ice lay just below due to a lack of snowfall.   

Which brings me back to my predicament. Segundo and Chad started trudging upwards. We were roped in together, with me in the rear. I stumbled almost immediately on the ice, which resisted my efforts to gain a foothold with my crampons. After advancing upwards for about five minutes, I completely lost control, falling hard and slamming my ice ax into the ground to maintain my position. I looked down and realized that one of my crampons was hanging off my boot and the other was sliding down the mountain. Lying against the ice, I used my ax to drag myself about thirty feet over to a boulder surrounded by a patch of rocky shale.

Segundo ordered us to stay put, removed the rope linking the three of us together, then scurried down the steep pitch in search of my lost crampon. I glanced at Chad, who refused to make eye contact. Segundo reappeared minutes later, my crampon in hand. With fingers numb from the cold, Segundo and I reattached my crampon and we set off again.  

We were joined by an Argentine climber who had camped just below the snow line and was training for an ascent of Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Americas. As the incline grew steeper, we zigzagged up the mountain. Hours passed with only the crunching of crampons on ice and our labored breathing to interrupt an otherwise perfect silence under a starlit sky. When we stopped a couple of times to drink water, I asked Segundo much longer before we reached the summit. He always gave the same answer: “Five hours.” Fortunately, after I asked for a third time, the Argentinian quietly informed me that we were only about 90 minutes from the lower Veintimilla summit, which gave us a new burst of energy.  

Soon we came upon Trevor, a medical student we had met earlier at the refuge, who had zipped off ahead of us but now struggled to continue. We passed Trevor and his guide, and the Argentinian decided to stick with them. Minutes later, Chad, Segundo, and I reached a difficult stretch of uneven pinnacles and crevasses that required some delicate footwork. Heavy legs, fatigue, and a painful altitude-induced headache made this no easy task. High walls of snow and ice enveloped us as we squeezed through, using our ice axes for balance. I tried to ignore 20-foot-deep crevasses that opened up near our feet, reassuring myself that the worst outcome of a fall would be a broken bone. My concern spiked when Segundo pointed out that it was around this same spot in 1993 that an avalanche buried three parties of climbers in a crevasse, killing ten people.   

Finally, as the horizon started to lighten, we reached the Veintimilla summit. Trevor, his guide, and the Argentinian arrived a few minutes later. Chad insisted we continue to the Whymper summit, which sits 125 feet above Veintimilla but requires a descent among ice pinnacles and more perilous crevasses before a short final climb. Trevor’s guide immediately nixed the idea of Trevor continuing on to the Whymper summit, and the Argentinian also decided to turn around.  

I was eager to join them on the descent, having struggled with shortness of breath over the previous hour. Segundo clearly shared my doubts about my ability to continue, but he relented under Chad’s eagerness and my reluctant assurances that I was fine. My altitude sickness intensified as we navigated the saddle connecting the two summits, slowing our pace to a crawl. Every time I wanted to quit, I patted my jacket pocket, which held my daughter’s drawing of me on top of Chimborazo. I had promised her a photo at the summit, so I pushed on… 100 more steps… 50… 20… each halting one punctuated by a deep breath… five… and finally on top. Chad pranced about, exclaiming about the views. I lay on the ice, eyes closed. My lungs screamed for oxygen, and my head throbbed with relentless pain.    

When I finally stirred, I was rewarded with a spectacular view of the sun breaking through waves of clouds below us into a brilliant blue sky. I unzipped my jackets, removed my outer gloves, and carefully unwrapped my daughter’s drawing for a photo. As Segundo and Chad started the descent, I savored a brief moment where I stood closer to the sun than anyone else on Earth.  

Our pace slowed to a crawl as my condition worsened. Segundo decided to risk the passage through El Corredor as the most direct route. Huge boulders lay strewn along the path, but my only concern was getting to a lower altitude. Segundo unroped us and ordered us to spread out so we would not all get hit at once by falling rocks. The sun blazed overhead, and a few stones bounced past us. Fortunately, we made it through El Corredor without incident and eventually reached a small lagoon. Daytrippers who had driven up to the Carrel Refuge strolled along the shoreline. They gave me a wide berth as I lurched onto flat ground for the first time in more than 12 hours, my ice ax, crampons, and multiple layers of clothes all hanging haphazardly from my backpack.  

As I neared the refuge, I paused at a memorial honoring those who lost their lives on the mountain. I glanced back over my shoulder at the summit. Chimborazo stood there, immense and majestic, as if it truly were within arm’s reach of the sun.

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