Below the tip of my toes is a 300-metre drop onto the glacier below. My foot is curled over the edge of the rock, to gain maximum purchase as I push off at a perfect angle, pre-determined by a thousand other jumps. Ingrained into my muscle memory. Practice doesn’t necessarily make perfect, but it does make permanent so I’ve made sure to practice perfectly.
I bend over to sweep the loose snow and shingle from the edge of the rock and zip up my leg wing. Just that act alone has made my breathing deepen and my heart rate quicken. I am at 6,000 metres above sea level with 50% less oxygen, and I can feel it. I need to compose myself again before I jump, but in the back of my mind I ask myself: is this altitude clouding my judgment? Will it lessen my reaction times in an activity that requires nothing but the most immediate of responses?
It took us eight days from the Aconcagua park entrance to reach this point, and over ten years of experience to be comfortable standing here about to jump. The first three days took us along the Vacas valley, following a river raging with glacial meltwater. We crossed it on the morning of our third day when it was at its lowest, and then began the punishing ascent to our base camp at 4,200m.
Acclimatisation
We gave ourselves a rest day before pushing upwards to Camp 1, and then onwards to Camp 2 — our highest camp. At 5,900 metres it was the highest any of us had ever slept and although the night was full of restlessness, broken sleep and cramped conditions, we were acclimatising well.
The next morning we attempted a summit push via the Polish Traverse, exhaustingly breaking trail all day. Finally pushing round to the west face, we were hit by a wind so extreme that onwards progress came to an immediate halt. With only 300 metres to push, our summit attempt was abandoned.
Plan B
I had prioritised summiting over any wingsuit jump, as this allowed for a goal that could be shared by all the team. It would also lessen the self-imposed pressure I knew I’d feel had a solo wingsuit attempt been the trip’s primary goal. But here we now were, with an abandoned team summit, and an opportunity for Plan B — a wingsuit flight from a mountain that had never before been jumped.
I had already scouted a possible exit point a few hundred metres away from Camp 2 at almost 6,000 metres, which gave some decent landing options on the moraine below.
