Carstensz Pyramid – #5

Carstensz Pyramid was the only mountain that made me uneasy before I ever set eyes on it. I had climbed higher peaks, colder peaks, and far more technical ones, but this one had a reputation. Not a climber’s reputation - those I can handle - but a human one. Politics. Tribal territory. Jungle travel that drenches you in sweat before you’ve taken three steps. Fees, bribes, arguments, checkpoints, and the constant possibility that the climb might end not because of weather or altitude, but because someone with a machete simply said “no.”

The stories are lengendary.  Climbers being kidnapped or shot.  Danger in the jungle, just to name a few.  Many will opt to fly directly to helicopter camp, summit and return to Bali in just a few days.  They will completely bypass the jungle.

Still, I wanted it. It was my fifth of the Seven Summits, and the mystery of it drew me in as much as the mountain itself.

Bali – The Last Taste of Civilization

I met the team in Bali, stepping off the plane into thick tropical heat that felt like a wet towel slapped across my face. One by one, climbers arrived - Norwegians, Pakistanis, Poles, Canadians, Brits, Alaskans, and me. We checked gear, we made small talk, and slowly we began to reveal our quirks.

The Polish climber was impossible to miss: 6’6”, size-14 feet, friendly but clearly cursed when it came to footwear. No jungle boots in Bali would fit him. We combed through markets and shops, but unless he wanted to trek the rainforest in a pair of neon flip-flops, he was out of luck. He settled reluctantly on sneakers for the jungle and mountaineering boots two sizes too small for summit day. I could practically hear the blisters forming just watching him walk.

The Alaskan impressed me immediately - smart, self-taught, curious about everything. He told me, casually, that he’d recently crossed the Brazilian Amazon alone. I looked at him and thought, This kid can teach half the world more than a university ever will.

The Norwegian had a steadiness about her, a deep diver with world records under her belt. She spoke little but endured discomfort with the grace of someone who has spent hours underwater in the cold and dark.

Bali was a strange contrast to the hardships ahead. I visited the Monkey Temple, sipped coffee on a plantation, and looked out at calm ocean water, knowing full well the serenity wouldn’t last.

Papua – Where the Adventure Actually Begins

The flight to Timika lasted five hours. The moment I stepped out of the plane, the heat punched me in the chest. People stared at us - long, unblinking looks that made me feel like an exhibit. Papua doesn’t advertise its unease; it radiates it.

Then we boarded a tiny twin-engine plane headed for the jungle. For over an hour I saw nothing but endless green mountains smothered in ancient forest. When the guide pointed out the airstrip, I laughed. It looked like someone had taken a chainsaw to the jungle and stopped halfway. Somehow, the pilot landed us on that sliver of dirt.

The next part still feels surreal. A swarm of motorcycles roared toward us - ten, fifteen of them - young men riding with reckless confidence. Helmets were apparently optional. I climbed on behind one rider and the bike launched forward down the dirt road so fast I had to clamp my arms around his torso to stay on.

Every couple of miles, a roadblock. Logs piled across the path. Men emerging from the shadows. Arguments. Demands for money. The guides shook their heads, haggled, and eventually settled each checkpoint with cartons of cigarettes. I realized quickly that cartons - not cash -were the real currency of Papua.

Finally, after an hour of this chaotic procession, we arrived at a small village that felt like a portal into another century. Mud huts, children staring shyly, women tending fires. This is where we’d sleep before entering the jungle, and where we hired the porters. Barefoot, wiry, and impossibly strong, they smiled and lifted loads that would break most weekend hikers in half.

Into the Jungle – Heat, Mud, and Rivers

The first morning in the forest, I regretted my long sleeves within minutes. Sweat soaked me before the sun fully rose. The heat was like something alive, pressing in from all sides. I drank water compulsively and still felt dehydrated. By lunch I had emptied nearly two liters.

Streams saved us. Whenever we hit one, I filled my bottles and purified them with my SteriPen. Suddenly the whole team wanted their water treated by me. I became, unintentionally, the group’s hydration distributor. The guides refused to boil water for the Polish climber, so he tried to choke down iodine-treated river water with a grimace.

Day after day the jungle threw new obstacles at us - slick logs spanning creeks, deep mud that held my boots like glue, river crossings that demanded careful footwork. My knee-high rubber boots became my best friends; I never got a single blister.

Nights were noisy. Insects, distant rustling, chirping calls. But no spiders, no snakes - not once. I still don’t know how I avoided them.

By the third day, the terrain started to rise. Cooler air. Broader views. I washed in a freezing stream, sat on a rock in nothing but underwear, and closed my eyes for a brief nap. It was one of the most refreshing moments of the whole expedition.

Day five brought predictable Papua drama - the porters wanted more money. Voices rose, hands gestured, cigarettes appeared. Eventually, the deal was struck, and we moved on.

On day six we hit the high pass. The porters refused to continue - superstition, fear of cold, lack of proper clothing. So we carried our own loads and climbed through wind, rain, and creeping fog. Near the top, I spotted a rusted machete abandoned in the mud. I picked it up quietly and stowed it in my pack, unsure why I felt the urge to keep it but certain I should.

Lake Camp appeared like a reward at the end of a pilgrimage—still, icy, ringed by cliffs. I took one of my favorite photos there. We practiced rope skills beside the water and tried to rest before summit day.