Soloing the South Ridge of Nevado Campa in Peru 5475m

Modern mapping apps are comforting because they provide detailed online descriptions and step-by-step information about what to expect when entering a wilderness area. Ever since I started exploring my backyard mountain ranges in 2019, I've religiously used various apps to provide me with comfort in knowing that I'm on the right track. There's nothing inherently wrong with these apps. They help us plan trips, aid in poor visibility conditions, and give us a sense of confidence. However, in the past few years, I've recognized some of their flaws while exploring off the beaten path in Peru's wilder mountain ranges, where designated trails frequently don't exist. I've noticed that they can create a dependency, subconsciously encouraging their users to open them after each turn to confirm the accuracy of a decision with a blue dot along a marked line. They seem to inhibit the progress of building navigational skills like reading terrain features, knowing cardinal directions at any given time, recognizing key landmarks, and using critical decision making skills.

That realization pushed me to rethink how I approach the mountains. What if, instead of relying on a device to guide me, I tried to learn the slower, more deliberate process of navigating with my judgment? What if I accepted the uncertainty of not knowing every detail in advance? What would happen if I didn't rely on a GPX track to tell me where to go? These questions lingered in my mind. That is why on this occasion of climbing the south ridge of Nevado Campa, I decided to approach the mountain without having read any online articles (there aren't any anyways), gleaning information from friends, or using maps with marked trails to guide me every step of the way. I wanted to feel the raw sense of adventure where the only guides I depended on were a topographic map and my senses.

(Note: I don't appreciate hyperbole which is why I'll make a note that this isn't the most remote climb because access to the west glacier is only a few kilometers off the popular Ausangate Trek. However, after leaving the main trail, I was on my own, without step-by-step navigational guides like a GPX track to the summit.)

On July 23, 2025, at 9am I began the 3.5-hour approach to base camp from the Crispin family home in Pacchanta, about a 4-hour drive from Cusco. The views were increasingly spectacular as I ascended the wide valley beneath Apu Nevado Ausangate to the famous 7 Lagunas. My energy levels were elevated. It was my first time exploring the northern territory of the Vilcanota mountain range since moving my permanent residence to the Sacred Valley. I'd heard about Campa's north face route as a popular beginner climb and had admired the stories of Nate Heald's daring ascents in this region, like his exploits of the northeast face of Ausangate, Puka Punta, and the west face of Cayangate IV. To finally experience those mountains up close and personal was the materialization of years of dreaming of this place.

At 11am, after a few hours of hiking up the valley, I broke from the trail towards the west glacier of Nevado Campa. Without an online map telling me the way, I left the trail about a kilometer too early by mistake. And for the next hour I slogged through a labyrinth of exhaustingly uneven terrain until finally reaching a flat spot close enough to the west glacier to make a base camp. It looked like foul weather was coming in from the north, so I hastily carved out a flat spot in the moraine to pitch my tent. By 1pm, I was settled in and began the typical camp chores.

Last year, I read the story about the first ascent of Nevado Huantsan in the Cordillera Blanca mountain range of Peru, where the legendary French guide Lionel Terray led two clients to the summit in an epic 5-day assault in 1952. It didn't mean much to me at the time of reading it, but I remembered one sentence from the text where the authors mentioned how Terrey left camp as soon as they arrived to go scout the route for the following day. Now as a lead climber on routes where I have no prior experience, I’ve started to make the extra effort to analyze the next day's terrain while there is still daylight.

So once I finished my camp chores, I walked about half a kilometer from my tent to familiarize myself with the route before navigating in the pitch-black night. It was fairly straightforward. From camp, I had to ascend the moraine about 150 meters to a ledge, then traverse for a kilometer until finally reaching the tongue of the glacier. It sounds straightforward, but had I not investigated, I might have been tempted to go beneath the ledge in the dark of night, which would've led me to steeper, more difficult terrain and likely would've cost me at least 45 minutes while looking for a route. After an hour of scouting, I retreated to my tent and prepared to sleep for a handful of hours before making a solo attempt at the mountain.

Some personal challenges back home preoccupied my mind, which is why I initially set out for the mountains. When my alarm sounded at 1am, I was unmotivated to get out of my sleeping bag. I laid awake for an hour contemplating all the reasons why it made sense to sleep in until sunrise, pack up my gear, and go back to Luis' house without bothering to attempt the mountain. After all, it wasn't going to go anywhere, right? My mind wanted to convince me that staying in my tent was the best decision. But despite internal forces telling me not to go, I sprung up from my bed at 3am and decided that I hadn't gone all that way just to sleep under the stars. I went with the intention of overcoming obstacles, whether physical or mental; I wasn't going to give up on my objective.

At 3:30am I began my solo attempt at the south ridge of Nevado Campa. By 4:15 I arrived at the glacier feeling strong—my mental fog dispelled. The terrain was simple to navigate, and as the sun rose, the sky filled with miraculous colors. The scene around me was wonderful. The real fun began when I reached the ridge with the final 150 meters of climbing in front of me. Initially, I encountered a crevasse with an iffy snow bridge connecting its sides. Rather than risking it giving out, I swung onto the SW face and climbed 65-degree snow and ice for about 20 meters. After surmounting the top of the wall back onto the ridge, I trudged through knee-deep snow. I ascended steadily with endurance I'd built up all season, rarely stopping to take a rest despite the arduous work of breaking trail alone. I ascended the route fluidly until about 50 meters from the summit when I encountered the crux of the route. To my left was a giant hole in the glacier covered by soft snow. To my right was a short section of protruding rock with 1000 meters of exposure below it. From previous experience, I knew that trying to climb over the snow that covered the hole would have likely resulted in me sinking to my waist and being unable to make progress. The rock felt solid when I tested it, so I elected the exposed route to my right. The first couple of meters were easy going with solid hand and foot holds. It wasn't until I reached the final top-out that I had to deal with loose snow over the exposure. My tools didn't easily find purchase in the snow at first. I dug deep with my ice axes, even hammering one in, until they finally felt secure enough to trust my weight on them while I swung my right foot along with my body out onto the slope above. At that moment, my mind was fully focused. The exposure below did not scare me. I just did what I knew I had to do to overcome the obstacle with confidence.

From there, another 15 minutes of deep trail breaking led me to the summit plateau. And at 7am on July 24, I stood alone on the summit of Nevado Campa with sublime views of the Vilcanota mountain range in every direction. It was a spectacular moment.

Standing on the summit that morning was a result of relying on nothing more than a topographic map, my senses, and my judgment. From the beginning to the end, I experienced a deep engagement with the landscape. Modern tools will always have their place, but moments like this remind me that I go to the mountains to gain something within myself. What I gained that day wasn’t only the views of the landscapes; it was the experience of working through doubt and learning to depend on my senses without a digital safety net. The hours I spent questioning whether I should even leave my tent were just as important as the steps I took in the deep snow. The experience reminded me that the rawness of adventure I seek isn’t about avoiding trivial mistakes or discomfort. It’s about leaning into them and discovering what lies on the other side.

Media gallery by Matt Stacy / Andes Adventure Visuals