Climbing Mount Teide: when I almost died of hypothermia

^{I didn’t really think through what climbing Mount Teide would mean—if I had, I might’ve done several things differently. But there I was, standing at the base of one of the most imposing volcanoes in Europe, a little nervous, a little excited, and completely unsure what I’d gotten myself into. But one thing was clear: I needed this. A challenge. A life lesson. A once in a lifetime experience (in this circumstances, at least). So, despite not knowing what was coming, I dove in headfirst, without really understanding why.}

^{It all started with a checklist…}

I’m almost at the end of my month in Tenerife, about to start exploring another island—Gran Canaria—but there’s one thing I absolutely have to tick off my “Before I leave” list.

“The Teide experience is only truly complete if you manage to get to the summit by dawn and watch the sunrise from 3,718 meters above sea level. And it’s even more complete if you do the climb on foot,” I was told.

Okay. I do want the full experience.

Why?

Because I’m strong and brave?
Nope.

Because I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.

Let’s start with the basics, because, well, I’m new to this kind of adventure. I know I’m going to need a few things to make this happen.

According to my (inexistent) climbing experience, I feel my checklist goes something like:

• a partner in crime;
• the right gear;
• a plan.

Let’s go through the above list in order.

The search for a partner in crime

First, I’m definitely going to need a friend—someone who’ll join me on this mission.

The safest way to climb is with at least another person, but what if no one could or want to? What if I had to face this mountain alone? No, that’s a bad idea. The thought of getting lost in a vast and unpopulated area terrifies me more than the actual climb.

Well, let’s ask around. The people I run into? Not thrilled at the idea of hiking around 10 km on foot. And those who’ve done it already? Same answer:

“Once was enough.”

I’m talking about a mix of surfers, skaters, climbers, divers—people in pretty good shape overall. This should have been a sign about the scale of the undertaking—one I clearly failed to notice.

Will I find someone who not only wants to take on the entire climb, but is available to do it this very week?

All of a sudden I have a name in mind and I immediately send her a message with the proposal.

My grin spreads across my face when I log into Instagram and find a message from her asking me the exact same question.

The stars have aligned.

I have my partner in crime!

The gear

I’ve packed every item I could think of.

• Mountain shoes to save me from slipping: check.
• Thermal clothing: found only in kids’ sections. Apparently, according to fashion industry sizing, I fall between a 12 and 14 year old.
• Sleeping bag: maximum protection. The one I have is tested down to -50°C, and with temperatures at 10°C on mount Teide, I’m on the gravy train. Generously offered by a friend. Thanks, Natalie!
• Food: in quantities larger than necessary.
• Water: likewise.
  Better to work like a mule than end up thirsty and starving 3,700 meters from civilization.

Yeah. These neurons of mine show some rare wisdom. Don’t they?

• Technical jackets (4 sizes too big): kindly offered. Thanks, Johnny! If I’m still here, telling this story, it’s also thanks to you!
• Gloves.
• Three pairs of thermal socks.
• Hat.

Okay. I’ve got everything.

The plan

• Leave in the early afternoon to do climb the first 8km with the sunlight (and warmth).
• Stop at 3,260 meters height at the refuge (a hut with no electricity, but perfect for sheltering us from unfriendly temperatures).
• Climb the last 2,76Km at 4 AM to see the sunrise from the top.

Do I forget anything?

I don’t think so.

I feel relaxed about the experience.

Everyone who embarked on this same adventure in the past few weeks has told me that the refuge is always populated, and sometimes up to 40 people stay there resting for the final part of the climb. So, it’s nice and warm. Tight and uncomfortable, for sure, but warm—which is all I need to know.

P.S.: In normal times, there is an actual structure, Refugio Altavista, but this happened during a time that was anything but normal. December 2020.

The equipped refuge is closed due to the pandemic, as is the cable car for those who want to reach the summit without hiking the entire way.

But that’s not us! We do want to put our bodies on fire.

We get our rental car and head to the base of Mount Teide, surviving the first danger of the day: a parking dispute.

First leg: from the parking to the refuge

The first part of the walk goes smoothly. I don’t even need my gloves, but I can’t help but wonder how my friend isn’t feeling cold, dressed as she is (leggings and regular sneakers).

I’m enjoying my Alaska Fashion Week-inspired outfit and shrug it off, ready to forever live with the knowledge that my body was not designed for harsh climates.

Half an hour from the refuge

The first signs of trouble begin to show.
My socks are soaked, my fingers and toes are numb. I already burned through my “gloves” bonus long ago.

We start noticing ice, which hadn’t appeared in any of the stories from our friends who had been there the previous week. We realize that the temperature has dropped, and I begin to doubt whether venturing up there with zero knowledge of climbing, mountains, or cold-weather adventures was such a good idea after all.

Turning back isn’t an option—it’s getting dark, and without the sun it’s freezing.

With each step, the temperature drops, and my breath becomes visible, hanging in the air like smoke. The ground beneath me feels more treacherous with every inch, and I realize I’m not just climbing a mountain— it feels like I’m climbing into another world entirely.

We finally reach the refuge, giddy with relief (my friend with infinitely more composure than me).

Arrival at the refuge

I start jumping around, partly for joy at seeing four walls, partly to try to get my blood flowing again to my extremities. The strategy doesn’t seem to be working though.

I take off my shoes and socks and shove all four limbs between my knees, trying to mimic the meditative posture of an octopus.

I stay like this for 40 minutes: as soon as my big toe gives a sign of life, I finally feel the blood circulating again, and I allow myself to hope that I’ll have a heartbeat left to carry me into tomorrow.

Meanwhile, my friend, a smoker, realizes she doesn’t have a lighter. And being a non-smoker, I don’t have one either—an oversight I blatantly ignored, along with the possibility of bringing a candle or any source of warmth.

After all, a 5-square-meter space packed with people will warm up quickly, right?

It must have been tough for a smoker to realize to be stuck 3,200 meters up with no lighter, and the only person around doesn’t even smoke.

Strangely, no one else arrives. We prepare to rest, motivated by the thought of resuming the final 3km climb at 4 a.m. to the top of Mount Teide.

Potential B-Movie horror scenes

Now, I don’t remember exactly what gear my adventurous friend had, but I don’t recall a sleeping bag. After all, everyone had told us the refuge was always packed with people, so tight you couldn’t lie down—just enough space to sit and shelter from the cold before heading out again, so why bring more stuff than necessary?

I’m well equipped, but only because, for me, 15°C already feels like winter, and the cold is not my natural habitat. I might show off about being wise and prepared, but what truly guided me in packing the gear list has a very specific name.

My sleeping bag is now being used as a blanket. It does the job, but it’s definitely not protecting us from the -50°C it was made for.

It’s -4°C.

My brilliant mind starts presenting me with a loud and vivid carousel of apocalyptic movie scenes about adventures gone wrong, or almost (127 Hours, The 33, Thirteen Lives).

And just to make it extra fun, my brain gives me a documentary-style voiceover, offering up some fun facts:

“Hypothermia can cause death while sleeping. Many climbers decide to take a nap near the summit… and never wake up.”

Is this true? Is my brain messing with me? Did I read that somewhere? And if I did, was it a reliable source?

I can’t Google it. Do I need to tell there’s no signal?

Terrified that the information recalled from my memory might be accurate, I set an alarm for every half hour, just to “be safe.”

We’re tired, but extremely happy. We lie down, closing our eyes, ready to enjoy some well deserved resting time.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Crackle.

“Who’s there? There’s someone!”

Maybe she’s right.

I try to sleep leaving my neurons and eardrums on high alert.

I start to get familiar with the sound of ice cracking until a slightly different noise interrupts my thoughts.

I open my eyes.

“There’s someone outside!”

“Oh, come on.”

“I swear, this time it’s not ice melting. It sounds diff…”

The door of the refuge bursts open.

Someone mumbles something. No one comes in. The door closes again.

I mentally thank whatever forces that weren’t trying to make this a Texas Chainsaw Massacre moment.

I send my impeccable hearing some love and promise not to call myself paranoid anymore when it comes to nighttime noises.

(Well, I actually broke that promise during a romantic camp under the stars, when half asleep I heard footsteps and didn’t even bother to open my eyes to check, calling myself an auditory paranoid—turns out, it was thieves stealing my backpack.)

I can’t let myself fall asleep knowing there are other people nearby, so, with my eyes closed, grateful that my heart is still beating, I listen to and savor the sounds of nature.

A few minutes later…

Creak of ice.

Creak of footsteps. Again.

I wait a moment to be sure before I wake my friend, who seems calm—probably asleep.

The footsteps get closer; there’s no doubt now. It’s the rhythm of two people walking.

There are two of them.

“There’s someone there!”

Before my friend can even reply, the door swings open.

Two guys walk in, each with a huge backpack.

We both leap up, ninja-style.

“Hello, where can we charge this?” they ask, pointing at a magnificent chainsaw.

This is the scene I imagine before they even open their mouths. But in reality, they say something completely different. We introduce ourselves. They’re two climbers who’ve been on the peaks for six days.

They seem okay. They inspire confidence. They bring warmth, food and light (I’m referring to their candles, though I’m sure they had a lot of inner light as well, which, at that moment, was taking a back seat).

They begin telling us about their adventures, and soon, the room is filled with four of us breathing in that tiny space. Finally, it’s not cold anymore.

(Just breathing, keep calm.)

At this moment, I realize my life isn’t going to end today—at least, not from hypothermia.

Thank you, pro climbers and adventurers!

And thank you to our guardian angels for the excellent job.

We have a snack, then go to sleep. Or, at least, we try. Anyway, we’re in a room with two strangers, so I keep one neuron active just in case.

I’m sure the worst is over. The hardest part is done. What could be more difficult than hiking for 8 kilometers in the cold, up to 3,2 km height, being sleep-deprived, exhausted, and with numb extremities? Now we just need to take a couple more steps to the summit.

Ready for the final stretch

At 4 a.m., my friend and I get up to continue, while the two guys stay behind to rest. Their plan is to descend in the morning.

Easy peasy.

You know by now that the ice was melting and creaking during the night, right? Well, now it is everywhere. Solid and perfect for us to slip.

The divine glow of our headlamps illuminates the vast ice field in front of the shelter.
Needless to say, as we climb and go up, the ice thickens, and the warmth from our flashlights isn’t enough to melt it.

We walk uphill on an uneven ice path.

The summit is so close—at least, that’s what it looks like.

Looks.

But then, it feels like an optical illusion, like the view of St. Peter’s Basilica from Via Piccolomini: the closer you get, the further away it seems.

Come on, just 50 more meters.

I’m joking. Another 50 meters.

Oh no, another 50.

The sight of the summit up close is something I’ll never forget. It always lookes like it is just a few steps away, but there is always one more climb.

I stop thinking. Stop counting. Stop focusing on the summit.

Tired of my own mind, I decide to focus only on the step I’m taking.

One at a time.

I breathe. I lose myself in the spectacle of black rocks blending with the night sky.

Another step.

I breathe. I take in the indescribable beauty of the clouds.

Another step.

I breathe. The air fills my lungs like the first rays of dawn touching that magnificent sky.

Another step.

I keep going, and the emotion becomes so thick that breathing starts to feel almost harder than walking.

Well, that. Or perhaps the sulfur from the volcano is starting to make its presence known.

In any case, it’s incredible to see this shift in mindset as an entire approach to life, going from thinking only of the goal, focusing on how nice it will be to reach it, to appreciating each step, each moment, and the breathtaking beauty surrounding me as I move in the right direction.

And guess what? I still made it to the top, but with an awareness that’s incomparable to the distractions that were clouding my thoughts with questions like, “How much farther?” “How cold is it?” “Are we close?”

We made it! We’re overjoyed.

El Pico del Teide

The last step seems almost unreal. When I finally set foot on the top, it’s like the whole world is holding its breath with me. The wind gets stronger, lashing my face, but it doesn’t matter. Below us, an ocean of clouds stretches out into infinity, white waves moving slowly under the newly emerged sun. The sky explodes in shades of gold, orange and pink, as if the world is lighting up for the first time.

I turn to my friend. Neither of us need to say anything. Our eyes make up for the lack of words: we made it. A long, strong hug that I will never forget. Two tiny dots on the top of a giant. And yet, in that moment, we feel enormous.

It feels like we’re on Mount Olympus, waiting for Zeus to appear any moment, only to find modern versions of the Greek goddesses dressed in oversized clothes and sporting Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer’s nose—but with the spirit of those who have achieved what feels like an immense accomplishment.

We’d love to stay there longer, savoring the moment we’ve been waiting for, but sulfur fumes rise from the summit, and it’s not recommended to stay more than ten minutes.

We breathe in both the sulfur and our triumph, laughing and bouncing down the mountain.

Everything goes smoothly. Back at the shelter, we find the two guys, and we complete the rest of the descent together.

We’re alive. We’re happy. We’re smiling.

 

We finish our return home with a small bump to the rearview mirror, which, in the end, was the only real casualty of the experience.

We were on cloud nine.

After leaving Tenerife, I never saw my amazing partner in crime again, especially since she didn’t even live there.

This happens to me often: I have unforgettable adventures with people I’ll never forget, but for one reason or another, we aren’t meant to be a part of each other’s everyday lives.

Maybe some people cross our paths just (or only) to make that experience possible and crystallize those beautiful memories.

Thank you, friend. To this day, this remains the most extreme experience I think I’ve ever had!

Note to the author: update or modify previous sentence if something more epic comes along.

Definitely worth doing it again!

In summer. With the cable car.