If there is one thing in my preparation that is more appealing to me than statistics, it's kit. Few things call to the British male like the siren song of an opportunity to buy new toys, and mountaineering sings it like a particularly delectable version of Mozart's Queen of the Night. High altitude mountaineering doubly so, because altitude gives you an iron-clad excuse for getting tip-top stuff. Better err on the side of quality, because your choice of kit has a big bearing on questions like "Will I succeed or fail?" and "Will any bits of me fall off as a result of frostbite?"
Perversely, there's also a deep satisfaction to be gained from being cheap, as long as you're confident that the stuff you're getting is good enough. Websites were scoured for end-of-season bargains (new kit comes out in the autumn, so the summer is a good time to buy). Teeth were gnashed at the realisation of bargains missed - joining the BMC to get cheap travel insurance could have saved me money at outdoors stores if only I'd waited! Old favourites were revisited (finally an excuse for a new Alpkit down jacket). One notable success was finding a neighbour giving away a pair of Nepalese-made down sleeping bags (they'd traded up to something lighter and in slinkier fabric, but these were warm enough for me).
Throughout it all, there was one nagging doubt: the question of boots. A pair of ordinary walking boots had got me as far as Everest Base Camp (and then fell apart on me on a wet weekend in Snowdonia), but serious altitude demands serious boots. Leather boots freeze at the temperatures we'll experience above base camp and they don't have enough insulation to protect your toes. They also tend to have too much flex to hold on a crampon [1]. Mountaineering boots are instead made of exotic plastics with daft names [2] and come in two pieces. The plastic bit is the outside and is basically bombproof. The other bit is a kind of adult-sized bootee of highly insulating foam that you put on first and then shove into the outer.
One consequence of the two-part construction is that sizing is a bit tricky. Most people find that they need to go up at least one size and I was no exception. Experimentally trying on a pair in Cotswold Outdoors, I could tell within a few painful steps that I was, to paraphrase Chief Brody from Jaws, going to need a bigger boot. That would be size 13, then.
Which made one decision for me. A lot of people rent their boots when they get out to Mendoza. There are lots of gear shops, mountain boots don't need breaking in like walking boots, so why lug a pair half way round the world when you can hire locally? Because you don't want to fly half way round the world only to be defeated because no-one has size 13 boots. That's why.
So began a pilgrimage to Arundel, because when the going gets tough, the tough go to Pegler's. Pegler's, if you've never been there, is expedition kit heaven. It's a specialist outdoor kit shop that has been so (deservedly) successful that it's metastasised along Arundel's arterial roads, sprouting branches known as Pegler's On The Hill, Pegler's Round the Bend and Pegler's Below the Knee [3]. And there I found quite possibly Britain's only pair of size 13 nearly new Scarpa Vega High Altitude boots, plus also a pair of second hand crampons, an ice axe, a pee bottle, a cuddly toy, a teasmade [4] and a new pair of walking boots to replace the ones that fell to pieces in Snowdonia.
I staggered back to my car laden with goodies like a know-it-all child at the end of Crackerjack. Kit acquired. Job done.
Only one problem. A close inspection of the ticket for my flight from Buenos Aires to Mendoza reveals a miserly baggage allowance of 15kg (plus 5kg hand baggage). I haven't weighed them yet, but I'm guessing that the boots, sleeping bag and crampons will pretty much do for that. There's only one thing for it. I'll have to travel wearing all my layers at once like a sort of multicoloured Michelin Man.
[1] a vicious concoction of spikes that straps to your extra-stiff mountaineering boot almost exactly like a child's rollerskate and grips snow and ice almost exactly unlike a child's rollerskate.
[2] Imagine, if you will, Ikea's product naming team. Now imagine a team of people sacked by Ikea for their lack of subtlety and wit. And that is how you end up with a brand name like Peebax.
[3] Presumably named by someone whose CV was rejected out of hand by Ikea for wit, subtlety and ability to spell.
[4] No, not really.
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