To anyone who knows their mountains, the striking form of Alpamayo's southwest face is instantly recognizable. "Montana mas bella del monde" is the proclamation on the posters and cards. I've trekked past the stunning Ama Dablam and the mountain of mountains, K2 must be awe inspiring. This was a bold statement indeed. We'd heard stories of a peak crowded with guided groups and over ambitious trekkers. Queuing at belays and dodging showers of falling ice didn't sound terribly appealing to me. We were in Peru for two months and were not exactly starved of a good climbing objective, but Andy had a good point. "Did you climb Alpamayo?" was going to be a repeated question when we returned home. A three star rating in the guidebook was enough to sway us. We were mountain lovers. We would make a journey; a spiritual voyage; a pilgrimage to the most beautiful mountain in the world.

The trip began in Caraz, 70km north of Huaraz at the busy markets. There was a large array of fresh produce and the shopkeepers or casaritas are extremely friendly so buying the food is always a fun assignment. We then needed to find ourselves a communal vehicle known as a collectivo, headed for Cashapampa. Competition for passengers was fierce and after being bounced between three drivers we settled on a spot with the locals and their farmyard friends in the back of a red ute. When there were enough people, chickens and cargo in the back to ensure a profitable journey for the driver, we were off.

Collectivos are the only link between the villages of the hills and riding them is a good way to see the life of a rural Peruvian in all its simplicity. Fresh food goes into town and staple supplies go out. As the good ambassadors we were, we helped distribute the 40kg bags of sugar and rice to various dwellings along the way but we were none too popular when it was discovered an ice axe had pierced one of the sacks and a small amount of sugar had been lost. A replacement sack was found and an international incident was narrowly avoided.

Cashapampa is the start of the popular trek through the Santa Cruz and Huaripampa valleys for which mules seem "de rigeur." We had been stung earlier in the trip by a devious fifteen-year old arriero (mule driver) and we were stubborn and stupid enough to do without them. "Yo soy un burro" (I am a mule) was my answer to the arrieros who wait at the start of the trek with mules for hire and stories of a hellish walk ahead. The track is steep at first and after half an hour I certainly was feeling like a hapless beast of burden with a crushing pack, the midday sun beating down and a dusty trail heading up through the canyon.

Conditions such as these can spoil your appreciation of a good walk. From the occasional cursory glance I knew we were in spectacular surrounds but we mountaineers were having far less fun than the trekkers. They frittered and frolicked by the shores of Laguna Junacocha while we glumly ate our lunch in silence. Mules next time we promised each other.

It was two days of toil to reach base camp but there were fine views to enjoy as reward for our efforts. We staked out a spot below Alpamayo's southeast face (the famed southwest face was not yet visible) and across the valley from the striking north ridge of Artesonraju. We met Willie, an Argentinian guide who had dropped in (literally) on our camp two weeks before. He had the family tent set up and the kettle was on the boil for a welcome brew. Willie had some good advice about alternatives to the standard Ferrari route and warned us of a large group of Germans who were descending in hoards to lay siege to the mountain. "Get up before them, they gonna ruin your day man" were his parting words.

The next stage of our pilgrimage was the trip up to col camp. Half an hour of walking brings you to moraine camp; a ramshackle spot amongst the scree. Too low for a summit attempt and barely higher than the far more comfortable base camp, its a mystery why anyone would want to camp there.

It was crossing the scree that Craig struck trouble. From behind me came the sound of rocks tumbling followed by some pained cursing in a distinct Liverpudlian accent. Craig had pulled on a loose boulder, which had shifted and landed on top of his foot. Not one to mince words, he gave me a quick diagnosis; "It's fooked mate, ah'm 'eadin' down." Meanwhile, the other scouser in our contingent, Andy, was having dramas of his own. A large rock had slid and wedged in a corner with his leg behind it. His leg was unhurt but was utterly stuck behind the boulder. It took four people and the leverage of two snow pickets to free him from his bind.

This year's El Nino weather patterns had meant that rain instead of snow had fallen during the wet season. Many of the glaciers were minus their usual snow bridges and the word on the grapevine was that the way up to the col was impossible. The reality of this rumor was that there were three fun pitches of grade three ice climbing to reach the camp.

Our arrival at high camp and one of the highlights of our pilgrimage was quite a letdown. The world's most beautiful mountain was shy and was hiding itself in the clouds. The view made famous by so many photos, postcards and posters was nowhere to be seen. We pitched our tent and joined a multi-national group of climbers awaiting better weather.

The four a.m. alarm came and went. Wind and snow were lashing the tent and it was not a tough choice to remain snug in our sleeping bags. We had been spoiled rotten by the consistently good weather of the Cordillera Blanca and this tempest, which the locals blamed on the full moon, was an insufferable indignation. My god; we had come so far for this.

At some time in the early hours we started hearing moans from the female half of a German couple camped nearby. Our first assumption was that there were some high altitude horizontal hijinks going on (what better way to pass the time?) but the moans and groans continued on into the morning and beyond the limits of even the most enduring lover. By lunchtime it was obvious the girl was not well. Her dim witted boyfriend was not the slightest bit concerned and seemed content to lie about when an immediate descent was obviously required. By three in the afternoon she was incoherent and being carried out of her tent by the members of the large German expedition which had since arrived. It took a team of five to get her up to the col where she was put on a piggyback and taken down on fixed ropes.

Our three a.m. the next morning heralded the weather we were accustomed to. The skies were clear and there she was; the shapely pyramid with its distinctive flutings, with a fresh coat of snow, basking in a strong moonlight. Classic conditions.

We'd started early but the Germans had the jump on us. The first wave of their attack had left camp and a long line of climbers was snaking its way along the glacier towards the bergschrund (the large creavasse that separates the mountain proper from the lower glaciers ). We caught up with the tail of the line and passed a group that didn't look to be having too much fun. They'd come straight off the plane to altitude and were moving together on a rope in what looked like a forced march. They were heading up to the start of the ropes their guides had fixed all the way up the Ferrari to the summit. Jumaring up 600 meters of snow slope with a splitting headache is a dubious way of climbing a classic alpine route but hey; each to their own.

We arrived at the "chrund" at sunrise. Following a group of twenty climbers was out of the question and we hit the couloir that Willie had mentioned to us at base camp. A short, nasty vertical pitch led to the long running gully that varied from perfect neve to hard water ice to rotten snow and everything in between. It was fine climbing all the way but the last pitch was a cracker. The gully steepened to near vertical and narrowed into a wide chimney and for once I was carrying the appropriate gear to lead the pitch. The chimney led to a slender mushroom of unconsolidated snow, barely wide enough for both my feet. I spent a minute or two convincing myself that with all the recent climbing, my bodyweight was probably closer to a lean 60 kilograms instead of its usual cumbersome 85 kilograms before gingerly scaling the hump. The final obstacle was a steep dome of fresh snow and after a few more nervous steps I was on the summit ridge, safely anchored and buzzing from a great lead. Andy and Neil came up to join me and we ambled over to the true summit for the fine views through intermittent clouds.

You had to hand it to the Germans. Though their style was dour, their efficiency was nothing short of spectacular. By eleven in the morning, all twenty climbers had tagged the summit and returned to the glacier. We had the top to ourselves and fixed ropes to descend. A luxury we took full advantage of. We were back at the tent, drinking tea by one.

A new group of summit aspirants had moved into camp including an Italian / English crew who were impatiently their porters. On the slopes below, a farcical scene was unfolding. The Germans had fixed lines through the three narrow pitches up to the col. We were eager to rappel but coming up the ropes were two Mexican porters who were woefully underdressed and hopelessly inexperienced. Behind them was a group of four Brits who had supposedly been waiting for four hours behind the hapless Mexicans. Climbing right over the top of everyone was a pair of Frenchmen who'd obviously lost their patience. We abseiled the first pitch but could go no further as this entire parade skirted awkwardly around our small ledge. The poor Mexican lads had obviously never swung an ice tool in their lives and were scared out of their wits. We helped the second porter who was shivering from cold and fright while the poms screamed abuse from below. This was a bad case of porter abuse by the Italians who had employed two incapable novices and left them to their own devices in a dangerous environment.

We made it back to base camp just on dark and were pleased to find Craig had left a full stash of food for a hearty feast. There was even a liter of red wine from Willie. We'd done an excellent climb on a line we had all to ourselves. The pilgrimage had been made and whether it was a spiritual experience, I'm not quite sure; it was at least a warm fuzzy feeling as we toasted to the "Montana mas bella del monde."

—Andrew Lygo, Living the Life with MountainZone.com