The bus pulled into Puerto Natales, Chile around ten. I checked into the first hostel I came across. It advertised in the window, ¨Don´t worry, we speak good English¨. A greasy haired man showed me to a cramped attic room where dirty old mattresses were stacked along the wall. The room was alive with bed bugs, so I slept on top of the comforter fully clothed with my hair stuffed tightly into a stocking cap.
The transition from Argentina to Chile was riddled with unique difficulties. Changing currencies, for instance, required adopting a new dollar conversion into my financial sense. At the moment, the American dollar is worth 616 Chilean pesos. 6000 pesos buys a night in a flea infested bed. The first day in a new financial scheme, using different money, always turns out to be expensive. The wad of unfamiliar bills looks like Monopoly money in the palm. It is spent with the same frivolous disregard. Unfortunately, there is no Monopoly man handing out 200 pesos after passing go.
The next morning I attended a free information session about hiking in Torres del Paine- the reason I came to Puerto Natales. The Chilean national park is two and a half hours north of Natales. Only recently, in the last twenty years, Torres del Paine was nationalized and turned into a park. Its famed towers (Torres del Paine) draw climbers and trekkers from around the world to test themselves in wild Patagonia. There are three trekking options in Torres del Paine. The ¨W¨ takes about four days, leading through the premier attractions of the park. The W is a hike most readily taken by softfooted tourists who want to do little more then see the park for the day. The next option is the Circuit. The Circuit leads around the park, ends with the W, and takes about seven days. Then there is the Q- considered by local guides as the ultimate Torres del Paine trek.
The ¨Q¨ is the longest trek in the Patagonia Andes. It runs 85.4 miles (140 km) through Torres del Paine. Depending on the weather, the Q can take up to ten days. The trek begins at the southernmost entrance of the park. Beginning here requires a long hike into the depths of the park. Eventually, the trail meets the W. While hiking the W, daily sidetrecks are made to various miradors (lookouts). After passing through the W, the trail picks up the Circuit leading around the backside of the park. One guide described the Q as a true baptism by fire in Patagonia. I was sold.
Earlier in the day, I met an Israeli named Sagiv. He also planned to hike the Q. Park officials nearly forbid doing the Q alone, so we decided to tackle it together. While shopping for supplies, I learned the Sagiv recently finished his military service as an officer. This was intimidating information. Israeli soldiers are molded into marching machines during their service. Rallied by the camaraderie of their troop, boys are transformed into solid men of startling physical endurance. This fact was partially confirmed when I commented to Sagiv that buying cans of tuna might be unwise due to the added weight. He responded, ¨Don't worry, I am good with weights.¨ He then went on to describe how he use to carry heavy drums of water for hours on end. I thought to myself, Shit, the only canned liquids I have carried in the last two years were 12 ounces- and they got lighter the longer I carried them.
Standing well above six feet tall, Sagiv is built like a soldier. With broad shoulders, he looks like he swam the butterfly his whole life. Short black hair runs narrowly past his ears and opens up into a well kempt beard. His brow relays a certain seriousness while his even smile reveals an inherent innocence . He walks with a deliberate gate and looks me in the eye when he speaks.
The next morning we threw our packs on the bus, and took the three hour ride to the southeastern entry to the park . This was to be the hardest day. The trek spanned 24 km, and we were doing it with full packs . In addition to my tent, sleeping bag, four jackets, cooking gear, a two liter camel pack, medical kit, and a set of dry clothes, I had an eight day food supply in my pack . This supply consisted of 1500 grams of pasta, 540 grams of soup powder, 47 granola bars, five bags of raisins, five bags of nuts, two bags of dried apples, two sausages, a kilogram bag of instant oatmeal, a bag of cookies, and a jar of cherry preserve.
After yanking our straps tightly and making our packs a extensions to our bodies, we set out on the trail. Sagiv instinctively took the lead and set the pace. Across planes of high, swaying grass, we cruised with fast, long strides into the depths of the park. I stayed right on Sagiv´s heals, and even stole the lead at times to let him draft off me. A strong, constant head wind pelted horizontal rain into our faces.
Patagonia is not especially dangerous. There are few poisonous insects. Most of the water is drinkable. All the berries are edible. The weather is what makes Patagonia wild. Torres del Paine is the premier theater to experience this phenomenon.
Wind is constant. It gusts in overpowering waves, and without mercy. During the information session, the guide told a story of a female climber who was blown twenty feet in the air when clinging to her tent in a gust. Last year a hiker was killed when the wind pushed him off a cliff while taking a picture. The wind can kick up golf ball size rocks, and can blind trekkers by whipping pack straps into their eyes. The wind whips weather through the park. Someone once said , ¨If you don´t like the weather in Patagonia, wait five minutes.¨ In a matter of an hour it can rain, hail, even snow- then be completely sunny. The guide advised us to wear one quick dry outfit when hiking - no jackets; no gortex; no fleeces. Changing for the weather takes too much time. ¨If you get cold¨, he said. ¨Just hike faster.¨ That is exactly what we did: hiked fast.
We did the first section of the day´s trek in three and a half hours. The guide books say that it should take five hours. Some trekkers do it in six. We did it in three and a half- hiking straight into the wind and the rain, up hills, down valleys. We took two five minute breaks to wolf down a granola bar or two. A short paragraph of dialogue was exchanged between the two of us. The next push was to take three hours from Camp Paine Grande to Camp Italiano. I realized later, that doing this shaved a day off the entire trek. Those hours were utter agony. I retreated ten meters behind Sagiv who hiked at the same pace as when we started. I no longer admired his endurance, I loathed it. I was in bootcamp with G.I. Jew.
Into the second hour, my body screamed in pain. I maintained the ten meter gap from Sagiv, but only barely. Soon I became delirious with pain and exhaustion. I retreated another five meters to Sagiv so I could scream horrendous profanities into the wind. Anger is exacerbated when there is no one, or thing to pin it on. I was mad because the camp was never around the next bend. When I realized it was not valid to be mad, my anger gradually gave way to a sense of brokenness. I found my boundary. But I kept putting one foot in front of the other. I forced my mind passed the barrier and began to rally my body for the last push. Come on kid. You got a little more. Push it. Push it. Push it. Seconds before I was about to collapse, tents came in to sight.
I threw off my pack, but there was no relief from the pain. My body hurt more without the weight. It began to rain again. I needed to set up my tent as quickly as possible, and do so correctly so it would stand up to the wind. My body was a wreck. Dehydrated, famished, and entirely exhausted, I moaned aloud unknowingly. Hearing this, a nearby hiker asked if I needed help. I did not respond. I could not respond. My teeth were too tightly clenched to let words form. Each minor difficulty with the tent flared intense frustration within me. Finally it was up. I unrolled my sleeping mat half way, and collapsed face first with my booted feet hanging out the tent. We did the seven hour, 25.1 km trek in five hours. I felt accomplished and defeated all in the same moment.
At camp we learned that a recent warm front caused a glacier to shift and melt faster. This increased run-off flooded the rivers. One of the rivers washed away a foot bridge and made the trail unpassable. We decided to camp at Italiano an extra night and do an alternative side trek on that extra day. Our hope was that a couple cold nights would reduce the flow of the river and make it wadable.
Two days later we happily received word that the night frost quelled some of the run-off and the river´s strength was reduced. We awoke at 6:30, cooked a quick meal, packed up our gear, and were on the trail by eight.
Despite my desire to slow my pace, I continued to follow closely behind Sagiv. I could not shake my quasi-competitive nature. This resulted in another laborious day. We shaved 30 minutes off the first two hour section. The next leg was five hours- we did it in four. The terrain was uphills, and down into valleys- over and over and over. The only relief was on level ground, and this was always brief. We learned later that the day´s difficulty was partly due to the fact that we hiked the horse path, rather than the hiking one.
Sagiv proved to be an excellent trekker. He constantly read the trail looking for small indications of the best route. I attributed this skill to his military experience. At one point he stopped and laughed out look. Alarmed by this unexpected lighthearted moment, I asked him what was funny. ¨Look here¨, pointing to the dirt. ¨Someone is wearing the same boot as me.¨ I was struck by the fact that he was literally analyzing foot prints on the long, exhausting trail. But he was right, the tracks matched. Each day, my admiration for Sagiv grew.
The last hour of the day was much like that of the first day, my body began to waver and I found myself swearing again. At one point, I exclaimed a particularly nasty combination of vulgarity that stopped Sagiv in his tracks. Hoping he did not think it was directed to him, which it wasn¨t , I forced a smile and told him I was having water bottle issues.
We entered camp- Sagiv literally running, me pinballing from tree to tree. My face pulsated red. My hair was sopping wet to the ends. Miserable pain again.
The next morning we woke at 4 am. Torrential rain beat on my tent. We forced ourselves out from the warmth of our sleeping bags, back into out damp, sweat stained clothes, and then out into the rain. We were camped 45 minutes below the iconic towers of the park, Los Torres. Part of the trek´s tradition is to wake up early, and catch the sunrise at Torres. Not wanting to break tradition, we climbed with headlamps up slick rocks and through flooded streams. After an hour, we made it to the top. Huddled along a big boulder we waited for the sun. I had wisely packed a change of warm clothes and foul weather gear. Protected by the gear, I contently sat in the rain while Sagiv shivered violently. The sun never came. Only illuminated white fog caught the morning light and hid the peaks from view. We slowly retreated back to our tents to catch a few more hours sleep before getting on with the day.
Later in the morning we returned to Torres, where it was brilliantly clear and beautiful. The four towers extended up like calloused fingers, tickling the cloud streaked sky. Warm rays illuminated the almond hue of their shear faces. Snow at its base quietly melted into trickling streams that fed into an aquamarine lake below. The scene was very different than that of the morning.
After spending an hour or so below the towers, we returned to camp, packed up our gear, and hit the trail. Our next stop was Seron. The trail would take us out of the W and on to the Circuit. This was the turning point for me. I felt significantly stronger. While the pains continued in my feet and back, I learned to distance them from my mind. The pace of my breathing became more measured and consistent. My stride felt powerful, and I no longer slumped over the trail. With head lifted and back straight, I met my surroundings for the first true time.
The nature of the trek changed dramatically. It became a process of cleansing my body. The previous day`s pains and exhaustion were due to all the impurities I had been putting into my body for so long. Hiking hard with a heavy pack forced my body to shed the impurities that caked my interior for so long. This trek became an opportunity to purge out the bad from my body, and glean a healthier self. With this thinking, I embraced the pain. Pain was part of the process. I was born anew.
We trekked along happily until the trail was eaten up by a flooded river. We were forced to wade through the frigid hip deep water. Failing to see the depth change in the murky water, both Sagiv and I fell in up to our shoulders. Our earlier happiness was swiftly diminished. The path crept out of the water and we swashed miserably in our boots. Our only comfort was the thought of the camp site ahead. It was to be our first night at a paid campsite. There was a refugio on the grounds. We both conjured up fantasies of what it was going to be like. Soaking wet, sloshing in my boots, I relished in the thought that it was free pizza night at the campsite and big breasted women would be serving cold Coronas to the campers. When we got to the campsite, we were equally overjoyed to find that it had a shower with warm water.
The pure enjoyment of the simple things in life was another gift of this trek. Living outdoors, life is stripped to the basics. Dry shoes, a warm meal, a cold drink of water, a good sleep, all became luxuries of the highest standard. In this simplified life, the body and mind function as they should. True clarity is attainable.
Each day`s trek led us through magical landscapes that stoked the imagination. Walking through dense forests of ancient alacers, we debated over who was the best mythical character. I offered that elves appealed to me because of their skill with a bow, their ability to walk on top of snow, and their eternal youth. Sagiv said he would want to be a centaur. ¨They are noble warriors¨, he argued. ¨You just want to be hung like a horse¨, I joked. I was still unsure how Israelis took crude humor. Sagiv chuckled for my benefit.
The sixth night we each cooked up big dinners with most of our remaining proteins. I boiled up 500 grams of meat filled raviolis, then added a turkey soup to the mix which turned the pasta into a sticky paste. I fried up some sausage chunks, and poured them in to the pasta, grease and all. We were loading our body with carbs and proteins for the big day to come.
The next morning, we packed up and headed out for the John Garner Pass. The pass, apparently named after the gringo hiker who first ascended it, is the highest point on the circuit. Blistering winds and unpredictable weather make it a difficult climb. If it rains, descending the back side can prove to be highly treacherous. The grey morning hinted to bad weather to come, but with our stuff packed, we were committed to the ascent.
The first section of the hike brought us over uneven gravel fields that paralleled a creeping, grey river. Every now and again the trail would dip below the tree line and we would get brief relief from the howling wind and spitting rain. Mountains surrounded us and we hypothesized which beast we would have to climb for the pass. Over time the trail ascended more vertical. Soon we were at the foot of the climb. We took a few minutes huddled behind a big boulder to chew up some trail mix and get a little sugar rush for the trek ahead. Peaking over the rock, I saw a line of eight backpacks creeping up the pass. This added an additional obstacle. There was no doubt in my mind that we were going to pass them on the narrow trail. Sagiv and I hiked like wolves. Anyone else on the trail were sheep that we were going to overtake and put in our wake. We had no malicious intentions. We just hiked faster than most (except of course for other wolves). Most days we were the last out of camp, and the first to the next.
We cruised up the pass with suspiring ease. Passing the summit marker, the profound scene of Glacier Grey came into view on the other side of the pass. From our elevated vantage point, Grey was more impressive than Argentina`s famed glacier Perito Moreno. It filled the expanse of our gaze, and met mountains in the distance.
We made the long descent down the backside of the pass, and pushed for another four hours to camp. This was our last night in Torres del Paine.
While I was in desperate need of a long hot shower and a proper meal, the departure from the park was bittersweet. After eight days trekking and seven nights camping, I was a junkie for the hiker´s high. Surrounded by some of the most profound nature in the world, endorphins overflowing, I was hooked. I came to Torres del Paine as an unhealthy drinker and smoker who harbored unfounded fantasies of being an outdoorsman. I was leaving purged of addictions, healthy, powerful and one with nature.
* Note to family: I am getting on a bus today (1-29) to go to Puenta Arenas, Chile, then (1-30) I am taking a bus to Rio Gallegos, Argentina, then (1-31) I will take a bus back to Bariloche. I plan to go back into Chile via Bariloche. I will call before I do so. I love you.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Last Days in Argentina
Fernando, Natalie and I camped two hours below Largo de Los Tres and the extended base of Fitzroy. In the rose light of the falling sun, I sat and wrote at a clearing a little ways from camp. Wine is the usual company for these solitary moments, but I settled for a bag of cookies (an equally satisfying treat in its own right). In my journal, I recorded my recent thoughts that arose from the my continual meditation along the trail earlier in the day. I recognized a change within myself. The nature of this change was unknown. It was neither good or bad- simply different. The only thing I knew for sure was that I was not the same person who sheepishly strolled the streets of Buenos Aires a month before. I concluded the entry by reasoning that only time would deliver the full manifestation of this personal development.
We packed up the next morning, and set off on a trecking circuit to Cerro Torres- the counterpart of Fitzroy. I enjoyed the company of Natalie and Fernando immensely. They shared the traveler´s passion and curiositythat I have come to love in most that I have met on the road. Natalie has sandy blond hair that falls to here sholders. With subtle freckles that hide in her tanned skin, she could be mistaken as Irish and not German. An artful tattoo drapes from around her sholder to abover her collarbone. Natalie is soft spoken, and her laugh relays a genuine kindness. Fernando has a jovial face with a hint of a moustace below his nose and a primped block of black hair below his lips. He is a gregarious character- spending our breaks chatting with other hikers. I admire his ability to remember the names of those he meets. The two are excellent company on the trail.
We hiked for three and a half hours before reaching Cerro Torres. It was a mild hike that snaked around bogs and lakes. Cerro Torres was a terrific sight. Unlike Fitzroy, Torres narrowed to a point as it shot into the sky. In its shadow was a glacial lake of murky, silver water that flowed quickly into a river.
After taking into the scene, we made camp and I cooked up two big servings of pasta for the group. Everyone was quietly content sipping coffee in the fading light before bed.
We hiked out of the park the next morning, and cooked up a celebratory meal at the hostel. Natalie and Fernando left the next morning, headed south to Calafate. I stayed behind with the intentions of doing some fishing. Unfotunately I awoke to fierce Patagonian weather that made it hard to walk, let along fish. So I did the next best thing and bellied up to a local bar and spent the day writing. The wind smacked against the bar room window and clouds masked the sky.
Later in the day, I bumped into Asaf, an Israeli that I met a week before back in Bariloche. The next day, we grabbed a bus and headed three hours south to Calafate. It poured all day and my plan to camp that night was washed away we everything else. We checked into the same hostel and Asaf cooked up a pasta dinner with a perfectly executed meat sauce. We shared the dinner with a late aged Brit named Les, who entertained us with his stories of a life time of travel.
The next day Asaf and I took the hour and a half ride to Argentina´s famed glacier, Perito Moreno. Perito Moreno is a frigid fortress of white ice that beams bright blue from within its crevaces- as if there were some lifeforce inside. We spent hours watching giant blocks of ice plummet into the surrounding glacial lake. The slabs moaned loudly as they pulled away from the seemingly infinite ice field then dropped violently. Like a breaching whale, the ice splashed in the water and reached for the depths. Then it reemerged and rolled lazily on the surface. Thinking of the time it took for the ice to reach this moment of liberation and then death boggled the mind.
This was my last day in Argentina. Next, Chile.
*Note for family and friends: I am headed into Torres Del Paine National park (outside of Puerto Natales, Souther Chile) tommorow to do a hiking circuit called the ¨Q¨. I am doing it counter clockwise . The circuit takes up to nine days (ten days if we are hit with bad weather). I am doing the hike with a former officer in the Israeli army. The trail is marked clearly and many people hike it- so it is safe. I just wanted to give you all the information in case you need to track me down- and wanted you to know I wont be able to call for about ten days. LOVE YOU ALOT!
We packed up the next morning, and set off on a trecking circuit to Cerro Torres- the counterpart of Fitzroy. I enjoyed the company of Natalie and Fernando immensely. They shared the traveler´s passion and curiositythat I have come to love in most that I have met on the road. Natalie has sandy blond hair that falls to here sholders. With subtle freckles that hide in her tanned skin, she could be mistaken as Irish and not German. An artful tattoo drapes from around her sholder to abover her collarbone. Natalie is soft spoken, and her laugh relays a genuine kindness. Fernando has a jovial face with a hint of a moustace below his nose and a primped block of black hair below his lips. He is a gregarious character- spending our breaks chatting with other hikers. I admire his ability to remember the names of those he meets. The two are excellent company on the trail.
We hiked for three and a half hours before reaching Cerro Torres. It was a mild hike that snaked around bogs and lakes. Cerro Torres was a terrific sight. Unlike Fitzroy, Torres narrowed to a point as it shot into the sky. In its shadow was a glacial lake of murky, silver water that flowed quickly into a river.
After taking into the scene, we made camp and I cooked up two big servings of pasta for the group. Everyone was quietly content sipping coffee in the fading light before bed.
We hiked out of the park the next morning, and cooked up a celebratory meal at the hostel. Natalie and Fernando left the next morning, headed south to Calafate. I stayed behind with the intentions of doing some fishing. Unfotunately I awoke to fierce Patagonian weather that made it hard to walk, let along fish. So I did the next best thing and bellied up to a local bar and spent the day writing. The wind smacked against the bar room window and clouds masked the sky.
Later in the day, I bumped into Asaf, an Israeli that I met a week before back in Bariloche. The next day, we grabbed a bus and headed three hours south to Calafate. It poured all day and my plan to camp that night was washed away we everything else. We checked into the same hostel and Asaf cooked up a pasta dinner with a perfectly executed meat sauce. We shared the dinner with a late aged Brit named Les, who entertained us with his stories of a life time of travel.
The next day Asaf and I took the hour and a half ride to Argentina´s famed glacier, Perito Moreno. Perito Moreno is a frigid fortress of white ice that beams bright blue from within its crevaces- as if there were some lifeforce inside. We spent hours watching giant blocks of ice plummet into the surrounding glacial lake. The slabs moaned loudly as they pulled away from the seemingly infinite ice field then dropped violently. Like a breaching whale, the ice splashed in the water and reached for the depths. Then it reemerged and rolled lazily on the surface. Thinking of the time it took for the ice to reach this moment of liberation and then death boggled the mind.
This was my last day in Argentina. Next, Chile.
*Note for family and friends: I am headed into Torres Del Paine National park (outside of Puerto Natales, Souther Chile) tommorow to do a hiking circuit called the ¨Q¨. I am doing it counter clockwise . The circuit takes up to nine days (ten days if we are hit with bad weather). I am doing the hike with a former officer in the Israeli army. The trail is marked clearly and many people hike it- so it is safe. I just wanted to give you all the information in case you need to track me down- and wanted you to know I wont be able to call for about ten days. LOVE YOU ALOT!
Friday, January 16, 2009
Unedited Update
Tommorow I`m going to Puerto Natales, Chile on a late night bus. After a night at a hostel, I will head into Chile`s most famed national park Torres Del Paine to do an eight day hiking circuit. Things are going splendidly. I went to see one of the world`s most famous glaciers today, Perito Moreno in Calafate, Argentina. Unfortunately, I got a pretty bad burn on my hand and my iPod no longer functions after it got wet in the washer. But thats of little importance. Life is so so good at the moment. I hope to have a more eloquent update in a few days. Until then, keep smiling!
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Captain to Captain
Patagonia brought me to South America. Its savage beauty, pure and uncompromised, offered an escape. In Patagonia I saw an opportunity to let my mind wander from my life’s influences. I sought a departure from the stifling rhythm of America life: go to school; get a job ; buy a house; have a family; work for retirement. In the presence of Patagonia`s profound nature I wished to meditate on life. I needed to breath slow and quietly glean my own truths.
The months before my departure, my Patagonian dreams were pinned on one image: Mt. Fitzroy. At 11,286 feet, Fitzroy soars out from snowy foothills and frigid blue glaciers. Its granite peak tears mercilessly into the sky at steep, intimidating angles. So overwhelmingly vertical, the summit allows only the slightest bit of snow to cling to it. In the changing light of the day, shadows are cast into the depths of its face and reveal Fitzroy’s ferocious character. At its feet sits a glacial lake of the bluest water. Seeing Fitzroy for the first time- whether in real life or as a picture- causes the mind to spasm. The body follows in convulsions: the scalp and neck tingle then burn; the stomach drops; the shoulders slump; and the mouth involuntarily spits out an explicative.
Only God could create Fitzroy.
Since being in Patagonia, an unrequited bond has developed between me and this mountain. It symbolizes my quest- both in South American, and in life. The depth of this sentiment increased when I learned more about this mountain. Fitzroy was named after Captain Robert Fitzroy- the Captain who famously sailed with Charles Darwin on the Beagle. I could not help but be intensely delighted to learn that this mountain I obsessed over for so long was named after a man who shared both name and occupation with me.
Now I was here- El Chalten, the neighbouring town to Fitzroy. I made camp at a sight in town to regroup after the 36 hour bus ride. The wind is notoriously fierce in Southern Patagonia, so I positioned my tent amidst the some protective shrubbery. A plethora of climbers and trekkers were camped at the sight. Closest to me, a motley group was camped. Each had leathery tan skin and their clothes were weathered and bound with patches. Two of the men were setting up stands to sell handmade crafts in town. Their appearances told the story of a long time on the road. My instinct told me to be suspicious. My conscience told me to be open. Fortunately, I usually side with my conscience. Later in the day, I went over and introduced myself. I was warmly received. They patiently deciphered my gringo Spanish and laughed with me. I felt genuinely welcomed into their group. They cleaned out a tin cup for me and generously filled it with wine. Later in the night, they made pizza. When I dropped the first slice they gave me, one immediately gave me his- despite my petitions to not do so. They fed me till I could not eat anymore. Overtime, I learned each of their stories. Two of the girls were originally from Belgium and studied in Santiago. They hitchhiked down route 40 with the two men that sold jewellery. These men, Felipe and Diego were both South Americans (the exact origin was lost in the drunken fog of that night. They threw their arms over my shoulders, and included me in every conversation. If they detected that I did not understand what I was said, they would repeat it more slowly and in simplified Spanish. Another of the men was a climber. We spent most of the night discussing Mt FitzRoy. From the conversation I learned of the mountain’s legendary difficulty. Fitzroy was first summated in the 1970s- after various previous failures that often ended in tragedy. Highly technical, the mountain’s difficulty is compounded with violent Patagonian weather. Climbers camp out for months, waiting for a fair window in the weather. Only the best climbers in the world even consider attempting Fitzroy. He compared climbing it to playing in the World Cup.
The next morning I woke up early and packed up my gear. On the bus ride from Bariloche I met a German girl named Natalie and a Brazilian named Fernando. We planned to hike through El Parque Nacional de Los Glaciers and camp in the shadow of Fitzroy for two nights. So after buying some food and another gas canister, we hiked into the park. For ten hours we passed through dense forests where trees grew in contorted shapes like flames frozen in time. Draped from their limbs was green moss called Barba de Viejo.
After four hours, we came to a clearing and there he was- Fitzroy. Beaming bright in the midday sun, the mountain was more magnificent than I ever imagined. My sweat turned cold and crept down my spine. The back of my knees weakened. My pack became weightless. My sight was blinded to all but Fitzroy. For a moment, I was incapable of thought or speech. All I do was smile.
For the rest of the day, Fitzroy was in our sights. We got closer and closer to the mountain. Each place we stopped, the view was a postcard. After eight hours of hiking, we reached the last steep climb that would bring us to the foot of Fitzroy. My body ached at every pore as I climbed. Pains took turns stealing my focus. Each step was for Fitzroy.
After an hour and a half, I reached the top. I am incapable of justly articulating the emotions of that moment. Part of me feels unworthy to even attempt it. Before me was the glacial lake of the purist blue imaginable. The sight soothed every ache that previously plagued me. Scanning my gaze upwards, FitzRoy looked down upon me. I felt compelled to connect with it on some level. I unlaced my boots, removed my socks, stripped off my clothes, and waded into the glacial lake. With eyes set on the summit, I dunked into Fitzroy’s watery embrace. Emerging, I scanned the face. ¨Hi Captain Fitzroy. I am Captain Cocuzzo.¨
The months before my departure, my Patagonian dreams were pinned on one image: Mt. Fitzroy. At 11,286 feet, Fitzroy soars out from snowy foothills and frigid blue glaciers. Its granite peak tears mercilessly into the sky at steep, intimidating angles. So overwhelmingly vertical, the summit allows only the slightest bit of snow to cling to it. In the changing light of the day, shadows are cast into the depths of its face and reveal Fitzroy’s ferocious character. At its feet sits a glacial lake of the bluest water. Seeing Fitzroy for the first time- whether in real life or as a picture- causes the mind to spasm. The body follows in convulsions: the scalp and neck tingle then burn; the stomach drops; the shoulders slump; and the mouth involuntarily spits out an explicative.
Only God could create Fitzroy.
Since being in Patagonia, an unrequited bond has developed between me and this mountain. It symbolizes my quest- both in South American, and in life. The depth of this sentiment increased when I learned more about this mountain. Fitzroy was named after Captain Robert Fitzroy- the Captain who famously sailed with Charles Darwin on the Beagle. I could not help but be intensely delighted to learn that this mountain I obsessed over for so long was named after a man who shared both name and occupation with me.
Now I was here- El Chalten, the neighbouring town to Fitzroy. I made camp at a sight in town to regroup after the 36 hour bus ride. The wind is notoriously fierce in Southern Patagonia, so I positioned my tent amidst the some protective shrubbery. A plethora of climbers and trekkers were camped at the sight. Closest to me, a motley group was camped. Each had leathery tan skin and their clothes were weathered and bound with patches. Two of the men were setting up stands to sell handmade crafts in town. Their appearances told the story of a long time on the road. My instinct told me to be suspicious. My conscience told me to be open. Fortunately, I usually side with my conscience. Later in the day, I went over and introduced myself. I was warmly received. They patiently deciphered my gringo Spanish and laughed with me. I felt genuinely welcomed into their group. They cleaned out a tin cup for me and generously filled it with wine. Later in the night, they made pizza. When I dropped the first slice they gave me, one immediately gave me his- despite my petitions to not do so. They fed me till I could not eat anymore. Overtime, I learned each of their stories. Two of the girls were originally from Belgium and studied in Santiago. They hitchhiked down route 40 with the two men that sold jewellery. These men, Felipe and Diego were both South Americans (the exact origin was lost in the drunken fog of that night. They threw their arms over my shoulders, and included me in every conversation. If they detected that I did not understand what I was said, they would repeat it more slowly and in simplified Spanish. Another of the men was a climber. We spent most of the night discussing Mt FitzRoy. From the conversation I learned of the mountain’s legendary difficulty. Fitzroy was first summated in the 1970s- after various previous failures that often ended in tragedy. Highly technical, the mountain’s difficulty is compounded with violent Patagonian weather. Climbers camp out for months, waiting for a fair window in the weather. Only the best climbers in the world even consider attempting Fitzroy. He compared climbing it to playing in the World Cup.
The next morning I woke up early and packed up my gear. On the bus ride from Bariloche I met a German girl named Natalie and a Brazilian named Fernando. We planned to hike through El Parque Nacional de Los Glaciers and camp in the shadow of Fitzroy for two nights. So after buying some food and another gas canister, we hiked into the park. For ten hours we passed through dense forests where trees grew in contorted shapes like flames frozen in time. Draped from their limbs was green moss called Barba de Viejo.
After four hours, we came to a clearing and there he was- Fitzroy. Beaming bright in the midday sun, the mountain was more magnificent than I ever imagined. My sweat turned cold and crept down my spine. The back of my knees weakened. My pack became weightless. My sight was blinded to all but Fitzroy. For a moment, I was incapable of thought or speech. All I do was smile.
For the rest of the day, Fitzroy was in our sights. We got closer and closer to the mountain. Each place we stopped, the view was a postcard. After eight hours of hiking, we reached the last steep climb that would bring us to the foot of Fitzroy. My body ached at every pore as I climbed. Pains took turns stealing my focus. Each step was for Fitzroy.
After an hour and a half, I reached the top. I am incapable of justly articulating the emotions of that moment. Part of me feels unworthy to even attempt it. Before me was the glacial lake of the purist blue imaginable. The sight soothed every ache that previously plagued me. Scanning my gaze upwards, FitzRoy looked down upon me. I felt compelled to connect with it on some level. I unlaced my boots, removed my socks, stripped off my clothes, and waded into the glacial lake. With eyes set on the summit, I dunked into Fitzroy’s watery embrace. Emerging, I scanned the face. ¨Hi Captain Fitzroy. I am Captain Cocuzzo.¨
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Ruta Cuarenta
Route 40 runs down the length of Argentina, east of the Andes and the Chilean border. The highway is part of South American folklore. For backpackers, taking Rt. 40 is a rite of passage in South American travel. It is discussed with both reverence and malice. Despite its historic nature, few improvements have been made to the highway. Once it passes into the Patagonian region of Chubut, the pavement gives way to ribbed dirt and gravel. The road´s poor condition deters most bus companies from traveling it. The few companies that do, send their most outdated vehicles to endure the abusive journey. After hearing horrid accounts of Rt. 40, some travelers opt to enter Chile and take the Transpacific highway south. While I briefly considered this option, in the end I knew I had to take Rt. 40 to my next destination.
The journey south from Bariloche to El Chalten was estimated to take 36 hours. When purchasing my ticket, I chose the first seat from the driver. I figured it would give me the best view. The price of this view was a miserable aisle seat where the leg room was eaten up by the driver´s chair. For 36 hours my legs were set at 90 degrees with my knees painfully pressed against the divider. The seat reclined the slightest bit and overhead, two vents whistled warm air. The bus was divided into two rows of two, with a latrine in the back. Later, the passengers learned that the bathroom lacked sufficient water to flush the toilet. The scene only got more interesting when the two drivers stepped up from the street and greeted their passengers from the aisle.
One of the men was mildly overweight and had olive black hair that curled at his shoulders. The other had a compact stature and revealed missing molars when he smiled. They wore matching uniforms that showed creases in the same spots as if they were just removed from their packaging. The heavy set driver took the first leg of the journey. When the bus pulled out of view of the station, he yanked off his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt to just above his naval. A series of necklaces spilled out on to his stomach. He lit a cigarette and fished for something caught between his seat and the door- A CD. Drawing deep on the cigarette, he inserted the disc and thumbed the volume clockwise. Suddenly Cydni Lauper´s ´Girls just want to have fun´came blairing over the speakers. The driver bounced jovialy in his seat. Looking up into the mirror , he surveyed his cargo with a smokey smile.
Hours passed and the bus subdued me into a sleepy state. Real sleep was impossible. Rather, I floated in a muffled state of consciousness. Light faded into darkness, and night silenced the voices of the bus. The next morning, the bus pulled into a gas station in a one horse town called Rio Mayo. Squinting in the sunlight, passengers huddled on the dusty road. There I learned that the rest of the journey was to be off road.
For the next 24 hours, the bus vibrated violently without relief. On one occasion, the bumping bus caused me some embarrassment. Crossing a particularly rough stretch, my overhead compartment shot open and gave birth to my overhead luggage. First came three hefty travel guides. Then a bag of groceries exploded on the floor in a confetti of cookies and fruit. Next a pouch of camping equipment rained down in high pitched pangs. Just when I thought the scene could not get any more embarrassing, the absolute icing came down. An Argentine swimsuit edition I had bought back in the Bariloche bus station slipped out from above. The magazine landed perfectly on its spine causing it to open instantly to the centerfold. A mostly nude model lay seductively across the pile of my belongings. The bus driver screamed out in excitement.
The road was like no other. In the vast openness of the Patagonian planes, there was little to identify the highway. It was like driving aimlessly in an enormous construction site. Mounds of dirt were piled everywhere. The passing scenery seemed to be changeless. There was nothing visible to indicate any progression. With no signs, lines, cement or anything else indicative of a highway, it was like driving in an endless sea of beaded sand. On more then one occasion, the driver had to turn the bus around, and backtrack for a half an hour to find the correct route.
After 36 hours, I wobbled down from the bus and met the deep Patagonian wind of El Chalten. The real journey had only just begun...
The journey south from Bariloche to El Chalten was estimated to take 36 hours. When purchasing my ticket, I chose the first seat from the driver. I figured it would give me the best view. The price of this view was a miserable aisle seat where the leg room was eaten up by the driver´s chair. For 36 hours my legs were set at 90 degrees with my knees painfully pressed against the divider. The seat reclined the slightest bit and overhead, two vents whistled warm air. The bus was divided into two rows of two, with a latrine in the back. Later, the passengers learned that the bathroom lacked sufficient water to flush the toilet. The scene only got more interesting when the two drivers stepped up from the street and greeted their passengers from the aisle.
One of the men was mildly overweight and had olive black hair that curled at his shoulders. The other had a compact stature and revealed missing molars when he smiled. They wore matching uniforms that showed creases in the same spots as if they were just removed from their packaging. The heavy set driver took the first leg of the journey. When the bus pulled out of view of the station, he yanked off his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt to just above his naval. A series of necklaces spilled out on to his stomach. He lit a cigarette and fished for something caught between his seat and the door- A CD. Drawing deep on the cigarette, he inserted the disc and thumbed the volume clockwise. Suddenly Cydni Lauper´s ´Girls just want to have fun´came blairing over the speakers. The driver bounced jovialy in his seat. Looking up into the mirror , he surveyed his cargo with a smokey smile.
Hours passed and the bus subdued me into a sleepy state. Real sleep was impossible. Rather, I floated in a muffled state of consciousness. Light faded into darkness, and night silenced the voices of the bus. The next morning, the bus pulled into a gas station in a one horse town called Rio Mayo. Squinting in the sunlight, passengers huddled on the dusty road. There I learned that the rest of the journey was to be off road.
For the next 24 hours, the bus vibrated violently without relief. On one occasion, the bumping bus caused me some embarrassment. Crossing a particularly rough stretch, my overhead compartment shot open and gave birth to my overhead luggage. First came three hefty travel guides. Then a bag of groceries exploded on the floor in a confetti of cookies and fruit. Next a pouch of camping equipment rained down in high pitched pangs. Just when I thought the scene could not get any more embarrassing, the absolute icing came down. An Argentine swimsuit edition I had bought back in the Bariloche bus station slipped out from above. The magazine landed perfectly on its spine causing it to open instantly to the centerfold. A mostly nude model lay seductively across the pile of my belongings. The bus driver screamed out in excitement.
The road was like no other. In the vast openness of the Patagonian planes, there was little to identify the highway. It was like driving aimlessly in an enormous construction site. Mounds of dirt were piled everywhere. The passing scenery seemed to be changeless. There was nothing visible to indicate any progression. With no signs, lines, cement or anything else indicative of a highway, it was like driving in an endless sea of beaded sand. On more then one occasion, the driver had to turn the bus around, and backtrack for a half an hour to find the correct route.
After 36 hours, I wobbled down from the bus and met the deep Patagonian wind of El Chalten. The real journey had only just begun...
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Now. Live it. The Prime Time of Your Life.
Extraordinary moments grace my days. My mind mutters the same statement over and over, ¨I cannot believe I am here right now. ¨ Last night I sat out on the hostel´s back patio, and listened to some fellow hostel residents play traditional Brazilian tunes on tambourine and guitar. Earlier in the night, I huddled with an Israeli and a Brazilian along the shores of Bariloche´s Nahuel Haupi and discussed life. ¨These are the moments¨, I said to them. ¨Three people, from three entirely different worlds, speaking the same truth.¨
For most of my formative experience I strove to live in the moment. The philosophy was repeated over and over in the hope of instilling it into my being. While the intention was everpresent, my mind frequently departed from the here and now and indulged in future fantasies. Here my mind is locked into the present. I am addicted to the now.
Having a true moment in the present is delightfully overwhelming. The mind becomes saturated and swollen with sensory overload. At first, it races to record the moment in elaborate detail. But soon, it realizes that this only compromises the full effect of the moment. Better to breath, shut off the analytical mode, and enjoy.
Emerging from the trance, a subtle sadness passes over the mind. It knows that that the moment can only be experienced once. Fortunately this woe is fleeting as the mind is seized once again by the extraordinary present.
For most of my formative experience I strove to live in the moment. The philosophy was repeated over and over in the hope of instilling it into my being. While the intention was everpresent, my mind frequently departed from the here and now and indulged in future fantasies. Here my mind is locked into the present. I am addicted to the now.
Having a true moment in the present is delightfully overwhelming. The mind becomes saturated and swollen with sensory overload. At first, it races to record the moment in elaborate detail. But soon, it realizes that this only compromises the full effect of the moment. Better to breath, shut off the analytical mode, and enjoy.
Emerging from the trance, a subtle sadness passes over the mind. It knows that that the moment can only be experienced once. Fortunately this woe is fleeting as the mind is seized once again by the extraordinary present.
Monday, January 5, 2009
The True Gift of Travel
Beyond the hikes, the views, the experiences, an inherent gift of traveling is the people met on the journey. The shared traveler identity transcends differences of nationality, age, and gender. Discussions of life´s fundamental quandaries are engaged at great ease. Dynamic subjects of love, happiness, regret are taken up and treated with patient care and genuine consideration. Time is not wasted on trivialities. A pure honesty is possible. There is no pretext. There is no tomorrow. There is just the now. Only one opportunity may exist to draw the essence of another´s experience from the conversation. No time is wasted on verbose proclamations that serve to glorify the speaker. Only unfettered insight remains.
My trip has been blessed with unique, inspiring people. Even some of the briefest of encounters has had profound impact. Just tonight I sat down with a couple from California. They had just finished two years working in El Salvador with The Peace Core. John is a fellow flyfisherman and, oddly enough, he had fished with a guide that I fished with in Montana years back. After chatting about fishing in Argentina, we naturally progressed into an in depth conversation about life. John has a fantastic story. During and after college, he worked as a forest fire fighter- commonly known as a Hot Shot he explained. This seasonal employment allowed him to travel the world. After seven years of fighting blazes throughout North America, he got a job working as an environmental consultant. After some years behind a desk, now with a wife and a big house, John and his wife decided to give everything away and enlist in the Peace Core. They left the comforts of their lives, and moved into a ten by ten cement room in El Salvador. For two years they lived in an unheated room, taking cold showers every morning. Both beamed as they recounted a taste of their experiences. They were treated like celebrities in this village made up of 300 people. Families invited them to have dinner, and would insist on slaughtering their only, old chicken to honor them. The locals were intensely interested in them and were grateful for their service and concern. John and his wife will return to El Salvador before finally returning to the states to begin again. John is considering going into the foreign service as some form of retirement from the road.
While I am alone here in a foreign land, I am continually comforted by these magical encounters. Meeting people like John validates and inspires a unique approach to life. Society , American society at least, seems to expect individuals to adhere to some decided norm. Opportunity and future happiness is presented in defined avenues. Breaking from this expectation can be difficult. Yet when liberated from social pressures, one´s true identity is free to bloom. The first step may be to realize that there is no universal definition to life. It is like a color. Life is beyond explanation. So instead of picking from the set choices in life, I am setting my compass to happiness. The difficult part is having the courage to follow the bearing of this compass.
My trip has been blessed with unique, inspiring people. Even some of the briefest of encounters has had profound impact. Just tonight I sat down with a couple from California. They had just finished two years working in El Salvador with The Peace Core. John is a fellow flyfisherman and, oddly enough, he had fished with a guide that I fished with in Montana years back. After chatting about fishing in Argentina, we naturally progressed into an in depth conversation about life. John has a fantastic story. During and after college, he worked as a forest fire fighter- commonly known as a Hot Shot he explained. This seasonal employment allowed him to travel the world. After seven years of fighting blazes throughout North America, he got a job working as an environmental consultant. After some years behind a desk, now with a wife and a big house, John and his wife decided to give everything away and enlist in the Peace Core. They left the comforts of their lives, and moved into a ten by ten cement room in El Salvador. For two years they lived in an unheated room, taking cold showers every morning. Both beamed as they recounted a taste of their experiences. They were treated like celebrities in this village made up of 300 people. Families invited them to have dinner, and would insist on slaughtering their only, old chicken to honor them. The locals were intensely interested in them and were grateful for their service and concern. John and his wife will return to El Salvador before finally returning to the states to begin again. John is considering going into the foreign service as some form of retirement from the road.
While I am alone here in a foreign land, I am continually comforted by these magical encounters. Meeting people like John validates and inspires a unique approach to life. Society , American society at least, seems to expect individuals to adhere to some decided norm. Opportunity and future happiness is presented in defined avenues. Breaking from this expectation can be difficult. Yet when liberated from social pressures, one´s true identity is free to bloom. The first step may be to realize that there is no universal definition to life. It is like a color. Life is beyond explanation. So instead of picking from the set choices in life, I am setting my compass to happiness. The difficult part is having the courage to follow the bearing of this compass.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
A Little Taste of Civilization
I felt everyone´s eyes burning on me as I walked into the restaurant. I was too tired to care. It reminded me of my days back at Holy Cross when my buddies and I would grab a cheap beer and a hotdog down at the local dive bar called Herbie´s. We would shuffle in, and every local would turn in their seats and stare with intense disdain. I caught the same looks now in the restaurant. It must be the pack I thought. My bag never fails to draw attention. Since I started this trip a little under a month ago, my pack grew. It started as the size of an average 11 year old boy. Now it is a hefty adolescent whose parents have let it fall victim to a critical eating disorder. Its an awkward sight as well. Sneakers hang from a caribeaner which also holds a tin pot. In the pot is a canister of cooking fuel, and a wooden spoon that protrudes out. A plastic cup sits like a hat on the handle of the spoon. Walking around I feel as though I am wearing a classic one man band outfit with the big base drum on my back, cymbals hanging everywhere. Im just missing the harmonica and tambourine. The bag is literally filled to the brim. Not the slightest bit of space for anything. When leaving the last camp site I had to force feed myself three bags of nuts. There was simply no room for them. The bag looms over my head and extends far out on each side. Before making any moves, I have to plot my steps and gauge the space. I spotted a table in the corner where I could drop my bag. It had a safe, wide route to the table. Perfect.
Now seated, and my bag stowed across the table from me, I continued to captivate the attention of my fellow patrons. After ordering my steak, I went to the bathroom. It was the first time I had seen my reflection in a week. So this is what they are staring at. A bewildered person I did not know stared back at me in the mirror. The lower half of my face beamed in a bright blond beard. The limits of my facial hair were marked with a line of sunblock mixed with dirt. Beneath each nostril was dirt. Just below my hair line was an inch wide line of dirt. Every crease of my face and neck was defined with dirt. My nose was cast in several shades of red and pink- as if a painter had placed the tones with a pallet knife. My hair was tangled into four main nests. Looking down, my clothes were darkened with sweat. They must think im a beggar, I laughed to myself. Here for some free bread and water.
Sitting there, my first time indoors in nine days, I reflected on the last month. With each day my the traveling lifestyle becomes the norm and the former comforts of home fade into memory. An increased awareness of people has developed within. For instance, I can determine with considerable accuracy where someone is from by watching their mouth move. Argentines form their words quickly and with a grace that resembles the tango. Israelis drag their words along, and they seem to be in some discomfort when they speak. Aussies and Americas open their mouths wider than others.
My ear has also become tuned to various forms of Spanish. Argentines speak a distinct Spanish. Instead of using the you informal tense (tú) when speaking to someone, they use the vosotros form (which translates as ´yall´ in English). They also have a range of words only used in Argentina. This was a point of great confusion in the beginning. Before I came on this trip, Spanish was just Spanish to me. Now, when I speak to someone from Mexico for instance, I am immediately aware of the regional differences.
The idiosyncrasies of Argentina creep into my sense of normalcy. Toilet paper is not flushed here. It is thrown out in a barrel. ATMs only give hundred peso notes, but stores often refuse to change them. Soap is a rarity in most places. Smoking is allowed in bars which guarantees the need to wash one´s clothing after a night at the club. Dinner is served at 11. A night out at the bars begins at 1230 and ends at six or seven in the morning. Empanadas are the best cheap meal. Everyday I feel more at home here.
After spending a few days healing in Bariloche, I am taking a 36 hour bus ride south to Chalten. There I will hike, camp and fish around Mt. Fitzroy. The southern part of Argentinean Patagonia is spectacular. I can´t wait!
Now seated, and my bag stowed across the table from me, I continued to captivate the attention of my fellow patrons. After ordering my steak, I went to the bathroom. It was the first time I had seen my reflection in a week. So this is what they are staring at. A bewildered person I did not know stared back at me in the mirror. The lower half of my face beamed in a bright blond beard. The limits of my facial hair were marked with a line of sunblock mixed with dirt. Beneath each nostril was dirt. Just below my hair line was an inch wide line of dirt. Every crease of my face and neck was defined with dirt. My nose was cast in several shades of red and pink- as if a painter had placed the tones with a pallet knife. My hair was tangled into four main nests. Looking down, my clothes were darkened with sweat. They must think im a beggar, I laughed to myself. Here for some free bread and water.
Sitting there, my first time indoors in nine days, I reflected on the last month. With each day my the traveling lifestyle becomes the norm and the former comforts of home fade into memory. An increased awareness of people has developed within. For instance, I can determine with considerable accuracy where someone is from by watching their mouth move. Argentines form their words quickly and with a grace that resembles the tango. Israelis drag their words along, and they seem to be in some discomfort when they speak. Aussies and Americas open their mouths wider than others.
My ear has also become tuned to various forms of Spanish. Argentines speak a distinct Spanish. Instead of using the you informal tense (tú) when speaking to someone, they use the vosotros form (which translates as ´yall´ in English). They also have a range of words only used in Argentina. This was a point of great confusion in the beginning. Before I came on this trip, Spanish was just Spanish to me. Now, when I speak to someone from Mexico for instance, I am immediately aware of the regional differences.
The idiosyncrasies of Argentina creep into my sense of normalcy. Toilet paper is not flushed here. It is thrown out in a barrel. ATMs only give hundred peso notes, but stores often refuse to change them. Soap is a rarity in most places. Smoking is allowed in bars which guarantees the need to wash one´s clothing after a night at the club. Dinner is served at 11. A night out at the bars begins at 1230 and ends at six or seven in the morning. Empanadas are the best cheap meal. Everyday I feel more at home here.
After spending a few days healing in Bariloche, I am taking a 36 hour bus ride south to Chalten. There I will hike, camp and fish around Mt. Fitzroy. The southern part of Argentinean Patagonia is spectacular. I can´t wait!
Friday, January 2, 2009
New Years on top of Piltriquitron
I met the new year camped at a refugio just below the summit of Piltriquitron. It took some time hiking up through the Bosque Tallado carrying my 60 pound pack and a week´s worth of food (which included a magnum bottle of Malbec). I made the treck up through the forest with two Americas I met the day before at El Rio Azul. They were not camping at the refugio, so they hiked unfettered of any gear. I, on the other hand, had my whole world on my back. Sweat rained from every pore and hit the dusty path in silence. Each breath became more labored as oxygen was robbed from the air in the rising altitude. I willed every step in utter agony. I kept telling myself it would be worth it. It was.
We reached the refugio 11km from El Bolson. Run by an extended family of Argentines, the refugio is made up of two cabins and an outhouse. The cabins have grey tin roofs that rest on vertically placed logs at the top, and horizontal ones at the bottom. The family of three brothers, a wife, and an unknown number of children, live in one of the small cabins. The other cabin sits on the edge of the mountain and has a deck that extends out. The family entertains hikers here, selling home brewed beer and pizza. Not one to pass up beer or pizza, I bought one of each and sat out on the deck in a chair carved out of a tree stump. The view was spectacular. I could see everything: the modest grid of El Bolson; El Rio Azul where I was camped the night before; Lago Epuyen that hides behind Cerro Pirque; further to the Southwest was Lago Puelo along the Chilean border; and at eye level, directly across the valley, was Cerro Lindo and Cerro Hielo Azul.
After drowning another beer, the Americans left and I set up my tent. Everywhere I camp, there is some bug that proves to especially difficult. Here there are big black flies that look and act like distant cousins of the green heads we have in the States. They attack incessently-two at a time. When I kill one, the other goes for reinforcments. This leaves me with a small window of peace.
The sun set at nine behind Cerro Lindo and Cerro Hielo Azul. The clouds were painted in hot pink as the sun snuck behind the Andes for one last time in 2008. After admiring the scene, I gathered fire wood from the dried run-off beds in the woods. I cooked up some tortolini, and ate in front of the fire. While I scooped up the pasta with my wooden spoon, I cooked sausage slices on a stone before the fire. Sitting indian style, I listened to a book on tape and finished dinner. I swirled the last of the Malbec in my graduated plastic cup, and raised it to my nose, and sipped it, and swallowed. What a pleasant New Years , I thought to myself.
The next morning I awoke, and cooked up some oatmeal and coffee. I needed to fortify myself for the treck ahead. The Summit of Piltriquitron is another 1860 meters from the refugio (2260 meters in total). Filling up my camel pack from the hose that channels run-off water down from above, I set out.
After an hour of ascending a dusty dirt path, I reached the top of the first rock face. This revealed the hidden landscape behind Piltriquitron. A vast plataue of desert-like expanse stretched to the east. Further, the land descended into a bucolic valley, where in the distance I could see a river. ¨Wish I brought my rod¨, I said to myself. I dissolved this regret by reasoning that the river was too remote to have been stocked by the early European settlers. Whether this is true or not, I may never know.
The dirt path gave way to gravel and I walked parallel to a small run-off stream. The scene was mesmerizing. I was the only human in sight for miles and miles in every direction. My only company was the soft kiss of the wind, the blooming view before me, and the constant crunch of stone under my step as if God was chewing a huge mouthful of cereal overhead.
Soon I departed from the stream and began the serious ascent to the summit.The way up was riddled with loose gravel. With each step, the gravel shifted downwards, and cut my gate in half. Eventually I found a rock face set at a safe enough angle to climb. I scaled up and avoided the steepest track of shifting stone. The summit was in view. I could see a cement marker to which all the trails led. ¨Alright Rob¨, I said to myself. ¨Be careful here. Be careful here. Slow, safe steps.¨ The way up to the summit narrowed to a point. On each side was a shear drop. One poor step could lead to the end of all things. ¨Be careful here.¨
I slowly and diliberately made my way to te summit. When I got within 15 feet, I got on all fours and took slow and calculated steps forward. The summit was guarded by a swarm of nasty bees. This is too important to stop, I thought. Let them sting you if they want. Don´t freak out. Go on. Be slow. Be safe. Finally, I grasped the summit marker and sat. On the way up, I thought of ways of marking the moment here on the top. I considered yelling something- my name or something. But as I sat there, the moment was too profound to curropt with any sound I could make. So I sat there and whispered, ¨Here I am.¨
After snapping several photos, I withdrew a stick from my pocket and then a pen. I wrote on the stick: R. Cocuzzo-1 January 2009-U.S.A. Then I slipped the stick into the summit marker. Sitting there, I indulged in the thought of coming back here in 20 years, maybe with a son or daughter, and withdrawing the stick, I would add their names.
We reached the refugio 11km from El Bolson. Run by an extended family of Argentines, the refugio is made up of two cabins and an outhouse. The cabins have grey tin roofs that rest on vertically placed logs at the top, and horizontal ones at the bottom. The family of three brothers, a wife, and an unknown number of children, live in one of the small cabins. The other cabin sits on the edge of the mountain and has a deck that extends out. The family entertains hikers here, selling home brewed beer and pizza. Not one to pass up beer or pizza, I bought one of each and sat out on the deck in a chair carved out of a tree stump. The view was spectacular. I could see everything: the modest grid of El Bolson; El Rio Azul where I was camped the night before; Lago Epuyen that hides behind Cerro Pirque; further to the Southwest was Lago Puelo along the Chilean border; and at eye level, directly across the valley, was Cerro Lindo and Cerro Hielo Azul.
After drowning another beer, the Americans left and I set up my tent. Everywhere I camp, there is some bug that proves to especially difficult. Here there are big black flies that look and act like distant cousins of the green heads we have in the States. They attack incessently-two at a time. When I kill one, the other goes for reinforcments. This leaves me with a small window of peace.
The sun set at nine behind Cerro Lindo and Cerro Hielo Azul. The clouds were painted in hot pink as the sun snuck behind the Andes for one last time in 2008. After admiring the scene, I gathered fire wood from the dried run-off beds in the woods. I cooked up some tortolini, and ate in front of the fire. While I scooped up the pasta with my wooden spoon, I cooked sausage slices on a stone before the fire. Sitting indian style, I listened to a book on tape and finished dinner. I swirled the last of the Malbec in my graduated plastic cup, and raised it to my nose, and sipped it, and swallowed. What a pleasant New Years , I thought to myself.
The next morning I awoke, and cooked up some oatmeal and coffee. I needed to fortify myself for the treck ahead. The Summit of Piltriquitron is another 1860 meters from the refugio (2260 meters in total). Filling up my camel pack from the hose that channels run-off water down from above, I set out.
After an hour of ascending a dusty dirt path, I reached the top of the first rock face. This revealed the hidden landscape behind Piltriquitron. A vast plataue of desert-like expanse stretched to the east. Further, the land descended into a bucolic valley, where in the distance I could see a river. ¨Wish I brought my rod¨, I said to myself. I dissolved this regret by reasoning that the river was too remote to have been stocked by the early European settlers. Whether this is true or not, I may never know.
The dirt path gave way to gravel and I walked parallel to a small run-off stream. The scene was mesmerizing. I was the only human in sight for miles and miles in every direction. My only company was the soft kiss of the wind, the blooming view before me, and the constant crunch of stone under my step as if God was chewing a huge mouthful of cereal overhead.
Soon I departed from the stream and began the serious ascent to the summit.The way up was riddled with loose gravel. With each step, the gravel shifted downwards, and cut my gate in half. Eventually I found a rock face set at a safe enough angle to climb. I scaled up and avoided the steepest track of shifting stone. The summit was in view. I could see a cement marker to which all the trails led. ¨Alright Rob¨, I said to myself. ¨Be careful here. Be careful here. Slow, safe steps.¨ The way up to the summit narrowed to a point. On each side was a shear drop. One poor step could lead to the end of all things. ¨Be careful here.¨
I slowly and diliberately made my way to te summit. When I got within 15 feet, I got on all fours and took slow and calculated steps forward. The summit was guarded by a swarm of nasty bees. This is too important to stop, I thought. Let them sting you if they want. Don´t freak out. Go on. Be slow. Be safe. Finally, I grasped the summit marker and sat. On the way up, I thought of ways of marking the moment here on the top. I considered yelling something- my name or something. But as I sat there, the moment was too profound to curropt with any sound I could make. So I sat there and whispered, ¨Here I am.¨
After snapping several photos, I withdrew a stick from my pocket and then a pen. I wrote on the stick: R. Cocuzzo-1 January 2009-U.S.A. Then I slipped the stick into the summit marker. Sitting there, I indulged in the thought of coming back here in 20 years, maybe with a son or daughter, and withdrawing the stick, I would add their names.
El Rio Azul in the present
A fire roars before me like distant thunder in the night. The logs bleed blue flames that turn yellow and white as they reach for the star drenched sky. Past the fire, the river babbles as it runs down cobblestone shallows, and dumps into deep pools, and eddies back. A small dog with fluffy fur filled with nettles is sprawled at my side. I met my companion when first popping my tent here along El Bolson´s Rio Azul. I have not properly named her, but she seems to respond to words beginning in ¨Q¨. So many dogs run freely in Patagonia. Giving the littlest attention to one will make it a devout friend. This dog sleeps just outside my tent at night, and watches my gear while I fish during the day.
With each passing day I become more comfortable living here in the Patagonian wilderness. The first step was to forget the luxories of indoor living. I improved my living situation by carving cutlery from some dry wood that lays in abundance along the river. Extra time was spent carving my spoon to look like the face of a duck. Unfortunately, when finished, the spoon looked more like a snake, and that mildly troubles me when inserting it into my mouth.
I have graduated into the three week mark of this trip. Other travelers spoke of this moment when you realize time is irrelevent. I am calmed by the fact that I do not have to be anywhere, anytime. This results in an ease of my pace. I wake around six and get down to the river around seven. I fish till noon, then return to my campsite for lunch and a siesta in the midday heat. When I awake, I brew coffee on a butane flame and read the travel accounts of Chatwin and Darwin. At sunset I return to the river to fish the hatch. The night is finished here at the fire, eating cookies and writing.
Camping on undesignated areas is illegal in El Bolson- as well as in most of Patagonia. This mandate is largely a result of the devestating fires that have been caused by campers in Patagonia over the years. I read one story of a Czech hiker who was camped out of bounds, and started a raging blaze in Chile´s Torres Del Paine National Park in 2005. In the end, 13,880 acres (7 percent) of the National Park were burned to ruins. I spoke with a traveler who had just come from there, and he said the devestation is still very visible. Looking to do my part in preventing such a tragedy, I have decided to camp in designated areas. The spot I picked here along Rio Azul is shared with some families. My plot is the closest to the river. Behind me a family of four is camped. I have come to like this family very much over the last three days. My first day here I shared some of the fire wood with the family. A few hours later, the father walked over to me with a huge steak sandwich. It was the best steak I have had since being in Argentina. Little did I know, it would be the last bit of real food I would eat for a week.
With each passing day I become more comfortable living here in the Patagonian wilderness. The first step was to forget the luxories of indoor living. I improved my living situation by carving cutlery from some dry wood that lays in abundance along the river. Extra time was spent carving my spoon to look like the face of a duck. Unfortunately, when finished, the spoon looked more like a snake, and that mildly troubles me when inserting it into my mouth.
I have graduated into the three week mark of this trip. Other travelers spoke of this moment when you realize time is irrelevent. I am calmed by the fact that I do not have to be anywhere, anytime. This results in an ease of my pace. I wake around six and get down to the river around seven. I fish till noon, then return to my campsite for lunch and a siesta in the midday heat. When I awake, I brew coffee on a butane flame and read the travel accounts of Chatwin and Darwin. At sunset I return to the river to fish the hatch. The night is finished here at the fire, eating cookies and writing.
Camping on undesignated areas is illegal in El Bolson- as well as in most of Patagonia. This mandate is largely a result of the devestating fires that have been caused by campers in Patagonia over the years. I read one story of a Czech hiker who was camped out of bounds, and started a raging blaze in Chile´s Torres Del Paine National Park in 2005. In the end, 13,880 acres (7 percent) of the National Park were burned to ruins. I spoke with a traveler who had just come from there, and he said the devestation is still very visible. Looking to do my part in preventing such a tragedy, I have decided to camp in designated areas. The spot I picked here along Rio Azul is shared with some families. My plot is the closest to the river. Behind me a family of four is camped. I have come to like this family very much over the last three days. My first day here I shared some of the fire wood with the family. A few hours later, the father walked over to me with a huge steak sandwich. It was the best steak I have had since being in Argentina. Little did I know, it would be the last bit of real food I would eat for a week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)