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.¨