Dodging Bullets

I was in San Francisco when it happened. It was Labor Day, early afternoon, and my sister-in-law, Beth, was driving me to the hospital while I sat calmly next to her and watched the cityscape sweep by. She seemed unruffled under the circumstances, though was clearly driving as fast as safety permitted. Luckily, traffic was light—or maybe, as a local, she just knew all the backstreets.

“Do you want me to call Terry?” she asked as she turned into the Emergency driveway.

“No. Not yet," I insisted. There was no need worrying my wife right now when she was four hundred miles away. I was holding to the notion that it was going to be no big deal. I’ve been to the ER plenty of times: kidney stones; broken hand; busted shoulder… You go to the ER, they fix you, then you go home. I knew the drill.

They were waiting for us when we walked into the lobby. Right away, we were whisked straight in; no paperwork; no showing my Kaiser card. There was a sensation of disconnect from my point of view, like all of this was happening to somebody else. I was merely a curious observer—or so it seemed at first. I was quickly ushered into an examination bay and instructed to lay down on the bed. A medical team crowded around me and began asking a lot of questions while IV stints were inserted into both arms and EKG leads were taped to my chest. More equipment was rolled in. More questions. Pretty soon, there were eight people jammed into the exam bay, two of them doctors, giving me their undivided attention. They even rolled a computer monitor to the foot of the bed, and a THIRD doctor joined the fray via Skype. He asked even more questions. Holy mole! 

When the frenzy had died down a bit, Beth poked her head around the curtain to see how things were going. 

“Okay, maybe you better call Terry now,” I said sheepishly.

She smiled. “I already did.”

That’s how fast the world can shift while you’re busy living your life. It’s like swimming in the ocean: Everything can be blissfully grand—if you don’t notice the shark’s fin slowly circling you. But allow me to back up a bit...

Four days earlier, I had embarked on what was supposed to have been a semi-solo road trip. My first stop was Beth and Tom’s place in San Francisco, where I picked Terry up at the airport the following day, which was a Friday. On Saturday, Ter and I drove up to the Sonoma wine country for a friend’s birthday bash, stopping off to hike Mount Tamalpais along the way. It was a beautiful, late-summer day. The birthday boy, Kevin—one of my cohorts on the Patagonia trip—was in his element playing drums in his band, performing three rollicking sets at the party. We then stayed the night in Healdsburg and spent most of Sunday at Kevin and Denise’s house; took a scenic hike along the Russian River. At the end of the day, we drove back to the city and I dropped Ter off at SFO for her flight home, capping off a wonderful weekend. I then went to Beth and Tom’s place for the night. They were out of town, so it was just me and the Italian Grand Prix on ESPN. During the race, I texted my climbing buddy, Paul, to verify that I would be staying at his Sacramento abode on Tuesday. We hadn’t seen each other in a dozen years and I was really looking forward to catching up.

Labor Day morning was damp and chilly. I called Ter and we chatted for a while. Then I hiked up to the lookout at Grandview Park. I was back before Beth and Tom got home around noon, their boys, Nick and Colby, scurrying downstairs with some of their school pals to play video games. Since a barbecue was planned for that evening, I helped Beth tidy up the patio deck while Tom went to the store. That’s when things began to get a little weird.

Beth and I were sitting at the kitchen table, conversing over cups of fresh-brewed coffee. She’s an interesting lady: super-mom; wife; avid skier and mountain biker; plays basketball and guitar, though not at the same time (but she's working on it). As we talked, I found my voice becoming a little hoarse. Crap. Ter had been complaining she was coming down with a sore throat, popping Zicam like candy all weekend. So when Beth asked if I was okay, I told her that I was coming down with Terry’s cold.

The parents of Nick and Colby’s pals soon arrived to pick them up, but before they departed, we visited on the backyard deck for thirty minutes, maybe longer. I was losing my voice, so I didn’t talk unless somebody asked me a question. Occasionally I’d stumble over a word. An alarm bell would sound in my head that something was wrong, but a quick, internal systems diagnostic concluded that I was coming down with my wife’s sore throat (even though my throat wasn’t sore!). One side of my brain was warning “Houston, we have a problem,” and the other side would respond “Relax, it’s nothing.” But as soon as the guests had left with their kids, Beth cornered me in the kitchen. She asked if I was aware of my slurring of words, and again, I told her I felt fine. But she was doggedly persistent and wouldn’t let it rest, and stepped closer for keener scrutiny.

“What day is it? Close your eyes and raise both arms in front of you. Stick out your tongue. Give me a big smile.”

Did I mention that she’s an ER doctor for Kaiser Permenente? I knew what she was doing: I was being given a cursory stroke test, which was absurd. I had no problem passing it. Or so I thought.

“Okay, we should get you to the hospital,” she said, already halfway across the kitchen to where her backpack/purse was sitting on the bar. 

“What?! Whoa, hold on a minute. I’m fine.”

I was finding all of this hard to process. Things were moving too fast. Tom came into the kitchen and Beth told him she wanted to take me down to Kaiser. Tom is like your cool, easy-going neighbor who is always there to lend a hand when you need it. He’s a doctor, too. He looked at Beth, and then he looked at me and said: “You know, I'd go have it checked out.”

I still balked.

“Go look in the hall mirror,” Beth suggested, “and give yourself a big smile.”

So, I went and looked in the mirror—and then I stopped arguing with her: My smile was lopsided, the right side of my mouth looking as though it had been shot up with Novocain.

The hospital where Beth works is only three miles away, so getting there didn’t take long. As Beth was driving, she called right into the ER center and gave them a heads-up. That’s why they were waiting for me when we arrived.

“It might’ve been a TIA,” the ER doc informed me after their examination and assessment was completed. Other than my speech impairment, I had aced the pop quiz and coordination tests. So, could I go home now?

Nope. They had more tests to run—and they wanted to keep me overnight for observation. A CAT scan was next up, followed by an echocardiogram of my heart. Then I was admitted to the hospital and wheeled up to a room on the top floor with a view of the clouds and drizzle. Beth had gone home by then, though she’d be back in a while to work the ER night shift. I called Terry and assured her that I was okay. She was taking a flight up in the morning. Then I called my daughters. Ter had already informed them, but I wanted to talk to them directly.

Every picture tells a story. This is one of the stroke tests given in the ER to quickly assess any compromise to cognitive thinking. I was asked to describe everything going on here.   

I was lying in bed watching TV, bored and forlorn, when it finally sunk in that my road trip was dead. Kaput. Up until then, I had remained optimistic that everything would get sorted out and I would move on. But no longer. I texted Paul and relayed the bad news that I wouldn’t be coming to Sacramento. And I informed my brother Jeff in Morro Bay that I’d have to cancel my stay there as well. This was the melancholy mood of things when I got the text message from Beth:

“Hungry?”

My angel. She breezed into my room before her shift started, wearing pale blue scrubs and toting a big bag of Thai cuisine in take-out cartons. No hospital food for me. I had my own private dinner and a movie, and then it was lights out—not that I got much sleep. The nurse came in to check on me every two hours, taking my BP and asking how I was doing. Between these drop-ins, I would lay and stare up at the ceiling and try to fall back asleep. I remember, more than once, thinking: How the hell did I end up here?

Sometime before dawn, I had to pay a visit to the toilet. I swung my legs around, stood up, and was halfway to the bathroom door when an alarm went off in my room. Frantically, I looked around in the dark, figuring I must’ve pulled some EKG wires loose when I stepped away from the bed, but nothing seemed amiss. The alarm kept beeping and I kept standing there perplexed. Soon, a nurse rushed in and turned on the lights.

“I didn’t do it!” That was my story and I was sticking to it.

She calmly went to the foot of the bed and flipped a switch that brought instant silence, explaining that they’d activated the bed alarm, just in case I fell out of it in the middle of the night. Hmmm. Or just in case I attempted an escape in the middle of the night.

Breakfast came around eight o’clock, but I’d already been up reading for hours and watching the news on TV... and fretting the next big test scheduled that morning: the MRI. There’s nothing like being inserted into a 28-inch diameter tube of coiled wires that are energized with thousands of watts of electricity to create powerful magnetic pulses that bend the hydrogen protons inside your head to the same magnetic axis, the machine buzzing and clanking and slicing and dicing until it has created a detailed, three-dimensional topography of your brain.

With the MRI out of the way, all that was left to do was wait. And wait. Terry and Beth arrived around noon with lunch, and as we ate in my room, I apprised them of the latest, even the errant bed alarm that woke up half the seventh floor. I was feeling good. I wanted to go home. Every so often I’d check my smile in the bathroom mirror. It looked close to normal to me, far better than twenty-four hours ago. Henceforth the swell of anticipation when Dr. Kimm, the neurologist on my case, arrived to talk with us. She was in her sixties, tall with short-cropped grey hair. I liked her sincere, quirky demeanor right away, and after introductions, she got right down to summarizing all the tests that had been conducted.

She started with the good news: I was in great shape for my age; all veins and arteries were clean with no blockages; I had “gorgeous carotids” (her words, not mine); my heart was functioning perfectly. Then came the bad news: This was NOT my first stroke. There had been others.

From the computer terminal in the room, Dr. Kimm queued up several MRI images of my brain. “Here’s the stroke you had yesterday,” she said, pointing to a small blemish. It was in the left hemisphere’s Broca’s area, which formulates speech. “And here’s an older one… And another one here...” She pointed to the other dark spots. One of them, she estimated, was only a few months old. It looked as though somebody was using my brain for target practice.

The room got awfully quiet after that bombshell. I was stunned. After a short pause, Dr. Kimm continued, expressing her suspicions on what had caused the strokes, even though she had no evidence, other than previous cases like mine.

“Random atrial fibrillations,” she said. And they had to be extremely random, because I had been hooked up to an EKG monitor for thirty hours, and not once did my heart utter a hiccup or flutter. And what about the other two strokes? Why couldn’t I recall anything weird happening during those events? So many questions with no answers.

“Consider yourself fortunate,” said Dr. Kimm. “It could’ve been much worse.”

Which was true. I felt as though I’d dodged a bullet—three of them, actually. She also pointed out that I was lucky it happened at Beth’s house, because she had detected it right away, rushed me to the hospital, and now I knew that I had a serious problem to address. Had it happened a little later, when I was no longer at Beth and Tom’s, I probably would’ve blamed my hoarse voice on a cold, and within forty-eight hours, all the symptoms would’ve gone away, long forgotten…. Until the next stroke.

I was released from the hospital that evening, and Terry drove us home the next day. Hard to believe that was two and a half months ago already. Time flies when you’re busy seeing doctors and having more tests run. I had a tiny EKG monitor taped to my chest for a month, 24/7, in an attempt at capturing an A-fib. And the results...(drum roll)… Four random events, the longest lasting about twenty heartbeats. That is only twenty seconds. But it’s enough to put me on an anti-coagulant drug to prevent my heart from causing another stroke. Life goes on.

Through September and October, I was restricted to walking the dog and taking out the trash. Doctors’ orders. “Take it easy,” they urged. If truth be told, I wasn’t up for much more anyway. I fatigued easily and took naps in the afternoon to recharge the brain, my neurologist assuring me that this was normal and would improve with time. To assuage my cabin fever, Terry “volunteered” me to be her traffic controller at her school in the morning when the kids get dropped off. That’s been a Carmageddon experience, but a traffic engineering problem that I think I’ve resolved.

Slow but sure, my stamina has been returning. The doctors lifted the draconian limits of what I could do—though they urged me to start off easy. A couple weekends ago, we put the mountain bikes on the camper van and drove up to Big Bear Lake. It felt good to be rolling down the trail again and gaze up at the stars at night with my sweetheart and sidekick poodle. Only now, everything seems richer and more precious.

On the trail near Big Bear Lake.

On the Road in Patagonia - Part 4

And so it came to pass, our three amigos had packed up the Renault and ventured into Argentina where they landed in the fabled El Chalten, the realm of the smoking mountain. It was here where they were reunited with their Irish partners in crime, to go forth and delve into the Fitz Roy cordillera. They had come to feel right at home in Chalten, and flow with the wind and rhythm of summer nights. But soon their time in the magic kingdom would come to an end, and the long journey home would begin down a wide-open road. In other words… It ain’t over quite yet. 

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THE HOUNDS OF EL CHALTEN
We had noticed it that first night in Chalten while having dinner at a restaurant. We were sitting at a window table, watching the passersby stroll up and down San Martin Avenue. But what really caught our eye was not the people—it was the dogs. Big handsome dogs. And they were unleashed and doing their own thing, trotting down the sidewalk, or crossing the street to say hi to a four-legged friend, or just sitting in a shop doorway, watching the world go by. While we were eating, I saw a yellow lab dart across the street in front of a car. The driver—who was going slow, thank goodness—slammed on the brakes, but his front bumper struck the dog on his hind quarter and knocked him off his feet. The pooch quickly recovered and scampered down an alley. I saw him the next day. He had a slight gimp to his stride.

Dogs are everywhere in this town, coming in all shapes and sizes. Clearly some were pets (though I rarely saw one on a leash), but many appeared to be strays, wandering around on their own volition. But stray or not, all of them looked very healthy and well fed. One day, I saw two young men with daypacks coming down the street with a shaggy black dog trotting along beside them. I asked if it belonged to them, and they said no. The dog had adopted THEM, and slept on the porch of their cabin every night. They named him Karl. And that would be his name until the two Australian trekkers departed for home in a week.

A dog named Karl

  

On our last day in Chalten, Kevin took Denise up the Rio Blanco Trail to the Piedras Blancas Glacier overlook, while Pete and Nicki hiked to Laguna Torre with the intention of—maybe, hopefully—catching a glimpse of the elusive Cerro Torre. Since I had done both of these hikes already, I opted to explore the town… and maybe uncover the story behind the town hounds.

One young lady that I passed had a beautiful German shepherd striding at her side with no leash. When I asked if it was hers, she eyed me suspiciously, like “Who wants to know?” She relaxed when I explained that I was curious about all the dogs and was taking photographs of them. Yes, the dog was hers. She explained something else in broken English that possibly implied that none of the dogs were strays: they belonged to everyone, or the town, or something to that effect—which makes them legitimate citizens of Chalten, I suppose. Every one that I came across was friendly. They approached you with a big grin and a wagging tail, like they were running for mayor and wanted to shake your hand and say “Vote for me, and while you’re at it, scratch me behind the ear.” 

But then a different picture emerged as I talked to shopkeepers, hotel desk clerks, even the sergeant at the police station. They summarized it as: “We have a dog problem.” One shopkeeper complained about the poop. A restaurant owner complained that dogs would get into his trash out back, and then the wind would blow it all over town. There are no neutering requirements or leash laws. At the police station, I got the lowdown on what happens when winter comes and all the tourists and half the residents leave town. With their food supply vastly diminished, hungry canines prey on the wildlife in the surrounding hills—the very same wildlife that Los Glaciares NP rangers have been tasked to protect. “It’s a mess,” one hotel manager lamented to me.

But it’s the lazy days of summer right now, when “Man’s Best Friend” is lounging in the shade, or on the front lawn or doorway of a shop. Now and again tourists stop to pet them. One particular collie rolled onto his back so he could get his belly scratched. So until winter comes, it’s a dog’s life in Chalten.

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AN AFTERNOON AT THE MADSEN RANCH
Andreas Madsen came into this world in 1881, growing up in a coastal hamlet in Denmark. His was a tempestuous childhood of family struggle and poverty, and at the age of fifteen, he jumped aboard a merchant ship and fled to the high seas. He lived the roving life of a merchant marine for several years before landing in Buenos Aires in 1901, where he signed on with the newly-formed Boundary Commission. The next thing Andreas knew, he was in the Patagonian Andes as camp cook for a survey team that was tasked with demarcating the Chilean-Argentine border. Over the next decade, he would pick up and hone various skills in the Viedma and San Martin Lakes region, working as a mountain guide, horse wrangler, puma hunter, boat pilot and river explorer. In 1912, at the age of thirty-one, he returned to Denmark and married his teenage sweetheart, and soon after, went back to Patagonia with his bride and homesteaded a sector of rugged land—50,000 acres—that was granted to him by the Argentine government for his services with the Boundary Commission. He built a cabin on the Vueltas River with a magnificent view of Cerro Fitz Roy (which was part of the land granted to him), and in this remote alpine paradise, he and his wife would raise their four children. Two of their sons, Fitz Roy and Peter, would become the first rangers of Los Glaciares National Park after it was formed.

  The Madsen family, circa 1930s. L-R: Peter, Fitz Roy, Richard, Steffany, Anna and Andreas.

I had read about Andreas Madsen just before our trip, and his story intrigued me. A poor Danish boy runs away from home and leads a life of adventure in Patagonia, eventually to marry and raise his family in spectacular country that is now a National Park. The day we checked into Anita’s cottage, I had spotted the pamphlets on the counter in her office that advertised tours of the Madsen ranch, formally known as Casco de La Estancia Cerro Fitz Roy. When I asked if any of the family still lived in the area, she said yes, there was a great-grandson—or at least that’s what I thought she conveyed, but her answer might’ve been lost in translation. At any rate, she said the ranch was worth a visit if I had the time. And I did have the time on our last day in town.

The tour started at three o’clock, and Anita had advised me to not be late. She gave me directions to the meeting place, which was directly across the Vueltas River from town, at the end of the bridge that spanned it. Just wait there, she said. It was a short walk. I got there early and sat on the leeward side of a big boulder, where the river hugs close to a 300-foot high rock cliff. Naturally I started scoping out the granite walls, looking for potential lines of ascent, since it all looked very climbable. It didn’t take long before a subtle, metallic glint caught my eye. A bolt! And another one! There were established sport routes all along here!

Vueltas River

I was so preoccupied with ogling routes that I didn’t notice the other people who had gathered at the end of the bridge, six in all. At three o’clock sharp, a man on a bicycle pedaled across the bridge and parked his ride under a nearby tree. Our docent had arrived. He was lean and fit, and looked vaguely familiar, like I’d seen him before. He was fluently bilingual, so as we walked down the dirt track to the ranch, he would first give his presentation to the other visitors in Spanish, and then walk with me and reiterate in English. It was on this mile-long stretch to the ranch house where I mentioned that I’d been told Andreas Madsen might have a great-grandson living in town. He stopped and looked at me.

 “That’s me,” he said. “I’m Fitz Roy Madsen.”

It was like striking gold. Our docent, who went by the name Roy, was a direct descendant of the pioneer who had settled this land over a century ago. And Roy’s grandfather, Peter, had been one of the first Los Glaciares park rangers. It didn’t get any better than this.

Roy Madsen and me at La Estancia Cerro Fitz Roy.  

The red, single-story house stood in a copse of giant poplar and redwood trees that had been planted long ago by Andreas’ wife, Steffany. Out back, on a rise overlooking the house and river, was a small family cemetery. Inside the house, Roy led us from room to room, weaving a thrilling yarn of history and events that were right out of a Jack London novel, substituting the Alaskan outback for Patagonia. Roy brewed some espresso and mate, and then we sat at the dining room table for a solid hour, listening to pioneer lore while leafing through the weather diaries and journals that Andreas had meticulously kept. Since the town of Chalten didn’t exist at the time, Andreas hosted many of the early alpinists who had come to make first ascents: Maestri; Egger; Terray; Magnone; Comesaña; Fonrouge… They had all sat in the dining room where we were sitting, sharing a meal with the Madsens. (If walls could only talk.)

While Roy conversed in Spanish with the others in the dining room, I wandered through the house and gave the old family photographs on the walls a closer look. That’s when it struck me why Roy had looked so familiar when we first met: He looked like his great-grandfather! Their resemblance was amazing. 

The ranch house today. (El Chalten across river in the distance.)

Ranch house in 1918. (photo provided by Roy Madsen)

Andreas' resting place in the family cemetery.

Roy sharing family lore in the dining room.

The government took back most of Andreas’ land when they created Los Glaciares National Park in 1937, leaving him with 185 prime acres along the Vueltas River where the ranch house is located. However, much of that prime acreage is now entangled in a legal dispute, to which Roy is leading the fight. It appears that unscrupulous bureaucrats transferred title of the Madsen parcels to their own family members many years ago—even though Roy has legal documents showing that the land belongs to the Madsen estate. He has been battling tenaciously, piece by piece, to get it all back.

Roy and I chatted a great deal on the walk back to the town bridge. His temperament is just as dauntless and complex as his great-grandfather’s. He’s an engineer; father; world traveler; rock climber; saxophone player... and has a deep passion for his family heritage. We shook hands at the bridge.

 “If you get down this way again, we’ll go climbing,” he told me. “You can stay at the ranch.”

You know, I might take him up on that.

Climbing routes galore, five minutes from the front porch!

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ADIÓS, MIS AMIGOS

I was walking up the dirt street that led to Pete and Nicki’s apartment, my head reeling from a wonderful day of photographing dogs and hanging out with Roy Madsen, when up ahead, I spotted our dusty Renault bearing down on me. Kevin was at the wheel. Denise was riding shotgun with Team Belfast in the back seat. I put my thumb out to hitch a ride, and luckily they stopped for me.

“Where the hell have you been?” they wanted to know. “It’s six-thirty. Happy hour, for Jaysus sake.”

I jumped in the car and off we went.

It was our last night in Chalten. In the morning, we would be starting back south, while Pete and Nicki would fly on to Buenos Aires for the next leg of their trip. To celebrate, we started with chips and beer on the rooftop patio of a saloon, where Nicki got into an altercation with the bar manager over the bill. She and Pete had insisted they pick up the tab, but when the manager charged them full price for the drinks instead of the half-price happy hour special, a “discussion” ensued with Nicki not backing down. The manager threatened to call the police. Nicki handed him her phone and said: “Okay, call ‘em.” He folded right away, and Pete completed the transaction—at happy hour prices—with the suave tact of a legal counseler. No wait… He is a legal counseler.

In the morning, we rolled out of bed to dazzling bluebird skies. Not a cloud anywhere! Thirteen days in Patagonia, and we had never seen it so crystal clear. And alas, there was Cerro Torre! If there were any climbing teams at its base, they would’ve launched a summit bid during the night, and by now, would be high on the spire. That was the game here: wait for the weather window, and then go fast and light.

Kevin dropped Pete and Nicki off at the bus station bright and early, and we left town a couple hours later. We had 180 miles of highway to cover to reach the Moreno Glacier, our objective for the afternoon. In the rearview mirror, the Fitz Roy cordillera slowly shrank on the horizon. Bittersweet it was, leaving it all behind. Denise made herself comfortable in the back seat. We were on the road again.

Leaving El Chalten.

Cerro Torre!

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EL CALAFATE

It is said that if you eat the berries of the calafate bush, you are destined to return to Patagonia. (I didn’t eat any berries from the bush—they weren’t ripe yet—but I did drink a calafate pisco and spread calafate jam on my toast one morning. Does that count?) The Tehuelches had long utilized the berries for food and medicinal purposes, the thorny berberis microphylla common to the region due to its resistance to strong winds, drought, and extreme temperatures. With the arrival of Europeans, it was the plant’s tenacity to survive in adverse conditions that prompted the supply/trading outpost on the south shore of Lake Argentino to be called El Calafate. A few dozen people lived here in the 1920s, most of them in the wool trade. Today the town has swelled to 20,000, tourism being the economic driver now. The headquarters of Los Glaciares National Park is here. There’s even has a small international airport.

El Calafate.

We stopped in town long enough for lunch and a quick browse of the Los Glaciares Visitors Center. Then we headed straight out to the star attraction of the area: the Moreno Glacier. It’s named after Francisco “Perito” Moreno, the explorer/scientist who put Cerro Fitz Roy on a map, led the Boundary Commission (and hired Andreas Madsen), and is considered the father of Argentina’s national park system. Getting there was a 48-mile drive along Lake Argentino, the scenery vast and easy on the eye.

The road ends at the glacier terminus, where one can then wander along various trails and elevated walkways to view the spectacle from different angles. The Moreno Glacier is three miles wide and nineteen miles long, about the same area size as Grey Glacier in Torres del Paine, but twice as thick. What makes Moreno unusual is that it’s one of the three (out of 48) glaciers fed by the massive Southern Patagonian Ice Field that it is not retreating. In fact, the flow of ice creeping down has increased, currently at a rate of about 6½ feet per day. Since the glacier terminus remains in roughly the same position, that means 2,400 linear feet of ice calves into Lake Argentino every year, some of the chunks up to two hundred feet tall.

This same ice dynamic also pushes the glacier over the outlet between Lakes Argentino and Brazo Rico and acts like a dam. With no outlet, the water level on Brazo Rico begins to rise, sometimes as much as sixty feet above the level of Argentino. The increasing pressure from this head of water eventually causes a spectacular breach of the ice dam, resulting in an outpouring of water into Lake Argentino until the levels of the two lakes equalize. This dam-rupture cycle recurs naturally every two to four years (the most recent one occurred two months after our visit).

   

   

  

   

Back in Calafate, we checked into our little bungalow in the hills above town (which took ages to find because there are no street signs in the hills above town), and then we headed downtown for a late supper. Once again, Kev used clairvoyant powers (Yelp and an iPhone) to find us the best beer tap in town. It was called La Zorra. You know a place is good when it’s packed with locals. All the tables were taken, but a young man offered to share his with us. His name was Tomas. He was a guide at one of the eco-tour outfits in town, an engaging lad and good company. Beer, ribs, and hanging out with the local crowd… What more could you ask for?

Calafate is a vivacious town at night, even at ten o’clock. People strolled along the boulevard, peering into shop windows or chatting with friends on a street corner. A few blocks down, we ducked into an ice cream parlor for dessert. It seemed appropriate: We had started the afternoon with a giant glacier, and would end the day with an ice cream cone.

Good times at La Zorra.

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WHERE IT ALL BEGAN

The morning of Day 15 brought sapphire skies and a scrim of high clouds. We ate breakfast and relished the view of Lake Argentino in the distance, finding it hard to believe that in thirty-four hours we would be on a plane for home. Packing up, my momentum seemed to be lagging a bit. Road-weary maybe? Naww. 

Our bungalow in El Calafate.

We had three hundred miles of highway ahead of us to make Punta Arenas. I took the first stint at the wheel, leaving Calafate and Lake Argentino behind and roving south down Route 40. In Esperanza, which is nothing more than a truck stop at the highway fork to Rio Gallegos on the Atlantic coast, we gassed up and kept moving south. The Torres del Paine cordillera beckoned far to the west, a distant a ship on an otherwise flat horizon. But we carried on southbound, along the Turbio River, a valley of cattle and verdant pastures. It was all so serene. There was no denying that I’d fallen captive to the boundless and desolate beauty of this land, where time and space are nearly immeasurable.

At the coal-mining/power plant town of Rio Turbio, we cut up to Dorotea Pass (a small ski resort here) and crossed back into Chile. We had the border-crossing routine wired by now, and skated through without a hitch.

“Welcome to Chile,” the customs agent said as he handed back our passports.

Menacing clouds and then rain met us on the flat plains of Laguna Blanca, the windshield wipers sporadically working overtime. We were in and out of showers for the remainder of the drive. But at the end of a long day, the Magellan Strait came into view and the sun broke free to dance on its surface. We were back.

In Punta Arenas we made our way to the harbor, where Kevin had secured a one-bedroom apartment for the night. I took the fold-out couch in the living room. We were famished, and once settled in, had no trouble finding Restaurante La Luna on foot, where the table on the ceiling was taken. Afterwards we sought out the Shackelton Bar for the evening finale—because after all, the Shackelton was where it all began. Glenfiddich. Neat. Water back.

Median park along Avenida Cristobal Colon, Punta Arenas.

Back at the Shackelton Bar.

Our flight home didn’t leave until 5:30 pm the following day, so we had all morning and early afternoon to knock around town and catch some of the sights we didn’t see on the front end of the trip. We had breakfast at the Wake-Up Café—the best coffee house in town, across the street from the police station. We shopped for more souvenirs on the waterfront, where Kev bought Denise a ring and proposed to her right then and there. Dee insisted that I take a photo. And then, with the prenuptials out of the way (never mind that they’ve been married for 32 years), we toured the Braun-Menéndez Museum, housed in the opulent Menéndez Mansion where one can get a glimpse of how the city’s trade barons lived a century ago. 

Living proof.

Chandelier in Menéndez Mansion

The very last thing that we did was drive up to Cerro de La Cruz, which overlooks the city and the Strait. By now the morning overcast had burned off and the sun was shining bright. It was an immaculate afternoon at the edge of the world. Denise asked a tourist standing nearby if he would take our photo. And then, with the snap of a camera shutter, the trip was over.

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BY THE NUMBERS...

We spent sixteen days on the ground in Patagonia, putting fifteen hundred miles on the rental car and hiking over eighty miles of trails. We also traveled twenty-five miles in the Magellan Strait in a motor launch.

Punta Arenas has the most to provide in services, accommodations, etc. There is not another city of this size in six hundred miles. Puerto Natales is the gateway town for Torres del Paine Nat’l Park, and El Calafate is the hub for getting to Las Glaciares Nat’l Park and El Chalten. There are no services, markets, or stores in Torres del Paine NP, so buy everything you need in Puerto Natales before driving the fifty miles out to the Park. 

Chile’s Route 9 and Argentina’s Route 40 are both fully paved and in great shape. The spur road from Route 40 to El Chalten is paved as well. The road leading to Torres del Paine NP is in the process of being paved (we had to detour around a section that was torn up), but the interior roads of the Park are still graded dirt and become dusty and bumpy with traffic. Also, it is not uncommon to come across sheep, cattle or guanacos crossing the highway. Driver beware. Also, plan your refueling stops ahead of time, as there are not many gas stations once you leave Punta Arenas.

BEST FOOD & DRINK...
Shackelton Bar, Punta Arenas
Los Argentinos, Punta Arenas
Wake-Up Café, Punta Arenas
El Muro, El Chalten
La Zorra, El Calafate

BEST HIKES...
Valle Francés, Torres del Paine NP (12 miles)
Mirador Base Las Torres, Torres del Paine NP (12 miles)
Laguna Cerro Torre, Las Glaciares NP (15 miles) 
Laguna de Los Tres via Rio Blanco Trail, Las Glaciares NP (16 miles)

LAST BUT NOT LEAST...
I would like to acknowledge Nicki Clarke, Peter McGettrick, Fitz Roy Madsen, and Juan Luis Mattassi for the life, color, and inspiration that they added to the journey. It wouldn’t have been the same trip without them. And lastly, many big thanks to Kevin and Denise Feldman for allowing me to tag along on their adventure. Kevin did all the planning and lodging arrangements, and it played out perfect. Kevin taught me that everything works out in the end. Denise taught me to beware the Selk’nam sorceress.



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PART ONE      PART TWO      PART THREE

On the Road in Patagonia - Part 3

In the previous episode, our dauntless adventurers had spent numerous days exploring the wilds of Chile’s Torres del Paine National Park, where they had run with the guanacos; risked being eaten by pumas; eluded the spell of a Selk’nam sorceress; were formally introduced to Patagonia’s hellacious wind; and had met a sweet Irish couple who could match their proclivity for hiking and whiskey-drinking. But they are only now halfway through their trip. More awaits, just across the border. Next stop: Argentina.

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BIG SKY COUNTRY
The morning that we departed Torres del Paine National Park was the sunniest we’d had all week. And after all the hiking sorties we had done, it felt good to have a “road trip” day of driving, listening to tunes on the stereo and sightseeing out the windows. We were eastbound, past herds of guanacos and the sparkling green waters of Sarmiento and Toro Lakes, and then up to the Argentine border at Don Guillermo Pass. Today was to be our “border crossing” day, and I was banking that it would go smoothly. It would be a first for me (crossing into Mexico and Canada don’t count).

Hotel Las Torres

Leaving Torres del Paine Nat'l Park. 

Guanaco crossing.

The Chilean customs house sits right on the pass, and we parked the car out front and wandered into the building, studying a multitude of signs in Spanish to ascertain the process for crossing an international border in the boondocks. After standing five minutes in the wrong line, we were civilly directed to the proper one—a longer line—and we started over. There was a procedural learning curve to all this, but I felt prepared when it came time to produce our rental car paperwork. These documents are paramount for a successful border crossing, or so I had read while looking into securing the car. I had come across internet posts by angry, international travelers who were turned around at the Chilean-Argentine border because they didn’t have the proper documents from the rental company (which take up to thirty days to process!). When I passed the papers across to the agent behind the window, he meticulously checked our passports with the rental car docs to assure all of the info matched. And everything looked okay… until it wasn’t. He seemed to be searching for something and couldn’t find it.

“Necesito el registro,” the agent said to me.

Huh? For a moment I panicked. Was the paperwork screwed up?

“Registro de vehículo,” he tried again, pointing to the cars parked out front.

Vehicle registration! Si! I dashed out and fished it from the glove box. Problem solved.

In due course we were back in the car and driving across the border… only to stop at the Argentine customs house a mile down the road and do it all again. This time I had the car registration in the packet. The agent scrutinized everything; made some data entries into his computer; stamped our passports; handed them back to us and said: “Welcome to Argentina.”

Most of Patagonia is in Argentina, and most of it is rolling steppes of scrub and grass stretching to the horizon, not a tree in sight. Towns are small and few. This is Big Sky country, where you find an occasional cattle ranch or sheep farm, called estancias, tucked into the leeward side of a hill to shelter it from the pervasive wind. Glacier-fed rivers meander like turquoise veins across the land, bringing life. It is South America’s version of our Wild West, where adventurous souls once ventured to find fortune or escape the law. In 1860 an eccentric Frenchman, Orélie-Antoine de Tounens, proclaimed himself King of Patagonia with full support of the indigenous Mapuche tribes. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid fled here in 1904 to evade U.S. marshals. They bought a 15,000-acre ranch and raised cattle for four years before the law caught up with them. The outlaws and Mapuche warriors are all gone today, but the wide open spaces remain unaltered.

Those wide open spaces made me a little anxious as we drove deeper into the steppes, for we had left that morning with only a partial tank of gas. There are no filling stations in Torres del Paine. Puerto Natales is the closest town to get gas, but it was in the opposite direction of where we were heading. So we had talked the hotel staff into selling us ten liters from their private supply which, hopefully, would get us to the next gas station down the road somewhere. The desk clerk had said it would be Esperanza, eighty miles past the border. It was going to be close: a good wager if I were a betting man.

Sheep on the move.

As it turned out, we didn’t have to push our luck too far. We came across a gas station thirty minutes up Argentina’s Route 40, across the road from a small estancia called Tapi Aike, two buildings and a couple of pumps in the middle of nowhere (my road map indicated a station here, but the hotel desk clerk had insisted it didn’t exist). The sign on the pump said no credit cards, cash only—and we didn’t have any Argentine pesos. But that wasn’t a problem: the station owner took U.S. dollars.

With a full tank of gas we continued north, crossing the Santa Cruz River and along the east shore of Lake Argentina, a glimmering sheet of topaz in the afternoon sun. We had been driving for two and half hours when we came around a bend and saw ragged peaks on the distant horizon. I estimated them to be around twenty miles away, but I was wrong. It was more like SIXTY miles. Ever so slowly they grew in size, and the closer and larger they got, the more excited I became. Climbers know it well: the Fitz Roy Skyline. And after all of the photographs I’d seen of those peaks in climbing mags over the years… they were now right in front of me, filling the windshield.

  

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EL CHALTEN
The Tehuelches called it Chalten, which means “smoking mountain.” The near-perpetual “smoke”, however, is actually clouds, formed when moisture in the westerly winds condense over the Southern Patagonian Ice Field and crash into the mountain like a tsunami. Being the tallest peak in the range (11,171 ft), it caught the eye of Argentine explorer Francisco Moreno during his 1877 survey expedition. He named it Fitz Roy, in honor of Captain Robert FitzRoy of the HMS Beagle. Chilean and Argentine cartographers thus labeled the peak Fitz Roy in their mapping efforts of the next three decades. But the Tehuelches continued to call it Chalten.

For over a century both Chile and Argentina had claimed sovereignty to the territory around these mountains, and even today the dispute hasn’t been completely resolved (on Google Maps, note the Chilean-Argentine border south of Cerro Fitz Roy is left blank for about forty miles). In 1985, to solidify their claim, the Argentine government established a small settlement just east of Fitz Roy on the Vueltas River. They built a police and fire station, a school, and housing for a dozen or so families. Then they gave the town a name: El Chalten. Today around 1,600 people live here during the tourist season (Dec thru Apr) and more coming every year. The town is literally surrounded by Los Glaciares National Park, a cornucopia of mountains, glaciers, alpine lakes and rivers. I couldn’t wait to get at them. 

El Chalten and the Fitz Roy Skyline

El Chalten

We rolled into El Chalten at the end of the day. Kevin had secured a two-bedroom cottage apartment behind a chocolate shop that would become our base of operations for the next few days. Our landlady, Anita, was a tall, striking woman who wore LaSportiva approach shoes and got us settled into our place. Her husband, Leo, ran the chocolate shop up front, his specialty being homemade alfajores. Their children were playing soccer with other kids in the back yard. I tried to get in on the game, but was woefully outmatched. Young whippersnappers.

Later we strolled down the main drag to find a place for dinner. The street was lined with small restaurants and cantinas, all of them bustling with patrons. Three young backpackers, shouldering heavy loads, marched past us on the sidewalk, followed by a middle-aged couple walking their dog (more on the dogs later). There was a whole different vibe here than at Torres del Paine. You could feel the vivacity like an electric current. Big mountains beckoned at the edge of town—and a frontier town at that. There are two markets here, and a small bank with an ATM to get pesos—until the machine runs dry (usually by late morning). There is one gas station; a couple of pharmacies; a police and fire station; a medical clinic... If you need more than that, you drive 130 miles to El Calafate. It’s the price you pay for living in an untamed paradise.

Our home at Anita's Place.

Out for an evening stroll.

Mi Viejo Nando was our choice for dinner, a few blocks down from where we were staying. Kevin ordered a good bottle of Argentine Malbec from the Mendoza region. I ordered up a steak… and was flabbergasted. Wow. It was probably one of the best—if not THE best—steak I’d ever eaten (at the least, tied with Doe’s Eat Place in Greenville, Mississippi). I’d heard the stories about beef from Argentina, and I’m here to tell you the stories are true. The cattle graze on pure pampas grass with no grain or hormones pumped into their diet, living under a big blue sky… It was the Wild West all over again. Like it should be.

  

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OBSCURED BY CLOUDS
At an elevation of 10,264 feet, Cerro Torre is only the eighth-highest peak in the Patagonian Andes. But from a mountaineer’s perspective, its story is steeped in melodrama and controversy like no other. The colossal spire soars four thousand feet above the glacier, sheathed in ice and battered by storms on a regular basis, and was called the “Impossible Mountain” for many years due to the long string of climbers who had failed to gain its summit. It’s big. It’s steep. The weather is usually awful. Alpinist/writer Greg Crouch once said that getting caught on this tower in a bad storm was akin to being mauled by a rabid dog.

So it came with much applause in 1959 when Italian alpinist, Cesare Maestri, claimed that he and his partner, Toni Egger, had climbed to the summit of Cerro Torre. Or had they? Only Maestri returned, reporting that Egger had fallen to his death on the descent, along with the camera and summit photos. In the ensuing years other teams made attempts at the summit, and all failed, leading some to suspect that maybe Maestri had never succeeded either. In 1970, Maestri returned to set the record straight, choosing a different line up the monster. The climb’s final headwall was as tall and sheer as an 80-story skyscraper, and for this he brought a secret weapon—a gasoline-powered air compressor. With this 200-pound beast, he was able to drill at a wholesale rate and install a line of bolts straight up the wall—only to retreat two hundred feet from the summit! So close. But close only counts when playing horseshoes or throwing hand grenades, so a substantiated first ascent would remain lost in the clouds. Furthermore, the use of a compressor to drill hundreds of bolt holes sparked a firestorm in alpinist circles, prompting Reinhold Messner’s manifesto The Murder of the Impossible.

It wasn’t until 1974 that an undisputed first ascent was made by Italians Daniele Chiappa, Mario Conti, Casimiro Ferrari and Pino Negri via the Ragni Route up the west face. As for Maestri’s bolt-fest up the southeast side—infamously known as the Compressor Route—it finally saw a successful summit bid by Americans Jim Bridwell and Steve Brewer in 1979. This route, with the rusty compressor still hanging from the upper wall, would become the most popular line up Cerro Torre. That is, until six years ago, when a Canadian-American duo chopped all the bolts on their descent from the summit, which prompted yet another firestorm over ethics, artistic expression and fascism. The route sees little traffic now. To date, only two or three parties have been able to climb it without the bolt ladders. 

The infamous compressor. (photo by Lincoln Else)

David Lama on first free ascent of the Compressor Route in 2012. (photo by Lincoln Else)

One of my reasons for going to Patagonia was to see this iconic tower up close, and Kevin and I chose it for our first hiking day in El Chalten. It was 7½ miles up to Laguna Torre (as close as you can get without an ice axe and crampons), and the trail started right at the edge of town and ascended without delay into the foothills. The morning was mostly cloudy with hints of sunshine to come—or at least that’s what we were hoping. After an hour of hiking, we reached the overlook where one can catch their first glimpse of Cerro Torre at the head of the Fitz Roy River valley. But there was nothing to see: the high peaks were all socked in. So we continued on, dropping down to the river and following it upstream.

In an old-growth beech forest we came upon three German climbers who were loping down the trail with full packs. They had just spent a week at the base of Cerro Torre, hunkered down in their tent to wait out the high winds, sleet and snow in near-whiteout conditions. The rock was sheathed in ice; food and fuel were running low. Finally they decided to bail. I tried to shine a little encouragement on their beleaguered state, saying that all they needed was a resupply run into town; a little rest; a hot shower. Then they could head back up when the weather improved and give it another shot. One of them smiled and shook his head: “No. We’re done.”

Fitz Roy Valley with Cerro Torre lost in the clouds.

Kevin chats with a German climber.

Beech forest along Fitz Roy River.

When we reached Laguna Torre at noon, all the high peaks were still cloaked behind a curtain of mist and clouds. We settled into a comfortable nook in the rocks on the lake shore, eating our lunch in solitude, only a handful of hikers coming and going. Certainly the clouds would eventually burn off and reveal the spire. Right? After an hour the clouds began to lift, ever so slowly, exposing the glacier that skirted the base of the tower, and then the lower ramparts of stone and snowy ledges came into view... But that was as good as it got. After two hours of waiting, the upper two-thirds of the monolith were still hidden from us. And we couldn’t wait any longer. It was time to go.

As we trekked down along the rushing waters of the Fitz Roy River, I kept peeking over my shoulder to see if the tower had decided to reveal itself. It never did. At a stream crossing we met two Canadian climbers who were heading up, fresh and energized, nine-millimeter alpine ropes and crampons lashed neatly to the tops of their packs. They eyed the cloud buildup dubiously, yet retained an astute dose of optimism and can-do savvy. We wished them all the best. But as Kev and I had witnessed, the weather calls the shots on Cerro Torre.

At Laguna Torre, waiting for the clouds to lift.

Heading back to El Chalten.

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FINDING OUR GROOVE & THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
It rained all night after the Laguna Torre hike. In the morning it drizzled, a cold wind sweeping down the valley that would compel anyone to lose interest in going hiking. This made it a great day for souvenir hunting, and Denise had already cased out the shops, making my job easier. Chalten has one main drag—San Martin Avenue—so it didn’t take long for us to get the lay of the land. After shopping, it was time to grab lunch, so we stopped in at a bistro at the top of San Martin called El Muro. It means “The Wall”, which refers to the two-story, overhanging climbing wall on the outside of the building. Inside, Argentine alt-rock filled the room and vintage ski and climbing paraphernalia adorned the walls. The bohemian flair was well suited for this town.

We were just finishing lunch when Kevin got the text message from Pete and Nicki: They had just arrived in town. Four days had passed since we last saw our Irish friends in Torres del Paine. They had since taken a bus into Argentina, first to El Calafate, and then to Chalten where they secured an apartment not far from where we were staying. The good chemistry we had felt with them in Chile had endured, and we picked up right where we left off when we got together again. Their quick wit and humor was second to none—what the Irish call “having the craic”. Pete had been a criminal defense lawyer back in Belfast, and Nicki had worked for the government (Pete suspects she was an international spy, but she won’t cop to it because then she’d have to kill him). But then one day, about a year ago, both of them up and quit their jobs and moved to Peru, where they volunteered at a school in a poor neighborhood of Lima. Now they were on “summer vacation”, traveling through the hinterlands of South America.

The view from Mirador de Los Cóndores.

We hit the town with Team Belfast that night. Our Arts & Culture Director, Denise, had made reservations at an artsy café/hostel that showcased live Argentine folk music, and we waded into a crowded room of mostly locals who had come to watch three talented musicians perform. There was no place left to sit, except for an empty couch and sofa chair directly in front of the stage—and on the seats were hand-written notes that said “RESERVADO PARA DENISE.” I don’t know how she pulled it off. We purchased some bottles of wine, kicked back, and enjoyed some superb music, like we were being entertained in our own living room.

The night was still young when the show ended (translation: It’s nine o’clock and it’s broad daylight), so we sought out a restaurant called Ruca Mahuida where pizza is their specialty. The place was rocking when we walked in, over half the tables shoved together to accommodate a large contingent of the Italian Alpine Club. Good cheer, wine, and ale flowed freely. One of the Italian alpinists, who told me he had cut his teeth on the limestone walls of the Dolomites and that Walter Bonatti was a god, waltzed across the room with the waitress, singing and twirling through the chaos and into the kitchen. It was one of those nights.

Front row seats at Kaulem's Hosteria & Gallery.

In the morning, Kevin discovered that his wallet was missing. He and Denise had turned our cottage upside down searching for it. The car, too. Nothing. He then drove to the Ruca Mahuida, knowing that he had it when he paid the dinner tab last night. Nope. Not there, either. Our landlady, Anita, suggested that he check the police station—it was a long shot, but what the heck. As he was driving there, Anita called the station and explained the circumstances, and she was still on the phone with the desk sergeant when Kevin walked in.

“Debes ser Kevin,” the officer said as he handed him his wallet.

Talk about luck. A small wad of pesos was missing, but everything else was there. Taking it as a good omen, we picked up Pete and Nicki in our trusty dusty Renault and rattled our way up the Vueltas River for some hiking and sightseeing. One of our jaunts was a scenic loop up to Laguna Azul, where Pete and Nicki made some delicious sandwiches and passed them around (they had packed a complete deli!). We were almost back to the car when I realized that I’d lost my sunglasses. For the past mile of bounding down the trail, I had propped them on my head, the temples tucked under my fleece headband, but somehow they’d popped off. Right away I turned around and retraced our steps, scanning the grass and shrubs on both sides. I knew it would be like finding a needle in a haystack, but I had just bought them before the trip (because I lost the last pair the same way). And guess what? I found them in a bush! That’s when I realized that maybe Pete and Nicki were bringing us good luck. They were our four leaf clover. 

Only one at a time across the footbridges.

Lake Azul.  

Lining up the next shot.

Cerro Fitz Roy from Lake Azul.

We invited them to our place that night for dinner. A pot luck (no pun intended). We had leftovers from a pasta meal that Denise had cooked up two nights earlier, and Pete and Nicki brought half a pizza left over from last night’s meal at Ruca Mahuida. Plus wine... and the last of Denise’s whiskey, the same bottle she had opened that first night in Punta Arenas. Outside, a wind-driven rain pattered against the side of the house as we laughed and bantered in the kitchen over a rollicking game of cards. We had found our groove in El Chalten.

     

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LAGOON OF THE THREE
Even with the bleak skies and spatters of rain during breakfast, we were committed to hiking up to Laguna de Los Tres. This was the premier hike of the area and we only had two days left to get it done. If we got hosed by foul weather today, we could always try again tomorrow—unless things got worse. It IS Patagonia. Denise opted out, so it would be Kev, me, and Team Belfast going for it.

The main trailhead for Laguna de Los Tres starts right in town, and that’s the way most people do it. We, however, had a car. That allowed us to drive twenty minutes up the Vueltas River valley to the north end of Los Glaciares NP, and from there, take a less-traveled trail that would lead to the same objective. The hiking distance would be about the same (16 miles round trip), but the harder-to-reach trailhead would equate to more solitude, at least until it joined up with the other trail for the final climb to the lake.

The hike began on the banks of the Blanco River, at the end of a dirt road that led to a quaint little inn called El Pilar  In fact the trail started right in front of the inn’s dining room windows, which faced onto the river and high country. Hurrying past a couple inside who were eating breakfast, we were soon engulfed in a luxurious forest of old-growth lenga, a strong wind rustling through the big trees, heavy branches creaking with every gust. Once again, we got lucky with the weather as the damp, icy morning progressed into a fine day of partly sunny skies, and even the wind settled down. And as we had hoped, the Rio Blanco Trail was secluded, no traffic, and the view of the Piedras Blancas Glacier across the valley was utterly spectacular.

Start of the Rio Blanco Trail.

Piedras Blancas Glacier.

We stopped for lunch near Poincenot Camp, enjoying a tantalizing view of Cerro Fitz Roy poking above the ridge. We were getting close. Rested and re-energized, we crossed the Blanco River and trudged up a steep mountainside of switchbacks and sun-baked rock, well above timberline now, and when we crested that last barren ridge, the view took our breath away. The azure waters of Laguna de Los Tres glinted in the sun. And rearing up behind it was a fortress wall of jagged peaks, spires, and the imposing monolith of Cerro Fitz Roy itself, larger than life. Laguna de Los Tres—which means “Lagoon of the Three”—gets its name from the three highest peaks along the skyline: Fitz Roy, Poincenot, and Saint-Exupéry. I sat on a rock and marveled it. For a long time.

Two Frenchmen, Lionel Terray and Guido Magnone, were the first to climb Fitz Roy in 1952. The peak didn’t see another successful ascent for thirteen years (by Carlos Comesaña and José Fonrouge of Argentina), and a third ascent until 1968 when Yosemite hardman, Yvon Chouinard, led a team to the summit. Chouinard came away so enchanted with these mountains that he would use the Fitz Roy Skyline for the logo of his new company, Patagonia. Today, the Fitz Roy cordillera is the epicenter for serious alpine pursuits in the Patagonian Andes. And even if you’re not a climber, it’s hard not to sit there at Laguna de Los Tres and not feel the magic around you.

Poincenot Camp.

Almost there... (my cover-photo to Senior Outside Magazine)

Laguna de Los Tres.

Nicki lounged on a flat rock above the lake, soaking up the sun’s rays, while we gents scrambled along the shore to an incredible overlook of Laguna Secia far below. The scenery was simply mind-blowing in any direction you ventured to look. We spent over an hour absorbing it with body, mind, and spirit. Nobody wanted to leave. But alas, we shouldered our packs and started down to the real world. Or maybe I’ve got that backwards?

Cerro Fitz Roy on the right; Cerro Poincenot on the left.

For those wanting to get a better feel for the gravity and caliber of climbing in the Fitz Roy range: In 2014, two Americans, Tommy Caldwell and Alex Honnold, completed a stunning traverse of the entire Fitz Roy Skyline in one push, becoming the first to do it. You can watch a short but awesome trailer to the film that captured it HERE. Climbers like Tommy and Alex are among the best of the best. Just last week (June 6, 2018), they broke the speed record for climbing El Capitan in Yosemite Valley in one hour and fifty-eight minutes. No, that’s not a typo. That’s three thousand feet of vertical stone in… Under. Two. Hours.

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PART ONE      PART TWO      PART FOUR