¨Finding in ´primitive´languages a dearth of words for moral ideas, many people assumed these ideas did not exist, but the concepts of ´good´or ´beautiful´, so essential to Western thought, are meaningless unless they are rooted to things. The first speakers of a language took the raw materials of their surroundings and pressed it into metaphor to suggest abstract ideas. The Yaghan tongue-and by inference all language-proceeds as system of navigation. Named things are fixed points, aligned or compared, which allow the speaker to plot the next move.¨ IN PATAGONIA, by Bruce Chatwin
New Year´s Eve day Ben, Ilan and I prepared for a four day, three night trekking trip hiking over fifty miles in a less populated, find-the-trail-at-times, south-eastern part of Parque Nacional Los Glaciares, outside of El Chalten, in Patagonia, Argentina. Little did we know just exactly what we were preparing ourselves for.
Early in the day we went by the Ranger Station and met Alejandro (Alex), the head Ranger, for advice on where to go. He worked for years in Guadalupe National Park and a season back in 1987 in Glacier National Park in Montana and graduated from the U of M in Missoula, MT. He was a super-friendly, rough and raw around the edges, told-you-like-it-is Ranger, holding nothing back. He had eyes of intensity and laughter revealing all the beauty he has seen that now makes his soul home. Alex was a legit, down-to-earth, passionate ranger who hasn´t been changed by the Law Enforcement like ways of many sold out rangers in the U.S. west. You could tell he has seen and done a lot. We wanted to get away from the more touristy spots. Torre de Paine just south of here on the Chilean Patagonia border has been recently closed due to a fire accidentally started by some Israelis. He recommended his favorite hike with less people and lots of route-finding. He said, Ït is f------ amazing!¨ The trail was called, ¨The Huemul Loop¨.
The Huemul Loop is named after the huemul. The huemul is a native deer once was found abundant throughout the entire southern Andes, now ravaged by civilization (syphilization), and forest fires. The numbers of this graceful deer are now alarmingly low and the huemul is threatened with extinction. The huemul is a brown deer with a black snout and the males throw their two-branched antlers each year after mating. They are very agile with very acute hearing. There is an extensive program called ¨Proyecto Huemul´which aims to stabilize the current population and restore its numbers to sustainable levels.
After talking with him I met another Ranger named Juan, who worked trails in the Tetons. We began talking about trail work and the people we know. We both at one time worked for the legendary Don Sharlow down in Big Bend National Park in Texas. I name-dropped Rolando Garribotti, a man who lived in Argentina, but once worked in the Tetons, as well. He said that Rolando is one of his best friends and that he lived in town. I have been in contact with this guy for the last three years and he was going to fund me to fly down here and trade trail work for food and lodging a few years back. Unfortunately, the funding ran out. I had no idea I would be working in this magical place. He told me where he lived and I decided to stop by and introduce myself. I knocked on various doors and asked people in the streets where he lived because I did not understand the directions. Eventually, I rapped at his door and met him and his American girlfriend. Everybody knew him or of him. He is a world-class mountaineer, climber, guide and trail worker. He is super cool, friendly and very helpful in recommending hikes in Chilean and Argentina´s Patagonia. We were both glad to finally put a name with a face.
Meanwhile, later that night Ben, Ilan and I met up for drinks and our last steak dinner for a while at the local wineria. The last few days in town before this trip the sheen of clouds never revealed the true sheerness or majestic beauty of El Chalten (Mt Fitz Roy), with the three rock pillars of Cerro Torre standing like cold, monolithic stoney Indians.
After dinner, we partied the night away burning the wick at both ends. Everybody in town under forty-five migrated like flocks of birds to and from a hanger on the outskirts of town. Around two-thirty in the morning or three the local heavy-metal/punk/reggae/jam band ´Siete Venas del Monte´started. The crowd of two-hundred plus crammed together in this smallish building, cigarrettes and joints filled the air. Tourists, seasonal workers and few of the three hundred residents who call this place ¨home¨ danced and jammed the night away. Where did all of these people come from? Who knows, but the night was young in Argentinian time. The lead singer had a mohawk with mullet dreadlocks streaming down his back like a Wisconsin waterfall and rocked on his electric guitar. His haircut was a first that I have seen and the fact that he did not care was awesome! So many young and beautiful women came out of the woodwork to celebrate the coming year and the year´s past. So many young people in a town that solefully thrives off the boom and bust of its ecotourism and the beauty that allows it.
After sweating my ass off from dancing I walked outside into the cold early morning air as the first fingers of dawn were scratching the dark face of night. The sky was completely calm and clear of clouds, revealing the mythical grandeur of towering El Chalten, Cerro Torre and Cerro Sol. I was speechless, mesmerized and paralyzed by the beauty I have been patiently waiting for. Grabbing a girl named Kelly form Minnesota that I met earlier and danced with, we kissed sharing a magical moment. Ben, Ilan, Kelly and I walked back in silence after standing on the bridge for what seemed eternal. We all said our goodbyes, but Ben, Ilan and I said, ¨Let´s rally!¨ We all went our separate ways just to meet back up in a few hours after some much needed sleep. We woke and met in four hours greeting the late morning, but the coming new year with a trek from day one of 2012 to day four. Ben, Ilan and I met back up all haggard and tired, but ready and packed for our trip into the unknown at around ten a.m..
The day was warm and clear with not a cloud in sight, the breeze was slight, which is rare for Patagonia. All trekking begins in town from your hostel, no need for taxis, cars or automobiles. Unbelievable! We hiked out of town over Rio Fitz Roy, climbing up through a copper-colored, reddish-brown, rocky landscape resembling what I have been told looks like Mars. Green plants with barbs, spikes, claws and thorns sparsely grew close to the ground and were found abundant lining the edges of draws and creeks. Short, stout lenga trees, one the three southern Beech trees dominates the landscape with its small, round deciduous leaves and thick bark resembling Douglas Firs. These trees grow right up to timberline forming impenetrable thickets and at high altitude, lenga takes on an attractive ¨bonsai¨ appearance.
We stopped at numerous creek crossing drinking the clean, grayish-milky, white water bringing the pure goodness into our parched mouths and bodies. We hiked several miles before turning at a junction for ´Loma del Pliegue Tumbado¨. We stashed our packs, grabbing binoculars, camera and a snack for the summit. We jotted up to the top leading through a magical Lenga forest (perfect for pumas to rest in the arms of the canopy), climbing out of timberline up through alpine flowers like the pin cushion-like moss campion and alpine pussy-toes and other familiar high alpine plants until we were greeted by the sight of Cerro El Chalten. The towering overlord of Glacier National Park, Argentina. It is a mountain, unlike any other I have ever seen. Standing proud and tall with no ridgline leading into it, protruding upwards like a middle finger at 3405 meters or over 10,000 ft tall. Its grandeur combined with Cerro Torre and Cerro Sol and other peaks bespeaks, reeks and screams of myths, the land before time, where myth, fantasy and story coalesce and interweave like a DNA helix molecule. El Chalten is also the quintessential Patagonia and where the company Patagonia´s logo comes from I think. It is unreal and bit insane that this much beauty actually exists in one place. If OZ, Lord of the Rings and Narnia all came together in one place than this could be it or at least the inspiration for imagination to create such a fantasy realm.
Glaciers deeply set holding in place these stone monoliths wrap around the mountains like white wool scarfs protecting these god-like mountains from the ever-present screaming, fierce Patagonia winds. My oldest brother David, once said, ¨Glacier National Park in Montana is surreal and almost too beautiful,¨ well than this place is on the verge of insanity that brings tears to one´s eyes, a place enchanting and inviting but unruly like a red-headed step child, at the same time.
Jogging back down the mountain we grabbed our stashed packs, ate lunch and hiked for another four hours past moss-covered rocks, across clear, glass-like liquid streams, past cowpies and sun-bleached cow skeletons, under and through Lenga forests trying to decipher the trail from cow paths and trudged through wet, marshy meadows with sedges, white bog orchids and dandelions and other grasses, along with seasonal kettle ponds cached on the sides of meadows.
Breeching the top of the second mountain pass that day we overlooked Rio Tunel with its braided necklace-like stream resembling a river in the Brooks Range of Alaska´s wilderness without all the large mammals. Glaciares Rio Tunnel Inferior rests behind Lake Tunel Toro feeding the lake and river. We hiked through a forest of Lenga trees forming an umbrella-like canopy. Horse flies swarmed us, pestering our exposed skin for hunks of flesh. Bird´s song fluted throughout the forest. It reminded me of the land before the time of humans and before the time of dinosaurs, just water, rocks, plants, insects, lizards and birds. Two hours later we arrived at our first campsite at Lago Torre all ragged and wornout. The campsite was underneath a canopy of Lenga trees, with river in the foreground and a granite wall in the back.
That night we sauteed up garlic and onion then chopped up carrots, sweet potatoes stewing it with lentils and quinoa (a South American grain really high in protein). We shared a bottle of wine and sipped on Öld Smuggler¨ whiskey from a tin cup to keep warm. After the sun fell behind the western mountains the winds whip down the alley way of the river bottom, sucking cold wind off the glacier.
Going to bed early so we could rise early we broke down camp, drank coffee and ate energy bars. We began hiking by seven o´clock we had to ford a river before the water rose from glacier melt off. Moments after leaving camp we spotted a red fox (Zorro Culpeo) twenty feet above us and thirty feet away on the rocky face of the mountains toes. It showed no fear, calm, regal and stared at us from a comfortable distance. Obviously, it was habituated to humans at the campground and was eagerly waiting for the intruders to break down camp and leave, so it could go back to scavenging crumbs and hunting rodents, insects, birds and hares. We traversed around Lago Torre to the delta of Rio Tunel where the glacier run off forms the early stretches of the river and lake. Stripping down to boxers, putting on sandals with packs strapped to our backs, we slowly stepped into the barely above freezing, glacier-gray rushing current. Focusing one step at a time purposely placing each foot trying to find purchase on the silty bottom of the river. The water came up to our waists and was pulling fast. Screams left our mouths as we all made it one-by-one acrosss the headwaters of Rio Tunel. Whatever cells in our bodies were not awoken by the instant coffee was now fright with cold and wide awake.
We dried off, redressed, ate a snack and continued up a slot canyon, scrambling up rock boulders navigating the hard-to-find trail up towards Paso de Siento (windy pass). We had to get over it in the early morning. The legendary pass has been known to throw backpackers to the ground. For a pass to called windy pass in Patagonia then it must be terribly windy. On the way up the wind pushed us, threw us around, stopping us in our tracks forcing us to backstep. The trail was not highly maintained or manicured and a guides were recommended to everybody doing it.
We made it up and over the pass after struggling for several hours all uphill with hardly any switchbacks. Our calf muscles were screaming and knees were throbbing. The Narnia-like view of Glacier Viedma (Patagonias South Ice Field) haunted one´s soul from the top. The ice-field is the largest in the world outside of Antarctica covering over 650 sq. miles and is 220 miles long. Over forty-seven different glaciers feed into and make up the South Patagonia Ice Field. The heartbeat of the Earth pulsated through our veins. The life breath and source of life was right before our eyes. Water frozen in time, moving and receeding meters a day feeding much of the oceans, lakes, rivers and streams around the world. Water molecules from this vastness created clouds right before us. A whole entire valley filled with ice, a frozen mass of river slowly, not silent, slithered in time. Winds whipped and ripped off the glacier sucking water molecules into the dry air, forming clouds. Chunks of ice calved off the tip of the tongue of the glacier sounding like a jet-plane breaking the sound barrier, thundering and splashing into the Lake Viedma to our southeast. If the glacier was an open mouth, the tongue of it was wide open valley covered in white ice with mountain peaks as teeth surrounding the edges opening towards the sky. The red interior of the mouth and gums was a pure enamel white. Clouds of breath constantly rose from its mass. It was a frozen entity greater than anything I have witnessed. Our bodies being eighty percent water felt a connection to this place like a baby does to its mother. The womb of God giving birth to all that is layed before us in cracks and crevasses like swiss cheese resembling a freshly plowed field snaking its way, carving the mountain valley. The cradle of life is a glacier. Our bodies and hearts trembled in the sheer magnitude and beauty of such a being like seeing the face of God, if she had a face.
We picked our away down along the rocky cliffs through boulders the size of busses in a plantless landscape for several hours along and above the Great White Being. The trail or lack thereof continued to our next camp four hours later at Refugio Paso del Viento. It was a small pond nested and cradled in moraines with no trees but a nice flat green grassy ground to set up our tents on. The glacier was out of sight of the campground. Bugs were non-existent of this camp because there was not much plant life for them to subsist off of.
The last few days I felt like a Japanese tourist snapping pictures left and right but not being satisfied with the images that did not give the place justice. Andean Condors soared and sailed the skies with jet black frock-like coats resembling high priests of the sky with white tips on the wing feathers and white collars around their necks ever searching the landscape for death; the carcass of something to scavenge upon nourishing their lives with.
That night we ate the same meal, high in carbs and proteins just what our tired bodies craved and drank a Merlot and went to bed early, but slept until past nine. Our bodies were worked: knees, calves, thighs and feet were pulsating and throbbing like Edgar Allan Poe´s heart. Luckily before we went to bed we had a stretch session.
The next morning we were greeted by a glacial-gray day hanging over the valley. The rolling armada of clouds was high and visibility of mountains was still available. We found teh trail just past tehe edge of teh pond and slowly climbed up out of the pocket wher camp was tucked. We followed rolling north-facing, copper-colored hills. Sedges and other grasses grew in between the creases and folds of the mountains where a mountain stream flowed. The trail curved around the bottom edge of the mountain just above the ice field curving away and now facing west. More and more plants and streams poured forth, the landscape changed and a slight curtain of mist was draping the land. The landscape now a verdant green resembling Ireland or the Highlands of Scotland, so I have been told. Condors sailed the grey seas above like pirates seeking a bounty of carcasses, while bluish-gray finches (cometocinos) flew off the ground.
Step by step we trudged up the rock scree to thesaddle between Point Huemul and another mountain. Stairmaster 5000 kicked our ass. I think a good ol' fashion ass-kicking every now and again is essential to keep humans humble and no better place than in the mountains.
The rocky west face of Point Huemul is a known place where Andean Condors nest along inaccessible rock ledges; easy take off and protection from predators. Condors hav a wingspan of 8-10 feet larger than any bird outside of the wandering Albatross. They are a hideous-looking member of the vulture family and are adapted well for flight. Condors have a voracious appetite, a bird weighing 8-10 kg can eat an entire guanaco carcass in a week and live on carrion and rodents.
Traversing down the high mountain pass through Lenga trees the first trees we have seen in a few days. Luckily, the unmanicured trail was there, otherwise the forest would be impenetrable. At first the trees were short, stout, old trees growing close to the gorund called krumholtz. The further we went down the steepest trail I have ever hiked down (like Cut Bank trail in G.N.P. an old Indian trail x 2), the trees grew much taller, thicker and bigger. Herds of horseflies swarmed every part of our bodies seeking out salty sweat and hunks of meat. Every tree or branch we walked by stirred flies. Chilean flickers or Pitios flew off from tree trunks. A member of the woodpecker family with brownish-gray crowna nd a creamy-yellow face and upper neck with white and coffee colored bands to the rest of itś body. Our knees absorbing the brunt of our packs weighing 40lb. on steep terrain were in so much pain by the time the descent ended as if the very dust of the trail we were walking on was dust of peopleś knees grinding together in their very sockets. More and more life appeared as the trees got thicker: insects, birds, huemul, fox and puma tracks left in the dusty trail.
We ground-pounded our knees until we found the sweet relief of the valley floor, finishing the final trudge on flatground, green grass and along the turquoise grayish-green of Lago Viedma. More signs of animal and cattle nearer the lake we gained. Cattle grazed in this area before it was a park. The town of El Chalten has only been a town for 26 years, so the park probably slightly younger. The cattle still reside in the accessible sections and foothills of the park.
That night we ate our third and last meal of lentils for awhile and finished our last bottle of wine. We camped in a dried out seasonal pond along a peninsula fingering out into Lago Viedma. Woke to a sunriseof tangerine-orange, mauve and violet causing the sky to blush at the first kiss of the dawning sun. Clouds were pregnant with rain coloriing the sky red in morning, sailors take warning. The layers of cloud rolled in all morning just to be pulled back like the tide by eleven oćlock The angry, hot fury of the raging sun burned with a vengeance and no shade to be found. We climbed rolling waves of hills up to the pass mostly without the help or guidance of a trail. Different plants and grasses left seeds atttached to our socks, pants and leg hairs clinging iwth tiny barbs, spurs and claws. Leange trees advanced from the timberline down to the edge of the grasslands to greet us with shade.
We snacked and hid in the shade and shared our access food with Ben who did not bring enough. He is a gluton-free Itlalian who cant eat pasta, bread or granola bars or many other things, but was able to eat some of the kindness offered. We descended the rolling hills down and around the beached whale of the mountain towards our final hurdle of crossing the further stretches of the now swollen and raging Rio Tunel before it spilled down into Lago Viedma.
Along the way down more and more bloated cow carcasses rotted in the in the afternoon sun. Killed by weather with the harsh winters, broken limbs then tagged and stalked by stealthy pumas or disease tookthem. They laid on the ground with skin pulled back, and an eerie vacuousness where consciousness once stirred where their eyeballs were pecked clean by condors and other omnivorous predators. Condors circled above the carnage.
We reached the river and found the most braided section, fording it above the rapids and found itnot bad. On the trail, over tcourse of days we lost flip-flops, and a pair of shoes, so we decided on fording it in our hiking boots. Some channels of the six braided stream were fast and deep, while others were slow and shallow.
That night we went out to eat so we did not have to eat more lentils and we took ourselves out for roasted lamb with calafate sauce. Calafates are a purple berry that grows in the area and local legend has it that if you eat a berry you will come back to Patagonia. It was delicious and much deserved.
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