Patagonia, Land of the Big Feet and Fallen Toenails

The next morning we started at 8. Alan and I met our guide, Charly, who started hiking towards the base camp at 5am. The three Austrians left before us with Diego as their guide. Although Charly spoke very little English, I managed with what little Spanish I remembered from living in Buenos Aires as a little girl. There were always bursts of laughter when I could no longer stand hearing myself. During the hike, we’d occasionally catch up with the Austrians and share our companionship in silence.

Fitz Roy, Nana Chen

 It was easy for Charly to see that my knees grew shakier the higher we climbed. From time to time, I’d stop moving and breathing until I saw his hand. Grabbing it each time, he’d pull me upward over and over, until we came to a flat area heading towards a river. There were cables drawn across the river, tied securely to boulders. I approached and saw the raging river below. A sign read, “Don’t cross without harness. From this rope die [sic] a woman.” I heard someone say, “Ladies first!” and let Uta, go first. I went next, grimacing as if I were about to get an injection. Once hanging in mid-air, I didn’t feel so bad.

On the other side, we hiked up and down a rocky cliff. For several hours we listened to our breath and steps. Charly would stop to explain tidbits about Patagonia, which gets its name from Magellan who had arrived and seen a tribe of giants who were nine foot tall and had big feet. Modern explorers have since confirmed the tribe’s existence.

The trail we were following led us through the woods where red flowers rose from beds of moss called “tears of the stream” or ourisia ruelloides. There was the “old man’s beard,” a special lichen the locals said only grew in places without pollution.

After descending a steep mountain, we stopped where the ice started. Charly brought out crampons and asked that we put on our gloves as well. The glacier can be extremely rough and jagged, the perfect place to cut ourselves. Minutes later, he was extending his hand to me again as we moved toward the glacier. The sounds were so new. Every crunch was a step. Waterfalls ran under our feet. And the light was blinding even with dark sunglasses. Walking on ravines, Charly showed us the best way to walk for every situation. Crunch, crunch. This should be the sound in a Beethoven symphony. Occasionally, we stopped to drink from streams of light blue water melting from the glacier. The water was so cold I could feel it slithering down my throat.

We finally reached an ice wall where we were to scale. Diego and the Austrian doctors had arrived way before us, waiting patiently. Since Diego could speak English fluently, he explained how the rope was to be threaded through the metal loop attached to the front of our harness and tied to a knot. The rope led to the top where it was threaded through a metal anchor and back down tied to Charly’s harness, our counterweight. It looked like a simple enough system.

Diego then picked up two pick axes and showed that we were to strike at the wall as straight as we could. No gentleness was required, as he kicked the tips of his crampons straight into the wall. I watched, as Diego became a fly on the white ice wall. I shook my head looking up at least eight stories. The Austrian doctors and Alan made their vertical ascents. Up and up, one by one. Then they looked at me. I got up and looked at Charly, “I love you and I trust you.” But no words came through my clenched teeth I could only smile.

The first few steps were not too bad. I hacked at the ice with my pick axes, reaching higher than I should have then struggling to catch up. Isn’t that so much like my life? No. I wanted more control than that. But slowing down meant kicking into the ice many more times. Each kick felt as if I was stubbing all my toes at once with these steel-toed shoes. Halfway, I paused, leaning into the wall and panting. As I grew tired, one foot dislodged from the ice and started flapping in the air. Hearing the chipped ice falling, I thought it was the perfect time to cure myself of acrophobia. I turned and looked down. Everyone had turned into dots. “Ahh! This is really high,” I shouted, always very good at stating the obvious when scared. Then I turned to face the ice again, “This is high. You idiot. What are you doing? Shit.”

I could hear Diego, “Nana, move to your right.” Move what to the right? Left leg to the right, right arm to the right? If I moved one limb the others might follow. I took the right pick axe out of the ice and struck to the right. I could hear laughter below me. “Not that far! Just a little. Bring it back,” said Diego, “You’re almost there.” And I was. A few more rights and lefts; ups and downs and I finally arrived at the top. Diego shouted, “Now let go of the axes. Just hang and come down.” I closed my eyes and dropped, not daring to look back.

We took a lunch break and started our walk back to the base camp. But before we left the glacier, Charly asked us to squat and be quiet, just for two minutes, to just look and contemplate.

That evening, it was Guadalupe’s turn to cook. She pan-fried the juiciest Argentine steak and sautéed it in a red wine sauce with caramelized onions. Another great day passed.

After exchanging contact information with each other the next morning, it was time to go. As always with people I meet on trips, I wondered if we’d ever see each other again. At the last minute, the Austrians donated a packed lunch to me. We turned and waved several times as I tucked their generous gift into my bag. Before losing them to the trees, I turned around for a final look and tripped over a log. Landing flat on the ground laughing, I told Alan I couldn’t move. The backpack was weighing me down. He tried pulling me up by my backpack. “Ah! Wait! My pants are caught,” I said. A branch had ripped its way through my pants and skin. On my feet again, I winced and turned back to say a private thank you to Charly.

So often in traveling, some things begin while others end. By the end of the trip, the acute snoring scared Alan off for he no longer shares my pillow while I, with large tonsils fully intact, carry on sleeping better at night in another part of the world. Five of my toenails fell off but have since grown back, albeit a little misshapen. My dreams of falling off buildings have ceased and although I still avoid heights, I have an urge to sigh up for a rock climbing class. Thanks, Charly. Occasionally, before I drift off at night, I think how fortunate I am to have met another set of memories filled with warm faces and kisses in a spectacular place.

Helpful information about El Chaltén
Hosteria El Puma
Hostería - Lodge
Address: Lionel Terray 212 - El Chaltén
(9301) Santa Cruz, Argentina.
Phone/fax: 0054-2962-493095/17
E-mail: hosteriaelpuma@infovia.com.ar
Web Site: www.elchalten.com/elpuma

Alberque Patagonia
San Martín 493 - El Chaltén
(9301) Provincia de Santa Cruz
Patagonia Argentina
Telefax: (02962) 493019
(Desde el exterior: 54 2962 493019)
E-mail: patagoniahostel@yahoo.com.ar (only text)
Website: www.elchalten.com/patagonia

Fitz Roy Expediciones
http://www.fitzroyexpediciones.com.ar