DEN > SFO > SYD
Flyiing over the Colorado, Rockies enroute to San Francisco
I’m heading to Australia… Tasmania to be specific. I should be more excited about this vacation, but getting settled back in Denver and leaving California at the same time has been distracting. I unpacked my new furniture in my new home to the last minute, and didn’t start packing for Australia until this morning. I left myself only 3 hours to pack my clothes and camera gear, before I had to catch my flight out of Denver Intl’. I suppose 7 years of travel gave me some skill… depending on how I feel when I land in Sydney, I may or may not make a separate blog/website for my photos from this trip/shoot.
Standby and check back soon!
- Jude
Parting Shot | Back Home
Parting Shot
If you haven’t already guessed, I’m already back home… in fact, resting in a condo in the Colorado Rockies near Keystone. Here are some black & white images of my last day in Patagonia from the streets and from the plane.
Last day in Ushuaia
Ushuaia
Images from Ushuaia on my last day in Argentina, and a long journey back home.
Tierra del Fuego: National Park
Tierra del Fuego National Park
A leisurely hike in Tierra del Fuego National Park, accompanied by Carole from Bern, Switzerland.
Beagle Channel
Cormorants in the Beagle Channel
Too tired to write today. Partook in one of those mass-tourism cruise and bus rides, but it was worth it for the limited time I have in Ushuaia and the surrounding area. Getting tired and hiking tomorrow, so I’ll keep this list short and dry:
- Spying on Cormorants
- Trying not to smell sea lions
- Paparazzi-style on Magellan Penguins (locals call them Jack-ass penguins)
- Visiting Estancia Harberton
- Spotting a beaver dam (beavers are not native to South America)
- Spoiling lazy house cats
- Making friends with Otto, the Siberian husky
- Walking along the Ushuaia waterfront
Lo-Fi: Tierra del Fuego
Beagle Channel
I heart Tierra del Fuego. I couldn’t break out the big gun (the Nikon D90) to take photos of the archipelago upon our descent, so I had to do my best with the iPhone built-in camera. Enjoy.
I would have gladly traded my 3 nights in Bariloche, for an extra 3 nights in Ushuaia – even if it would have snowed or rained. Ushuaia carries a more genuine character than the more worldly Bariloche. I’m almost sad to be leaving Patagonia in just 3 days… <sniff>.
Sunny Bariloche
Sunny Bariloche
“Te gusta mucho Bariloche?” taxi driver asked. (Did you enjoy Bariloche?)
“Si! Me gusta mucho,” I lied and smiled. “Es muy linda… (when it’s not raining),” I added in English.
“De China? Japon?” he asked where I was from. I’m not sure why it does, but I am always offended when every “foreigner” asks me whether I am Chinese or Japanese. I have nothing against the people. Then I was reminded by a Chinese tourist on my flight to El Calafate.
“Please, all passengers must be seated during our ascent,” the flight attended politely made a general statement but was clearly directly her comment to the turista who stood up two minutes into the flight. The plane was already rising at an angle, when he took off his seat belt, and raced for the overhead compartment for his camera. Damn… he’s justifying the stereotype, I thought.
She repeated the directions in Spanish. The other tourists tried to grab his attention, but he came to this country speaking neither Spanish nor English. I looked outside at the beautiful mountains that were getting progressively smaller. I started to wish I could claim blissful ignorance and start shooting away.
Damn you, Bariloche. Only when I finally realize my escape plan out of this hell hole, she reveals her beautiful mountains.
Near-bored-to-death Experience
Raindrops
I found myself taking photos of the rain drops frozen to the window pane. “Am I really this bored?” I’d ask myself. Simyon caught me in the act, and started to laugh. There is absolutely nothing to do in Bariloche when it rains.
(Warning: The remainder of this story is somewhat vulgar.)
This hostel has a remarkable ratio of pretty girls, though perhaps committed or too young to realistically pursue. I sit at a table by the window in the canteen eagerly awaiting dinner. It’s already 8:30 pm, but they eat dinner rather late in Argentina. A young Irish man takes a seat at the opposite end of the same bench, we nod in mutual acknowledgement, and he resumes reading a worn paperback book. At the other end of the dining room, I see a young attractive Polish girl approach the table. She scans the table and deliberates whether to sit nearer me or the other guy, but she’s already marked her target. On the prowl, she smiles at the guy and sits directly across from him. I can’t help feeling like an anxious 3rd grader in gym class being the last one to be picked for a team. I come in last.
Her name is impossible for an American or Irishman to pronounce, so he asks her if he could just call her “J”. He recounts his adventures, and she laughs after every thirteen syllables.
“… but it was snowing by the time we got there… ,” he describes.
“Teehee. Hee hee hee,” she interrupts with overtly flirtatious giggles.
Was that really funny? Our long-awaited dinner finally arrives. The staff sets her dish before the caballeros – “ladies first” after all. Tonight’s dinner was a frighteningly large, dull-colored sausage nestled in a bowl of mashed potatoes… still-steaming in all of its glory.
Saluting them with my fork, I smile and greet them: “Buen provecho!” (Equivalent to “Bon appetit” in Spanish.) But on the inside, I burst out laughing. Had I no manners, I would ooze mashed potatoes from out my nostrils. I sink my fork and knife into the kielbasa and quickly shred it to bite-sized nuggets.
Quien no viaja…
“El mundo es como un libro abierto, quien no viaja sólo ha leído la primera pagina.” – Anonymous
(The world is an open book. One who hasn’t traveled, has only read the first page.)
Snowstorm
Snowing in Bariloche
My legs burned trudging uphill. The climb was steep, and visibility clouded by thick snow that fell sideways. I looked down at my black soft-shell jacket now patched with white. Snow flakes melted and stuck to my chest and arms like dust bunnies to velcro. A car honked, a stray Lahsa-apso lapped water from an overflowing storm drain, and natives peered through cafe windows watching comfortably from inside as the snow punished the pedestrians outside. Yes, I’m in Patagonia. But no, I’m not hiking in the wilderness. I’m in Bariloche and it’s snowing like hell.
I left Puerto Natales just 36 hours ago, traveling hundreds of kilometers by bus and by plane to escape the rain. As the plane descended upon Bariloche, the captain beared news greeted by a dismayed silence from the entire cabin of turistas: “We’ll be landing in Bariloche in 5 minutes. It’s 2′C and it’s snowing.” The two young ladies from Buenos Aires next to me were not shy about leaning over me to look out the window and judge for themselves. “Esta nevando?”
Simyan and I had checked the national park information center this morning about trekking. Simyan only received alarmingly depressing news.
“No, the trail is closed due to snow and high winds.”
“How’s the weather tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? Low clouds, rain, wind. Ehhh… Sunday… rain. Monday…. rain. Next four days…. rain.”
“Is there anywhere in Patagonia where it’s not raining?
The ranger looked at his monitor. “No, it’s just not the season for trekking. It might say rain today, but it could change. I don’t know.”
When there’s nothing else to do, you eat. I spent the rest of the day sleeping, fat from all the meals I’ve had while in Bariloche.
It’s still snowing outside as I type this. A girl from Brazil is watching the movie Sex and the City on the lounge TV. And an Irish lad is on a booking a flight out of here. I can only wish the ski resort is open tomorrow so that this trip up north isn’t a total waste.
Transit Day
View enroute to Calafate
I felt like a rodeo cowboy on a bucking bull, as I gripped the handle bar with my left hand and aimed (or tried aiming) for the toilet with the right. My shoulders alternated banging between the narrow walls, and my feet shuffled to stay upright. The toilet closet was located at the back of the bus, and nature called while the back of the bus jostled on the rocky dirt road of Rt. 40 – along the stretch of highway that ran between the Chilean and Argentinian border. It was like shooting an arrow while riding a mechanical bull… but I kept my pants dry.
After hiking in Torres del Paine for almost 5 days, Puerto Natales and the immediate area started to seem like a dead end. The weather reports promised rain in most areas, and boats and buses to adjacent points of interest – Ushuaia, Puerto Montt, etc. – required a few days of waiting in Puerto Natales before their departure. Staying an extra day to visit a cave with a replica of a prehistoric giant ground sloth was tempting, but there were other sights to be seen and hiked elsewhere in Patagonia.
Gan and Simyan concluded the same decision as I did to leave Puerto Natales by bus back to El Calafate on the Argentinian side of Patagonia. My flight for Bariloche leaves in about 3 hours, where I hope to escape wet weather. Now, just sitting in another locutorio (internet/Skype shop) passing the time. Ironically, it´s mild and sunny with happy, puffy clouds in the sky. Rather than hiking, we spent half the day sitting in a bus. It´s a transit day.
Mirador: Torres del Paine
Las Torres
Everyone has a favorite word in their non-native language. Jack´s was ¨hardcore¨. Jack was a solo world-traveler from Amsterdam, who has been traveling since August 2009. He recounted stories of his travels in southeast Asia and South America, while I took note for my own future aspirations. We shared itineraries.
¨So why did you choose to visit Patagonia?¨
¨Well, it was number 2 of my top 3 places to visit before I turn 30… or die. (Whichever may come first.) I try to pick remote places with lots of outdoor activities… and as few Americans as possible. I´ve already done New Zealand and now Patagonia. Now that´s left is Mongolia.¨
¨I´m glad you said Mongolia. It´s also on my list,¨ Jack smiled. He probably had a penchant for even more ¨hardcore¨places than I did.
My favorite phrase in Spanish was ¨No Importa¨. It means: ¨No matter. No problem.¨
The hut doesn´t have blankets: No importa.
We can´t refund your bus ticket: No importa.
The river water may give you diarrhea: No importa.
This hike may kill you: No importa. The narrow trail staddled a very steep slope, then meandered through a forest, before heading almost directly upwards to the ¨mirador¨ – the viewpoint of Las Torres, iconic granite towers in Torres del Paine national park. I was back in the park one more time to finish the segment of the W-route that I cut short due to rain just a few days ago. Now it was shining brightly with blue skies. My calves, however, also screamed: ¨No importa!¨ They didn´t care about the scenery, but only the lactic acid that instilled burning sensations in my legs. Despite 3 days of straight hiking, I was surprisingly fatigued.
We reached the summit in no more than three hours total rewarded with an amazing view, to which one of the other visitors at the mirador remarked: ¨Maybe only once or twice a month do you get this kind of weather up here.¨
On the way back down, I ran into Gan and Simyan – I good and awesome pair of hikers that I met on my first day in Torres del Paine while riding the catamaran across Lake Pehoe. It was good to see familiar faces again, and we met again the following morning on our return to Puerto Natales.
Thanks to Jack, Gan and Simyan for all the funny stories. I´ll write more when I arrive in Bariloche. Surprise!
R&R in Puerto Natales
Last Hope Sound
My W-route trek in Torres del Paine National Park cut short by rain. I take a rest day in Puerto Natales instead.
Many thanks to Senora Blanca and staff of Hostal Natales for taking care of me (even when I was sometimes the only guest) and watching over my luggage while I was away. Hostal Natales was a great place to stay.
Lluvia: Escaping the Rain
I layed in the top bunk staring at the ceiling. The hut roof was slanted allowing not only winter snow to slide down but for 2 three-tier bunk beds and another two-tier bunk to fill the room. It was 11:30 pm and the wind roared outside. It shook the entire hut with its fifty or so occupants. The two Coloradan girls and I were betting who would die first if the wind ripped the roof off from its frame. Given my position closest to the ceiling, I bet I would be the first to go.
There was a 2 foot x 3 foot plexi-glass panel in the ceiling that let in some sunshine into the room during the day. I stared through it, and realized the stars were out again. The rain had stopped, but the wind raged on.
The forecast for the third day of the trek was grim – rain for another two days. Although I was confident I could finish the W route accordingly to my original five-day plan, it was unlikely I would even see the famed Las Torres.
(next morning)
¨Why is my entire torso soaked?¨ It was raining and no more than 45 F. I wore a cheap plastic navy blue poncho with a hood over my soft-shell jacket. It fit like a poofy dress and covered everything but my forearms. There was no obvious reason for my jacket to be the least bit wet. I was wishing I had not lost my high-tech rain jacket during the hike to Mount Fitzroy.
I looked down. There was a giant tear near the collar of the poncho. Water collected on the hood and was dripping down my chest. I still had two more hours and 5km more to hike, and it appeared useless to continue wearing the poncho. I wanted to look like the blue, wet, ugly mess I already was and kept the poncho on anyways. At least it would give passing hikers some amusement on this cloudy day. I was a banner proclaiming: ¨Yes, it really is raining and miserable! Viva Patagonia!¨
My boots were surprisingly dry, I thought. Then I stepped into a bog. Water plus gravity equates to hiking trails turning into temporal streams. Where the trail reaches a low point, especially surrounded by bare dirt and grass, the water pools and creates a short-lived mini-swamp. My socks for the first time in three days was wet. This only fueled my legs to press on faster than before.
I waited at another refugio for the shuttle to transfer to the bus back into Puerto Natales. My wet bare feet balanced on the cold bathroom floor, but I was thankful to be changing into drier clothes. I was edging towards hypothermia as the warmth from hiking started to subside.
I´ll return in sunnier days. I got an updated forecast for the entire peninsula – Patagonia including Tierra del Fuego. Snow. Rain. Sleet. Clouds. Now I just have to figure out how to kill 10 days in Patagonia.
Valle de Frances
A flash of yellow – someone´s tent was flying above the low-growing Patagonian beech forest, as we watched from the comfort of the wood-stove-warmed mountain hut. A few seconds later, flashes of green and red followed. The tent´s brightly-attired owners weaved through the trees to chase down their 8b lb 4 oz abode. ¨Ultralight gear¨ is great on the back, but flies like a kite in the Patagonian wind if you don´t stake it down properly.
¨That´s unfortunate,¨ commented the Dutch couple next to me as they warmed their hands around a mug of hot tea. They were of course concerned, but couldn´t find the words in English to express it… better. We were waiting for the refugio staff to serve dinner.
The hut was especially full tonight, and some late arrivals were forced to camp outside the refugio tonight for lack of beds. The refugio was full of french, dutch, scotts, kiwis… and Americans. Americans, especially a group of six American college girls, can get somewhat rowdy. I haven´t seen another American in five days . But two of the girls were from Colorado; we intended to facebook eachother. The Americans that I have met were usually from the active-lifestyle states – Colorado, Alaska, Washington, Montana. Not another soul from New Jersey.
While I was heading east to Las Torres, this group was heading west to the Grey Glacier. Inexperienced hikers seemed alarmed that I was hiking alone.
¨Are there other hikers heading in your direction?¨ asked one of the couples, who was here for their honeymoon.
¨Yes, I know there´s an Israeli and German heading in my direction. And I´ll usually see another hiker pass every hour or so,¨ I answered.
¨So if you break a leg, you just have to wait an hour to get help?¨
¨Yep.¨ I didn´t think long about the comment. It was a calculated risk, and I did bring duct tape 
Torres del Paine is quite crowded, and I wasn´t veering off the trails except to commune with nature no more than twenty feet away from the trail. (Read: ¨commune with nature¨ = ¨potty break¨)
My thoughts ran back to the yellow tent in flight. Just hours ago I was hiking on an exposed ridge in Valle de Frances in my own battle against the wind.
(6 hours earlier)
¨F*$K!!!¨ My head peeked above treeline as I approached the exposed ridge in the center of the valley. A sudden and unexpected gust kicked grains of sand into my eye. I turned around to blink the offending particles from my eye, but another gust ¨kicked¨the back of my knee. I fell ass-first onto the granite.
They don´t kid about the Patagonian wind. I was trying to reach the end of this 12km hike, but nature wasn´t playing nicely. I learned to listen for what sounded like a train in the distance rolling down the mountain side. As the sound got louder, I ducked behind and below the low-growing beech trees that also were clinging for their lives rooted firmly into the fissures in the granite. I imagined a mass of air colliding with the massif on its windward side. The pressure building as the air accumulates and crawls up the windward face. As the air reaches the tipping point, the mass barrels down the leeward side of the mountain unleashing a force that can known a hiker down.
The guidebook exclaimed that the hike into the Valle de Frances was not-to-miss. However, having hiked in Colorado and having just hiked on the Argentinian side I admit I was a little underwhelmed. Then it started snowing.
I looked to the west at the Gran Paine massif. Against the dark rock capped by hanging glaciers, I could see that the snow blew sideways. I continued on. Along the way, I drank water directly from several moss-lined streams and waterfalls that carved troughs in granite. I haven´t been in wildernes this clean since New Zealand.
I was going to finish this hike expecting to see nothing. An assortment of precipitation – snow, sleet, rain, fog – had clouded much of the panorama that was promised. At times the faint silhouettes of the mountains and Los Cuernos would reveal themselves through the veil of snow. Then for no more than five minutes, a gap in the clouds lended a glimpse of the mountains that encircled the valley.
The Southern Cross
The stars appear different in the southern hemisphere. In place of the familiar Orion and Big Dipper constellations, is the souther cross...here shining over Lago ("Lake") Nordenskjöld.
I fastened my camera to the tripod set atop the foundation of a new refugio (mountain hut) that they were building as an extension to the Refugio Los Cuernos where I was spending the night. I pointed the lens up with the focal length at infinity. Click. The shutter would be open for the next few minutes, capturing the billions of stars that filled the night sky here in the southern hemisphere. It was weird to look up and find no big dipper, Orion or polaris. The only collection of stars that I could distinguish was the Southern Cross.
From time to time, I would flash my head lamp into the trees surrounding me, either to spot any lurking pumas or scare them off. It´s rare for pumas to attack or eat people in the park, as they´re aware of the dangers of humans. Nevertheless, I was on the lookout. Behind me was the vague outline of ¨Los Cuernos¨ – the granite monoliths that resembled horns and towered over the refugio.
Torres del Paine: Los Cuernos
"Los Cuernos" near Lago Pehoe in Torres del Paine National Park
Today is the first day of the W-route multi-day hike in Chile´s Torres del Paine National Park. The route can take up to 5 days and abbreviates the normally 8-day Paine Circuit that circles the mountains of Torres del Paine. The route can be done in either east-bound or west-bound directions: Night 1 at Las Torres, Night 2 at Los Cuernos, Night 3 at Lago Pehoe, Night 4 at Lago Grey and finishing back at Lago Pehoe to catch the cataraman across the lake and then to connect to a bus back into Puerto Natales – the nearest town.
Given the grim forecast in later days, I prioritized my hike to focus on Los Cuernos, which lies in the middle section of the route. When sunnier days return, I would come back to finish the Grey Glacier segment in the west, from where I can already see clouds start to roll in from the Pacific.
I hike the 12 km to Refugio Los Cuernos from the dock at the western end of Lago Pehoe, with a late start at 1pm. I´ll be sleeping and eating at the refugios – also known as mountain huts, where there are beds and warm meals available.
Border Crossing to Puerto Natales
¨Egils. EGILS! Wake up.¨ I shook Egil´s shoulder after his phone alarm played One Republic´s song Apologize for the fourth time. It was 7:15 am. ¨You have a bus to catch for El Chalten at 8:00 am. Don´t miss it.¨
I was already packing up to catch my own bus to Puerto Natales. Even though it was just a 10 minute walk to the bus terminal, we shared decided to share a cab. Egils slipped a beer out of his daypack. He tried opening it using the edge of a nearby dumpster. The lip of the bottle shattered. It foamed. He examined the contents of the bottle to see if any glass fell into the beer.
¨I need a cup,¨ Egils said longingly as he looked at the beer in his hand. We got into the cab, with the open bottle still in hand. He really needed the morning beer to recover from his six or so Long Island´s from last night.
¨Are you on facebook?¨ Yes, Latvia uses facebook. I shook his hand and we parted ways. He was going to join some french girls on a hike to El Chalten. I would continue on to Chile on the eve of the big W-trek in Torres del Paine.
I passed out immediately after sitting on the bus. Two and a half hours later, I awoke at the only rest stop on our trip. The gas station had a small snack bar, where everything was marked up 200%. I spun in a circle looking into the distance. Nothing but desert, this gas station, two long-distance buses, and 40 turistas queued up to buy snacks and drinks.
¨Vamos!¨ the driver said after 15 minutes.
We approached the first border crossing station – the Agentinian side. They simply processed our passports to check who was leaving the country. While we queued up, border control had dogs sniff our bags. The process wasn´t too bad, and took place in a small old building.
Thirty minutes later, we approached the second border control station – the Chilean side. Everyone had to carry their luggages and backpacks into the office for inspection. We were greeted by a nice woman taking mandatory surveys on our H1N1 status. I marked on the paper, ¨No.¨ As far as I knew, I did not have swine flu. I don´t remember the last time I saw a pig, for that matter. I glanced at the passports held in various hands. Almost all of the passports were maroon. No familiar navy blue of an American. I realized I haven´t met another American in a very long time.
After thirty minutes, everyone was back aboard the bus. We pass through dry hill country covered in native grasses. Yellow. Sheep and cattle grazed casually, and sometimes you would see a wild guanaco running away from the sound of the bus.
Suddenly, a mass of blue came into picture. We finally arrived in Puerto Natales, and on the other side of the body water were the mountains and behind them Torres del Paine.
Today is not a photo day. Today I would only speak Spanish. Not that I haven´t already been. Withdraw Chilean pesos? Check. Check into the hostel? Check. Drop off laundry? Check. Get a haircut from Julio? Check.
The host at the hostel gave be directions to a peluqueria (barber/haircutter) just a few blocks away and near the laundry service place. Julio was smoking outside when I arrived. He had euro-tight jeans, a white denim shirt, and Zohan-esque hair… but Chilean, of course.
I asked simply for short. In a flurry of scissor-happy hands, he gave me a conventionally short haircut. The days of shag also known as the asian afro was over.
Not that you really care, but I spent a few more hours updating the blog. The mocha here is good, but I´m ready to take a walk to the shore.
This will be the last post until October 21st, when I finish the W trek in Torres del Paine National Park. If you don´t hear from me after then, you can contact the authorities here in Puerto Natales. I intend to check back into Hostel Natales the night of Oct 20.
Ciao and wish me luck.
Perito Moreno Glacier
The foot of Perito Moreno Glacier in Los Glaciares National Park
I joined a group from the hostel on a small guided and unconventional tour of the ever-so-touristy Perito Moreno glacier in Argentina`s Los Glaciares national park. The glacier occupies the southern part of the park – the same park as Cerro Fitzroy, which stands in the northern sector.
We took a small ¨combi¨(their word for ¨shuttle¨) on an alternative unpaved road to the national park. Along the road we saw lots of animals you would normally miss on one of those mass tourist buses : condors, flamingos, rheas, eagles, falcons, native ducks, sheep, sheep and more sheep. We continued on to the southern face of the glacier, where we took a short one hour hike along the shores of the lake. We caught up with the combi and spent two hours of free time looking at the calving glacier from catwalks on the opposing mountainside. After lunch we went to a boat launch near the northface of the glacier to get perspective of the glacier face from the water.
Snow & Hike to Cerro Torre
Cerro Torre stands in the distance behind a veil of wind-swept snow.
He looked through the window pane at such an angle that the restaurant on the other side of the street reflected off his thick glasses. The sky was white. His focus shifted between the fast-moving clouds and some loose sheets of paper inked with his thoughts.
[SinglePic not found] I kept my glance down at my plate as I spread the ration of butter and jelly on a roll. After slicing the bread in half, the stale crumbs fell and scattered across the table. They managed to tumble either onto my dirty hiking pants or to the foot of the towering carton of “jugo de naranja” – orange juice.
It was snowing – whiteout conditions with visibility no more than a few hundred meters. The wind howled fiercely, and banged a few unfastened shutters against aluminum siding. There wasn’t much else to look at or do. I decided to strike first conversation with the guy, “Se habla espanol?”
“No. English,” he said in the accent of the empire. “I’m from India, but I’ve been living in New Mexico for the last few months. I’ve been working with the radio telescopes out in Socorro. I’m an astronomer.”
Interesting already. We exchanged advice about hikes we’ve done in the park. He glanced again through the panoramic window. This time, his glasses reflected gaps of blue in the sky and snow-capped mountains in the not-so-distant glacial valley.
“Ahhh. This was the forecast for this afternoon for 12:00.” He examined his watch. “11:20… early! We might have chances to hike after all.” He ran outside. I looked through the window pane. He stood there out in the cold, gazing in the distance, calculating the risks… the likelihood that it was safe to embark on an 8-hour hike at this time of day. He looked back in, nodded and smiled. The hike is on.
I had decided to post some photos online before heading out for the hike to El Lago de Torre – a glacial lake with views of Cerro Torre – another towering piece of granite in Los Glaciares National Park. This cost me a few hours of daylight, as I didn’t start until 2:30 pm. Non-stop it should take 3 hours to get to the lake and 2 hours back on a sprint. If I timed everything right, I should be back by 7:30 with enough sunlight to spare. The sun usually sets around 8:00 pm.
Yesterday’s 10 hour hike to Lago de Los Tres left me in a more conditioned shape. I was practically sprinting up the steep portions of this hike. I had passed a young man and his father along the way. Two hours later, I arrived at the “mirador” – the viewpoint of the distant glacier and Cerro Torre. The gusts of frigid air that barreled down the valleys roared and almost pushed me over. The sun was still another 2 hours from setting. I looked at my watch. “F**k”. I weighed the risks and the rewards.
I decided I could managed the calculated risks. If a freak blizzard decided to present itself, I had enough insulation, fat reserves and an emergency foil blanket (Thanks, Karin!) to avoid hypothermia and outlast the storm. There were enough dead branches to build a small shelter and even start a fire. There was also a small camp at the end of the lake, where I might be able to pay someone for food and a share of their tent. “F**k it. If anything, I’ll die with a nice view.”
I had removed one of my under layers earlier in the hike. I poked my head just enough so the collar wrapped around my head just above my nose. It warmed my breaths, and shielded my exposed throat from the chill.
[SinglePic not found]I sprinted on, but the reflection of the mountains in a small pond captured my camera’s attention. Suddenly, the bright red jacket of the young man from earlier had managed to catch up.
“Hello. I decided to leave my father behind, so I reach el Lago de Torre before sunset”,” he said with a German accent yet pronouncing each Spanish word like a native.
[SinglePic not found]I was relieved to have a hiking buddy in such sketchy circumstances. This was an amazing kid and made for great conversation. I could tell he loved telling me about his adventures and practicing his English. Jan (pronounced “yahn”) was a 21-year old Frankfurter who decided to travel for five months in South America by himself. It suited his budget and he was also fluent in Spanish. He spoke to me in English without pausing to find a word. His father was an art teacher, his mother a photographer, and himself – he wanted to go back and study theater. His father came for a week-long visit, and he grinned as he told me how he went from eating and sleeping for cheap on less than 10 pesos per day to private room hotels and restaurants while his father is here. What an inspiring young character. A kindred spirit – he too preferred the outdoors over the drunken night-life style travelling in the cities.
We reached the lake just as the sun was setting behind Cerro Torre, but evening winds began to bring with it another round of snow. The top of Cerro Torre was veiled in cloud of suspended snow particles.
[SinglePic not found]“F**k man.” Jan looked at Cerro Torre in both disappointment and hope that the clouds would part to reveal the sun and the pinnacle of Cerro Torre. We waited 20 minutes before giving up around 6:00 pm.
We headed back and discussed more about life, philosophy, the NBA, and the juicing controversy of the Tour de France. 8:10 pm we approached the end of the trail. Only faint traces of day lit our way as the snow began to fall again. We shook hands and bid each other luck in our travels.
Hike to Fitzroy
The reward after a 4 hour hike in Argentina's Los Glaciares National Park
Hiked to El Lago de Los Tres with views of the famous Mount Fitzroy.
Long Haul to El Chalten
Eastern Foothills of the Patagonian Andes from airplain to El Calafate
El Chalten – a small mountain village of no more than three hundred wonderful people near the foot of Cerro Chalten – better known as Mount Fitzroy in interior Argentinian southern Patagonia. I’m sitting in small mountain cabin that offers internet & computer services, and in a rush to upload some photos before I have to pick up some empanadas for tomorrow’s hike to Cerro Fitzroy at sunrise.
it was a long haul to El Chalten, which is a story of own but I don’t have the time to tell right now.
Drogas y Dolores
“Se tiene Pepto Mismo? Tengo un dolor de estomago.” Do they even know what that pink stuff is in Chile? I informed the pharmacist of my stomach pains. She started to speak too quickly but I picked out the words for ant-acid and vomiting. “No, para pena del ‘stomago o diarrea?” I tried to keep my voice low so as not to announce to the entire barrio of my predicament. She handed me a somewhat no-frills box of “Dipatropin”.
“Y para ella, dolor de….” I paused. How do you say nasal decongestant? Jenica could barely breathe last night. However, that chapter in high school Spanish class was no up-to-date with the current miracles of medicine. “Para nariz. Compressada.” I tossed out words like “nose” and “compressed” hoping she would catch on. “Ahh.. si.” She handed me another box of “Piretanyl”.
“Gracias.” We inspected the boxes from a bench outside. Unlike the encyclopedic American labels with it’s paranoid legal disclaimers and list of appalling side-effects, the labels on these Chilean over-the-counter drugs were recklessly simple.
“I really hope she gave us the right drugs,” I joked with Jenica. I didn’t seem to find any Spanish words for “spontaneous bleeding” or “death”.
“Do you think I’m supposed to chew these or swallow?” Jenica wondered. As she put the tablet in her mouth, I could only think: “I sure hope these aren’t suppositories.” I waited for her to ingest it before I disclosed the thought. “Uso Oral,” this must mean “use orally”. Safe.
“Se tiene Pepto Mismo? Tengo un dolor de estomago.” Do they even know what that pink stuff is in Chile? I informed the pharmacist of my stomach pains. She started to speak too quickly but I picked out the words for ant-acid and vomiting. “No, para pena del ‘stomago o diarrea?” I tried to keep my voice low so as not to announce to the entire barrio of my predicament. She handed me a somewhat no-frills box of “Dipatropin”.
“Y para ella, dolor de….” I paused. How do you say nasal decongestant? Jenica could barely breathe last night. However, that chapter in high school Spanish class was no up-to-date with the current miracles of medicine. “Para nariz. Compressada.” I tossed out words like “nose” and “compressed” hoping she would catch on. “Ahh.. si.” She handed me another box of “Piretanyl”.
“Gracias.” We inspected the boxes from a bench outside. Unlike the encyclopedic American labels with its paranoid legal disclaimers and list of unbelievable side-effects, the labels on these Chilean over-the-counter drugs were almost recklessly simple. The boxes reminded me of the small cardboard ones in which they sold fireworks at summer fairs.
“I really hope she gave us the right drugs,” I joked with Jenica. I didn’t seem to find any Spanish words for “spontaneous bleeding” or “death”.
“Do you think I’m supposed to chew these or swallow?” Jenica wondered. As she put the tablet in her mouth, I could only think: “I sure hope these aren’t suppositories.” I waited for her to ingest it before I disclosed the thought. (Just kidding, Jenica!)”Uso Oral,” this must mean “use orally”. Safe!
