Approaching the bus in El Bolson, bound for El Chalten, I was hit by a sudden loss of confidence that I was unsure where the bus would be picking me up from. To the point that the landlord and my new mate walked me to the right spot. It was around the corner. Slightly jaded by this, and simultaneously looking forward and nervous about what lay ahead (was I doing the right thing going to Patagonia by myself and so late in the season?) I waited for the bus. Also waiting for the bus was a Malaysian couple (turned out they were cousins. Not a couple who were cousins, that would be a whole other blog, but just cousins), a young German kid and myself. A few moments before we embarked on our 24-hour bus ride, a beautiful, bearded, wild-haired, smiling, charango-wielding Italiano rocked up.
And thank God he did.
Some people in life are social glue. I have had my moments of playing that role, in certain circumstances (thanks Omar!). Axel Beland was a prime example of this during my time on the Inca Trail (thanks Axel!). Mattia was such a person.
I had already reserved a spot at a hostel, seemingly a good one, in the sleepy town of Elo Chalten. I was unsure of how to go about organising my hikes, but figured as they were primarily day hikes I was okay to set off alone and kind of wing it.
Pretty much the sole passengers on the entire bus, during the course of the next 24 hours, the five of us got to know each other far more than you would (or I would) normally bother with my fellow bus passengers.
Shied by my poor grasp of Spanish alongside Lukas, a 19-year-old social idealist from Munich and Mattia, a 36-year-old sound engineer from Bergamo, both of whom had been learning the lingo for only four months, versus my ‘on and off for years’ less committed efforts, I took a back seat.
By the time we got to El Chalten, they`d persuaded me top sack off my 10% deposit (about four quid) and find a cheaper, closer hostel with them, to continue our journey ‘as a family’.
We did, made a swift trip to the supermarket, made a group dinner, and set about planning our hikes.
I’d been recommended the Paseo de Viento by my Bariloche Israelis and independently another guy in the hostel was talking up the same trek. But it was 4-5 days and I was only planning on being there for 3. And it appeared to require some guidance, or certainly glacier experience.
We decided to ease ourselves in gently, hired some kit and set off south of the town, towards the miradores Condor and Eagle, but added a bit more on, trekking up through a woodlands and over to the plains that overlooked the foot of the mountain range. The exact name escapes me right now. I`ve probably taken a photo of the sign, as has become standard, given my inability to retain information anymore for periods of longer than half an hour.
As we neared the top of the climb (not really a climb, more an uphill walk), an English guy from Essex was coming the opposite way, fully kitted out in thermals, Gore-tex-tastic and waterproofs.
“How was it?” we asked.
“Hard. Really challenging, and you can’t really see much, given the winds. You can’t open your eyes for very long, and it’s so cloudy, but it`s amazing. And that’s why we`re all here, surely? For the challenge?”
One member of our group, and the other female amongst us, who’d already defying the woman in the kit hire shop when she recommended trekking poles (“Really? I just don’t believe that they winds could be that bad. She’s probably just saying that to get me to hire the poles.”
Me: “So don`t get them then.”
Her: “Are you getting them?”
Me: “Yes.”
Her: “Really? But will they really help?”
Me: “Yes. 100% without question. That`s why I`m hiring them.”
… you can likely sense I was less than sympathetic at this point. I`ll move on…)
decided that he too, was talking sh1t, and had obviously decked himself out in all that gear for fun.
Some of us got our waterproofs on. Thank you Kathmandu. Some of us put extra hats and gloves on, steeling ourselves for the first example of brutal Patagonian weather.
Others complained they had only come out in trainers, didn’t bring gloves because they didn’t think they’d need them, but were sure they’d be fine.
As we rounded the corner, we were faced with upwards of 70, 80+kph winds. Maybe more, I`ve not got a clue. They were sideways. And fierce. And you couldn’t see sh1t because it was too hard to open your eyes. And you were hungry because you¡’d been trekking for two hours uphill but couldn’t brave getting out your chocolate because it might blow away and litter is (rightly) a heinous crime. But you had to keep going to the top.
I`ve got to be honest, I’m not really sure what we were even supposed to be looking at “at the top”, or indeed where the top was. According to Essex, there was a lake at the foot of the mirador, and if you tried really hard, you could see the snow-draped S-shape of the Cerro Solo.
Either way, Mattia and the boys ran off in different directions screaming and howling like banshees. I was trying to stay upright, reminded of Wuthering Heights, weirdly. After five or 10 minutes, I was done. Something about being whipped, literally and metaphorically, by the elements was very good for the soul, I felt.
We returned to town eventually, recovered and reliving the day, and with a much clearer idea of exactly what to expect in the days to come.
Dinner that night, with the intention of setting off much earlier (lesson learned: you will NEVER get off at your intended time with a group of five people. Not worth stressing about, just accept it) the next morning, I was getting to know my new `familia`much better.
Mattia and I, sadly, realised that we were, technically, old enough to be Lukas’ parents. Jaz was the crazy cool cousin and Lina was the ‘abuela’. She was feeling ill and infirm and, though younger than me, fell into that role pretty naturally.
It was interesting being in a social situation and feeling really left out. Without wanting to blow smoke up my own ar5e, that rarely happens. And I`m not getting the violin out, it was my own fault. I could have made more effort to speak Spanish. I did think it was rather odd that as Malaysian, German and Italian natives, all of whom spoke perfect English, and knowing my Spanish was rusty to their near-fluent, and that Lina spoke no Spanish, they opted to speak in Spanish.
So maybe I took it a bit personally. Or maybe I was just feeling a bit like having some quiet time and this gave me a perfect opportunity to do so, but either way, the next few days involved the fewest words I’d ever spoken when amongst a group of individuals. It made a nice change.
In terms of hiking, we set off for the Laguna de los Tres, but were planning on carrying on after Campo Poincenot and take in Laguna Torre the next day. I had a bus booked for El Calafate the next night, so was a bit apprehensive we might not be back in time (given the etiquette of group hiking) but we agreed that if I needed to go faster on the way back down, I would go ahead and split from the group.
After camp, after almost scrambling the last hour of pretty steep incline, up boulders, as you walk over the pass and take in the first (relatively) up-close sight of Cerro Fitz Roy and its surroundings literally had me welling up. It was almost sunset, There were views of the three lakes to the west, the deep, far mountains and the tinest view of the now seemingly toy town to the east, the sky was all manner of colours, and the – and I use this word never – majestic sight of Fitz Roy before you. To say it was emotional was a vast understatement.
The respect felt for inanimate matter was unlike I`d experienced before. And that was having seen Machu Picchu, Iguazu Falls, Sugar Loaf mountain… you get the idea.
Onwards and downwards to El Calafate…
ToBeShaw 