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SKI TOURING IN CHILE AND ARGENTINA
| Trip Length: |
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~2 months |
| Trip Dates: |
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August 15 - October 2002 |
| Report Submitted By: |
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Steve Ogle |
| Participants Names: |
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Steve Ogle, Mark Tinholt, Par Lindholm |
| Sponsors Names: |
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VISA (hint hint!) |
| Route Followed: |
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Areas around Portillo Chile and Las Lenas Argentina. Ascent/descent of Volcan Puyehue |
G3 Equipment Used:
Bindings, G3 High Performance Climbing Skins |
Comments on Gear Performance:
Great performance! No problems. |
Trip Description:
"This wasn't what I had imagined," I couldn't help thinking as I drew in deep and blew my Fox 40 whistle. "Spectacular views. Mountain cabin. Hot springs." These were what we came for- not a raging blizzard.
A screeching blast came in response from about 50 feet away. Slowly he came into view: my partner, all 6'5" of him silhouetted against the blowing snow. The storm was frothing and he was still wearing shorts from the climb up through the forest. Clearly his brain was not functioning properly. Then he confirmed it:
"Better start digging a cave!" he shouted. I could detect no emotion in his voice - only a statement of fact. Suddenly, I realized that we had no other options. Somewhere beyond this storm the sun had said buenas noches and the hut was still nowhere to be found. We'd left the tent in the valley based on a rancher's advice that the trail led right to the front door. Did he say east or west at the tree line? Our Spanish was in such a formative state that we might as well have been speaking to one of his cows. It really didn't matter: good maps were impossible to find this close to the border, our compasses were malfunctioning, and the trail was buried under fifteen feet of snow.
We could have built one of those Swedish ice palaces if we had the motivation. Instead, it was a no-frills job since we were certain of finding the hut in the morning. I held steadfast to this belief as I peeled off my wet polypro and crawled into my wet sleeping bag (the smaller person is always assigned mole duties in these matters). Mark was already comfy and dry in his bivy sack, with which he travels due to his propensity to snore. Normally, he politely sleeps out of earshot. Not this night.
Nocturnal disparities aside, and despite having met only a month prior to this situation, we had rapidly become good friends and trusted companions. The gamble of arriving in a Chile alone with touring gear had paid off for both of us. All night bus hauls, hotels built in avalanche paths, hockey puck bread - together we endured all of the offerings that a winter vacation (in summer) could hand out. So we thought. Until this point, everything was working out so smoothly that we dubbed our journey the "magic carpet ride", floating along from one adventure to the next, tapping into unlimited backcountry. Then, we randomly picked an ideal destination from our summer guidebook to culminate the experience- a volcano accessible by bus via a mountain pass through the Chilean Lakes District.
It had been storming for two weeks, and we'd snorkelled some epic days. On our hike up from the valley it was raining, but we were only thinking about snow. When we were discarded by the bus and the driver muttered something about "loco", all we thought about was snow. Now we were getting too much of it. This storm was the annual Santa Rosa. Ask anybody who's been skiing in South America in September and they'll tell you all about it.
Mark woke in the morning (I was already up for most of the night) to pea soup fog and a feeling of bitter irony. He was trying to hide it, but I could see it in his face. I laughed when I thought about how quickly a skier's yearning for deep snow could be stifled when that skier is actually living beneath it's surface. Our other options were now becoming apparent- like devouring all the food and getting ready to head down. This magic carpet ride was grounded.
While high grading the trail mix, we started waxing philosophical. The fundamental flaw in our plan, it seemed, was that our anticipation was transformed into expectation. We knew nothing about this place except that it harboured a "refugio" shelter and had a fantastic view. So far, these were the only components missing in our trip! In reality, we were enjoying the experience and the adventure, yet we held firmly to our desires and were distraught with the reality. When we pieced it together, it was simple: enjoy the moment, reap the reward. After all, it was late September and we were sitting on a gigantic mound of snow!
With newfound resolve, we continued our patterned search for the cabin. The beautiful lenga trees were scattered all around, adorned in white crystals of rime. We saw the tracks of a puma, which had used our up-track for easy travel (or an easy meal!). In the cloud, there was no depth to the landscape- it was surreal. Still, the cabin was nowhere to be found. However, we decided that no matter what lay in store we'd gladly spend another evening.
Giving up on the search, we began to navigate back to our grotto. I was in my own world and rhythm, when suddenly I thought I noticed a slight amount of definition in the snow. I wiped the beads of rime from my eyelashes. The fog appeared to be lifting slightly. For only a moment, a lingerie-misted skyline came into view and I whooped in excitement. Over the ridge, I heard Mark's spirited response. He came striding back and he was pointing and yelling, "Cabin! Cabin!"
It was only 300 meters away from our snow cave.
We had the wood stove roaring and hot chocolate brewing before even relocating from our former abode. The rest of that night was like a dream: warm, candle-lit ambience back-dropping our conversation about the good things in life, and on this trip. Whatever came next, we were ready and willing.
The next morning, our internal ski bum barometers sounded an early alarm - "bluebird!". Before the alpenglow had faded from the massive form of Volcan Puyehue, we were climbing the rime-battered south ridge, pausing only to reflect on our place in this magnificent landscape. On fire with enthusiasm, we cruised under a rising sun, on autopilot to the now-sacred summit. It was a small effort, but we arrived breathless.
The view was spectacular. Sprawling 2000 feet below was a perfect mile-wide crater, laden with ice and ringed by jagged peaks and endless skiing possibilities. Beyond, dozens of other volcanoes floated on a raft of ocean cloud, sandwiched between the Andes and the Pacific. We considered if there were any other soul-seekers on one of those peaks getting ready to nail a first descent. Not likely.
At this point it was all bonus. We lapped that volcano three times before the day was over, turning past steaming fumaroles and enormous rime mushrooms. Things couldn't have been any better, and as the day went on we began to understand why.
The essence of backcountry adventure lies in the pure focus on every moment- every turn, every pole (or face) plant, every finger pointed eagerly on a map. There are no demands placed on oneself, nor on the future. Each new moment- every surprise is fully enjoyed with child-like exuberance. There is no schedule; everything always works out because there are no success or failure ratings.
We never did find those hot springs, which was probably a good thing since we would have over-stayed our visas. Instead we left only our tracks, and even they were soon to be erased by the storm that greeted us on our descent from the hut the next morning. But the real take-home reward was not measured in the vertical we skied. Rather, it was in the fulfillment we gained by accepting our situation and going with the flow. OK, maybe it had a little bit to do with the skiing.
And so, we toted our smiling faces atop our weary bodies, onward to the next phase of our mysterious journey. As it happened, this took the form of a miniature bus packed with school kids that plucked us from the rain within minutes of hitting the road. Who would have imagined?
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