At 6am on day 2 of the Fitz Roy trek, our guide Loressa sadly traipses around our tents informing us that the glacier stomp & ice climbing have had to be cancelled due to bad winds. In my world I've grown used to battling on with bad wind, but that's me. The weak sliver-linings are a sleep-in and not needing to carry crampons today, but we're all a bit 'winded' by the news (Arf arf - I'm resisting making a 'blown off' joke). 'Super'trekking just became trekking, which doesn't justify the costs so well. Though the weather today is clearer, I can't imagine the sunnies or suncream are gonna be required.
After watching dawn light up one of the clear mountains a fruity pink we huddle together in everything we brought for breaky, huddled round like penguins in't t'ant t'arctic. The glorious spread includes cereal with no milk, powdery squash and stale toast with the omnipresent dolche de leiche (gooey toffee spread from boiled condensed milk) and hard toast tearing butter. Mmm. ''Recommended'' said Mr Coco...
Spirits rather low, we plod on to the glacier for a better view. It's clearer today, and most of the snow-capped mountains wear only a cloud necklace (though Fitz Roy sadly dons a full cloudy balaclava). Wild horses graze, Flamingos paddle and Condors soar loftily above; with their impressive 6 foot wingspans & wattly turkey bonces.
The raging winds have freshly torn several trees across our path, and when we reach the icy glacial lake the wind literally blows our guide and a fellow German lady off their feet. The lashing wind carries a fine gritty sediment that scratched the hell out of my spectacles. It's estimated to be a blowin' at about 100km/hr. Lordy. The gang take to walking like crabs. Watching everyone stumble about for a group photo on the moraine ridge at the end of an icy lake I think it was probably a wise not to have been blown down a crevasse. I've seen 'Touching the Void'...
The day cleared and the wind eventually let up as we leisurely strolled a different trail back to El Chalten, passing through lush valleys on the turn of Autumn. Fitz Roy himself was even kind enough to give us an appearance and tipped his cloudy hat our way. A grey alluvial river churned down deep gorges and rumbled away quietly in the background. I learned the fascinating history of East Germany from Christoph, who'd lived there under the Soviet occupation and at the fall of the wall, and shared witty banter with the gang.
Just outside town we passed a few tethered Guanacos, the local white hairy Llamas, and made the Austin Powers joke 'Well baby, which is it, spits or swallows?' Back in the small town of El Chalten, the springboard for the Parque National de los Glaciares, it's obvious even in sunshine that the place was thrown together with passing thought for the aesthetic. However, being tad heavy on the concrete and corrugated metal, it's redeemed by a fine drinking hole that brews its' own tasty beer.
Inside you'll find the full motley crew of wandering extremes, and everything in between. On the one table will be the cluelessly cheery jeans and flipflop backpacker, who's lumped hired heavy gear and tinned food for 3 days and now sports a bad knee. On the other are the lightweight, gortex, ski-pole & show-shades collective, splitting their time between bitching about 'tourists' and telling grandiose tales of hanging from their fingers on a freeclimb up the north face of Cerro Torre in a hundred KM/hr blizzard. With a few hours to kill awaiting the bus back to El Calafatte, we banter away over 16 pints of cloudy homebrew and a stack of salty popcorn. Aside from the lack of hitting stuff with a sharp axe, it was a super adventure with super folk...
Barnister
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