Up the mountain...

I needed to climb Piltriquitron. The big mountain looming over the small town (El Bolsón) beckoned me, if for no other reason than its proximity. Its snow-capped peak offered a further remove from the world of Buenos Aires. Flee the city for the mountain valley and it’s only natural that a trek up the mountain should follow.

It was no easy shakes to get there. My romance with Huara Viajes, the touring company I mentioned in the previous post, lasted about four hours. I walked into their office on Thursday morning not knowing if I’d have to pay for any excursions and unclear as to whether they’d even know who I was. Two hours and a few of cups of mate later, I knew I wouldn’t be paying a dime and plans were made for an excursion to a small organic farm followed by whitewater rafting. The trip to the farm was fine—nothing too special but a choice spot to be sure—but it dragged on too long and I missed my rafting trip. To make up for it, Huara took me out to a lunch that proved long and boring. It started out well enough, but when the head of Huara arrived it turned into a drawn-out affair, focusing on the impact of the weakened US dollar exchange rate on the travel business. I had mistakenly thought that any Spanish was good Spanish. I know now that I was wrong.

The next day, Huara totally dropped the ball. They couldn’t reschedule my rafting trip and when I said I wanted to go up to Piltriquitron, they farmed me out to another company. When I arrived at that company’s office, they told me that the people who I’d trek with wouldn’t arrive in El Bolsón for another couple hours and I wouldn’t be able to leave on the excursion until at least 4:30 p.m. Fuck that shit. Life’s too short. It was 11 a.m., I had money in my pocket, and a burning desire to get to the summit. I decided to pony up for a taxi to the trailhead and just do the damn thing myself. Best decision I’ve made in Argentina.

I’d been told that the summit was anywhere from 2 to 3 ½ hours from the refugio and that an entire day needed to be set aside to reach it. The refugio was an hour stroll from the trailhead and the guy working there cast a skeptical eye on me when I mentioned the summit. “Do you have boots?” he asked. I clearly did not. “No.” “There’s a lot of snow,” he said. “Okay. I’ll just climb for a while and when I need to turn back, I’ll turn back.”

We both knew this was a bald-faced lie. He told me what he needed to tell me, and I proved that I’m my father’s son by giving lip-service to his advice and then doing what I knew I could. (Please take this as a compliment, Dad.)

I was very close to being wrong.

As the hike began, I felt vindicated—a stroll on a mountain, a little snow, sure, but it was hard and my shoes barely sunk in. Even as I began to make the ascent up the back of the peak, and the snow got deeper and more difficult to avoid, I kept up a chipper mood. I’ll show them, I thought.

However, there was another thought that began to creep more and more into my mind. This is how people die on mountains. The sun doesn’t set in El Bolsón until after 9 p.m. this time of the year and I knew that daylight wouldn’t be an issue. Yet, I didn’t reach the refugio until after 1 p.m., a very late start for a summit push by any measure. I also was well underdressed, had no equipment (rain coat, hiking poles, etc…) save a water bottle and a camera, and was full of hubris. My thoughts turned to cocky Americans dying on Everest in Into Thin Air. Oh, did I forget to mention that as I marched towards the icy winds and deep snows, I was completely alone.

About two-thirds of the way up the mountain, I ran into a well-equipped Argentine hiker. He couldn’t hake looked at me with any more disdain. Here I was, dressed in a green herring-bone sweater, khaki shorts, sneakers, and aviator sunglasses, close to 6,000 feet up on a windy, snowy peak. I was dressed for yachting or golf, certainly not mountain climbing.

To his eyes, I could not have been showing any less respect for the mountain. He was right—up to a point. Piltriquitron is not K2, and I like to think that what I lacked in equipment, I made up for in experience. A thin excuse, not doubt, and were I in his shoes, I would have looked with equal disdain on such a preppy chump messing around in a serious game.

I repeated the same lie to him that I had told the guy running the refugio. At this point, though, my intentions were even clearer. His disdain and his warning about snow, ice, and freezing wind pushed me decisively toward the “I’m going to die on this mountain” strain of thought.

For some reason, I carried on. Now, I started lying to myself. “I’ll just climb until it seems like a very bad idea to continue.” When I reach the ridgeline, I told myself, that’ll be it. It’ll be almost as good as the summit. I didn’t have to traverse much snow to get to the ridge, and while the wind was picking up, I felt like I could make it. Sometimes crawling on all fours to get across the scree and snow, I finally made it to my goal.

Then I saw it. Tantalizingly close, with a stack of bricks clearly marking it, and an unrivaled position that would offer a complete panorama of the area—it was the summit. A lot of snow and a short, but steep, climb lay before me.

I didn’t get up to the ridge to turn back now. The wind is gusting; it’s not very strong, but it’s cold. I can see those bricks getting closer with every step. The rocky outcropping that is the summit is going to be the steepest part of my climb. It’s also covered in snow. I slush through it, my feet are getting cold and wet, and soon I’m back on all fours, clawing my way toward those bricks. No more than forty feet away now.

I’ve never been on a summit like this before. Usually the summit of a mountain isn’t appreciably higher than it’s surroundings. The summit of Kilimanjaro, for instance, is a letdown. The view walking towards it is just as good as the one found on the summit.

The summit of Piltriquitron is a pillar of rock, hovering 300 feet above the rest of the mountain. Once I reach the summit, there’s no question that this is the highest point. Off to sides, the mountain plummets hundreds of feet. I clutch the bricks as I look over the precipice. A few false steps—fin.

I do a quick photo session at the summit before thoughts of warm pizza and homemade beer at the refugio lure my down. I want to descend by skipping or jumping, or better yet dispense with the descent altogether and just beam my way back down—maybe parachute off one of the cliffs.

Every mountaineering book I’ve ever read harps on the dangers of the descent. On a serious mountain, this often has to do with storms that tend to come later in the day, but more than anything, I imagine it’s complacency and carelessness that kills the cat. The descent is an invitation to be sloppy and let your mind drift—all the things you shouldn’t do on a mountain.

Thankfully, I was aware enough of this that I spent most of the descent thinking, “careful, don’t screw this up.”

Even with my relative care, it was a quick descent, and I arrived at the refugio, beaming. The place was full of an English-speaking crowd (Americans, Scotsmen, Swiss) who were merrily drinking, adding to my spirits. They all left shortly after I arrived, and I spent the rest of my time on the mountain eating and drinking with Nacho, the steward of the refugio.

As soon as I’d walked into the refugio, Nacho asked me if I’d reached the summit. On the way down, I’d thought about lying to him since he’d strongly advised me against it. His tone when he asked, though, said, “Did you do it? I sort of hope you did.” So I told him the truth.


A little extra:

My opinion of refugios is generally very high. I’ve never met someone who runs one that I didn’t like. Running a refugio and scouting in a fire tower (not sure that anyone does this anymore, or has for about 40 years) seem to me to be related pursuits. Yet, there’s no comparison as to who has the better gig.

Read Kerouac’s Desolation Angels about his experience on Desolation Peak, and it’s all boredom and depression, even if you get some holiness thrown in. Running a refugio you still get plenty of solitude on the mountain, but you also get a lot of visitors from around the world. It’s like operating a mom and pop restaurant in New York by day, and living in a wilderness paradise by night. No doubt, a naïve and overly romantic opinion, but suffice it to say, I know which I’d choose.