This is the third post discussing the gear needed on Aconcagua. Here are the first and second posts.
Trekking footwear
You need some robust footwear for the 3-day trek to base camp, over dry but often rather rocky terrain. I wore my reliable Asolo leather tramping boots, which for long walks are just as comfortable as shoes. A couple of people struggled with blisters. For me, they can be completely avoided by having boots that fit properly, combined with the right socks. A couple of the people in the group wore running shoes all the way to base camp. They got away with it, but I personally wouldn't recommend this. Given the terrain, running shoes aren't great either for keeping your feet and ankles protected or for security of footing.
Double plastic boots
These are quite possibly the most important single item of gear. Keeping your feet warm and dry is essential high up on the mountain. The gear list insisted on double plastic boots as obligatory. Literally getting cold feet is one of the main reasons for failing to summit Aconcagua.
The main options presented by the gear list were the Asolo 8000 and Scarpa Inverno (known as the Vega in the UK). I ended up getting the Scarpa boots since they were the only ones the local gear importer could get in an appropriate size (andI'd like to thank Bivouac for all their help with this). They were perfectly adequate: robust, plenty warm enough with the factory liners, and easy enough to get on and off. However, the Invernos were very large and clunky. They made a duck-like gait basically inevitable, and they were so broad they created some problems for fitting gaiters and strapping crampons. Thanks to some advice from a local ski store, I inserted some silicon wedges into the heels, which notably reduced the duck-like gait. If I had my time again, I'd like to try the Asolos. A couple of team members had these and they seemed to be smaller and less clunky while being just as warm. On the other hand, some of the reviews suggest they aren't great for wide feet (like mine).
It's worth noting that I ended up getting a pair of the Invernos at least 1 1/2 sizes bigger than my usual boot size, which was not due to wearing thicker socks. Boots are one of the things that you really must try before you buy (or have the option and time to exchange if you buy online).
The gear list specifically advised people on the Aconcagua expedition not to bring Himalayan-style boots with integrated gaiters such as the Millet Everest, since it's thought that they may suffer damage on the sharp scree of Aconcagua. As it happened, several expedition members did bring these boots, and they turned out to be ideal in the heavy snow we experienced. So, they can work out well, and might be an option if you're planning to use them on further expeditions to the Himalayas or Alaska. But you can risk damage if conditions are dry.
A piece of advice: don't try to delay wearing your plastic boots by continuing from Base Camp up to Camp 1 in your trekking boots. This will simply mean that you will have to carry your plastic boots at some point and you'll put off getting used to them. At the speed you will be walking up the mountain, plastics are perfectly acceptable.
Special liners
Adventure Consultants recommended getting some Intuition liners to wear instead of the factory liners in our plastic boots. These are specialist liners made by a small Canadian company using an innovative foam developed in New Zealand. They can be heat molded to better fit your boots and feet. The liner made for climbing boots is called the Denali. They are said to be warmer, lighter and quicker-drying than factory liners. I took the advice and sent away for some Intuition liners, based on my foot measurements. When they arrived, they turned out to be too small, even after heat molding. The company very kindly (and quickly) agreed to replace them with the next size up. However, even these were a bit tight around my toes, even after more heat molding. In the end, I took them to Argentina but at base camp decided to go with the factory liners, which fit perfectly and were plenty warm enough. There are people, including a couple of our guides, who swear by the Intuition liners. If you decide to get these, make sure you have the ability and time to get the right size and ensure they fit your feet and boots.
Regardless of which liners you end up using, when you are at the high camps you need to sleep with them in your sleeping bag to help them dry out.
Socks
For almost any long trekking or climbing expedition, I wear liner socks. I find that by wicking away sweat to the outer sock layer, they keep my feet drier, warmer (and, paradoxically, also cooler in hot conditions). I find that cheap, synthetic liners from the Cool Max brand work best. For outer layers I usually wear Icebreaker merino socks, of varying weights depending on the conditions. However, for Aconcagua summit day I got the thicket, warmest synthetic mountaineering socks I could find. These were reserved, unworn, for the day itself, along with a clean pair of liner socks.
In a previous post, I suggested that you could get away with fewer base layers, maybe only one set, on the high mountain. However, I do not recommend skimping on socks. Having something clean and dry on your feet makes a big difference, and I did not regret taking 5 full sets of socks with me. Above 5,000 metres, where it's freezing cold and doing anything saps precious oxygen and energy, your priorities become clear. I think I only managed to clean my teeth 2 or 3 times after we left base camp. But on a snowy afternoon at camp 1, I made a special effort to trudge down to a mostly-frozen stream. Using a small lump of soap and numbing water that gushed beneath a hole in the ice, I washed my dirty liner socks (to be dried by being hung up inside the tent and then joining the growing collection of items inside my sleeping bag).
Footwear around camp
The gear list advised us to take some old running shoes for river crossings and wearing around camp, and some down booties for wearing in the tent and around camp. I used the running shoes for the one river crossing and then left them at base camp. The booties turned out to be redundant inside the tent, and useless in the deep snow we had at all our camps. As I've suggested previously, I would replace both of these with a pair of sandals, or maybe some old tennis-style shoes that can be really squashed up.
Showing posts with label Argentina. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Argentina. Show all posts
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Sunday, December 04, 2011
Aconcagua Gear by Category #2 Head and Hands
Here's part 2 of my summary of different categories of gear I used on Aconcagua. Part 1 is here.
Head
For the trek in, you definitely need good sun protection, and a broad brimmed hat is preferable. I wore my trusty baseball cap with a buf arranged in Foreign Legion style to protect my neck. It wasn't quite enough. Two members of the group had the integrated floppy hat and neck flap made by Outdoor Research. These hats are far from stylish, inspiring both good natured ribbing and self-deprecation from their wearers, but seemed to work well. Recommended if you don't mind looking like an eccentric scientist catching bugs.
A warm hat is another essential. As I've described elsewhere, I took two. The North Face beanie later became a beloved item and was almost permanently attached to my head during this past winter in Wellington. However, on the mountain itself, my alpaca super-chullo, hand-produced in the village of Callalli in Peru, was unbeatable for warmth and comfort.
Hands A lot of attention needs to be paid to getting the right mix of hand protection. As I found out on Nevado Ampato, if you can't keep your hands both warm and usable, you become helpless pretty quickly. The gear list recommended two pairs of liner gloves, fleece gloves, mountaineering gloves, and expedition mittens.
As my basic liner gloves I took Outdoor Research PL 100 fleece gloves. I can't say enough good things about these gloves. They are warmer than you'd think, and are snug and stretchy, allowing good dexterity. After lots of scrabbling around with sharp rocks trying to anchor the tent I eventually destroyed the fingertips, but I made sure I bought another pair as soon as I got back to NZ.
I also took some Outdoor Research PL400 gloves, which are quite a lot thicker. These weren't particularly useful, as they didn't seem much warmer than the PL100s and weren't water or wind proof, but still prevented me from doing much with my hands -- I couldn't even get my fly undone while wearing them. If I had my time over, I would take another pair of PL100s, some windstopper gloves, and/or a thinner pair of fleece or wool liner gloves.
For my mountaineering gloves, I had a pair of Outdoor Research Arete gloves. Mine were an older version than the ones shown in the link and didn't have any insulation. I dispensed with the fairly useless factory liners and wore the outers over the PL100s. These provided adequate protection on the lower mountain when it was snowing, and they have a good idiot cord system. Starting over, I would prefer some gloves with insulation, which would work allow the option ofwearing them with thinner liners.
Finally, for the uber-warm mittens needed on summit day, I took the Black Diamond Mercury mitts. These were plenty warm enough and have an austere yet cuddly feel which makes it a little disappointing that another high-altitude expedition or camping in Siberia would be the only other occasions I can imagine wearing them.
As noted elsewhere, I would also highly recommend having some chemical hand warmers, as no matter how warm your mittens are, there'll be times you'll need to take them off, and they may need some help to warm your hands back up.
Head
For the trek in, you definitely need good sun protection, and a broad brimmed hat is preferable. I wore my trusty baseball cap with a buf arranged in Foreign Legion style to protect my neck. It wasn't quite enough. Two members of the group had the integrated floppy hat and neck flap made by Outdoor Research. These hats are far from stylish, inspiring both good natured ribbing and self-deprecation from their wearers, but seemed to work well. Recommended if you don't mind looking like an eccentric scientist catching bugs.
A warm hat is another essential. As I've described elsewhere, I took two. The North Face beanie later became a beloved item and was almost permanently attached to my head during this past winter in Wellington. However, on the mountain itself, my alpaca super-chullo, hand-produced in the village of Callalli in Peru, was unbeatable for warmth and comfort.
Hands A lot of attention needs to be paid to getting the right mix of hand protection. As I found out on Nevado Ampato, if you can't keep your hands both warm and usable, you become helpless pretty quickly. The gear list recommended two pairs of liner gloves, fleece gloves, mountaineering gloves, and expedition mittens.
As my basic liner gloves I took Outdoor Research PL 100 fleece gloves. I can't say enough good things about these gloves. They are warmer than you'd think, and are snug and stretchy, allowing good dexterity. After lots of scrabbling around with sharp rocks trying to anchor the tent I eventually destroyed the fingertips, but I made sure I bought another pair as soon as I got back to NZ.
I also took some Outdoor Research PL400 gloves, which are quite a lot thicker. These weren't particularly useful, as they didn't seem much warmer than the PL100s and weren't water or wind proof, but still prevented me from doing much with my hands -- I couldn't even get my fly undone while wearing them. If I had my time over, I would take another pair of PL100s, some windstopper gloves, and/or a thinner pair of fleece or wool liner gloves.
For my mountaineering gloves, I had a pair of Outdoor Research Arete gloves. Mine were an older version than the ones shown in the link and didn't have any insulation. I dispensed with the fairly useless factory liners and wore the outers over the PL100s. These provided adequate protection on the lower mountain when it was snowing, and they have a good idiot cord system. Starting over, I would prefer some gloves with insulation, which would work allow the option ofwearing them with thinner liners.
Finally, for the uber-warm mittens needed on summit day, I took the Black Diamond Mercury mitts. These were plenty warm enough and have an austere yet cuddly feel which makes it a little disappointing that another high-altitude expedition or camping in Siberia would be the only other occasions I can imagine wearing them.
As noted elsewhere, I would also highly recommend having some chemical hand warmers, as no matter how warm your mittens are, there'll be times you'll need to take them off, and they may need some help to warm your hands back up.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Climbing Aconcagua: Argentina's Stone Sentinel
It's late afternoon at Camp 3 on Aconcagua, 6,000 metres above sea level. Huddled inside my sleeping bag, I listen intently for changes in the sound of wind and snow against the tent. Gradually, the wind drops to a whisper. Then, the yellow tent wall begins to brighten, filtering an unmistakeable warmth through the canvas. Sunlight! I unzip the tent door, spend a couple of minutes wrestling to get foam liners and feet into the plastic boots sitting outside, then haul myself out into the freezing air. Outside, a few flakes are still drifting, but the clouds have rolled away and the sun is glowing crimson on the western horizon. Below our eagle's eyrie of a camp site, the serried peaks of the Andes fade into the north. Above and behind is the flank of Aconcagua itself. I feel a thrill of elation. After nearly two weeks of struggle and uncertainty, tomorrow we will be making an attempt on the highest summit in the western hemisphere.
Towering above surrounding peaks near the border between Argentina and Chile, Aconcagua’s 6,962 metres make it not only the highest mountain in the Andes, but the highest anywhere outside Asia. Even more notable, the standard route to the summit is free of glaciers or crevasses and can be attempted by those without technical mountain-climbing skills. That doesn't mean it can be taken lightly. Aconcagua's altitude is literally breath taking, nearly twice that of New Zealand’s Mt Cook. And its weather is notoriously unpredictable, with -30 degree temperatures and fierce winds that sweep in from the Pacific. Every summer, the mountain claims some lives.
Our group of eleven climbers is on an expedition organised by Wanaka's Adventure Consultants. The journey starts in the leafy Argentinean city of Mendoza, where 35-degree afternoons and enormous juicy steaks make for pleasant preparation. Before we head to the start of the expedition we are briefed by our guides: leader Matias from Chile, and Mendoza locals Leo and Agustin. Between them, they have summited Aconcagua thirty-six times.
To even arrive at the foot of the mountain is a three-day, 50km trek in from the road up the Vacas Valley, over relatively gentle terrain but under a parching sun. Fifteen minutes before arriving at our second camp, we get our first glimpse of the mountain, glimmering blue-white and symmetrical through a gap in the hills.
The next morning comes the only river crossing of the expedition. It's just twenty seconds, but the numbing icy water leaves even the guides hopping and cursing on the opposite bank. From there we work our way up the Relinchos Valley to Plaza Argentina, our base camp at 4,200 metres. For two days we rest and acclimatise enjoying the relative luxury of permanent metal-framed cooking and dining tents, a water supply and long-drop toilets.
The gear carry to Camp 1 is the first real challenge of the expedition. With communal food and supplies as well as personal equipment, we'll need to carry as much as 25kg up steep and difficult terrain culminating in a brutal scree slope that crumbles and slips under our boots. For one expedition member, it’s too far beyond his previous experience on Africa’s Kilimanjaro, and he reluctantly abandons the expedition.
The “climb high, sleep low” policy sees us return to base camp before moving permanently to Camp 1, from where we do another five-hour gear carry to Camp 2 at 5,500 metres. After getting back from the carry, two more members of our group decide to pull out. A Brazilian team accompanying us up the mountain has also lost a third of its members. The afternoon weather closes in and it begins to snow heavily. The snow continues into the next day, preventing any further move.
The following morning a dazzling sun reflects off the snowed-in tents. We hurriedly pack up our gear and begin our move to Camp 2. But after only an hour the clouds roll in again. Snow falls, first gently, then horizontally, as wind howls into our faces. The weather worsens as we work our way around the mountain's northwestern flank, until visibility drops to twenty metres. Finally arriving at camp, we work desperately to pitch the tents and scramble into shelter.
The next morning there's grim news. A number of people have been reported missing, including climbers we had seen working their way up the Polish Glacier route the previous day. We'll later get confirmation that the storm has taken the lives of three people higher on the mountain and seen several others evacuated with frostbite.
As the storm continues, we huddle in the tents and try to conserve energy. Our guides melt snow for water and perform heroics to cook a nourishing dinner. Morale has dropped: with food and time running out, we wonder whether we’ll even get to make a summit attempt.
We're reluctant to believe in the still, clear skies the next morning. But the weather remains perfect as we carry gear to camp 3, taking turns with an American team to plough a trail through the thick snow. Another member has breathing problems and decides he’ll go no further. Seven out of eleven climbers remain.
Monday, 14 February, we complete the move from camp 2 to camp 3. Now at 6,000 metres, we’re poised for a summit attempt. But the afternoon clouds over and it begins to snow. Will we be frustrated at the final hurdle? Just before sunset, the weather clears. It looks like the mountain will grant us an opportunity after all.
After a long sleepless night, at 6am it’s finally time. By torch light we don balaclavas, down jackets and insulated pants, strap on crampons, and stuff energy gels into pockets. Dawn breaks as we trudge up through the snow. The arc of horizon evolves through an array of hues, unveiling a dizzying array of ridges and peaks below us. Daylight reveals a line of climbers on the slope above us. Some are already struggling, stopped, leaning forward on to their poles, breathing heavily. We inch our way up to the pass and into the shelter of a small hollow. This is Independencia, one third of the way.
Fifty metres up over a steep bank and we begin a long traverse across the mountainside where normally the wind screams in from the west. Incredibly, there’s hardly a breeze. After all the tribulations on the way up the mountain, today we’ve got very lucky.
At a rest stop, our guides take the tough decision that one of the group is struggling too much. With still five hours to the summit and three hours down, they judge he won’t have the energy to last, and he is escorted back to camp by Agustin. Two guides and six climbers remain, as we work our way up to a cleft in the mountainside known as the Cave.
Beyond the Cave, a steep route zig-zags upwards. This is the notorious Canaleta, which is usually dry scree. The snow cover makes progress slightly easier, but my calves burn with each step upwards. I later realize I've drifted into a meditative state: it’s hard to believe that three more hours pass as we ease uphill.
I can see two, three more bends before a jumble of boulders that mark the edge of the summit plateau. I feel a brief wave of emotion: after months of preparation and two weeks of climbing, I will make it to the highest point in the Americas. I think of all my friends and family that will be proud of me.
Nine hours after leaving camp, Leo stops by some large rounded boulders and waves me up. I scramble clumsily over them and lift myself on to the summit. Fellow expedition members join me and we share high-fives and hugs. We take photos next to Aconcagua’s famous cross, where climbers hang small trinkets to mark their ascent. Each year these are cleaned away by winter storms.
From there, we still have to make it down. It's several more hours, and two of the other group members are so exhausted they have to be roped to the guides. I have a little stumble on the way down to the Cave and a five-minute dizzy spell while resting there, but recover after half of litre water and an emergency One Square Meal. Ahead also is the next day's rapid descent, tired legs weighed down by overloaded packs and slipping on the icy slopes, to the Plaza de Mulas camp, with its almost unbelievable prizes of pizza and beer. Then the 30km trek out, along the dusty riverbeds of the Horcones Valley.
But the present moment is about the summit. It’s less joyful celebration than quiet reflection on the effort, team work and luck required to make it this far; and acknowledgement that we're here at Aconcagua’s grace. As the sign in the camp doctor’s office at Plaza Argentina says: “It’s not until you’re back at base camp that the mountain belongs to you. Until then, you belong to it”.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Aconcagua: Gear Issues
More on Aconcagua, this time about gear. This post covers a few of the surprising and obscure gear-related things I discovered on the expedition. In another post I'll go more systematically through the various gear categories.
Get to grips with your balaclava
Some of the trickiest items of gear to get right are the ones you never need until you're in really extreme conditions. For example, the balaclava. This is something you might not pay much attention to. Everyone's used to jackets, sleeping bags, boots, and it's easy to imagine them needing to be bigger and warmer high up on the mountain. But needing to cover your whole face is a little harder to envisage until you're actually being battered by freezing winds and horizontal snow. At this point, you really want your balaclava to fit well, and to let you breathe.
A couple of days before our summit attempt. I was pretty sure I would need to wear a balaclava for good part of the ascent, especially on the stretch from Independencia to the Cave where the wind is usually relentless. I hadn't got used to wearing either of mine in a way that I felt comfortable with and was panicking slightly. On the climb to camp 3 in fine conditions I experimented with wearing my buff over my nose and mouth. I found that to be ok when walking slowly and steadily, but rapidly ran out of breath whenever I had to make an effort. How would I manage on the summit climb? Would I be forced to choose between running out of oxygen or getting a frostbitten nose?
Fortunately, we were blessed with a summit day of unusual calm; on the infamous traverse (see picture) there was hardly a breeze. I wore my balaclava in the morning cold up to the rest stop at Independencia (6,400 metres) and then dispensed with it. But when we are eating dinner on our arrival back at Penitentes, we sat next to a group of Polish climbers who had summited on a different day than us: several of them had painful-looking swathes of windburn across their faces, rather like protagonists of that joke where you answer the phone while ironing.
Kill two birds with one pair of sandals
There's little doubt that on Aconcagua you'll need two main pairs of footwear: regular trekking boots for the walk in and double plastic boots from base camp. The gear list from Adventure Consultants also recommended: 1) some old running shoes for wearing around camp and using in river crossings and 2) down booties for wearing around camp and in your tent/sleeping bag. Based on my experiences, I would scratch both those items and replace them with a good lightweight pair of sandals. The running shoes were comfortable to wear around camp on the walk in, and I did use them on our one (brief but stunningly cold) river crossing. However, from base camp space and weight were at a premium and there was no way I could justify taking the shoes. I did squeeze in the down booties, but found they weren't up to the task of tramping round camp in the deep snow. Their role inside the tent is limited, since you mostly just put your feet in your sleeping bag to keep them warm.
After many occasions battling to get my double plastic boots on and off just to get in and out of the tent, I was looking enviously at the sandals worn by a couple of other expedition members. Small and light enough to carry, they can be worn with socks (there are no fashion crimes above 5,000 metres) and are a good option for short trips around camp. Sure, they're not the best in deep snow either, but are more robust and more easily cleaned or dried than the booties.
Yes, you need those water bottle jackets
Another obscure item you might not spent much thought on is the insulating "jacket" for your water bottles. While I researched and fretted about many of the items on the gear list, I had completely forgotten about these, and was fortunate enough that my sister Terri threw a couple in with some other things I borrowed off her just before I left. They aren't always sufficient to stop your water from freezing, but they are necessary.
Also, one area where I felt the pre-trip advice was wide of the mark was the recommendation to take two 1-litre drink bottles (plus one pee bottle). Most days you want to drink at least 3 to 4 litres, and for much of the expedition there's no chance to refill. We had to use coke or mineral water bottles for the additional water, which was not ideal. I would recommend taking at least 3 dedicated, wide-mouth 1-litre water bottles on the expedition. The softer plastic Nalgene bottles are probably better than the hard plastic ones, since they squash down better when empty.
Hand warmers are worth it
When I looked at the suggestion of hand warmers on the gear list I was a little sceptical. Surely if you got the right gloves and mittens you wouldn't need them? Well, yes. Top-line mittens will be plenty warm enough if you have them on the whole time. But to do anything like opening your pack, getting water, or even adjusting your hood, you need to strip to liner gloves or even, as in my case for about 15 minutes on summit morning, your bare hands. Your mittens might not be enough to warm your hands back up, and a throwing a couple of toasty hand warmers in them gives you extra security. On the other hand, there's not much point in getting specialist toe warmers: there's generally no space for them in a well-fitting pair of boots.
Try it all on
As I gradually accumulated gear in the months before the expedition I on various occasions got myself dressed up in layers of thermals, jackets, pants and socks. I felt rather stupid as I tried out my down jacket in the middle of summer, sweat pouring off as I fiddled with various chords and zips. Ultimately, however, I probably didn't do enough of this. You really should know exactly how everything zips, buckles and fastens, what can be worn with what, the best way to adjust your hoods, and so on. And you should practice doing it all with gloves on. For the same reason, as much of the gear as possible should be your own. Most items can be hired in Mendoza, but renting an item from a limited selection with 15 minutes to choose is not ideal. I got pretty much everything except crampons and ice pick. I did generally get to grips with the crampons in my hotel room in Mendoza, but on summit day I realised that I'd never tried them on with my snow gaiters and insulated pants. The extra bulk under the already short straps meant I had a panicky 5 minutes or so wrestling to get the crampons tightened in -15 degree conditions on summit morning.
Get to grips with your balaclava
Some of the trickiest items of gear to get right are the ones you never need until you're in really extreme conditions. For example, the balaclava. This is something you might not pay much attention to. Everyone's used to jackets, sleeping bags, boots, and it's easy to imagine them needing to be bigger and warmer high up on the mountain. But needing to cover your whole face is a little harder to envisage until you're actually being battered by freezing winds and horizontal snow. At this point, you really want your balaclava to fit well, and to let you breathe.
A couple of days before our summit attempt. I was pretty sure I would need to wear a balaclava for good part of the ascent, especially on the stretch from Independencia to the Cave where the wind is usually relentless. I hadn't got used to wearing either of mine in a way that I felt comfortable with and was panicking slightly. On the climb to camp 3 in fine conditions I experimented with wearing my buff over my nose and mouth. I found that to be ok when walking slowly and steadily, but rapidly ran out of breath whenever I had to make an effort. How would I manage on the summit climb? Would I be forced to choose between running out of oxygen or getting a frostbitten nose?
Fortunately, we were blessed with a summit day of unusual calm; on the infamous traverse (see picture) there was hardly a breeze. I wore my balaclava in the morning cold up to the rest stop at Independencia (6,400 metres) and then dispensed with it. But when we are eating dinner on our arrival back at Penitentes, we sat next to a group of Polish climbers who had summited on a different day than us: several of them had painful-looking swathes of windburn across their faces, rather like protagonists of that joke where you answer the phone while ironing.
Kill two birds with one pair of sandals
There's little doubt that on Aconcagua you'll need two main pairs of footwear: regular trekking boots for the walk in and double plastic boots from base camp. The gear list from Adventure Consultants also recommended: 1) some old running shoes for wearing around camp and using in river crossings and 2) down booties for wearing around camp and in your tent/sleeping bag. Based on my experiences, I would scratch both those items and replace them with a good lightweight pair of sandals. The running shoes were comfortable to wear around camp on the walk in, and I did use them on our one (brief but stunningly cold) river crossing. However, from base camp space and weight were at a premium and there was no way I could justify taking the shoes. I did squeeze in the down booties, but found they weren't up to the task of tramping round camp in the deep snow. Their role inside the tent is limited, since you mostly just put your feet in your sleeping bag to keep them warm.
After many occasions battling to get my double plastic boots on and off just to get in and out of the tent, I was looking enviously at the sandals worn by a couple of other expedition members. Small and light enough to carry, they can be worn with socks (there are no fashion crimes above 5,000 metres) and are a good option for short trips around camp. Sure, they're not the best in deep snow either, but are more robust and more easily cleaned or dried than the booties.
Yes, you need those water bottle jackets
Another obscure item you might not spent much thought on is the insulating "jacket" for your water bottles. While I researched and fretted about many of the items on the gear list, I had completely forgotten about these, and was fortunate enough that my sister Terri threw a couple in with some other things I borrowed off her just before I left. They aren't always sufficient to stop your water from freezing, but they are necessary.
Also, one area where I felt the pre-trip advice was wide of the mark was the recommendation to take two 1-litre drink bottles (plus one pee bottle). Most days you want to drink at least 3 to 4 litres, and for much of the expedition there's no chance to refill. We had to use coke or mineral water bottles for the additional water, which was not ideal. I would recommend taking at least 3 dedicated, wide-mouth 1-litre water bottles on the expedition. The softer plastic Nalgene bottles are probably better than the hard plastic ones, since they squash down better when empty.
Hand warmers are worth it
When I looked at the suggestion of hand warmers on the gear list I was a little sceptical. Surely if you got the right gloves and mittens you wouldn't need them? Well, yes. Top-line mittens will be plenty warm enough if you have them on the whole time. But to do anything like opening your pack, getting water, or even adjusting your hood, you need to strip to liner gloves or even, as in my case for about 15 minutes on summit morning, your bare hands. Your mittens might not be enough to warm your hands back up, and a throwing a couple of toasty hand warmers in them gives you extra security. On the other hand, there's not much point in getting specialist toe warmers: there's generally no space for them in a well-fitting pair of boots.
Try it all on
As I gradually accumulated gear in the months before the expedition I on various occasions got myself dressed up in layers of thermals, jackets, pants and socks. I felt rather stupid as I tried out my down jacket in the middle of summer, sweat pouring off as I fiddled with various chords and zips. Ultimately, however, I probably didn't do enough of this. You really should know exactly how everything zips, buckles and fastens, what can be worn with what, the best way to adjust your hoods, and so on. And you should practice doing it all with gloves on. For the same reason, as much of the gear as possible should be your own. Most items can be hired in Mendoza, but renting an item from a limited selection with 15 minutes to choose is not ideal. I got pretty much everything except crampons and ice pick. I did generally get to grips with the crampons in my hotel room in Mendoza, but on summit day I realised that I'd never tried them on with my snow gaiters and insulated pants. The extra bulk under the already short straps meant I had a panicky 5 minutes or so wrestling to get the crampons tightened in -15 degree conditions on summit morning.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Important Things About Aconcagua
I still plan to write a blow by blow account of the Aconcagua trip: it was about sixteen days up and down, so it's going to be spread over at least three posts. Meanwhile, here are some general thoughts about things I learned or found to be very important during the expedition. Some of them might be useful advice for people thinking of making the Aconcagua trip themselves. In another post I'll focus specifically on gear issues.
It's the Guides, Stupid
Some very experienced mountaineers will prefer to organise the trip themselves, taking care of all the gear and food, planning their route, and evaluating the weather. For the rest of us who go on an organized expedition, the quality of the guides is paramount. I cannot exaggerate the importance of the contribution made by our three guides: Matias (Chilean, lead guide, 16 previous Aconcagua summits), Leo, (from Mendoza, 11 previous summits) and Agustin (also from Mendoza, 7 previous summits). The expedition was organised by Adventure Consultants, based in Wanaka, New Zealand, and the local agent was Fernando Grajales Expeditions of Mendoza. Both companies did an exemplary job with the logistics. But up on the mountainside, any plans and policies of the tour operators rely on the guides to implement them properly.
The first night we all met up at the hotel in Mendoza, Matias gave a briefing which set the tone for the expedition. He told us that the objectives were, in order: 1) to get off the mountains safely; 2) to enjoy the "process" of climbing and learn something; and 3) to reach the summit. In a period where three people died on the mountain and a number more were evacuated with frostbite, none of us were left in any doubt about the wisdom of that approach.
Eat,Pray, Love, Drink, Eat
If I were asked to identify the other most important success factor for Aconcagua, it wouldn't be great physical fitness. Sure, there are some minimum standards. But apart from a couple of hours here and there on different days, it's wasn't an especially athletic expedition. The slow, steady rhythm set by the guides was aimed at conserving energy. If you work out a lot or play sport, you'll probably actually lose form while on the mountain.
No, the key to survival and success on the mountain was simply to eat and drink as much as possible. To operate at altitude, as a friend in Peru once said, you need a "strong organism", and that organism has to be constantly refuelled. On Aconcagua, everything dehydrates you: on the walk in, it's the heat; higher up, it's the altitude. So, if you want to do well, you have to drink a lot of water. Drink before you get thirsty. Drink more than you think you need. Wake up in the middle of the night and drink some more.
Eating is just as important. All the theory says that you lose appetite at altitude, and most of the accounts I read of people's experiences on Aconcagua described forcing down minimal quantities of food at the higher camps. This wasn't so for me and most of the others who made it to the summit. In fact, the guides said they were rather taken aback by how much I and my tent mate were still eating at 6,000 metres, "maybe even more than at sea level". This was helped by the fact that the quality of the food was very good, which again, was in large part thanks to the guides. One of the defining moments of the expeditions came after we had braved a fierce snow storm to arrive at camp 2 and set up our tents. Cold, bedraggled and anxious about our prospects of even getting an attempt at the summit, I and my tent mate were roused by the voice of Agustin telling us that dinner was ready. We unzipped the back door to find Agustin, icicles clinging to his beard, holding a large pot from which he served us generous helpings of spicy meat and and rice. It was one of the most memorably delicious meals I've had, and greatly improved our mood at a difficult time.
Details Matter
I hoped the Aconcagua expedition would be a learning and growing experience for me, and in a number of ways it was, even if it just showed me how far I still had to go. One of the sharpest learning curves was to do with organisation and attention to detail. So many small things can derail your expedition. Secure your tent ineffectively or leave it unzipped and it could blow away, ending your trip. Fail to dry your boot liners or let your water bottle freeze and you could be in big trouble. It's not just with gear that that things can go wrong, but with your own person. Catch a cold or get a bout of diarrhea up high, and your body may not be able to recover quickly enough. Sunburn, headaches, blisters, and dehydration can all be dangerous as well.
So, you need to be meticulous about keeping your hands clean, your feet dry, your body warm, your skin protected, and your things stashed and organised. There are many details to think about. Are your plate, cup and spoon quickly accessible? Can your jacket be easily pulled out and stashed again at rest stops? Are your trekking poles set to the right length for the terrain (shorter for up hill, much longer for down)? How can you secure your water bottle to allow you to take sips while you walk?
It's also important to be familiar with all your clothes and equipment before the expedition, including how things tie, zip and buckle, what can be worn with what, and so forth. More about this in the post on gear. Despite my efforts to improve my organisational skills, and many nights spent lying in my sleeping bag mentally organising my pack, I struggled with this aspect and was always one of the last to be ready, starting in the morning, pitching and packing tents, and at rest stops (to be fair, three of my companions were ex-military).
Stay Regular
There was a lot of pre-trip information from Adventure Consultants, ranging from the essential to the relatively obscure, from advice on insurance to tips on high-altitude photopgraphy. Funnily, nowhere was there any comment about something that had inspired curiosity in most expedition members: how would we go to the toilet? Up to and including base camp, there's little mystery. Each expedition company supplies the camps with long drops -- barrels which are helicoptered out when full.
Beyond base camp, it's a different story. Within Aconcagua Provincial Park, the authorities have taken the admirable decision that you can't just "go" anywhere. Each person is given a quota of "wag bags" which they must use for any number two beyond 4,200 metres. The wag bag includes an inner, larger bag which contains a chemical powder that neutralizes and deodorizes excrement, as well as an outer ziplock bag designed to hold the inner bag.
For me, learning to love the bag was an important mental step in surviving and thriving on Aconcagua. It's tricky enough to aim into a bag in any situation, but when perched on a mountainside at -15 Celsius with snow and freezing winds, it becomes an adventure sport. Yet, it's not a good idea to avoid a showdown by eating less or just bottling it up. Staying healthy and comfortable means staying regular, so you need to treat it as just one more challenge to embrace.
It's the Guides, Stupid
Some very experienced mountaineers will prefer to organise the trip themselves, taking care of all the gear and food, planning their route, and evaluating the weather. For the rest of us who go on an organized expedition, the quality of the guides is paramount. I cannot exaggerate the importance of the contribution made by our three guides: Matias (Chilean, lead guide, 16 previous Aconcagua summits), Leo, (from Mendoza, 11 previous summits) and Agustin (also from Mendoza, 7 previous summits). The expedition was organised by Adventure Consultants, based in Wanaka, New Zealand, and the local agent was Fernando Grajales Expeditions of Mendoza. Both companies did an exemplary job with the logistics. But up on the mountainside, any plans and policies of the tour operators rely on the guides to implement them properly.
The first night we all met up at the hotel in Mendoza, Matias gave a briefing which set the tone for the expedition. He told us that the objectives were, in order: 1) to get off the mountains safely; 2) to enjoy the "process" of climbing and learn something; and 3) to reach the summit. In a period where three people died on the mountain and a number more were evacuated with frostbite, none of us were left in any doubt about the wisdom of that approach.
Eat,
If I were asked to identify the other most important success factor for Aconcagua, it wouldn't be great physical fitness. Sure, there are some minimum standards. But apart from a couple of hours here and there on different days, it's wasn't an especially athletic expedition. The slow, steady rhythm set by the guides was aimed at conserving energy. If you work out a lot or play sport, you'll probably actually lose form while on the mountain.
No, the key to survival and success on the mountain was simply to eat and drink as much as possible. To operate at altitude, as a friend in Peru once said, you need a "strong organism", and that organism has to be constantly refuelled. On Aconcagua, everything dehydrates you: on the walk in, it's the heat; higher up, it's the altitude. So, if you want to do well, you have to drink a lot of water. Drink before you get thirsty. Drink more than you think you need. Wake up in the middle of the night and drink some more.
Eating is just as important. All the theory says that you lose appetite at altitude, and most of the accounts I read of people's experiences on Aconcagua described forcing down minimal quantities of food at the higher camps. This wasn't so for me and most of the others who made it to the summit. In fact, the guides said they were rather taken aback by how much I and my tent mate were still eating at 6,000 metres, "maybe even more than at sea level". This was helped by the fact that the quality of the food was very good, which again, was in large part thanks to the guides. One of the defining moments of the expeditions came after we had braved a fierce snow storm to arrive at camp 2 and set up our tents. Cold, bedraggled and anxious about our prospects of even getting an attempt at the summit, I and my tent mate were roused by the voice of Agustin telling us that dinner was ready. We unzipped the back door to find Agustin, icicles clinging to his beard, holding a large pot from which he served us generous helpings of spicy meat and and rice. It was one of the most memorably delicious meals I've had, and greatly improved our mood at a difficult time.
Details Matter
I hoped the Aconcagua expedition would be a learning and growing experience for me, and in a number of ways it was, even if it just showed me how far I still had to go. One of the sharpest learning curves was to do with organisation and attention to detail. So many small things can derail your expedition. Secure your tent ineffectively or leave it unzipped and it could blow away, ending your trip. Fail to dry your boot liners or let your water bottle freeze and you could be in big trouble. It's not just with gear that that things can go wrong, but with your own person. Catch a cold or get a bout of diarrhea up high, and your body may not be able to recover quickly enough. Sunburn, headaches, blisters, and dehydration can all be dangerous as well.
So, you need to be meticulous about keeping your hands clean, your feet dry, your body warm, your skin protected, and your things stashed and organised. There are many details to think about. Are your plate, cup and spoon quickly accessible? Can your jacket be easily pulled out and stashed again at rest stops? Are your trekking poles set to the right length for the terrain (shorter for up hill, much longer for down)? How can you secure your water bottle to allow you to take sips while you walk?
It's also important to be familiar with all your clothes and equipment before the expedition, including how things tie, zip and buckle, what can be worn with what, and so forth. More about this in the post on gear. Despite my efforts to improve my organisational skills, and many nights spent lying in my sleeping bag mentally organising my pack, I struggled with this aspect and was always one of the last to be ready, starting in the morning, pitching and packing tents, and at rest stops (to be fair, three of my companions were ex-military).
Stay Regular
There was a lot of pre-trip information from Adventure Consultants, ranging from the essential to the relatively obscure, from advice on insurance to tips on high-altitude photopgraphy. Funnily, nowhere was there any comment about something that had inspired curiosity in most expedition members: how would we go to the toilet? Up to and including base camp, there's little mystery. Each expedition company supplies the camps with long drops -- barrels which are helicoptered out when full.
Beyond base camp, it's a different story. Within Aconcagua Provincial Park, the authorities have taken the admirable decision that you can't just "go" anywhere. Each person is given a quota of "wag bags" which they must use for any number two beyond 4,200 metres. The wag bag includes an inner, larger bag which contains a chemical powder that neutralizes and deodorizes excrement, as well as an outer ziplock bag designed to hold the inner bag.
For me, learning to love the bag was an important mental step in surviving and thriving on Aconcagua. It's tricky enough to aim into a bag in any situation, but when perched on a mountainside at -15 Celsius with snow and freezing winds, it becomes an adventure sport. Yet, it's not a good idea to avoid a showdown by eating less or just bottling it up. Staying healthy and comfortable means staying regular, so you need to treat it as just one more challenge to embrace.
Monday, February 21, 2011
On Top of the World (Outside Asia)
So, after quite a few doubts before and even during the expedition, this past Tuesday 15th of February, I stood at the summit of 6,962-metre Cerro Aconcagua with five others from our original expedition party of 11. About two hundred metres from the summit I felt a sudden warm glow as I thought of all my family and friends who might be proud of me for making it and could in some way share in the achievement. About a hundred metres away, when the last boulders that have to be clambered over came into view, I felt tears welling up. It was the culmination of a long and often distant-seeming dream and it was an emotional experience to stand on the summit, hugging and high-fiving team mates and guides.
Aconcagua tends to be presented in general descriptions as a relatively simple, non-technical mountain that is useful as a an introduction to high altitude. It's sometimes referred to as "the world's highest trek". Our guides and the base camp doctor who was doing his fourth season on the mountain all lamented this publicity as misleading. I can just about see how this description could be close to accurate on the Normal route under certain conditions. But by the end of the trip , I and I think every other member of the group were convinced that Aconcagua was all mountain -- and subject to cruel and unforgiving moods.
During the expedition, we experienced some of the worst sustained weather on the mountain in 10 years, with practically four days of snow including a pretty intense storm. Getting from camp 1 to camp 3 was a real trial both in physical and mental terms. Three people died on the mountain in the last week and a number of others were evacuated with frostbite (pretty much all due to bad decisions). Our guides said it was the most snow they had seen on the mountain. However, this was made up for on our summit day which was a beautiful morning with almost no wind -- even, incredibly, on a 3-hour traverse where the books and our guides coincide in saying the wind is usually relentless. There was so much snow we could go all the way from camp 3 to the summit and back with crampons. While that made it slightly tricky in some parts, it was probably easier in others
I can't speak highly enough of our guides Matias, Leo and Agustin, who did an incredible job and did an enormous amount to get us through safely. It's been quite an experience. I like to think I learned a lot on this trip and have improved as a person in some small way.
In future blogs I aim to do a bit more of a blow-by blow account of the expedition as well as listing some of the surprising things I found to be important, thoughts on gear and preparations, and some tips that might help people who are thinking of trying this expedition themselves.
Aconcagua tends to be presented in general descriptions as a relatively simple, non-technical mountain that is useful as a an introduction to high altitude. It's sometimes referred to as "the world's highest trek". Our guides and the base camp doctor who was doing his fourth season on the mountain all lamented this publicity as misleading. I can just about see how this description could be close to accurate on the Normal route under certain conditions. But by the end of the trip , I and I think every other member of the group were convinced that Aconcagua was all mountain -- and subject to cruel and unforgiving moods.
During the expedition, we experienced some of the worst sustained weather on the mountain in 10 years, with practically four days of snow including a pretty intense storm. Getting from camp 1 to camp 3 was a real trial both in physical and mental terms. Three people died on the mountain in the last week and a number of others were evacuated with frostbite (pretty much all due to bad decisions). Our guides said it was the most snow they had seen on the mountain. However, this was made up for on our summit day which was a beautiful morning with almost no wind -- even, incredibly, on a 3-hour traverse where the books and our guides coincide in saying the wind is usually relentless. There was so much snow we could go all the way from camp 3 to the summit and back with crampons. While that made it slightly tricky in some parts, it was probably easier in others
I can't speak highly enough of our guides Matias, Leo and Agustin, who did an incredible job and did an enormous amount to get us through safely. It's been quite an experience. I like to think I learned a lot on this trip and have improved as a person in some small way.
In future blogs I aim to do a bit more of a blow-by blow account of the expedition as well as listing some of the surprising things I found to be important, thoughts on gear and preparations, and some tips that might help people who are thinking of trying this expedition themselves.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Aconcagua Bound
Once again, there's no continuity to this blog. Since last time I wrote about my plans for tackling the non-technical but daunting peak of Cerro Aconcagua in Argentina, there have been almost no updates. None of the intermediate posts about gear and training that I had planned. The Master's thesis (maybe more in another post) simply expanded to occupy all available time. I simply have to announce that I'm sitting here in Mendoza, amidst a 34 degrees kept comfortable by the abundant leafy trees, just two days away from starting on what will be an approximately 20-day expedition.
The way things have turned out, perhaps the less talk about the upcoming trip, the better. The amazing expanding thesis also cut into a lot of training time so I'm definitely short of a gallop there. Plus in the last few weeks I've had some kind of mysterious illness with very mild but nevertheless energy-reducing symptoms. All in all I don't feel that confident. The worst case scenario is that at basecamp they'll decide my oxygen levels are below par and send me back to Mendoza.
Still, I need to honour my big talk in previous posts by at least acknowledging that I'm about to start the attempt. This morning when I checked into the hotel where everyone is meeting I talked to a guy who is making a second attempt: last year he lost feeling in his toes just a couple of hundred metres from the summit and had to turn back. He said his boots had been on their last legs and just failed him. Given that I've been pretty studious about getting all the right gear and equipment, that's at least one situation I should avoid. Anyone interested can get updates on progress with the expedition at the Adventure Consultants web site
The way things have turned out, perhaps the less talk about the upcoming trip, the better. The amazing expanding thesis also cut into a lot of training time so I'm definitely short of a gallop there. Plus in the last few weeks I've had some kind of mysterious illness with very mild but nevertheless energy-reducing symptoms. All in all I don't feel that confident. The worst case scenario is that at basecamp they'll decide my oxygen levels are below par and send me back to Mendoza.
Still, I need to honour my big talk in previous posts by at least acknowledging that I'm about to start the attempt. This morning when I checked into the hotel where everyone is meeting I talked to a guy who is making a second attempt: last year he lost feeling in his toes just a couple of hundred metres from the summit and had to turn back. He said his boots had been on their last legs and just failed him. Given that I've been pretty studious about getting all the right gear and equipment, that's at least one situation I should avoid. Anyone interested can get updates on progress with the expedition at the Adventure Consultants web site
Saturday, December 05, 2009
The Road to Aconcagua
Generally I've found that writing down things I plan to do is helpful, making them more concrete and spurring me on to carry then out. Telling someone what I plan is the next step: the more people I tell, the harder it is to back out without losing face.
I've already said the following to a number of people and now the time has come to write it on the blog. I am making plans to climb Argentina's Cerro Aconcagua, the world's highest peak outside Asia, in the summer of 2011. The idea has gradually become more concrete ever since my older sister Terri made it to the summit in January 2008.
That was a fantastic effort, but Terri has won competitive road cycling races in the United States, run a marathon under 3 hrs 30, and likes nothing better than to cycle 60 km before breakfast. By contrast, I am a slob who sleeps in until 10am where possible. I admired my sister's achievement but didn't think it realistic for me. Yet over the last twelve months or so the possibility has kept nagging away at me until I eventually said: "why not?".
Now I've put a stake in the ground, this is likely to become a new narrative arc on this blog. In the past I've written about my struggles with fitness and inadequate gear. I've begun to address both of those issues recently and will discuss them more in future posts. I also hope that readers will contribute to those posts, as there's a number of things I'm unsure about and would be happy to get some feedback on.
But to be honest, I'm not even wholly confident of even making it on the expedition (health, finances and a master's thesis are all capable of throwing a spanner in the works), let alone to the summit. So to to start with, I'm going to take a look at my chances by summarizing the advantages and disadvantages I have. Again, writing them down makes them more tangible and easier to tackle.
Advantages
I have reasonably good physical endurance. I have reached a summit over 6,000 metres before (Nevado Chachani). I've climbed 1,900 vertical metres in a single day (Andagua trek) and trekked for around 10 hours for three consecutive days while carrying a pack (also the Andagua trek).
Importantly, I also understand that none of this adds up to much compared with the task ahead. When I climbed El Misti, it was a two-day trek of around 2,600 vertical metres to the summit at 5,825. Yet the last 150 of those metres, from volcano's crater to the true summit, felt about as hard as the preceding 2,450. I was in a group of six climbers and two guides. I, one other American climber and a guide, reached the crater a little ahead of the rest. I recall the final stretch, winding up a narrow ridge with the summit always in view, as being pretty agonising. The other four climbers reached the crater and decided that they couldn't go any further, despite being little more than a stone's throw from the summit. That was about the same altitude as the high camp on Aconcagua -- where the long trek to the summit starts.
Add to this the fact that my 6,000-ish summits have been in Peru, less than 15 degress south of the equator, with daytime temperatures creeping near 0 degrees Celsius in a gentle zephyr. Aconcagua is more than 30 degrees south, and I understand that temperatures on the summit can be around -30 Celsius in summer with vicious winds.
It might look like I'm just citing difficulties here, but the fact that I understand these things very clearly is actually an advantage.
Disadvantages
Physically, I deteriorate rapidly when I don't have enough to eat or drink. I also struggle to maintain a steady pace. I tend to go too rapidly when I have energy and tire myself out.
However, my biggest drawback is probably mental weakness. Deep down, I'm a bit of a wimp and a coward and I instinctively look for a quick payoff. The longest treks I've ever gone on have been around four days, and by day two or three, my mind is already shifting to the prospect of a nice hot shower, good coffee, and sitting back in a comfortable chair reviewing photos of the trip. Unlike true outdoors people, I don't really thrive in the back country. When I'm there, I usually start to fixate on little discomforts and dream about being back in civilization.
I also don't have very good interpersonal skills: I like my personal space and usually find it hard to fit in with groups. When I lack the skills to contribute much to practical things like preparing food, putting up tents and packing gear, I feel like I don't have any control and can get disengaged and grumpy. The likelihood of becoming bored, anxious and disprited on the long tramp in, and in particular during days spent waiting around in bad weather, is one of my biggest risks. From previous experience and from what I'm read, I expect this challenge to be as much mental as physical. Being in as positive a frame of mind as possible during the tough bits will be important.
So, that's probably something to train for over the next 12 months just as much as carrying a 25-kilo pack in low oxygen.
I've already said the following to a number of people and now the time has come to write it on the blog. I am making plans to climb Argentina's Cerro Aconcagua, the world's highest peak outside Asia, in the summer of 2011. The idea has gradually become more concrete ever since my older sister Terri made it to the summit in January 2008.
That was a fantastic effort, but Terri has won competitive road cycling races in the United States, run a marathon under 3 hrs 30, and likes nothing better than to cycle 60 km before breakfast. By contrast, I am a slob who sleeps in until 10am where possible. I admired my sister's achievement but didn't think it realistic for me. Yet over the last twelve months or so the possibility has kept nagging away at me until I eventually said: "why not?".
Now I've put a stake in the ground, this is likely to become a new narrative arc on this blog. In the past I've written about my struggles with fitness and inadequate gear. I've begun to address both of those issues recently and will discuss them more in future posts. I also hope that readers will contribute to those posts, as there's a number of things I'm unsure about and would be happy to get some feedback on.
But to be honest, I'm not even wholly confident of even making it on the expedition (health, finances and a master's thesis are all capable of throwing a spanner in the works), let alone to the summit. So to to start with, I'm going to take a look at my chances by summarizing the advantages and disadvantages I have. Again, writing them down makes them more tangible and easier to tackle.
Advantages
I have reasonably good physical endurance. I have reached a summit over 6,000 metres before (Nevado Chachani). I've climbed 1,900 vertical metres in a single day (Andagua trek) and trekked for around 10 hours for three consecutive days while carrying a pack (also the Andagua trek).
Importantly, I also understand that none of this adds up to much compared with the task ahead. When I climbed El Misti, it was a two-day trek of around 2,600 vertical metres to the summit at 5,825. Yet the last 150 of those metres, from volcano's crater to the true summit, felt about as hard as the preceding 2,450. I was in a group of six climbers and two guides. I, one other American climber and a guide, reached the crater a little ahead of the rest. I recall the final stretch, winding up a narrow ridge with the summit always in view, as being pretty agonising. The other four climbers reached the crater and decided that they couldn't go any further, despite being little more than a stone's throw from the summit. That was about the same altitude as the high camp on Aconcagua -- where the long trek to the summit starts.
Add to this the fact that my 6,000-ish summits have been in Peru, less than 15 degress south of the equator, with daytime temperatures creeping near 0 degrees Celsius in a gentle zephyr. Aconcagua is more than 30 degrees south, and I understand that temperatures on the summit can be around -30 Celsius in summer with vicious winds.
It might look like I'm just citing difficulties here, but the fact that I understand these things very clearly is actually an advantage.
Disadvantages
Physically, I deteriorate rapidly when I don't have enough to eat or drink. I also struggle to maintain a steady pace. I tend to go too rapidly when I have energy and tire myself out.
However, my biggest drawback is probably mental weakness. Deep down, I'm a bit of a wimp and a coward and I instinctively look for a quick payoff. The longest treks I've ever gone on have been around four days, and by day two or three, my mind is already shifting to the prospect of a nice hot shower, good coffee, and sitting back in a comfortable chair reviewing photos of the trip. Unlike true outdoors people, I don't really thrive in the back country. When I'm there, I usually start to fixate on little discomforts and dream about being back in civilization.
I also don't have very good interpersonal skills: I like my personal space and usually find it hard to fit in with groups. When I lack the skills to contribute much to practical things like preparing food, putting up tents and packing gear, I feel like I don't have any control and can get disengaged and grumpy. The likelihood of becoming bored, anxious and disprited on the long tramp in, and in particular during days spent waiting around in bad weather, is one of my biggest risks. From previous experience and from what I'm read, I expect this challenge to be as much mental as physical. Being in as positive a frame of mind as possible during the tough bits will be important.
So, that's probably something to train for over the next 12 months just as much as carrying a 25-kilo pack in low oxygen.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Beer, Sweat and Insects in Argentina...
Flew from Tacna to Córdoba the 19th at around midnight. Got stuck in Córdoba for five days amidst a daze of heat, humidity, stinky hostel rooms, ravenous mosquitos (I've been bitten over every inch) and hangovers (the place is a 24/7 party town, and although I wasn't at all in the mood, if you can't avoid them, make a half-hearted attempt to join them. Swarming with beautiful students, it made me anxious to get back to the gym and salsa classes. Tuesday made it to even hotter Carlos Paz, with its pretty green hills and sadly stinky, polluted, river and lake.
Arrived yesterday night in Buenos Aires. Perhpas even more humid, with a continuation of the stinky hot hostel rooms, but thankfully mosquitos are shut out. Huge, bustling and stimulating, like a Latin London, and the buskers actually outnumber the beggars...
Stories from Colombia and North Peru still being worked on...stay tuned.
Flew from Tacna to Córdoba the 19th at around midnight. Got stuck in Córdoba for five days amidst a daze of heat, humidity, stinky hostel rooms, ravenous mosquitos (I've been bitten over every inch) and hangovers (the place is a 24/7 party town, and although I wasn't at all in the mood, if you can't avoid them, make a half-hearted attempt to join them. Swarming with beautiful students, it made me anxious to get back to the gym and salsa classes. Tuesday made it to even hotter Carlos Paz, with its pretty green hills and sadly stinky, polluted, river and lake.
Arrived yesterday night in Buenos Aires. Perhpas even more humid, with a continuation of the stinky hot hostel rooms, but thankfully mosquitos are shut out. Huge, bustling and stimulating, like a Latin London, and the buskers actually outnumber the beggars...
Stories from Colombia and North Peru still being worked on...stay tuned.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Up 1,000 Steps in 31 Degrees
In Salta, on the other hand, I immediately felt like I'd arrived in the right place. Surrounded by tree-covered hills, it nevertheless has an arid feel, since most of its 700mm rainfall falls December-January. It's often said that in this part of Argentina you start to feel the influence of Bolivia, and that's true to an extent. There are plenty of mestizo people, whom you don't see in other parts of Argentina, and many of the streets outside of the central few blocks are bumpy and lined with faded, crumbling buildings. But I'm not the only one to comment that the lazy feel, tree-shaded streets and pretty churches reminds them of Spain.
Salta is also sounded by beautiful and diverse countryside, from the lush microclimates near the city, to the towering, cactus-sprinkled canyons to the north near Jujuy. You can do all kinds of trekking, horse riding, biking and rafting nearby. Plus it abounds with attractive cafes, bars and restaurants and, I was assured, absolutely rocks on the weekend. I only wish I'd had more time to take it all in.
As it was I had to content myself with two days worth. On Tuesday I explored the city, photographing the churches - pastel coloured with an Andalucian influence - and climbing the Cerro San Bernado, a hill rising up behind the city. There's a cable car to the top, but of course, I had to take the hard way, up the exactly 1,000 steps (the numbers are marked at intervals of 50). There are little grottos marking the stations of the cross on the way up. On the thorny hillside with the sun beating down and the previous night's bbq and wine squeezing out of my pores, it did rather feel like my own personal Calvary. Later I checked the internet to find that the temperature had hit 31 degrees. Salta has a beautiful, warm climate, with the summer months aliviated by afternoon storms; it averages 26-28 six months of the year, but it's in the months October-December that the temperature can soar up towards the 38 degree mark.
On Wednesday I was up early to go rafting on the rio Juramento, about two hours drive away below the dique (dam) of Cabra Corral. The river wound through beautiful steep canyons with eroded layers of different colours. The rapids were grade III, ideal for beginners, they say, to which I would agree. There were only a few moments of "un poco de emoción", as the guide described it, the rest was pretty relaxed. Of course none of us had any idea what we were doing; the guide oversaw the direction of the boat and told us when to paddle. Nevertheless, I wasn't the only one to feel like I perhaps could handle something a little more dangerous.
On the way down the river we saw dinosaur footprints on a flat part of the canyon wall. According to the guide, it had been a stormy beach before the Andes rose up; later erosion has peeled away the layers of silt that covered over the dinosaurs' prints in the wet sand. The last 200 metres of the trip the guide told us we could throw ourselves out of the boat and float down to the bank, bouyed by our life jackets. Great fun! - and possible because the water was about 15 degrees; you wouldn't try that on the white water in NZ...
Apart from me, a Mexican guy and an English girl, the rest of the people in the two rafts were again Argentinians. It makes the tourist experience a little more genuine when you're doing it with local people.
I should also mention that the hostel in Salta was one of the most pleasant I have stayed at - run by young Argentinians (and one Israeli) who seemed to be enjoying themselves, it has a nice roof terrace with a bar and a collective bbq every Wednesday. Even though I was only there a couple of days, I felt like I'd made some friends, and was quite sad to leave.
If you have the chance, go to Argentina!! In upcoming editions, I'll explain why...
Salta is also sounded by beautiful and diverse countryside, from the lush microclimates near the city, to the towering, cactus-sprinkled canyons to the north near Jujuy. You can do all kinds of trekking, horse riding, biking and rafting nearby. Plus it abounds with attractive cafes, bars and restaurants and, I was assured, absolutely rocks on the weekend. I only wish I'd had more time to take it all in.
As it was I had to content myself with two days worth. On Tuesday I explored the city, photographing the churches - pastel coloured with an Andalucian influence - and climbing the Cerro San Bernado, a hill rising up behind the city. There's a cable car to the top, but of course, I had to take the hard way, up the exactly 1,000 steps (the numbers are marked at intervals of 50). There are little grottos marking the stations of the cross on the way up. On the thorny hillside with the sun beating down and the previous night's bbq and wine squeezing out of my pores, it did rather feel like my own personal Calvary. Later I checked the internet to find that the temperature had hit 31 degrees. Salta has a beautiful, warm climate, with the summer months aliviated by afternoon storms; it averages 26-28 six months of the year, but it's in the months October-December that the temperature can soar up towards the 38 degree mark.
On Wednesday I was up early to go rafting on the rio Juramento, about two hours drive away below the dique (dam) of Cabra Corral. The river wound through beautiful steep canyons with eroded layers of different colours. The rapids were grade III, ideal for beginners, they say, to which I would agree. There were only a few moments of "un poco de emoción", as the guide described it, the rest was pretty relaxed. Of course none of us had any idea what we were doing; the guide oversaw the direction of the boat and told us when to paddle. Nevertheless, I wasn't the only one to feel like I perhaps could handle something a little more dangerous.
On the way down the river we saw dinosaur footprints on a flat part of the canyon wall. According to the guide, it had been a stormy beach before the Andes rose up; later erosion has peeled away the layers of silt that covered over the dinosaurs' prints in the wet sand. The last 200 metres of the trip the guide told us we could throw ourselves out of the boat and float down to the bank, bouyed by our life jackets. Great fun! - and possible because the water was about 15 degrees; you wouldn't try that on the white water in NZ...
Apart from me, a Mexican guy and an English girl, the rest of the people in the two rafts were again Argentinians. It makes the tourist experience a little more genuine when you're doing it with local people.
I should also mention that the hostel in Salta was one of the most pleasant I have stayed at - run by young Argentinians (and one Israeli) who seemed to be enjoying themselves, it has a nice roof terrace with a bar and a collective bbq every Wednesday. Even though I was only there a couple of days, I felt like I'd made some friends, and was quite sad to leave.
If you have the chance, go to Argentina!! In upcoming editions, I'll explain why...
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Tucuman, Argentina?
Sometimes you really feel like you've drifted into a different dimension in transit. So it was with my day in Tucuman. The only reason I went there was to break up the trip from Mendoza to Salta (though it was still 14 disorienting hours overnight on the bus). I knew nothing about it, except that Martin Santillan, who worked in the Albert Hotel in London (he was "loud Martin" as opposed to "tall Martin", who was from Mar del Plata) was from there. Lonely Planet said it was the centre of a big rice and sugar-growing area, and had a hot climate ("visitors in the summer months may find the heat very oppressive"). It was also supposed to be rich in colonial history, peppered with orange trees, and one could still see the occasional horse-drawn cart wending its way through the streets. Sounded quaint.
Imagine my puzzlement, then, when the bus left the highway after 14 hours travel and two hours unexplained delay, to wend its way past faded, peeling buildings through crumbling streets, under deathly leaden skies starting to release big cold drops of rain. The big sign over the bus terminal did say "TUCUMAN", so I was assured I hadn't got on the wrong bus in Mendoza, at least not in this dimension. The largely open-air bus terminal did indeed give indications of a warm climate, but there was none of it in evidence as the skies began to open shortly after I got off the bus.
The streets appeared to conform to the map in my LP, and the recommended hotel even existed. But there was no sign of colonial architecture, orange trees or anything resembling sun in the grey, drab streets. Exhausted from the long trip and a big night out in Mendoza previous to leaving, I crashed in my hotel bed and listened to the rain pelting down onto the incongruous airy balconies.
By later afternoon I was awake and desperately hungry, so I went out looking for something to eat. The town was if abandoned even by ghosts, and the rain was still pouring down in cold waves. It reminded me of nothing more than some of the less attractive parts of Christchurch in winter. I had rediscovered siesta when in Mendoza (in South America, unique to Chile and Argentina outside the capitals) but there were still plenty of things open from 2:00 to 5:00. In Tucuman, however, the streets were completely deserted, and I looked in vain for something to eat. Eventually, near the main square, with its few colonial buildings emerging through the mist, I found what appeared to be a comedor, a few tables and chairs inside a bare cavernous space, with one couple huddled together over a bottle of beer. After some persuasion, the elderly woman there admitted that yes, she had some empanadas, and 15 minutes later I managed to assuage some of my hunger.
Later I found an internet cafe where the pretty girl working at the counter wished me "suerte" as I left. Evening had arrived, shops were opening, and there were some people in the streets. The rain had stopped, and orange trees had appeared in the plaza, but there was still a chilly breeze blowing. I found an Italian restuarant, where I gorged myself on pizza, then went back to the hotel to crash once more. A couple of hours later I felt something biting me. Mosquitos!! They had also been brought over from the steamy, subtropical Tucuman dimension. I smeared myself with repellent and went back to sleep to be plagued by vivid, guilt-wracked dreams for the rest of the night.
The next morning the sky was clear, the sun was bright, and I was off to Salta. "I thought this place was supposed to hot" I said to the taxi driver on the way to the bus station. "It is" he replied. "Then what was yesterday about" I wanted to know. "I don't know" he frowned. "It was strange...unstable, very unstable" he muttered. I don't know whether he meant the weather, or the fabric of the space-time continuum.
As the bus drove out to meet the highway to Salta, we passed plenty of orange trees. Just at the turn-off, there was even a horse-drawn cart.
As a postscript, I note from checking on the internet, that Tucuman has spent most of this afternoon and evening hovering around the 34 degrees Celcius mark.
Sometimes you really feel like you've drifted into a different dimension in transit. So it was with my day in Tucuman. The only reason I went there was to break up the trip from Mendoza to Salta (though it was still 14 disorienting hours overnight on the bus). I knew nothing about it, except that Martin Santillan, who worked in the Albert Hotel in London (he was "loud Martin" as opposed to "tall Martin", who was from Mar del Plata) was from there. Lonely Planet said it was the centre of a big rice and sugar-growing area, and had a hot climate ("visitors in the summer months may find the heat very oppressive"). It was also supposed to be rich in colonial history, peppered with orange trees, and one could still see the occasional horse-drawn cart wending its way through the streets. Sounded quaint.
Imagine my puzzlement, then, when the bus left the highway after 14 hours travel and two hours unexplained delay, to wend its way past faded, peeling buildings through crumbling streets, under deathly leaden skies starting to release big cold drops of rain. The big sign over the bus terminal did say "TUCUMAN", so I was assured I hadn't got on the wrong bus in Mendoza, at least not in this dimension. The largely open-air bus terminal did indeed give indications of a warm climate, but there was none of it in evidence as the skies began to open shortly after I got off the bus.
The streets appeared to conform to the map in my LP, and the recommended hotel even existed. But there was no sign of colonial architecture, orange trees or anything resembling sun in the grey, drab streets. Exhausted from the long trip and a big night out in Mendoza previous to leaving, I crashed in my hotel bed and listened to the rain pelting down onto the incongruous airy balconies.
By later afternoon I was awake and desperately hungry, so I went out looking for something to eat. The town was if abandoned even by ghosts, and the rain was still pouring down in cold waves. It reminded me of nothing more than some of the less attractive parts of Christchurch in winter. I had rediscovered siesta when in Mendoza (in South America, unique to Chile and Argentina outside the capitals) but there were still plenty of things open from 2:00 to 5:00. In Tucuman, however, the streets were completely deserted, and I looked in vain for something to eat. Eventually, near the main square, with its few colonial buildings emerging through the mist, I found what appeared to be a comedor, a few tables and chairs inside a bare cavernous space, with one couple huddled together over a bottle of beer. After some persuasion, the elderly woman there admitted that yes, she had some empanadas, and 15 minutes later I managed to assuage some of my hunger.
Later I found an internet cafe where the pretty girl working at the counter wished me "suerte" as I left. Evening had arrived, shops were opening, and there were some people in the streets. The rain had stopped, and orange trees had appeared in the plaza, but there was still a chilly breeze blowing. I found an Italian restuarant, where I gorged myself on pizza, then went back to the hotel to crash once more. A couple of hours later I felt something biting me. Mosquitos!! They had also been brought over from the steamy, subtropical Tucuman dimension. I smeared myself with repellent and went back to sleep to be plagued by vivid, guilt-wracked dreams for the rest of the night.
The next morning the sky was clear, the sun was bright, and I was off to Salta. "I thought this place was supposed to hot" I said to the taxi driver on the way to the bus station. "It is" he replied. "Then what was yesterday about" I wanted to know. "I don't know" he frowned. "It was strange...unstable, very unstable" he muttered. I don't know whether he meant the weather, or the fabric of the space-time continuum.
As the bus drove out to meet the highway to Salta, we passed plenty of orange trees. Just at the turn-off, there was even a horse-drawn cart.
As a postscript, I note from checking on the internet, that Tucuman has spent most of this afternoon and evening hovering around the 34 degrees Celcius mark.
Saturday, October 23, 2004
Getting on the Horse...
We're actually galloping...at what seems like a hundred miles an hour down the canyon, the horses' hooves are throwing up dust, I'm desperately trying to simultaneously grip with my knees, keep my feet in the spurs, and maintain my balance. Bouncing up and in the saddle, I keep having the wind knocked out of me.
It lasts what is probably, in real time, a couple of minutes. I can't imagine keeping it up for any longer, let alone turning round in the saddle to fire my revolver at any pursuing bandidos. When we stop I ask Tito whether we were in fact galloping - what exactly does galope suave mean? He talks me through the speeds of a horse: the walk, the trot, the galope suave and the carrera (literally "race"). Right, so a galope suave is a canter. It sounds more impressive in Spanish. But Tito says I've done well, and that not many manage to do any kind of gallop their first time. "Look how your mood's changed from the way out to the way back!"
He's right - I was rather apprehensive this morning, having booked the horse riding rather despite myself. I think someone had told me that it was one of the Things to Do in Mendoza, and I had it classified anyway as something I Ought to Do At Least Once in South America. There were to have been five people in the horse-riding group, but the other four apparently cancelled at the last minute, leaving me to do it alone. Great, I thought, I'm not even going to have company in my incompetence.
I shouldn't have worried; Tito is very used to guiding beginners, and was very relaxed, which in turn affected me. He says he used to be an executive in a multinational company, but gave it up recently as it was too stressful. He learnt to ride on the pampas of his parents' hacienda in the Buenos Aires as a kid and now has a little ranch only 10 minutes from the centre of Mendoza. His dogs were going barking mad with anticipation as drove up; apparently they love going out on the horse treks.
It was hard to believe that we were so close to the city, as we rode out into the badlands near Tito's ranch - there was no sign of any other people, alone civilization. The horses walked through narrow quebradas and dry gulches, stained with salt deposits leached by the occasional storm waters which had created the pathways. Amidst the brush and cactus there were splashes of red, yellow and white wildflowers, and every so often the single flowering bulb of a cactus. After a while I began to relax on the horse. "Have a cigarette if you want" called Tito. "It tastes completely different on a horse...I can't, because I've got a sore throat right now".
We broke into the occasional trot, climbed up and down little rises, then some steeper hillocks. At first I was a little stiff with fear, but gradually gained more confidence. The horse knows what it's doing, I told myself. And it's not actively trying to throw me off,in fact it knows full well that I'm supposed to stay on it...what have I got to worry about? Overhead, a condor floated. "It knows me" said Tito. "Sometimes it comes down closer and teases the dogs".
On the way back we spurted along the flat bits, breaking into a couple of gallops. Well,canters, I suppose. I didn't really have any choice about whether I followed, as my horse, well aware that I didn't really know what I was doing, prioritised following Tito's horse ahead of any instructions I might give it. Still, a little out of breath, I survived. I think I might even do it again one day soon.
We're actually galloping...at what seems like a hundred miles an hour down the canyon, the horses' hooves are throwing up dust, I'm desperately trying to simultaneously grip with my knees, keep my feet in the spurs, and maintain my balance. Bouncing up and in the saddle, I keep having the wind knocked out of me.
It lasts what is probably, in real time, a couple of minutes. I can't imagine keeping it up for any longer, let alone turning round in the saddle to fire my revolver at any pursuing bandidos. When we stop I ask Tito whether we were in fact galloping - what exactly does galope suave mean? He talks me through the speeds of a horse: the walk, the trot, the galope suave and the carrera (literally "race"). Right, so a galope suave is a canter. It sounds more impressive in Spanish. But Tito says I've done well, and that not many manage to do any kind of gallop their first time. "Look how your mood's changed from the way out to the way back!"
He's right - I was rather apprehensive this morning, having booked the horse riding rather despite myself. I think someone had told me that it was one of the Things to Do in Mendoza, and I had it classified anyway as something I Ought to Do At Least Once in South America. There were to have been five people in the horse-riding group, but the other four apparently cancelled at the last minute, leaving me to do it alone. Great, I thought, I'm not even going to have company in my incompetence.
I shouldn't have worried; Tito is very used to guiding beginners, and was very relaxed, which in turn affected me. He says he used to be an executive in a multinational company, but gave it up recently as it was too stressful. He learnt to ride on the pampas of his parents' hacienda in the Buenos Aires as a kid and now has a little ranch only 10 minutes from the centre of Mendoza. His dogs were going barking mad with anticipation as drove up; apparently they love going out on the horse treks.
It was hard to believe that we were so close to the city, as we rode out into the badlands near Tito's ranch - there was no sign of any other people, alone civilization. The horses walked through narrow quebradas and dry gulches, stained with salt deposits leached by the occasional storm waters which had created the pathways. Amidst the brush and cactus there were splashes of red, yellow and white wildflowers, and every so often the single flowering bulb of a cactus. After a while I began to relax on the horse. "Have a cigarette if you want" called Tito. "It tastes completely different on a horse...I can't, because I've got a sore throat right now".
We broke into the occasional trot, climbed up and down little rises, then some steeper hillocks. At first I was a little stiff with fear, but gradually gained more confidence. The horse knows what it's doing, I told myself. And it's not actively trying to throw me off,in fact it knows full well that I'm supposed to stay on it...what have I got to worry about? Overhead, a condor floated. "It knows me" said Tito. "Sometimes it comes down closer and teases the dogs".
On the way back we spurted along the flat bits, breaking into a couple of gallops. Well,canters, I suppose. I didn't really have any choice about whether I followed, as my horse, well aware that I didn't really know what I was doing, prioritised following Tito's horse ahead of any instructions I might give it. Still, a little out of breath, I survived. I think I might even do it again one day soon.
Friday, October 22, 2004
Seven Years in Mendoza...
Two hours of sleep wasn't a great prelude to my "Alta Montaña" tour, but with 85 Chilean tourism students determined to party in the hostel patio every single night, it was a case of if you can't ignore them, join them. Still could have been a little bit less enthusiastic with the beer, and I was cursing myself when they woke me up from my dead-to-the-world slumbers to go on the tour. It almost felt like Puno & Lake Titicaca all over again.
Turned out to be a minibus, stop-and-snap trip, which normally I avoid like the plague, but am keen to see as much as possible in the short time I'm here. The other passengers all turned out to be other Argentinians, mostly from Buenos Aires, and included two distinct honeymooning couples and another couple of retired schoolteachers. Together with the bubbly, enthusiastic guide Noelia, it made for a pretty jovial atmosphere on the bus, which I didn't appreciate that much at first, but cheered me up as the day wore on.
Two hours out of Mendoza we reached Upsallata (sp!), a picturesque town in the shadow of the front ranges, or Cordón del Plata, famous because in the surrounding area Brad Pitt & co. filmed "Seven Years In Tibet". Notable for me because the countryside, with rows of tall poplar trees and dry hills, bore an uncany resemblance to the Cromwell area of Central Otago. They even have a local föhn wind, called "El Sonda", when fronts from the Pacific sweep across the Chilean Andes; apparently it creates heat, dust and irritation in Mendoza. As we returned inthe afternoon familar big lenticular clouds were forming over the mountains.
The main objective of the trip for me turned out to be a disappointment: Aconcagua was well and truly clouded over at the one point in the road from where it can be seen. If I had had more time, I would have done the three-day trekking trip to the first base camp; I also have to admit that the idea of one day attempting the 15-day trip to the summit is starting to nestle persistently in my head. It's not El Misti though - I'd have to do plenty of immediate climbs first. Noelia said the previous year had been a "good summer"; only four people had died on the mountain.
The highlight of the trip turned out to be the Puente del Inca. High up in the main ranges, only 20 km from the Chilean border, it's a massive natural stone bridge over the Las Cuevas stream, under which flow thermal waters rich in iron and sulphur. It's though that it was formed during an ice age, when an landslides dumped rocks onto a bridge of ice. As the ice melted, the mineral-rich thermal waters cemented everything together, leaving the petrified form of the bridge. The waters leave an oily yellow coating on everything they flow over, and nearby souvenir stalls sell all kinds of trinkets which have been left in the waters for 20-25 days to obtain this coating.
At the turn of the century a hotel was built over the bridge, and tunnels led from the bedrooms to provide each guest with their own private bathroom of natural thermal waters. Gives new meaning to "ensuite"!! Later, more landslides wiped out the hotel, but the ruins are still there, and we were able to walk through the remains of the bathrooms. Truly a unique and surreal experience.
At lunch the retired teachers talked to me about what was wrong with Argentina. "Chile is doing better than us now" they said. One of the reasons given was that Pinochet sided with Britain and the US during the Falklands War, and Chile has been cut all the good deals since. "Las Malvinas are Argentinian territory" I was told.
On the way up the Mendoza river valley, we passed a familiar site - the ruins of an Incan tambo or roadside lodge. Now, I've seen enough blessed tambos to last me a lifetime, and I'm well and trly Incaed-out. But I have to admit it was impressive to think that, 20 hours bus ride, 3 hours plane flight and another 7 hours bus ride from Cusco, I still wasn't far enough south and west to escape the bloody things.
Two hours of sleep wasn't a great prelude to my "Alta Montaña" tour, but with 85 Chilean tourism students determined to party in the hostel patio every single night, it was a case of if you can't ignore them, join them. Still could have been a little bit less enthusiastic with the beer, and I was cursing myself when they woke me up from my dead-to-the-world slumbers to go on the tour. It almost felt like Puno & Lake Titicaca all over again.
Turned out to be a minibus, stop-and-snap trip, which normally I avoid like the plague, but am keen to see as much as possible in the short time I'm here. The other passengers all turned out to be other Argentinians, mostly from Buenos Aires, and included two distinct honeymooning couples and another couple of retired schoolteachers. Together with the bubbly, enthusiastic guide Noelia, it made for a pretty jovial atmosphere on the bus, which I didn't appreciate that much at first, but cheered me up as the day wore on.
Two hours out of Mendoza we reached Upsallata (sp!), a picturesque town in the shadow of the front ranges, or Cordón del Plata, famous because in the surrounding area Brad Pitt & co. filmed "Seven Years In Tibet". Notable for me because the countryside, with rows of tall poplar trees and dry hills, bore an uncany resemblance to the Cromwell area of Central Otago. They even have a local föhn wind, called "El Sonda", when fronts from the Pacific sweep across the Chilean Andes; apparently it creates heat, dust and irritation in Mendoza. As we returned inthe afternoon familar big lenticular clouds were forming over the mountains.
The main objective of the trip for me turned out to be a disappointment: Aconcagua was well and truly clouded over at the one point in the road from where it can be seen. If I had had more time, I would have done the three-day trekking trip to the first base camp; I also have to admit that the idea of one day attempting the 15-day trip to the summit is starting to nestle persistently in my head. It's not El Misti though - I'd have to do plenty of immediate climbs first. Noelia said the previous year had been a "good summer"; only four people had died on the mountain.
The highlight of the trip turned out to be the Puente del Inca. High up in the main ranges, only 20 km from the Chilean border, it's a massive natural stone bridge over the Las Cuevas stream, under which flow thermal waters rich in iron and sulphur. It's though that it was formed during an ice age, when an landslides dumped rocks onto a bridge of ice. As the ice melted, the mineral-rich thermal waters cemented everything together, leaving the petrified form of the bridge. The waters leave an oily yellow coating on everything they flow over, and nearby souvenir stalls sell all kinds of trinkets which have been left in the waters for 20-25 days to obtain this coating.
At the turn of the century a hotel was built over the bridge, and tunnels led from the bedrooms to provide each guest with their own private bathroom of natural thermal waters. Gives new meaning to "ensuite"!! Later, more landslides wiped out the hotel, but the ruins are still there, and we were able to walk through the remains of the bathrooms. Truly a unique and surreal experience.
At lunch the retired teachers talked to me about what was wrong with Argentina. "Chile is doing better than us now" they said. One of the reasons given was that Pinochet sided with Britain and the US during the Falklands War, and Chile has been cut all the good deals since. "Las Malvinas are Argentinian territory" I was told.
On the way up the Mendoza river valley, we passed a familiar site - the ruins of an Incan tambo or roadside lodge. Now, I've seen enough blessed tambos to last me a lifetime, and I'm well and trly Incaed-out. But I have to admit it was impressive to think that, 20 hours bus ride, 3 hours plane flight and another 7 hours bus ride from Cusco, I still wasn't far enough south and west to escape the bloody things.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Che, Boludo!
The crossing of the Andes from Santiago was spectacular, as the road serpentined up right through the
middle of the chunky granite peaks. I thought of San Martin crossing the Andes, and the journalist hero and heroine of Isabel Allende's Of Love and Shadows escaping to Argentina.
After that I dozed while we dropped down through dry canyons into the vineyard heartland of Argentina. Coming into Mendoza we left the multi-laned freeway full of rushing traffic. The city itself, with its broad avenues lined with shady deciduous trees, has a 19th-century feel, and immediately reminded me of Paris or Kensington in London. The sheer modernity is overwhelming too; full of bright shops and restaurants and tiled sidewalks, Mendoza doesn't seem on the same planet, let alone the same continent, as central La Paz. It's hard to believe that Argentina has economic problems; everything seems more modern and advanced even than in Chile, and no one even looks like they're thinking about asking you for money.
The big old trees, forming canopies over the middle of the streets, are most welcome. Although it is still only spring, the sun is fierce and the temperature climbing into the high 20s. I imagine it's a bit of a cauldron here in mid-summer.
After a lot of travelling and some late nights, I crashed into a dead unconsciousness yesterday evening and slept right through until this morning, oblivious even to a loud party that was happening on the poolside patio of the hostel. Today I'm hoping to sort out some tourist excursions, to Aconcagua (to see, not to climb, the latter takes 13-15 days) and the vineyards.
The crossing of the Andes from Santiago was spectacular, as the road serpentined up right through the
middle of the chunky granite peaks. I thought of San Martin crossing the Andes, and the journalist hero and heroine of Isabel Allende's Of Love and Shadows escaping to Argentina.
After that I dozed while we dropped down through dry canyons into the vineyard heartland of Argentina. Coming into Mendoza we left the multi-laned freeway full of rushing traffic. The city itself, with its broad avenues lined with shady deciduous trees, has a 19th-century feel, and immediately reminded me of Paris or Kensington in London. The sheer modernity is overwhelming too; full of bright shops and restaurants and tiled sidewalks, Mendoza doesn't seem on the same planet, let alone the same continent, as central La Paz. It's hard to believe that Argentina has economic problems; everything seems more modern and advanced even than in Chile, and no one even looks like they're thinking about asking you for money.
The big old trees, forming canopies over the middle of the streets, are most welcome. Although it is still only spring, the sun is fierce and the temperature climbing into the high 20s. I imagine it's a bit of a cauldron here in mid-summer.
After a lot of travelling and some late nights, I crashed into a dead unconsciousness yesterday evening and slept right through until this morning, oblivious even to a loud party that was happening on the poolside patio of the hostel. Today I'm hoping to sort out some tourist excursions, to Aconcagua (to see, not to climb, the latter takes 13-15 days) and the vineyards.
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