Patagonia, Land of the Big Feet and Fallen Toenails
Halfway, at a house converted into a rest stop, we got off, stretching and cracking our limbs—a domesticated guanuco, much like a llama, stood by the door eyeing each one of us. The Patagonia air made my nostrils greedy, flaring, wanting much more of it.
Once inside, we sat at what must have been the living room of a house. Aged wooden tables lined the walls and before the fireplace sat a counter holding fresh empanadas. Next to them a basket filled with rows of alfajores, two light and flaky shortbread glued by a generous layer of sticky dulce de leche, a thick caramel flies and I both love. The side of each alfajor was speckled with finely shredded coconut adding to keep the caramel from running away.
Suddenly, the guanuco that greeted us earlier ran into the house. The furry creature, size of a small horse, visited each table with food. Like a child seeking affection, it rubbed its head against a man’s sleeve. Two seconds later, sinking its teeth into the man’s empanada. We were all laughing when we felt urgent thumps on the wooden planks. The owner of the house ran in, “Juan! Juan! Que te pasa?” What’s the matter with you? Quite used to the scolding, Juan left through the front door, still chewing.
As we returned to the bus, Juan stopped a man from passing, catching his shoelace between his teeth. The man, trying to look amused, was too scared and wooden to move. Juan jerked his head upward, trying to eat the leather spaghetti attached to the shoe. A few of us chuckled as we watched the man standing very still until Juan pulled up further, lifting the man’s leg. What followed was a quick standoff with the man kicking his leg back, giving Juan a good floss.
The rest of the ride was spent watching the colors in the sky mix and change, the purple mixed with the orange; the violet mixed with the blue. Underneath, the silhouette of the landscape slowly spilt into the sky, its darkness and my eyelids moving in opposite directions, both ending daylight, finally at eight.
Arriving in El Chaltén nearly at midnight, most passengers got off and seemed to know where to find a warm bed; others had someone there to meet them. Falling into neither group, we quickly followed two girls with sure steps that brought us to Alberque Patagonia. They happened to have two spare beds in a shared room. Alan looked at me. I shrugged. We didn’t have a choice, did we? We were told it would have to be just one night. The Chileans were in town, so they were booked.
That first morning, we awoke to see the colors of the Argentine flag in the sky, rushing towards it, hiking up the closest hill to see the snow-capped mountains waiting far away. Remembering that we still needed a room for the night, we returned to El Chaltén and booked a night at Hosteria El Puma. Paula, the manager, told us that the Chileans had booked most of the rooms for the next night. No one knew why there was a sudden Chilean invasion in Patagonia, but they were optimistic that the occupation would cease soon.
The room at El Puma was so comfortable I slept for nearly thirteen hours. Thinking I was ill, Alan brought in hot water and a worried face. I assured him it was leftover tiredness from the difficult year before and went back to sleep. Since there was no vacancy the next night, Alan suggested we sign up for a trek with Fitz Roy Expediciones. We’d at least be able to sleep in a tent once we’ve reached the base camp. I said I wasn’t sure if I could handle a trek, being so out of shape and sleepy. I’d think it over. Later that day, while sharing a mate with Paula, she mentioned pumas in the mountains. I started worrying, imagining Alan getting attacked by one. I recalled seeing a sign earlier advising hikers go in pairs. I said I’d go. Alan left to sign me up for the trek.
Setting off for the base camp the next morning, I turned around once in awhile to see how far we’d gone. There was still snow on top of the mountains far away and I looked forward to seeing more of it after living in sub-tropical Taiwan for so long. We trotted through a marshy area and saw a pair of upland geese nestling and nuzzling each other. Feeling envious, I turned my affection towards the vegetation and wondered what, if anything, was edible.
Thirty minutes into the hike and I knew I was in for it. My steel-toed shoes were too heavy and not shaped for my wide feet. Nowhere in my memory told me steel could be worn in. Distracting myself of the pain, I kept Alan’s ears busy talking on and on as I swallowed the new surroundings with my eyes. Some trees looked wise and old while others looked terribly charred. We were to find out later that a hiker had inhaled the beauty of Patagonia along with some nicotine then left the cigarette butt to start a fire. Too bad he didn’t inhale the whole cigarette. Since there was no way that fire trucks could get in, people carried bags of water on their backs, running round after round to put out the fire. Luckily, the wind had moved the fire towards a stream where it lost its rage and died.
When we reached the base camp, it was early evening. Our tents were already pitched and waiting. I signed a piece of paper stating that I was healthy and not on medication. Shown to our tent with a cup of hot tea, I sat down and took my shoes off. Undressing my feet, they looked awfully pale with the flesh underneath red and purple, blisters surrounding the colors. I sighed and kept quiet.
We were told that the large green tent was our dining area and instructed to go there, as Walter the cook would have dinner ready shortly. I went in with my cup, smiled quickly at three strangers speaking German, got more tea and left. Trying again half an hour later, Alan had already started a conversation with our dining companions Roderick, Warren and Uta, homeopaths from Austria. We ate the pasta in cream sauce Walter had prepared and got to know each other between sips of Argentine red wine, all of us softened by the candlelight and exhaustion.
Sleep came easily for me that night. But it didn’t stay. In the middle of the night, Alan shook me until I awoke. “Your snoring is insane! I can’t sleep!” I apologized and slept through the rest of the night with one eye open. The next morning he brought a hot cup of tea into the tent and asked if I remembered snoring. I said I heard someone in the neighboring tent with the same acute condition, a distinguished snorer at that, for if a doctor snored I could too. Alan said Roderick had to take two tranquilizers to sleep last night—one because of me, one because of Warren. There was no use hiding in the tent. Everyone knew. I might as well get some breakfast. Drink my tea.
Back in the big green tent, Alan didn’t wait long to talk about the snoring. I asked the three doctors if there was a cure. This started an intense debate in German whether to remove my tonsils or keep them. One was against, one for, and another neutral. “In!” “Out!” they argued. “If they’re so large they need to come out!” Finally, they reached the consensus that the nose should not be touched, but I can choose to keep my tonsils or not.
After the topic came up again later, Roderick told Alan it’s maybe not such a nice thing to keep talking about my condition. But it was too late. For the next three weeks, sleep and Alan turned their backs on me. I awoke at 2am every morning begging for sleep to come back. Why did I have such a defect? Why did my nose turn into a demented tuba at night? Why so loud and brash as to wake up tired travelers, even disrupting hibernating wildlife?
The next morning we started at 8. Alan and I met our guide, Charly, who started hiking towards the base camp at 5am. The three Austrians left before us with Diego as their guide. Although Charly spoke very little English, I managed with what little Spanish I remembered from living in Buenos Aires as a little girl. There were always bursts of laughter when I could no longer stand hearing myself. During the hike, we’d occasionally catch up with the Austrians and share our companionship in silence.
It was easy for Charly to see that my knees grew shakier the higher we climbed. From time to time, I’d stop moving and breathing until I saw his hand. Grabbing it each time, he’d pull me upward over and over, until we came to a flat area heading towards a river. There were cables drawn across the river, tied securely to boulders. I approached and saw the raging river below. A sign read, “Don’t cross without harness. From this rope die [sic] a woman.” I heard someone say, “Ladies first!” and let Uta, go first. I went next, grimacing as if I were about to get an injection. Once hanging in mid-air, I didn’t feel so bad.
On the other side, we hiked up and down a rocky cliff. For several hours we listened to our breath and steps. Charly would stop to explain tidbits about Patagonia, which gets its name from Magellan who had arrived and seen a tribe of giants who were nine foot tall and had big feet. Modern explorers have since confirmed the tribe’s existence.
The trail we were following led us through the woods where red flowers rose from beds of moss called “tears of the stream” or ourisia ruelloides. There was the “old man’s beard,” a special lichen the locals said only grew in places without pollution.
After descending a steep mountain, we stopped where the ice started. Charly brought out crampons and asked that we put on our gloves as well. The glacier can be extremely rough and jagged, the perfect place to cut ourselves. Minutes later, he was extending his hand to me again as we moved toward the glacier. The sounds were so new. Every crunch was a step. Waterfalls ran under our feet. And the light was blinding even with dark sunglasses. Walking on ravines, Charly showed us the best way to walk for every situation. Crunch, crunch. This should be the sound in a Beethoven symphony. Occasionally, we stopped to drink from streams of light blue water melting from the glacier. The water was so cold I could feel it slithering down my throat.
We finally reached an ice wall where we were to scale. Diego and the Austrian doctors had arrived way before us, waiting patiently. Since Diego could speak English fluently, he explained how the rope was to be threaded through the metal loop attached to the front of our harness and tied to a knot. The rope led to the top where it was threaded through a metal anchor and back down tied to Charly’s harness, our counterweight. It looked like a simple enough system.
Diego then picked up two pick axes and showed that we were to strike at the wall as straight as we could. No gentleness was required, as he kicked the tips of his crampons straight into the wall. I watched, as Diego became a fly on the white ice wall. I shook my head looking up at least eight stories. The Austrian doctors and Alan made their vertical ascents. Up and up, one by one. Then they looked at me. I got up and looked at Charly, “I love you and I trust you.” But no words came through my clenched teeth I could only smile.
The first few steps were not too bad. I hacked at the ice with my pick axes, reaching higher than I should have then struggling to catch up. Isn’t that so much like my life? No. I wanted more control than that. But slowing down meant kicking into the ice many more times. Each kick felt as if I was stubbing all my toes at once with these steel-toed shoes. Halfway, I paused, leaning into the wall and panting. As I grew tired, one foot dislodged from the ice and started flapping in the air. Hearing the chipped ice falling, I thought it was the perfect time to cure myself of acrophobia. I turned and looked down. Everyone had turned into dots. “Ahh! This is really high,” I shouted, always very good at stating the obvious when scared. Then I turned to face the ice again, “This is high. You idiot. What are you doing? Shit.”
I could hear Diego, “Nana, move to your right.” Move what to the right? Left leg to the right, right arm to the right? If I moved one limb the others might follow. I took the right pick axe out of the ice and struck to the right. I could hear laughter below me. “Not that far! Just a little. Bring it back,” said Diego, “You’re almost there.” And I was. A few more rights and lefts; ups and downs and I finally arrived at the top. Diego shouted, “Now let go of the axes. Just hang and come down.” I closed my eyes and dropped, not daring to look back.
We took a lunch break and started our walk back to the base camp. But before we left the glacier, Charly asked us to squat and be quiet, just for two minutes, to just look and contemplate.
That evening, it was Guadalupe’s turn to cook. She pan-fried the juiciest Argentine steak and sautéed it in a red wine sauce with caramelized onions. Another great day passed.
After exchanging contact information with each other the next morning, it was time to go. As always with people I meet on trips, I wondered if we’d ever see each other again. At the last minute, the Austrians donated a packed lunch to me. We turned and waved several times as I tucked their generous gift into my bag. Before losing them to the trees, I turned around for a final look and tripped over a log. Landing flat on the ground laughing, I told Alan I couldn’t move. The backpack was weighing me down. He tried pulling me up by my backpack. “Ah! Wait! My pants are caught,” I said. A branch had ripped its way through my pants and skin. On my feet again, I winced and turned back to say a private thank you to Charly.
So often in traveling, some things begin while others end. By the end of the trip, the acute snoring scared Alan off for he no longer shares my pillow while I, with large tonsils fully intact, carry on sleeping better at night in another part of the world. Five of my toenails fell off but have since grown back, albeit a little misshapen. My dreams of falling off buildings have ceased and although I still avoid heights, I have an urge to sigh up for a rock climbing class. Thanks, Charly. Occasionally, before I drift off at night, I think how fortunate I am to have met another set of memories filled with warm faces and kisses in a spectacular place.
Helpful information about El Chaltén
Hosteria El Puma
Hostería - Lodge
Address: Lionel Terray 212 - El Chaltén
(9301) Santa Cruz, Argentina.
Phone/fax: 0054-2962-493095/17
E-mail: hosteriaelpuma@infovia.com.ar
Web Site: www.elchalten.com/elpuma
Alberque Patagonia
San Martín 493 - El Chaltén
(9301) Provincia de Santa Cruz
Patagonia Argentina
Telefax: (02962) 493019
(Desde el exterior: 54 2962 493019)
E-mail: patagoniahostel@yahoo.com.ar (only text)
Website: www.elchalten.com/patagonia
Fitz Roy Expediciones
http://www.fitzroyexpediciones.com.ar