A Gluttony of Views: The Fitz Roy Hike

The Quest for Views

At this point, I should mention where the hell we’re actually going. Well, at first, I wasn’t really sure. I was so consumed with uphill climbing and watching for spots of ice that could send me tumbling off the hill that it didn’t occur to me that we might actually see something, something amazing, something that people come from all over the world to see, something that would make it worth all the effort existed beyond the sheer punishment of the climb. It took us a while, but eventually we reached the first of the three lakes. The lake was, of course, frozen. By then it had also started to snow, so there was nothing to see. Awesome! At least it was all worth it then.

This was the point of the trail where Octavio had recommended we turn back, but no way were the Europeans allowing that to happen. I didn’t want to either. To be honest, I didn’t think we would even get this far. Not when mere hours ago we were cuddled up inside the cozy bus, watching the cold, desolate landscape pass before us. Not when we pulled into the fireplaced cafe, and eventually arrived at the hostel so late in the afternoon with chocolate caliente brewing at the bar. But once you’re out there already, negotiating steps and treading miles, it’s hard to stop. So, we kept going.

There was even some good news. The weather looked to be clearing up (although it was still snowing off-and-on) and we looked ahead of us and saw a relatively flat valley. The uphill battle was over, and at 6 kms, the remainder of the hike was just long, not hard. During our journey, our bodies would be put through cold, snow, rain, wind, what the weathermen back home would refer to as “a wintry mix,” and then eventually sunshine, sweat, and delusional heat, until the cycle repeated itself. But we kept at it, all the while considering that it would get dark soon, and we certainly wanted to be going the other way when that happened.

So far, the snow hadn’t been much of a deterrent since we were just following the European footsteps anyway. At times, when there was no clear indication of a trail, we saw their footsteps wander in multiple directions, only to connect somewhere way up ahead. The fresh powder was sometimes helpful in providing traction against the layer of ice that had formed from previous snows. Other times, it masked the ice on top of rocks and we had to be careful when crossing narrow portions along the flank of a cliff, where even a small slip of the foot was unacceptable. Around this time, Allison confessed that she had never been “real hiking” before, and just to prove that she meant business, she showed us the pair of Sketchers skater shoes on her feet. The rest of the way, we took extra precaution with her and held hands going downhill.

There was nothing spectacular about the trail itself. There weren’t any real imposing challenges for us to conquer, no equipment required (and as we would ultimately find out even someone who’s never gone “real hiking” before can do it in a pair of Sketchers). It didn’t matter if you’re in the woods in Argentina or New Jersey — tree was still tree, wood was still wood. But what distinguished the Lago de los Tres trail from any other hike were the views.

As our heart rates resumed a more comfortable pace, we actually took time to enjoy the scenery. And what a scenery it was. It never ended. The exponential views. We were walking through a valley with 360 degrees of mountains and cliffs and towers all around us. In front of us, ice and snow and glaciers suspended in midair in the cradle of a mountain; behind us, a completely different landscape, one that composed of strange rock formations and evergreen forests with snowy branches. Back home, a typical hiking trip for me went like this: wood, wood, wood — cool viewpoint! — more wood, wood, wood — awesome summit! — then wood, wood, wood all the way back down. Here, it was more like: Wow!/click-click-click/holy shit!/click-click-click/oh-my-god, I can’t stop saying ‘Wow’/click-click-click/Wow!/When does it end? When does it get boring?/click-click-click/Seriously, we’ll never make it back to town if we don’t stop taking so many goddamn photos, and besides, they’ll do no justice to all this beauty anyway.

Multiply that another few kilometers and some 3-plus hours until we reached a stream with our first clear view of Fitz Roy (you know, that thing we had come all the way out here to see). We sat on a patch of rocks by the stream and drank the water that kept the ranger so healthy, and passed out from the sheer blissfulness of it all.

***

Eventually we reached our destination, the Poincenot base camp where climbers gear up to tackle such massive undertakings as summiting Fitz Roy. Wikipedia says the mountain climb is so difficult that “when a hundred people may summit Mount Everest in a single day, Cerro Chaltén may only be successfully ascended once a year.”

So, yeah, we decided to save the climb for another lifetime. Instead, we ate cold empanadas and apples we had purchased at the supermarket in El Calafate for fear that there wouldn’t be a market open in El Chalten, and washed it down with ice-cold water from the stream. Exceptional views have a way of making you forget the most basic of human needs, and as I bit into the firm, crunchy apple, I realized how famished I was. I devoured the fruit. Alex passed around a bar of chocolate that felt like a brick from the cold but melted in our mouths.

“El Chalten” was Native South American (Tehuelche) for “smoking mountain” and eating our simple meal in silence and watching the ring of clouds hover around the summit, we witnessed meaning being applied. We were incredibly lucky to even get a glimpse of the tower which was famously shrouded in dense clouds and epic storms. We saw a whopping total of three people during the entire hike — a local Argentine who was turning back when it had started to rain and two Danish girls who had arrived the night before and were staying at our hostel. Alex had met them at our previous hostel, the America del Sur in El Calafate, so we stopped to make conversation. They told us they had been hiking since morning, while we were still sleeping on the bus, and were just now turning back after completing the trail. They told us they hadn’t seen anything, and we probably wouldn’t either. (I estimated they must’ve reached the last viewpoint while we were watching the temperamental weather from the Visitors Center.) Later, we would learn the best time to catch a glimpse of the mountain peak was early morning or late afternoon, so despite our growing concern to get back to the hostel before dark, we were ultimately glad for the late start.

[googlevideo=http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1326007145043977525]

After eating lunch at the foot of Fitz Roy, the hikers prepare for the long trek back to El Chalten.

[googlevideo=http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=2207152537156043293]

Cutting through the mellow valley on the Lago de los Tres trail.

Kelly with Cerro Fitz Roy in the background.

View of Fitz Roy in Los Glaciares Parque National, Argentina.

***

Allow me to pause for a moment and address one of the greatest clichés in mankind’s history:

What is beauty?

It’s hard to describe what we found so beautiful, and chances are, if you’re reading this, you don’t need further convincing that the things we saw on our hike were indeed beautiful. Running through the multitude of stories and photographs of the hike in my mind, I have to come to one conclusion – and it’s a conclusion that I probably already knew – that stories and photographs, like any form of art, are lies.

It is a lie when trying to express realism as truth. Stories and photographs, like any pieces of art, do a great job of painting a scene according to the artist’s craft, imagination and aim, which includes all of his/her years of life experience and multitude of favors and biases. Art can give you a great sense of a particular place or experience, but it doesn’t matter how good the individual piece is, you can’t expect it to tell you how it really was. Art gives the impression of the artist’s struggle for truth, but it is an unattainable struggle. In the end, all art is entertainment, and perhaps fodder.

(Not that there is anything wrong with that.)

Perhaps I already knew all this but it’s easy to forget. It’s easy to get wrapped up in a quintessential photograph in National Geographic or reading the account of an adventure by Jack London and paint an alternate reality that only exists in the eye of one’s mind. So, without further getting into centuries-long debate about “What is art?”, I suppose the purpose of art is simply to take you out of your element and allow for new thought and experience to occur.

In that way, art is travel. And travel is art.

The hike was a unique experience for me, one that cannot be 100% accurately documented by a few hundred words or a few dozen photographs. If you were to hike this trail as thousands have done before me and thousands will undoubtedly do after me, your experience will be unique from mine. It may be better or worse, but that is the ultimate purpose of travel, isn’t it? To find out. To go and experience it for yourself.

Travel takes us out of our comfort zone, it challenges our way of thinking. It shows us the same picture we’ve seen a thousand times (trees, woods, people), but in a new light. After all that, what is the reward? A view? A few scrambled thoughts? That’s up to the individual to discover, and in the end it really doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is none of these experiences – good, bad or awful – would be possible if you stayed at home and worried about paying your phone bill on time every month. Which is important too, but how important, really?

• Next: Sangre!