A Trek

Francisco Moreno

This is steep!!

Simply beyond the beyond in all respects. Considered by many, as one of the world's great hikes and no wonder, the scenery, the wildness, the multiple summits and passes, seven and nine hour days of steep magnificent terrain,the weather which was all things; torrential rain and horizontal snow for a whole day, wind to rip you off a mountain face, beautiful calm sunshine and alpine meadows where glacial streams run amidst still flowering plants. It is the fall here.

Then to scale 1500 feet of near vertical, no ropes, ice on the rocks (each and every hand and foothold had to be inspected carefully or it would have become a sky-diving event, with no-one to watch) and me doing that part alone, praying every inch of the way..........I did it, I lived and that is exactly how I felt, when I went to sleep that night. I met an experienced Swiss couple - climbers and trekkers - and asked them how they rated the hike. 'World class,' they said, and for a Swiss that is a bigger than big statement to make -they are proud of their Alps. Another Swiss told me that the rock climbing bit for him was, "just okay," which he explained, was just that and if any more he couldn't have done it. So with thirty pounds or so on my back, I feel I have sort of joined a different group of hikers/trekkers or at least in humble part.

A young couple from Colorado, both soaked and one of whom was becoming hypothermic and panicky, scrambled down a long steep slope with me to a Lenga woodland that, in its dripping moss covered mountain fastness, could have been part of the 'Lord of the Rings' set. I cooked them-up hot soup and gave them a pep talk and they walked on for the next three hours over a pass with driving snow to the 'Refugio,' which lay like a welcoming beacon by a beautiful lake in a deep valley floor.

That before the big climb, which most people avoided and walked out down a long valley, doing a three day instead of a five day hike. I went prepared to live out if necessary but mainly stayed in mountain huts (a luxury) that are strategically placed a day apart and all in stunning locations. It is essential to go prepared and I was not cold, or wet on the mountain but several were 'shook' quite literally by the weather and ruggedness of the terrain.

Altitude was not a problem with this trek, as it stays under 9000 feet which was just fine. Navigation was difficult and cost three part-time travelling companions and me - two of them very experienced mountaineers - about two hours in extra trekking time and most of that costly, steep mistakes that required tiring hikes back-up scree covered slopes. One of those companions badly sprained an ankle on the fourth day. She was leading and slipped on an ice glazed boulder trekking down a steep incline. The ice was invisible to the eye and the rocks misted by cloud vapour the night before. Strapped and drugged to stop the pain, she had to hobble back with her companion, to the hut we had left two hours previously. I trekked on in the company of a woman who had summited Mt. Blanc, Mt. Rosa and many others. She pointed out, after the fact, one very dangerous part of the hike at which I had been very nervous. We crossed a small slippery stream, just above a waterfall that dropped about twenty-five meters. The trail vanished into a wet rock wall with no real hand-holds and perhaps a half an inch of crumbling rock projecting out along its face for about three meters, onto which one had to find a foothold. It took a long time for me to make that three meters and then only by taking my pack off and lowering it down first.

Mountains are other world places and I can feel their attraction, even though they induce a sort of out of body feeling in me part of the time. One is reduced to a nothingness and all along being subjected to forces visual and physical that take us out and beyond our imaginations. Slow and steady, well prepared physically and mentally, with the right equipment, brings a certain level of confidence but it is the sheer scale of mountains that haul one into a world that is out of the ordinary and into the downright extraordinary.

Gods come from mountains in much of mythology and no wonder. It would be a hardened intellect that did not feel a spirituality that surrounds one in the deep recesses of these magic places. It was a human god quite literally, who gave this portion of the planet into perpetual safe-keeping. Francisco Moreno the man who spent his life surveying the Western borders of Argentina in the late 1800's, was given as a gift for his services, eighteen thousand hectares. He donated it back to the nation on condition that it, along with millions of other hectares, be turned into the world's third oldest national park, Nahuel Huapi. We enjoyed our trek in the shadow and knowledge of a visionary who had the humility to recognise what it is to have such places protected permanently, from our own greed.

I owe much to Helen Murray for my ability to have handled this trek and for the knowledge that I gained from it. She taught me such a lot in three weeks of hiking in La Gomera, this past winter. I know now Helen, at least in part, why you do it.

Peregrinations

Dear Argentina,

I am so sorry not to have written to you, since I arrived in Patagonia. You really should do something about all the temptation that surrounds me, in this most beautiful of perhaps all places. We do all suffer from different tastes, which is a blessing don’t you think?

May I tell you, in way of apology for my tardiness, about a little meander I took in your magnificent Andes? It will only take just a few lines, as my fingers are still so raw from clinging to your rock face, shoulders bruised from wedging my bony skeleton against one of your hard, narrow ‘chimneys’ and my knees still bang together even thinking of what I was doing to myself, against your iron hard body.

Perhaps later, you would prefer me to tell you a softer story. One about walking far, far up, to huge glaciers through wonderful giant Lenga woodlands and watching great condors drift across steep ridges. Besides your incomparable-self for company, there was Billy, an artiste murale from Seattle, dressed in black running tights, black baggy shorts and lacking any supply of food, except mine that is. Far to the rear but bent over and gamely putting one foot in front of the other there was a very young and also very small, Jewish girl, with a backpack that would have given a seasoned Andean mule second thoughts about hauling it down a mountain and no thoughts at all about hauling it up.

Why, I might entertain you with stories of riding out on fine horses, across a great Estancia with a beautiful vivacious Argentine woman. An exotic mixture of Spain, Italy and Texas, whose hair and eyes are as black as the stallion’s we were in search of, along with his harem of wild mares.

Then there was the walk in the Bosque los Arrayanes, a fascinating forest, with a half-mad Italian mountaineer. Heart sick, home sick, sick of her mother and one of her brothers and desperately trying to climb, or trek or walk away from everything in her past - god save me Argentina, from another indisposed Italian woman.

I can tell you about gazing at your great volcanic Lanin, and all her thousands of meters that she stretches into the sky, from a forest of Araucaria araucana or as we Anglo’s call them, Monkey Puzzles, beside a cold clear glacial stream - not a fleck of anything in that water. A libation so good, so pure, that I only sipped it from my water bottle for several days, to enjoy the savour of thousands of years of glacial treasure, from the store house of an Argentine God who perhaps knew a world that was younger and more innocent.

Then another short little piece for you, on driving, again with the unfit Italian Princessa, down Ruta 40, with no one but an old Guanaco to see us go by. I do hope he went back to surveying the landscape with that Llama like inscrutability of his, after the electrical currents of her demons had been blown far away to his East.

Ah, Argentina how you have entertained me and now I shall entertain you a little, in the days to come, with some of those small delicious empanadas of my peregrinations about and over your inimitable self.

Riding across the most amazing country with Carol Jones and her gaucho

A letter to my date.

Cheap living in a dorm hostel in Bariloche a good one called El Gaucho, very clean, excellent kitchen — at $13.50 Cdn per night, with breakfast thrown in. Not many people about at this time of year. It is in between seasons and now is considered prime hiking time. I was heading off this morning for a two day hike but got the bus stop mixed-up — must learn some Spanish - so will go tomorrow and will do e-mails and business stuff today instead. How lovely not 'having' to be in an actual office and I still have to get used to it.

Wonderful place Argentina but a truly 'odd' country it is, with all its wealth, small population (39M) largely well educated and immense size of liveable area. Lost, is the word I would describe it as. I think because it is in S. America and tucked so far away from media attention, the world thinks, oh just another Latin American country with the usual troubles, but in reality it is a country with very much a European feel about it, with none of the indigenous issues of the other S. American countries or the big populations either. Argentina killed off most of its natives in the 1870s, except for those in the North-West. I suppose one could say, perhaps fairly reasonably, that the greed that condoned that genocide (it took quite a long time to kill them all) is still endemic and might have really messed up any moral and ethical code the country should have and needs, for it to be a leader and looking at the wealth of this land, one just wonders why it isn't a leader. They say Patagonia is a sad land because of the genocide. If one fast forwards a hundred years to the 1970s and early '80's, the then junta practised another genocide, this time on Argentinean citizens. The strange thing that I think sets this apart is not the genocide but that the approximately 1,200 torturers/killers are mostly walking about BA today and only now, thirty plus years later, and that tepidly, is the country beginning to think of bringing them to justice. Yesterday was a national holiday, the day of Memory for Truth and Justice. In the civic square and all civc squares across the country, there were long lists of the names of all the people that the organisers of this day want brought to justice. It was quite creepy — the word fits I think — to look down the lists and imagine if you saw your own name on it or a brother,etc., what would you do, where would go or where would your eyes be looking in a conversation with a neighbour, friend and so on? So, like the economy here, justice as well seems to stall and not just for a bit but for a generation, a country in a sort of permanent stasis. It is the justice or lack of it that is at the root of all the trouble I think and without real justice there is no hope for any sustainable democracy here.

Big news this morning about all this in the papers and there are prosecutions starting and some now well under way - about sixty people so far. But, it is being fought by the powerful here at every step and some people now screaming for justice were actually mixed-up in the whole 70s/80s mess on the wrong side. The rich who are very rich seem untouchable but Argentina still seems so........well normal otherwise, which is the strangest thing about it. I felt the same thing in the early 80s when I first visited. Perhaps a comment a very well educated young man made to me in BA the other day sheds a bit of light - he has a Masters degree from a major Australian University. He said, "Alejandro, Argentineans do not have what it takes to run a country." That, to a greater or lesser degree is a feeling here amongst many Argentineans and that is sad because there is so much going for it in resources, infrastructure, etc.

That all said, I love this place and it is very hard not to. It is wonderful to be amongst kind, generous and cultured people — art everywhere — in a completely amazing landscape and not just here in Bariloche. One finds evil in some form or other wherever one looks, if one wants to look for it. Better to support what is good and hope that eventually human goodness will bring the other to 'heel' at some point.

Buenos Aires

Your Beauty

Dear Argentina,

You are such a wonderful mix of contrasts already, and so very beautiful, which makes us lovers so estupidio, especially when we fall a little bit or just simply hopelessly in love with you, almost at first glance. Drinking wine, succulent and gleaming with Andean sunshine, I watch you tango under the limbs of a massive Gomero tree, in Plaza Dorrego. Here, an astonishingly attractive woman, sensually steps out the tracery of her heart, a romantic one like mine Argentina, up the narrow Calle Defensa. It was in this street in 1806, today full of tourists and antique shops, that your volunteer militia fought Los Ingles back to the sea. Engendered with such a courage, you then banished your mother Spain forever, taking her lovers as yours and welcoming so many more from all the corners of the earth. They fell in love with you Argentina and so have I.

My eyes brush across you, from a barrio street corner and see a cornice that once grandly crowned a small masterpiece of your golden years. Now a little faded, you tease me with glimpses of such sensual form and generosity, that even with all the scars of a life well lived you radiate great beauty. Then, unexpectedly, walking down a cobbled street feeling the lost sweat of your Porteno labourer, I see you standing dressed for a gala in gleaming tiara and finest silks. Here I meet you as Puerto Madryn, where you transform us with renewed youth that bursts from the ground with the energy and modernity of a 21st century cityscape. Your graceful curves, mixing with those of Amalia’s great art collection, encompass condominiums, cafes and restored warehouses with superb gothic windows. All this in your newest barrio, which stretches away along the water in a glistening array of the super modern. Where a once great harbour bustled with your commerce, the Universidad Catolica de Argentina now bursts with your glamourous grand-children, who lie kissing, on thick shaded wooden benches, washed by the breezes of your warm breath. Puente de la Mujer (Bridge of the Woman) dances across the water with its graceful counterpoint to the grandiose designs of the new towers that adorn your quaysides. And behind, toward the sea, is a great park dedicated to nature (Reserva Ecologica) where I walked in a wild garden of peace and giant pampa grass, with you and two lovers from Columbia.

I am here to discover you Argentina, to feel you beneath the rough and tumble of your beloved Buenos Aires, the vastness of your deep Pampa, the subtle beauty of your Sierra and the strident peaks of your magic Andes.

Hasta Luego,

Alex

A letter to my date.

Dear Argentina,

From the moment I arrived at your airport you gave me a little treat to remember; the Hasidic man with his big black hat and curly sideburns that they call payot, who borrowed my pen. He spotted it in my shirt pocket. His way of asking was made in such a way, as to make me feel....well, ‘it was his pen and not mine.' Of course it was my pen it was in my pocket but I lent it to him despite my going to clear customs long before he would have filled out the forms that he should have done on the plane. Poor man he was obviously in a panic. It is only a pen I think but that the only one I had. I got into a taxi penless - lucky I have my computer to write to you Argentina.

The driver had hair much greyer than mine. Also, his lenses, in his glasses I mean, surely came from the bottom of a milk bottle. The auto-pista must be his personal F1 track and he slowed to 135 km/h once or maybe twice, to rush up behind some unfortunate in the fast lane, with his headlights flashing. Was he remembering, do you think, modestly in his geriatric way, Fangio, Reutemann and Gonzalez, those racing heroes of your yesteryear?

The hostel suggested I avoid Mexico street but that Chile and Peru were quite safe. Is that something to do with the proximity of your geography with those closer two? But didn’t you fight a war with Chile not so long ago? You have a main street named after your enemy. How odd is that Argentina? In Canada we did away with Berlin and called it Kitchener instead, after that mustachioed general. We also plunked Waterloo next door. You know the big battle, the one that saw the end of the little Frenchman. Canada is such a nice country but we must not like our enemies.

I tell you, Argentina that you will be very pleased. One of your generous and kind citizens, he is a young man who runs the evening desk in the hostel by the name of Martin - solved with me that silly, ‘who owns the Malvinas’ dispute. You know the islands those Ingles, call the Falklands. Martin, sincerely worships his ‘Puma’s’ - his godfather played for them. They of course are your beloved national rugger team. Martin and I decided that we should get the ‘Lions’ - that Inglese national team - to play the ‘Pumas’ in the Rugby World Cup final. What a bueno match that would be Argentina, a sell-out for sure and it would be played in Stanley, capital of the Falklands with only 3000 sheep herders as Lion supporters and of course thousands of Argentinians who would love to visit that cold, windswept island for a day out. It would be a winner take all - the islands that is. An honourable ‘trial by combat‘ you might say. Only Martin pointed out, that it would be no prize for you Argentina because who wants cold windswept islands full of sheep and Inglese. He also said you would lose the best foil for distraction from your interesting internal politics. That is if you won of course! Ah, he is obviously of a different mind than your foreign minister. That fellow has just rallied the support of 32 Latin American countries to have those Inglese negotiate at the UN to settle the dispute once and for all. Tricky business diplomacy, better play that game with rugby players - much more fun and good drinking afterwards.

Manana I may write to celebrate your wonderful Vino, which is at this very moment making me sleepy. I may be falling in-love already Argentina, and I have only just set eyes on you after so many years.

From your friend,

El Canadiense Ingles.

Two days to go

Spent a wonderful evening with Don and Roberta at their Toronto home, drinking a fine Argentinean Malbec - a warm-up of things to come. They had a wonderful array of pictures from their adventure in Argentina last year and apart from, why would anyone miss going to Mendoza for all kinds of reasons, it made me want to be there now - will be soon and will report on the vino.

Seems funny that this time next week I shall be sleeping in San Carlos de Bariloche, to give it its full name, right in the Andes and close to all those wonderful hikes I have been looking at from the log cabin in Ontario. Helen has been very kind and given me all kinds of good tips for heading backcountry, thanks Hel. Joni says she is heading there next year and whatever I tried I could not pry her away from an Olympic Vancouver and the rain! So, it is solo on Tuesday and back to the country I was in 28 years ago before the Malvinas war. Many more motives for going than hiking but that is right-up at the top and will let you know about the others as the trek unfolds.