Dave Anderson
February 7 attempt on Guillaumet:

Beep, Beep, Beep ...I turn off my alarm that is supposed to wake me up at 3am, but I have been awake for hours. What has kept me awake was not a loud neighbor or barking dog, but the silence. The silence caused by the absence of wind and moonglow from a cloudless sky.

I begin the ritual of getting dressed for the approach hike. The barometer has been slowly rising, another sign that the weather might be improving. The most motivating thing I do, that enables me to get myself out of bed at such an hour, is to have everything I need "totally set to jet," as Andrew would say. That means pack packed with all the essentials for the approach, breakfast ready, water bottles full the night before, so all I have to do is start hiking in the morning. This time our packs are light on our backs, because all of our climbing gear is in our snow cave at Paso Superior.

Andrew and I spent the previous evening hanging out with Steph Davis and Dean Potter. We talked about potentially going bouldering the next day. Before we left their camp, Dean said, "But hopefully the weather will change and we will see you guys hiking up to high camp tomorrow."

The next day, as Andrew and I slogged through the layer of new snow on the glacier, the only other headlamps below us belong to Steph and Dean. While the rest of the climbers in Rio Blanco were being lazy, the Americans are at least trying to climb something.

Breaking trail is as much a skill in mental patience as physical fitness. We had hoped for a consolidated snowpack that we could run up to Paso Superior on, with only the points of our crampons penetrating the snow. Instead, I found myself in 12 inches of new snow with every other step punching through the crust layer underneath causing me to posthole up to my crotch. I have learned over time that frustrations and temper tantrums only waste energy. Andrew shouted up encouragement, "Go Dave, you're a monster," as I methodically kicked steps up the slope. The snow conditions are what they are and a slow steady pace was the best response.

At a rest break I looked back down the valley. On the horizon thin bands of clouds acted like a giant venetian blind, partially blocking the light from the rising sun. The landscape to the east has been sculpted by the glaciers from the last ice age that left in their wake a topography of gently rolling green hills and turquoise lagunas. As the sun climbed above the morning clouds, the crimson light raced along the Laguna Viedma, up the Rio de las Vueltas, passed the town of Chaltén, over the tamed igneous hills in the valley and up to the Fitz Roy Massif. We could not help but smile as our faces were bathed by the morning glow.

As I studied the Whillans Route on Poincenot, I heard a noise that caused my partially digested breakfast to flop around in my stomach. It sounded like a waterfall pouring over a cliff. Actually it was wind from the adjoining icefield slamming into the west side of the massif and shooting over our heads. At this point it is just a sound—there is no sense of motion or force, but that would change.

We finally reach our snow cave, dug out our equipment and headed up the Pedros Blancas Glacier towards Guillaumet. Guillaumet sits on the far eastern edge of the Fitz Roy Massif and is somewhat dwarfed by its granite neighbors, but it offers a relatively easy, wind protected way up to the summit of a Patagonian peak.

After side-hilling to gain the relatively flat section of the glacier, Andrew and I decide to put on the lightweight snowshoes we brought from the States. We roped up, ready to fly across the snow to the base of our route. I took one step forward and my world suddenly fell away. I instinctively lunged my arms forward, as if I was trying to set the record for the world's longest broad jump. My hands dug into the snow on the other side of the crevasse. I took a quick look down into the dark abyss and yelled to Andrew, "Ah, Andrew, I'm in a crack!" Then I vaulted myself out of the hole and regained my footing on terra firma. Although not as big as some of the crevasses I have had the pleasure to meet up close and personal in Alaska, I'm still glad we are using a rope to cross the glacier.

The sun is beating down at the base of Guillaumet reducing Andrew and myself to T-shirts. "What do you think of the couloir?" Andrew asks pointing to a thin ice line on the south side of the peak.

"Yeah, that looks cool and I'm not sure if it's been climbed before, but I think it will take us right up to the summit snowfield that is sheltered from the wind," I reply.

Neither of us like the snow conditions—it's too warm. Clumps of snow heated by the sun drop of the granite cliff and tumble down the snow slope above us growing into giant pinwheels as they pick up additional snow rolling down the hill.

Andrew starts up the initial pitch and we simul-climb for about 600 feet of steep snow and low-angled rock until we reach the start of the couloir. I noticed several rappel anchors as we climb the slope and realize the route has been climbed before. The sun is still beating down on the east face causing the meltwater to gurgle under the snowpack. Chunks of ice sporadically bounce down the gully.

"Well, we have come this far, I should at least give it a try," I say to Andrew at the belay. The climb is steep and varied. I slot my right axe in a thin crack and mantle onto a decent shelf, sink a bomber TCU and slam my axe into what looked like solid ice. My pick slices through the half inch of ice and smashes into the rock several inches below the façade of ice. Then the whole section of ice collapse onto my chest.

"I'll just give it another look," I piped down to Andrew. But I have lived through 20 years of climbing and knowing when to go down is just as important as knowing when to go up. Down we go, back to the glacier.

We spent the rest of the day traversing the glacier; looking at potential new routes and examining the conditions of established routes. I have never seen so much snow blanketing the massif.

Andrew relates to me that he is looking forward to feeling the power of the Patagonian mountains and the force of the wind. And as if the weather spirits were listening to our conversation, they respond by giving us a taste of what they are capable of. The gusts start slowly and evenly, but grow quickly to the point that Andrew and myself are in full self arrest position on the flat glacier. Our bodies are tossed around like rag dolls and ice crystals lash our exposed faces. They don't call this wind "the broom of the gods" for nothing.

— Dave Anderson, MountainZone.com Correspondent