Andrew Chapman
A cold chill stirs me from a fitful night's rest around 6am. I stuff a parka into my sleeping bag—for a little extra insulation from the beckoning frosty air—while the tapping of light rain lulls me back to sleep. Ahhhhhhhh....
Two hours later, I emerge from my cocoon bundled in my warmest clothes and make my way to the kitchen tent. Newly fallen snow blankets the hillsides and mountains surrounding the Rio Blanco Base Camp. Fall is in the air. Quickly, fond memories of autumns past creep into my consciousness: the feeling of a warm fire, heavy blankets at night, hot apple cider, the rustling of blowing leaves and smell of burn piles. A smile crosses my face.
As the drone of our stove purrs incessantly across camp, I can hear Dave waking up from a long night's sleep. He knows there is a hot cup of cocoa waiting for him in the kitchen as soon as he can tear himself from his warm bag. Neither of us are feeling particularly hungry, so we just keep the hot water going for most the morning. With mugs recklessly filled to the brim, I opt for lounging on the luggage bags across from the main cooking station. As I settle into this cozy nook, I wrap up again within the confines of my sleeping bag.
My very Romanesque position reminds me of long road trips I had with my family as a kid. The "way back" of the car was always
my domain. Bags had to be carefully placed so that I could maximize
my property. At least that's what I told my two sisters who had to sit in the "normal" seats of the station wagon.
Life is good today. No pressing deadlines, tasks to tend to, places to be, goals to be met. Today I will simply be. Be in Patagonia. Be in Rio Blanco. Be under this shelter. Be in this state of mind. Be present. NOW.
The morning progresses along with many more hot drinks, occasional grilled cheese sandwiches, and the soothing sounds of John Coltrane flowing through my headphones. Somewhere along the way, as Dave and I dip in and out of short naps, morning turns to afternoon. The pressure is slowly rebounding, after plummeting overnight. Yesterday high cirrus clouds were an ominous indicator of today's precipitation.
My mind wanders. I wonder what it was like for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid when they visited Argentina at the turn of the century. Not more than a month and a half ago I asked myself this same question while sitting at an old bar in Lander, Wyoming. The bartender pointed out two bullet holes in the decorative ceiling and claimed that Cassidy had put them there.
How did this outlaw from the late 1800s make his way down to Patagonia from Wyoming—let alone hear about it? Perhaps they heard of an untamed land similar to what they once knew in the North American West. Whatever the case, Cassidy and Sundance made their way through the beautiful Cholila Valley in the northern Patagonia Andes around 1902. This quiet valley in the heart of the Andes must have reminded them of the Wind River Range of Wyoming, carpeted blue by lupine by early summer.
In 1905, these two troublemakers left their mark in Rio Gallegos, which is the city Dave and I flew into before taking buses to El Chaltén. I'm making it a priority to check out the old bank building there which Butch and Sundance robbed in 1905. Will there be bullet holes in that ceiling too?
I love reading about history, about the past and how things once were. It is amazing to me how fast we have exploited and developed this planet. Only a few hundred years ago places like Patagonia were still very wild and untapped. Now I can sit here on this laptop and talk to you, jog into town and receive a fax and find equipment on the Fitz that may have been there for 30 or more years.
My mind changes focus quickly upon the arrival of Dean Potter. Conversation is sporadic yet fluid. We talk of routes in Yosemite, to the story of a mastodon that was found frozen in snow and ice. Laughter.... Freedom of thought....
It's time for another hot drink and some paté on crackers. Pressure is rising. Maybe we'll be climbing tomorrow. At some point, I need to motivate from this couch to pack. Ahhhhhhhh. I think I'll just nap for a while.
—
Andrew Chapman, MountainZone.com Correspondent
