Dean Potter
The sun passes in and out of the clouds, warming my face, the only part of my body exposed to the elements. The wind is calming and I breathe crisp, dry air. The weather is changing again. Sometimes I feel like I am moving in balance with its chaotic flow while at other times I hopelessly fight it and almost feel it is reacting to the uncertainty within me. Also, at my darkest times, I feel the weather is malevolently acting upon us, following our every move.
The last short weather window began while we were down in El Chaltén for two days of maximum bouldering and humongous, totally excessive dinners at our favorite restaurants, Patagonicus and El Rancho Grandé. At about 1am, as we tried to sleep, listening to the roaring wind at our lowest camp, the weather instantly changed and the clouds disappeared, and within minutes we could tell that we should have been in the mountains.
Early the next morning we began our long hike to Base Camp and then to high camp. We tried to conserve our energy by hiking slowly in order to arrive at the North Pillar of Fitz Roy in the evening when the snow is stable enough to climb the first mixed portion of the route. While hiking, we watch the conditions change dramatically from perfect to outrageously cloudy, and then perfect again, and lose way too much energy with our worry of the future.
As we near our high camp, two condors fly directly over our heads and our spirits soar alongside their brilliant, outstretched wings. We stop at our snow cave and brew up, hydrating, trying to eat as much as possible, and forget about the entire day of hiking.
Within an hour our packs are loaded and we move toward the climb in the dark. Snow conditions are bad and we post-hole to our knees in the heavy, wet snow. Clouds are now rolling again, but we push on anyway.
The start of the route is a 1000-foot steep snow and mixed climbing gully that makes our calves burn. By dawn, we hear a strong wind above us at the notch and can tell the weather window is closing. On the horizon we see the telltale sign of bad weather: the circling, blackbird clouds.
We reach the notch and can barely find a place to sit without getting blown away in the thundering wind. I enclose myself within Gore-Tex, and am happy I brought the heavy set of bibs and full jacket. As the wind blows against the outside of my impermeable suit, my thoughts drift away from summitting. We sit for over an hour and I look up at the clean, windswept granite—Yosemite-like splitters to the top— and know we can climb it in good weather.
But now, in the pounding wind, the cold starts to bite into me. I feel exposed and tired and imagine freezing to death, and quickly turn to Steph. We start going down.
After a few hours of rappelling and spindrift avalanches, we walk back to our cave, exhausted from the past day-and-a-half of moving. My pack straps cut into my neck and I start thinking of things I don't need to carry next time. We get to Paso Superior and it seems calm, though clouds race over the peaks. Part of me defiantly thinks that I could still be up there.
Totally exhausted, I drag my sleeping bag around the talus by the caves and fall into the most lazy sleep. Steph wakes me and gives me some hot chili. My body absorbs its warmth quickly and I fall back to sleep, only to wake up cold as the sun sets. I crawl inside our snow cave and shiver to sleep, totally depleted. My thoughts are now entirely committed to summitting Fitz Roy.
These thoughts continue, but so does the bad weather. A small clear weather spell peaks our hopes again, but closes as soon as we start to poise. We spend the next two days in the snow cave in deep, long sleeps only divided by eating and brief weather checks. I drift in and out of intense, whacked-out distorted dreams and listen to the water dripping in the snow cave and the wind beating on the tarp door.
A pair of Romanian climbers up here decide to call it quits and awaken us in the morning to say goodbye. "No more supplies, no more time, no more money, no more guts! Snow caves very cold..." We offer them food, knowing they've been almost out for days, but they refuse to take even a cup of tea. Steph and I try to figure out why they're wearing wet Levis up here.
Snow turns to rain and we descend behind them, leaving our snow cave perfectly ready for our next chance. On the way out it is so wet we have no choice but to wade through a swollen flooded stream above a big drop. The proud pair of Romanians, luckily, waited for us in the downpour, with a fixed rope across the river until we were all safely across.
We offer to carry some of their load because our packs are empty, but they refuse. I start a tug of war with their packs, thinking they are just being polite, but they pull back harder screaming, "No! No! No!" Since I obviously don't understand their culture, we just thank them for the rope and uselessly invite them to come to our Base Camp tent for tea when they get to Rio Blanco.
They say yes, but we know we won't see them again. Steph glances back to see them almost fall over as they shoulder their packs. We are both amazed to meet people even more stubborn and independent than us.
Back at camp and totally rested, I think of how to climb to the summit of Fitz Roy. I contemplate my inner demons and the goodness within me, and know that positiveness is the only way. Now we sit at Rio Blanco, waiting.
—
Dean Potter, MountainZone.com Correspondent
