Dean Potter

Today's Photos 8 images

Everybody is now leaving Patagonia. The businesses in town are starting to shut down, the leaves on the langa trees are rusting into their autumn red and the snow line has dropped almost down to our camp in Rio Blanco. The air feels crisper and now tiny balls of grauppel fall from the sky instead of the summertime rain.

We have just sat through the worst period of weather yet, four days of continuous storms up in the snow caves and many more storm days down in town kept us partying with our departing friends. None of us feel entirely positive about what we are doing. Steph and I feel like maybe we are not listening to our common sense that the weather has been bad all summer and is not going to get any better now that it's fall. Still, we extend our plane tickets and hold on to our hopes for any sort of summit weather.

The guys that are leaving now dream of sunny splitters in sandstone and endless springtime climbing around the States, yet still fear they will miss the good weather as they load their expedition bags onto the outgoing bus. As with our decision to come here in the beginning of this year, Steph and I know we have little chance of success, yet we take our chances anyway.

Now we hunker down in our dining tent within the shelter of the last trees at treeline. We make tea or soup every hour or two, in order to stay warm and keep somewhat occupied. Our camp here feels more like a home than anywhere we've lived in the past years. We have a sleeping tent, dining tent, computer, satellite phone, slacklines and laundry lines strewn in the trees, and a feeling of freedom with few external pressures, beyond the natural ones of weather and the mountains.

Because of all the bad weather we've been having, I am very happy that we brought our most deluxe camping gear. Though not in the best climbing shape, we know we must be some of the best campers anywhere. My mind wanders out of the present and to our last effort in the mountains, over a week ago now....

Steph and I are in Base Camp, well rested and excited as blue skies and sun float over our heads, and the pressure rises continuously. Excited by the improving weather, we quickly eat a scrumptious instant meal of couscous with wild forest mushrooms and pine nuts, and fudge cookies with white chocolate chips. We brew a cappucino on our stovetop espresso maker and leave our styling Base Camp in early evening.

The sky is streaked with high clouds from the south, a sign of good weather. We walk effortlessly with light packs and tack our way up the steep glacier on perfect hard snow, our crampons barely scratching the surface. This is the first time we are not post-holing and are completely rested and relaxed on our approach. It is early evening and we have plenty of time to be where we want to be by dawn.

We arrive at our caves just after dark in our fastest time yet, and feel invigorated by the easy hike. Our legs have become quite strong with all the movement we've been doing (these mountains harden you even if they don't give up their summits). We grab our fast and light go-go packs and leave Paso Superior at about 1am.

Out on the glacier again, below the sheer walls of the east faces of the Fitz Roy range, we start to sink into the snow a little, and within a half mile we are up to our knees. The south wind dies down and a fast wind from the northwest swirls blinding snow all around us, and even in the darkness of the new moon we see dark clouds slinking onto the tops of the peaks.

It did all seem too perfect, and within minutes we know we are not summitting Fitz Roy today. Neither of us say anything and we keep slogging through the deep snow, only halting for the huge gusts of wind barrelling out of the darkness. We weave our way around hidden crevasses and huge sink holes and eventually find ourselves nearly swimming in waist-deep snow as we near the start of the mixed climbing gully.

We ponder our choices as we watch the clouds cover the entire sky and I look around and stare at the last stars fading into black. Both of us are so amped that we don't really have a choice — we need to climb!

We decide to do the mixed climbing that begins the North Pillar of Fitz Roy again and leave a food stash at the start of the rock, and then try to summit the Val de Bois, the small formation north of Fitz Roy. It is a beautiful, pointy peak and we both know that any summit in Patagonia is not easy this year...

I start moving up the initial steep snow before the bergschrund and cannot move forward except by crawling because of the deep snow. The climbing above is mostly unprotected, because all the rock is covered in nevé, and ice screws seem no good in the consolidated, packed snow.

We use a 100-meter rope and on some of the pitches we have to move a full rope length before finding any suitable gear. The movement is slower and more serious than our last time up this mixed section, and we watch as a fiery sun rises behind a thick cloud layer on the horizon. In the light we feel more secure and find ourselves at the notch between Fitz Roy and Val de Bois.

A thick fog surrounds us and it starts to snow at a steady rate. We watch as all the rock in our sight gets covered with fresh snow. Out on the glacier, it has become a full blizzard. Getting back to the snow caves will not be convenient. This is the kind of weather you go down in, not up.

But we did come all the way up here, and we're not cold or wet. With no time to waste we continue on the Val de Bois, the summit only a few hundred meters away. The climbing is difficult, with not even an eighth inch of snow-ice adhered to low angle slab. Protection is minimal, and at one point I risk falling on Steph at the anchor, from 10 or 15 meters, as I crawl and smear with my crampons on nothing but snow-covered polished slab.

I look down with fear seeing if I'll miss her if I fall, and feel queasy, thinking of puncturing her with my crampons. All the rock is covered with a veneer of snow and verglas, and there is little gear. We sketch our way up four pitches of this to a large ledge 30 meters below the summit. By this time it is snowing really hard and the wind is howling, but we are protected from it by a small rock ridge.

We can't see any possible way to the summit, but know from descriptions that it is supposed to be a scramble. Actually, this whole climb was supposed to be a scramble. I traverse and pendulum around towards the southeast ridge, and end up aiding, tension traversing, and doing super sketchy, mixed, unprotected free climbing, until I get to a point where the climbing gets steeper and without protection.

I try over and over to commit, but my inner voice says, 'don't do it, you'll break your legs, at best, if you fall now. Not to mention it's getting harder, idiot!' I scratch up a little further anyway, and almost get stuck. Can't go up, the only way down is very rapidly. Trying not to panic, I barely downclimb it, only 10 meters from the summit. I stupidly stick my neck out a couple more times, barely sketching my way to the same impasse over and over.

The wind picks up. I hear Steph's voice faintly calling from a distance. I glance at the summit one last time and make the decision to start down. I downclimb to a point where I can't make another move and the rope stretches over from a single microcam. I had tensioned over and now must go back.

I call for tension again, my heart pounds, I call for more tension, and try to lower myself into the fall. I cut loose, sliding on a snow-covered rock slab, my crampons screeching painfully, and swing below the cam. It holds and I shakily climb up and retrieve it. It's almost evening again. "Let's get the fuck out of here!" I cuss, demoralized and exhausted, but glad not to be broken near the summit of a peak in Patagonia in a whiteout.

Worn out and mentally drained, I mindlessly follow Steph down the rappels as my body cools rapidly. I put on my thick gloves before my hands freeze. The anchors are almost impossible to find and the visibility is very low.

I watch Steph disappear into the fog and listen for her to call "off rappel." I slide smoothly down the frozen cord until she comes into view, somehow having found hidden slings that disappear into ice-filled cracks or wrap-around large blocks sitting in snow. We both look out at the glacier and acknowledge we are happy we have our compass because we can't see anything.

Eventually we reach the last rappel and are back wallowing in snow. We plod along, slowly picking our way to the caves. Steph does a great job at breaking trail and navigating through the pure white as I carry the pack. It is a fair trade because post-holing really sucks and it is the leader that usually falls into the crevasse.

After over a day from when we left Rio Blanco Base Camp, I see the rock spires near Paso Superior. We dig into our cave, remove our wet outer layers, drink hot soup, and drop into a long, deep, silent sleep within our snow cave as the storm intensifies outside.

We stay in the cave for some timeless days and the weather stays bad. As an even bigger storm approaches, we flee back to treeline. As usual, we finish our descent back to Base Camp in a heavy rain. This time we feel sad, emotionally and physically drained. This endless storming, nonstop since November, is starting to take its toll on us.

We spend the night at Rio Blanco and the storm intensifies even more. The barometer drops 17 millibars, an unprecedented plunge for this trip. Without question, we head for hot showers, sizzling bifes, fresh baked pies, expensive espressos and plenty of beer drinking down in Chaltén. A Chilean friend, Alejandro, joins us for dinner and I tell him about our epic attempt on the Val de Bois. At first he thinks I'm joking when I say we couldn't summit. He tells us the first ascent of that peak was done over 20 years ago as a solo scramble by a man who'd helped Cassarotto ferry loads up the mixed gully to make the first ascent of the North Pillar. Pretty funny to think of him scrambling up in Birkenstocks in the sun on the same terrain that was hard, unprotected mixed climbing for us.

My thoughts turn to bouldering. Almost as if he's reading my mind, Alejandro whips out some bottles of Gato Negro red wine and impulsively hands the little plastic black cats from the bottles to me and Steph for good luck tokens. Steph and I look at each other and we are reading each other's minds, thinking about the Gato Negro boulder.

We drink many bottles and some more beer and stumble out of the Rancho Grande. Walking through the swaying trees within the horse pasture on our way to bed, I know that tomorrow I must go to my longstanding boulder problem project, Gato Negro. Steph had always said that I would send it when the black cat had returned.

Steph Davis
Dean and I found the Gato Negro last year. We had walked down from Campo Bridwell Base Camp to Chaltén. This is a two- or two-and-a-half hour walk on trails, through woods complete with pumas and all that. And just as we started out of the Base Camp, we saw an adorable little black and white Sylvester cat nonchalantly strolling up the trail on his way to Bridwell.

We were completely amazed and assumed the little kitty was lost and needed to be taken to Chaltén. Dean chivalrously tucked little Sylvester under his arm and started carrying him down the trail. Sylvester seemed perfectly content with that. Two hours later, just about to Chaltén, we notice an amazing boulder just off the trail with a beautiful, hard-looking problem on it.

So Dean puts Sylvester down, and he curls up and goes to sleep at the base (Sylvester, that is). Naturally, I came supplied for the occasion with a box of, yes, Gato Negro vino tinto. It was obvious that the boulder problem had to be called Gato Negro. Unfortunately, all of these portents were not enough to help Dean make the last outrageous dyno move to the lip.

Still, the day's biggest achievement was still unfinished. Dean was determined to finish rescuing Sylvester. We packed up our bouldering shoes, woke Sylvester, and Dean triumphantly carried him the last 10 minutes into Chaltén. All day we floated in the glow of this chivalrous good deed, smiling occasionally as we remembered Sylvester's happy little face when Dean gently deposited him safely on a sidewalk. "We saved him!" we told each other happily.

Later we saw our friend Marcia in town, a Chaltén local who speaks perfect English, and asked her what on earth that little kitty could have been doing way out by the Base Camp.

"Oh, that's Sylvester," she said.

"WHAT??? Who does he belong to?"

"He belongs to himself. He often walks to the base camps and then comes back when he pleases." How crazy! Here Dean had lugged this damn cat all the way back to town for two-and-a-half hours to save him, and he was just out for a dayhike to Bridwell. Yeesh.

This year we went back to the Gato Negro each time we were in Chaltén, and Dean tried and tried to climb it. The last move seemed so hard and improbable, it looked like he needed a little divine intervention. I knew if Sylvester would just show up again, Dean could do it.

Dean Potter
The next morning, my new black cat charm took me up the Gato Negro. Finally, a summit!

— Dean Potter and Steph Davis, MountainZone.com Correspondents