Route finding on the North Tower in rising wind Courtesy of Sean Waters

Almost a week later after loads of eating, building base camp furniture and general laziness we arrived back at Col Bich late in the afternoon, intent on bivying before having a crack at the Central Tower the next day. The afternoon had, for the first time, been crystal clear and calm, and we prayed to the great weather God that it would stay that way. Tied to the wall two rope lengths up, we spent a frigid night trying to convince ourselves we were comfortable, shivering the night away until, at four in the morning, a prolonged and largely incoherent conversation ensued about the now deteriorating weather. In the predawn light it was difficult to make out the extent of the developing wind clouds, but we knew they were there and the dropping pressure wasn't reassuring us either.

After much discussion we decided to go up and 'have a look', so, as the barometer headed down, we headed up. The first rope length proved to be a hard pitch of aid climbing up a thin crack that perfectly split a huge pillar leaning on to the Tower. Easier climbing led us to the red slabs where Don Whillans had nearly come to a sticky end during the first ascent. As he hauled up the wind frayed ropes that had been left fixed on the climb during an earlier attempt, one of them broke. In an act of incredible clear headedness, Whillans managed to grab the rope above the break just before he plunged to the glacier hundreds of meters below. Calmly tying the ropes back together, he carried on up, heading for the summit. We could only marvel at his good fortune and cool demeanor as we picked our way delicately up the fantastic, compact slabs.

Lowering off a piton allowed us to swing across into the bottom of the climb's hardest sections, the grey and red dihedrals. Above were the corner systems I had gazed at for months in photos of Bonnington battling with a huge roof. It was incredible to finally be here and we launched into it, purposefully not discussing the rapidly worsening weather behind us. A little like a child hiding from monsters under a blanket, we figured that by ignoring it, it couldn't possibly get us. How wrong could we be!

"As the wind rose quickly to a hurricane force our disappointment turned rapidly to desperation, our human frailty suddenly exposed."

The climbing was wild, hard and slow going but totally absorbing and it wasn't until the first snow flakes began to fall that we realized just how bad the gathering storm had become. Snow slickened rock shoes failed completely on the steep icy granite, so with little choice, but bitterly disappointed, we began a descent. Patagonia chose this opportune moment to teach us a lesson for ignoring her obvious warning signs.

As the wind rose quickly to a hurricane force our disappointment turned rapidly to desperation, our human frailty suddenly exposed. The wind became so strong that it prevented us from pulling our abseil ropes, and the gale roared around our ears, trying its best to pluck us off the small icy ledges. At the bottom of each abseil the two of us would hunker down, attach both sets of mechanical ascenders and heave on the rope as if our lives depended on it, which, they did. Several times the rope did not move, held rigid in the wind's grip while we steeled ourselves for the hideous option of re-ascending the rope.

Last ditch attempts during slight lulls in the storm resulted in the ropes slowly, oh so slowly, coming down, centimeters at a time, slowly gaining momentum until the storm grabbed them in a new game, whipping them through the anchor to stream out, all eighty meters, cracking and flailing across the ledges and flakes of the wall, trying their best to get jammed. Often the first person down had to place protection to avoid being blown irretrievably away from the wall.

While struggling to get one of these out on the second to last abseil I lost my grip, taking a bowel shaking swing out and across the east face, spinning like a puppet over five hundred meters of void and praying for the rusty pitons to hold together. We weren't having fun anymore, and our world was narrowed down to a few meters of rock and the screaming wind that seemed determined to eliminate us. Time slowed to a crawl and it seemed as if years had passed when we finally abseiled into the top of the icy descent gully. For the first time in hours we could smile - we were probably going to be OK.

Back in base camp we licked our wounds, one frost-nipped big toe and a broken pinkie sustained from a large rolling boulder in the moraine. The days slipped by in a welter of tea drinking, chess playing and losing pull up competitions with our neighbors, the 'hard as nails' Slovenians. Above us the storms raged uninterrupted, guarding the mountain kingdom from all intruders as they have done almost uninterrupted since time immemorial. Our time frame was no contest for the immortal gales and all too soon we began carrying our gear down the valley, destined for another adventure further north, on the high slopes of Aconcagua. We were disappointed, but happy that we'd given it our best shot during the only gap afforded by the weather. To step foot on a Patagonian summit is a rare privilege, indeed, and in their elusiveness lies their allure. It is a place where your spirit can soar, or you can be crushed like an ant. A playground for those with a penchant for disappointment, a playground ruled by the wind.

— By Sean Waters;
Courtesy of New Zealand Adventure, www.pacificmedia.co.nz