Dean Potter
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.