Jimmy Chin
Standing at our high camp, I catch one of my last views of the Torre. I can only see the base. It is white with snow. The sightings are intermittent as the wind blows waves of snow over us. The season is over for us and Cerro Torre is in no condition to be climbed. We are here to take down our high camp.
Brady and I huddle in the tent and frantically eat as much food as we can fit into ourselves so we don't have to carry it down. As the full force storm outside lashes against the tent, we sit inside smiling, gorging and talking about our trip. As ridiculous as it may sound, we agree that we will come back and try again another year.
In many ways Cerro Torre is the last place on earth I would want to return to, but, strangely, this is one of its strongest lures. Even though the weather is horrendous most of the time, the possibility of putting hand to rock, and tools to ice on its flanks, the possibility of climbing it, makes the decision an easy one.
Fortunately, the decision to leave for the year is an easy one, too. The conditions are impossible and Cerro Torre's charm is not as strong as the bife and torte de manzana con haledo (apple pie with ice cream) calling me in Chaltén. Brady and I finish packing and begin our descent to the glacier. Visibility is 10 feet. The wind forces us to do our drunken sailor imitations as we reel from side to side, falling down and picking ourselves up.
As we trudge across the talus field towards the glacier, I look back and try to see Cerro Torre with unjaded eyes. Even though I can't see shit, I know it is there, cold and massive. After a month of waiting and watching it, I have cursed it and I have reveled in it. The entire time, it stood there indifferent to me and my ambitions.
I think it odd that a piece of landscape can cause me to have so many mixed emotions. I am grateful to have had the time to examine my love and hate, my fear and joy of climbing. I think about how excited I was just to see Cerro Torre when I flew out of Salt Lake City.
I feel fortunate to be in its presence. I say good-bye, reminding myself it is just a piece of rock.
Back at Campo Bridwell, our friends throw a pizza party in the climbers' hut. Since no one is ever climbing, I have gotten to know all the climbers and enjoy their different personalities. There are the jokers, the grumpy ones, the happy ones and the quiet ones. Regardless of the differences, a common thread seems to hold the mismatched community together. Looking around the hut, I am psyched to be hanging out with Brady and the other climbers for another night.
After a long evening filled with wine, conversation and endless pizzas prepared by Pablo and José, I return to my tent. The end of a trip is always a time of reflection and I stay awake in my sleeping bag, thinking about my time here. Campo Bridwell has been my longest time spent in one place since my last expedition to Base Camp. I have neighbors, and a routine, here and I will miss them.
Soon Brady and I will be doing the chaotic travel dance between buses, taxis and planes. But right now there is nothing to worry about and I fall asleep without checking the barometer.
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Jimmy Chin, MountainZone.com Correspondent
