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Southern Comfort
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By: Maria Visconti, Issue 38 – Autumn 2009
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(Tour Mt Fitzroy – Patagonia, Argentina)
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TREKKING IN ARGENTINA’S PATAGONIA BRINGS NEW MEANING TO THE TERM ‘MOUNTAIN MAGIC’.
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Before our eyes – and as the result of an intensely sunny day in the middle of summer – Mt Fitzroy begins to smoke, a plume of white cloud clinging to the top, although it is not a volcano. The effect, created by the sun melting part of the summit’s ice-cover, vaporises the ice into the air. In a matter of minutes the plume is whipped around by the winds, creating the illusion of smoke. The original inhabitants (the Tehuelche) called it Chalten (smoking mountain), but in the 19th century, surveyors changed the name to Fitzroy to honour the explorer who surveyed the area. Hundreds of people summit Everest every year but Fitzroy (like Everest, the ‘Mt’ is lost with familiarity) – in the Argentinean Patagonia – might be successfully climbed only about once a year. Lower than its Himalayan counterpart, this peak is however technically more difficult. Its summit is covered in see-through, glass-like ice to which not even snow clings. Walkers will be left in awe of Fitzroy’s beautiful surrounds. Majestically set like a jewel in a crown, the crescent-shaped massive emerges like a mammoth Stonehenge from the windswept steppes of Patagonia. Fitzroy is fast becoming a magnet for technical climbers and outdoor lovers alike.
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Recent statistics show that Australian travel numbers to Latin America have grown by 60% in the last year. Airlines are following suit by increasing the number of weekly flights. Although now called Fitzroy, the original name, Chalten, has not been totally lost. In 1985, due to intense pressure to keep this remote area within the confines of Argentina, the government founded a frontier town and named it El Chalten, thus preserving the mountain’s native name. What started as an outpost to repel neighbouring Chile is today the capital of southern trekking in the remote Santa Cruz province. The original handful of inhabitants has grown to around 800 in Summer, less during the harsh Winters.
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The 220 km drive from El Calafate (where flights from Buenos Aires arrive) is flat and flanked on one side by what the Americans call buttesand giant mesas: the terrain is dry and arid as it lies under the rain shadow of the nearby Andes. Indeed, it could be Arizona – or South Dakota. A stop at La Leona (the lioness) is a must. Originally one of the middle-of-nowhere general stores strategically placed every 200 km to cater for the needs of drovers and ox-driven wool-wagons, La Leona is a now an equally important stop for travellers. The empanadas (meat pies) are good but the cakes are superb. They literally fly out the window. I order cake first and lunch after. It proves to be a good move. Cakes run out before the empanadas. After La Leona – and another hour on the equivalent of the Easy Rider road – the Fitzroy massive emerges into view. El Chalten, at its foot, is small and frontier-like. Ahead of us are four days of trekking in the area, followed by another week on the other side of the Andes at the Torres del Paine National Park, in Chile. By day we pound the ground and Gustavo and Pepe – our local guides – treat us to a drink of matejust as the knees begin their protest.
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The backdrop is always picture-perfect: jagged peaks of sheer granite faces covered in see-through ice; glacial lakes so smooth, they look as if they are made of duck-blue eggshells. Just a 15-minute walk from El Chalten, numerous paths take walkers into a secret walled garden of gigantic dimensions, with drippy, humid forests of giant nothofagus (southern beech) which decrease in size as altitude increases, and end up as tortured, semi-recumbent shrubs, bald on the prevailing wind side. Penetrating the stone crescent is like going through a mirror and coming out in a different world of tiny orchids underfoot and ducks swimming against raging torrents of glacier waters – without advancing an inch – just for sheer pleasure. Above the tree line the terrain changes into the starker grey of ancient rocks and finally, Fitzroy juts into view zinging with magnetic force.
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The place is full of history: Finnish settlers, wool drovers, and bloody border disputes. Raul, our driver, leans over the steering wheel and says, “The shootout took place here in 1965,” as he points to a forest of southern beech, calafate bush and ferns (it is hard to imagine any shootouts in this place except those involving Sonys or Nikons).“The Chilean chief died there,” he points to a tree, “you can imagine the diplomatic uproar this incident caused in Santiago. It nearly brought about a war between Argentina and Chile”. A mounted Argentinean border patrol on a routine run had discovered an encampment of Chileancarabineros flying their national flag near Lago del Desierto. An armed confrontation ensued which resulted in the death of the Chilean commander.
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“After years of mutual threats and sabre rattling the two countries referred the matter to an international court of arbitration in The Hague,” Raul says. “A group of experts came to assess the problem. They had to use horses, no roads here at that time,” (in my mind I picture a cavalcade of be-wigged, be-spectacled judges in black robes bush bashing in Patagonia).
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“They determined the lake empties in the Atlantic, so it was declared Argentinean,” he beams with pride explaining that a previous agreement between the two countries states that lakes emptying into the Atlantic belong to Argentina and those emptying into the Pacific, to Chile. As he speaks, a gaggle of novice nuns in white habits settles down for a picnic by the now conflict-free shore.
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On the way to Chile we stop at El Calafate, where pink flamingos pace the lake and friendly packs of dogs peacefully patrol their beat. They are not homeless, I am told, they are perros callejeros. Their owners let them out to walk themselves – an obvious throwback to less crowded, non-motorised days. The food in El Calafate is of extraordinary quality. At La Tablita (by the bridge) we demolish morsels of lomoand bife de chorizo, prime meat cuts washed down with Canale, a peppery Patagonian Pinot Noir. For lunch we go to Casimiro Biswas (on the main drag) where a platter of succulent specialties scintillates the palate: smoked cheeses and fish from a local lakes compete against exotic cured meats. Late at night we venture into Don Diego de la Noche, a pulperia (a traditional general store cum restaurant) to see a dance show. When we come out, taxis are no longer available. Viki, the affable owner- musician, offers us a ride in his Ute. Considering he is a man of considerable size, the short trip was crowded but cosy.
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There is one more treat before we leave Argentina, a 90- minute drive and a boat ride deposit us at the Perito Moreno Glacier where thundering ice calving is taking place. The huge pieces crumble and collapse into the lake producing tidal waves of alarming height. On safer ground, we start a mini- icetrek. In a slow crocodile, crampons in place, we follow Martin and Eduardo, our ice guides. The place is full of crevasses half covered in snow. Suddenly we stop and the guides retrieve a treasure chest from a hollow in the glacier. Out of it comes a bottle of whisky, tumblers and a jug. They procure water from a hole and chip some centuries old ice. We raise our glasses and offer a toast to Mother Earth and Patagonia.
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Details:
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World Expeditions
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Buenos Aires Top 5 Hotels:
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Alvear Palace Hotel
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Sofitel Buenos Aires
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Faena Hotel & Universe
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Vitrum Hotel
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Moreno Hotelis
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