The Guardeparque of El Chalten

The Guardeparque of El Chalten

"Thee old lady who owns the property ees very seek in thee hospital so we can climb there now." I asked an El Chalten climbing guide about the supposed private property issue and the attractive multi pitch wall that the Andean condors favored that flanked town just over the meandering Rio Vuelta. When Maureen and i had gone to the parque office and visitor center earlier for climbing info The Guardeparque ranger told us the police would come and arrest us if we climbed there. "Oh, America, you understand the Leave No Trace? OK, very good.  If you camp out of bounds i will find your tent and ship it by by bus back to El Calafate. If you break the rules i will call the police or the army -you understand?"

And that if we planned on hiking near Rio Electrico and over Marconi Pass we had to check with the army first and the Chilean government because it was outside the park and Argentina boundary. "I have spent a lot of time in the Antarctic and the weather there is very much the same, it can change very fast and get very cold."

The ranger had a strong edge to him which at first pissed me off till I saw that it was just his way of relating and that he was actually very involved and cared about his Parque- but it was a good thing we weren't Israeli. "They burned down 40% of Torres del Paine," he told us matter of factly. The next group after us was a handful of Israelis and he was telling them, "I need copies of your health insurance for you to hike to Lago Tore so we  know who to call when you get injured... No. No fish in the lake." Why are there no fish there asked an Isreali. "Because there is NO fish."

The woman ranger earlier told me to go ahead and look at whatever climbing log I wanted to and I was. "Do not take anything out I will get it for you." He stopped mid-sentence to confront me as he was helping another couple. I was reading about first ascent descriptions on Poincenot. I said ok and kept reading. He kept glaring and Maureen said to put it back. I said oh, you mean I can't take it out of the bookcase, i thought you meant the binder... He glared another second till I put it back and then continued talking to the couple.

Ranger Danger we nicknamed him. He also told us we needed to register to climb anything locally, not just the Fitz Roy range but all the local crags around town. "It is not because we want to charge you but for your safety."

Before leaving we asked the woman ranger if we needed to register as we planned to climb around town later and she waved her hand and smiled, "just for the mountains."

We later wandered to the boulders north of town and met a sunburnt Australian from Newcastle. He had three pads set up for an overhanging highball problem he was working alone. We must have looked like lost tourists wandering off the trail to Lago Capri as his first words to us were. "Climb much?" Trying a bit of Aussie understatement I said, A bit. I asked about local trad routes on the cliffs surrounding town hoping to put the gear I had lugged to the bottom of the earth to good use. He told us to check out the multi pitch wall over the river next to town. -Will the police come and arrest us? He looked at me curiously, "I have seen people climbing on it every day since I have been here and so far no one has been arrested."

At 6 pm we came back for a visitor center talk that had been billed as a flora and fauna talk and the woman ranger swore she had no idea what it was about, "some people outside the park are doing it." I had asked about the climbing videos the lonely planet guide said they did every day at 3 but she said the TV had broken last year.

We hiked to a mirador above Lago Viedma and our return put us at the ranger station at 6. At the talk ranger danger was there and seemed thrilled the small exhibit room was packed with people. He excitedly handed out more chairs to those coming in, knelt and  interacted with the little kids. He was a totally different person.

It turned out to be a promo for a photographer/video duo which they claimed was really a plug for Patagonian wildlife and their book that was said to be forth coming but the loud rock opera presentation by German the video dude who was the obvious salesman/marketing member of the team stood in stark contrast to the almost mute presentation of the female still photographer. I heard German say  several times the words national geographic, Audubon, New Yorker... It was all in Spanish so I asked in English at the end what percent of the epic bird and animal photos were from captive situations. Instantly I got a response out of the tight lipped woman. ""Less than one percent. If you understood the Spanish we are producing a book on the wildlife of Argentina because there really is none."

The image stills and video clips had spun on along at a dizzying pace with both rock and symphony like some nouveau  vaudevillian show with their photo clients mixed in at opportune moments with crazy expensive cameras giving huge thumbs up because they were getting good pics if wildlife. Much of it seemed too close as the animals often charged and interacted with the photographers, snapping crocs, charging elephants. sentence in English appeared between photos saying "13 times stuck in the mud, 8 flat tires and five years later we are still at it." I think I lost consciousness when they began listing the # of times they had visited all of the globes photo hot spots.

After a week we managed some 8 pitches varying from chossy to sweet volcanic sport and stellar Yosemite style splitter rope stretchers - and never saw the police or the army and managed to keep our tent as well.

The El Bolson Bus and Blisters

Escaped Chalten at 3.45 am. -bus was on time. Now the International crew of passengers is pacing outside the Taqsa/Marga bus with overpriced fanta, Chips and Popsicles in the light breeze of a newish frontier town servicing central Patagonian route  40. 10 minute break turning to 20 as the driver opens the back hatch and bangs musically on engine parts with a metal pipe, then he walks around the bus with his attendant and they take turns hitting the tires...

 Three thick accented and sweating Irish from Cork find me tapping on my phone at the gas station corner. They light up cigarettes and surround me and we swear together about the blazing heat on the bus. "What the fouck is the problem? They got the heat and A/C on at the same time and its foucking crazy hot." Maureen is stoked she opted out of the long underwear layer.

About a third of the 24 hours covered so far. half has been on dirt with a surprising amount of wildlife beyond the fence line that parallels the endless road on either side at a 100 feet.

Wary knots of nandu, guanaco, spectral looking white sheep run from the fencline across the drab rolling landscape... more birds, water tanques, horses, estancias, trees... Much more than we saw coming down the atlantic side. Higher elevation... parts of the little town are flooded despite the piercing blue sky of the last week.

When we got to El Relincho where we base camped in el chalten the Gaucho that ran the horseback trips from there told me the heavy rain and wind we had that day was, " Normal... Ayer (when we had sun the day before) es exepccional." But we have had a straight week of blazing sun and more sun in the forecast. Ranger danger had told us that, "with climate change the weather changes faster and stronger. If you go prepared for it you are ok." I wish that wisdom worked here in the super-heated bus because I would be prepared to strip down if I had to but i might get arrested.

 We were promised breakfast lunch and dinner when we purchased the ticket and also got a spanish lesson from the ticket seller, "Quanto, no quando... It's noon now and still no sign of any food or drink.

The bus driver stops on the near straight arrow hiway next to another Taqsa bus that is heading south. After hugging They stand in the middle of the highway and share a cigarette. Then the drivers switch buses and we are on our way again.

Dead Patagonian fox in a roadside ditch. ahead are finally snowy peaks on the horizon to break up the low swell and sweep of lonely valleys. Still no food or drink at 1.20. Thank god we have emergency rations of sugary cookies and chocolateria chocolate. Now the A/C is cranked. brrr... Bastards...

It's now 1:40. "They aren't going to feed us, they f***ing lied. I am going to write lonely planet," says Mauren. I say it will be like the soccer team that crashed in the Andes. "Oh I will eat you before you eat me," she says. I tell her I probably wouldn't taste very good. "You're right. Probably like dirty feet."

Hmmm... Time to ruminate on my feet. Popping and squirting blister lymph from clear to white to light red has been an almost daily ritual. I have been looking forward to the long bus rides as times to heal my feet and to write. Lesson learned - Never will I again invest in thermal boots for trekking because they do not breathe and hold in the sweat for my feet to swim in.

Blisters will appear on top of old ones or underneath old blisters and even deep beneath callouses. several thousand hikes backpacking in the Grand canyon and i had one blister. so i didn't wear the boots at all yesterday and instead wore my sandals to give the toes a break even though i was tempting back the plantar fasciitis which has amazingly mostly abated. Now I have a painful crack in my heal from the switch up and the hair-clogged drains and scummy showers at El Relincho meant my endlessly safety pin punctured and split skinned meant my feet were swimming in heinous bacteria in my much needed scalding hot 2 am shower.

The feet definitely take a hit when traveling. While transfixed on on the grandeur of Fitz Roy I kicked an imbedded stone on the trail a week ago and had for a few days a decently sprained big toe I thought I had hairline fractured. Stuffed in old stinky climbing shoes, callouses pealing off, dried out skin crying for moisture... My dogs is tired.

Just after two we arrive at a half horse town of bajo caraole. The sandwiches at the tiny hotel/gas station/market/bar go too fast. I ask the drivers if we will be fed. "A noche." We pass a skeleton of some large ungulate in the dust and broken glass at the edge of the road. Ruta 40, for all its tourist hype, is so far just a long windy high desert road with occasional western views of the chain of Andes in the pale inky distance perhaps 50 miles away.

Perito Moreno was an early settler and explorer of Patagonia. We just passed through the sad and amazingly unpicturrsque town that bears his name. Poor guy. Not far is the massive lake and views of the Andes with twinklings of glistening glaciers and snowfields that still seem ridiculously out of reach as we parallel them.

 It seems Argentina is working on a massive but stifled project to pave much of the unpaved sections of Ruta 40. I think I counted 6 workers total in a couple hundred miles worth of grading and barranca channeling projects. We appeared to get lost in the construction zone and pulled a 180 at one point. The fence, unbroken, that borders either side of he highway is truly a work of architectural greatness, unwavering in its following of the highway curves. If they can do that I am sure the hiway is within grasp someday. The economy by most accounts is going to hell. Scrambling for the more stable US dollar the unofficial rate is 8 to one where the banks is 5 to 1.

We talked a while at mar del plata with a lifeguard who was also an accountant for several big hotels and a father of twins, had backpacked through Europe pre fatherhood. He told us the US is set up like a pyramid with its structuring of it government. He put a straight finger in his hand and said, "Argentina is like this... So one day the government flips and you go from having enough to having nothing. There is no security."

The innkeeper from Texas at the Tin House hostel in Puerto Natales Chile told us the same. "Argentina is screwing themselves in many ways. Chile is different." I asked if there was corruption in Chile. She said not like in Mexico but that there was Nepotism, political favoritism. A statue in town had recently been replaced because the mayor was buddies with the sculptor so a bust of a previous mayor was yanked out and replaced by a coal miner and cash flowed to the mayor's sculptor buddy. P Natales claim to fame is an ice age 4 meter tall sloth and another life size statue, this one a sloth, greets you as you enter town and appears next to the names on all the street signs looking a bit like a ghostly Barney or teletubbie.

Waiting for the bus this morning I overheard a loud American telling an Isreali how he plans to have US dollars wired to Santiago Chile so as to not be beholden to the bank exchange rate for Argentinian Pesos. "Nobody wants Argentinian pesos, they are worthless." The Chileans certainly don't, nor do the Argentinians.

We pass numerous roadside crash-site shrines with saints and tiny churches that look dog houses. Many are stacked with bottles of unopened water, presumably for the thirsty spirits that still wander the high desert hiways. Many of the people that live here and that seem to have indigenous blood are short and wide, built like plugs. Reminds me of the stout trees and shrubs, none growing more than a couple of meters high for a thousand miles in seemingly all directions. built to withstand the biblical Patagonia winds and this harsh landscape.

Occasionally the buses have stopped in the vast emptiness, nothing but a gated lone dirt road leading from the hiway and a gaucho would step off, shoulder a bag and walk into the void. At night it is like being lost at sea. A faint light occasionally appears way off in the inky darkness, a few cars might pass each hour.