Fall in El Chaltén
March 6 - April 29, 2024
After I climbed Loma Blanca twice, the weather was pretty terrible for the rest of March. I nursed my sprained ankle and settled into the Casa de Ciclistas hostel where I shared the yard with dogs, cats, chickens, and other travelers.
Perros, gatos, y gallinas. The cat pictured here is my favorite kitty in the whole world.
Not sure what level of dirtbagging this is
On March 11 I walked out to Laguna Torre during a brief relenting of the weather, getting my first glimpse of Cerro Torre as the storm momentarily lifted in the afternoon. The energy emanating out of the glacial valley below Cerro Torre was incredible— a menacing, unsettling, corridor of divine fury. Cerro Torre felt alien, not really of this earth. A brooding, shrieking banshee ready to destroy the universe. I can’t think of any other mountain that has left this sort of impression on me. I stayed at the campground near Laguna Torre for two nights, though only saw Cerro Torre briefly on the first afternoon. Otherwise I just got soaked and learned that my tent wasn’t very well equipped for a Patagonia deluge. I started emotionally spiraling the second night in a way that I’m not used to. This could be attributed to various factors – most notably my tent floor flooding and hairy caterpillars crawling all around me in the mud as I tried in vain to fall asleep – but the disturbing presence of Cerro Torre seemed to also somehow be contributing to my emotional state.
On March 20 the weather finally broke and I set off to climb Cerro Electrico. Rather than take the most direct route straight up the glaciated east face, I thought it would be safer to try my luck on the scree slopes to the north. Topographic maps indicated a possible route on exposed rock that would go at Class 2 or Class 3 if I picked my line carefully. I hitchhiked to the Rio Electrico bridge in the early afternoon on an absolutely gorgeous day. It was hard to believe how much snow was on the mountains. Weeks of storms had transformed the landscape into an early winter scene, and I was glad to have gotten Loma Blanca out of the way during the last of summer weather. Climbing Cerro Electrico in these conditions didn’t seem likely but I set out anyway to go have a look. I hiked partway up the steep trail to Paso del Cuadrado and spent the night under a huge overhanging boulder that made for very comfortable shelter. The next day I continued upward and quickly hit the snowline. I climbed in the snow for about an hour. It kept getting deeper and before long I was postholing up to my thighs, with the snow obscuring the treacherous gaps in the talus. The decision to turn around was easy given that these were the conditions several thousand feet below the summit. I backtracked down the steep slope and hiked back to the road that evening, and hitchhiked back to town with a guy who turned out to be Rolo Garibotti. He offered me a ride in his truck and we chatted throughout the drive about topics ranging from mountains to psychology to the joys and pitfalls of romantic relationships, exchanging contact info before he dropped me off at the hostel. I didn’t know who he was or anything about him but got the sense just from talking to him that he was a pretty interesting dude. Looking him up later, I realized I’d just made friends with one of the world’s very best climbers.
A couple days later, Rolo introduced me to Ty Lekki, a photographer with perhaps the best Patagonia portfolio out there. Ty’s work had inspired me to come to Patagonia with the intention of climbing remote peaks like Loma Blanca with my drone, rather than just shooting all the well-known vantage points near town and leaving after a few weeks like most other photographers. The three of us met up for coffee one gloomy afternoon and I had a lot of fun getting to know both of them a little bit.
On March 24, I hitchhiked to a popular river bend out on the pampas. A guy named Casper offered to pick me up on his motorcycle. I hesitated for safety reasons but decided to accept the offer since it was only a couple miles. Casper had been riding his motorcycle from the Arctic Ocean and was almost finished with his journey to Ushuaia. I shot some portraits for him as he rode up and down the iconic road leading into El Chaltén and the Fitz Roy skyline. We walked out to the river bend and I shot an image I like quite a bit. It captured some of what I felt a month before when I first laid eyes on Fitz Roy, the overlord of the rolling steppe. Casper continued on his way and I spent the rest of the day following a large herd of guanacos around the grasslands. They paid little attention to me and it was cool hanging out near these silly-looking creatures.
Caspar and his trusty steed
On March 26, I headed out to Laguna Torre for another two nights. Cerro Torre was blanketed in clouds as usual the first morning, but a huge rainbow appeared in its place. The second morning brought incredible light to Cerro Torre at sunrise. The glowing rime-coated granite towers reached up to meet the heavens as a conduit for something otherworldly. The unsettling, menacing presence of Cerro Torre I’d seemingly picked up on two weeks before was still there, but it now came along with an aesthetic loveliness.
My college friend Matt was flying down from New York for a week. I told him to come find me somewhere along the shore of Laguna Torre on the 28th. He showed up just as planned, and it was surreal to be seeing him for the first time in years out in the wilds of Patagonia. We caught up for a couple hours. Then he hiked back to town while I took the Tirolean traverse across the river to go scout compositions among the trees just starting to change color on the lower slopes of Cerro Solo.
I met up with Matt later that night and he gave me a care package of some gear I’d ordered to his apartment and asked him to bring down, including some much needed underwear. Each pair of underwear I brought to South America had already gotten lost one way or another and I’d been going commando for the past couple weeks.
On March 29th I went out for a day trip around Laguna Capri and Rio Cascada. Fall colors were beginning to pop, and I was astonished by the beauty all around me. I knew Patagonia would be special before I ever flew down here but it was beginning to feel like possibly the most beautiful place I’d ever stepped foot in. The light shortly before sunset was especially memorable and I lost track of time while shooting, meaning that I had to run from Laguna Capri back to town in less than 30 minutes to make a dinner reservation with Matt and his parents. There were treating us to a nice steak dinner at one of the fancy restaurants in town—a real step up from my usual supermarket fare.
After dinner and hanging out with Matt some more, rather than going to bed, I headed back into the mountains around 3am. It was supposed to snow overnight and clear up around sunrise. I retraced my steps up to Laguna Capri where I’d just sprinted down from to make it to our dinner reservation earlier that evening, and carried on toward Laguna Sucia. I walked all night, moving like a zombie through the sleet that was now coming down heavily. I didn’t really know the route but Gaia showed a trail leading to Laguna Sucia and in general I figure it can’t be very hard to get somewhere if the terrain is such that it allows for a trail in the first place, even in the dark in the snow having never been there before. This assumption was mostly correct, though I took a wrong turn and found myself on the wrong side of a river at about 5am. In my sleep deprived delirium, I wandered in circles for probably an hour trying to find a way across the river before backtracking and finding the correct trail. There was a small cliff along the route which I scrambled up without difficulty and continued on to the large talus blocks that covered the hillside for the final half-mile to the lake. A surprising amount of snow was accumulating as I slightly gained elevation. Spurred on by the approaching dawn, I jogged the rest of the way across the snow-covered talus and found some orange trees on the steep hillside. The mountains were mostly obscured by clouds but some lovely sunrise light illuminated the lower regions around the lake for a few moments.
It started to snow again and I wandered around the hillside to find a better composition in case the clouds ever lifted. At around 11am I found a tree with the type of personality I was looking for and curled up in the snow for a much-needed nap. The nap wasn’t particularly comfortable since I hadn’t brought any camping gear with me on this little outing. I woke up shivering two hours later. The clouds started to show signs of clearing and I awaited at the ready by my tree. The cirque felt like an alpine Garden of Eden, surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs except for the river outflow. Chunks of glacier frequently calved off from the terraced rock cathedrals and funneled down into the lake. The color palette was crisp and vivid but not gaudy. The turquoise lake stood out like a jewel. Vermillion trees scattered in clusters across the snowy hillside made this cold alpine world feel surprisingly inviting as winter quietly announced its imminence. Irradiant afternoon light filtering through the clouds made these hues sing and coalesce. Fitz Roy reigned over it all as a benevolent monarch.
I was blown away by this wonderland I found myself in. As I walked back to town that evening, I felt determined to empty the clip over the next couple weeks and make the most of the fall colors that were now coming into full swing.
On April 1, I bought five days’ worth of food and headed into the mountains again late that night. My destination this time was a craggy hill called Polo. I slept by a pond in the forest and woke up early to scramble up another thousand feet to the top. The morning light was unremarkable but I spent the day exploring the slopes and figuring out which group of autumn trees I liked best. Evening light behind Fitz Roy revealed another aspect of its character.
I headed back down the hillside to my bivy spot by the pond, ate some hard boiled eggs that had been smashed in my backpack, and set my alarm early for the next day. At dawn I scrambled back up to my preferred composition. Again the sunrise was unremarkable but I really liked the dappled light slightly later in the morning. Gale force winds set in again and at one point I was quite literally being blown uphill on a 30° slope.
I headed back down the hillside to my bivy spot by the pond, ate some hard boiled eggs that had been smashed in my backpack, and set my alarm early for the next day. At dawn I scrambled back up to my preferred composition. Again the sunrise was unremarkable but I really liked the dappled light slightly later in the morning. Gale force winds set in again and at one point I was quite literally being blown uphill on a 30° slope.
The center of the universe. The overlord of Patagonia, occupying the liminal space between the pampas and icefield. A speartip adorned with rime ice pointed skyward, routinely battered by shrieking winds. Equally adept at invoking grandeur or terror depending on its mood; often it does both at once.
I hiked down Polo in the sleet and went to the crowded Poincenot campground, deciding to join the throngs of people at Laguna de los Tres the next morning. I woke up well before dawn to hike up to the lake for sunrise. It really is a spectacular spot despite the hundreds of people lining the shore. With that said, it’s always funny to me watching herd mentality play out. You’d think nature might be a place to get away from that, but even in the mountains most people seem to be unable to bear the weight of open possibility and just want to be told where to go and what to do even on vacation. Later in town, I heard some tourists talking about how they were going to “climb the Fitz Roy,” by which they meant walk to Laguna de los Tres. Somehow this lake seems to have gained the status of The Cool Thing To Do around here. To each their own I guess.
I spent that night in the Poincenot campground again. A couple hours before dawn, an especially fierce spell of wind tore through the forest. Everyone in the campground was woken up and frantically tried to either secure their tents or pack up camp altogether. My tent ripped apart and a bunch of clothing and other items flew away, never to be seen again. I stuffed my tattered tent and remaining belongings into my backpack and started hiking out. I was pissed off at everything, most especially the wind. I repeatedly told it to go fuck itself along with other distasteful utterances, to which it only howled harder in response. I realized I’d left my mini phone tripod up near the summit of Polo and went to go retrieve it. I dropped my backpack near the trail and rapidly gained 2000 vertical feet with the assistance of the tempest hurling me up the mountain. A striking rainbow adorned Laguna Piedras Blancas far below. I grabbed the tripod, found a line back down the mountain that wasn’t in a wind tunnel, retrieved my backpack, and hiked out to the road by Hosteria Pilar where I was able to hitchhike back to town.
The first order of business was to buy a bunch of tape from the hardware store for a makeshift tent repair. Three days later, in the evening on April 8th, I headed out for another five day adventure. First up was Loma de las Pizarras, a moderate peak with an incredible view of Laguna Sucia and the whole Fitz Roy skyline. I didn’t really know the way but it’s a peak that receives visitors semi-regularly so I figured it couldn’t be too hard and I’d just find my way in the dark like usual. I approached from the Torre Valley and hiked up the spine of Loma de las Pizarras in the snow. It was a long slog with a heavy pack but nothing noteworthy. Just a few hundred feet from the summit however, I encountered what looked to be a serious obstacle. The easy-to-follow ridgeline abruptly turned into a series of convoluted crags dropping off into the abyss on either side. Despite being close to the summit, the interesting views in the morning would be entirely obscured from this position. I pondered my options and poked around on either side of the crags but in the dark with everything icy, it was a clear choice not to continue. I bivied on the flattest patch of ground I could find. I told myself I’d take another look when it was light out but accepted that this was probably a failed mission. In the early dawn light, it actually didn’t look so bad to bypass the crag on one side, so I scrambled along the steep hillside up to the summit and found a nice perch to enjoy the sunrise. Spending the morning up here was lovely. I watched the light slowly shift across the gleaming granite in this austere winter wonderland. There was nothing but rock, snow, and cobalt sky.
I walked down to Laguna Torre in the afternoon and spent the night there. Though I didn’t shoot any images I loved, I enjoyed sitting among the frosted colorful flora the next morning.
Near the top of Pizarras where I called it for the night
Then I hiked back to town, got some more food, and hitchhiked past Rio Electrico most of the way out to Lago Desierto. I’d previously located a spot on a remote mountainside that seemed to offer an interesting perspective of the Chaltén Massif which to my knowledge had never been photographed. The main obstacle was a river between the road and the mountainside too deep to ford. On satellite imagery, there appeared to be two bridges that might be options. The first was at Estancia Bonanza, guarded by a locked gate with clear signs against trespassing. I asked my first hitchhiking chauffeur to drop me off here, and I went into the office to request permission to cross. This was definitively shot down. It took two more hitchhikes to reach the access point to the second bridge. The guys who gave me a ride seemed confused why I wanted to be dropped off this nondescript point along the road but were happy to let me out nonetheless. I intended to find the owner of the property to request passage on the bridge and would have been happy to give them some cash if they wanted, but cows were the only creatures in sight. I crossed the bridge and looked up at the imposing slope I planned to ascend that night, using the remaining twilight to visually map out what looked like a viable route and then drop corresponding GPS pins on my phone. Fueled by chocolate and loud music, I began thrashing my way up the incline through the dense forest. I came across a river gorge which presented some complications but I proceeded with care and found my way to the other side. Eventually I emerged from the trees and onto the barren scree slopes. The incline kept getting steeper and all the muscles in my legs were on fire by now but a cold breeze kept my breaks short. In the distance, the silhouetted forms of Fitz Roy and Cerro Torre arched into the night sky. Snow started becoming more prevalent as I climbed higher. At 3am I reached the base of an overhanging cliff near the intended destination I’d identified from the bridge earlier in the evening. I was exhausted after ascending 3000 vertical feet and this seemed like as good a place to sleep as I could hope to find up here.
One can’t help but get tunnel vision when climbing in the darkness by headlamp, but now in the dawn light I was able to appreciate the place I found myself in. The vast river valley stretched out thousands of feet below me. Turquoise lakes dotted the landscape. Crimson trees grew far up the hillsides in stark contrast with the glaciated peaks above. My perch offered an interesting perspective on the Chaltén Massif which I had not seen any pictures of before. Others have most likely been up this scree hillside in the past, but with no evidence of human activity up here and no information about it online, it felt very much like my own adventure. I shot sunrise right from my bivy spot. My sleeping pad had been punctured on the rocks overnight so I patched it with a repair kit and took a long nap. I melted some snow for water and then set off to explore a nearby chute, hoping it might grant me passage higher up the mountain to the summit plateau. The chute was very steep and loose, and after only a couple hundred feet I hit the snowline. My worn out trail running shoes were clearly the wrong tools to gain traction on the icy rock. Had it been summertime on bare rock I might have continued, but climbing any higher up the mountain with no mountaineering equipment clearly would have been unwise in these conditions. I carefully made my way down the chute and rested in my original bivy spot until the next morning.
The second morning up here offered another very meaningful experience that will no doubt stay with me for a long time. The details feel too personal to share publicly on the internet, but the veneer on ordinary reality fell away and the landscape became more symbolic than material. Time also seemed to fall away and I felt a deep calm wash through me. I saw my life – past, present, and future – laid out on front of me, mapped onto various features of the landscape. The posture of Fitz Roy in particular seemed to model an innate aspect of my own being that I intend to continue uncovering and embodying. Fitz Roy stood tall, unabashed, unwavering, magnanimous, absolute. A sovereign entity, neither trying to shrink away nor performatively inflate itself, just occupying the full truth of what it is with complete self-knowledge. I’ve since fleshed out some of this a bit more in this essay and am excited to how this thread continues to unfold in my life.
I began descending a few hours later, plunge-stepping down the loose scree. It was an idyllic fall afternoon and I was feeling incredibly satisfied with my experiences around El Chaltén over the past couple weeks. It took a fraction of the time to get down the mountain as it did to get up, and after accidentally startling some cows in the forest I walked back to the road. I waited for quite a while to get a ride into town but eventually a friendly couple on the way back from Lago Desierto picked me up.
The expansiveness I felt after this latest trip was short lived, as I got robbed for a large sum of cash a couple days later. After various questionable maneuvers to find the thief and recover the cash, I had no choice but to accept it was gone. This put quite a damper on my mood. But I figured it would do me no good to sit around in town feeling sorry for myself when I was still in one of the most beautiful places in the world, and fortunately still had all my travel documents, memory cards, and camera equipment (minus my drone that had been stolen in the hostel storage area a month earlier).
On April 19th, I walked a couple miles from town up to Rio Cascada near Laguna Capri. Though Fitz Roy was hiding in clouds at sunrise the next morning, the rest of the day offered exceptional light. I hung out by the river shooting a couple different compositions.
The absolute expressing itself and making itself known
An idyllic fall afternoon like seems to sometimes invoke a subtle sense of melancholy or ennui—when the foliage is at its peak splendor, when there is a gentle breeze and it is warm enough but not hot, when everything is almost painfully complete and perfect. Many poems, such as Rilke’s Autumn Day, gesture at this feeling better than I can.
I shot sunrise from the same perch above the river the next day, took a lovely nap in the forest, and walked back to town. That evening, I walked up to an overlook on the edge of a cliff near town. Normally I don’t include evidence of human civilization in my photography but it felt important to portray the town of El Chaltén in at least one image.
From there I walked out to Laguna Torre again in the dark. Cool ice formations had formed on the frozen lakeshore overnight which were fun to shoot at sunrise the following day.
The day after that, I woke up well before dawn to cross the Tirolean traverse and hike to a spot further up the lake that was more frozen with much larger icebergs. The air was filled with sounds of the icebergs creaking and shifting in the mostly-frozen lake, along with intermittent serac fall from the nearby Adela peaks. Otherwise it was dead silent and still. Winter was starting to claim the landscape. The otherworldly Cerro Torre watched over it all, cold and aloof. Later in the morning I continued along the trail further up Cerro Solo and found a nice high perch for lunch. I sat there for an hour eating my bread and cheese while watching condors play on the thermals before walking back to town, feeling largely satisfied with my time in the Chaltén Massif. The first big winter storm of the season arrived a few days later, blanketing town and everything above it in snow.