Last night, for dinner, we learned how to make calzones in the backcountry. Christian mixed up the dough and kept the yeast alive by tucking it inside his jacket while we chopped up the salami, cheese, and onions that would make up the filling. Alex rolled out the dough with a fuel bottle on a plastic map and we fried them up in a hot skillet.
It wasn’t exactly Osteria Francescana, but crouched down on my haunches, licking spicy grease off my fingers, and looking around at the sun setting behind the mountains, I was grunting like a very satisfied Italian caveman.
In the morning, we noticed some creature had wandered through camp and shat equidistant between our tents. It seemed to have a very berry heavy content to it, which ruled out anyone from our party. Or did it? We fenced it off with rocks and did a mini-CSI: Patagonia investigation and determined it was likely a puma or a fox. But we couldn’t be certain. You can’t exactly dust for feces. Whatever it was, it was a bold move wandering into the heart of camp and dropping a dos. I preferred to think it was some sort of ancient mythical Patagonian devil yeti beast that I immediately dubbed La Poopacabra.
After breakfast, Alex took off to get the cache of gear and food we left behind yesterday. The rest of us decided to take a walk up the valley and meet the glacier in person. We loaded up a bit of food and spare clothing for the day in our packs–which felt ridiculously light—and headed up around the bend.
It was a lot more rock-hopping up the stream at first. There was nothing around for centuries. Occasionally we’d hear the distant rumble of ice calving off the glacier or a boulder freeing itself from the confines of a cliff, otherwise there was only the sound of our boots scraping across the stones. Well, that and Tom’s seemingly bottomless supply of stories involving either crazy relatives or suing people or a combination thereof.
We marked the morning by the broad level line of sun edging down the side of the valley to our left. It was a broad sheet of warmth and color just out of reach, oozing its way teasingly downhill towards us. We were glad to bask in its glow when it finally overtook us suddenly like a silent explosion.
Eventually, the valley opened up into a small lake. Well, more like a broad unshaped pooling in the stream. It was so blue it looked like it had been run through a Photoshop filter or was from an alien planet.
It felt good to walk on the narrow strip of level sand its shoreline offered us. We refilled our water bottles here and drank deep of its pure clarity. How can something without a taste taste so refreshing? I remained gladfully amazed that we didn’t have to stop and filter our water every time we needed a drink.
There were several giant rocks–some the size of cars, others approaching duplex dimensions–that the glacier left balanced precariously on sharp points. How many centuries had they stood in that pose? Would anybody or anything be around when the endless caress of wind and water finally and dramatically laid them to rest? What are the odds it would happen right when we were standing under them thinking this? Best to keep moving.
Where the lake ended, our way began going up steeply. It was still boulder strewn, but there were parts where the rock had fallen free and you could see the solid face of the mountain, scrubbed smooth by the scraping weight of ice and moving water. The sound of falling ice was louder here; rising above the constant trickle of the stream that flowed somewhere under the rocks we were scrambling up and over.
We continued up until we found a rock big enough to take a bit of shelter from the wind, which now carried flecks of white on its cold breath. I dug into a Raspberry Chocolate Honey Stinger Protein Bar that was something like gnawing a patio paver made of honey. I assume what made it so hard was all the teeth embedded in it from other people trying to eat it. Christian quietly pulled a leftover calzone out of his jacket and smiled as watched us gnaw on our various energy bars and gels.
“Does that calzone place deliver?” I asked.
“Yes. But we closed for lunch right now.”
From there it was a short hike up over a ridge and we were at the foot of the glacier. It wasn’t a dramatic face calving off house-sized pinnacles of azure ice into an ocean as whales pirouetted out of the water to Yanni music. In fact, on first glance, it just sort of looked like a snow-covered mountain. But when you looked closer, you could see gaps from hidden crevasses and long cracks in the ice that went down hundreds of feet. You began to see the shape and frozen flow of the glacier. It had the appearance of motion to it. It came down from the peak at the left, bending around and slogging to a stop at our feet. And few feet had ever been on this particular glacier.
“Do you want to go for a walk on it?” Christian asked casually. Hahaha. And here I was raised to believe there was no such thing as a stupid question.
Even though I’d left a winterized world of snow and ice I’d grown weary of back home in Minnesota, I relished the first crunch of it under my boot, here, down near the opposite end of the world. After a few steps, I realized I was holding my breath. We followed with exaggerated caution in Christian’s footsteps as he led us across to the other side and up a small incline to get a peek around the bend. Up until now, my new ice axe had only been used to dig a hole for me to crap in the woods in. Now it got to fulfill its purpose, chinking softly through the icy crust of the latest snowfall.
I think Brian may have giggled. Me too.
The way down wasn’t any easier. Stepping down from jagged rock to loose rock was something felt all the way up through your legs and lower back. These mountaineering boots don’t have the “tactile feel” my climbing shoes do. Even my hiking boots had more feel. So would the deck of an aircraft carrier for that matter. They had as much give as a Tea Bagger at a Congressional budget hearing.
The weather had started to turn colder and full of flurries as we descended. We ran into Alex, successful in her return to the cache, just past the lake. Like kindergarten kids returning from the first day of class, we bombarded her with stories of what we’d seen and done. “Was it bomb-bear?” she asked. “It was muy bomb-bear.” Brian and I said.
With the snow starting to come in a bit sideways and the wind picking up to a full sprint through the valley, we spent the evening in our tents with Alex teaching us a variety of knots we’d need to know to get roped together on a climb team.
They ranged from a simple square knot to the Figure Eight on a Bend, the Clove Hitch, the Water Knot, the Prusik, and Nefzawi’s Knot. Wait. That last one was from another trip.
By the time chow was ready, the snow had stopped. We sat around near the kitchen rock gobbling it up from our plates. Tonight’s feast was meat-filled tortellini covered in tomato sauce and, yes, cheese. We covered it all with ample amounts of merquen until we couldn’t tell if our noses were running from cold or heat. I was glad I’d found room for my pair of Mountain Hardware Compressor pants. They felt like walking around in a comfy sleeping bag.
We lounged, fed and contented, amongst the moss and against rocks drinking tea and scanning the blackening skies for shooting stars. Brian and I stayed out later just to see what the stars looked like here. In this latitude. At this altitude. The swollen moon interfered with the constellations, but made up for it by casting a new light over the terrain that felt like you had peeled back an invisible layer and were seeing it for the first time.
I had my stocking capped head tilted way back, my mouth agape, so any escaping breath drifted up and became a veil in the moonlight. I imagined myself out in space, looking back at the planet and down to where we were. Then I looked toward where we’d started, far beyond the equatorial curve of the Earth’s belly. We were a long way from home. Yet no place felt more like it at the moment.
In Our Next Episode…Eating, Pooping, and Camp Zen