Tag Archives: Chile

Patagonia: Chapter 10 – A Day in Coihayque

What seemed mere seconds after my mattress smacked me in the face, my eyes cracked open like egg shells to see gray light staring back at me from the corrugated plastic sunlights. The wind shook their edges in a continuous tittering laugh. After last night’s game of what I’m sure Christian is calling “Try to Get the Irishman Drunk”, I fell asleep in my clothes. I don’t remember crawling under the covers either. I must have been tucked in by whoever scooped out my brain and replaced it with the rough stones that were now bouncing on the trampoline of my cerebellum.

There was a knock low on my door. Fortunately, the room was small enough that I could reach out from bed and open it. There was Brian laying at my doorstep, stretched out across the narrow hallway, his feet still stuck in the covers on his bed.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” He moaned.

It was a dialect I was currently fluent in. “Rrrrrrrrrmm.” I agreed.

We set into town at a slow amble, our bloodshot eyes, hiding behind the protection of glacier glasses, scanned the streets for a proper looking greasy spoon. This being Sunday, the only buildings that were open seemed to be the churches. At last we came to a place called Restaurant Historico Ricer. It seemed a bit touristy, but we weren’t going to argue cultural exchanges at this juncture. Coffee. Omelet. Meat. Cheese. Toast. Coffee. Bueno. That’s all we needed to understand.

Brian and I were setting off tomorrow to hike Cerro Castillo National Park for a few days, so we had a laundry list of errands to tend to before then. First up, was, well, laundry. The hiking clothes we’d been wearing continuously for the past weeks were on the verge of becoming sentient and rising up against us. We hoped the woman who ran the hostel might offer a laundry service, but through some mishap in language she sent us to the local laundaria. Which was, of course, closed on Sunday.

Instead we turned our small rooms into a ghetto laundry, washing everything out in the tub and stringing our climbing ropes across the bathrooms to hang them on. All those knots were learned were coming in quite handy. The amount of dirt that came out of our clothes, especially the thick wool socks, was epic. I could have started an organic farm in the tub had I wanted.

La lavanderia los Scotchio...

Our rooms had some really janky looking space heaters that we rolled into the bathroom to act as dryers. They basically were propane tanks with an exposed metal screen that glowed demon red after you lit the ignition flame. A rudimentary faux wood metal border was flimsily bent around the contraption to give it a sense of décor. They were made in China and the instructions were in Spanish translated from Chinese. What could possibly go wrong? We closed the doors to keep the heat–and any possible shrapnel from the explosion—inside.

At some point in last night’s steak-filled-laser-laden-pisco-sour sea, Alex and Christian had invited us over to their place to show us some maps of the mountains we’d be hiking through and help us plan a route. Supposedly there were trails and “areas designated to camp in” but no services or facilities.

First though, we had to find our way to Alex and Christian’s house which was located just south of town past a saint’s roadside shrine and then a wooden fence, not the first one after the curve, but the next one that went up into the hill, just past a farm. We tried to decipher her hand-drawn map on a sweaty crumpled napkin while watching out for cattle and sheep on the road.

We found what appeared to be the road matching the appropriate squiggle on the napkin and turned up a boulder-strewn path that treated our vertebrae like Rubik’s Cubes. The gnawing sheep seemed to shake their heads as we bounced past. We hoped an axle didn’t snap. And we hoped that isolated house up the way was theirs and not a Chilean meth lab with some bald kid playing a banjo made out of human skin sitting out front.

Nope. It was the right place.

Their house was more like a cabin, a hut even, wrought of irregular stones and rough-hewn lumber and bare-branching beams who’s imperfections complemented each other perfectly to come together as a solid structure stilted into the side of the hill. It was really quite lovely. A small kitchen opened up to a living area with a fireplace, while a wooden staircase took you up to the second level bedroom. The cozy interior had a wood-burning stove and was accessorized with climbing exercise gear and photos of high altitude exploits. The fridge was speckled with postcards from far-flung friends and unfinished prose from a dirty Spanish magnetic poetry set. The fuzzy form of Kuma yawned hello from the patio where he was enjoying the view.

The view from the deck. Not too shabby.

We had some mate and poured over their collection of maps, plotting out possible routes with the best views that likely wouldn’t necessitate any additional gear or emergency helicopter airlifts. Down here below the Earth’s middle, February was the start of Patagonia’s winter, so some of the higher altitude passes would likely be filling with snow already. Christian also showed us a copy of a mountaineering magazine that published his first ascent of a peak last year. I remembered him saying that there are so many mountains in the country that most aren’t named.

One of Christian's first ascents...

With still much to do, we bid them adios and headed back into Coihayque. It’s pronounced coy-a-key or coya-keeeeeeee if you wanted to use a Jerry Lewis accent, which we often did. We got a good look at it, surrounded by snowcapped peaks and nestled into the valley at the confluence of the Simpson and Coihayque rivers. Founded by settlers in 1929 the city–officially a commune–was largely ignored by the central government for decades. A main road didn’t open up until the 1980s.

Despite this, there now existed two American-sized supermarkets located, for some reason, right next to each other a few blocks from the town center. After our weeks in the mountains, I think we actually stopped and stared for a moment at the selection and bright assault of colored packaging spanning out in front of us. I love wandering foreign supermarkets marveling at the names and packaging design and this felt a bit like being those kids getting their first peek at Willy Wonka’s factory.

We had plenty of freeze-dried astronaut food in case of emergencies, but since we had the option, we grabbed some dried salami, hard local cheese, peanut butter and tortillas, instant coffee and cocoa. At least we assume it was coffee and cocoa, there was such a huge selection, even Brian’s Spanish was stumped at some of the marketing lingo. In the end, after a long slog on the trail, we’d likely be thrilled to eat whatever it was that magically turned up in the tins.

Ooh, they have my favorite Doritos...Or do they?

Since the opportunity was there, was decided to bring along a small bottle of whiskey to fortify us through the cold evenings. Hey, if Shackleton saw fit to do it, we should as well. The choices were staggering and virtually all completely unheard of even to a maltophile like me. Most were a mish-mash of popular booze brands and pop culture references, blended together with a dose of Scottish stereotypes so that you ended up with such irresistible offerings as Fraser McDonald’s, James King, High Commissioner, Long John, Scotch Guard (Doesn’t stain?) and Old Beaver Whi$key (Yes, with the dollar sign). We settled on a bottle of Bruce Douglas. He became our team name, mascot, and battle cry for the adventures ahead.

The potable of choice for Patagonian pimps and playas no doubt.

We stopped at the Ricer again for dinner on the way back, carbo-loading on a fairly decent pizza and cold beer. A small boy, a couple years old at most, was tottering around the restaurant like a mini-maitre d’. He stopped at our table and smiled up at us.

“Hola. Como esta?” I singsonged to him, glad there was someone who likely knew only a little more Spanish than me. His round face broke into a big grin and he worked his unsteady legs back to his parents to share his amazement. He returned a short time later to hand me a small metal racecar. When I said thanks, he patted me on the knee and walked away. Hahaha. It has to be the red hair. Kids are fascinated by it. And this part of the world has a shortage of gingers.

Back at the hostel, our laundry was nearly dry and nothing was aflame, so we sat in the doorways of our rooms and began sorting and dividing gear and food to bring for the trip and what could be left at Alex and Christian’s.

Gear bomb...

An American named Paul, who was traveling through South America with his wife for three months, overheard U.S. accents and came to talk with us, happy to converse in his native tongue. I remember being jealous. Where do you find women like that? We never did meet her, so it could have just been a made up story. Maybe he had accidentally murdered her over a land dispute deal in Oregon and was on the lam from the law. Unable to accept the fact he’d killed her, he often pretended she was still alive, talking to him in those quiet moments on the road. Eh, who’s to say? I’ll take him at his word.

With another long week ahead, we turned in early. I lay in my tiny bed listening to music on my iPhone until I fell asleep. I’d forgotten how much I missed familiar songs. It was the first time I felt a distance from home on this trip. Each song like a familiar friend catching me up. It was good to hear their voices again.

I awoke to wind-whipped rain pelting the roof. We must be hiking today I thought.

In our next episode: Losing the trail in Sierra Castillo…

Patagonia – Chapter 9: Piscos and Discos

There is a corollary to Murphy’s Law for hikers which states that you’ll experience the best weather of a trip on your day out. For proof I just had to open my eyes. And then immediately shut them at the bright burning orange orb that had finally decided to materialize for the first time since I set foot on this continent. So after all that time in snow and ice and more gray ashen surroundings than Cognac McCarthy packed into The Road, we had to walk through this screensaver on our way out…

Maybe it was the bright heat of the lazy sun and the steady soothing thump of the waves against the hull that made us stare silent and dreamily at the peaks receding behind the curve of cliffs behind us.

Though speech would have been difficult given the steady whining of the small engine protesting against the weight us and our gear. We were all a little reflective on leaving the glacier. Something was ending, but only so that something new may begin.

After tying to the listing pier in Puerto Bertrand, a single fuzzy mutt rose slowly, stretched with a wolf-like yawn and then muttered a halfhearted ‘el woof’ under its breath. This seemed a cue to the town’s chickens to get to work because a second later a mother brought her brood of frenetic chicks out from around the corner of a house to scratch at the dirt road. The dog, with a subtle grin, seemed to propel himself towards us with the gyrations of his tail. After a formal sniffing of our packs and accepting a few ear scratches from us, he seemed satisfied his duty was done and wandered back to his post near the front steps. The ditzy chicks scattered away like nervous aunts.

We headed north on Highway 7, retracing our path towards the airport in Coyhaique to drop Colonel Tom off. Or hopefully to just slow down slightly and push him out. Given that there’s only one real highway throughout the country, it would be tough to get lost.

And given that it was the only road, it was kept up rather well despite the wild meteorological mood swings this part of the world endures. It was still what the States would euphemistically call a “rustic road”. Being so, there soon began a thumping noise underneath the truck that wasn’t part of a Geddy Lee bassline from the continuous Rush soundtrack Christian was playing.

A quick examination of the undercarriage revealed the exhaust manifold was coming loose and would have to be dealt with immediately. That meant stopping in the village of Cerro Castillo and asking around to see if any of the 400 residents could fix it. We drove down the seemingly backstreets of town, trying to locate buildings and see if the residents were home. We ended up talking to neighbors who pointed to other places to try, who then pointed us somewhere else.

Eventually we found a steel shed smelling of petroleum products and metal shavings. The walls of the slightly leaning building were covered in hoses and various parts I’m assuming were for cars. It looked like a steampunk Transformer had exploded inside. The mechanic (I’m assuming he was one because of his tattered dark-blue jumpsuit and fingers stained with grease. But that may have just been from running them through his slicked back hair.) listened to Christian explain our situation in Spanish, nodding slightly every so often, the cigarette in his mouth bobbing up and down as if his head was cantilevered on the end of it. There was one last deeper nod that we took as affirmation and then we all climbed out of the truck and headed to a nearby restaurant to wait.

The menu at the café consisted of mostly sandwiches with various combinations of carnes, huevos and queso. I was a little hungry, so I ordered one. It was not prepared for the Patagonian interpretation of ‘sandwich’. Out of the kitchen emerged a Frisbee-sized Ritz cracker piled with hunks of beef and a few veggie looking objects floating through a thick smear of white cheese. Then cover it with another Ritz Frisbee. Picking it up was not an option. I ended up eating the insides and leaving a good portion of the top loaf alone. It was so bready I had to order a second Dolbek to wash it down.

By the time we drained our second round, it was time to go and collect our repaired vehicle. We were on our way again.

At the airport we said our good-byes to the Colonel and bit our tongues until they bled. I’m surprised I haven’t heard of him getting high on pain pills and anti-psychotic medication and sailing a boat ablaze with cheap rum into a Buddhist orphanage. Then suing them. Ahhhh, just as well. Or more likely, just a matter of time. He was truly the anchor of our team. As in a dense heavy object that drags you down.

Brian and I collected our rental truck and followed Christian into Coyhaique where we checked into the Maria Esther hotel/hostel he recommended. Brian’s Spanish was pretty good and I think the woman who ran the place took a liking to him. Every once in awhile she’d say something and look at me and I’d just nod, sending my eyebrows up my forehead in what I hoped was the universal expression for “Ahhh, yes. Of course.”

We stayed here...


...not here.

After an actual shower (our first since we arrived in the country) with caliente aqua that was actually caliente. we wandered into the downtown area. Coyhaique has about 50,000 residents and most of them seemed to be coming in or out of two huge grocery stores right next to each other on the edge of town. It was near five on a Saturday so everything was just beginning to shut down and people were hustling through the streets with bunches of plastic bags bursting with goods.

Popcorn and peanut vendors were on every street corner. Dogs too. They seemed to be strays but they looked well fed and were rather polite. We weren’t growled at or begged on once. We made up a route through the main pedestrian mall lined with small stores and into the town square. This was a big hangout with teens. Sitting sullen with measured disinterest in clusters and texting on benches or clattering skateboards on any uneven bit of concrete. Young boys snickering after girls, not quite sure why they were laughing nervously, just that it seemed like they should. Some things are universal.

About 8pm, Christian and Alex came by to pick us up for dinner. It was odd seeing them in their non-wilderness civvies. Christian had even trimmed his beard back. We piled into their SUV, the back of which was dominated by the fuzzy form of their baby: Kuma. A giant roly-poly akita. I think they brought him along as their car security system. It also meant they had to fold down the back seats, so we rode in the back with the loveable beast.

After a short drive we mostly spent trying to keep Kuma from crushing us, we stopped at Lito’s. With its unadorned door and unassuming sign, we would have walked by had we been on our own.

It was a small place that, as soon as you walked in the front door, put you in the middle of the dining room. It looked a bit like a ‘70s western style basement bar. Dark, heavy patterned carpet, thick wooden tables and a bar with an eave of wood slats towards the back. We followed the waitress, weaving through tables into a long narrow side dining room that may have recently served as a backroom storage area.

But we weren’t here for ambiance. This being Patagonia, beef was what’s for dinner. We all ordered steaks. But we started with ceviche and, my god, is that an actual salad?! The steaks arrived embraced by a slice of bacon and smothered in a mushroom gravy. They were done fairly raw, so your spuds turned a light pink from the juices after a few minutes.

Afterwards they took us to one of their favorite discos. We found space at the end of the crowded bar on the main floor. Across from us, on the other side, were a group of older men who looked like what Crocodile Dundee might look like if he went out to a disco. They just seemed a bit out of phase. Alex called them the Forever Youngs. They were the original local landowners (and now very rich men) on the prowl for trophy wives. As I said earlier, some things are universal.

I wanted a cocktail and went for something called a John Collins. It tasted more like a Joan Collins. So super sweet and vinegary it should come with an insulin chaser. After that I stuck to the beer. And there were a variety to choose from: Dolbek, Baltica, Cristal, and the very tasty Austral. Yes, this would do finely.

Several of Christian and Alex’s friends from NOLS were there. NOLS is a world-renown school that teaches outdoor leadership and technical skills. They have have an impressive reputation. We oohed and aahed over their tales of spending six months at a time out in the field: two months kayaking, two months camping, two months mountaineering.

“Okay, let’s go.” said Alex. Brian’s watch read about midnight. A good night out for our first day back in civilization. But instead of leaving, she led us up the stairs to the disco on the top floor. It was a small curling staircase, but it may has well have been a wormhole, because we walked out at the top in a whole other dimension. Bass pressed against you like a drunken sorority girl, huge fans of green lasers exploded from several areas of the smoky dance cavern like Terminators had invaded a Pink Floyd concert. Death Star sized disco balls hovered over the rhythmically writhing masses briefly crusting them in diamonds from the starlight of strobes.

Pretty much how I pictured Patagonia.

Brian and I just stood there.

“It won’t really get going for a couple more hours yet!” shouted Alex.

So we stayed for several more hours downing rounds of Heinikens and piscolas (pisco and cola) and plain old pisco and letting the music pummel any worries or problems into fine dust that got trampled under the feet of the dancers. Even though we had spent the past two weeks with our guides, in this new setting, it seemed like we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. We shared new stories and old jokes, arms around each other, glad to be back to a place we’d never been.

We left sometime before sunrise, hugging the patient and fuzzy Kuma in the back all the way to the hostel. Brian and I shushed each other like teenagers sneaking in after curfew, trying not to trip on the slippery foyer mats or hit shins on the steep narrow steps up to the second floor in the dark. We fought the urge to break out in song. For some reason the keyhole on my door kept changing locations, avoiding my best attempts to insert the key. I heard Brian fall into his room just across the hall as I finally got my door open. The bed, happy to see my lead-lidded eyes and crooked smile, rose up to meet me.

In our next episode…Wasting away again in Coyhaiqueaville

Patagonia: Chapter 3 – What You Bring, What You Leave Behind

After traveling in a car, a train, three airplanes, and a pick-up truck with a serious shimmy, Brian and I were just a 30 minute ride in a rubber Zodiac raft away from truly beginning our Patagonian adventure.

We’d traveled about four hours south of the airport in tiny Balmaceda–stopping only for a quick lunch of empanadas from a roadside shack and to pick up some gas. Which, given the way the empanadas were settling, was redundant. There’s really only one main road along most of Chile’s narrow length, so it was hard to get lost. Equally harder to avoid the epic scenery of the Andes. We hadn’t even started hiking and were already witness to some gorgeous geography.

Now we were in the even tinier village of Puerto Bertrand, which despite it’s sleepy demeanor and seeming to be populated only by wandering chickens and stretching dogs, was a popular base for world-class fly fishing, mountaineering on the Northern Ice Field, and rafting the voluminous Rio Baker. A local Patagone with a bushy moustache and beret met us at the dock and we began loading up the raft. Silent and heading toward distant snow-capped peaks with our motley mix of members, it felt like we were in a remake of Where Eagles Dare.

Heading to the ranch from Puerto Bertrand. (Photo: Brian Slater)


(Photo: Brian Slater)

Jon’s ranch was a scattering of buildings nestled in a small valley where, on any given day, the horses outnumbered the visitors manyfold.

We dodged fresh offerings from the equines and dropped our gear off in a barn-like structure full of climbing and camping equipment where we would bunk down tonight on the wooden floor of a second story loft.

Dinner was in the main house, which felt like a northwoods cabin. There was a spacious kitchen though, dominated by a long wooden table and benches and an old wood burning stove with a water tower sized steel pot sitting over a couple of the burners. Dinner was a mix of vegetables in a cream sauce that seemed to be watered down thousand island dressing that we ate wrapped up in tortillas. Given that most food that wasn’t grown here came from his once-a-month shopping trip about five hours away, it wasn’t too bad. We also had boxes of red wine that I believe was the Chilean equivalent of Boone’s Farm. Boone’s Hacienda if you will.

Later in the night, led by the pale circles of our headlamp lights, we found our way through a maze of fruit trees and rough-hewn wood fences to our building. Jon was a firm believer in minimal environmental impact, so there were no lights out here. We searched through our gear trying to remember where we stashed sleeping bags and toothbrushes that had been packed up continents ago.

It’s always a disoriented feeling when you wake up in a strange land in the blackest part of the night. It happened several times this initial night. The first time was hearing a fierce wind blow rain across the aluminum roof like it was hosting a local Stomp performance. Second was hearing horses whinnying as they fled what must have been aliens or the Chilean version of the Sasquatch (Which I was told, there was none.)

A little morning mate with Michael.

After a hearty breakfast which included our first proper mate session, we went back to the barn to get our gear organized and for what would hopefully be a noon departure. First thing we did was explode our gear so Alex could make sure we brought everything we needed and left behind all that we didn’t. Fortunately, the gear list we were told to follow erred waaay too far on the side of caution. There was plenty we could leave behind. Alex also pointed out some gear she was bringing, like a ‘bom-bear’ Patagonian wind shirt, that Brian and I made mental notes to spend our REI dividends on as soon as we got back. (Alex described anything that was kick ass as being ‘bomber’. But with her accent, it came out as ‘bomb-bear’. A phrase we immediately added to our lexicon.)

We made some last minute decisions on clothing and got all our gear into our bags. They were pretty full. Then Christian told each of us to take a pile of community gear. This included stoves, fuel bottles, climbing ropes, ice pickets, tents, and the like. We managed to find space to put it all. Our packs were now fairly solid loads, requiring proper form and a good Maria Sharapova grunt when lifting it onto your back.

“Okay, now each of you take one of these food bags.”

Christian pointed to three gym bags lying on the floor. Damn. Well, we aren’t going to go far without food. Each bag was packed with smaller bags full of raw ingredients like pasta, rice, soup packets, salami, and…a five pound block of frozen cheese. I pulled out the head-sized block of havarti and showed it to Brian. I know it was head-sized because it barely fit inside my climbing helmet at the top of my pack.

This had better be damn delicious if I'm going to carry it up a mountain.

My pack looked like a homeless guy’s shopping cart, but I got everything on board. Both the pack and I creaked under the weight. It had to have weighed somewhere around 80-90 lbs. Just remember to lift with a forklift, not your back.

I should mention, to make this jaunt a little more fun, we’d be doing it in our double-shelled plastic mountaineering boots that had no give in the soles and weighed in at 2.5 lbs each. It’s the hiking shoe Gene Simmons and Frankenstein would design.

Then, with an equal mix of anticipation, excitement and trepidation, we set out across an open pasture. Horses looked up from grazing to stare at us with what I’m certain were smirks on their faces. The fields gave way to marshes where we made our way across the wettest parts on rotting husks of fallen trees. Burnt tree trunks dotted the landscape; artifacts from the first ranchers who cleared the land here, decades ago. From there it began to take a decidedly upward tilt and we were in tall forest, sweating under our loads despite the shade of the trees.


There’s always an adjustment period your body goes through on expeditions like this. I told Brian flat out that the first day is going to suck. For now, though, it was a hard hump. Probably the heaviest pack I ever carried. I don’t even think the most legendary of portages in the BWCA–where I was carrying a file cabinet size Duluth pack on my back and a smaller pack on my front with hands full of paddles and fishing rods–weighed as much this ten-year old child I had strapped to my back.

This is one of the things I like about camping. It forces you to choose what’s most important to you. What will make you the most comfortable. What do you really need to live? If you can carry it, you can bring it, but every ounce is a burden. In this way, nearly everything you bring is a luxury.

Tom was already starting to falter. We were barely into the forest and he was needing to stop every 10-15 steps to bend over and wheeze. Which was annoying when you were forced to stop all your momentum and stand balanced on a small rocky outcrop at a steep slant. After barely an hour, Christian had Michael, an employee of Jon’s from Tanzania who was hoping to be a Kilimanjaro guide, take Tom’s pack for him.

There was no real “trail” to speak of. Christian led us mostly by natural landmarks, steering us along the lines of least resistance. Which isn’t saying much. There were areas of thick underbrush where a machete wouldn’t have been out of place. Other times, we were forced to scramble on all fours up a 70-degree muddy incline trying to navigate around fallen trees and thorn-leaved shrubbery tugging at our clothes and skin for attention. We plodded and sweated upward. Towards the evening I remember lifting my leg to get over the millionth fallen tree and having to make it a three-part maneuver; resting my knee on the trunk partway through. I smiled and looked back at Brian who shook his head an smiled back. This is exactly what we’d signed up for.

We finally reached a level area of thick forest along the bottom of a high cliff with a field of gray boulders piled along bottom. Christian declared this would be camp for the night. He sent Michael back to the ranch as it would be dark soon. Which meant we’d have to figure out some way to deal with Tom’s pack tomorrow. I wasn’t looking forward to carrying an additional load tomorrow. Especially, as we were setting up the tents, Tom started complaining about there not being porters (which was never mentioned or offered in any of the materials) and how he showed up here out of shape (which there was really no excuse for).

While we were trying to figure out the knots he wanted us to use on the tent fly, Christian and Alex set about firing up dinner, managing to make sense out of the dozens of clear plastic bags we piled at the base of a suitably kitchen-looking rock. Christian’s significant experience in the backcountry (he said he spends about 200 days a year in the field) had taught him that if you’re going to reach your objectives you need to keep calories in your system. Plus, he wanted to show us how to live out here, not just survive. So we were treated to heaping plates of rice, mixed with chunks of salami and fresh carrots and onions covered with and cheese (Yes! Whittle that bastard down).

We squatted on rocks and devoured it in near silence after the day’s exertions. There was a nice spiciness to the food that came from what looked like dried red peppers mixed sprinkled on top.

“Christian. What’s the red spice you put in there?” I asked.

“Is it too spicy?”

“No.” said Brian between spoonfuls of rice. “It’s good. Spicy is good.”

“It’s called merquen.”

Brian’s rice almost came back up with laughter. “What?” he coughed.

“Merquen. Why is that funny?”

I grinned. “It’s just that ‘merken’ is…” I tried to find the right words, “It’s a…toupee for your crotch.”

I’ve taken the trouble of googling merken for you here. As well as merquen. Which is delicious. We asked Christian for more to sprinkle on.

“I knew you guys I would like.” He said.

The night wasn’t especially cold, considering the Minnesota winter we had left–was it really just two days ago–but we still started a small fire and sipped mugs of instant cocoa in it’s glow.

We listened to tales about Christian climbing Denali and why Alex discovered you should never trust Brazilians with your climbing ropes. It wasn’t long before our eyes grew as heavy as our packs. We sorted ourselves out into our tents, trying to find a place for everything. Brian, Tom and I tried to talk for a bit, but even Tom’s booming voice couldn’t keep us awake for long.

In our next episode: Following the glacier’s trail…