En Patagonia: Chapter Eight

 

Some of the trails that I wanted to take would lead me so far out of El Chaltén that it was an unrealistic target to be able to retrace my steps or to loop back around on the gravel road of Ruta 41. This would have added close to 20km onto some of the walks, which was a fair amount when you’d walked 30km already. But, as hitchhiking was common in these parts, I decided to try my luck with that and press ahead with the walking. I’ve hitchhiked at home in the Lake District, I’ve hitchhiked in northern Sweden, and I’ve also stopped quite a few times to pick hitchhikers up. Of course you have to be careful, but there comes a point where you decide that you don’t want to live your life afraid of everyone, and of always being afraid of the worst that can happen. Everything I had read about El Chaltén prior to arriving, and everything I had seen and felt since getting there made me think that it was an incredibly safe place. One of the first things I noticed when I got to the village was that nobody locked up their bikes. And I’m not just talking about those rusty old relics that might be missing a pedal or a wheel – these were modern, good-looking-models, that would be left lying down on the grass or propped up against a wall. Seeing this actually made my heart swell. I love my bike so much – it is almost certainly my most treasured possession, and even though it would not cost the earth to replace, it is worth so much more to me than the cold, hard number that follows a pound sign. And while I didn’t have my bike with me – I couldn’t help but feel safe in a place where people left their bikes here, there, and everywhere without a worry.

Ruta 41

On one particularly calm and sunny day I decided to link up the Sendero al Torre with the Sendero al Fitz Roy, but rather than returning to El Chaltén from there, I took a trail which took me away from the direction of the village, and past the viewpoint for Laguna Piedras Blancas.

Laguna Piedras Blancas

This track would eventually lead to Ruta 41, some 17km north of El Chaltén. It was a beautiful trail through the trees, and it felt deliciously cool after the exposed, rocky ascent to Laguna de los Tres in the heat of the day. I did notice however, that at sporadic intervals there were little wooden signs indicating a fire escape route. These narrow paths led sharply down to the stony shores of the Rio Blanco. Forest fires were a genuine risk in these parts, and due to the prolonged warm and dry weather, the area was on the highest level of alert.

Fire Escape Route 

When I reached the gravel road of Ruta 41, I started walking in the direction of El Chaltén but ready to stick my thumb out at the first car or pick-up truck that passed. It was only a matter of minutes, and the very first car that I saw pulled over a few metres in front of me. I could see them moving a few things on the back seat to make space, so I opened the door and asked if they could take me to El Chaltén. With a nod of the head, I jumped on in. It was a family from El Calafate – mum, dad, and their teenage son. They had driven out here for the day to do some hiking. The lad was wearing a Boca Juniors football shirt, and I had my Fulham football shorts on, so we struck up a bit of a conversation in Spanish about our respective football teams. It turned out that the dad actually spoke really good English, but I always wanted to make a point of trying to speak in Spanish first. I think it was appreciated, but we very quickly reverted to English and ended up chatting away about the mountains and the climate in Argentina, and how that compared to the U.K. I think that I was as grateful for the conversation as much as I was for the lift – I found that it was quite easy for a whole day to have gone by without having spoken more than a few words to another person. This was largely out of choice – I had chosen to travel by myself in a country where I knew very little of the language, and I had chosen not to stay in a shared room at a hostel because after a season at Rothera I desperately needed that space – but I did find that even a little bit of conversation could bring a different sort of life to the whole day. I do not regret any of the decisions I made with regards to this trip – I believe that I know myself well enough to make the right choices for me. And so, when even the merest hint of regret would float into my mind, I was quick to remember that everything has its compromise, and that there was a very good and considered reason behind the choices that I had made. I knew that if I had been around people every single day my mind simply would not have been able to unwind and relax in the way that I needed it to. This was my priority for these few weeks, even if it meant the empty touch of loneliness at times.

Monte Fitz Roy and Laguna Madre 

Another day saw me walking to Piedra Del Fraile, a Refugio on the banks of Rio Electrico. This was a quieter trail, but it did initially see me following in my footsteps from previous walks. I took the Fitz Roy trail as far as Camp Poincenot, before passing the Mirador Piedras Blancas once more. And it wasn’t until I took a footbridge over the Rio Blanco that I began treading new ground. But even though there was a small degree of repetition throughout the two weeks that I was there, I found that it felt different every time. The weather would be different, and you’d come into each day and into each walk with different thoughts - some of which would never have been possible had I not walked that path before.

Piedra del Fraile 

 I was to turn back at the Refugio, which was as far as the regular trail went. It was the point on the map where the solid black line tuned into dotted red and black. To access any of these trails you had to have pre-registered with the National Park Authority, and it was also recommended that you went with a National Park enabled guide. Perhaps I would have felt emboldened to explore some of these trails had I been with a friend, but as it was I more than content to potter around the regular trails by myself. It all still felt like one incredible adventure, and with the rickety bridges over streams and rivers, and with the grandiose of the mountains and of the forests, it often felt like I was living the most vivid of dreams. 

 

Footbridge over the Rio Blanco 

Having seen very few people on this section of the trail, there was suddenly a small amalgamation of walkers as the trail neared the road. There was a group of four whom I caught up to as they were trying to figure out the best way to cross a wide but shallow stream that there was no bridge for. I opted to take off my shoes and socks and walk across. We came together again, now insight of the road but only to find that another, more significantly sized stream had completely covered the path and there was no way we could hope to cross. That was when a party of three arrived on the scene, and we all joined forces as we backtracked in the hope of finding somewhere further upstream to cross. We eventually succeeded, and without getting too wet! Both parties had a car parked here, so I asked the group of three if I could have a lift back into town. They were obliging, but as their car was incredibly full of suitcases and the like, they asked the group of four on my behalf. They very kindly agreed.

The road bridge over the Rio Electrico

The group of four spoke in a heavily accented Spanish that I could hardly understand a single word of, and as they spoke less English than I did Spanish, what immediately resulted was a highly amusing attempt at a conversation using hand gestures alone. They were putting their rucksacks into the boot, and then they started pointing at me and then to the boot. I only had my Salomon running bag on – which I often forgot that I was wearing – so I assumed that they were having a laugh, suggesting that I would need to get into the boot myself for the journey to El Chaltén. When they realised what I was thinking, they looked horrified for a moment, but then the penny dropped for everyone, we all burst into fits of laughter! I put my little bag in the boot and joined two of them on the back seat. Despite the language barrier, we did not give up our attempts to talk to each other – I found out that they were from Uruguay, and that they had flown to Argentina and hired a car for a week. When they dropped me off in the village, they all got out of the car to say goodbye to me before carrying on their way. I have no doubt that it is the kindness of strangers, and the warmth of human interactions that are the things that stay with us for far longer, and far more clearly than any of the landscapes that grace our eyes. I can only vaguely recall how seeing the towering spires of the Fitz Roy range made me feel, but when I think back to this moment with the Uruguayans, my face instantly breaks into a smile. These are the things that sustain us. These are the things that make life feel worthwhile.