“Poor
Dai!” exclaimed Caelen as he lay prostrate on the bed with his ankle
elevated and covered in an ice pack, “What state will he come back
in?” Caelen’s anxiety was justified, for Dai was going ice climbing
with five Hot Rock women, and he was unlikely to escape without at least a
dusting of pink glitter.
We
met in the rain at 7am, a little dubious as to the conditions, but too
keen to let a bit of weather dampen our enthusiasm. After all, it was at
least 2 hours walk to the Base Camp where we would meet our guides –
plenty of time for the weather to change. We headed up the trail towards
Laguna Torre and the glacier. Within 20 minutes we passed the cliffs where
Caelen had taken his fall three days before and involuntary shiver ran
down my spine as I relived the moment yet again.
As
we headed into the wooded valley that ran up to Laguna Torre, a light
covering of snow lay on the trees and bushes around us. The drizzle eased
and the morning brightened into a cool, clear day. The valley was
beautiful, our trail well marked and predominantly flat and our packs
virtually empty. All in all, the going was very pleasant.
We
reached Base Camp in good time and tucked in with relish to the mint tea
our guides had prepared. Aside from Dai and Anthea, who had their own,
everyone needed to be fitted for a pair of crampons – sets of metal
teeth to be strapped over our hiking boots to give us the necessary grip
to walk on the glacier and, apparently, to climb sheer ice faces. Frankly,
I was dubious. My boots were not made for crampons, and nor were the
majority of the others’. They were too flexible, more likely to bend and
buckle when I tried to kick into the vertical ice than to bite securely.
Still, I was prepared to wait and see.
Crampons
organised, everyone, of course, needed to hit Mel’s makeup department to
have their glitter applied. “What’s this for?” asked one of the
guides as we shimmered him up. “It’s so you’ll look pink and
glittery and pretty!” we told him. This was reason enough.
Our
first obstacle, within 15 minutes or so of leaving the camp, was a broad,
fast flowing stream. Ropes stretched across from bank to bank, anchored to
rocks high above the water. By clipping our harnesses into a device on the
rope, gripping the rope and leaning back, we could pull ourselves hand
over hand to the other side. I’d heard of a Tyrolean Traverse before,
but I’d never actually seen one in action.
When
my turn came, I was a little nervous. I’ve been climbing and abseiling
long enough to harbour few irrational fears about ropes snapping or
harnesses opening, and my inspection of the anchors on my side and
observation of other, heavier people crossing safely pretty much
eliminated my more rational fears of inadequate safety precautions. The
predominant fear remaining was whether I’d be able to do it. It looked
like a long way, pulling arm over arm – would I be strong enough? Or
would I be left languishing embarrassed somewhere in the middle as I ran
out of steam?
I
set off, trying to find a balanced posture and sustain an even movement as
I made my way across. Progress to the middle point was easy, as the rope
naturally sagged under the weight and gravity was my friend. From the
middle to the far side was more strenuous, and as I couldn’t see in the
direction I was going I had little sense of distance. Just as I began to
tire a little, the far bank and my waiting guide came into my upside-down
vision. I was there, and after all it had been very easy.
From
here we had a walk of about an hour to the edge of the glacier. We
followed a stony ridge for some time before entering the forest once more,
climbing a steep muddy slope and then down loose, broken rock to the
glacier itself.
It
was time to don our crampons and practice our John Wayne walk – bandy
legs, bent knees, and a backwards tilt when walking down hills. For
walking on the glacier, I grudgingly conceded that strapping crampons to
my hiking boots seemed adequate, but I remained to be convinced on the
climbing front.
We
trekked across the glacier, stepping across crevasses, kicking our way up
slopes and swaggering down them. We had come to El Chalten from the Moreno
glacier, and for size, beauty and magnificence this small glacier could
not compare. At Moreno, though, we’d admired from a distance. The deep
curving holes carved by melting ice, soaring pinnacles and deep chasms
were undeniably impressive and the sight of the glacier calving - shedding
icebergs into the lake - was awe-inspiring, but we had not actually gone
up close. Here we were walking right on the ice and we could appreciate
its smaller features rather than being overwhelmed by the whole.
After
a walk of an hour or so across the glacier, we reached the ice cliffs. We
were beginning to get anxious about time, as it was now about 2pm, and we
had a long walk home. We weren’t sure how much time we had for climbing.
Our guides quickly set up top ropes, though, and got the group moving. Dai
and Anthea were especially eager to get going, as they had new ice axes to
try out. Luckily, given that these are expensive pieces of gear, they came
down buzzing after successful attempts. The rest of us had to work with
the makeshift crampons strapped to our hiking boots, but while that may
have slowed us down it didn’t stop us getting there eventually.
We
squeezed in as many routes as we could, before physically pulling Dai,
Anthea and their shiny new axes from the ice and heading for home. We made
good time over the now-familiar territory, and everyone sped across the
Tyrolean traverse like pros, but it was still a long way back to town. It
was about 8.30pm by the time I stumbled into the hostel, filthy, starving
and exhausted. “How was your day?” asked the patient from his bed.
“Brilliant!” I buzzed, ready to start into a blow by blow account of
the day. “!’m glad,” he moaned, “But I’m really jealous!”
