An account of a trip that Joe Lyons, Dermot Wall and Sé Ó Hanlon made to Mercedario in the Andes in 2004
(by Sé O’Hanlon, 2004)
In August 2003 a planned journey to the Indian Himalaya had fallen through so I started to plan an alternative. The question was, to where and with who?
(by Gerry Galligan, August 2008)
Travels in India and Nepal, and the (solo) first ascent of "Konchok" (5300m).
Greetings All,
A lot has happened since the Spiti Expedition, June/July. I travelled to Nepal hoping to get a motorbike for a trip home. Getting the bike was possible, however getting the paperwork for importing/exporting would have taken at least a month. Too long to wait around in the monsoon. So I headed back to Northern India, a place called Ladakh, and back into the mountains again. Besides, after the success and enjoyment of Spiti, I was hankering to get back to the hills again.
Nepal was enjoyable though. Dirt poor and everyone goes on strike whenever they can. Road blocks, huge petrol shortages, strikes against hotel managers in Kathmandu, and even against the newly-elected vice-president who swore into office in Hindi – a big no-no. It reminded me of Ireland in the 1980’s – damn all money and jobs about, but plenty of reasons to protest.
Anyway, I had done no research on Ladakh, and knew very little about the place. But over the past month I’ve been fascinated by it. It’s more Tibetan than Indian in terms of culture, religion (Strongly Buddhist) and environment (arid desert and dry mountain ranges). I wanted to explore some remote valleys and find another virgin peak to attempt. Naturally going solo limited my options for technical challenges, but off I went.
Spent two weeks in the Zanskar range, 110km West of Leh. Hired donkeys and setup BC in a remote village a half day from the roadhead. Got run down with sickness the first four days, wasn’t able to do much, just stumble about the place. Weather was bad too, with heavy storms in the evenings and nights. Needless to say, things were pretty miserable. But I got better. And slowly was able to recce some of the valleys. Lots of magnificent peaks all around me. But all of them way too technical – huge vertical rock faces and hundreds of pinnacles. Way too risky for me going solo. Limestone central and a rockclimber’s paradise. The main valley I was pinning my hopes on was blocked off by a swollen river from the storms, however I got lucky and found a lovely peak in an adjacent valley. Now the maps available here are useless, of huge scale and wildly inaccurate, but I estimate this peak being about 5300m. I approached it from the west, one day out of BC, dragged a couple of donkeys and a herdsman halfway up its western flanks, setup a high camp about 4900m and climbed it the next day. Plenty of scree on it and nice bit of rocky scrambling up to the summit, which gave it some spice. Got magnificent views over the Zanskars and North to the Karakoram. Serrated summits and snake-like ridges everywhere.
I gave it the name ‘Konchok’, Ladakhi for ‘Lucky’ ….. lucky I found it, lucky I had the health to climb it, and lucky to get helpful tips and local knowledge from a few fellas co-incidentally all called Konchok, throughout my stay here. Got down off it and did a five-day trek through quiet valleys back to the road again. Again, more great scenery all around me.
There’s a lot going on in Ladakh and quite a revelation for me. Enough tension between the Kashmiris and Ladahkis, a landscape that resembles the face of the moon, an army presence everywhere, almost no Hindus – just Buddhism that permeates everywhere, from the ubiquitous prayer flags and mani stone walls, to the hundreds of monks about, scores of gompas and of course the regular Ladakhi people – gentle old men and women in gonchas, spinning prayer wheels and fingering rosary beads, praying for eventual nirvana. This really isn’t India, it’s another world, a Tibetan world.
Anyway I’m back in town again, delighted with my explorations and ascents, both here and in Spiti, and now thinking about the long trip home. Overland with or without a bike. And another type of adventure I’m sure.
A few photos of ‘Konchok’ below. It may or may not get officially recorded and named as such, but hey, that’s not important. For me Ladakh, its people and its mountains have been a great experience.
Hope you all make the most of the remaining summer.
Best regards,
Gerry.
Couple of mates of mine in Kathmandu
Anti-Chinese demonstrators in Leh
Monks making a mandala – Lamayuru monastery
Kanji village, Ladakh – base camp location
Typical Zanskar scene
Thought about this one, but then decided I’d better not
Konchok – western approach
View from Konchok high camp – soaring griffon
Konchok – sitting on top
Konchok – summit view south
Yeah, it’s a hard life!
(by Brian Rowe, from IMC Newsletter Spring 2004)
Climbing Alpamayo and Quitaraju.
Earlier in the day Juan’s assistant had a bruising encounter with a gringo posterior, which had catapulted from on high knocking him off his feet. A cowering heap on a small mountain ledge, he had managed to struggle on but his nerves were shot. Now on Juan’s descent, he encounters the accomplice to the feared posteriored one, a bedraggled character to be sure with bruisings all over his body and a weary expression. The scoundrel has belayed to Juan’s fixed rope fixing and was bringing up the posteriored one. She was getting dangerously close. Juan and his assistant had been employed to fix this rope all the way up Alpamayo’s Ferrari route for a group of middle-aged Gringos (Austrians) and the last thing he is interested in is other people getting in his way; now his efforts are being hampered by the presence of this pair of gringos. Juan gives the gringo a piece of his mind but he does not seem that repentative and barks something back in English, something about ice showers and delay. Juan kicks the gringos’ rope off the small stance in rage and abseils out of there. On the way down he tells the posteriored one to bring his gear back to camp when they are finished with it.
Several hours later back in camp, Juan monitors the two gringos as they descent the mountain and is there to meet them as they reach camp as he presumes there is a high chance they will run away and hide his gear!!! He is speechless when to his horror, out of their rucksacks, they pull out his gear; what where they thinking?, the ice screws, sling and carribeaners were part of the fixed rope system. A vital link that should be now 3/4 of the way up the mountain, what imbeciles!
Yes indeed, Martina and I arrived back to camp after a long day, carrying down gear that we thought Juan wanted returned. He wanted something returned, I still do not know what as there was nothing else there (after much fuss it turned out that this piece was not that vital after all). Our day had started well after setting out at 3am behind a guide and his Chilean client. They made grand tracks for us through the knee-deep virgin snow. We reached the bergschrund at 6 and waited while they surmounted the awkward overhang. We waited for 2 hours. As we readied ourselves for our attempt a young French pair arrived. "How long have you been waiting?" "Two hours" "Can we go ahead?" "NO". I struggled over but Martina got stuck, and could not surmount the problem, making several attempts and finally landing down on top of the poor Peruvian (Juan’s assistant) who tried to help. The French had forged a bypass to the overhang not being prepared to wait for us and while Martina and I struggled with the overhang, four more climbers used this bypass, including Juan and his assistant who were setting up a fixed rope. Two hours later and we were at last on the main face of the climb, 350 metres of 60 to 70 degree névé and ice in a single gully line to the summit ridge. The problem was that we were now last behind 8 climbers; 8 climbers who were knocking down lumps of ice that smashed down on every part of our bodies, our knuckles, our knees, shoulders and faces (it was very dangerous to look up). The main culprit of this rock-hard shower was the Peruvian pair who carelessly chopped out large areas to fix their fixed rope gear. We very nearly retreated off the route altogether as we were so battered and bruised. It was at this point that I belayed to the fixed rope gear; I reckoned they owed me one!
Two days later, after another day of run-ins with gringos (a friendly American pair, Tim and Gabe) and Juan and his team are on top of Quitaraju. They have been waiting at least an hour for their ancient clients to top out up the fixed rope. The last one appears over the crest and at last they can go, but what is this? another body; it cannot be, but yes it is, the accomplice to the posteriored one and he is climbing up the fixed rope. Speechless again, look at him, broad smiles and buenas diases.
What a beautiful morning that was as I climbed to the summit to be welcomed by 4 gaping mouths, clear skies, my first 6000m peak, Alpamayo, silhouetted against the reds and oranges of the breaking day. Horizontal bands of colour low in the sky with the black mountains prickling through and the vast dark sky above, stars still to the west. Martina had to turn back with a sprained muscle, so I had accepted the offer of this handrail to the summit from Hansi, the Austrian leader of a group (an old style alpinist and a gentleman). A face climb averaging about 60 degrees, Quitaraju was about twice as long as Alpamayo and completely different in character (ying and yang). While Alpamayo had been cold and foreboding, an enclosed gully, and consequently a funnel for ice and snow bulleting down from on high, Quitaraju was an open mountainside with spectacular views of the surrounding mountainscape. Climbers were well spaced and there was little icefall. Additionally, the Alpamayo climb was west facing and was in shadow the whole day, while Quitaraju faced east and caught the sun full on from 7am in the morning. The snow was in beautiful condition from top to bottom.
On reaching the top my only regret was that I had not soloed as it would have been easier than dragging a prussik up behind me and climbing with one axe (I had no proper ascender). It was wonderful to get to the top on such a beautiful morning but getting to the top of a mountain on a fixed rope is just not the same. When we were kids, my father used to set a party game that consisted of racing around the garden with a curtain ring on a tight string. It was a timed race and because you had to return your ring, you had to follow the exact route of the string, no straying off, no short cuts possible, no chance of getting lost. This is what I had in mind as I followed the fixed ropes to the top. Sanitised climbing, no risk, no apprehension as to what is ahead or whether descent is possible, no consideration about route finding and not much about weather; attached to this umbilical cord, what can go wrong? All that is left to do is to lift one foot and then the other for 14 pitches, until you reach the top. Then abseil back down in less than an hour, back in camp in 2.5 hours from the top.
Note: Juan, although technically proficient, was an unpleasant and impatient guide. This was unusual as most of the Peruvian guides and porters that we met were friendly and good humoured.
We spent 3 nights at Alpamayo base camp. It was beautiful; Alpamayo to the east, Quitaraju to the west and a beautiful panaroma of lower mountains to the south, white glacier stretched below us breaking away at its edge and falling down a wide valley. The skies were perfectly clear giving picture-postcard sunrise and sunset. Every evening, everyone would stand and watch the red sun melt into the embers and the black cols of the endless mountains, then they would hop into their down sleeping bags as the temperatures plummeted to minus 20. It’s 6.15pm; nothing to do but sleep for the next 12 hours unless of course you had to get up at 2am for your mountain ascent.
Climbing in the Corderrilla Blanca out of Huaraz is easy, that is to say, logistically easy; it is easy to get maps and guides, easy to get provisions, easy to arrange transport or get public transport and easy to arrange donkeys or porters if you need them for the treks into the high camps. After that it is up to you. Not so easy is getting up-to-date mountain and weather information. Walk-ins are picturesque and there is also wonderful trekking in the region. Time you do need. Lower mountains (up to 5500m) take at least 5 days. We were 8 days climbing Alpamayo and Quitaraju.
We have now sent home 55kg of excess baggage that constitutes our climbing, hiking and camping gear. From now on we travel light.
The front page of national newspaper El Comercio, some weeks ago, was one of those visual extravagances; big colour drawings, plans and sections, numbered bullet points. The subject of all this attention was a mountain and depicted in graphic detail was an avalanche sweeping away a bunch of helpless climbers. 8 dead and 10 injured. That mountain was Alpamayo, and we were climbing it 8 days before. It turns out that we met one of the victims several times, a young Israeli girl who worked in a trekking agency helping her Argentinean boyfriend. Her boyfriend had promised to take her up Alpamayo and when we arrived back from the mountain they were all set to go. She was very excited and wanted to hear all about our climb; we told her conditions were good and wished her well. She is dead now. The paper blamed the extreme temperature differentials for the unexpected avalanche. Temperatures were swinging from +15 Celsius during the day to minus 20 at night.
That is not why we offloaded our climbing gear; that was in the plan from weeks back but I am glad that we have moved on.
(by Sé O Hanlon, from IMC Newsletter Summer 2004)
An attempt on a South American peak.
This is not the story of an expedition but rather of a mountain journey in early 2004. The distinction is important.
Most of us believe subconsciously that Expeditions are the preserve of godlike people like Chris Bonington and Reinhold Messner and that inferior people like us will never make it into an Expedition.
Don’t be codded. Your chances of going on an Expedition may be quite small but you can have a high altitude mountain journey any time.
Mountain journeys are the same as Expeditions but carried out by ordinary mortals who can just enjoy the experience without having to write books, make films or satisfy sponsors.
Try it, you will never regret it.
In August 2003 a planned journey to the Indian Himalaya had fallen through so I started to plan an alternative. The question was, to where and with whom?
My first choice was Tupungato, 6500m, on the Argentina/Chilé border. I had read the book of the first ascents of Aconcagua and Tupungato by Fitzgerald; it seemed possible and interesting.
Next I had to get some information. www.jmilne.org/mntn seemed interesting, a US citizen who went alone and climbed Tupungato and another peak 100km to the north, Mercedario, 6750m.; two for price of one.
First on the agenda was the recruitment of company. Joe Lyons ignored my first cast but quickly returned to the fly and snapped it, also bringing along Dermot Wall.
We needed to get maps showing how to get to our mountain, decide how much time we would need, book plane tickets and local services, assemble the gear and go.
We drew up a schedule, which showed that we could do what we wanted, if there were no hiccups, in about 24 days and we booked to leave in late January and return in mid February. In December we discovered that the 3-day approach from Punta de Vacas was no longer possible for mules; the alternative approach would take 5 days each way. Given our skin-tight schedule we had to pick one or the other. So it was Mercedario we decided on, probably because it is the fourth-highest peak in South America.
Our Chiléan contacts recommended San Juan Aventura, describing them as "climbers, good people"; this is one of the greatest understatements of all time. They were magnificent people.
Leaving Dublin on Thursday afternoon we were in Mendoza at 17.00 on Friday after stops in Milan and Buenos Aires.
Saturday was spent shopping and sorting food and at 9.30 on Sunday we were on the road to Mercedario in a four-wheel drive with Marcos and Rafael from Aventura San Juan.
Our first 100km were on the main road to Santiago in Chilé. At Uspallata we stopped in the strangely named Tibet Bar and had our last sit-down meal. We immediately left tarmac and took to the dirt road which runs up a valley 5km wide between the older pre-cordillera to the east and the younger Andes to the west to Barreal. After about 50 or 60 km, we turned onto a single-lane road; this road followed the Rio de Los Patos and then its tributary Rio Blanco to El Molle where three buildings abandoned by Rio Tinto provided shelter.
Early the next morning the arriero (arriero is the mountain counterpart of the gaucho of the pampas) arrived with three mules to bring our gear to base camp. This was a 5/6-hour tramp up the remains of a mining road, parts of which had completely vanished under scree and boulders.
Eventually we arrived exhausted at our base camp at Guanaquitos (3650m) where we soon had our tents pitched and stoves roaring. Welcome food was quickly wolfed down and we were in our tents by 20.00 to escape the cold as temperatures plummeted when the sun set.
Our day was spent following the Arroyo Cuesta Blanca to locate the site for our first camp, which was at El Salto, 4100m. Quarter way up we passed the base camp of the two Basques and one Chiléan who were further up the mountain.
At first it was a steady walk beside the river following a mule track. Then a steep climb up a moraine brought us to a small nook between a craggy mountain and a moraine. Here we set up camp 1, protected from any wind and beside a stream of clear water.
When we got up in the morning we saw signs that guanacos had visited our camp during the night. These relatives of the llama are almost as common here as deer are in Wicklow.
We loaded up with all of the food and other equipment which we intended to bring higher on the mountain and set off up to El Salto. This time we were much slowed by our heavy bags and the altitude and we were relieved to reach the site of camp 1. We dumped our loads and rested a few hours here before setting off back to base. Our practice was to help our acclimatisation by staying as long as possible at our high point.
When the sun hit our tents we were up and out and packed up a two-man and a one-man tent, plus our cooking and sleeping gear. Then for the third time we trudged up the valley to settle into camp one at 4,100m.
From this camp upwards we had to bring water into our tents at night, as it would freeze if left outside. The great feature of this whole area was that, because it is desert, we could leave surplus gear outside the tent all night and it was always bone dry in the morning.
Here was the highest point at which we saw guanaco tracks. Obviously they were mountaineering guanacos because there was absolutely no grazing for them and no obvious reason for them to be there.
Because our days had been short and easy and we were gaining height at a very manageable rate we decided to continue up to our next camp at Cuesta Blanca.
We started with a steep 200m climb out of camp 1 and then crossed the floor of a higher valley whose walls carried extensive snow patches. It seemed that the glacier which shaped it had only relatively recently receded. Here we picked a site for camp 2 at 4,400m. As we sat there it became clear that we were entering a much colder zone. When the sun went low the duvet jackets came out of hiding.
The barometric pressure at camp 1 that day was 648mb, about two thirds of the normal pressure in Dublin.
We moved tents and all to camp 2, a relatively easy affair, and we were soon settled in there. In the mid-afternoon we saw three people coming over the lip of our valley from higher on the mountain. One kept to his left and descended quickly heading lower and carrying a monstrous sack. The other two traversed to their right and then attempted to descend over difficult ground. One of them moved very slowly and soon fell behind in a field of penitentes. He seemed to make no further effort to descend. We figured that they were in trouble so Joe headed up to the left to help the slower of the two while Dermot and I went to give any help we could to the other.
It took Joe nearly an hour to reach his victim who was almost at a standstill. He relieved him of his heavy sack and led him back up and around to the correct descent route. Dermot and I had little to do because our victim made her way down. They had been successful in reaching the summit. The Chilean had a GPS and knew the right way down but her partner insisted on taking another line and ran out of steam.
That evening we were surprised to see a mouse scampering in the rocks near our tents and were amazed that it could live at this height.
The climb to camp 3 at Pircos Indios could only be described as arduous. After a short walk over the floor of the valley we started the steep climb, zigzagging over scree and rock outcrops to skirt penitente fields. Visible progress was very slow and altitude was making itself more and more noticeable. Eventually we reached the site of camp 3, a corrie opening sideways off the main valley. Here, at 5,200m we were very aware that we had stepped up our rate of ascent.
We made our camp at the foot of a small stream. We selected a hollow in the moraine to protect us from any wind but this meant that the outlook from our tents was not one, which could ever feature on a postcard. After resting for an hour we headed back down to camp 2.
This was moving day as we left the mouse at camp 2 to his fate and carried our gear to C3. It was a repeat of the previous day’s trudge and called for a turning off of imagination and just putting one foot in front of the other until we arrived at our destination where we cooked a hasty dinner and soon, exhausted, sought the sanctuary of our sleeping bags. Such are the joys of high altitude mountaineering.
A new feature at this stage was the hallucinations. All I had to do was close my eyes when resting and I could instantly conjure up a vision of what I can only describe as a wallpaper of faces.
We decided to have a comparatively easy day and use it by climbing up the early section of the next stage of our route. This involved a couple of hundred metres up the side of the corrie to a ridge. This would assist our acclimatisation without being too stressful.
It did more than help our acclimatisation; it was a great morale booster. When we reached the ridge we swapped the enclosed world of valleys for a vast horizon where the surrounding mountains were now mostly below us and we could see most of our route to date spread out at our feet.
At this stage we were happy with our progress and we decided that this should be a rest day before moving to camp 4 at 5,900m. We climbed back to the ridge where we were yesterday and where the surroundings were more pleasant. We were, as Joe described us, three tired little mice.
After about an hour Joe decided that he would go a couple of hundred horizontal metres further, why I do not know. Nor did I care why, I just knew that if he was going I was going. Dermot reacted the same way and soon we were walking across the broad ridge in line. Fortunately for me I am not given to following leaders to god knows where so, when we reached the flat at the top of the outcrop, I sat down and watched the Duracell bunnies march onwards and upwards.
It was late afternoon before Joe and Dermot returned and collapsed exhausted into their tents. They had kept going until they reached the site of camp 4 at La Hollada, 5,700m.
It was obvious that Joe and Dermot would need a rest day after their exertions and I had no option but to take a second rest in their company.
We spent the day debating what we would do next. We should have carried to La Hollada today with the bare necessities and headed for the summit the following day. Although it seemed obvious that this would just be put back a day the prospect was no longer popular following the previous day’s activities.
The drudgery of a carry seemed too daunting and the argument was for a single day to the summit from camp 3. Although this involved a height gain of 1500m there was a majority view that this would be easier than doing it in two stages. Such are the effects of lack of oxygen on our processes of logical thought.
We readied our gear for the next day and planned to get up at about 4.00a.m. Ready for a start at 5.00 at first light.
The day started badly. Our alarm had been set for 4.00 but not activated so it did not ring. We slept on to 5.45 and only got moving at 7.00.
We set off at a steady plod up onto the ridge and around into the gently sloping, snow-carpeted valley of La Hollada. Here we passed two mule skeletons and a memorial to an Argentinian army officer who had died on the mountain two years previously. We traversed this valley and started up the ridge, which would lead us to the summit ridge where we would have to cross 6 false summits before reaching the highest point of Mercedario.
Altitude was beginning to take its toll but we still kept up a steady slow pace. At a rest-point at 6,000m Joe decided that the effects of the height were such that he could continue no further. We discussed this for a while and then Dermot and I wished him well on his descent.
We went until we were in a small col at the foot of the first peak on the summit ridge. It seemed foolish to go over the top of this and then lose height so we decided to traverse to the right and reach the next col with the minimum expenditure of energy. This we did and as we went on we saw the true summit for the first time. Although it is hard to estimate distances in the high clear air, we judged that we had about 3km more to go and another 500m of ascent. The time was now 14.00 and our energy supplies were low. After struggling on for short time we gave in to the inevitable and decided to turn back. It did not get any easier on the descent and we were two very tired men when we eventually reached the tents.
We still had time to make another attempt on the summit but were demoralised by the debacle of the previous days and decided to pack up and head back to base and this we did in one day. Below camp one Dermot and I dumped some of our load and continued on down more easily.
The only task this day was for Dermot and I to climb back up and collect our dumped gear and bring it back to base. It was a luxury to wander up lazily with no pressure but there was also a feeling of disappointment at having botched our effort.
Another rest day. We sat and talked and went for short walks investigating the area around base camp.
When we got up the valley in which we were camped had a new appearance. Clouds were rising and clinging to the sides of the mountains. The arriero was due to bring us down first thing the next morning so some of today would have to be spent packing.
We had a leisurely breakfast and forgot about the weather as we started sorting stuff to be bagged. We were surprised to see three people approaching. When they got nearer we recognised Marcos and Rafael and were soon introduced to Marcos’s brother.
They explained that the arriero would not come up because of a difficulty with bringing mules across a river and that they had decided to come up and replace the mules by carrying our loads down. They had come up from the road head in 2½ hours and explained that we needed to be down by 1.00 so that we could get the jeep across the Rio Colorado before 4.00 after which it might not be possible.
We assembled our gear quickly and the three "mules" sent us on ahead while they sorted it into suitable loads. Three-quarters way down Marcos caught us with a monstrous pack on his back and we were fully stretched to keep up with him till we reached the jeep. The other two arrived within the next 20 minutes.
When everything was loaded we left El Molle on the dirt road which would bring us to Mendoza that evening. We planned to have a free day there and would fly out early on the morning after. We had only gone 3 or 4km on the road when it started to climb above the Rio Blanco. An older road had run beside the river in this narrow part of the valley but was washed out and now we went over higher ground.
We had not climbed far when we met our first problem. The clouds we had seen that morning were evidence of a change in the weather and while Marcos and co. were up the mountain collecting us a torrential thunderstorm had hit the lower valley and washed earth and mud across the road. Although it was nowhere more than 1½m deep it was of the consistency of readymix cement and there was no way to get the jeep through it. In parts the water had washed away part of the road and only barely left enough room to pass.
Rafael drove back to El Molle and in 2 trips brought up enough planks, sheets of steel and even the springs of a bed so that we could get the jeep through the block which only stretched for about 500m. After 2 hours we had passed the hazard and piled into the jeep to go on.
We climbed up on the road cut into cliffs until we rounded a bend and there in front of us was a 2m wall of rubble with a deep gully between it and another similar wall. The floodwaters had surged down the mountain and completely cut and blocked the road. Only a JCB could clear it.
This was a real problem. We had 2½ days to flight time, 30km to travel to the nearest possibility of help, and no communication with the outside world. Marcos decided to walk out in search of mules to come back to the 4WD and move our baggage and suggested that we should camp on the spot. After a pow-wow we decided we would not camp but continue walking to the army post, 30 km away at the bridge at Junta dos Rios.
We packed sleeping bags, bivvy bags and carrymats, but no food, and set out on the journey. It soon became clear that there was no hope of getting the jeep out without major engineering works.
Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in the distance ahead of us as the storm continued on lower ground. On we walked, knowing that there was no hope of us crossing the Rio Colorado in these conditions but resolved to continue towards our eventual destination. We knew at this stage that we had 2½ days to travel 200km to Mendoza, that our baggage was trapped far behind us, that mules to carry it out had still to be found and it was doubtful that, even if found quickly, they could get in and out in the time available.
Sometime late in the night we reached the Rio Colorado, which was now waist-high, and listened to the boulders rumbling as they rolled along its bed. There was no hope of fording it. Here Rafael caught us. Having left his two companions to solve the problem he came ahead to "mind" us.
Up at dawn, we shared a cake which Rafael had brought and returned to the Rio Colorado. It was now only knee deep, even though still a torrent. We crossed it gingerly and set off on the last 5km to the army post at the bridge. Here we sat down to wait and were welcomed by the soldiers.
There was no news from up the valley and no news from down the valley until a group of arrieros arrived and told us that the road was cut about 5kms below. The military radioed a post in San Juan and asked them to go down the town to the head man of San Juan Aventura, Aníbal Maturano, and tell him about the problem.
Around 5.00 Marcos and his brother arrived, exhausted. They had met an arriero up the valley who could bring out the load While we were talking Marcos collapsed, out cold for 5 minutes, exhausted by his exertion and the stress of the past 24 hours. We now only had 36 hours to flight time and still had no idea how we would get to Mendoza.
Rafael insisted that a rescue vehicle would arrive to collect us about 8.00 so, clutching this straw, we set off down the road to meet it on the other side of the road blockage.
When we got past the blockage we sat at the side of the road, we sat and nothing happened. Darkness fell and nothing happened. Finally Rafael decided to continue down the canyon seeking a signal for his mobile phone. He left and we sat there and nothing happened.
Eventually a shadowy figure appeared out of the night, stood a few yards away where we could not see him clearly and told us that Rafael said that we should come down the road to where the shadow was camped. This seemed strange, why had Rafael not come himself? We thought for a moment and then picked up our bags and nervously followed the shadow into the night. About 400m down the road he led us into a camp of Argentinian soldiers who said that Rafael would be back shortly.
They assured us that there was no possibility of anyone driving in over those roads in the dark and that we could not expect rescue before the morning. We eventually, reluctantly, accepted that this was true and when Rafael returned, without having found a signal, we rolled into our bags and slept soundly.
The next morning we awoke at 7.00 and there was a pick-up parked amongst the army vehicles. Aníbal Maturano had arrived. He had got our message at 20.00 the previous night and driven the 160kms from San Juan through the night and slept till dawn in the pick-up. The journey to the centre of the city took about 4 – 5 hours and we were back at our hotel at 13.00.
Aníbal and Rafael then turned to retrace their journey to collect our baggage if and when it came out of the interior. When it did arrive by mule they loaded it into the pick-up and brought it to us in Mendoza at midnight, 8 hours before our flight home. They left us immediately and headed for home in San Juan where they arrived at 0300.
Consider that Aníbal spent almost 20 hours out of 36 driving on dirt roads, that Marcos, his brother and Rafael did superhuman work, all to get us and our baggage off the mountain and you will understand why I felt that the recommendation we received that these were "Good people, climbers" was pretty weak praise. "Giants of the mountains" would be a better description.
Our adventure was over. It only remained to return to "civilisation”, which seems much less inviting or civilised after a spell in the high mountains.
(Photos by Dermot Wall)
(by Richard O’Sullivan, from IMC Newsletter Spring 2004)
Trekking in Northern Greenland.
At first, flying over North Greenland in autumn is a bit like flying over a wedding cake, or a blank sheet of paper for that matter. Very, very white. As your eyes become accustomed to the view, the sheet of white begins to take on some form and various textures and contours become visible. First of all mountains, then frozen lakes and rivers and finally huge crevasses in the ice. This is the Inland Ice, an ice cap that sits on top of the second largest island in the world and all but smothers it.
My next twelve days were to be spent in the small strip of land beside Disko Bay not completely covered by ice. Like all distances in Greenland, everything is relative. In this case “small” still meant bigger than Ireland. We (my brother and I) arrived in a small turbo-prop plane at Ilulissat airport and landed on the river of ice they like to call their runway. The nice man from the national tourism agency who had offered by email to collect us met us. He regaled us with stories of Aurora Borealis (which he said he saw so often he didn’t even bother looking any more), icebergs and frozen fjords – this is what we had come for.
Ilulissat, like any modern frontier town, was interesting, but rough. The local shop had flat panel displays on the cash register (courtesy of the annual Danish government subsidy) but the customers still carried guns and wore overalls and boots rated to -100 C! We were eager to get moving, so we immediately arranged to join a boat that was heading out to the ice fjord for the day.
The ice fjord is a truly humbling experience. It is the result of the ice cap glaciers calving huge icebergs into a shallow sea and then those icebergs just keep building up until the pressure finally forces them free into the outer fjord. Even though we were on a sizeable fishing boat, we found ourselves staring up at enormous mountains of ice, some hundreds of feet high. As stunned as we were, we were totally gob-smacked when told that only one-eighth of the iceberg appears above water – it was a bit like sailing round the summit of Lugnaquilla.
The bergs themselves form two types. First there are the “crazy tops”. These are new icebergs and the tops are twisted, contorted, full of crevasses and seracs. These are bits of broken glacier, which have just fallen into the sea. One look at these and you know why glacier travel is so dangerous. The second type is the “smooth tops”. These are crazy tops that have been in the water so long they have flipped right over so the water-smoothened bottom is exposed above water. Where crazy tops are frightening, smooth tops are beautiful and soothing. The time had come for us to explore closer, so we pulled up beside a smaller smooth top and jumped onto it – first foot straight into a narrow crevasse. Just as well, because the ice was so hard and slick that any slip would have meant a dip in the sea. The captain later told us that he doesn’t carry life jackets because if you fall into that sea, you are dead anyway.
Our main reason for going to Greenland was to get away from masses of people and experience some raw, untouched nature. That’s what we got when we hiked up the coast to Oqaatsut, a tiny fishing village two days walk away. The map showed us several possible routes, so we opted for one that brought us right up the coast via an isthmus, beyond which we could camp for the night. The journey was hard going, not least because the bog land over which we were walking was frozen solid and there were frozen lakes to be negotiated every kilometre or so.
Because the Arctic air is so cold and so pristine, distances are very deceptive. When we started our hike, we picked a hill in the distance for lunch. We were long past our lunchtime when we realised we were not much closer to the hill – a close examination of the map showed the hill in question was about 30 miles away! Negotiating the fjords was a tricky business as well. We got to one semi-frozen fjord, which was about 50 metres across. There was a 10-metre gap in the middle, which was not frozen, and the entire force of the river was blasting through that gap. We gingerly climbed over ice-covered boulders to the middle and steeled ourselves for the next step. With a deep breath and a prayer, we stepped into the water. You have not experienced cold until you’ve had a Greenlandic river flowing just below the family jewels. Very carefully, we baby-stepped to the ice on the other side and crawled onto it, gasping. A quick change of socks later, and we were on our way again.
Our campsite was a magnificent location on frozen moorland overlooking the iceberg-strewn sea. Having hammered the pegs in, we sat down to watch probably the most amazing sunset I’ve ever seen. The sun even had the good grace to set right over a castle-esque berg in a blood red sky. Dinner over, we settled into our bags for the evening. Five minutes later, we were up again, scouring the area for boulders to hold down the flysheet which was now threatening to take off on a trip of its own in the gale force wind which had suddenly picked up.
Back in the bags, we sat looking at an amazing night sky – the Plough looked as if it was close enough to reach out and touch. We sat enjoying a couple of Jamesons (with ice of course) and I was beginning to wax lyrical when my brother pointed out a streak of phosphorescent green moving across the sky – the Northern Lights! The next few hours were spent in silence, wrapped in down bags, watching nature’s own fireworks display. Curtains of green, white and rose swept across the sky and then fell like rain or soared like a flock of birds. I blessed the long exposure on my camera and crawled outside the tent to take some shots. Lying flat on the reeds and heather, I was able to stay out for about 20 minutes taking photos of the main reason we had chosen Greenland for this year’s trek.
Before arriving in Oqaatsut (population 40) the next day, we had one more obstacle to face – down-climbing a 150ft snow-covered cliff. By now we were feeling like Frodo and Sam trying to ditch the One Ring. Down we went, and arrived at our accommodation for the night, a really atmospheric log cabin with a paraffin heater and beds in the attic. Water came from melting bits of iceberg. It was very comforting to know that the water we were drinking was over 10 million years old and predated pollution.
We took a boat back to Ilulissat the next day, after lazing around in Oqaatsut, looking at the sealskins drying in the sun while being followed around by friendly pups from the local dog sleigh teams. The people in Ilulissat are very accommodating and friendly. As my Greenlandic and Danish skills are limited (!), we mostly conversed through the international language of smiling, high fives and Tuborg. The people who spoke English told us some disturbing news. They said that over the last ten years or so, they had noticed the winters were getting warmer and the fjords were taking longer and longer to freeze over. This is a particularly acute problem in Greenland as there are no roads between towns and families rely on dog sledding to visit relations and to go ice fishing and seal hunting in winter. Global warming in Greenland would have disastrous consequences for the locals, as well as the rest of the world.
All in all, I couldn’t recommend Greenland enough as a destination for trekking and relaxing. While a lot of climbing groups head to the granite walls of South Greenland, North Greenland has a lot to offer in that there are fewer people and, in winter, it is truly spectacular with Northern Lights a-plenty and dog sledding to beat the band. In summer, the midnight sun is supposed to be a memorable experience. Autumn is not a bad compromise. You get a taste of the onset of winter, but still with enough daylight to travel around. Ilulissat, Greenland’s second city, has a human population of just under 5,000 and a canine population of just over 7,000. It even has a bar called Murphy’s although the locals said we were the first Irish people they had ever met, and the owner had just thought it was a good name for a pub!