I know before I unzip the tent that I will find ice outside. I know, because there was ice there last night. Ice on the path, ice hanging like swords from the trees and ice, simply ice, forming the glacier.
Patagonia promised me an adventure and Parque Nacional Los Glaciales delivered.
I joined a small group yesterday, plucked from the simple town of El Calafate, with its lines of wooden cabanas and hotchpotch of people from around the globe. Following our education at the park’s entrance (don’t pee in the streams because everyone drinks from the water) we set off at a pace, striding through pebbled boulders, dark pines and slippery paths.
Our guide, a lean man wearing a T-shirt, didn’t have time for slackers.
“It is too cold to stop,” he said, as an American paused to take a photo. Hibernating beneath fleeces, thermal underwear and a surprisingly itchy hat, I wondered about giving tips on outdoor clothing. In the end I decided against it.
Even he layered up, however, when we reached the glacial stream. The water gushed with unsettling ferocity, a young buck of a river looking to make his mark on the world.
I glanced around for a bridge and realised that the adventure would start earlier than expected. Some well-practiced threading of equipment (on the guide’s part, not mine) suspended a cable across this churning gash in the rocks.
Before I knew it, I was in the harness and clipping on. It’s easier to go first, right?
My frozen hands clutched the cable, I stepped towards the torrent, flicked my legs up – and missed.
Never mind. I’d have to make do without. One, two, one two, hand after hand, keep on going. I must be doing this wrong, though. Where the hell did my legs go?
All I can see is the flat sky above and the domineering line of the cable. One, two, one, two. Don’t look down, don’t listen.
That second instruction is impossible. The water drenches my senses, a raging, deafening rampage.
I have a strange flashback to swimming backstroke at school: the sensory deprivation, the rhythmic movement.
My head thuds into a rock.
The pain from not looking where I’m going.
I’ve arrived intact, even if my dignity hasn’t. As I watched the others flail across, lungs sharp with the freshness that only cold air provides, I allowed myself to feel a little proud.
The next day, we needed crampons. It wasn’t my first time (I had all of one day’s experience) but it felt as familiar as strapping cheese graters to my wrists and walking down the street on my hands.
Crampon teeth sink into the ice to offer more security, the base straps on to my boot. Many of the ridges are narrower than my foot. If I fall, it won’t be to ground. It’ll be into that crevasse with its death-blue tinge and promise of an icy coffin.
My bravery at the bridge is soon forgotten.
The British policewoman strides along. The American photographer makes great progress. The guide has all but disappeared.
If I don’t hurry, I’ll lose the safe path and have to fend for myself.
All I can imagine is falling and I’m shaken, really shaken. I need to focus on something else because this cannot possibly help.
By some miracle, I catch up. We must have finished because aside from this lily pad of ice, a solid glacial wall stretches up, up and up for thirty metres or more
Then the ice axes appear.
“I’ll go first,” I hear someone say and then I realise it was me. Some part of the tangled miasma that calls itself my brain has responded without my permission. Shamed after the feeble performance on horizontal ice, it suddenly thinks that vertical would be better.
I brace myself. Groin-chafing harness – check. Rope – check. Rudimentary instructions and total lack of experience – check.
The technique, as far as I can make out, is to sling each axe into the wall and then kick the foot spears into the ice afterwards. And repeat. Within seconds my lungs burn, my shoulders shriek and my conscious mind tries to concentrate on anything other than the fact that I am clinging to H2O with less than a centimetre of cheap, damaged metal.
This time I really can’t hear anything, except for the crunch, the swish and the slunch of my poorly orchestrated movements.
My toes turn numb and all I can see is the ice. White, sparkling, incandescent ice. But suddenly, my axe finds air, flailing, empty air.
I have arrived. I have climbed the wall.
I look over my shoulder at the insect-like people below, my hands trembling with adrenaline and exertion.
Complete. Conquered. Cowered.
I fall slowly, softly down on the ropes until my feet reach solid ground.
Ground? No, it’s the ice I’m thankful for.
So what do you think? Would you like to visit Patagonia? And would you go ice climbing if you did?
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