Laguna Chillata

Sorata was a pleasant change from the austere Bolivian Altiplano. If it were a butter spread it would be called Jungle-Lite. Green, warm and dank like the rain forest, but with half the calories and no malaria!

We went on a hike. For the first time in my life, I paid a guide for a hiking or climbing trip and it proved to be an excellent investment in several ways. Bolivian maps are notably deficient and hard to come by. For example, it was only a decade ago that someone realized that Ancohuma wasn't 7000 meters (it's 6400). A rather notable oversight, since it would have been the only 7000+ meter peak outside of the Himalaya and the tallest in the Americas. Nevermind that. Even if you have a topographic quad, it's not going to have the roads and trails marked on it. And maybe most importantly, if you don't speak Aymara, you are going to have a hard time asking for directions in this part of the countryside.

The Bolivian weather office had lied and it was raining a cántaros when we left the hostel.


We had teamed up with a French and German who proved to be good company as we trudged up the valley to Laguna Chillata, the first night's camp. We rapidly found the next advantage of going guided, which was the horse that our guide Frederico brought with him that carried all our food. Erin had neglected to say her Guata's prayer was making use of many bushes during the 1500 meter climb, but fortunately had a light pack on.

After a few hours, we entered the clouds and the visibility quit for good. Fredi gamely lead us through the soup with calls of "más arriba, más arriba". With an hour of daylight to spare, we settled into camp next to what we had to take on faith was a lake.



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The fog had been beaten into submission the next morning and we elatedly skipped up towards Laguna Glacial. We crossed a rocky pass and third classed it into the next drainage. After contouring around and climbing a slabby headwall, we confronted the obvious former presence of glaciers that reached at least 500 meters lower than they do now.

Remi basking in the sun


Fredi pointing the way up some wet slabs


The going got tougher above 4600 meters and we all slowed down as the altitude hit us. By the time we had made it to Laguna Glacial at 5000 meters, we were socked in.

Hole in the clouds before they closed for good at Laguna Glacial.


Fredi proved to be invaluable as he lead us down in the whiteout, weaving our way on nondescript talus fields with cliff bands lurking below us in the soup. By myself and without a GPS I would have been boned.

Suckerhole


Fredi was also an excellent cook. The combination of a good camp cook and a horse laden with all type of provisions insured that we ate better than I can ever remember on a backpacking trip. After learning an excellent new card game from Guido and Remi, we turned in and slept like stones.

The next day dawned the fairest of them all. Unfortunately, we were descending back to town, but the views were still exceptional.

Laguna Chillata at sunrise with the fog below


Hardly able to touch each other after two months


Rush hour


As we rapidly lost altitude, the rain, fog, and dampness were forgotten. We walked into Sorata and found ourselves in the midst of a raging party.

The Guata's Prayer

Our guata, who art inside us,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy digestion come,
Thy excretion be done,
in Bolivia as it was in Chile.
Consume this, our daily bread,
and forgive us our street food,
as we forgive you for making us poop our pants.
Lead us not into nausea,
but deliver us from gastroenteritis.
For thine is the paristalsis, the microvilli and the chyme,
for ever and ever,
Amen.

Puerto Natales and el fin del mundo

We had a nice hike around Torres Del Paine. The scenery lived up to expectations; there were hordes of people in places; it was windier than any other place I'd ever tried to hike. More on that in another post later.

We took the bus back into Puerto Natales and got in a few hours before dinner. I was jazzed for dinner. We had eaten at La Picada del Carlosito a week before when we got into Puerto Natales and it was incredible. I had the most delicious Salmon a lo pobre, it almost brought tears to my eyes it was so good. The following week as we hiked with our meagre rations, I had fantasized about the meal I was going to consume at La Picada when we returned triumphant. There would be piscos sour, fanschop, helado, the whole tres metros.

It was with dismay, then, that I was full after eating hardly half my lasagna, and was medio entonado after half of a fanschop (for the uninitiated, fanschop is fanta--orange soda--mixed with schop--draft beer. It's much better than it sounds.) Human food just wasn't going down as well as envisioned.

I was, however, getting off lucky compared to poor Erin, who already was suffering from some kickin' gastroenteritis. I went off to try to internet, while she went to nap in the tent, with the unevitable coda of trudging to the bathroom every hour or so. Pobrecita. The next day she was feeling slightly better, but we had already decided that a rest day was in order.

Now, we had been camping behind a restaurant that was pretty centrally located
in Puerto Natales. Consequently, every stray animal in the city, simpatico or craven, made the rounds during the day. There was Scraps, the theatrical begging dog. Scraps walks on his hind legs, rolls on the ground and moans, and almost tries to bolt into the tent when we are eating.

More unsettling was Gimps, the priapetic mutt. Gimps came into the camping one afternoon chasing a fine-looking lady-dog around lustily. Slightly mangy and with a cronic limp in the front right paw, Gimps is no looker; yet did not want to take no for an answer. We grabbed a couple of stones from the ground as we ate, just in case.

However, the highlight of the stray (or at least migratory) menagrie was Gatito, the kitten. She was pretty much the most adorable kitten I had ever laid eyes upon. Now, I'm not one to cuddle with weird cats, adorable or no, especially after an experience with un tal gato boliviano en un tal carpa de un tal Chris A., but we had seen her off and on for almost a week, so I guess there was a bit of a repoire built. So when she invited herself into the tent right as we were going to bed and curled up on my sleeping bag, we were sunk. Despite our weak and flagging protests, Gatito remained there for the night. She ended up nestled between Erin's bag and mine, enjoying a fine down beg made of $300 feathered friends sleeping bags.

Now we are Ushauia, Argentina. The end of the world. Even though that is not true (Puerto Williams on the Isla Navarina, across the Beagle Channel is further south), it certainly has that feel to it. I like it so far. Tomorrow we are catching a dingy across the channel to Puerto Williams where we will see about doing the trek around the Cordon de los Dientes, which might take 4 or 5 days, even though it's supposedly only 50 km. Incidently, Ushauia looks like a kick-ass place to take a ski vacation. Plenty of cross-country to be had, as well, Mom.