We were out of water, and although a carload of snow sat on the ledge next to us, it was too windy to light the stove. 15 knots? 50 mph? When it’s too strong to climb up or rappel down, it doesn’t really matter.
I drifted off for seconds, minutes—all-too-brief respites from the reality of the situation. But it was never long before I snapped awake to the inescapable blackness, and the need to readjust on my jagged bed of granite. Rob began softly snoring at one point, and I stirred with silent rage, more jealous than anything else. At least there was no precip.
But dawn’s slow chromatic shift revealed my worst fear—it was now snowing. The wind still swirled, and my psyche filled with visions of the perilous descent to come, the bleached tatters of old chopped ropes we had seen on the lower pitches. I rubbed my eyes, swollen and crusty from having left my contact lenses in overnight. White fluff cascaded down and piled around us.
But as the contours of my vision sharpened, I began to laugh. Though the wind remained, morning alpenglow stained the Torres orange, and a few faint stars still twinkled as the night bled into morning. The snow was not snow at all. Fitz Roy’s sharp, rough-grained granite had sliced a sizeable gash in Rob’s sleeping bag, and each time he moved, 800-fill down spewed out in cartoon-like plumes. Half a goose worth was now sprinkled over our lofty perch.
Later that morning, the rope contorted in a dramatic arc as the terrain eased and we surfed up and around the ridge’s undulating granite waves under a cloudless sky. Dehydrated and delirious, we scrambled the blocky, low-angle summit slopes to the top and dropped onto the north side of the mountain, bathed in bright mid-morning sun. The wind disappeared as if someone had shut a door. We stripped off layers, melted snow, and tried to ignore the fact that we were only halfway. A small bronze casting of the Virgin Mary had been wired to the summit block, and though my religious upbringing had long ago left me disillusioned, I smiled. If there was ever a time to seek the protection of a higher power, the calm moments before rappelling Fitz Roy was it.
Dozens of rappels and all of the daylight later, our headlamp beams struck dry land, and we stumbled off the glacier’s toe and onto the shores of Laguna de los Tres. We sprawled barefoot in the gravel, our feet relishing freedom in the dusty stones.
“Do you hear that?” I said as we scarfed an entire roll of cookies. Surely Rob could hear the rhythmic pulse of Latin Top 40 radio, playing somewhere just over the hill.
“Yea, it’s like mariachis.”
The air was calm and clear, and too wired to sleep, we sat in shell-shocked detachment, like a quiet car ride home after a heavy metal concert.
“I didn’t say anything, but I was really fucking scared up there,” Rob said.
“I know. Me too.”
I smiled in relief. Far above, Fitz Roy was bathed in evening luminescence. What else was there to say? Sometimes it’s hard to see the light without getting close to the flames.
The night inched along, and the dark visions polluting my brain were challenged only by the constant, deafening whir of nylon in the wind.
The night inched along, and the dark visions polluting my brain were challenged only by the constant, deafening whir of nylon in the wind.
I drifted off for seconds, minutes—all-too-brief respites from the reality of the situation. But it was never long before I snapped awake to the inescapable blackness, and the need to readjust on my jagged bed of granite. Rob began softly snoring at one point, and I stirred with silent rage, more jealous than anything else. At least there was no precip.
But dawn’s slow chromatic shift revealed my worst fear—it was now snowing. The wind still swirled, and my psyche filled with visions of the perilous descent to come, the bleached tatters of old chopped ropes we had seen on the lower pitches. I rubbed my eyes, swollen and crusty from having left my contact lenses in overnight. White fluff cascaded down and piled around us.
But as the contours of my vision sharpened, I began to laugh. Though the wind remained, morning alpenglow stained the Torres orange, and a few faint stars still twinkled as the night bled into morning. The snow was not snow at all. Fitz Roy’s sharp, rough-grained granite had sliced a sizeable gash in Rob’s sleeping bag, and each time he moved, 800-fill down spewed out in cartoon-like plumes. Half a goose worth was now sprinkled over our lofty perch.
Later that morning, the rope contorted in a dramatic arc as the terrain eased and we surfed up and around the ridge’s undulating granite waves under a cloudless sky. Dehydrated and delirious, we scrambled the blocky, low-angle summit slopes to the top and dropped onto the north side of the mountain, bathed in bright mid-morning sun. The wind disappeared as if someone had shut a door. We stripped off layers, melted snow, and tried to ignore the fact that we were only halfway. A small bronze casting of the Virgin Mary had been wired to the summit block, and though my religious upbringing had long ago left me disillusioned, I smiled. If there was ever a time to seek the protection of a higher power, the calm moments before rappelling Fitz Roy was it.
Dozens of rappels and all of the daylight later, our headlamp beams struck dry land, and we stumbled off the glacier’s toe and onto the shores of Laguna de los Tres. We sprawled barefoot in the gravel, our feet relishing freedom in the dusty stones.
“Do you hear that?” I said as we scarfed an entire roll of cookies. Surely Rob could hear the rhythmic pulse of Latin Top 40 radio, playing somewhere just over the hill.
“Yea, it’s like mariachis.”
The air was calm and clear, and too wired to sleep, we sat in shell-shocked detachment, like a quiet car ride home after a heavy metal concert.
“I didn’t say anything, but I was really fucking scared up there,” Rob said.
“I know. Me too.”
I smiled in relief. Far above, Fitz Roy was bathed in evening luminescence. What else was there to say? Sometimes it’s hard to see the light without getting close to the flames.
info@HenceSupply.co
Park City, Utah 84098
