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Mano, pie, man, pie

By Dan Wallace - 2009-03-10

Ever traverse a 12 meter long climbing rope suspended across a swollen river just as wide, without clipping in? Me neither, that is until just recently. After my massive rack failure on the way out to catch the ferry at Lago Desierto, and our subsequent return to town, Daniel and I decided to hike out to Lago Torre, a few hours outside El Chalten. It seems my knack for procrastination has followed me even to the far reaches of South America, and also spread like an airborne virus to my companions.

Daniel and I locked up our bikes at the trailhead and started out at a brisk pace, hopping over the large rocks scattered on the edges of the winding, dusty trail. We laughed at the sign that gave hikers like us “Puma Precautions/Instructions.” Climbing up steep hills and staircases lined with ropes to aid would be hikers, we reached wonderful lookout points that granted breathtaking views into the valley which covets Lago Torre and Glacier Grande. The valley is nestled under the huge granite spire called Cerro Torre, which is one of the most challenging summits on the planet for those taken to the sport of pro-climbing, and one of the most beautiful geological structures I‘ve ever seen.

About halfway out we met some friends heading the opposite way. Their names were Julia and Navie, and they were volunteering at the park. Their jobs were concerned with keeping the trails clean and making sure no one died and such. They invited us to sit down with them at a special spot of green grass they knew of a couple hundred yards back. We agreed to join them and backtracked about five minutes or so to have an hour and a half long conversation about Argentinean politics, government, and economics – awesome (sarcasm).

After saying our goodbyes we hiked for another hour or two and arrived at the lake. “Kind of a let down, huh?”, said Daniel. I agreed and we decided to make the trip worthwhile by trying to get out to the glacier. We planned our route edging the lake on the left-hand side and took of like Rocky Balboa. Soon we found the riverhead and the rope crossing. In climber’s terms this type of river crossing is called a travolean. You are supposed to clip onto the rope with your harness via a single carabineer or pulley. We had none of this equipment so after receiving some quick instruction from two other climbers, we crossed the dangerous way. I call our method of crossing, “Mighty Maxing”. Daniel went first and as he crossed, the other climbers and I were yelling out, “Mano, pie, mano, pie!” These were instructions we received, which translated mean “hand, foot, hand, foot.” It was difficult, but we made it.

When we arrived on the other side, two more climbers, Adrean and Lali, helped us out by lending us some climbing straps and carabineers for the journey back. They showed us how to make a simple harness out of each strap and clip in; and said they would much rather help keep us safe than let us “Mighty Max” our way back across. Thank goodness there are responsible people in this world to help keep the crazy ones from hurting themselves!

We thanked our lenders and pushed on in a race-like manner to the glacier. Daniel found a path and took the high route, and I took the low route down near the water and then scrambled/climbed my way up. Daniel arrived first, and I soon after; and we began our descent down to the mass of moving ice known as “Glaciar Grande”.

My first steps on the blue/white ice were a little cautious. I guess at that point all the horror stories I’ve heard about deep chasms unexpectedly opening up and swallowing glacial-trekkers forever were running through my head; but after a five-minute acclamation period I was doing push-ups and sliding around on my butt with little fear!

We did our thing out there for around a half hour and then began our long trek back to town. We stopped off at the campsite to give back our climbing straps to our friends and then started running back on the trail, racing to beat the sunset. If you’ve never hiked in the dark then you might not understand our urgency at this point. We had no flashlights and were almost out of energy – prime conditions for a bad accident. Despite our efforts, we spent about 40 minutes in the dark making our way back to town.

Thankfully, we arrived safely and the next day was spent fixing my bike in the sunshine. The day after that, we headed out for the same lake I failed to get to a few days before because of my broken rack. Things went smoothly until we came to the portion of the trip I lovingly refer to as the “Hike of Death.” This however, I’m not going to revisit because I believe I am still mentally, physically, and emotionally recovering from this seven hour ordeal of suffering. It will have to suffice to say that the trail we spent all day carrying our fully-loaded bicycles on was intended for horses, not bicycles.

The hard days come and go, and when they do I often left thinking simple things. Mano, pie, mano, pie…