Verdi and Tahoe

North rim view

Verdi (pronounced like “hair dye,” not the requiem composer’s name) is a prominent summit northeast of Lake Tahoe, and a worthy reason to drive all the way north to… ah, who am I kidding? It’s a forested bump with a road to an old fire lookout on top, with enough prominence to give me peak-bagger points. In short, it was a perfect peak to tag with Renee and her not-quite-three-year-old. A few sections of the road were rocky and steep enough to be unpleasant on my touring bike, so we hiked it. The kid did an admirable job and, with steady encouragement and other devious motherly psychological tricks, walked more than his age in miles. The lookout was well-situated, with a clear view of the train tracks and highway along the Truckee River to the south and east, snowy Castle, Basin, and Lola to the west, and the peaks surrounding Lake Tahoe to the south.

Tahoe peaks from Verdi
Points accomplished, it was time to enjoy some alternatives to my recent Eastern Sierra desert slogs, including road cycling (I am slow), mountain biking (I am bad), and trail running (I can do this one, though my aging body complains). While I could never afford to live there, I am reminded every time I visit that Tahoe has a wonderful backyard. It lacks the major peaks found in the Owens Valley or the Alps, but has acres of forested public land with miles of trails and fire roads, making it a bit like where I grew up. While not a destination, it has everything necessary for day-to-day outdoor activity.

Short off-trail section
For example, there are several passes over the Nevada side, connected along the top by trails, and the bottom by the lake road. These allow excellent point-to-point runs with a bike shuttle. Renee had mapped out a run from the Brockway road to the Mount Rose road, tagging one fire lookout and a number of minor summits along the way. It would have been a better run the other way, but I convinced her to run it in the net uphill direction, then bike shuttle back. Unlike the lookout on Verdi, which was trashed, the one on Martis was well-kept, with unbroken windows and a silhouette map identifying the peaks on the skyline. Much of the rest of the run was uphill at just the right grade to be frustrating (I should have listened…), but the trail was mostly snow-free and the views were excellent. The return ride along the lake was not pleasant, with narrow shoulders and constant traffic, but both Brockway and Mount Rose roads have good shoulders and pavement, so those parts were fine.

More Flume Trail
Most Tahoe trails are rocky and “technical,” thus miserable for me with my limited mountain biking skills, but the Incline and Marlette Flume trails are much better. After mistakenly starting off on the Tyrolean trail, a “flow” trail that was more of a survival ride on my touring bike, I enjoyed a long ride on smooth trails and gentle grades. Supposedly the trails follow some old flumes, but I saw no evidence of such. It was a weekday, but the trail was somewhat crowded with both cyclists and pedestrians, making some of its exposed blind corners a bit unnerving, but I was still enjoying myself.

Fixed-gear riding
I was hoping to continue all the way to Spooner Lake and Highway 50, but at Marlette Lake’s southern end, I finally figured out why my rear derailleur had been acting up: my derailleur cable snapped. Riding back in my outermost gear would have involved a lot of hike-a-bike, so, thinking a minute, I wedged a small stick into the derailleur to hold it somewhere near the center of its range. I gingerly pedaled back toward home a bit, then bummed duct tape from some Game and Fish employees to secure my stick. With two middle-of-the-range gears, I only had to hike one part of the trail, and could pedal up to a non-pathetic speed on the flats and descents.

Cold Luther Pass
After a stop in Carson for a replacement cable and brake pads — bikes are an endless money-pit — I continued around to check out some peaks south of the lake. Most northern Sierra peaks are short climbs, so I tacked on some cycling to give myself a bit of a challenge. I camped at the junction with the Luther Pass road, where it rained overnight, then took my time in the morning, eyeing the fresh snow on the peaks and fixing my bike. When it was finally warm enough for my hands, I made the short ride to Luther Pass, then locked my bike to a tree to hike up Waterhouse. I found no use trail, but there was little underbrush, and neither the fresh nor old snow posed much of a problem. I took in the view south from the summit rocks, then returned to my bike and continued west.

Desolation from Ralston
It was a weekend, so I wanted to avoid the highways as much as possible, especially 50, with its traffic from Sacramento and the Bay. For my first dodge, I went through the closed Luther campground, cutting off a bit of 89. I crossed the highway, then took off again down Upper Truckee Road, which starts as steep single-lane pavement, then becomes a quiet residential street. I had hoped to take the Hawley Grade National Historic Trail — “grade” seemed to imply “railroad” and therefore “gentle” — but it was nasty and rocky. Instead, I found the Old Meyers Grade and Johnson Pass roads, thus avoiding the highway climb to Echo Summit. From there, unfortunately, it was pure highway to the Mount Ralston trailhead, with constant traffic boding ill for the uphill return.

I semi-hid my bike near the Ralston trailhead, then took off at a determined walk. This turned out to be a deservedly popular but not overly long hike, with excellent views of Lake Aloha and the Desolation Wilderness from the summit. I took around an hour from trailhead to summit, a respectable time, though far off the course record. The Desolation peaks were still snowy, but Lake Aloha had melted out; on my last visit earlier in the season, I had walked across it to save time while tagging the other peaks. I spent a couple of minutes on the cold summit, then ran back to my bike and retraced my route. The ride up 50 was as miserable as expected, but I’m turning into a roadie again, and getting used to close and constant traffic. The rest of the ride was much more pleasant, and I returned to the car mid-afternoon, satisfied with a full day.

Disaster and friends

Disaster from 9501

After a lengthy and clarifying stay in the Owens Valley, it was time to move on. On the way to visit a friend near Lake Tahoe, I took a side trip over Sonora Pass to tag Disaster, the northernmost of my fifteen remaining SPS peaks. I had been stymied on previous trips by pass closures and weather, but this time had no trouble reaching Iceberg Meadow. Since Disaster by itself would be very short, I roughly followed Rob Houghton’s route to tag a couple of minor neighbors. It was still little more than a half-day, but that was enough given the remaining drive.

Used to waking up low on the desert east side of the Sierra, I set an unrealistic 5:00 AM alarm. When it went off a couple of thousand feet higher on the shady side of the range, I was curled up in my sleeping bag for warmth. I reached an arm out several times to hit “snooze,” eventually making a hot breakfast and getting started toward 7:00 AM. I hiked up the shaded Disaster Creek trail in all my layers, my hands aching inside my gloves. Even down at 8000 feet there was a bit of fresh graupel on the ground from the night before.

West from Disaster’s south ridge
The route to Disaster follows the trail past the cliffy part of the Iceberg, then leaves it to ascend a steep hillside to the peak’s long south ridge. This would have been a miserable bushwhack some years ago, but a convenient fire had trimmed the manzanita, and deer had created some faint paths. The underlying dirt is the expected decomposed granite, but much more pleasant than the loose sand I had dealt with on the way to Sawmill Point a few days before. I made steady progress to the ridge, where I finally reached both direct sun and a cold west wind.

Anti-trail
Most of the rest of the route up Disaster was a gentle hike through open forest and meadows, with decent shelter from the wind. The summit itself was less pleasant, a loose pile of basalt talus, dusted with fresh snow, offering scant shelter. I briefly looked around for a register, then found a semi-sheltered spot to cram down a couple sandwiches with aching hands. I thought of returning to the car, but that would have been lame. Instead, I retraced my steps a short distance down the ridge, then dropped east through the woods to the PCT.

Columnar basalt
Conditions became more pleasant off of Disaster’s exposed ridge. While there was still patchy snow in the woods, the cold worked to my advantage, keeping it pleasantly firm for the rest of my outing. A few people had hiked this section in recent, warmer weather, so I did not have to consult my map to follow the trail. The next bump, Peak 9501′, was a larger and looser pile of basalt than Disaster. I carefully picked my way up the near side, then descended a vague ridge of columnar basalt down the far one to regain the trail.

The Iceberg
As is often the case, the PCT wanders pointlessly in this section, so I shortcut one inexplicable loop on my way toward Boulder, then left it to follow a drainage between two ridges, ending near the summit. I briefly took in the view of the higher, snowier peaks to the south, then took off straight down to the PCT in the direction of a creek leading to Boulder Lake.

This drainage started out as easy, runnable cross-country, then turned obnoxiously brushy as it dropped and steepened. I sidehilled along to the left, and eventually picked up the steep and unmaintained Boulder Lake trail. The Clark Fork trail was gentler and much better maintained, allowing me to do something like running in the final few miles to the trailhead. I rinsed off in the frigid creek, then drove back over the pass to cook lunch before finishing up the drive, with one stop at a Walmart featuring a surprising number of people not wearing masks. Sigh…

White Mountains Traverse

Traverse from Boundary

This White Mountains Traverse is a loosely-defined route between Queen Mine Saddle and Barcroft Gate (or vice versa) in California’s White Mountains. It is about 35 miles long, with more than half cross-country, and involves a bit of third class scrambling. Peaks along the way include Boundary (a bump on a ridge, Nevada’s lame highpoint), Montgomery, Dubois, Hogue, Headley, 13,615′, and White Mountain Peak. It is normally done south to north, in the slightly downhill direction, and the FKT is 11h25, set by Jed Porter back in 2014. It requires a 100+-mile car shuttle including miles of annoying dirt road, which discourages many people, but it still seems to see one or two parties per year.

I had originally planned to do it casually, with a partner and a car shuttle, but when that stopped making sense, I came up with another plan. While the drive around via the 2WD Barcroft road is close to 100 miles, it is possible to cut it to only about 60 via Silver Canyon if you have a Jeep…. or a bike. With a forecast for a tailwind up the Owens Valley, I thought I could do the foot portion north to south in 11 hours or less, and the whole thing in under 18. This was a nice theory, but ultimately I found myself spending the better part of two days doing things I did not enjoy, and failing to accomplish something about which I was indifferent, all for the wrong reasons. Call it “training.”

I enjoyed the drive up 168 from Big Pine, then endured the winding asphalt and rocky, washboard dirt north to Barcroft. This is a slow drive at best, and I had to go even slower to protect my worn tires. I arrived on a Sunday evening, and found a couple of cars at the gate, their owners returning from the hike to White Mountain. I took advantage of the chance to sleep at altitude, then stashed my bike, helmet, and some food before returning to Bishop. I had hoped to bathe for the first time in a week at Keough’s along the way, but noticed that, despite my cautious driving, I had developed a slow leak in one tire. I topped it off with my bike pump, then hurried into town and pulled into the one tire place open on Sundays, Perez Tire. I lucked out, as they sold me two AT tires for a fair price, and installed them in about 30 minutes; the other Bishop tire places I’ve visited are ripoffs.

Peak happiness
Greasy and in a bad mood from the unexpected expense, I drove up to the north end of the valley, then turned on the Queen Mine road. It starts out as good graded dirt, then slowly deteriorates as it climbs. I eventually stopped about 2.2 miles from the saddle; while I could probably have driven farther, this seemed about as far as I would be able to ride a bike, so there was no point in continuing. I packed some discount energy bars and eight PB&Hs, set my alarm for 3:00, and got some amount of sleep.

Sunrise before Boundary
I hadn’t done such an early start in awhile, so I did not get going until almost 4:00. I spent about 45 minutes hiking the road to the saddle, then easily found the popular trail up Boundary. I jogged some of the flatter sections leading to Trail Canyon Saddle, then hiked up one of the braided trails through sand and talus toward the summit. It was already somewhat breezy at the top, and bitterly cold, so I did not even pause before starting down the ridge to Montgomery. The route was slow going but mostly only class 2, alternating between the shaded northwest side, and the sunny but windy southeast.

Descending Montgomery’s N ridge
At Montgomery’s summit, I stopped to take a few photos and sign the register. The forecast had anticipated temperatures in the 30s or 40s, but it seemed colder, and my phone battery died when I tried to send a text. Fortunately I had brought my battery pack, so I plugged it in and stashed it closer to my body for warmth. I continued in all my layers, my fingers aching inside my gloves. With steady wind and light cloud-cover most of the day, there was only about a half-hour in which I was warm enough to jog in a t-shirt. Wind and cold, plus tedious terrain, kept the day well short of fun.

Montgomery from south
Only a handful of people continue beyond Montgomery, so while I found a handful of cairns, I was mostly following faint sheep tracks or traveling cross-country. Montgomery’s south ridge is loose class 2-3, with a broken crest that is best avoided. I found a couple of short, sketchy snow traverses along the east side, but did not have much trouble reaching the saddle. From there, a long talus climb leads to “the Jumpoff” at the northern end of Dubois vast summit plateau. I had hoped for a long stretch easy jogging here, but the tundra was rolling and studded with sharp talus, making for slow and cautious progress.

White from Dubois
The summit is one of a number of minor bumps on the plateau, fortunately marked with a large stick visible from a distance. The majority of the parties in the summit register were either sheep surveyors or people traversing, including a group on skis this past April. I signed in with a bit of Rammstein commentary (“Mir ist kalt. Zo kalt!”), then took off jogging on the downward-trending plateau. White Mountain remained soul-crushingly far away, but I reminded myself that I had covered greater distances before.

This part of the Whites is not a single well-defined ridge, but a broad, rolling plain, cut by valleys dropping to both sides. Finding the best route requires regularly consulting a topo map at the macro level. It also requires paying close attention to the terrain at the micro level, as it varies unpredictably from semi-runnable tundra to tediously loose and sharp talus. I had downloaded Jed’s track, but he skipped some of the peaks along the way. I knew I never wanted to return to this place so, being a peak-bagger, I made some minor detours to tag the summits.

Dubois from Hogue
First up was Hogue, a detour east just north of where the ridge drops far down to a saddle with some springs around 11,200′. I checked out a couple of the talus mounds on its summit plateau, but found only a few pieces of broken glass, perhaps a former register jar. I jogged the descent as best I could, squelching across a bog labeled as a “spring,” then hiked over Point 11,784′, which hid horribly loose talus on its south side. A spring and snowfield fed a pleasant stream southeast of the lowpoint, where I grabbed a couple of liters of water before beginning the climb toward Headley.

Continuing my quest to tag the ridge’s peaks, I took a less-direct line toward the point labeled Headley Peak. Most of the way up, I saw that it was 100 feet lower than “East Headley,” with almost no prominence, and slightly out of the way. Annoyed at having wasted time on a pointless detour, I tagged the higher East Headley, then continued toward White. Jed had sidehilled around 13,615′, but despite the looming reality of headlamp time, I made the short detour. It was only a few hundred yards out of the way, and one of only a handful of California’s 13,000-foot peaks I had yet to climb.

Final scramble
I signed in next to the familiar names, then suffered down to the saddle with White. The talus was all sharp and loose, and though it was cold, the snowfields had turned to bottomless slush. I cursed, stumbled, and postholed to my knees for awhile, then found drier ground on the final ridge to the hut. I had eaten my last food before 13,615′, but am still fat enough not to bonk badly while hiking. The final ridge to the summit turns surprisingly tricky, with some loose class 3-4 over and around a few towers. I might have enjoyed this in different circumstances, but at this point it was a demoralizing grind.

I finally reached the summit around 3:00, eleven hours from the start and far later than I had hoped. I texted a friend that I might be screwed: the days are long, but I estimated that I would be back to pavement around dark, still over thirty miles from the car. I cut all the lame road switchbacks down to the saddle, then put in a fair amount of jogging along the road past Barcroft Lab despite my fatigue. The lab was closed, the normally reeking sheep pen blessedly empty. There were no cars at the gate, but fortunately no one had stolen my bike or my food. I hid behind the outhouse for awhile, eating and recovering, then began the thirteen-mile bike to the head of Silver Canyon. My time to the gate was something like 12h20, putting me 10-15 minutes behind the FKT. I could make the excuses that I was heading in the uphill direction, and tagged two summits that Jed had skipped, but it was still a failure.

I was dreading this portion of the trip, as the road is rough, rolling, and headed both in the wrong direction and likely into the day’s prevailing wind. Surprisingly, though, I found it almost enjoyable on a bike. It felt no worse than many of the Argentine provincial roads I had cycled this past winter, and I was not towing a trailer. The two motorists who passed me even offered encouragement. I suffered mightily on the 600-foot climb before the Silver Canyon turnoff, but still made it in just over 1h30, better than I had hoped.

I was nervous about descending the upper Silver Canyon road on my touring bike, as it is relentlessly steep and sometimes loose, but I took it slow, rode my brakes, and made it down without crashing, only putting a foot down on a few of the sharp, steep switchbacks higher up. I filled up on water at the first creek crossing, burned my finger feeling my brake rotor, then dared a bit more speed as the slope eased. I normally dismount for the creek crossings, but my bike was already filthy, so I rode through the first few, spraying my bike and myself with water and grit. The creek had hopped its banks in places, turning the road into a secondary stream, so picking my way through the crossings would have been pointless.

The descent to Highway 6 took another 1h30 or so, giving me about an hour of usable light to ride north. I started off motivated, but soon started questioning the wisdom of continuing. My 750-lumen bike headlamp had been stolen in Argentina, so all I had was a tiny 100-ish-lumen hiking lamp; not anticipating much headlamp time, I had not bothered to dig out my taillight. I felt energetic at the moment, but nearly two hours riding uphill at night on a highway, without a taillight, then another hour on a dirt road, began to seem stupid. Before getting too far from Bishop, I gave up and called my friend, who kindly fetched me and let me use a spare sleeping setup.

Having already made myself enough of a nuisance, and failed to achieve anything, I was determined to at least finish under my own power. The previous day’s tailwind had of course reverted to the seasonal headwind, so I got to relive one of my less favorite Argentine experiences: riding uphill into the wind along a truck route. I finally started bonking on the dirt road, stopping frequently in bits of shade to rest, finally crawling up to the car. I crammed down a bunch of food, then drove back down-valley to begin preparing to hit the road.

Mount Tom (north ridge)

More false summits

Mount Tom is arguably the most striking peak on the Bishop skyline, towering almost 10,000 feet above town, with its long north ridge rising around 8,000 feet from Pine Creek. While it is not technically difficult or interesting, it is striking enough to be a fairly popular climb, often done in the early season when snow covers some of the talus, or at least provides water. I was in the area and needed a workout, so it seemed like a good time to finally check it off my to-do list.

Looking at the map, I found a side-road on the way to Elderberry Canyon that looked like a good place to start, so I headed up there the night before to camp. The road was rough in places, but careful driving got my Element to a flat spur near the end with no parts lost and only moderate scrambling of its contents. I set my alarm for 4:35, planning to start at first light, then tried to get some sleep.

Scheelite Chute and Pine Creek climbing
I got started a bit later than first light, but fortunately the temperature was cooler than the previous week, and some clouds over the Whites delayed the direct sun. Like the northeast ridges of Lone Pine Peak and Mount Williamson, Tom’s north ridge starts with a couple thousand feet of miserable, brushy sand. I followed some sheep tracks and pulled at granite outcrops as I made my slow way to the crest. It was slow going, but probably better than gaining the ridge from Pine Creek to the north or west.

Wheeler Crest
Once on the crest, I found easier sand and mild brush, leading to sparse woods and eventually talus. I also found a faint path and recent footprints, confirming my impression that this was a relatively popular objective this time of year. After dodging some snow patches, I had to cross one, and found fresh boot-prints; clearly someone had been up here in the last day or two. The snow was only intermittently supportive, so I was glad to have someone else ahead of me digging the postholes.

Lower ridge
I stopped to shove snow in my water bladder at the first clean patch of snow in the woods, then continued out onto the open talus, where I encountered some mild scrambling. Looking at the ridge ahead, I was surprised to see two men ahead of me — it was a weekend, but I hardly expected company. I easily caught them, and chatted for a few minutes before continuing. They were both up from LA (filthy tourists…), an experienced guy taking his novice friend on his first Sierra peak. It seemed like a rather ambitious choice of objectives, but I did not think there were any technical obstacles, and they had plenty of daylight to use.

Upper ridge
From where I met the pair, it was 2.1 miles to the summit as the crow flies. I anticipated an endless slog through loose talus and slush, but the rock was not quite as loose as I had feared, and the snow along the ridge had been mostly beaten solid by the wind. I took one unfortunate tumble when my wet and worn-out shoes slipped on a transition from snow to rock, bruising my ribs a bit, but had no serious difficulties on my way to the summit. The many false summits could have been demoralizing, but I had mentally prepared myself for them, and was feeling moderately peppy.

Humphreys from Tom
I reached the summit in 5:25, and found the register box exposed and filled with various booklets and scraps of paper. I couldn’t find my entry from when I climbed Tom from Horton Lakes in 2009 or 2010, but added my name to the latest book. Looking south and west, the peaks still looked surprisingly skiable, though having recently suffered 90-degree temperatures in the Owens and Saline Valleys, I was not in that frame of mind. I took a few photos, sent some texts, then headed back down the ridge.

Elderberry Canyon
I passed the experienced guy a few false summits down, and was unsurprised to learn that his friend had given up. I probably should have retraced my route, but I had been told that descending Elderberry Canyon was quicker, so I turned down to the east as soon as I reached a chute that did not cliff out. I hoped to boot-ski or plunge-step the upper snow, but was forced to do a pathetic sitting glissade to stay afloat in the bottomless slush. The rock to either side was not amenable to scree-skiing, and the avalanche snow lower down had also deteriorated to slush, so it was slow and unpleasant work descending to the level of the Lambert Mine.

Not fun
Things got a bit easier from there, as I picked up the old trail to the mine, and the snow in some of the gullies was compact enough to boot-ski. The trail turns stupid and horizontal lower down, so I ignored it in favor of the easy cross-country. I eventually reached the badly overgrown stream crossing, where I found my first liquid water all day, a welcome replacement for the piney melting slush in my bladder. From there I was on familiar ground, thankful to have only a daypack instead of skis as I switchbacked through the buckthorn, then jogged the road back to my car, cutting the corner to save a tiny bit of elevation loss. I was back at the car by mid-afternoon, making for a moderate day. I doubt I will do this route again, but if I did, I would probably just descend the ridge; Elderberry wasn’t awful, but it is much better on skis.

Cerro Catedral Sur

Tronador and Torre Principal from summit

Cerro Catedral is more of a small range than a mountain, a sprawling collection of lakes and granite spires southwest of Bariloche. Most of the spires, including the highest, the Torre Principal, are too hard for me to climb unroped, but Catedral Sur is a walk-up by its easiest route, and a moderate scramble by its northeast ridge. It proved to be a pleasant outing, and a long-ish day from the wonderful national park campground at Lago Gutierrez. It also turned out to be my last scramble in the area, as I was forced to flee the next day from the world’s rising COVID-related panic.

Stream below Frey hut
I got a reasonably early start after breakfast, throwing my down jacket in my pack against the morning cold. The previous day’s storms had dropped temperatures dramatically, and it would take a couple days of sun to warm back up. I mostly walked the rolling trial around the lake toward the Arroyo Van Titter, jogging here and there to stay ahead of a group of locals who walked surprisingly fast and stopped less than I did. My mountaineering pack, the only one I have on this trip, has no stash pockets, and my water bladder is completely non-functional, so I had to stop and take off my pack every time I wanted to eat, drink, or remove clothing. I look forward to getting back to, if not the States, then at least my daypack.

Snack shop below Frey
I easily left the other hikers once the trail started climbing steeply toward the Frey hut. This was a good, no-nonsense footpath, steep and only somewhat eroded. I began meeting others descending as I climbed, mostly local hikers probably headed home after spending one or more nights in the region’s huts. Cerro Catedral has several; while Frey is the most popular with climbers thanks to its proximity to the Aguja Frey and Torre Principal, the others form an apparently-popular multi-day loop. Along the way, I passed another unusual structure, a refuge or food stand built under a giant boulder.

Hut and nearby towers
The hut featured the most American crowd I had encountered in a long time, including an older couple visiting their daughter, who was down in South America for some kind of internship. I talked to them for awhile, then met Isaac, a young climber from Seattle who was also in the area for school-related reasons. He had flown down without his rack, and was not having much luck joining another group of climbers at the hut, so I invited him along on my scramble up Catedral Sur. It sounded like it wouldn’t be too hard; the hardest part might be figuring out which peak it was among the many ridges and towers.

NE ridge from approach
We followed a use trail to a pass a short distance southwest of the hut, then stared around in confusion for a few minutes. There were dozens of spires of various heights on the ridges around us, none obviously the highest, and we had only various low-resolution maps. We eventually set off descending across the head of the next valley over, and soon found cairns and a good use trail, suggesting we were on the correct route to something. It was fortunate that we found the trail, because the brush is both dense and woody, making bushwhacking somewhere between bloody and impossible.

Bariloche and Lago Gutierrez
The trail passes under the closest large slab, then climbs toward a cluster of impressive spires, including a large flat one called the Campanile Esloveno. I thought Catedral Sur would be to the left of that, but I could not pick out an obvious summit. We headed vaguely left up talus with the occasional rock step, eventually reaching a saddle near a wildly-overhanging tower on an indistinct ridge. The tower is striking enough that I am sure it has a name and has been climbed, but I can’t imagine ever doing so without throwing a rope over the top and prussiking up.

Upper ridge with gendarmes
The climbing slowly got trickier as we progressed, with a bit more class 3 here and there, and while the ridge never grew truly sharp, there were fewer opportunities for escape. The ridge finally became truly tricky and ridge-like just before the summit, where there are a number of progressively larger and more difficult gendarmes. I immediately went into peak-bagger mode, bypassing the first few to the right while Isaac, true to his climber nature, went straight over the top before seeing how much easier I had it. One of the last few gendarmes, I tried a couple of approaches before finding some low fifth-class shenanigans to the right. My scrambling game was rusty after months of choss, but it came back quickly.

Tronador, Esloveno, and Torre Principal
The other side was dismayingly steep, covered in crunchy moss and a bit of fresh snow. We found our way off, but decided to skip the last one or two, traversing around left to the base of the imposing summit block. While it looked impossibly vertical from this side, it turned out to be just a bit of fourth class on the other, and we were soon on the summit. After climbing in a t-shirt on the protected ridge, I was shocked at how cold it was in the wind, and was soon glad I had brought my down jacket. I was anxious to get back to camp at the lake, but the view of the other needles was phenomenal, with glacier-covered Tronador looming behind them some twenty miles away. Though only 11,500′ high and 41 degrees south, it holds some impressively large glaciers on this side.

Lago Mascardi and points south
We finally headed back, down-scrambling the summit block and then scree-skiing the peak’s easy north slope. There is a perfect campsite here near some huge boulders and a small stream, surrounded by all of the towers a Real Climber could want, but we saw only one tent and no people. Once back at the hut, I quickly said “goodbye” and began hike-jogging back toward camp. My pack was awkward jogging the flats, but I wanted the miles to pass quickly.

I had initially planned to ride on to a camp along Lago Mascardi, but it was late enough that I opted to stay another night. While it was calmer and warmer, it was also a weekend, so I had a group with a bunch of noisy kids on one side, and a couple who were very bad at building a fire for their asado upwind of me, smoking me out as I ate my usual polenta with eggs and vegetables. I played with the herd of four camp kittens in the morning, trying not to let their sharp little claws puncture my flesh or give my down jacket yet more leaks as they climbed all over me and my laptop. Then I took off a bit later than planned toward the far end of Lago Mascardi and the trailhead for Cerro Bonete, another peak closer to Tronador.

Something like twenty miles into the ride, just after turning off onto a dirt side-road, I learned that Argentina had closed all of its national parks due to COVID-19. For the present, this just meant that most of the peaks around Bariloche were off-limits, a disappointment I could get past. But the longer-term implications were more worrisome: if Argentina was already shutting things down so indiscriminately (and, I thought, senselessly), there would doubtless be other restrictions coming. I thought it might be best to cross back to Chile as soon as possible, where there would be no more borders between me and either my flight out, or at least the American Consulate in Santiago.

I rode back to Bariloche to see what information I could find, learned that Argentina had closed its borders to incoming Americans, then biked on to camp on a side-road between arms of Lago Nahuel Huapi. The next morning I rode to Villa la Angostura, checked out the situation again, and was alarmed by the rate of new flight cancellations, quarantines, and other measures. I rode on as far as I could, getting through the Argentinian side of the Paso Samoré and into Chile before being forced to camp behind some maintenance sheds when the wet cold made my hands too weak to keep riding.

The next day I stuffed my wet tent into my dry-bag, rode to Osorno, and took an overnight bus to Santiago. I had no trouble finding two bike boxes — one for my bike, and a second to mutilate into a trailer box — but after packing things up in the street, I had more trouble finding a large enough vehicle to take everything to the airport. Eventually, with the help of an enthusiastic cabbie, I mutilated the bike box into the back seat of a compact taxi, shoved everything else in on top and in the trunk, and made it to the airport by mid-afternoon.

I was seriously disgusting at this point, but fortunately Ted came through with a free room at the airport hotel, where I could shower for the first time in a week, recover a bit, and create a trailer box. Recipe: cut a bike box open, fold it over taco-style over the trailer and a bunch of other stuff, cut off the ends, then apply half a roll of duct tape; finish by paying a guy at the airport $10 to wrap the mess in plastic. I had no scale this time, but the bike box came in at 20 kg, the “trailer” at 23, so my two ridiculous boxes both qualified as acceptable “sporting equipment,” and therefore flew free. One long flight half-full of often-masked people later, I was back in the States, ready to face whatever comes next on my (sort of) home turf.

Bike touring stats, part 2

For those who are curious, the approximate statistics for the second (blue) leg of my tour, from Santiago to Osorno, are 1625 miles and 103,000 feet of elevation gain/loss during 47 days. That’s about 35 miles and 2200 feet per day, which is not so bad considering that some of those miles were over ridiculous terrain like the Paso de las Damas.

Unfortunately I only summited seven peaks, which makes me question whether I can still call myself a peak-bagger. This was partly because I did not have a “mother lode” of peaks like the Puna de Atacama on this leg, but mostly because I was burned out on high-altitude choss. By the time I reached Bariloche, where both the rock and my motivation greatly improved, COVID-19 and the world’s response to it cut my travels short. I explored the Andes from about 25 to 41 degrees south on this trip, but there is a lot more left to see. Hopefully I will be able to return sometime in the future. With almost 3000 miles under my belt on this trip, I can almost call myself a real bike tourist, though I’m nowhere close to matching Daniel, Marilyne, Kevin, or some of the others I have met down here.

Siete Lagos to Bariloche

Good riding north of Angostura

With my trip nearing its end, I was not sure where I wanted to go after Pucon. One option would be to make a loop north to Llaima and Sierra Nevada, taking a scenic back road through araucaria forests. This would take 4-5 days, after which I could return to the Panamericana and catch the bus from Temuco. Another would be to head south through the Siete Lagos region, crossing over to Argentina via the Paso Hue Hum to San Martin de los Andes, then back to Chile via Paso Cardenal Samoré to Osorno. The road south of San Martin is supposed to be one of the best short bike tours in Argentina, and if I made good time, I would even have time to see Bariloche. I was getting tired of volcanoes, so I chose the latter, pushing back my return flight to give myself some time to explore the Bariloche area’s supposedly better rock.

Villarrica and something else across Lago Calafquen
It felt good to be on Chilean asphalt as I rode around the south side of Lago Villarrica, but I quickly tired of the concomitant traffic. This continued after I turned south at the city of Villarrica, so I gambled on a side road supposedly containing two short stretches of dirt. The paved sections were glorious and almost car-free, and I enjoyed tooling south in no particular hurry. The dirt was another matter: while it was not as washboarded as the Argentinian stuff, it was loose in places, and steep enough that I crashed once going downhill before learning that I had to walk my bike down the steeper sections.

Choshuenco and Lago Panguipulli
I was planning to camp in Neltume or Puerto Fuy, but I made slower progress than expected on the rolling road, and instead stopped at a nice camp-spot by a river next to Lago Panguipulli. The water looked clean, with no upstream lakes or settlements, there were blackberries all around, and I would sleep better at an undeveloped campsite, undisturbed by lights and neighbors. I took my time the next morning, reaching the ferry across Lago Pirihueico around lunch. The lake, around ten miles long with steep wooded hills rising directly from its shores, reminded me somewhat of Lake Chelan in the Cascades, where I had taken the ferry to Holden to climb Bonanza and Fernow.

Lunch in Puerto Fuy
I noticed a female cyclist as I bought my ticket, but did not disturb her, instead heading over to an eatery by the lake for lunch. It cost more than I would normally pay — about $5-6 — but the scrambled eggs with ham and cheese and fresh bread were a nice change from my normal diet of polenta and Mantecol. The lake is only at about 2000 feet, so it sees little snow in the winter, but nearby Volcan Choshuenco is home to a significant glacier on its east side, clearly visible from town.

Mika on the ferry
I looked for the cyclist while we lined up to board the ferry, and found that she was traveling with her partner and two children, now aged four and six. They were nearing the end of a three-year journey from Fairbanks to Ushwaya, which they have written about on their excellent website (sorry, only in French and German). They were both carrying full panniers, and Daniel was also pulling a two-wheeled child trailer. His rig was unimaginably heavy, apparently weighing something like 200kg including him and the kids. We talked all the way across the ferry, while the kids ate and bounced around the boat. Marilyne is French, Daniel German, and the kids were barely speaking age when the journey started, so they already spoke at least three languages, and perhaps four, though I did not hear any English from their time passing through the States and Canada. Both were friendly, but while Daniel was somewhat quiet, Marilyne was surprisingly voluble, doing most of the talking on the ride.

They were understandably slow, so I left them on the other side of the ferry, foolishly hoping to make it to asphalt in San Marcos de los Andes by evening. However, the road was classic Argentinian ripio, and the rolling hills slowed me to a crawl. Worse, I was having to stop every couple of miles to detach the trailer and re-tighten my rear quick release. I had had this problem occasionally on rough roads earlier in the trip, but it seems to be getting worse. I am otherwise happy with my trailer, but because of this problem I will probably switch to panniers for any future tours.

I saw a potential camp-spot next to Lago Lacar on the map, and was dismayed to find that it was a popular and clearly-signed day use area with a park ranger. As the sun sank, I slogged up a climb away from the lake, camping in the first open spot next to the road large enough to hold my tent. I continued to San Martin the next day over more rocks and washboard, regularly stopping to fix my quick release. They were grading the road near town, but even the freshly-graded part was not great, and they apparently did not intend to roll it after grading, so it would soon return to its miserable state.

Butte south of San Martin
I hung out at a gas station for awhile, using their internet to catch up with the world and try to plan my summer, then knocked out most of the climb out of town. There appeared to be several organized campgrounds between San Martin and Villa la Angostura, but there was plenty of water and wild camping, so I found a good spot with a fire ring and log to sit on, and had a nice, quiet evening.

Lago Falkner
My head-start made for another short day to Angostura, along one of the best stretches of cycling on my trip. The road between San Martin and Bariloche passes many large lakes, with gently rolling forest between them and low peaks farther off. For once the mountains looked as mountains should, with lakes at their base, then trees, then grass and rocks above treeline. I encountered numerous cyclists along the way, a couple of whom were even pulling Bob trailers, the first I had seen on my trip. I did more internet-ing in Angostura — planning a trip on one continent and organizing a fundraiser on a second, while traveling on a third is hard enough without a pandemic — then paid too much to stay at the neighboring campground. Angostura and Bariloche are quite touristic, with Chileans visiting from over the pass, and prices are accordingly high.

Nahuel Huapi
The final ride to Bariloche was fifty easy miles around the huge Lago Nahuel Huapi, the first 35 or so with a wicked tailwind. I started late and stopped often to take pictures or admire the view, and still made it to Bariloche by mid-afternoon. The last part of the ride, from the intersection with route 237 to town, was made somewhat unpleasant by traffic coming from the city of Neuquen, and the town was far too large and busy for my taste. However, I could see the storm approaching over Cerro Cathedral to the west, and it was forecast to rain the next day, so it would be home for a little while. I found the closest campground to town, and once again paid too much to sleep.

Volcan Villarrica

Villarrica from Pucon

An upset stomach kept me from sleeping well, I was feeling no better in the morning, and I was out of instant coffee. I unenthusiastically swallowed some hot chocolate for breakfast, then packed up, popped some metronidazol, and got on my way down the hill toward Pucon. It was a cold descent on the shady side of the range, and steep, making me glad I had not crossed this pass the other way. When I finally reached the valley floor, the views opened up and I was finally able to see the shape of the terrain. It reminded me a lot of the Skagit Valley in the North Cascades, with sparse, moldy farms on a flat valley bottom, and trees growing on impossibly-steep slopes to either side. There were even wild blackberries growing along the road, and some shops advertising salmon. The only incongruous element was the huge volcano rising behind me at valley’s head.

I tried some berries, then nectarines and fruit juice bought in one of the small tourist towns, but my appetite needed more time to recover. I decided to take a easy day, riding only about forty downhill miles to Pucon, then climb Villarrica from town on the next. There are several campgrounds in this sizable tourist town, which offers watersports on Lago Villarrica in the summer, and skiing on the volcano in the winter. I chose one that advertised WiFi, then settled in to catch up with the world. In classic Argentinian fashion, though I was now in Chile, the hot water was only on between 7:00 and noon, and 7:00 and midnight, so I waited impatiently to take a comfortable shower, then quickly ate and tried to sleep as my neighbors started their evening revels.

Lago Villarrica beach
I still felt off the next morning, so I slept in, then headed down to the beach to watch the humans frolic in the water. Evidently the Argentinians share the Mexican suspicion that humans sink like bricks, so swimmers — waders, really — were only allowed in a few roped-off sections. The rest of the lake was open to everything from jet-skis to sailboats, and there was even a paraglider overhead. It looked like they rented sailboats to amateurs, which made me wonder if there is a tug boat that comes around at the end of the day to collect them from the lake’s leeward shore.

Pigeon-hawk
Next I wandered around town running errands and playing tourist, drinking overpriced coffee at a German-themed cafe, then sat in the park to write postcards. Though it had no WiFi, the park was a pleasant place, with plenty of shade, various flowers, and hawks that strutted around the ground like pigeons. Finally I swung by the Conaf office, where I learned that I needed crampons, ice axe, boots, and… a printout of my AAC membership, which is just as ridiculous as a radio, but a whole lot cheaper. Fortunately I had a PDF of my AAC membership card on my phone, and no one noticed that it had recently expired. (It was nice knowing you, AAC, but the Schweizer Alpin-Club is probably a better deal for me this year.)

Riding toward volcano
I woke in the dark the next morning, and started riding for the ski area as soon as it was light enough for cars to see me clearly around 7:30. The paved road to the park boundary is brutally steep, so I was glad not to have the trailer, though I was still slow with my heavy pack full of mountaineering gear. I stopped in at the office, where I learned that the rain had scared off the other climbers, so I would not face the crowds I had seen in photos despite its being a weekend. I also learned that I needed a helmet (bike helmets are okay) and there is a $5.50 entry fee. Paperwork complete, I was off up the dirt, which was mostly less steep, but still a grind.

Ski Villarrica
I locked my bike to the trailhead sign, put on pants over my tights for decency, then took off hiking up the ski slopes. Following Biggar’s instructions, I followed the left-hand chairlift, thereby both finding a nice use trail and avoiding the Conaf guard parked at the top of the right-hand one. Signs in both Spanish and German at the top of this lift warned that it was Very Bad to continue without permission and proper gear.

Summit from glacier
The trail continued above, passing some weird concrete structure on the way to the glacier’s base. It had looked from town that there might be a dry route all the way to the summit, and there may be, but it would still at the very least involve a bit of sketchy scrambling on volcanic cliffs, then acres of spiky choss, so I changed into boots and crampons, took out my axe, then started up the glacier, following an old boot-pack. It had been awhile since I had used this gear, but I managed to keep the spiky side down. I was depressingly slow for the altitude, though, not sure whether to blame my recent intestinal bug or my generally run-down state.

The lunch crowd
Rounding the bend toward the upper glacier, I was surprised to see people in bright-colored clothing descending from the summit, and patted myself on the back for doing everything according to the rules. Reaching the top of the glacier, I found a dozen or so people hanging out eating lunch. They seemed to be one large guided group with at least two Americans, one Frenchwoman, and two local guides. I dumped my crampons and axe, made use of my French until it crashed into my Spanish, then continued to the summit.

Crater
Apparently the lava is high enough to be visible from the rim in early February, but by early March it had retreated and was well out of sight, though I thought I heard a couple of splashes. I certainly saw plenty of fumes, though, which smelled horrible and burned my eyes. Still, I made a full circuit of the summit crater to tag the highpoint (which is apparently verboten). Along the way, I got a good view of the large and crevassed south glacier, passed right by a few steam vents, and crossed some strange new rock that looked a bit like crevassed ice. I passed the tourists as they took off their crampons below the glacier, then had a nice scree-ski back to my bike. From there it was a fast, fun coast back to the campground, where I spent an unprecedented third night before continuing south.

Volcan Lanin

Lanin from trailhead

I got a reasonably early start around 7:30, both because Lanin is a decent-sized climb from the campground, and because the office would still be closed, so there would be little chance of a ranger seeing me out the window. The route starts out as a dirt road, much better than most I had been riding, then turns into a footpath. Along the way, there are various signs identifying the trail-side plants, and one listing the long list of required equipment to scale this dangerous summit. I had perhaps one of the required things, but I could also see from camp that the entire route was dry. I had turned on Strava for the first time in awhile, so while I did not go all-out for speed, I did jog a few parts of the path, and tried to maintain a reasonable effort.

The fish spine
After crossing the flats to the peak’s base, the route climbs an old lateral moraine called the “fish spine,” then switchbacks up toward the first refugio. The loose, sharp volcanic talus would be a nightmare to climb in its original state, but fortunately there is a good path, with the occasional sign or painted arrow to keep people on course. The refugio was more developed than I had expected, with several semi-permanent tents in addition to the orange building described in the guidebook. I did not see anyone outside, but tried to pass quickly, discreetly, and at a bit of a distance.

Route from yellow hut
I had expected distinct up- and down-trails, but there seemed to be just one general confusion of paths, none of which was particularly well-suited to travel in either direction. I passed the higher yellow hut, seemingly unused, then crossed a talus slope to reach some solid rock. It was the first such I had touched in a long time, and it felt good to do a bit of Colorado class 3 scrambling on the final climb. I passed two other groups on their way down, and was impressed that they managed not to knock loose rocks on me.

Villarrica and Quetrupillan from summit
The summit is a small, partly glacier-filled crater, with the highest point being somewhere in the crunchy ice on the far side. I easily walked over in my running shoes, taking care not to try to wedge a leg in a small crevasse crossing this bit of glacier. I took a look down the more glaciated south side, then tried to identify the surrounding volcanoes. Villarrica and Quetrupillan, along my intended route to the northwest, were closest and easiest to identify. Llaima is a high, sharp point farther north. The ones farther south were harder to pick out, both because of distance and because I was looking at their less-glaciated northern sides.

Eruption or dust?
I finished off my Mantecol in a sheltered spot, then took off back down the rock rib, walking quickly down the steep, sticky surface. I carefully avoided kicking rocks on the group I passed, returning their favor, then took a much quicker line down the scree to the right of the ridge, rejoining the trails where they crossed toward the yellow hut. I passed another group just above the lower refugio, then acted casual as I walked through camp. A ranger waved at me, and I waved back in a friendly way, kept my headphones in, and kept moving. I passed an army party on the trail below, resting and sweating in their fatigues and clunky boots, then found a nice down-path bypassing most of the switchbacks.

Down rib to Lago Tromen
Since it was hot out and I was wearing my mountaineering pack, I did not feel much like running the lower trail, but I occasionally jogged a bit out of boredom. I saw a ranger truck where the trail crosses the road, and waved to the owner as I passed. He seemed a bit more interested in talking to me than the previous one, though, and I saw another ranger ahead on the trail, possibly trying to prevent my escape. Had someone reported me? What kind of trouble would I face?

Clearly someone had turned me in — probably the ranger at the refugio — and they both had me dead to rights, and had gone to a remarkable amount of effort to hunt down a single rogue hiker. I told him I had only gone for a little hike up to the refugio, but he probably knew I was full of it, and in any case, no one is allowed above the flats without the required equipment, or at least without an arbitrary subset consisting of at least boots and a radio. I had seen people near the summit without the supposedly-also-required ice axes, with boots no better on any surface than my trail runners, but… rules are rules.

He made it clear that he was giving me a citation rather than a fine, then spent a long time filling in a form detailing my crimes. He unfortunately had forgotten to insert the carbon paper between two sheets, so he had to recopy most of it before finishing via carbon. He signed it, had me sign it, and then, for some reason, had two random passing tourists sign as witnesses after he explained to them that I was a criminal. Then we each took a copy and went our separate ways. It was a strange experience, but pleasant and effective as far as encounters with law enforcement go: there were no guns or threats, no extortionate fines, and I left feeling more ashamed than resentful. I still believe the rules for Lanin are utterly pointless, but would be more likely to follow them in the future. Not wanting to pay for the useless campground or see the rangers again, I packed up and made my way through customs, then passed a couple of lakes before finding a spot to camp on a side-road on the wet Chilean side of the mountains.

Among the Araucaria

First up-close sighting
I had another long leg south, but rather than continuing along 40 through the arid plains, I decided to travel closer to the mountains. Thanks to a map from the tourist office in Las Ovejas with up-to-date road conditions, I knew this would involve more dirt, but I hoped the scenery and easier water access would make up for it. Heading out of Las Lajas, I turned west toward the Pino Hachado pass, beginning a long, gentle climb out of the plains. The road roughly follows a river, and while it probably wouldn’t taste the best, it was nice to have easy access to water for a change.

Growing on columnar basalt
As the road climbs away from the river to avoid a canyon in the foothills, I noticed some strange-shaped trees on the surrounding basalt hills. They looked a bit like Ponderosa pines, with straight trunks and horizontal branches, but there was something off with them. The branches drooped and seemed greener, and some of the trees were a bit like palms, with tall, bare trunks and branches only at the top. I have never been to Africa, but for some reason they seemed like something one would see there. When the road finally came near a stand of them, I got off the bike to take a look, and found they were much weirder than I had anticipated. Rather than having groups of needles, the limbs were covered in broad, hard spines or leaves. It looked like some sort of early attempt at a pine tree, from back when ferns and succulents ruled the world. I later learned that it was an Araucaria araucana, or pehuen in the local native language.

Impersonating a pine tree
I continued upriver through a sparse forest of these for awhile, then stopped at a dirt road just short of the customs post to begin heading south. I grabbed some water from the side-stream, which I hoped was clean, then felt silly for doing so about five minutes later. This area is littered with springs, some coming right out of the road cut, so I could have clean water almost whenever I wanted. It is also a popular picnic spot, and I passed a dozen or so Argentinian families hanging around their fires, no doubt preparing for an asado.

Lago Aluminé campground pano
The road was only moderately unpleasant up to a broad pass, then deteriorated on the descent to join the east-west road from Zapala to Lago Aluminé. After what seemed like forever averaging less than 10 MPH downhill, I reached the main road, which I misremembered to be paved. Instead, I found wretched high-traffic washboard, busy with weekend traffic. Some drivers had become frustrated enough to create their own side-road in places, as I had seen in the Puna de Atacama, so I used that where I could. Fortunately, the road had been paved for the final descent to Lago Aluminé, so I was able to take it at a decent speed.

Lago Aluminé
I was eventually headed south, but I needed groceries, so I took a side-trip along the north shore of the lake to spend the night in Villa Pehuenia. This was one of the most tourist-y places I had visited in Argentina, with prices to match, but it was worth it to spend the night on the shore of a giant lake, in a forest of ponderosas and araucaria. The campground host was friendly and talkative, telling me what the strange trees were, and showing me what their nuts looked like and how to eat them. I had passed people gathering something on the ride in, and now I knew what it was.

Pehuen nuts are about the size of a finger joint, incredibly fire-resistant, supposedly high in protein, and taste more or less like other pine nuts. They were a main part of the locals’ diet, which made sense as I looked around and saw them everywhere. I picked up a few and tried preparing them in three ways: boiling, roasting on my camp stove, and roasting wrapped in aluminum foil next to a fire. The last approach worked best, though baking or possibly steaming would probably be better. This being Argentina, though, I should have built a fire and put them in an old tin can.

Shrine to Ceferino
It was surprisingly cool in the morning, so I got a late start back around the lake, and was further delayed collecting a bag of araucaria nuts to experiment with later. The road along the Rio Aluminé was dirt, but in relatively good shape and slightly downhill, so I proceeded at a decent pace, then made much better time in the strange island of asphalt roads around the town of Aluminé. I stopped briefly at a shrine to Ceferino, some kind of local saint, then reached town mid-afternoon.

That’s “MAN-tecol”: 2000 calories!
It was hot, and this would be my last civilization for awhile, so I half-napped in the park while waiting for the stores to open. Sitting up and looking around I was surprised to see another bike tourist at the next table over. He turned out to be Francisco (or Pancho), an Argentinian man who had been touring for three years non-stop. He was headed north now, criss-crossing the border and hitting pretty much every pass along the way. Because he was traveling year-round, he had even more gear than I did, including two panniers of winter clothing he hadn’t opened in months. I had hoped to split the 200-ish kilometers between Villa Pehuenia and Paso Tromen into two equal portions, but delays talking to Pancho and finding the ATM in Aluminé (the shiny bank building is buried in a dirt-road residential area), I only made it a few kilometers farther, camping near sunset at a popular spot along the river.

Log cabin on blocks?
I knew I had a long haul the next day, so I managed to get a reasonable start. The river road was paved until it crossed a bridge, then turned to dirt and added regular rollers, which slowed my progress. Still, it was not bad as far as Argentinian dirt roads go, so I was in a decent mood as I made my way south. The road eventually leaves the Aluminé where it bends east, climbing around 1500 feet before dropping a similar amount to the junction with the Paso Tromen road. This could have been ugly, but I found that a road crew was working at that very moment to pave it. The fresh asphalt was incredible, and even the surrounding dirt was freshly-rolled, so the climb was much less of a struggle than I had feared.

Reaching the pine-treed summit, I stopped in one of the Argentinian roadside shelters (for hitchhikers?) to drink some water and have more sausage and bread. A nearby worker, toiling away by himself at some task and apparently bored, came over and offered me water, asking about my trip. He seemed to think it was a bit crazy, preferring to head into the mountains more sensibly by horse. I eventually continued, leaving the construction to be faced with the original washboard dirt for awhile, then finding more good pavement on the descent to the Tromen junction.

The heat was intense at this lower elevation, and the roadside springs I had seen to the north had disappeared. Too impatient to deal with my overused and half-clogged filter, I dipped my bottles straight into the river, despite knowing that it came from a large lake and passed all sorts of livestock. I had become used to drinking some pretty sketchy water, and figured one more time wouldn’t hurt. (I paid with a day of diarrhea 2-3 days later, but… worth it.) A herd of motorcyclists and the odd tourist passed me while I was at the river, but the road seemed pleasantly quiet.

Early Lanin sighting
The rest of the ride went much as I had expected, though with the addition of a discouraging headwind. Lanin first comes into view soon after the junction, its cone divided almost perfectly into white and black halves by the edge of its southeast glacier. Most of the climb is gradual and well-paved, and would have passed easily in the morning before the wind and heat. The pavement gives out at the park boundary, though, leaving 10 kilometers of unpredictable dirt. The first few kilometers were freshly graded, and I though my work was almost done; I stopped for more river water, and thought better of scolding a family collecting araucaria nuts, which is clearly forbidden in the park. The last part, though, had not been improved, and was a sandy washboard that, with the headwind, kept me in my lowest gear despite barely being uphill.

Reaching the park office, I thought I would be a good visitor and register for the climb. He told me that I should come back at 8:00 the next morning (ugh, but okaaay…), that I needed crampons, ice axe, and mountain boots for the obviously-dry hike up the northeast side (yeah, got ’em, whatever), and that I needed a radio. A what?! Yep, I would need a radio to fill out the papers (I should have just lied and asked “what frequency?”), he did not have a loaner like the nice guys at Domuyo, and there were none for rent. Still in “good visitor” mode, I sulked out and rolled over to the neighboring campground, where I paid actual money for no showers, no electricity, and a crappy table. I stewed for awhile, then decided “screw you guys, I’m walking up and down your stupid mountain.”