Laguna de Los Tres.

The cold and rainy weather of morning gives way to warm and sunny skies by mid-afternoon, and I have a pleasant hike past Laguna Hija and Laguna Madre, both worthy photo destinations in themselves. I rest for a moment at Laguna Hija, eating lunch and warming myself in the Austral sun. It is easy hiking for the rest of the afternoon, and I soon pass the wetlands surrounding Arroyo (stream) del Salto, which leads to Camp Poincenot. I pause to reflect that earlier that morning I stood at the very spot where Poincenot died, and now stand in the place where he lives on, if in name only. Shaking off this cheerless thought, I claim a tent space, relaxing for a while before heading out for my sunset shoot.

 

My destination for the evening is Laguna de Los Tres, a remote glacial lake high above Camp Poincenot. I climb steeply, gaining 1400 feet in less than two miles, passing on the way up a number of trekkers who are heading down. After an hour of steady climbing, I reach the top of the high ground surrounding Laguna de Los Tres. I pause for a moment to take in the incredible view. Several hundred feet below me lies the lake, a brilliant sapphire glimmering in the sunlight; several thousand feet above, the Fitz Roy massif, millions of tons of sky-piercing granite; all around me, heaven on earth. And the most amazing thing is—I have the whole place to myself. Everyone else has gone back to camp for supper.

 

Fitz Roy at sunset.

I spend the evening exploring the lake at its surroundings, eventually wandering to the top of a boulder-strewn hill overlooking Laguna Sucia, a thousand feet below me. The view is magnificent. Hanging glaciers overlook steep cliffs that rise majestically above the lake, with waterfalls tumbling several hundred feet into the azure waters below. I sit for an hour in awe as dozens of avalanches cascade down the steep slopes, one after another. I smile as each one crashes into the lake with a bang, until I remember poor Toni Egger, and imagine his last thoughts before he was overcome by an onslaught of ice—a moment of sheer terror and pain, followed by oblivion. A sobering reminder of the awesome power of this place.

 

Although I have clear skies in all directions, a cloud hangs over Fitz Roy, neither growing, moving, nor shrinking. Using a triangular boulder to anchor my foreground, I create a composition that shows the sweeping landscape, the stunning sky above, and Laguna Sucia far below, like an unblinking eye. I am totally at peace. I finish my shoot on the shores of Laguna de Los Tres, catching the last glow of twilight reflected in placid waters. Putting on my head lamp, I hike down in the dark, collapsing into my sleeping bag upon return to camp.

 

March 17: I awake before dawn the next morning to hike back up to Laguna de Los Tres for sunrise. I soon realize that I will not repeat the enchanting experience of the night before, when I had the most beautiful place in Patagonia all to myself. I'm guessing that the Lonely Planet guide for the area lists "sunrise at Laguna de Los Tres" as a must-see event—because every trekker in Camp Poincenot is heading up the mountain, a line of headlamps stretched over two miles, several dozen points of light in the dark.

 

Sunset, Laguna de Los Tres.

When I reach the top, a pack of thirty people have congregated on one of the hills overlooking the lake, gathered like lemmings. Many of them have cameras, their tiny automatic flashes firing hopelessly to illuminate the massive landscape in the dark, like fireflies on a warm summer night. Seeking solitude, I head back to my boulder on the hill overlooking Laguna Sucia, and sit and wait for the dawn in the chilly twilight. Alas, clouds have moved in, blocking the rising sun. After an hour of waiting for some light, I finally give up and head down, without taking a single photograph. I wonder if the Lonely Planet crowd knows what they missed the night before.

 

I head up the Rio Blanco, which leads to Laguna Sucia, the lake I watched from my perch high above Laguna de Los Tres. Rio Blanco is a wonderful mountain stream, with Fitz Roy rising above it at every bend and twist in the river. The skies above me clear somewhat, giving me hope that sunset will be as good as the night before.

 

Waterfall tumbling down to Laguna Sucia.

Nearing the lake, I come upon a stream cascading down the steep slopes above me, its source Laguna de Los Tres, a thousand feet above. I pause to take a quick photograph of the stream as the sun sets behind Fitz Roy, forming a perfect starburst on the edge of the mountain. I soon reach the shore of the lake and take in the stupendous views I marveled at the day before, this time looking up instead of looking down. Icebergs from yesterday's avalanches float lazily on the lake, and high clouds drift over Fitz Roy. It's beginning to look like it will be a good evening.   

 

After exploring the area, I get down to business and begin to make some photographs. The clouds over Fitz Roy are beginning to take on some interesting shapes, but the light doesn't yet have much color, so I opt for black and white images. I start at the source of the Rio Blanco, the outlet of Laguna Sucia, and begin to slowly work my way back along the stream, stopping to make photographs here and there. It is still some time before the sky takes on any color, so I scout the river as much as I can, setting up my camera on every promising rapid. That way I'm ready if something interesting happens.

 

Photographers pride themselves on their ability to "pre-visualize" a scene, taking a random jumble of elements and bending Nature itself by the sheer force of their will to create a pleasing composition. Truth be told, more often than not Nature is the one doing all the work; we just show up to make a record of the event. When something truly magnificent happens, how much credit can we really claim? The best nature photographers are almost invariably the ones who spend the most time in the field, simply waiting for magical moments to happen. The most we can hope to do is avoid making a mess of the wonder that is occasionally served up to us on a silver platter.

 

"Crowning Glory"

My evening shoot along the Rio Blanco turns out to be one of those magical moments. Slowly, I'm sure, but seemingly to me suddenly out of nowhere, a halo of light appears, perfectly arcing above the Fitz Roy massif, with drifting clouds radiating outward like groping tendrils. It is one of the most wondrous atmospheric events I have ever witnessed. I race around, hoping from boulder to boulder, trying multiple variations of compositions as the halo waxes stronger and stronger. Using neutral density filters, I slow down time itself, recording the motion of the clouds and water during thirty-second exposures. I shoot dozens of different compositions before the halo dissipates, a fleeting moment of wonder celebrating Patagonia's crowning glory.

 

That evening, I return to camp, feeling triumphant, only to have my mood shattered by my new neighbors. A group of cigarette-toting Israeli trekkers have moved into my camp—and I mean literally, they have moved into my camp, ignoring dozens of nearby empty sites and setting up their tents in my site, right next to my tent. I am shocked at their brazen appropriation and apparent disdain for the notion of personal boundaries, and I glare at them in what I hope is a menacing manner as I crawl into my tent for the evening. The Israelis prove to be decent enough company, however, as they soon turn in, giggling occasionally whenever one of them farts, but eventually drifting into a deep and silent slumber.

 

A mix of American and European trekkers in a nearby camp, however, prove to be a different story. They stay up for what seems like half the night blaring their radio, singing loudly along to "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." This confounds me mightily. I can't even begin to fathom why college kids these days would still be listening to Meat Loaf. The song was ancient back when I was in college; heck, my dad bought Bat Out of Hell when I was only five years old. "Paradise" is the kind of song that seems fun the first few times you listen to it, but after hearing it sung off-key over and over again by drunken co-eds, there's no praying for the end of time—one is ready to take a sharp edge to the closest vein and simply be done with it. 

 

March 18: I emerge groggily the next morning for sunrise, exhausted by a sleepless night, but skies are gray and a light rain is falling. The drizzle quickly turns to flurries in the cold air. My Israeli friends depart early, leaving me alone to putter around camp, trying to decide on my next move. One of my noisy European neighbors cries out: "Snow? I didn't sign up for this!" I am tempted to yell back and point out that snow is better than rain, because snow doesn't make everything wet, but decide that I don't really want to start a conversation with someone who likes Meat Loaf.

 

With nasty weather moving in, I decide that maybe it is best to pack up and head back to Chalten for a night in the town, and hopefully some good sleep for a change. I make good time to the trailhead, and then take a detour to Chorillo del Salto, a beautiful free-drop waterfall three miles out of town. By now, the snow has turned back to rain, and I start to get chilled. After photographing the waterfall, I return to town for some well-deserved rest. The next day, I am set to meet up with Ale again, to start on a final backcountry trek that will take me over the mountains to the far side of the Andes, high above the South Continental Ice Field.

 

My hopes for rest that evening are dashed—even though I envelop myself in a lovely bed & breakfast, noise from a nearby rock music festival keeps me up until late. It is said that there is no rest for the wicked, who, like the troubled sea, cast up foam and mire. The same must hold true for nature photographers.

 

At least the band doesn't play "Paradise by the Dashboard Light."