We climb briefly and then cross the "dirty" southern arm of the Rio Tunel Inferior glacier, covered in bits of fallen rock, making it unnecessary to travel with crampons and safety rope. The views get more magnificent as we steadily climb, but the winds get worse as well. Once past the glacier, we seek refuge from the wind at a small bivouac camp and rest briefly before beginning the steep ascent into Paso del Viento.

 

The wind continues to build as we climb higher and higher up a steep slope of scree, but mercifully the wind is blowing in a direction that pushes me into the slope, and not down it. After a few hours of steady climbing, we reach the top of the pass, one of the most lonely, desolate, and beautiful places I have ever seen. Two small ponds rest on the flat-topped pass, and I get my first views of the South Continental Ice Field, which I glimpsed a few days prior from Paso del Cuadrado. "Nunataks"—mountains emerging from the ice field (from an Inuit word that somehow got lost, traveled around the globe, and ended up in a new home at the southern tip of South America)—push up through the dozens of glaciers, islands of stone in a sea of ice. I am surrounded by nothing but rock, ice, water, and snow, in a place were living things dare not tarry.

 

Laguna del Refugio.

Despite our weariness after the long climb, the heavy winds soon drive Ale and I from our high throne, down the western side of the mountains. We have crossed the invisible line between the tamed hinterland (if any part of Patagonia can be characterized thus) and the barbarous wild.  

 

Our home for the evening is a rusty shack on the shores of remote Laguna del Refugio, a small research outpost used by the occasional trekker as an overnight camp. Not surprisingly, we have the whole place to ourselves. Several signs inside the shelter remind us to keep it that way by cleaning up after eating to discourage foraging by mice. The lake is sheltered on all sides by steep moraines, giving us respite from the wind. After settling in and eating a small feast, I grab my camera and tripod and begin to scout around, looking for something to photograph at sunset. 

 

The Far Side of the World.

After almost two weeks of non-stop trekking up and down steep mountain slopes, my knees are stiff and sore. Even tramping through the high mountain meadows perched above Laguna del Refugio proves to be almost more than my body can handle. Nonetheless, I push on as much as I am able, looking for something interesting to photograph. At sunset, I end up at a lonely boulder perched in the middle of nowhere, sitting atop striated rock, a remnant from glaciers of old. Something about this boulder speaks to me, and seems to express the stark and preternatural essence of the landscape. I experiment with long exposures, letting light and time paint across the image frame for several minutes. I am probably the only person who has ever photographed this rock, and likely the only one who ever will. I feel as if I am on the far side of the world.

 

As sunset fades to twilight and darkness descends, I make my way back to camp, each step agony for my sore knees. The wind seems to calm, the first time all day, as I return to the shelter. Ale and I have some tea, and then settle in for the evening. The shelter has several wooden bunks for sleeping, which prove to be more comfortable than the rocky ground which has been my bed for most of my backcountry stay. The shelter proves to be a comfortable refuge from the cold, gently vibrating with the occasional gust of wind. Exhausted, I lie down and quickly fall asleep, dreaming of hungry mice.

 

Inlet stream, Laguna del Refugio.

March 21: I awaken early to cloudy skies. I explore the small inlet stream to Laguna del Refugio, seizing upon the brief moment when the clouds break and catch some morning light. The moment is fleeting and not terribly interesting, but I like the way the shapes of the stream and clouds come together. Not every image needs to be a trophy shot—images that tell a story or that focus on some small detail are worthwhile too. A photograph of a small stream tells the story of Patagonia as well as any stunning mountain sunrise—it just shows a different facet of the story, one that is typically overlooked by those distracted by the magnificent scenery.

 

Ale and I shoulder our packs, and begin the long hike south to Paso Huemul, which will take us back over the mountains. Upon leaving the shelter of Laguna del Refugio, we get struck with the full force of the demon wind.

 

I spend the rest of the day learning how a plastic bag feels in the wind. A steady gale blows as Ale and I traverse open alpine gardens and scree fields. We face ceaseless forty mile-an-hour winds, with more violent hurricane-force gusts every few minutes. I lose count of the number of times a blast of wind knocks me and my thirty-pound backpack over. We hike for hours tossed about like rag dolls, finding sanctuary only once after descending into a steeply-sided dell.

 

The wind only gets worse as we begin the steep climb into Paso Huemul. With the gale at my back, my pack acts like the Cutty Sark at full sail. Many gusts are strong enough to propel me up the slope at rapid speed. Although it would seem in theory a good thing to have a strong wind at your back while ascending a steep slope with a heavy pack, in practice it proves to be dangerous and exhausting work, as I can barely control myself and keep on my feet. At times I am reduced to crawling. When I reach the top of the pass, I would gladly collapse, but the demon wind keeps pushing me forward. Only when we start to descend down the other side through a dwarf lenga forest do we find some relief.     

 

We don't go far before setting up camp at the foot of the lenga forest, the only place away from the wind. Soon Ale and I are both in our respective sleeping bags, taking a well deserved nap. Although I don't sleep very well, at least I am out of the wind, if only for a short period of time. At sunset, I hike out to a cliff overlooking Lago Viedma and the Viedma Glacier, almost two thousand feet below. The demon wind is still blowing strong, howling like the tortured souls of hell, so I cautiously crawl to the edge of the cliff, too afraid to stand lest a gust take me over into the abyss. Sitting on the edge, I set my tripod between my legs, and then holding on for dear life, start a series of fifteen and thirty second exposures to record sunset skies streaking over Lago Viedma.  

 

March 22: Overnight it has snowed at higher elevations. I awaken to mostly cloudy skies. The winds have seemingly not slackened in the least. I once again crawl to my cliff-side vantage over the Viedma Glacier, and wait for some light to break. After a few minutes, the clouds thin, and a sliver of light strikes the peaks above the glacier. I make a few more images as the light changes, but the cloud cover returns, so I head back to help Ale with breakfast and to break camp.   

 

We begin a steep descent through a lenga forest that has felt the first brush of autumn, showing a scattering of red amidst a sea of green. Soon we stand on the shores of Lago Viedma, a massive glacier-fed lake that is virtually untouched by the hand of man. Ale and I drop our packs and rest. Now that we are down from the mountains, the demon wind that has plagued us for days is finally still. The clouds part, and we lie basking in the sun, enjoying a fleeting moment of warmth and comfort. We end up hitching a ride on a tourist cruise boat that passes by. The crew pulls us aboard using a tire suspended from a rope, a sufficiently dramatic affair that raises a cheer from the passengers.  

 

The boat takes us back to civilization, where Merlin, head guide of Mountaineering Patagonia, waits for us. We pile into his car and drive back to El Chalten. There, a pleasant hotel room and a warm shower greet me. I settle in to relax and read a book before meeting Merlin and Ale for beers and pizza in the evening.

 

In true Argentine fashion, our party of three soon becomes a party of five, then eight, and continues to grow from there as we are joined first by Merlin's wife and son, and then by his office manager Laura, who is celebrating her birthday, and then by her many friends. Although the company is delightful, and it is good to have warm food and cold beer in my stomach, I feel somewhat out of place. Maybe it is because I don't speak any Spanish, and most of the people present don't speak much English. Maybe it is because I have just spent two weeks virtually alone in the backcountry. Or maybe it is Patagonia calling to me one last time, summoning me for a final photography shoot. Whatever the reason, or for all three, I excuse myself early (by Argentine standards, at least—it is nearly 11PM by the time I leave) and head to my hotel room, ready to get up well before dawn for my last Patagonia sunrise.

 

March 23: I awake at 4AM, tired and slightly hung over from the beers the night before, walking the streets of Chalten in eerie silence, ascending the path to Laguna Capri by headlamp. I hike for over an hour in the dark, braced for the inevitable puma sneak attack that I know is waiting for me. My fears seem confirmed when, turning around to shine my headlamp to investigate a noise behind me, I see two beady points of light staring back at me. My heart skips a beat until I realize it is not a puma, but rather a jogger sporting a headlamp with two LED lights. He passes by me, muttering a greeting in Spanish, and then disappears into the gloom.

 

I arrive at Laguna Capri with just enough time to find a suitable photography location before the sun rises. And then, suddenly, Fitz Roy turns brilliant red, kindled by Aurora's light. Clouds wreathe the mighty peak in smoke. In the end, it is not the pumas, but the demon wind that is almost my undoing. Calm all morning, a sudden gale bellows down the mountain like an angry dragon, knocking my tripod over. Quick reflexes allow me to catch my camera before it hits the stony ground, and then the wind is gone as swiftly as it came. I set up again and take an image, the last of my trip.   

 

After this final, glorious sunrise, I begin the long trip back—first by foot to Chalten, then by bus to Calafate, then by plane to Buenos Aires, Houston, Atlanta, and Baltimore, and finally by car back to my house in Virginia. There, I see my wife and three cats for the first time in three weeks, who have almost become strangers to me during my absence. It takes a few days to adjust back to "normal" life. My thoughts often turn back to Patagonia, and I begin to dream of returning to get all the photographs that I missed while I was there.

 

But, in the end, it is good to be home.