Aconcagua

I do force myself up, somehow, at 5 and I’m out the door walking briskly across the deserted city except for a popcorn stand that for whatever reason remained open throughout the night. I get there early. We pile on the bus, a few tourists, but mostly locals. One of the river guides from my raft trip takes this bus to work.



The barren foothills gradually transition into towering Andean peaks over 4k meters. We pass a small ski resort and then stop at even smaller Puente del Inca with a small Quechan souvenir market with llama wares and a few crystals thrown in.



I walk to the orange creamsicle mineral formation this site is renowned for. There are barriers blocking entrance to the site and with the gaping holes on the boardwalk leading there, it becomes apparent why. I walk back and find a small market selling provisions and purchase fruit juice, bananas, tangerines and a salami and take off for another unknown destination. Another group of travelers stop me and ask if I speak English. When they ask if I know what I’m doing, I shrug.



I meet what turns out to be a group of four Israelis on the road again. They found out about a small lagoon on the way to Aconcagua, so I join them. They’ve been to most of the places I’ve been so far, but stopping at Cachi and Calfayate as well. The tall one hands me a brochure for bikes and wines, an organized bodega tour, but I’ve had my fill of bodegas and bikes for now.


A valley opens up to give a clear view of Aconcagua, caked in an impermeable layer of ice and snow. It’s a month and a half until trekking season which doesn’t seem like enough time to melt much more of the snowpack. Footpaths weave up the valley, so it appears reasonable to follow and assume they lead someplace and they do. We take a break and the Israelis share a roll filled with dulce de leche with me. They urge me to see Puerto Madryn and the whales since the mating season is winding down within a month.



The sign I spot for the ranger station makes it official, we are on the right path. A large St Bernard belonging, aparrently, to noone in particular follows us, comically walking in and out of my path and body checking me. The red headed girl asks me if I ever saw a dog with such a big head before and I shake my head incredulously.





We reach a snowfield and the Israelis start snapping pictures. The tall one tells me there is a single mountain in Israel that gets sufficient snow to support a ski area. The St Bernard, meanwhile, is having a blast. First he eats the snow, then he rolls and writhes on it. He runs full tilt around the snowfield looking as if he was about to plow down one of the Israelis.

At the ranger station, a young female ranger emerges and hands us maps for the kilometer trail around the mountain lagoons. The wind funnels through a gap in the mountains with such intensity that it is hard to walk at times. It picks up bits of gravel and dust that blasts our faces. We reach an Aconcagua lookout and the St Bernard poses with some schoolchildren and then abandons us for a younger crowd.



We explore up the trail further and a German couple directs us to a large snowfield one kilometer more. The tall Israeli hopes this is a good place to take pictures. And they do take picture upon picture, at one point trying to take one of the reflection of Aconcagua in a pair of sunglasses. I feel compelled to head up the mountain further, as far as I can in the time that’s left, but I quell that impulse and practice being satisfied with the moment.



Back down at the ranger station, a new ranger explains why the way to an intermediate peak is closed. Originally, the Israelis were going to trek and camp here, but the season for doing so is almost two weeks from starting. The search and rescue is not fully staffed and only they have access to emergency equipment. The ranger himself has summited Aconcagua many times, the first time when he was 16.



I go out ahead of the group somewhat anxious I won’t make it back in time to purchase a return ticket. But I get to the ticket kiosco, that doubles as a souvenir stand, in plenty of time. I linger on a bench waiting for the bus and watch groups of retirees and schoolchildren in turn walking to the puente and through the souvenir market pawing the crystals and crafts and returning to the tour buses. Clouds gather and the wind picks up again and I put on every piece of clothing I brought that day. The Israelis sit in the snack bar, but I feel a little alienated at this point.