Trouble on Cerro Catedral

I’m up too early. I’m up before the hostel lobby is open. But the clock finally strikes eight and I have three cups of peach yogurt and head out the door on another showery day in search of a bus to Cerro Catedral. I wait in the chilly breezes for what seems like hours at the bus stop. Several groups of people are picked up and more take their place. I’m about to start walking when I see a sign that tells me for sure that the bus will stop here eventually. It finally does.


I start climbing Cerro Catedral. The rest of the bus scouts for lift tickets. I’m in my windbreaker and I pull on a llama hat. This feels like plenty as I generate heat plodding up the mountain. I jump a stream and lumber straight up the slope of a steep hillside. I reach patches of snow which soon coalesce into a full mantle of grainy slush and ice. I see patches of pure white scattered here and there, fresh snowfall.


I dig my boots into the sloping snow until I pick up a snowcat trail which leads to a lodge halfway up the mountain. I catch up with the snowcat digging a road through the snow which is still layered several feet thick at this altitude.


The wind accelerates as I go higher and it starts to snow. I follow slalom poles to the top. When I get there I’m buffeted by the stiffest wind gust I ever felt in my life. A several story tall cabin, lodge and refugio stands at the top with a long menu of hot food and drinks and a sign, abierto. But its most definitely cerrado. There are picnic tables on the deck if it wasn’t for the howling winds and snow squalls. Snow is piled six feet high on the side of the cabin. Even in this weather I go in search of a back trail down the mountain.


But I never find it. Instead the snow sandblasts my face from the wind that nearly knocks me off my feet. I follow the rocks that jut from the mountain crest and try to keep in constant motion so the cold doesn’t overwhelm me. I reach an impasse, a very steep slope of snow which may be possible to pass, but the consequences of slipping or the snow breaking away look dire. If I break a bone or even twist an ankle, death is a possible outcome.


After scouting the area, I scramble down a rock outcropping towards a lodge a quarter mile away but hundreds of feet lower. I cross a small slope to another outcropping, but it soon becomes clear that the slope is still perilous. The choices are narrowed down to one, I’m turning back. The cold aided by the wind is penetrating by now. I repeat a mantra of reassurance that all will be well and that I can do this. I retrace my footprints and the way back goes by surprisingly quickly. I lope downhill as quickly as I can manage. I’m soon on a muddy, snowless road with a light mix of rain and snow falling on my head. I tell an instructor of some sort how far the snowline begins so he can bring his class there, and then I pass the group themselves noisily negotiating the hill.


I end up back at the bus stop feeding on cookies as I wait. I doze on the bus and nearly miss my stop. I go in the hostel bathroon and peel off my mud stained pants and soaking socks and change into clothing of questionable cleanliness, head out the door to catch my next long bus ride with a half hour to spare.

Chocolate by the Lake

I pack and finish American Psycho. We gather outside. The hostel mates I never knew hand the bags to the top of the jeep and we start the precarious ride down. And I’m staying in Bariloche for at least one more day. The way to Rio Gallegos, the stop before my ultimate destination, Ushuaia, is not just long, but in two legs and not catered the entire way. It doesn’t leave until tomorrow. The clerk hand writes my ticket, not very auspicious.

I sign in at 1004 Hostel and go into Bariloche to find some famous Mamuschka chocolate. I eat over half the delectable box on a bench overlooking Lago Huapi. I read The Jungle Book that night while the rest of the hostel divides into cliques. I feel isolated once again. I can neither read or summon up the gumption to join anyone, so I go to bed.

Mulling over espresso and American Psycho

I wake up on a showery day and a rainbow arches form town to over Cerro Otto. I am up early, way before everyone else. I finally master the Italian espresso maker and decide that I want one of these.

The rain continues, and I feel beat up, so I stick to the indoors today. The showers arrive in blurred waves over the mountains. I read a hostel copy of American Psycho, the most disturbing book I ever read, but hard to put down for the same reason. I turn the pages while watching the day pass. A loud group of Dutch stoke the fire. I read through the afternoon and evening getting up only to change position and then make dinner. I fall seventy pages short of finishing the 400 page novel. I tell the hostel hostess, a Swiss immigrant named Ana, that I want to leave in the morning, but she’s not sure there will be room for me on the jeep, but shortly after she concludes that there is.

Walking a Bike

I get out the door as early as I can muster to walk into town. I pass a group of gauchos on horses gathering in the parking lot wearing traditional garb for a parade I have to skip in favor of adventure. I'm outfitted with an old orange GT mountain bike and a bag, but no map. I find an outdoor shop that sells a good one with icons to indicate mountain biking trails.

I ride towards Cerro Catedral, this time bypassing it to circumnavigate a sizeable lake, Lago Gutierrez. I find a dirt road aside the lake that passes campsites before climbing towards the village of Cerro Catedral once again. I pass wild apple trees and encounter a couple with a child taking a walk. A truck fishtailing wildly passes me, but nothing else does until I enter the village. I eat my lunch and determine the rest of my route, unsure of which road I take next. I spot a group of bedraggled trekkers head up a dirt road and that’s where I go. I find a narrow path of smooth singletrack and follow it. I cross a stream over a precariously angled log with my bike shouldered. The mountain streams by this time become more frequent and are filled with spring melt. The trails are barely maintained and often washed out and I spend much of my time pushing my bike up and down steep banks. I reach a brisk, but somewhat narrow stream with no bridge and I have to get my feet wet. A trekker on the opposite side helps me across the icy flow by grabbing my bike.

From then on, I’m mostly walking. I reach a washed out stream and lug my bike on my back, and tossing my bike on the bank while I climb. After a few kilometers of this, I find the junction, to my relief, leading downhill to, I’m hoping a level and smooth path around the rest of Lago Gutierrez. There are precious few more opportunities to ride. I pass a couple of more mountain bikers, a guy and his frustrated girlfriend and I soon find out why the consternation. At the bottom is a lengthy string of deadfall and overgrown trail, icy stream crossings and a trail that undulates up and over cliffsides. The map lied. This is not mountain bike territory no matter the skill level of the cyclist. I struggle through bamboo stands. I say a little prayer before I balance the bike on my back and cross a narrow log above a turbulent river.

The trail ends at the base of a spectacular waterfall cascading in several stages off a mountain face and I hear the distant shouts of people swimming in a lagoon too far away for me to see. But I’m tired and its getting late and I press on along the edge of the lake. The highway and some cabanas come into view at long last.

I reach a dirt road, but I am disheartened. The lawns look too freshly manicured to be public. I soon spot fences and private property signs and I tense in anticipation of the imagined guard dogs, but they never appear. I’ve reached the grounds of exclusive cabanas which I find no apparent way around. I finally decide to crawl beneath the fence balancing on the narrow strip of rocky beach aside thorn bushes that border the fence. I am forced to wade through frigid streams and to step into the equally cold lake several times. I follow a group of Argentinians ahead of me to a road where the fence finally ends. The road leads to a packed campground and I continue until it leads me to the highway.

I wearily pedal against the wind, even small hills testing my endurance. Ordinarily this highway would be a magnificent ride along a white capped lake and a horseshoe of snowy peaks. I have just over an hour to arrive back in Bariloche, but the missing variable is the distance. I’m not sure where I am. I grab handfuls of wheat crackers and press on, refusing to check my clock again until I reach town. I finally do with fifteen minutes to spare before the bikeshop closes.

The bike shop clerk asks if I’m alright. Where did I go? I show him and he congratulates me. With dirt smeared shorts and abrasions covering my shins and calves, I return, in the dark, up Cerro Otto. A wave of fear comes over me as three dogs seem poised to attack me, and bark in warning. I hold my breath and the dogs let me pass, all bark after all. I soon reach La Morada and a crowd eating dinner at 9:30. After a rejuvenating shower, I cook a big meal and I relax before getting some richly deserved sleep.

Taking my new, shoddy camera to Cerro Catedral

I tromp, gingerly, down steep Cerro Otto, not accosted by any dogs this time. I make the 5km lakeside walk back into Barlioche passing the chalet style cabanas in construction on every spare bit of land. I go into one of the famous chocolate shops. One of the clerks donning a red scarf on her head asks if I need help, but I don’t know where to begin, so I feign miscomprehension, though I briefly stare down some tiramisu and shaved chocolate. The day before, I had discovered a jammed lens on my camera so I take it today to one of the many shops. Repair is futile so, after a few moments, I pick out the cheapest Kodak digicam, which is still no bargain, and half heartedly pack it away feeling the sting of 500 pesos.


Half the day is already past. I eat a brief lunch and trek away from town borrowing my Irish roommate’s map, but not sure of my destination. Before too long, many lakeside cabanas later, I spot a sign for Cerro Catedral and this looks intriguing. I turn down the road leading eleven km further to the ski resort not sure how I’ll get back before dark.


I follow the road and look for a trail and I find a jeep road and try that instead. This leads to a cluster of multi story chalets at the base of the ski resort, Cerro Catedral. I dunk my head underneath a roadside spring to take the edge off the heat. The resort is mostly deserted with several ground attendants working and tourists milling about and riding the ski lift. A lovely, modern gondola station lay
idle for the season.


I find a maintenance road on the ski hill and take the twisting and steep way to the top, my knee barely holding on. I cross remnants of snow fields and a way station below the summit. If I turn back now I will make it back, but the last kilometers will be in the dark. I hobble back down the hill with my gimpy knee and spot a public bus stop in the parking lot. I hobble even faster hoping to get a ride into town. I make it in plenty of time. I am about to board when the driver mumbles "alli" and gestures towards the kiosk packed with people. I board with the rest finding the last seat in the back of the bus.

Bariloche

And we arrive, as advertised, in the Alp-like resort of Bariloche, also a former Nazi hideout. Christmas trees and snow capped peaks abound, but they're not nearly as high as those to the north. Most top out at about 2000 meters, slightly below my home of Flagstaff.

I start my slog form the bus station and as the kilometers pass, I realize the center of town is much further away than I thought when I looked at the LP map. Four kilometers further, balancing two backpacks and my LP, I find my way to the Bariloche Center and up a cargo elevator ten floors to the penthouse hostel, 1004. I want to go to their sister hostel La Morada, isolated on the slopes of Cerro Otto, and I’m only here to wait for a ride. I’m instructed to buy groceries and come back in two hours.

After wandering the town, I lug my groceries up to the tenth floor and wait. I’m piled into the back of a jeep with a bunch of bricks while my new Irish cohort scores the front seat. We switchback up and increasingly steep and rutted jeep road as I wait for the pile of bricks to tumble down and crush me. Instead, my eggs fall on the floor, but I lose only one.

We are here at La Morada and the view is amazing like a Lake Tahoe vista. I eat and take a late afternoon hike up Cerro Otto following a trail that leads straight up following the gondola lines that go to the top. I walk a road for the last short leg and walk past a refugio, a revolving restaurant and a kiosco all closed for the season. I stop at a mirardor and follow the raptor like journey of some paragliders first being uplifted above the summit by updrafts and then slowly swooping into town far below and landing in a soccer field.

I try to find a more gradual trail back down that won’t aggravate my sore and possibly injured knee. I finally find one that starts to descend at a slight slope past a refugio cabin, but quickly turns impossibly steep and I begin to notice a pattern. I’m impeded by a fence blocking the trail and as I try to find a detour I’m met by a woman speaking rapid Spanish which soon transitions into perfect English once she realizes who she’s dealing with. She’s a middle aged missionary, I assume, originally from Poughkeepsie, NY, now living in Bariloche after spending some time in Chile. She leads me down the mountains past innumerable dogs and I thank her and am silently glad she didn’t try to minister to me. I find the cerro trail back up once again and push my diminished legs towards the hostel, dinner and sleep.