Hubris can be described as “a loss of contact with reality and an overestimation of one’s own competence, accomplishments or capabilities.”
First we snickered at all the fancy, seemingly over the top gear worn by the trekkers around us on the way to the mountain. Then we shrugged off the new walking poles my Dad’s girlfriend, Ginny, had given us since after all, we are Amuricans and tougher than that (sorry Ginny). Then in our efforts to “take it easy on day one,” we were lulled by the happy little hiking figures on our map into embarking on what we assumed was a sensible hike to a nice vantage point.
Armed with the essentials – inadequate water supplies, sardines, oreo cookies (which we actually left on the counter) and toilet paper – we set out.
Seven hours later, in what only could be called the “Chalten Death March” two formally overconfident travelers – notwithstanding the fact that their combined age is 105 – learned just how easy it is to be given a frosty smackdown by the mountain king.
Indeed, it is the mountain that draws up all rules of engagement. Every wind gust, every vertical trail bend, every short of oxygen breath is defined by the brooding, temperamental peak that rules over the valley, mocking the chutzpah of those who attempt to casually take it on. In the end, Mt. Fitz Roy reins supreme.
The Patagonian landscape can only be described as one shaped by violence. Boulders the size of RVs sit eerily isolated in the middle of nothingness, the product of massive glaciers steamrolling them onward. The flora include sharp bushes that say “I’m pretty, don’t touch me” or “I smell nice, I’ll cut you.” Warped forests whose limbs are bent and stunted like bonsai trees speak of centuries molded by cruel, contorting winds. Strangely absent of wildlife, Andean forests are hushed, foreboding, easily lending themselves to our ongoing fantasy of being two hobbits, pressed onward in our ultimate quest to save the universe (no one ever accused us of being modest).
Our spirits were challenged in the crucible of the mountain that day. Just when we thought we had reached the top after a vertical three hour trek, we were provided with at least an hour and a half more of one foot in front of the other trudging. And through it all, my father was a determined, plodding dot in the distance. But guess what, we made it. And once you do, a hush settles over you, over the land. You sit there, at the summit, at the hall of the mountain king, as rays of sun burst through a hazy blanket of clouds, as black condors soar impossibly high, and suddenly, you can feel your heart beat, your senses expand, your mind calms. The mountain quietly reveals itself.
On our way down, Dad’s brain stopped communicating with his legs. A self-described “Frankenstein” he lumbered down the mountain, willing his stiff legs to maneuver down miles of rock and earth, allowing his daughter to guide his passage. As twilight descended, there were moments our faith faltered, but sardines and toilet paper pushed us over the finish line. Hence forth, we treated the Andes as the force it was intended – an utterly cold and disinterested master in the fate of two now humbled travelers.