Kind of the PR

(Link to route info: http://www.pataclimb.com/climbingareas/chalten/fitzgroup/mermoz/pilar.html)


After climbing Chiaro Di Luna I expressed my intention to sit out my Achilles injury in the chocolateria. In the time it took for the swelling and pain to subside I also managed to visit a myriad of cafes and both ice cream parlours on several occasions. I felt decidedly more fat than fit.

Once the ankle was strong enough for me to boulder and sport climb on the outskirts of town, Tony suggested that I hire some strap-on crampons to approach routes in my trainers, thus eliminating the need to wear the boots that aggravated my Achilles in the first instance.

With good weather forecast for the Friday, we chose the Red Pillar on Mermoz as our objective. Analysing our previous route together, we felt that the rushed preparation and approach (due to having only just arrived in town) was the main factor in how trashed we had felt for the route. This time, we assured ourselves, would be different. Wednesday was left free; we would be fully prepared and completely rested.

Wednesday morning came, and over breakfast we we told of an injured climber high up in the Torre Valley. With the winds too high for a helicopter rescue, 30 climbers were mobilizing themselves to affect a rescue operation. It was difficult to not feel some level of grievance at the possibility of losing our opportunity to utilise the good weather, however utilitarianism took precedence in our minds.

The group of climber present worked well as a self-organising and motivated team. The kinship of it being a fellow climber in need creates a powerful reciprocal obligation to help, but even considering this, it was still heartening to see the gusto with which people helped. This went further still, to the non-climbers who helped out as far as they could, in spite of having a much weaker reciprocal incentive to do so. The day was a long one however. Stretchering all 95kgs of Canadian Ross across scree and uphill was not easy work. We got to bed sometime in the early hours.

The next morning came too early, in spite of milking the snooze button on my watch as much as I could justify. The available weather window was brief, so we had to leave that day, but we were in an even worse state of preparedness than last time! Collective psyche was low, and I sensed that both of us were on the brink of dissuading the other from even setting off. Begrudingly, we continued to pack our bags, and bitched our way along the hike to the bivvy site.

To cut a damp story short, we arrived at the bivvy late, quickly stuffed ourselves and settled down to another night sharing a sleeping bag. We rose at 2am (although only just, in a moment of weakness Tony almost switched off his alarm before I was awake) and walked the final 3 hours to the base of the route. We climbed three pitches, caught a glimpse of the splitter upper pitches, and got rained off. The conditions became properly Patagonian (well, probably not properly Patagonian in the scheme of things, but I thought it was all a bit minging). We got back to town damp and dejected.

We agreed to escape El Chalten and head to Bariloche for some stress-free climbing. Then Tony checked the weather forecast again. Another window was opening up. Unable to leave on a good forecast, and with the bitterness of unfinished business spurring us on, we walked in again.

This time our preparation was ideal. We were well rested and fed. We knew the approach. Tony had already cruised the first crux pitch, and higher up the grades eased. We felt pretty confident of fast and slick ascent. Which, as it transpired, turned out to be quite some error of judgement.

As soon as we moved above our previous highpoint, things started to go awry. Tony had to aid past the second crux, a boulder problem over a roof. The next "easier" pitches were alarmingly strenuous. Steep, butch cracks that Tony had lead with huge run-outs between his gear. Oh no he hadn't. The long gaps between peices of pro were the long stretches where Tony had leap-frogged two cams in an unashamed aid-fest. I spent the last of my fight on the supposed final hard pitch. It felt great to be trying hard and just pulling it out of the bag, high above the glacier on perfect granite with a feeling of remoteness. And the sun on my back, unreal! This feeling stopped suddenly, when the next pitches felt no easier, and became a protracted dogging session. I felt like I was working a route at Malham, rather than on our intended fast and light, alpine ascent.

Wearily, we surmounted several false summits on the final ridgeline, until we found one that lead us on to no further disappointment. Although not the fast and clean ascent that I'd envisaged, I felt no lack of satisfaction at this. One never knows how hard a route will be until one tries it. An inevitable consequence of this is that sometimes you will bite off more than you can chew.