Summit

A summit, a climax, a gathering toward something definitive, from this point you can travel no further unless you change the medium through which you are traveling, from the summit of a peak, if you want to continue moving in the same element you must go down – sure, we are capable of continuing up but we need wings, we need wind, we need tools that we have not used to get us this far: a summit is a culmination, all paths converging in this one element to come to a point, and in writing a period is a summit and since this piece has overtones of punctuation as defined by a mountain summit, periods are not included, have been shunned, it has been decided that the real summits about which are being spoken are more potent than the periodical summits of punctuation in writing and that this piece, for those reasons, is not broken by periods, but by the rolling waves of commas, the direct arrows of dashes – and the doorways of colons: not that this is unique in writing, I’m doing nothing new, Kerouac and Hemingway paved the way, many others before them of whom I’m not aware, just as earlier climbers have paved the way to the mountain summits around these parts of Patagonia, many of these people connected in text by hyphens: Terray-Magnone, Comaseña-Fonrouge, Kearney-Knight, etc. . . ah the ellipsis, the staccato “b-b-but wait there’s more” of the ellipses but I'm speaking no more of this because really this piece is not about punctuation but about summits, the way they collect the mass below them and bring it to definition, like the Earth Summits, collecting the mass of the environmental movement and defining it and in the same way a mountain summit, such as that of Fitz Roy bring the rocky mass of the peak to definition, the clearest, most concise way of saying, “This is who I am,” and so it is toward that definition that seekers seek, arrows point, mountains rise, summits entail this and on that unique point of Fitz Roy, the aspect that holds not a single nook of protection from the relentless winds off the Southern Patagonian Icecap, something poignant is pushing at your feet, with the mass of this mountain aiming up at that point on which you stand, and you feel something quite definitive.

Nice to meet you, Mr. Fitz Roy

Agapito’s first conversation with Fitz Roy was a troubling one indeed. He had journeyed a tireless journey and found himself face-face with a living legend, a mountain deity of such impressive power and wisdom tucked in the mountains of Patagonia at the end of the world. Climbing three vertical kilometers he grew tired of the noise of the incessant wind, the cold and all the harsh elements so he began to verbalize some of his frustrations and his questions. The conversation was stopped short, as most are with Fitz, but he got answers to some of the questions he was looking for, but for every answer a dozen new questions popped into his head, leaving Agapito craving more conversations. Fitz has a way of throwing a fit when he is perturbed (thinking long and hard about the role of the masculine and feminine in this world, it has been decided that Fitz Roy is most definitely masculine, not just for his shape but also for his character), with patience in short reserve and Agapito found him on a no nonsense kind of day with a fit that chased him out of sight.

As the wind began to pick up and precipitation of all forms began to whip into Agapito’s head-to-toe Gore-Tex, Agapito commented, “You know, Fitz, you really carry a bad attitude. One-love, you know, go talk to your brother Jah, we're all one and you don't need to throw such a harsh front around. I mean, you could be more sociable, put on a party shirt and invite some folks up there sometime, knock off all that noisy music you always play, chill a little and put on something a bit more ambient. I mean, you don’t always have to be so hard, you know? Well, you are a big chunk of rock, so you’re inherently hard and I’m definitely not one to change someone or something’s inherent qualities, but . . .”

“You think this is funny, that I should have a sense of humor? When the whole world is laughing at something they don’t even know what, you think I should have a sense of humor? You don’t come up here with your party shirt and I don’t ‘chill’ as you say. I’m here as a reminder that while everything has a time and place, some things are meant to be hard, a lesson long since forgotten in your country. I’m here to be the biggest mirror you’ve ever had thrown in front of your face and you will have a glimpse of what you and all things are made of. If I were soft you’d have nothing for this to bounce off.

"If I didn’t exist as a constant and defined boundary you’d have no boundaries to test. You and the rest of your poets, comedians and artists would continue laughing at the world and pretend that there is always something funny in it. While humor can be found in the most unlikely of places, I allow none of it here, so again, leave your party shirt and your ambient music at home. Here I howl and shriek and scream and make sure anyone who comes near hears it. When I stop it is because I’m yawning and bored with the games played below at my feet.”


“But everything has it’s contradictions and juxtapositions, even in darkness I can find some light and all extremes are contained within the whole, nothing in this world is truly . . .”

“Except for me, and a few other things, like mortality and birth, a sip of water and a breath. These things are defined, clear and crisp boundaries, with no room for questioning their value or their quality. They truly are as they appear. True, life is contradictory, apparently polarized and myriad in its manifestations. Two poles exist, as exemplified by the feminine and masculine, dark and light, and within this are infinite colors. I do not exist in that middle, though, but rather am the most vacant darkness and the most blinding light, but nothing in between. It is in between these two that you are allowed to dance and laugh, talk about contradictions and wear a party shirt, but on either extreme you must come prepared, serene, humble and with no sense of humor. Come with embrace, for sure; come without attachment. You can even enjoy yourself in the moment on these extremes, but give yourself AND ME more respect than to laugh - not here. Laugh at the memory of this moment, laugh at other coming into similar situations, but do not laugh when you and I are intimately engaged as we are right now.” As Fitz Roy roared this last sentence, Agapito hunched behind a rock and gripped tight at the rope he was tied to.

“Can I ever get any of your respect and maybe be here with you comfortably, you know, friendly and such?”

“Agapito, it seems you are always trying to gain other’s respect, this is not about that. You can never gain my respect and you shouldn't try. I am not here for that and you are not here because you need it. You are here to learn and I am giving you a great lesson simply by existing as my rock-hard self. True, I cannot teach you how to laugh, nor to dance. I’m a rock for Christ’s sake; I sit here. Lightheartedness is not in my nature. Nor do I care whether you or a million others attempt to learn my weaknesses and climb through them. I am a rock, a mountain and my quality is to endure and to watch. That is the lesson you can learn and I’ll teach you if you are a willing student . . .”

“I am, I’m willing to learn anything you . . .”

“Oh stop, eagerness doesn’t make a good student, patience, humility and observation do. I know you have those qualities, and urge you to focus on them, sharpen them. You will, I know you will, and I’ll talk to you again when you have. Chao Agapito.”

And with a gust and a shriek that took the “But wait . . .” right out of Agapito’s throat and sounded as if it had ripped the neighboring spire of Poincenot in half, Fitz Roy sent him sliding down the mountain one rappel-rope after another, leaving his flanks to the ice and rain and the solitude he has created for himself. Agapito went to rejuvenate and await another chance to converse with the Fitz.

Ruta 40

Highway 40 in Southern Patagonia looks as if it were carved from Butch Cassidy’s boot, with a sliver from his spur or a tail from his horse that was tossed up into the sky as a cirrus cloud. “Frontier” knows no truer definition than the pampas at the end of the world.

Becoming loose with comparisons, Patagonia is, like, one of those places that other places are compared to. It is raw and gritty, fierce and overt, subtleties are not it’s game, when it wants to speak it does so with a shout. Oh sure, subtleties are there when you look for them, as with any place, they can be found around here, but what smacks you first is the massive and conspicuous extremes of everything – the rise of the mountains, the expanse of the pampas, the strength and persistence of the wind, the excessive precipitation. Patagonia knows no middle-path and its excesses are downright gluttonous. To be honest, its existence is absurd, more appropriate for fantasy or dreams than for reality. And what it inspires is an acceptance of extreme possibilities.

As far as roads in Southern Patagonia go, Highway 40 is on the east in Argentina and the Austral Highway is on the west in Chile. The former is of gauchos (rough and rugged, maté-totting, leather-bound, wind-friendly Argentine cowboys) and the latter is of wilderness (vast, wet, broken-fjords, rainforests and mostly unlivable). Neither of these is a “highway” and although increased pavement and bus-access is steadily turning a Butch Cassidy boot landscape into on of sneakers and city-lights, Highway 40 maintains a level of desolation and solitude so complete that you wouldn’t wish it even upon Edward Abbey to try and write poetry here. We chose to travel the eastern route from Bariloche, winding for 2 days through rolling landscapes, past shrub-grass, chasing guanacos (the region’s camellid) and rheas (a flightless ostrich-like bird) from the road, over rivers, under vast skies, into ranch houses for empanadas, and catching distant and fleeting glimpses of the mountains to the west. The pampas through here are a steppe-ecosystem, sitting in the shadow of the Andes that have captured any moisture in the air and deposited it in endless forests, glaciers, and ice fields, mostly on the Chilean side.

Superlatives and embellishments abound in works written about Patagonia and I am adding to this, for sure. But I take no blame, Patagonia did it to me, has done it to all that have enjoyed its rapture from Bruce Chatwin to Yvon Chouinard. It says what we have all been thinking, gives confidence and substance to our strongest-held beliefs. Highway 40 exists because it must, with nothing cyclical in this argument. It is psychologically akin to dreams of hidden doorways and secret passages a slice of accessibility in the world of the improbable. These paths and passages must exist for us to really believe in possibility. Give us a road, give me a sign, show me the way to your magical under-side, the one seldom seen but often spoken-of, the treasure trove, the mythical chalice, to Moby Dick, to Patagonia. Highway 40 is this.

Once you finally get a view of the spires and peaks near Chalten it could be another mirage, a glistening topographic illusion for contour-thirsty travelers. But there they are, and when you move up into them they sure feel real. The rock is hard and the wind bites and stings as if it were real. And so it is, so it is, everything we’ve been told is true.

Photos from the first two weeks

From the top of Torre Principal in the Frey, near Bariloche:

And some others from the Frey:

Wind, air and flight in Argentina

Where the wind blows let it move fresh breath and exhilaration into this moment. Agapito’s experience with air from the start was one of misunderstanding, considering that Earth and Air rarely mingle in the natural world, Agapito’s grounded Earth element kept the air above him and the wind blowing around him – never really embracing its power or beneficence. He fought against the wind, on the losing side, of course, but nevertheless he would brace himself against it and staunchly defend his planted space in the world.

When it's understood, wind allows for flight! If you can only embrace its spontaneity and ethereal grace and plan then you can truly be at peace with change. For no element is quicker in its motion, more undetectable in its presence and more abundant in its generosity. It can fuel fires and put them out, it can effortlessly spread seeds and deliver scents, carrying infinite vibrations undetected in its web.

Everything we project we project into the air.

Agapito was once diagnosed as having contracted a “Wind-Cold” illness by a practitioner of Chinese Medicine. To him, this diagnosis made sense – considering the times he felt most stressed in the natural world were the times he was cold and the wind was blowing. It is during these stressed time that Wind-Cold illness can creep in. It manifest as little cyst-like bumps that migrated from the back of his calf to his upper arm or his earlobes. It moves location because it is Wind and it clumps together in bumps because it is Cold.

During another bought of illness in La Paz, a Kallawaya shaman diagnosed his diarrhea as an “Invasion of Malign Winds.” This was the Kallawaya that read his Tarot cards, the Don Iberio of previous tales and his remedy was a tea of healing herbs from the Andes and Amazon. Wind has apparently been his foe.

So why Patagonia, Agapito? Why journey to one of the windiest places in the world?

To know it and be intimate with it, of course. And only in embracing his greatest challenges would Agapito succeed in his desire to learn in this life. So he dove in, to the thick walls of wind that push their way around Patagonia. Walls of wind, not gusts, because when they hit you it’s like a crash or a punch, no gentle tingling of his shin-hairs, these walls actually lift you off your feet, knock you into the rocks and have even been rumored to reach in and rip your long-underwear from your legs while leaving your pants in place – it is fierce, conniving and relentless. It is hard to believe that this same element is carrying oxygen that fills our blood, moves our life impulse. This same element moves our prana, or chi the world over – the very breath of life – it just moves in faster and harder in Patagonia.

Wind is to air what death is to life – it moves opportunity into the present. It keeps change coming and going and so on and fights forever against stagnation. Just as you can’t run away from death in this life, you cannot block the wind and expect to be able to breathe.

Agapito found walls of wind, condors, rain, snow, sunshine and powerful granite gods in a single week outside of Bariloche, Argentina. Refugio Frey is a European-style mountain hut that sits an afternoon’s bus and hike from Bariloche, in a nook on the west side of Cerro Catedral. It is an aptly named mountain cathedral, the construction of which is most definitely Gothic, not in a dark medieval way, but in a jagged “my reality is harsh and you should know that and show respect” kind of way. Needle-thin spires scrape the sky above the refugio, pinnacles and gendarmes, a destination for climber, hikers and romantic couples. Here Agapito spent time rock climbing on the beautiful golden granite.

While standing on the top of Torre Principal, the highest tower in the region, after climbing its northern ridge Agapito had his head skimmed by a condor with nearly 4 meters of wingspan. As the condor caught an updraft and disappeared to the south side of the tower, Agapito noticed a glistening bit of his hair whipping from the condor’s mouth. With their sighting being always auspicious, Agapito took a deep breath and imagined the millions of different landings his kidnapped hair could have, with wind carrying the condor, carrying the thread, carrying parts of his protein. A gentle breeze blew and tickled Agapito’s shin hairs.