A cathedral for climbers: the magic of Monte Fitz Roy

Carrying a 20-kilo rucksack holding a knife, a first aid kit and a walkie-talkie, German Bellene, a burly Argentine guide, steps up on to a high ridge in the Parque Nacional Los Glaciers. Several thousand feet below, a string of turquoise lakes fed by melting glaciers are ringed by a forest of dwarf evergreens twisted Daliesque by a constant river of wind. He tries to record a short video but the wind bursts and screams through the microphone. He abandons audio and marks the GPS location, delighted to have found a new vantage point to which he can lead his clients.

Gusts of wind threaten to topple the climber but his gaze remains glued to the horizon and the heft of Monte Fitz Roy, a shrine of granite and snow that soars, sheer-sided, to 3,405 metres. It remained unclimbed until 1952, when the French mountaineers Guido Magnone and Lionel Terray made the first ascent. And still, talisman-like, it attracts thousands of climbers and hikers each year from the far corners of the world to tiny El Chaltén, the remote village at its foot. With his swollen lips, toasted nose, and eyes raccoon-ringed with the silhouette of mountaineering glasses, there is little doubt that Bellene is a member of this tribe of devotees who proudly proclaim themselves, in the words of Terray, the “conquistadors of the useless”.

Four hours later when he walks through the door of El Fresco, a rowdy watering hole in El Chaltén, Bellene tells me about his day’s adventure with evangelical zeal. Other patrons dump mountain bikes on the front porch, and hook anoraks under the bar.

Bellene orders me a schopp (a draught beer) as the room is pounded by an ’80s rock and pop soundtrack. The guide works for the hotel I’ve come to visit, the just-opened Explora El Chaltén, and as he scrolls through photos of the route, he enthusiastically describes the prospect of taking its guests to encounter Fitz Roy, and its neighbour Cerro Torre, up close.

While waiting for Bellene to come down, I had rented a bike and explored this outpost, more than 1,250 miles from Buenos Aires, its 12 blocks hemmed in by the confluence of roiling rivers that often carry chunks of ice. Founded only in 1985, it is a place that radiates passion: it takes a love for the wild to travel so far. It took me two days to get here yet less than 24 hours after arrival I fantasise about losing my passport. I want an excuse to stay.

In the bar I feel noticeably clean shaven and slightly ashamed of my spotless red sweater bought in the highlands of Cuzco. Fellow city slickers are tagged by suspiciously new looking Gore-Tex. I don’t tie a bandanna to my forehead or apply henna tattoos but the ideas cross my mind during these first few rounds beside the climbing clientele of El Fresco. A giddy laugh makes one climber’s eyes gleam. I have seen that look in the eyes of surfers. It’s the adrenaline rush of defying death and still making it back in time for Happy Hour.

As Bellene settles into a birthday party of fellow climbers, guests, guides, and local musicians, I appreciate my fortune at finding this little paradise. El Chaltén is a 1,600-person village that styles itself the “trekking capital of Argentina”. Isolated from the industrial world, closer to the Antarctic Peninsula than the equator, it might also claim title to the world’s cleanest water. And the world’s freshest air. And quite possibly the world’s best place to escape the confinement and claustrophobia of the Covid crisis.

I had come here from my home in neighbouring Chile, and after two years writing books during lockdown, I was eager to get offline. My seven daughters (yes, seven) concurred: Dad needs time off. Flying in from Buenos Aires I was already revelling in the promise of five days with no kids, no meetings and limited to (hopefully) no internet access.

The hotel opened on December 15, the latest launch from a group run by Gonzalo Undurraga, the former chief executive of Latam Airlines in Chile. He shifted his business from flying millions around the globe to hosting a select few thousand in Explora’s seven South American lodges, places that are expensive but exquisitely located, in wild settings including Chile’s Torres del Paine and Patagonia National Park, Bolivia’s Uyuni salt flat and Easter Island.

This latest lodge is a low impact construction inside Los Huemules Conservation Reserve, a private, 5,800-hectare reserve named in honour of the huemul, an endangered deer that is the national animal of Chile and the focus of rewilding efforts throughout Argentine Patagonia.

Among the team who set out for Fitz Roy in 1968 were Yvon Chouinard, who would go on to found clothing company Patagonia — and Doug Tompkins, who founded both Esprit and North Face

Instead of disrupting the location with years of construction, the lodge was made by assembling more than a hundred prefabricated interlocking parts, themselves built further north in Mendoza and delivered in pieces via a convoy of flatbed trucks. A certified B corp, Explora claims its day-to-day operations are carbon neutral and that it has started a plan to eliminate the company’s historic carbon debt dating back to the group’s founding in 1993 by Pedro Ibáñez. A pioneer of Patagonia tourism, he understood that “exploration is not a fad, it is something intrinsic in human motivation throughout history.”

The new Explora is 10 miles north of El Chaltén — half an hour’s drive along a rocky road that feels like the teaser for a Red Bull adventure film. The driver negotiates our van across a wooden bridge above ice-clogged glacial run-off as I count the massive waterfalls pouring down the rock faces in the distance.

Arriving at Explora, I settle in for a cappuccino in a tennis-court-sized lounge perched above a crashing river, visible through a row of giant windows. There are hardwood floors and blonde beams, a map room, a small library, and a full spa. There are just 17 standard rooms and three suites; my room mixes lighting you might find in a London penthouse with views that remind me of British Columbia. Scanning out the window and up the valley, I spot sandy beaches studded with boulders, a mountain peak crowned in snow. There’s also a giant bed but honestly, I want to use these luxuries as little as possible. Having just arrived, even a massage at the Explora spa seems like a waste of an hour. I’m sure my tastes will adapt, but nature and the outdoors beckon.

Explora puts great emphasis on its range of activities (what it calls “explorations”). The following morning I peruse a menu that includes hikes, climbs, bike rides and road trips — and I am evaluated as well. My instinct says two half-day walks with a leisurely lunch in the middle. “That will never happen,” laughs Aimé Ramunda, Explora’s lead guide. “I’ve seen it so many times, after one hike it’s nearly impossible to get up and go out again. Better we make a full day of it. Can you walk for eight hours?”

Here was the test of my willpower. Did three weeks of bike riding through the urban chaos of Santiago qualify me for a full day hike? Like a farmer inspecting a horse, Aimé grasped my hiking boot, and holding it close to her face took stock of my treads. Were these newbie cleats, never worn? My shoes passed the test but still Aimé objected: “They could have bigger teeth.”

Our hike was designed to keep us in the shade — at this time of year a blistering sun rises at 5:30am and doesn’t set for 16 hours. We would start in forest, then cross scree and moraine to reach an Alpine-style refuge for either hot chocolate or a glass of fruity Argentine Malbec depending on my state of mind.

A minute after leaving my hotel room, the soundtrack switches. Instead of voices, I notice a hush then a roar as the wind stops and restarts. We walk under the protective canopy of a miniature forest, past abundant ferns and dozens of tiny streams no wider than a stride. A staccato soundtrack echoes about as a crew of redheaded Magellanic woodpeckers extracts insects from bleached white trunks.

Alongside a remote lake, we stop for an extended picnic. Curry-flavoured lentils in a Thermos never tasted so rich and slices of freshly baked bread help recharge my legs. As we eat, Aimé regales me with tales of travelling with her parents — pioneering guides who allowed her at age 15 to strike out on her own and lead horse treks deep into the Andes.

The triangular peak of Monte Fitz Roy dominates our hike, the summit so perfectly sculpted that for many years mapmakers mistakenly labelled it as a volcano. Visible from far across the flat pampas, Fitz Roy projects sheer power.

In 1968 it drew a group of Americans on an epic 8,000-mile road trip in a white Ford van stuffed with surfboards, skis and climbing gear. Among the team who set out from San Francisco were Yvon Chouinard, who would go on to found a clothing company named after the region he fell in love with — Patagonia — and Doug Tompkins, who founded both Esprit and North Face. They called their trip the “Fun Hogs Expedition to Patagonia” but at times it was anything but fun: bad weather kept delaying their attempt on Fitz Roy and they spent 31 days living in an ice cave on its flanks, boosting their energy by boiling mutton they purloined from ranches down in the valley. They did eventually make it, becoming the first Americans to reach the summit, a success that helped popularise the region in the US. The trip spawned two movies and when Chouinard needed a logo for Patagonia, he asked a friend for an image that would remind him of Fitz Roy.

After lunch we continue hiking higher, across a field of scree and approaching the Cagliero glacier. A tongue of ice pours down from the peaks and dips into the Laguna El Diablo, glassy and grey. A solitary cabin sits on the water’s edge, smoke pouring from the chimney. A stack of firewood to last a week if needed feeds a kitchen churning out fresh empanadas that accompany a surprisingly wide selection of wines, considering that every bottle has been hauled over several mountain valleys.

At the next table over, a young family celebrates their six-year old’s perseverance. He has traversed five miles through forests and across hanging bridges. Even now he breaks off from lunch to peer into a small telescope set on a tripod and pointed towards the glacier. Excited chatter bubbles from his mouth. He isn’t my child, but I feel proud anyway. This is how we are supposed to live. Returning back to the lodge, the continually changing view of Fitz Roy keeps pulling at my gaze, a magnetism that not even long familiarity can diminish. My guide Aimé understands: “When I first saw Fitz Roy, I cried.”

Jonathan Franklin is the author of ‘A Wild Idea: The True Story of Douglas Tompkins’ (HarperOne)