Pascua en Pucón: Part I

At this point one week ago, I was still scrambling to get my plans together for the weekend. I would have all of Thursday and Friday off, and as I think I have gloa-umm, mentioned a number of times already, I really don't ever have to work on Monday or Tuesday (I don't have class until 9pm on Tuesdays), which meant that I had almost 6 full days to assassinate before I had to return to anything resembling responsibility.

As some of you may already know, I was originally trying to sneak off to Cuba (don't tell Uncle Sam). I had heard rumors that tickets would cost between $400-$500, and figured that might be a sacrifice I'd be willing to make considering Castro is probably already dead, and when news breaks that his cryogenically frozen body can only govern the island for another few years, the place may never be the same. Searching high and low, I actually found a ticket for $650. It took some doing, but I eventually convinced myself that I should still go for it (even I am not immune to my powers of persuasion); unfortunately, I was too slow, and the offer that was once $650 shot up to about $1200 two days later.

Deep breath. Time for plan B. I looked for cheap last minute flights to Lima, Cuscó (Inca Trail), Easter Island (on Easter weekend... how trite, right?), Bogotá, Montevideo, and Quito, and I even employed the help of some poor travel agent named Maribel who works for a company that gives discounts to international students and teachers. The title of my email was "Cualquier Destino," which was intended to convey that I was willing to go anywhere. Aside from the title itself being incorrect (I meant to say whatever destination, but actually said whatever destiny), it was also a lie, because the only place that Maribel found that I could actually afford was Panama City, perhaps the one place I did NOT want to go.

Anyway, I settled on Pucón, which is a 9-hour bus ride south of Santiago. Turns out, the weekend was a very fortuitous "mistake." While I was traveling alone, my two Brazilian housemates had told me that they would be down in Pucón as well, so we were planning on meeting up. Also, one of my friends from CIEE would be there. I had no intention of hanging out with either the Brazilians or the other TIPS all weekend, but as it turns out, my "destino" had other plans. When I arrived at the hostal (which I booked independent of any knowledge or advice from anyone), I was greeted by my friend and his crew of TIPS. From then on, we basically pooled together our spotty knowledge of the little adventure-tourism town at the base of a live volcano for an awesome weekend of adventure, excitement, and good fortune.

We started with a white-water rafting trip, which Menilik (the Ethiopian-Texan that I think I have mentioned in previous posts) vehemently opposed. In spite of his insistence that "rafting is simply not on the list of things that I have any interest in doing," he, too, crumbled under the mighty weight of peer-pressure, and we all signed up for a trip down several Class IV rapids. With almost no paper-work and even less instruction, we were basically sent careening down some incredible rapids in a raft full of people who had never been rafting before, and me (and my track record including: an alpine slide rollover, a direct blow to the skull from a falling rock while backpacking, and a concussion my first time snowboarding, only seemed to add to the precariousness of the situation). In spite of all the foreboding dangers, we all managed to make it down in one piece while only having to rescue members of the raft who had fallen overboard (not on purpose) twice. The tour group even included a mandatory jump from a cliff into the water... It was only about 12 or 15 feet, but I was still pretty pleased with them for it. The guides commemorated their (perhaps first ever) injury-free tour by providing us with cookies and beer, and we all climbed into the vans for the return trip into town.

Once back in Pucon, our crew went to get fitted for the equipment necessary to climb the volcano the following morning, made ourselves some dinner, and prepared to get some shut eye before our 4am wakeup call. I decided to join the owners of the hostal and a French resident who had been living there for a nightcap. They had a little barbecue going on in the back yard as a farewell party for the French chap, and I figured it would be a good way to 1) practice my spanish a little bit, and 2) get a free sleep aid in the form of some red wine.

It worked like a charm, and I awoke refreshed and ready to go at 3:44 the next morning, one minute before Menilike's alarm went off.

I guess we all should have been able to surmise, based on the fact that we were all issued wind-proof jackets, crampon compatible hiking boots, crampons, ice axes, and more, that the hike wasn't your run-of-the-mill stroll through Elk Meadow (everGREEN what what?!). Still, the actual difficulty of the hike was incredibly played down... Or moreover, avoided entirely in the info session regarding the trip. More than likely, the guides were not terribly keen on turning away a a potentially hefty bounty from naive tourists who otherwise wouldn't go. The price was certainly steep to hike to the peak of the volcano, but, then, it was one of those things where if they had required a pinky finger in order to make the journey, I would still imagine that most would acquiesce. After all, do you really NEED your pinky finger?

Point is, rather than really pontificate on all the implicit risks and difficulties of climbing from about 2,000 feet to 9,500 feet along an active volcano, over a melting wind-chapped glacier, most people simply chose to pay the fee and hope for the best. That's what I did... And it was definitely worth it.

One of the guides came by our hostal at about 4:20 (too early for the boulderites, sorry), picked us up, and drove us close to an hour straight up a rustic dirt road to the trail head (which is actually the base of the Pucon ski resort... Crazy, right?). In town, our elevation was between 700-900 feet above sea level. We started our hike at about 3,800 feet. We were only at about 5,000 feet when the sun rose, having completed only about 25% of our ascent.

We had a moment's rest at the top of the first ski lift as the sun was rising beyond a ridge that blocked our view (¡Pucha!). Still, we were able to admire the breathtaking expanse of the city of Pucon, the volcano peaks off in the distance, and the surrounding lakes, completely shrouded by a sea of clouds below. After passing a derelict shelter that was all that remained of a ski lift taken out when the volcano erupted in the 1980s, we took a quick break to change into warmer clothes, grab some food, and strap on our crampons before making the ascent onto the glacier.

Once on the glacier, our guide gave us a quick pep-talk, the highlight of which included the following oration (almost verbatim):

"This is how you brake with your ice ax should you happen to fall and accelerate down the mountain" (demonstrates by actually sliding down the glacier, stabbing the ice with his ax, grabbing on with both hands, and pulling himself to a stop); "however, make sure to keep your feet up so that your crampons don't get stuck, because if they do, you will likely break your ankles... And then, after breaking your ankles, you will likely tumble over your feet and then break your neck because you are taking on so much speed. So if you don't want to break your ankles or your neck, just do what I did. Everyone ready? Okay, let's go!"

Most of the ladies in the group pulled their jaws off the ice covered ground, looked around for affirmation that they had indeed understood correctly, received none, and moved on. Shortly after beginning the trek onto the glacier, we came to the top of a ridge which had been sheltering us from the wind. Once over the top, mother nature no longer wished to pamper us so. Few would agree, but I found the first 15 minutes or so after we ascended the ridge to be my favorite part of the whole hike. The wind was whipping at us at about 30 mph, and everyone was so cold and frightened that it was the first time all morning that no one blabbering away. All you could hear was the "chink"-"swich" of about 25 pairs of crampons and ice axes moving rhythmically in and out of the glacial ice. In addition, the sun was just over the horizon of the glacier as we zig-zagged up the mountain, and at its oblique angle, its light reflected off the clouds and snow in a sort of harmonic chorus of white and pale blue, at once blinding and beautiful... My hands were too cold and our progress too robotic for me to break the beat of the motion to snap a picture, but I think those 15 minutes are what I will remember most from my time in Pucon.

Higher up the glacier, we began to reach the point where the ice wasn't as thick. Whether it was more a product of the sun climbing higher into the sky, our progress toward an area of more geothermal activity, or some combination of the two, I don't know, but with the softer snow, we began to notice a number of rocks careening down the mountainside from the summit. Many of them were the size of mere pebbles, but there were a fair amount that were essentially scraggly bowling balls; huge, sharp projectiles merciless and apathetic toward any potential victims in the way. Thinking it best to stay near the guides and maintain an unobstructed view of what lay ahead, I was near the front of the line talking with a guide named Hector. I asked him if anyone had ever gotten hurt by these maverick meteors, and he casually responded that a couple of people had gotten hit and broken their arms or legs... In the silence that followed, I contemplated asking for the details of the incidents, thought the better of it, and more intently fixed my gaze toward the summit and source of the falling rocks.

Three short hours after arriving onto the glacier, we again reached solid ground, removed our crampons, and ascended the remaining 20 minutes or so through volcanic shale. Once at the top, the crater was so covered in smoke that it was impossible to get any idea of how deep or wide the mouth of the volcano actually extended. We all settled in, ate some of our rations on the outskirts of the poisonous sulfur smoke, and did our best to squint into the gaping crater to see if we could get a glimpse of the fabled pools of lava.

Unfortunately, we were not so lucky. Only a day before, the "lava table" had been higher and most of the groups were able to see lava actually bubbling at the core of the volcano. All we got was a breathtaking (literally) view of the sulfur-green crater and one of the most amazing mountain-top vistas I have ever seen... Aww, shucks! Most of the peaks in the distance, we were told, were volcanoes, just a few of the more than 200 in the area. Apparently in the whole of Chile, there are over 2,000 volcanoes, many of them still alive and kicking, like this one. The gas sort of came and went, but when it got a little thicker, it was almost impossible to breathe. One whiff and immediately your throat and nostrils burned, and your eyes teared up like you had just cut into a thousand onions at once. Still, the pain was a comforting reminder that our bodies work: I found the thought that we are designed to react violently against that which will kill us actually pretty comforting.

After about 45 minutes at the top, we began our descent. It was already the afternoon, and the snow had softened and melted considerably so that our descent was much easier. Where before we had "chink-swiched" our way up the mountain, now we sort of carelessly bounded down the mountain, watching all the other poor saps who were still on their way up struggle as we had only a few hours prior.

We were off the glacier in no time, slid down a much softer route of gravelly shale than which we ascended, and before we knew it we were back at the base camp shaking the dust off our boots and gators.

I spent the rest of the afternoon showering, changing, and dozing before meeting with the Brazilians for dinner. After dinner, I went with them to a rustic and overpriced hot-springs, that was nonetheless relaxing. The original plan was to hit up the local casino after I returned, but all the night's grandeur, like Cinderella's ball, faded at the stroke of midnight, as our beds invited us to equally tempting festivities involving sugar-plumb fairies and the like.

Oh, and before I forget, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TYLER. Just think, only 58 more years before your age will equal your height in inches (that is, of course, assuming you don`t shrink along the way).