Sleeping in a pitch-black hotel room with no windows isn’t conducive to getting up early, or on time. I didn’t even hear the alarm, and woke up only twenty minutes before Rodolfo arrived. He is referred to as Rodolfito by everyone, or Fito for short. I quickly put locks on my duffle bags and out the door we went, a short walk taking us to his grandfather’s home. Before long, Fito’s dad arrived – his name was Rodolfo too, and that’s what I called him. He, Fito and I piled into his small truck and we drove for an hour out of Mendoza to the small community of El Salto (about 1,000 population) at about 3,000 feet elevation in the Andes foothills. I met the rest of the family at their summer home, a nice shaded place in the quiet town, and they immediately made me feel very welcome, like one of the family.
Fito and his brother Pablo decided that what better welcome could they give this gringo than a climb of a nearby peak, Cerro las Cabras. They scampered up the thing on the well-used trail, while I lagged behind in the heat – it was full-on summer, remember, and it can hit 100 degrees here. By the time the day was done, I too was done, with 4,600 vertical feet of climbing under our belts – and I felt it.
By late afternoon, we were back. Cristina, the lady of the house, started the food coming, and coupled with seemingly limitless quantities of good Mendoza wine, the efforts of the day vanished.
After hours of eating, I was completely sated, but at around 11:00 p.m. Rodolfo loaded up his outdoor grill with chicken and slabs of Argentine beef. I was shocked – now, it was time to eat the real supper! I had no prior experience with the late dining time of families here, but was assured that this was normal. Hey, I wasn’t going to argue – I was a guest in their home, so I tucked in to the huge feast that was set out. Seems to me that we topped it all off with some nice liqueur, but don’t quote me on that, it’s all pretty vague by now. I remember seeing the Southern Cross that evening for the first time, something I had always wanted to do. It was very late by the time we called it quits.
The next morning, it was decided that we should do another climb, a local favorite called Cerro el Castaño, about 2,950 meters. At an early hour, Rodolfo dropped us off at a trailhead. We walked in the cool morning air along an old road, then on a trail along a nice trout stream where we saw a lot of people camping. Next, up a steep side-hill where cows and horses were grazing, over a few false summits, and then to the final summit.
We then descended by a long ridge and climbed Cerro Castañito. It was a hot day and we got sun-burned. The view from the top was spectacular – we were facing the high country of the Andes, with peaks just a few miles away which were about 20,000 feet. By the time we had walked back to the house, we had done 6,300 feet of climbing for the day – dang, if this weren’t getting me in shape to do Aconcagua, then nothing would! We ate a few snacks and played some ping-pong, talked a while and then, by 8:30 p.m. we left for Mendoza in two vehicles. It was hot in the city, and it was 10:30 p.m. by the time I was back at my hotel room.
I slept in again the next morning, awaking just in time for Fito’s arrival. He had offered to help me with a bunch of errands. First, I exchanged some money, this time at 1,760A per dollar. Then I vacated my hotel room, and we caught a cab for the next important item of business. In order to attempt a climb of Aconcagua, you needed to have a permit, and in this era you had to go see Señor Galera at the new soccer stadium.
Once there, we found his office and he approved my permit with little fanfare. I paid a fee of 125,000A, or about $71.00 U.S., a bargain in my opinion. A cab ride back to the center of town – I felt guilty, it cost 80 cents including a tip! – where I bought food for my climb. We made our way back to the hotel where I packed it all into my duffel bags and we had lunch. Fito’s dad drove us to the bus station, but, oops! – it turned out my bus wasn’t to leave until 7:00 p.m. So, back to the hotel where I waited out the day. Rodolfo came back for me and drove me to the bus station again – what a trooper! I thanked him profusely for all his kindness and he went home to his family.
Turns out the ticket agent wasn’t impressed with all my gear – he charged me an excess baggage fee that was triple the cost of my ticket. The bus left at 7:30 p.m. and it was packed. On the way, we stopped at the town of Uspallata where the police checked to make sure we weren’t a bunch of terrorists or whatever else concerned them.
Miles later, we endured another checkpoint. The driver played music at painfully loud levels until we finally arrived at my destination at 11:15 p.m. There I was, at the village of Puente del Inca, standing with my gear on the side of the Pan-American Highway in the dark.
Someone walked by and directed me to a nearby hostel called the Parador del Inca. I dragged my impossibly-heavy duffel bags over to it and through the front entrance. The place was hopping, the clientele amply lubricated with overpriced booze, but it felt good to be out of the chill night air. I plunked myself down in a chair and ordered a beer. Before long, the proprietor of this fine establishment (I’m joking, the place was pretty shabby) informed me that he was all full up for the night. That’s just great, I thought, here I am sucking down a beer at midnight with no idea where I’m going to sleep. As I pondered my situation, I noticed, over in a dark corner, a guy eyeballing me, not unlike Strider at the Prancing Pony. Before long, he wandered over and sat down next to me, then told me that he couldn’t help but notice my predicament. “Oh boy, here it comes”, I said to myself. He introduced himself as the one and only policeman in the village, told me he ran the little police station next door, and I was welcome to sleep there. I thought “What the heck, what have I got to lose at this point?”, so I took him up on his offer. We hauled my gear over to the station and stowed it inside. He showed me where the privy was, and unlocked the jail cell for me. I threw my sleeping bag on to the spartan bed and went to sleep, pondering the fact that at least it must be the safest place in the village.
The next morning came, the 23rd of January. The policeman brewed us a cup of tea, and then we hauled my stuff back to the Parador del Inca. By now there was a bed available for me. Actually, to call it a bed is being pretty generous, as it was merely a cot in a back room off the kitchen, shared with four others, but for three bucks a night I couldn’t complain. The great thing about the place was that it was the place to be, as it was always filled with climbers who were all going to the mountain. In a matter of hours, I spoke with climbers from the USA, Argentina, Brasil, Bulgaria and France. A downside of the place was that it was crowded and noisy until very late at night, being the local watering-hole.
There was a tiny post office in the village, where you could mail a letter or even send a telegram, so I sent some postcards home. I spoke to some Frenchmen who gave me some good advice on which gear to take to the mountain – they had just summited so I respected their opinions. Later in the day, I met a Mendoza climber whose brother was an arriero (muleteer) here, so I went to meet said brother and arranged with him to haul my gear on a mule to the base camp, for a fee of 45 dollars US. That seemed to be the going rate, so I felt okay with that. Re-sorting all my gear got it condensed down to one duffel bag of about 65 pounds, which would leave on a mule train the following day. Another late day, eating a supper of fried chicken and beer at midnight.
To be continued……………………..
Please visit our Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Desert-Mountaineer/192730747542690