Delhi to Kathmandu

How many flights get missed this way?

There is a vast amount of real estate at Delhi International Airport—huge, open (and largely empty) hallways; smoking rooms; prayer rooms; corners with chaise lounges; and roomy boarding areas. I stood in a lengthy line to check in with Jet Airways and was then suddenly ushered to the back side of the check-in counter, where there were additional agents and no lines. To fly from Delhi to Kathmandu was costing me a mere $129. But then I threw my two duffels onto the belt, and the agent scowled and told me I was well over the weight limit. "Would you like to pay the excess baggage fee?" he asked. Rhetorical, or do you think there is gear I can leave behind? I knew I'd be over the 20-kg weight limit. I can't imagine anyone climbing a peak in Nepal could do otherwise. Not only did I need gear for the trek, but I also needed additional gear for Island Peak—a second pair of boots, ice ax, helmet, crampons, harness,  and some warmer clothes. What I ended up paying in excess baggage fees equaled a third of my ticket price.

We started boarding a full hour before departure time. There was no rhyme or reason to the boarding process, and it took the full hour to fill every seat in the 737. I had hoped for a window seat and a view of the mountains but was stuck with 29D. Off we went, and immediately after takeoff, a number of men decided they'd head to the bathrooms. The flight attendants kept telling them to take their seats, but they just pushed their way to the back of the plane. One hour and twenty minutes flight time. The first task for the flight attendants was to rush down the aisles with plastic tubs filled with cans of beer. Beer for everyone, no charge. Then they delivered a hot meal to each and every passenger. Again, no charge. And they accomplished all of this in an hour and twenty minutes. Efficient.

As we approached Kathmandu, the Indian woman next to me started praying and had tears in her eyes. Uh oh. I realized our speed had not slowed enough, at least not to what I considered acceptable landing speed. Were we really going to land at this speed? The ground got closer and closer, and the wings appeared to almost skim the rooftops of nearby houses. And yes, we did land at the speed. It was almost as if that pilot threw the plane at the runway. So there. Welcome to Kathmandu.

I am a very organized person, sometimes almost to a fault. Before leaving home, I had downloaded and printed a copy of the form needed to apply for a Nepali visa upon arrival. I had my two passport photos neatly paper-clipped to the top of my already-filled-out form. I was ready to jump in line at the airport. I wasn't going to linger. Very contrary to character, I managed to lose that form somewhere between the boarding area in Delhi and the arrival area in Kathmandu. I frantically dumped everything out of my canvas bag, but it was gone. I filled out another form but had no photos. I figured I couldn't be the only one with that problem, and sure enough, there was a woman in a corner who was offering passport photos for 240 rupees. Of course I didn't have any rupees. She directed me towards the ATM. I hadn't done my homework, so I had no idea what the exchange rate was. I withdrew 500 rupees. I later realized I had withdrawn only $10 and was charged about $3 for the transaction.

By the time I had sorted out my visa form and photos, I was at the very end of one of the "foreigners without visas" lines. This was not going to play out well. About an hour and a half later, I was finally free to go claim my bags and look for the Alpine Ascents rep sent to retrieve me. So much for best laid plans. Next time, I will ignore the advice I was given and will apply for the visa before I leave home.

The roads of Kathmandu are total chaos. They drive on the left, which is already disconcerting, and then motorcycles try to thread the needle between cars, buses, or trucks. It is dirty, loud, and smoggy. Construction abounds. Fortunately, the hotel is only 7 km from the airport. At 8 PM last night, I could not manage to keep my eyes open. Plagued by odd dreams, I slept but was then wide awake at 2:30 AM. I dozed on and off until 5:30 and then allowed myself to get up.

I was one of the earlier trekkers/climbers to arrive, but I met a few members of the team at breakfast after I had easily wasted a couple hours catching up with Eric Murphy, my guide on Kili. Most were quite surprised that I had arrived by heading east from Seattle instead of west. My guess is that my connection through Paris and Delhi was far better than some of the routes through Hong Kong, Seoul, or Bangkok. And a free business class ticket is a free business class ticket. I'll take whatever route I'm offered.

I ventured about 300 yards from the hotel today, far enough to decide that I'm not up for wandering unfamiliar streets or dealing with Kathmandu's oppressive pollution. And I was too wimpy to cross the major thoroughfare, where cars consider it sport to run you down. I retreated to the hotel, opting to read by the pool. More trekkers/climbers arrive today, and the group will round out tomorrow. There are 9 Everest climbers, 16 trekkers (3 of whom are climbing Island Peak), and a lot of family overlap between the climbers and trekkers (dads and sons or daughters climbing Everest and their wives/siblings trekking in to Base Camp). In my mind, we can't get out of Kathmandu soon enough. But then there's that little issue of our upcoming flight from Kathmandu to Lukla...

Nepal—En route

After a teary farewell to Maggie and the dogs at home and Tom at SeaTac, I boarded the flight to Paris. Tom and I have never been apart for four weeks. I know he can take care of himself, but I worry about my dear Bella and her bad back. Mischa, go easy on the mice while I'm away.

Shame on you, Delta. Air France just handed you the only nonstop route from Seattle to Paris, and you put one of your oldest, frayed-around-the-edges 767s on it (apologies to Boeing)? C'mon, rise to the occasion. I can't complain about the empty seat next to me, though.

A woman boarded with three small dogs on leashes. No one batted an eye. She disappeared into the back of steerage. Not sure what she did with those dogs. Did they each have a seat?

Ten hours later, we touch down at De Gaulle, low on my list of favorite airports. Perhaps not as low as LAX, but down there. Next up: an 8-hour Air France flight to Delhi.

Now Air France knows how to get it right—a swanky A340-300; classy, impeccably clad flight attendants; champagne; and baguettes. We did, however, have to deal with some sort of mechanical issue. We left the gate, taxied, stopped, and were told that we had to return to the gate for some minor repairs. An A340-300 does not exactly zip back to the gate; it lumbers. It may turn on a dime, but it does so ever so slowly. We finally departed about an hour late, but I lacked the stress of making a connection. My final flight to Kathmandu wasn't until the next day.

Ate a meal, watched The Help, and settled it for a bit of a snooze. I've never seen flight attendants run to their seats, but that's what I witnessed about five hours into the flight—turbulence that could only be described as violent. The guy next to me moaned, hyperventilated, whipped his sweater off, grabbed the armrests for dear life, and put his head between his knees. Wimp. But I do have to admit it's a bit eerie when it hits somewhere over the mountains of Afghanistan or Pakistan.

We landed in Delhi around 11:30 PM. Even at that hour, the air was still sweltering. I breezed through Immigration and headed to the baggage carousel. My two duffels were already there (yes, even the ill-fated yellow North Face bag). Then I became a pawn in somebody's game. Allow her to retrieve her bags right away, and then watch how long it takes her to find the airport hotel. It would have been a great visual from above.

I asked three different officials how I could store my bags overnight. Each told me to go outside and look for the Metro signs. Huh? I braved the steamy, crowded curb, but "Metro" didn't make any sense. I followed the signs for "Information" but never located an information booth. Finally, a guy tried to talk me into an offsite hotel, and when he realized I wouldn't bite, he told me to take the elevator up to the Departures level. Pushing my cart with two 40-lb. duffels, sweating profusely, I reached the Departures level after two separate elevator trips (don't ask). What were all these people doing here at this hour? I started at Door 6, was sent to Door 5, then Door 2, and finally Door 1. Each was manned with at least three armed guards in crisp green uniforms. Because I'm not a guy, I can't begin to tell you what kind of weapons they were carrying, but I do know one was a handgun (sorry, I can't be more specific), the other a semi-automatic. All guys are born knowing how to identify any type of firearm or plane. It's true. Genetics.

The guard at Door 1 seemed to have a better command of the English language and actually seemed aware of the fact that there was indeed a hotel within the airport. He was kind enough to point me towards a glass door that read "Eaton Smart New Delhi Airport Transit Hotel." Smart?

I never had located a place to store my bags, but the hotel employee I soon encountered seemed to have a plan. He carefully, and painstakingly, logged my two duffels into a large notebook, tagged them, sent them and my hand baggage through an X-ray machine, stored the duffels and the cart behind the glass door, and then led me towards the hotel. When I started to unzip the canvas bag I was carrying, he reprimanded me. It had some sort of security tape on it, showing that it had been scanned, and I was not to unzip it until we reached the hotel. We were ushered past two more armed guards, rode the elevator to Level 5, and reached the reception desk for the hotel. After I checked in, he led me to my room. I'm perpetually uncertain about tipping/not tipping in foreign countries, but I handed him a $5 bill. Without him, I'd still be wandering the cavernous halls of DEL.

Sigh of relief. At long last, I was ensconced in a modern cubicle of a room with huge picture windows with a view of, yup, the Departures Hall. My body had no idea what time it was, but I wasn't about to tell it. My computer said is was 1:06 AM; the clock in the room read 3:16 AM. I chose to trust cyberspace. With a growling stomach, I settled in for a few hours of sleep, wrought with very strange dreams.

View from my room

After fresh pineapple, scrambled eggs (at least I think they were eggs), toast, fruit juice, and COFFEE this morning, I feel semi human again. The surreal fog of round-the-world travel is beginning to lift as I await my flight to Kathmandu. Time to head towards the mountains.

Flying to Nepal...via Delhi

"It's not an adventure until something goes wrong." So said Chouinard. I prefer that the adventure not start until I'm at least out the door. Might have to remove this quote from my FB page.

Two weeks ago, I sent off a bundle of paperwork to Travisa Outsourcing in San Francisco. Included with that bundle was my beloved passport containing newly added pages (a nice problem to have—not enough pages remaining to accommodate upcoming visas—that I had just resolved in weeks prior).

Let me preface this story by saying that I am not traveling to India. I am just passing through Delhi for a night on my way to Nepal. With a reservation at the airport transit hotel, technically I would not even need a visa, even a transit visa. But in light of the baggage dilemma I faced when traveling to Kilimanjaro, I decided my safest bet would be to secure a transit visa so I could pass through customs and immigration, claim my bags, put them in storage, and then proceed to the transit hotel. Seemed like a better idea than letting the duffels float around at the Delhi airport overnight until my midday flight to Kathmandu the next day.

I dug around online; the information was often contradictory, but I filled out forms, uploaded my passport photos and signature (in addition to hard copies) to Travisa's website, paid a myriad of fees, and FedExed the envelope off. A transit visa would be good for just three days, only valid for 15 days from the date of issuance. For some reason, this forces a last-minute application.

To make a long story short, Travisa decided I needed a 6-month multiple entry tourist visa instead, so they emailed me asking for another $20, not payable by credit card or check but just by money order. Another trip to the post office for the money order and another $32 to overnight them $20. All was received, and my status was updated online. When March 23 arrived, and my departure date was the 28th, my stomach tied in knots. Don't call us, they say. "Once the Consulate has your passport, it is out of our hands. It usually takes them two to three days. After all, they have to carefully consider each application."

Damn right I called them. Four times. Same story each time. The Consulate has it and will carefully consider it. Consider what? I'm spending one night in the airport hotel. I finally asked them at what point I should start to rebook my flights. And I told them I would hold them responsible for all flight and hotel change fees. I certainly didn't 'fess up that I had used miles for my ticket. Somehow, they managed to get my passport to me a mere 20 hours before departure. I perused the visa and noticed that it was granted on March 22. Wonder whose pile it sat in for four days before I insisted that they send it back to me.

Lucky for them that they have a monopoly on handling all visas for India for Washington State residents. Little blue book in hand, I'm off tomorrow.

03/11/2012 2:32pm PST	Application imported from NIC.
03/11/2012 3:10pm PST	India visa application completed online
03/13/2012 1:02pm PST	Visa application arrived in the mail at Travisa Outsourcing.
03/13/2012 1:06pm PST	Application assigned for processing
03/14/2012 10:33am PST	Passport and supporting documents received by Travisa Outsourcing, payment processed
03/14/2012 10:36am PST	Outsourcing office has received visa application, but cannot process further. Application is on hold.
03/15/2012 12:47pm PST	Additional documents have been received. It may take several days before further action is displayed.
03/16/2012 5:07pm PST	Travisa Outsourcing has matched up your documents, and we are preparing your application to go to the Consulate shortly.
03/19/2012 5:04pm PST	Documents prepared to go to Consulate
03/20/2012 8:15am PST	Documents dispatched from Travisa Outsourcing to Consulate
03/20/2012 8:52am PST	Documents received by Consulate
03/23/2012 2:00pm PST	Pending approval of the Government of India
03/26/2012 12:11pm PST	Outsourcing office has verified the visa is processed correctly. Waiting for mail courier pick up and is likely to be mailed out tomorrow.
03/26/2012 4:04pm PST	Passport mailed out. Please note that the tracking information may not be active for up to 1 business day.

Patagonia--Farewell

Patagonia holds a special place in my heart. Its remoteness is not a hassle; it is a large part of the appeal. The weather is wild, changing in the blink of an eye. Keeps it exciting.

Tom and I were able to challenge ourselves on the trail and on horseback. I got to spend 11 days with 6 fabulous men, including two chilenos who shared their day-to-day lives with me. Never before have I uttered "Wow" so many times in a week. Lucky girl, I am.

We didn't see anyone else on the hiking trails until the 5th day. When we came across another group, the men each took my hand and kissed me on the cheek. They did the same when they departed. I could get used to that. The pobladores (literally "settlers") work extremely hard and live a humble life. They don't have much, but they lack very little.

We passed only two cars as we drove the 5 1/2 hours back to the airport on February 27. The strikes were still in force, and gas was scarce. The washboard roads were jarring, and I stole the front seat and made Tom, Frank, and Pablo share the back. My stomach thanked me. Just a mile or two from the airport, we encountered a roadblock. "Tu problema es mi problema." It was 1:30, and the protesters informed us that they would let us through at 2:00. The demonstration was quiet, save for the pile of burning tires on the bridge. Unfortunately, I later found out that John had to endure two waits at roadblocks on his way back to Puerto Bertrand: one lasting three hours, the other four. He arrived back at his boat in the middle of the night and opted to just sleep there rather than venturing across the lake.

Chilean Patagonia is certainly a part of the world I look forward to visiting again. But forget about the dams, and finish paving the Carretera Austral instead.

Patagonia--the water

The water in Patagonia defies standard adjectives. It is well beyond aquamarine or jade. Maybe super size "turquoise." Sometimes silty, other times crystal clear, always frigid and pure. It must be one of the few places in the world where it is safe to drink the water from the lakes, streams, and rivers. And there is water everywhere you look.

Lake after lake appeared on our drive from Coyhaique to Puerto Bertrand. Rivers and streams abound. And bogs—oh yes, the marshy bogs that we often found on our hikes. Perfected my pole-vaulting technique to make up for a stride that can't possibly match that belonging to a 6'5" husband. We were lucky to not see much water falling from the sky during our time there, at least not until our drive back to the airport in Balmaceda.

Between our hiking and horseback treks, we opted for a whitewater rafting outing on the Baker. I heard "Class III," and I thought, "Yawn. I've been on a Class V or two on the Futaleufú." But exciting it was, even more so because of Cooper, our rafting "dude." Cooper had most definitely imbibed in a little more than mate at breakfast. I first wrote him off as a caricature, but he was for real. "That's sweet, man. 100 percent!" Those words, over and over, until I could hardly contain my laughter. Cooper had graduated from Appalachian State and was drifting through South America from rafting venue to rafting venue, kayak in tow. Sweet, man.

Neither Casey nor don Moncho had ever been rafting before. Witnessing don Moncho in full rafting garb was priceless. He couldn't understand a word Cooper was saying, but it would have been impossible to wipe the grin off his face.

Casey, don Moncho, Julie, Tom

After our rollercoaster ride on the Baker and our guanaco-seeking drive, we drove to the Confluencia, where the Baker meets the Nef. Two rivers of very different colors, the Baker far prettier and filled with thundering rapids. I could probably spend the better part of a day there, mesmerized.

the Baker in the foreground, the Nef in the background

Sadly, there is a proposal for dams on the Baker and Pascua Rivers and a nearly 2,000-kilometer transmission line for a hydrogeneration project in the Aisén region of southern Chile. "Patagonia SIN REPRESAS" (Patagonia without dams) is the motto that has risen from those opposing the project. The project has been approved by the Chilean government (a majority of the citizens disapprove), but it is unclear whether it will truly happen. The landscape of this stunning region would be forever marred. The project is so exorbitantly expensive that we can only hope that plans stall and eventually disintegrate.

Patagonia--the animals

It's not easy being an animal in Patagonia. The weather can be rugged, the terrain taxing. Dogs are generally not treated as pets; they are employees. Sometimes they're left on the farm for days at a time without regular meals. Lambs end up as the main course at an asado, the cattle have to swim across the lake before they're taken to market, and an occasional goat gets sick and dies in a yard (right, John?).

On our hiking trek, one of our overnight stops was on don Moncho's land. I was going to get the chance to milk a cow after all. Without my prompting, don Moncho decided to hop on his horse and round up two of his cows and their calves. He sequestered them in his round pen and proceeded to lasso the calves and tie each of them up. One was fairly docile; the other put up a real fight. In fact, it almost ran Pablo over and knocked through the fence. After the two calves were finally well tied, their moms were ushered back into the field, bellowing all the way. The idea was to keep the young ones from nursing overnight. In the morning, we would have first rights to an ample supply of fresh milk.

After our morning coffee/mate, we gathered back at the round pen. The cows were ushered back in from the field. Don Moncho hobbled their back legs together to keep them from kicking, and then Pablo showed me how to squeeze and pull.

Notice the size of the cup

I was indeed successful, but Tom and I each filled a small cup in the time don Moncho filled an entire pitcher from the other cow. We took the milk back to camp and drank it straight from the cow--rich and a bit earthy. The calves were released into the fields with their moms, no harm done. Probably the most authentic cow-milking experience that I could hope for.

John's horses are...well, I won't say pampered, but they're well respected and cared for, and I believe they compete with one another for John's attention. At home, I never would have the nerve to enter a round pen containing 17 horses. But John took me into the pen to introduce me to his clan, and it was fascinating. Not one was aggressive. Rather, they all seemed to want the first kind words and scratch from John. Because he handles them from the moment they're born, they have a very symbiotic relationship. He understands each of their unique personalities and treats them accordingly.

His horses are Criollos, descendants of horses brought to South America by the Spainards. Through the years, they have adapted well to the sometimes harsh Patagonian conditions. What they lack in stature, they make up for in hardiness. They live off the grass on the ranch, even through the winter. They most definitely have a pecking order: Martes is king. John trains and rides all of them; some serve as pack horses as well.

Our next adventure was a two-night horse trek. Before we headed out, Pablo played farrier. More than just a chef, Pablo is quite an able horseman. Using rather rudimentary tools, he trimmed the hooves of several of the horses.

Pablo at work

Six riders (John, don Moncho, Casey, Pablo, Tom, and I) set off with eleven horses--each of ours plus two pack horses, and three 16-month-olds (two fillies and a colt). The young ones were still nursing, but they were also starting to sow their wild oats and act like rambunctious teens. Fetch, Pestaña's colt, is going to be king of the hill someday. Since John has chosen to not geld him, he will have to separate him from the herd in the not-too-distant future. Fetch was already trying to strut his stuff with one of the other broodmares. Kind of like a teenager making the moves on one of his mom's friends. She let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he best back off.

We set off from the ranch, up and over the hill to the Solér Valley. Over the course of three days, we covered about 34 miles, crossed rivers 22 times, braved riding by a bee's nest in the ground twice, and had the horses desert us in camp late one afternoon. The uneven, varied terrain didn't warrant a blink from any of the horses. They are truly bombproof. Many a horse would buck a rider off when faced with a horde of bees. Our horses danced a bit but kept moving forward.

We rode up to the base of the Solér Glacier on our second day out, passing a couple huemuls (rare Patagonian deer) along the way. Upon our return to camp, John untacked the horses and allowed them to graze briefly. Pestaña (my mare) strolled over to me. I gave her a scratch, and then she nonchalantly kept walking, right out of camp. One by one, the other horses all followed. The colt and fillies, never wanting to be far from their moms, followed suit. Before we knew it, all except one were headed back to the ranch. Don Moncho and Pablo ran to tack up two horses and gallop off in pursuit. John was walking, only with a lead rope in hand. Casey, Tom, and I were left in camp with the one broodmare that was tied to a tree.

Suffice it to say that this mare was not at all pleased to be stuck in camp, especially since her filly had trotted off without her. The three of us gringos tried our best to calm her down. Before we knew it, she pulled the entire tree down, wedging her head between the trunk and a large branch. Tom managed to attach a lead rope to her halter, but we had to allow her to free herself and gallop off. Just the helpless gringos left in camp, wondering whether the horses would cover the 8 1/2 miles home.

About half an hour later, don Moncho and Pablo rode into camp with the string of horses. Once they were able to round up Martes, it wasn't too difficult to convince the others that the itinerary included another night in camp. John was convinced that Pestaña attempted escape because she succeeded once before when she wasn't tied up correctly overnight. Smart mare.

The fillies and colt never have to be tied; they won't stray far from their moms. So, at night they wander a bit but spend a lot of time grazing and some time hanging out with Mom. Tom and I were amused to wake to surround sound grazing in the wee hours of the morning. The young ones surrounded our tent, grazing closer and closer until we could make out their noses through the thin fabric. When one finally decided to paw at our fragile abode, I had to yell and chase them away. It was fascinating to observe the youngsters and the communication they had with the mares. I would love to see them again a year or two from now, or better yet hop on one of them when they're trained.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention my other favorite Patagonian mammal--the guanaco. Cousin to the llama and alpaca, the guanaco is native to South America and stands 3 1/2- to 4-feet tall at the shoulder. John drove us into the Chacabuco Valley, future site of the Patagonia National Park, so I could photograph the guanacos.

Last but not least are the working dogs. I didn't even know that don Moncho's dog had a name until the day we left, and now I can't recall it! The dogs are hard workers--herding cattle, rounding up horses, chasing hares. I can't begin to guess how many miles that dog ran during a day on our horse trek. It didn't have an ounce of body fat, and the only meals I saw it eat were ones comprised of our leftovers every few days. While we crossed the rivers on our horses, the dog had to fight the current, often drifting downstream faster than it could cover the width of the river. Once Pablo had to jump off his horse to grab the scruff of the dog's neck to pull it up a riverbank it couldn't negotiate. Yes, it's a hard life for a Patagonian dog, but they certainly are faithful.

Patagonia--Playing on the glacier

Before we arrived in Chile, I told John there were two things I wanted to learn when I was down there: how to milk a cow, and how to use an ascender on a fixed line. I even asked whether I could learn both on the same day. He replied, "It depends how long it takes you to milk the cow." At that point, John had a cow on his property. Unfortunately, that cow had returned to its owner by the time we arrived. It would have been near impossible to accomplish both on the same day anyway; the Nef Glacier is a 3-day hike from the ranch. So John promised that a cow would await me on the glacier. Knowing John, I almost believed it.

From the second campo on our trek, we set out for a day hike to one of the most accessible Northern Ice Fields glaciers. It took us several hours to reach another valley and climb up and over a seemingly endless field of rocks to then descend to the Nef. Monstrous, ever-changing, powerful--glaciers fascinate me.

almost to the Nef

reaching the Nef

Frank searching for the best way to get onto the glacier

Casey wins for best outfit

This was a "dry" glacier--there was no snow covering the crevasses. There was some good "slip and slide" on the route down as some of the "kitty litter" sand was covering ice underneath. Once we reached the glacier itself, though, it was easy to stroll around. We stopped to don our crampons, though they weren't entirely necessary until climbing up the fixed line.

Frank kindly brought all the gear necessary to set up a fixed line for me. I wanted to learn because I would be ascending a fixed line up a headwall on Island Peak in Nepal in late April. After setting a couple ice screws at the top of a short, steep slope and securing the rope, he described the basics of front-pointing and showed me how to run the ascender up the line with my right hand.

I then rappelled back down and practiced a second time. Very fun, but I imagine it will be a bit more challenging at 18,000 feet. The weather we had that afternoon on the glacier was some of our best during our entire stay. Spectacular. Now, about milking that cow...

Julie, Casey, Pablo, Tom

Patagonia--The hiking's not for sissies, but camp is

I like to challenge myself. Enduring a bit of physical pain now and then reminds me I am alive, capable. Trekking in Patagonia is not for sissies. That's not to say that it's overly taxing or unattainable. But if you only like to don shorts and hike on well-maintained marked trails, Patagonia may not be your venue. If, on the other hand, you thrive on repeatedly passing up and down over the contour line, pole-vaulting over streams and bogs, using your full body weight to battle through brambles, or clinging to rock faces over a flowing river, all while viewing some of the most stupendous scenery in the southern hemisphere, then it would be an apt choice.

Casey and don Moncho loading up the gear

Tom opted to wade rather than walk the log

We did not hike a lot of vertical in Chile. And each day's hike was only "6 miles;" John's definition of 6 miles is suspect, though. Maybe it just seemed far longer because there were often obstacles along the way. Some days, we crossed up and down the contour line. Think interval training--a steep uphill followed by enough of a descent to catch your breath before heading up again. Our packs were not heavy because pack horses carried all the more cumbersome gear. We did, though, tackle roots, rocks, plenty of sand on the river beach, a rickety bridge or two, and a ladder and rope on the rock faces. The rewards were great. We hiked four full days, and spent an afternoon on the Nef Glacier before we ran into any other people on the trail.

this one was a tad rickety

Frank spotting Tom as he descends the ladder above the river

A little upper body strength needed here

Life in camp was not too much of a hardship. Casey or Frank erected our light, center-poled hexagonal tent. Pablo strung up a cooking tarp and concocted hearty, mouth-watering dinners and breakfasts. We always camped in a campo near the river. Tom took advantage of the bathing opportunity. Not I. Only my face. That's all the numbness I could handle.

the honeymoon suite

End of the day. Time to get those boots off my feet.

 

Never has camp food tasted so good. He even brought along an entire ditty sack of herbs and spices. We feasted on yogurt (packed into Coke bottles); granola; fresh bread; cheese; egg scrambles with meat, onions, and garlic; pasta; risotto; plenty of fresh fruit; and red wine (decanted into Coke bottles). I witnessed much chopping, sauteing, and real cooking. Pablo's energy never waned after he finished his morning mate. Neither did his smile, even when doing the dishes.

A word about mate: A gourd with a silver straw is passed from person to person in the morning. Looks like it should be illegal, but it's not. Mate consists of yerba mate leaves steeped in just-short-of-boiling water. It's wildly popular in southern Chile; I first encountered it on Aconcagua in Argentina. There is etiquette involved. John taught Tom how to hold and pass the gourd. Pablo warmed the water by the side of our campfire in a little black kettle. The water in the gourd is replenished from time to time. When the mate starts to become bitter, it is tossed. I guess it jump-starts the day without the jitters of caffeine. Must be an acquired taste.

Snack time on the trail

Casey chopping garlic for the morning scramble

Yum! Great way to start the day.

John and I talked about the different ways of approaching time on the trail. He shared that he never thought he'd acquiesce to the idea of a "supported" trek, but we agreed that it's a pretty nice option. I've carried the burdensome 45-pound pack before, laden with group cooking gear, fuel canisters, and tent parts. The supported trek, with only extra layers of clothes and water in your pack, is a real pleasure, I must say.

Patagonia--John and the Patagonia Frontiers ranch

John and Tom at the Balmaceda airport

I've mulled over the best words to describe John Hauf, the owner of Patagonia Frontiers. I think I've settled on jack-of-all-trades/super mentor. To poach from the Alpine Ascents International website: "Trained as a climber and wildlife biologist, John has had a special affinity for wild places ever since he was a child. He is an educator, mountaineer, explorer, entrepreneur and true believer in the power of trust, respect and tolerance." Yup, that's John.

He has drawn on his mountaineering stamina and expertise to take on a multitude of worldwide projects. It boggles the mind to listen to what he has accomplished through the years (and John is anything but boastful; he shares his experiences, but in an understated way). He lives a life some of us may dream of, but one that few of us could undertake. I can't begin to list all his accomplishments, but suffice it to say that he started the National Outdoor Leadership School's program in Patagonia many moons ago and fell in love with the area. He now runs a 2,000-acre ranch on the far shores of Lake Plomo (reachable only by boat), where he hosts guests, school groups, and occasionally NOLS students returning from the field.

John has a remarkable way of connecting with the locals in whichever country he currently calls home. After living in Kenya and then guiding on Kilimanjaro for Alpine Ascents for many seasons, he found a way to bring talented Tanzanian guide Mike Mtuy to Patagonia. Mike works for John on the ranch, and John found a way for him to go to school in Coyhaique. With John's help, Mike is getting an education. Ditto for 23-year-old Juan Pablo Vasquez Ruiz, whom John met when his father helped John with a fencing project. John is sponsoring Pablo at culinary school. In return, Pablo works as a chef at the ranch and on the trail. I could go on and on, but "jack-of-all-trades/super mentor" pretty much sums it up.

The Patagonia Frontiers ranch is the epitome of tranquil, especially on a windless day. The main house--warmth is plentiful, meals are served, mate is passed in the morning, and entertainment from Pablo and Casey Weyer (former NOLS student, now an intern for John) is found. Logs are fed into the enormous kitchen stove. Hard to fathom how Pablo gauges the temperature of the oven and cooktop as he churns out endless loaves of bread and delicious meals.

The grassy grounds hold fruit trees, a guest house, various barns and outbuildings, and a couple round pens for the 17 horses John owns. Two outhouses (although I hesitate to call them "outhouses") are located at either end of the core of the property. If there could be such a thing as a beautiful outhouse, John has built it. Each is wood paneled, has a couple windows and a real toilet seat, and is totally devoid of any nasty odors. A bucket of water for washing hands hangs from a nearby tree.

The guest house contains three bedrooms. Our Queen bedroom had plenty of storage for our gear, lots of fun books in the bookshelf, newly installed electricity (solar panels were installed just weeks ago), and a cozy sheepskin rug on the wood floor. Sleeping on a firm mattress--what a pleasant change from the stateside hotels and their mushy feather-top beds.

The horses are usually free to wander around the property, except when they're rounded up for a ride. It is not unusual to encounter them right beside the guest house, especially when it's raining. Important to wear shoes to the outhouse.

We had very little wind during our days at the ranch. More often than not, the lake was like glass. We only heard stories of 6-foot waves and difficult crossings in the boat from Puerto Bertrand.

Tom and I explored the ranch during the mornings before heading out on overnight hiking/horseback treks. Tom chose to bathe in the frigid lake. I, not being one to embrace cold water, either reveled in my filthiness or asked John to heat water and pour it into the Solar Shower pouch for me. After the first rather scalding 110-degree shower, I implored John to drop the water temp five degrees or so the next time. Squeaky clean is overrated.

All in all, the ranch is rustic but quite comfortable. John is uber organized, so everything is neat and tidy. He has plans for future improvements, but will always strive to maintain the ranch's character.