The solo, not so solo backpacking trip

Truth be told, I didn’t want to go backpacking alone. Not just because I thought my father would verbally "kill me" if he found out, though that was definitely part of it. I could just hear him in the little voice in my head, “Jennifah, are you insane? A woman alone in the wilderness? Don’t be so naïve. The problem is you are too trusting! Do you want to give me a heart attack?” And on and on and on . . . that must be the Jewish father in him. But really, I didn’t want to go alone, because frankly, I was a bit scared. Sure, I know what you’re thinking, scared? After all that she’s done on her own, by herself? She’s scared? But it’s true, I was.

So, I went looking for the potential backpacking partners: Salvador a fellow traveller from Guatemala on break from his university in Brazil and Diego, a guy that works at the hostel I tend to stay at when in Bariloche for the weekend. Of course, Salvador was no longer anywhere to be found. He had moved on to the next town, as travellers have a tendency to do. And Diego, well Diego, was asleep when I called and had no intention of getting up any time soon.

Upon realization that I was on my own if I was going to go up into the mountains last weekend, I did what I do best, I procrastinated. First, I attempted to find a place to fix my now broken digital camera. That took up a few hours. I, then, had to look for some sort of picture taking device, given that I wasn’t going to go up into the mountains with no camera. That too took time. I had to food shop so that I would be well prepared up there all by myself. And of course, since Friday is my only week day in civilization since starting at the rural school, I had to go to the post office to mail yet another batch of postcards. By this time it was almost 4:00 and now it seemed late to start out. But as I sat there in the hostel trying to figure out what else I could do for the weekend, Gustavo, one of the hostel´s employees looked at me and said, “Go already, you’re driving me nuts. You’ll be fine. The route’s well marked. You have time before sunset. It’ll be fun. Just go.” So, I went.

It was after 5 when I got off the bus and headed down the dirt road alongside Lago Gutierrez to enter the Nahuel Haupi National Park, and almost 6 when I finally got the permit and the directions on how to find the trail head. The ranger assured me that it was nearly impossible to get lost and that I should have no problem making it to the camping area by 10 when the sun actually set. I must have asked him at least twenty times if I could get lost, until finally he looked at me as if to say, “Seriously, are you really that dumb or deaf or do you just not understand what I am saying in Spanish?” He didn’t say that of course. He just laughed pointed down the road and told me to go on and get started before I lost the daylight I had remaining. Clearly, I was still procrastinating.

In the end, the ranger and Gustavo were both right, the trail was well marked. I think even my mother wouldn’t have gotten lost on this trail and she could get lost in our house going from the kitchen to the bathroom. But no one, not the ranger, not Gustavo, not John, who had done the route a few weeks earlier, mentioned, “Oh yeah, by the way, it’s four hours UP hill.” So there I was sweating my catooties off with a backpack as heavy as I had ever carried it. This camping on your own made for a strenuous trip.

As the sun dipped behind the mountain, the refuge and camping area still over an hour away, I began the last long uphill stretch for the day. I walked bent over forward, taking miniscule steps, the backpack feeling like three thousand pounds instead of thirty. Behind me, I heard voices and turned around to see who would clearly now pass me as I moved turtle like up the mountain. There on the trail about 100 feet below me were two young boys hiking obviously much faster than I. They caught up to me, slowed their clip, and as we made our way up to the camping next to Refugio Frey, we began to chat.

That night under a moon so full it felt like daytime, the three of us sat eating rice primavera and talking about what people always talk about when they are traveling, how it is that you go to be in whatever place you are currently in. Martín and David were both university students in Buenos Aires on their summer vacation. They had been coming to this same mountain since they were twelve. For them, it was like coming home. For me, it was a group of people to camp near, not quite so alone in the wilderness afterall. Of course, it did cross my mind that these two teenaged boys, could indeed be murderers, rapists or thieves, but in lieu of foraging a place on my own in the dark, I decided to risk it.

In the end, I decided against putting the tent up since the boys were without a tent and the night was clear. Despite the brightness of the moon, a good number of stars shone above us, and as we climbed into our respective sleeping bags, a shooting star zipped across the night sky. I breathed in the clean mountain air; lay in my bag, glasses off, world a fuzzy blur, listening to the river rushing below and the howl of the wind in my ears. This was life. And to think I hadn’t wanted to come camping by myself.

It was either the sun or the large quantity of dust in my face that awoke me the next morning hours before either of my two "campsite mates." I tapped around on the ground searching for my glasses, covered in a film of light brown sand and wiped them and my face on the already dirty sleeve of my sweater. The morning was crisp and as I sat eating my cheese and tomato sandwich, writing in my journal, I thought maybe I would continue on to the next refuge, Jakob, instead of heading back down to Lago Gutierrez that day. David and Martín had sworn it was worth the five or six hour hike and that really it was just two big up hills and two descents. "No big deal," they assured me, "Piece of cake." Really, the next time some one tells me that the two up and down hills are no big deal, I will make sure to ask them to be a bit more descriptive before making a decision about whether or not to follow them up the mountain.

We set off as a group but within minutes I realized, there was no way I would keep pace with these young kids and told them to go ahead, which of course, they did. That’s not to say I never saw them again. They would wait to me at the top of the summit or the bottom of the descent before moving on for most of the day. So I was alone, but not completely.

I am not sure there are words to accurately depict what kind of day Saturday was, other than perhaps pure torture. If Friday’s ascent had been more up hill and more strenuous than I had imagined, well, Saturday’s hike made me long for the hours of late Friday afternoon heading toward Frey. The first section of the day, an hour climb to a glacier lake left me breathless but still in good spirits. There, David and Martín awaited me sprawled out on rocks and taking pictures of the scenery. The next segment continued up through the snow and onto a path entirely made out of large boulders that required you to quite literally lift your body up from one to the next, looking for a handhold while desperately holding on with one hand and your foot to the rock beneath you. I reached the top and took in my surroundings, Tronodor Mountain to my left, Nahuel Haupi Lake shining below fringed by snow capped peaks on every side. It was indeed breathtaking, that is, if the climb had left me with any breath to be taken.

What ensued from then on, I swear, can only be described as sheer masochism, or is it sadism? I always get those two confused. The descent to the river from the top was nothing short of sliding straight down a mountain, praying as you careened downward, that the landslide you were creating as you slid snowboard style down the hill was not being repeated by someone directly above you. By the time I got down to the ravine, my shoes were absolutely filled to the brim with dirt, rocks and probably a few flowers I destroyed on the way. I was beginning to question the decision made in the beauty of the morning light to continue to Jakob, but looking back up over my shoulder, I knew it was too late now.

After a quiet lunch by a waterfall, we set out toward the last up and down hill sections of the day. David warned me that what had come before paled in comparison to what we would encounter on the next two sections. At that moment, my ignorance was indeed bliss. I lost sight of the two boys immediately upon beginning the ascent up a rock strewn side of a mountain and for over an hour, sweat poured down my face into my eyes, my mouth and down my neck as I labored upwards toward the summit. As I struggled up, up, up, I scanned to rocks above me looking for the tell tale red dots marking my way. I promised myself not to stop for more water till I reached the next trail marker swatting dozens of Tabanas, the large black biting flies, as I walked.

Up ahead as my watch read 5:30 in the afternoon, I could make out Martín’s head, the sun blotting out the rest of his body. “Is that the top?” I cried out, praying for an affirmation.

“¡Sí!” came the much needed reply as I pulled myself up the last section and sank onto the hard earth.

“Thank god,” I breathed as I pulled out my water and finished the rest of the bottle. “I am dead.”

“Not so fast,” David pointed to the horizon, “That’s where we’re going.”

I looked across the valley and sure enough, there was a small house, el refugio San Martín and camping. But where was the trail? I continued searching to no avail and finally asked the question, dreading the inevitable answer, “And the trail?”

They exchanged wary looks that did not calm my spirit before David finally spoke, “Just take your time. It’s a bit steeper than the first descent and since it’s mostly rocks, it’s very slippery. Take your time. Take it slow and we’ll see you at the camping.”

“Take my time, take it slow. Take my time, take it slow. . . ” I breathed in and out as I stepped and then slipped and then fell on my butt, stepped and then slipped and then fell on my butt. My hands were scraped raw, the back of my leg bleeding from one of the many falling rocks, my heart raced, the tabana flies swarmed and the sun beat down mercilessly from above. This was NOT fun, in any way, shape, or form. What kind of masochist was I anyway? I must have been insane when I decided to go on this hike! I could hear my father’s laugh in my head as I relayed the story days later. That is if I didn’t fall to my death trying to get down the mountain. The boys long gone; my head pounding, visions of broken legs, cracked skulls and night fall began to race through my mind.

So, I began to do the only thing I could think of to help the situation. Obviously, I began to talk to the flies, “Please,” I implored, my voice a high pitched whine, “Please tabanas, please leave me alone. I just can’t handle you too.” Bam, I fell again and the tabanas swarmed around me.

When that didn’t work, I thought, maybe I would try the universe. Perhaps I was starting too low on the hierarchy, “Um, hello, Universe? Could you help me out here? I get you can’t make this go any faster. But could you at least get rid of these flies? I just can’t take it anymore.” I was defintitely losing my mind.

But of course, that too failed. Out of entities, insects and people to plead for help, I thought to even try my mom, figuring she might have some pull with someone up there, but no such luck.

Finally, fifteen falls on my you know what later, I reached flat ground. Turning around to look up behind me, the mountain loomed above me sneering sinisterly. I swear, the mountain was definitely laughing.

“Home free!” I thought. I would have skipped down the flat trail if I could have, but my legs were screaming and refused to do much more than a lopsided, slow stroll. In my head, I skipped toward the refuge on muddy trails, thinking, “I mean really, how hard could the last few kilometers be?”

“Glunk” was the sound I heard, as my left foot, followed by my whole left leg slipped down into the mud, just as if I had stepped in quick sand. I lurched forward quickly pulling my right foot with me. Luckily it came free. But the left one was completely stuck. I began to dig out my leg, mud flying everywhere, and as I dug, more mud sunk on top of my shoe and leg. Faster and faster I dug, alternately leaning forward to support myself on the muddy ground to try to pull my left leg out of the hole, but to no avail. I was stuck. I stood there, sunken into the ground, looking around the deserted trail. No one in front of me, no one behind me. I called out for help, no answer. My watch read 7:00 pm, three hours to sundown and getting colder. “I’m either going to start hysterically laughing or hysterically crying.” I said aloud to no one in particular, as I struggled once again against the cold mud around my leg. Laugh it was. Cracking up, I dug, pulled, dug, pulled, tried to take my shoe off, dug, pulled, till finally, POP! Out came my leg and BAM! I landed face first in the mud.

Scrambling to get out of there before I sunk again, I unfortunately, missed the trail marking flag telling me to cross the river at that exact spot and so oblivious and covered in mud, continued on my way to clean myself off. Not two minutes later, I reached the end of the trail, faced with an impassable point in the river. Clearly this was not the way. I turned around to see where I had gone wrong, and BOOM! Back down in the mud, this time on my right side. I shook my head as I stood up, “You have got to be kidding me.” I muttered as I headed back down to the river to clean myself off again. To the right I saw what looked like it might be a trail if you could get through the brush that had overgrown the beginning, so I headed up the hill to try it out, but no, it was merely another mud trap waiting for a cold, exhausted, fed up hiker. Yep, that would be me.

Now once again, covered in mud, I gave up trying to clean myself off and headed back the way I came. How the heck was I ever going to find my way to the campground? This was the unfortunate part of hiking alone with the sense of direction of a flea. So much for well marked.

Luckily for me, just as I was about to throw myself in the river and give up on life, a couple came down the muddy path and together the three of us, determined that the trail crossed the river back at my mud hole, with no bridge, three small rocks to step on and a steep drop off to the right. Clearly this was the way. However had I missed that?

And forty muddy minutes later, I dragged myself into camp to a bemused couple of boys, just about to send out the search party.

I know what you must be thinking. Sounds like fun, Jen. Lots of fun. And I admit, if the trip had ended then, it might very well have been my last solo backpacking trip ever. Fortunately for my future forays with Mother Nature, I settled into my muddy sleeping bag and slept like the dead under another amazing moon, and awoke the next day ready for my last stint on the trail before getting back to Bariloche.

By the time I had finagled a cup of coffee from the refuge, the boys had already headed out, so, I decided to put a little music to my hike. I broke out the ipod, donned the head phones and I was off.

What a hike home it was. I don’t know exactly what it was that made the hike back to Bariloche so completely rejuvenating. Maybe it was just the sense of self accomplishment for having gotten through something on my own that had scared me. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t fallen down the mountain or gotten stuck in the mud and frozen to death. Or perhaps it was the music that accompanied me as I literally ran down the trail past yellow, orange and purple flowers, through sunlit trees and across rivers with no bridges, a rope keeping me from falling down the waterfall below. I don’t know exactly what it was, but four short hours later when a dirty, muddy, smelly, sore version of Jen skipped the last few feet to the trailhead, I wasn’t the least bit bothered that I had just missed my bus back to the hostel in Bariloche . . .I knew I would find my way, just fine.