In a few places, I pull on our #4 Camalot, totally tipped out, to help with progress, but most of the time the damned thing won't fit. Terrified, I don't have the slightest interest in freeing this pitch.
Ten meters up I get two solid pieces under a flake on the right side of the slot and allow myself to contemplate survival. Ten more meters and I struggle up the last five-inch section to where the crack widens enough to permit my entire body inside. Chimneying never felt so good. I struggle between a huge chockstone and the back of the chimney. After this caving maneuver I build an anchor above the chockstone. Jim comes up while I eye the route ahead. Thin cracks go up a corner and disappear to what looks like the low angled slopes of Poincenot's summit ridge. We are close!
A cold gust of wind grabs my attention. Lost in ascent I've neglected to eye the weather. A glance at the ice cap and my liver turns to jelly. Gray clouds pile up to the west and swarm towards us. Saucer-shaped lenticular clouds indicating high winds and moisture in the atmosphere cap the peaks of the Andes.
Jim arrives, "Nice lead. We've got to hurry if we're gonna beat this storm."
Two pitches above Jim reaches the summit ridge. The wind is formidable. A rocketing layer of gray shoots east, a hundred meters over our heads.
"Okay, Greg, let's stash most of the rack and the rap line here. We'll just cruise up, tag the summit, and get the hell out of here." I agree. Three hours remain until dark.
We climb a difficult rock tower along the summit ridge thinking it is the true summit. From atop the tower we see the real summit beyond, another hour away.
Another Near Miss?
"Well, Jim, I guess we're rappelling all night. We are going to the top of this Patagonian pile of choss." Neither one of us wants to swallow another near miss, even though it means going back to get the second rope and the hardware—forty minutes of wasted time in the face of impending doom.
Clouds tear all around. To the southwest black clouds are swallowing entire mountain ranges.
With the extra equipment, we fix a rope and rappel onto an icy shelf in the cleft between the rock tower and the real summit. The second rope secures our ascent to the summit. An hour of scrambling over ice and snow covered rocks later, and I'm belaying on a ledge a few meters below the top.
"Your summit, Jim." He disappears out of view, hollers and belays me up to join him. We shake gloved hands on top.
"Damn, Jim, rolled another one." The lenticulars glow orange as they pile up to the west. The sun is setting. It's going to be a long night. Cold gusts batter our remote summit.
Long Night Ahead
Other than the orange lenticulars, the entire world is shades of gray. The ice cap is gray under the clouds. Gray cloud wraps the summit of Fitzroy beside us. To the southeast the waters of Lago Viedma gleam battleship-gray, thousands of meters below. East stretch the deserts of Patagonia, black-gray in the gathering darkness. Civilization is marked by the lights of an estancia glimmering miles away. It feels like the apocalypse. My camera hasn't worked since the abuse of the five-inch slot. Memories of this summit must be fused into my memory.
"Okay, we're out of here. It's going to be a long night." We haven't spent two minutes on Poincenot's summit.
Darkness overtakes us before we make it back to the top of our route. With headlamps we rig anchors and rappel into blackness. Fortunately, the wind drops at about 1 a.m., right when I'm on my knees praying the ropes don't stick as we pull them over the five-inch crack. It's big trouble if they stick in that evil slot—I don't think I can reclimb that pitch in the dark. I nearly weep with relief when the ropes fall cleanly.
The pitch above the five-inch slot and the pitch below both hang up the ropes. Jim and I reclimb parts of those pitches recovering the stuck ropes. Massive rope clusters, twists, strenuous pulls: there is some new hassle on every rappel.
After first light we make it to the broad ledge where we left our sleeping bags. After a few hours of rest, we continue down to high camp, too exhausted to be happy.
Jim and I fall apart in camp. We spend the afternoon in a personal fog. We collapse now that the pressure's off after nine consecutive days in action. Four or five times I arise from my comatose state and struggle out of the tent, confused. I stagger around camp and stare dumbly at the Torres.
The sky is still windless and blue. We could go bag another one. If we could just stand up.
Where are you going?
What do you want to do?
