Days 43-47: The Huemul Circuit

The Huemul Circuit

Days 43 – 47

February 9 – 13

Los Glaciares National Park

It was another early morning.  And I didn’t sleep much the night before, mostly because the anticipation of spending four days hiking the Huemul Circuit was keeping me wide awake.  Fortune found its way far enough south to calm the unpredictable Patagonian weather for enough time to complete this wilderness trek.  Sixty kilometers, 4700 meters of elevation change, two Tyrolean zip-lines across raging rivers, and a three-hour near-vertical descent that all promised three unforgettable rewards: trekking across the foot of the Tunel glacier, sunrise over the Viedma Glacial Lagoon, and a 180 degree panorama of the third largest fresh-water reserve on the planet: the Southern Patagonian Ice Field.  

I was in the middle of my morning routine when I heard three delightful raps at the hostel’s front door.  Staring through the window pane was Ned Imhoff.  We met back in Lima, Peru, had an amazing New Years’ experience together, and vowed to meet up again somewhere down the road to travel together.  So when I heard that the gods of wind and rain and cold were simultaneously taking a long weekend vacation, I contacted Ned.  He was only 1200 kilometers north of me, and caught the fastest ride south to El Chalten.  And here he was, smiling at me from ear to ear, ready to tackle this beautiful behemoth of a hike.  

We got our permits from the APN Ranger Station and let them know when we anticipated returning, lest they need to send a search party for us.  Crossing the ridgeline to the Ice Field puts us far away from civilization, and the lack of helicopters in the area necessitates quick reaction from ground-rescue teams.  However, with the amount of outdoors experience between the two of us, this was just business as usual.

With our permit in hand, we were ready to tackle the Huemul Circuit.

Ned’s the perfect partner for the Huemul Circuit: fit, funny, sociable, lighthearted, reliable, resilient, and (most importantly), fully prepared for an adventure like this.  He showed up at the front door with all of the gear he needed.  Setting out, it was like we picked up where we left off in Lima.  Conversations abounded, and before we knew it, we had completed half of our trek to the first campsite, cresting the hill into the Tunel River Valley.  Through the lingering mist of yesterday’s snowfall, we could see outlines of the Tunel Glacier and a blip of Lago Tunel, the lake made from the glacial run off.  We descended westward into the valley, flanked to our north and south by the towering snow-capped mountain chains of Cerro Nato and Cerro Huemul.  The Tunel River was our guide towards the campsite.  With two forded rivers, day one was the easiest day.  

Fording our first glacial river.  Yes, it is cold.

Day two was the toughest and most rewarding day.  An early rise got us a head start towards the first Tyrolean Traverse.  We walked through a valley that was recently carved by glaciers, enthusiastically running our hands over the smoothed surfaces of granite boulders.  At the traverse, Ned led the way, and I sent our packs in tow.  Before heading across myself, I showed Cameron and Chris, two Californians doing the circuit with us, how to set up their harnesses and safety lines.  I would have felt guilty if something went wrong during their crossing.  

Ned taking the lead across the first Tyrolean Traverse (bonus: dramatic sunlight).

Our adrenaline was high as we approached the Tunel Glaciers, labeled as “superior” and “inferior” based upon absolute elevation.  The snow-covered peak of Cerro Grande hypnotized us on our approach.  At the base of the Tunel Inferior Glacier, the area where it melted into the Tunel River, there were two small geysers; water was bubbling up from underneath, more likely from underground rivers than geothermal activity.  In this late morning hour, the sun was high enough to melt the surface ice.  Small rocks fell from the glacier’s steepest hillsides, following a small stream to the river below.  Following the advice of the Rangers, we stayed off the glacier, tracing the southern moraine, avoiding the deep glacial crevices cut perpendicular to the direction of the downhill advance.  But the moraine was not an easy trek.  It was formed from a rockslide that landed on a glacier adjacent to the Tunel Twins; the shifting boulders and melting ice underneath created an ever-changing foundation.  

The Tunel Inferior Glacier feeds from Cerro Grande down to the Tunel Lake and
Tunel River.  Near the rocky moraine, large crevices form in the glacier's surface.

Towards the northern end of Tunel Inferior, the moraine grew too steep to be stable; we descended to the glacier below.  Embedded rocks in the surface ice gave us confidence in our traction, as none of us had the equipment needed to walk on a slick ice surface.  We reached the end of the glacier and followed a narrow winding path up the 500 meter (1600 feet) climb to Paso del Viento (Passage of Wind).  On our climb, we could see more details along the western side of Tunel Inferior: signs of snowpack freezing on the surface, signs of melting runoff eroding it, signs of powerful winds carving it, and a few depressions in the middle of the glacier, possibly due to seismic activity or the melting of an underground river.  We climbed towards the top, high above the glaciers and above the permanent snowpack, the steepness and difficulty of the terrain constantly changing.  

Walking on the surface of the Tunel Inferior Glacier.  The rocks helped with traction.

Panorama during our ascent to Paso del Viento.  The peaks from left to right:
Cerro Murallon del Viedma (middle-left), Cerro Grande (center), the back of
Fitz Roy (two peaks in middle-right saddle), and the back of Cerro Solo (right).
The two glaciers are Tunel Superior (left) and Tunel Inferior (right).

Ned, Cameron, Chris and I reached the top of Paso del Viento together.  Cresting the saddle, we were stopped in our tracks; the sight of the Southern Patagonian Ice Field was too overwhelming for immediate words or actions.  We picked up our jaws, searched around for the best vantage point, and had ourselves a picnic.  The weather was gentle, with a beaming sun and dead winds.  Even from here, we could feel the heat-sapping energy of the Ice Field.  Ned and I sat there for two-and-a-half hours, staring into the vastness.  Words and pictures do no justice and provide no scale to how impressive and humbling it was to see endless ice stretch far past our visible horizon.  It’s too big to fathom even in person, much less on a four-inch cellphone screen.  At our elevation, we could see 60 kilometers (37 miles) to the west, far beyond the nearest mountains that were 16 kilometers (10 miles) from Paso del Viento.  They looked so close and so small, but were sitting higher than us and so far away.   In the distance, we could see tiny bumps on the horizon, snow-covered mountains blending into the sky.  Easily visible from space and having a total area of 12,400 square kilometers (4,800 square miles), it was easy to lose perspective on the Ice Field.  

This panorama of the Southern Patagonian Ice Field only covers a small portion.

Proof that Ned and I were there!

We descended for two hours to our camp for the night, paralleling the Ice Field on a portion formally called the Viedma Glacier, a glacier much larger than any we have seen before in the park.  The heavily-rooted tundra soil squished beneath our feet, and the sight of the glacier disappeared below Morro del Refugio, the mountain guarding us at night from unpredictable weather prone to blowing across the Ice Field.  The skies were cleared of clouds that night, and our remote location made for excellent stargazing.  

The descent through a glacier-carved valley.  Note the smoothing on the rocks.

Far in the wilderness with a ridge line separating us from the nearest town, the
night sky was perfectly clear. 

The morning of day three, we rose from our sheltered spot and skirted the red moraine cliffs southeastward along the Viedma Glacier, watching it transform along the way.  From Paso del Viento to its termination at Lago Viedma, the glacier drops 900 meters (3000 feet) in elevation.  Lines of dirt and rock are drawn through the glacier from their origins as snowpack in the mountains, sprinting as summer runoff onto the glacier towards their eventual fate many years later in the glacial lake.  Their path creates streams of brown and white, like highways in an open desert.  Ripples and crevices form on the surface closer to the lake, where the sheet of ice is thinner and its advances faster.  I say “faster” like it means something measurable to me; on the geological scale, this glacier is flying at break-neck speeds.  As the day grew warmer, the Viedma Glacier moaned a deep rumble, then returned to its silence.  

Climbing the cliff of the moraine, we had an ever-changing view of the Ice Field.

Nature's version of artwork.

Beautiful path after beautiful path.

Panorama of one of our last views of the Ice Field.

At Paso Huemul’s saddle point, Ned and I admired the Ice Field one last time before turning our backs to the winds and beginning our 700-meter three-hour descent.  The Rangers warned that this path could be dangerous at parts.  Initially, the hike was copacetic, marked by the unique flora formed on Cerro Huemul’s leeward face, the trees providing a contrast to the windward face’s weather-resilient low-lying tundra.  After the first hour of our descent, the grade steepened and the ground loosened.  Care was taken to find sure footing.  The trees on the hillside, hardened by Patagonian winds to have strong and flexible branches, lent their hands when footholds proved inadequate.   In the late afternoon, we arrived at the base, exhausted, eager to set up camp and lounge on the unique beach formed in Bahia Tempanos (Iceberg Bay).  

Our steep descent after Paso Huemul was treacherous at times.

This is how Ned dries our ground tarp before we set up the tent.

When exhaustion subsided, fascination took over.  At 1088 square kilometers (420 square miles), Lago Viedma spanned past our water-level horizon, its size fed by the melting of the massive Viedma Glacier.  The small bay formed by the rocks and land near camp traps most fallen icebergs until they meet their thermal deaths, creating a field of malformed and melting ice behemoths.  Staring into the lake, I heard a rumble to my left.  I turned to see a giant splash from the side of an iceberg the size of a building, followed by its violent teetering about its new subaqueous fulcrum.  Today, we were the beneficiaries of climate change, bearing witness to the continuum of rumbling and plunging of large chucks as they divorced themselves from their parent icebergs.  

Icebergs abounded in the bay.

Ned is trying to stop global warming by holding up the Viedma Glacier.

This iceberg came all the way to shore.  We sat there and watched it melt.
Piece-by-piece.

Sunset provided a dramatic backdrop to the scene, and the darkness closed our long day.  Early in the morning, I arose with excitement at the clear and expansive night sky, photographing it once more before returning to a much-needed bed.  I knew it would likely be the last time I saw the Southern Night Sky at this resolution.  

The brilliant Milky Way rose from the lake.

Dawn awoke us; we sat on the rocky shoreline, watching the sunrise.  The lake stirred more violently than before.  Wave after crashing wave contacted the rocks below us.  Overnight, the lake’s icebergs had repositioned themselves, like God played a game a chess with them as we slept.  Clouds blown in from the Pacific provided the canvas for the god of light to paint the sunrise, reflecting iridescent off the unruly lake surface.  Pinks and golds and oranges cast about the cloudy sky.  Winds blew waters crashing into icebergs, sending a volley of freezing mist into the air.  

Our last sunrise of the Huemul Circuit, and the most unique one.  It's not every
day that you watch sunrise happen over an iceberg-laden glacial lagoon.

The day’s walk was a long, pleasant 15 kilometers.  After the last grueling 45, it was a welcomed change of pace.  At the end of the circuit, while waiting for the bus back to El Chalten, Ned and I talked about a possible next move: it was a clear day today, and if the cloud curtain was vacant from Cerro Torre (which happens very rarely), then we were going to make a trip there immediately after we got back.  As our bus approached town, the good news came visually: our actions were decided.  We refueled with a quick lunch and a shared beer, loaded a day pack with more beer and snacks, and hit the trail.

Our pace was swift, our resolve set.  Nine kilometers passed in the fastest 150 minutes of the trip.  The excitement to see Cerro Torre up close with our own eyes surpassed all thoughts.  When we arrived at Laguna Torre, we cracked the beer and celebrated the climax of day four.  At the late afternoon hour, all other day-hikers had turned back to town, leaving only us and a few die-hard photographers and their camping gear.  Upon realizing the late hour, we hurried back to town, more determined than before in our pace, adamant to avoid getting stuck outside of town in the dark with no gear.  The last nine kilometers passed in 90 minutes, totaling our day’s distance to 33 kilometers (20 miles).  At 10:00 PM, just as the twilight was beginning to die, Ned and I sat down in an El Chalten restaurant to our first kitchen-cooked meal in four days, the best tasting meal of the trip.  

Our view of Cerro Torre as we drank our victory beer.

Here, too, the lagoon was filled with icebergs.

We purposely woke up late and moved as slowly as time permitted.  Goodbyes carry the sadness that balances the happiness people bring us.  Ned walked me to the bus station.  As the bus backed out to leave El Chalten, I could see the massifs one last time: Fitz Roy on the right, Cerro Torre in the center, and Cerro Solo on the left.  Their continuous ridgeline pierced the sky.  I made many good memories here.  I will never forget Patagonia.