Laguna de los Tres Was Close—Until Patagonia’s Winds Pushed Back

“In an instant the winds can pick up to 75 mph. If that happens while you’re on the mountaintop, you oughta get low, sit your butt on the ground, and let it pass,” said Matias, handing me, and my best friend Emma, each a plate for our dinner. Matias is roughly 60-years old. He stands at 5’5, a thick pile of messy gray hair laid atop his head. He is the owner of a quaint two-story hostel in El Chaltén, a small mountain town in southern Argentina known for its backdrop, Mt. Fitz Roy. 

The hostel is homely and sheltered, the walls are lined with local art, the kitchen permanently smelling of coffee and maté. Travelers occupy the living room, playing board games or flipping through photos they’d taken that day. It is a sanctuary to the gusting, unfamiliar winds of Patagonia. We load our plates with Milanesa, meat-filled empanadas, and potatoes. After two weeks in Patagonia, we’ve learned a thing or two like the fact that vegetables aren’t a major food group in this meat-obsessed country. I don’t mind though. Our plan is to wake up before sunrise and hike the 13.3 miles to the top of Mt. Fitz Roy, the infamous mountain on the Patagonia brand logo. Loading up on protein and carbs didn’t seem like the worst idea. 

After dinner, we exchange “buenos sueños” with Matias and the other travelers and return to our room to load our packs with all our necessary supplies. I’m on my hands and knees shoving every crevice of my backpack full of necessities – a headlamp, hiking poles, snacks and sandwiches, water, and extra warm layers. It is our second week in Patagonia and by now we’re self-proclaimed experts.

After I finish packing, I plop myself on my bed and look over at Emma. She looks at me. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” I ask, uncertainty trails in my voice. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,’ she replies, flashing me a self-assured smile and throwing her hands up. It’s exactly the response that I’d expect from her – Emma is the brave one.

_________

Beep! Beep! Beep! The 4am alarm blares. The room is dark. I switch on the lights, rub at my tired eyes, and look towards the window. A thick layer of condensation has collected on the glass overnight, indicating it’s cold and wet outside. I shudder at the thought. Emma and I rise, wash up, dress in our layers, and lace up our hiking boots. I have a passing thought. The next time these boots are off my feet, I’ll have made it to the top of Mt. Fitz Roy.  We are quiet as we prepare, like marathoners getting in the zone before the big event. When we head downstairs to the kitchen, the hostel is silent and dark. The warmth and laughter from last night is long gone. I am too nervous to eat, so I throw a banana and a bar in my pack. We make our way toward the front door and emerge into the wild Patagonia. 

________

By the time we make it to the trailhead, my cheeks are rosy red and icy to the touch. I have a cold sweat collecting beneath my turtleneck. We give each other a reassuring nod, and with that we take our first step. It’s pitch black and utterly silent, only our headlamps illuminate the few feet in front of us. After a few minutes, our steps fall into unison with each other, a meditative walk that keeps my mind at ease. Each step brings us one step closer to Laguna de los Tres. 

After a few miles my mind wanders to what might be lurking in the trees around me. Matias had mentioned that pumas take cover in the lush Patagonian forests. My heart sinks as I envision glowing green eyes glaring at me between the trees. I remember we packed salami sandwiches to enjoy for lunch. Oh no, I think. Could pumas smell the meat in my pack? I let the thought consume me as I imagine a puma leaping at me and dragging me into the bush. I quiver at the thought. Then I envision the puma stealing my salami sandwich, leaving me tangled in the dirt and roots of Patagonia. I chuckle, wondering what thoughts must be running through Emma’s mind. 

Another hour passes and we surface from the thick trees. Beyond us is an expansive valley, illuminated by the stars above us. In the distance we see Mt. Fitz Roy getting closer. I look up and gasp, catching the beauty of the milky way just before the sky begins to lighten. We don’t expect to make it to the top for sunrise, so we pause and catch the first moments of daylight from the valley. Pink and orange colors paint the sky, as the sun decides to start its day. The Patagonia winds are unusually calm, barely a rustling of the tree branches is heard. Emma and I sit next to one another on a cold, hard boulder. We are silent as we admire Mt. Fitz Roy, warm colors swirling behind her to create the most jaw dropping backdrop. 

I don’t want this moment to pass, but like all moments, it must, and so Emma and I get back on our feet and continue walking. We trek for miles and miles through forests, over rocky rivers, and past sweeping tall grasses, Mt. Fitz Roy is always towering in the background as a reminder of where we are headed. Finally, we reach a trail marker – 4 miles to Laguna De Los Tres. These last four miles consist of a treacherous uphill climb, full of switchbacks and little to no tree coverage. We start our ascent. Emma takes the lead and I follow. My heart is pumping hard in my chest, like it’s trying to break free. I feel like I have a weight strapped to each leg, and my breath can’t exit my lungs and re-enter fast enough. 

________

My first clue that the wind is picking up is that it blows my hair free from its hair tie. My hair whips around my face violently as I try to collect and retie it. My next clue comes when a friendly hiker passes us on his way down. “Good luck up there. This wind is no joke,” he says over the gusts, somehow still smiling, despite the fact he’s lugging a massive pack on his back. 

“Thanks for the heads up,” I reply hesitantly, before he’s out of sight. I glance at Emma for reassurance, but she’s already strides ahead of me. I keep climbing, but as we get higher the wind gets more violent. I use my hands to grasp onto boulders and thin tree branches that line the trail. We are feet from a sharp drop that would surely kill us if the wind knocked us over. I begin to panic and wonder if these are the kinds of winds Matias mentioned to us over dinner last night. I ignore my best judgment, and follow Emma up the mountain. Finally, the switchbacks open up to a larger, more stable platform just in time for the winds to pick up to what I guess is 75 mph. I can barely keep my footing stable as the wind whips me around. It’s frigid temperature creeps up my jacket and sends a shiver down my spine. Other hikers are seated on the gravel platform, hands grasped tight around anything they can hold onto. The wind is too loud to shout over so they sit in silence. I take a seat next to a woman dressed in a colorful orange jumpsuit, and Emma plops down next to me. 

“I’m going to keep going,” she says, over the gusting wind. I look at her in disbelief. 

“Emma, I think we should stay put and wait for the wind to pass,” I reply.

“The wind isn’t that bad, I think I can make it to the top,” she says. I look at her in utter disbelief. Not that bad!? We are both from Chicago, but these are not like any winds we’ve experienced in the Windy City. I want to argue with her and beg her to stay but I know this is her journey just as much as it is mine so I swallow my rebuttal.  

“Okay, please be careful and safe,” I reply, hoping she hears the concern in my tone. She rises to her feet and continues forward, before disappearing behind the bend. I sit there, bundled in the hood of my coat, too cold, and enveloped in the wind to panic. The others do the same. I question if I am a coward for not continuing on to the lake. 

We all sit in silence, hoping the winds pass and we can safely descend the mountain. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Then thirty. I start to wonder if it will ever pass or I will have to become one with this mountain. Finally, the wind has had enough and decides to slow, just in time for Emma to emerge from her solo adventure to the top. Relief fills me as she appears. 

“You’re back, thank God!” I shout, pulling her into an embrace. “Did you make it to the top?” 

“Yes, but the view was covered in clouds,” she replies, pulling out her phone to show me some photos. “And the wind nearly whipped my phone out of my hands and into the water,” she chuckles. 

I chuckle too, satisfied with all the beauty I saw today, even if it wasn’t the summit. I think of the pumas allegedly lurking in the trees, the milky way beaming above me, and the pink and orange sky. I think of the things I didn’t see, but felt. The wind whipping me around in all directions. The tightness in my lungs as I climbed the steep incline. I accept that it’s not conquering the mountain, but surrounding myself in its embrace that fills me with joy and accomplishment. I accept that maybe today, Patagonia had other plans for me. We rise to our feet and turn back down the mountain. I’m swept away with a sense of gratitude as I feel myself steady and balanced. My mind wanders to the safety and security of the hostel. I can’t wait to tell Matias all about our experience with Patagonia’s notorious 75 mph winds.