Boating and Climbing in Skyring Waters

THE art of mountaineering evolves rapidly; the achievement of the innovating climber is rapidly built upon. When the Nose of El Capitan was first climbed, nineteen years ago, it was an epic involving hundreds of man-days of effort and bizarre new techniques. Within a few years it was climbed by two lads in a single day. Eventually, the man came along who had mastered the craft of big-wall climbing to the point where he could guide the climb; that is, be responsible for novices on that extreme terrain.

In 1962, Eric Shipton took to Patagonia the first rubber boat, his “inflatable dinghy,” a device that at first impeded more than aided his advance to the mountains. (One expedition ended abruptly as the outboard motor jumped off the transom and sank.) His increasingly bold sorties—at times backed up by the warships of the Chilean Navy, at times entirely self-reliant—resulted in his climbing many fine peaks. Thus, Shipton paved the way for small expeditions to reach remote mountains. Shipton penetrated the frontier; his longest boat trip was not more than 120 miles. The younger men who followed in his wake made successive trips of 200, 300 and 400 miles, thereby completely eliminating the frontier.

The time came when the mountains of those stormy fjords could be guided. Having been on a number of climbing/boating expeditions to southern Chile (A.A.J., 1967; A.A.J., 1976), I was interested when Mountain Travel asked me to plan a trip in the same region. Before I agreed, I weighed the ethics of the thing. I listened closely when Peter Bruchhausen, my companion on those expeditions, pleaded against “the rape of Fuegia.” He envisioned a hoard of tourists rushing there in my wake. He was also concerned with my “degrading the sport,” that I would be spoon-feeding a bunch of random tourists whose only qualifications were green dollars. This was not the case. Travel in those canals is such a hardship—because of perpetual storms—that only a man who really knows the zone would undertake the responsibility of escorting others in there. Also, no member of a party in that region could be an ordinary tourist, but must be an unusually well-seasoned mountain traveler. Fuegia weeds out its visitors.

The region I chose was Skyring Sound, at Latitude 51° South. This is an inland arm of the sea, some 2400 square kilometers in extent. Besides being visited by Pagels and the Swedish geographer Scottsberg in 1910, Eric Shipton had boated a portion of it to reach Mount Burney in the 1960’s, but no climbers had tried the rugged peaks that rim its shores. We planned an expedition of one month, for December, 1975. Six qualified clients signed up, including one non-climber, Dianne Galloway, wife of climber Glenn. She endured the swampy tent sites and tossing seas as well as the rest of us.

I flew to Punta Arenas a week in advance and bought the food and gasoline, located transport, and found a hotel that would tolerate our bulky baggage. On the jet I had carried an inflatable boat and outboard motor as excess baggage.

Punta Arenas is the small seaport that sits on the Strait of Magellan and services shipping around the southern end of South America. We left there on the back of a sheep rancher’s truck and went 55 miles overland to the north, where we arrived at the eastern end of Skyring Waters. We hired a “cutter,” a rustic wooden launch of 13 tons which carried us over the first 65 miles of the Sound. During this voyage we made the abrupt transition from the flat, sheep-grazed plains of Patagonia to the mountainous and totally uninhabited fjord country known as Fuegia.

After the cutter dropped us off, we were dependent on our own rubber inflatable boats, one Avon about 12 feet long, and one Zodiac, of 14 feet. Our motors were Evinrudes, of 14 and 25 horsepower. These boats are similar to the ones used by Jacques Cousteau, but where his are seen on TV, zipping about carrying a handful of divers, ours chugged along at four to six knots, loaded high above the pontoons with gasoline, food and climbing gear for 40 days. Two or three climbers balanced themselves on top of that high load where, in rough seas, they had to cling to the lashings like cowboys on rodeo broncs.

In the course of reconnoitering the route to Cerro Ladrillero—a magnificent glacier-covered peak similar to Mount Rainier—we climbed a small peak, Cerro Volcán (in reality limestone, not a volcano). We did not find a route to Ladrillero, but the party got its first experience in climbing the vertical rain forest and slogging through the swamps that characterize the zone. Persistent winds and high seas held us in camp a week. We finally escaped that fjord and attempted the mountain by other approaches. Rotten weather and difficult terrain frustrated all our attempts.

Better luck we had on Cerro Primero de Septiembre, climbing it in a single day from our sea-level camp. This climb was much like Mount Challenger in the North Cascades. We attempted to climb “Mount Rhyme and Reason,” a double-summited peak we had discovered from high on Gran Campo Nevado the year before, but our attempt, in a storm of total white-out and gale-force winds, got us only atop the western subsidiary summit of the mountain. We descended, soaked to the bone, as is usually the case in Fuegian climbing. A rock matterhorn, Atalaya or “The Lookout,” was our third objective, but it was plastered in white rime, the hongo (mushroom) ice that collects on summits south of 45° South—the same stuff that caps the famous Cerro Torre. The ice remained the entire month. In 1974 the peak had been bare rock. Later, back in town, the locals told us it had been the worst November for rain, snow and wind in history.

Our final climb was an attempt on Dynevor Castle, a mesa topped with imposing rock towers. Glenn Galloway and Dick Peterson made a valiant attempt from sea level one stormy day, but were defeated by the weather only meters from the summit.

If the weather was worse than on our other trips, our gear was better. With the heaviest fishermen’s raingear, we no longer sat shivering those long hours in the boat. Dacron in place of down removes the dread of soaked insulation. Superior tent designs assured that we wouldn’t take off flying in the middle of the night.

If the mountains of Skyring, in all their storm-bound fury, were a challenge, the seas were even more so. On no day was the sailing easy. If we started on calm water, the wind would invariably build up—at times within minutes—and we would never complete a day’s sailing without having to plow through waves of three, four or five feet and at times even nine feet. The height of the waves indicates the ferocity of the storm, but it is their lesser idiosyncracies that get you. Small, choppy waves can fill up a boat in a short time. Waves dragging off a shallow bottom become short in frequency, sometimes not much longer from crest to crest than the length of the boat, and those waves want to roll you up like a cigar. Wind, the wicked creator of the waves, compounded our discomfort by tearing off the white caps and throwing them in our faces. When going into seas like these, we did not make a kilometer in an hour. When we boated downwind, the spray was not bad, but all hands watched—as the mongoose watches the cobra—while the white, massive curls that follow the boat, and roll slightly faster than the speeding boat, try to crawl up and over the transom. With experience one develops only a deeper respect for the sea; one never knows what is coming next.

Fuegian travel is not all hardship. There were moments that we will never forget: the clouds parting, after a long storm, to reveal a lofty row of ice-plastered rock towers, gleaming like diamonds in a ray of sunshine; a porpoise exploding in a series of leaps ahead of the boat; condors, the masters of flight, soaring close overhead; a pair of white kelp geese mirrored in the inky waters of a quiet lagoon. Even during those anxious struggles to keep an even keel in chaotic seas, there were the glimpses of water, bluer than cobalt, or an albatross arcking by on the wind.

We explored most of the fjords and bays of Skyring during our month-long expedition, and covered 301 miles in our rubber boats. The only other human we saw was an Indian woman, alone with her six dogs, on an island in the middle of the Sound.

Exploration of the Fjord of the Mountains

At Latitude 52° South, just south of the Southern Patagonian Icecap, lies the Fjord of the Mountains. Vague reports from mariners describe icy towers there; air photos from the 1945 USAF overflights bear this out. The map that resulted, drawn in a scale of 1:250,000 indicates a tidy range. It is labeled the “Cordillera Sarmiento” and contains large areas of glaciers and a number of separate summits, reaching elevations to 6600 feet (2013 meters). Although close to Puerto Natales—as the crow flies about 45 miles—they are remote in terms of getting there, for they lie in the storm-bastioned fjordlands in what may be the wettest part of the very wet Chilean Archipelago. The range must be reached by boat from Puerto Natales, which means passing through either White or Kirke Narrows, both passages known for their ferocious tides and currents.

No longer is there any great mystery about organizing a Fuegian expedition; I can plan the complete logistics on the back of an envelope over a cup of coffee. Dan Asay, a long-time climbing partner arrives in Punta Arenas a few days after my companions from the Skyring expedition have flown home. We have our coffee, spend a few hours buying food and packing the equipment, and throw it in a friend’s van for the six-hour drive to Puerto Natales.

Natales is a sleepy port on the inland sound, Almirante Montt Gulf. We stored and sorted our gear in the back of a service station, right across main street from tidewater. However, next door stood the local constabulary, and from three houses down towered the Captain of the Port. Previous experience with Chilean authorities dictated a low profile whenever one does not carry Official Permission of the highest degree; so instead of launching at this convenient spot, we hired a pick-up and at noon, when all the cops were at lunch, hussled our gear out of the garage and ten miles out of town. At the end of the trip we landed on the beach right in Puerto Natales. Sure enough, the Captain of the Port was there to bawl us out for bypassing his authority. Happily it amounted to no more than a tongue lashing.

On a small, protected spit we assembled the boat, loaded it, and left without delay. In recent years I have sought ever smaller expeditions. Just one companion, when one is as capable and agreeable as Dan Asay, is the best possible way to go. In the lightly loaded boat, we traveled in a spirit of relative luxury.

That afternoon we took advantage of quiet seas and traveled the entire 21 miles to the mouth of White Narrows. Two days of steady boating got us through the steep-walled canals and into the Fjord of the Mountains. This gash in the earth averages 1¼ -miles-wide and is over 30-miles-long, straight as an arrow. The winds that roar through the mountain gaps from the Pacific Ocean are channeled to the south along this fjord and we were battered every inch of the way as we boated north. So little is known about this fjord that no feature is named on any chart or map, and we had to label the major bays and glaciers ourselves to have some sort of reference. Labeling mountains was another matter; we saw only their lower slopes extending below the perpetual cloud cover, and named none, except for the two we climbed.

Our strategy was simple. Because we knew nothing of the Cordillera Sarmiento except for a sketchy map, we boated to a point opposite the main part of the range to establish a comfortable Base Camp and to wait for the mountains to clear. There was no solid ground for a tent site, so we built an elaborate platform of branches and moss and lived in our own Frank Lloyd Wright tent—with a stream flowing underneath.

During the next several days the storm did not let up. My journal reminds me that “the rain lands on our tent like buckshot poured out of a pail.” We finally move; if we cannot see the mountains, at least we can explore the fjord to its head. We arrive soaking wet, after a hard day of headwinds. By cutting several small trees there is room for the tent on solid ground. The fury of the storm expresses itself in thunder and lightning, a rare occurrence in Fuegia.

We wait for the storm to diminish, then start up P 1994 (6543 feet), during what looks like a lull. The storm returns in full force, and we wander blindly amidst ice-covered buttresses and towers. Thunder salutes what we accept as a summit; we can find no higher ground. Our descent through the rimey chaos becomes a nerve-racking search for our tiny red flags. At last we find the down staircase, a narrow couloir, and descend below the clouds.

To the north the black roots of what must be great mountains beckon us, but we opt to try the main Sarmiento Range once more and set out again on the stormy fjord. A tiny peninsula of rock is just big enough to hold our boat and tent out of the waves, and it gives us a toe-hold on the steep slopes to the mountain which we guess is the highest. We start climbing on a grey morning and get to a high shoulder of the range where three black buttresses are raking a full gale. The storm allows us to top the highest of these “Three Furies” before thoroughly trouncing us, driving us out of the mountains for good.

Three weeks in the Fjord of the Mountains and never a glimpse of the upper third of the range! Our defeat would have been complete but for an incident that occurred three weeks later. On our last day of boating for that season, we were motoring along Last Hope Sound, many miles to the northeast of Cordón Sarmiento. We were passing a side fjord and through a saddle at its head saw spectacular white towers. The crests of Cordón Sarmiento stood there, teasing us in a moment of sunlight; the image of those frozen summits now sticks in our minds, and we know we must return.

The Ascent of Cuerno Principal del Paine and the Descent Of Río Serrano.

After such a definitive washout in the Fjord of the Mountains, Dan’l and I are tempted to throw in the towel and head for a warm beach. Southern Chile has never had such a stormy season; it is the end of January—mid-summer—and snowline is down to 2000 feet above sea level. Certainly there is no climbing on the granite and slate of Paine. After much debate, our decision is to head north and boat the Río Serrano. We throw in the climbing gear—just in case.

In Puerto Natales we hire an ancient Austin pickup, overload it by twice, and limp to Paine, a day’s journey north of town. At a control station along the way, Carabineros (national police) stop us to check I.D. and ask if we intend to climb mountains. “No,” I lie, mindful of two friends who were prohibited from passing this point because they had no letter of permission from the National Director of Sport, in Santiago.

EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED; in Patagonia that is the rule. Arriving in Paine we find that intense sunshine and warm winds are rapidly eating the snow off the peaks. Our coveted Cuerno* Principal is soaked, but if the wind becomes reasonable, we’ll be able to climb on it. We begin portaging our boat and motor to Lake Nordenskjold, which lies between us and the mountain. The Park Rangers (for Paine was recently blessed with National Park status) officiously demand to know what we are doing, but when they learn that we are better informed in the art of mountaineering than they, as well as more familiar with the geography of Paine, they let us pass.

In camp that night we share a bottle of red wine with Richard and Heather Smithers who have stopped by on their way to more northernmountains. Richard reminisces about the Central Tower that he and his South African countrymen climbed the season before. As we turn in, the wind is still tearing at the corners of the tent.

I lay awake and listened to the wind, the same violent wind we fought for 42 days back in 1964 when I first had tried to climb the Cuernos. Although the weather had impeded our climbing, it alone had not caused us to fail: the route was simply too hard for us. I wondered if we were ready yet.

We awoke at two a.m. to the sound of—no wind. We lay there a while to accommodate this incredible fact, then began packing. The Smithers were awake and we asked if they’d like to follow us on a separate rope. Heather said no, Richard said yes, and we were a team of three. By the first light we had the boat inflated; an hour later we had crossed the lake, and by that one simple act saved a full day’s hike. We left the gear for Heather to take care of, and began climbing immediately.

My memory of the route from 12 years earlier wasn’t perfect. We had to do a certain amount of doubling back and once I got us into a cul de sac out of which Dan led us by climbing ice-covered slate. The new snow forced us to rope up where there is usually dry rock that will go third class. All in all, it went well, and by late afternoon we had climbed 6000 feet to the base of the summit tower. Many parties had reached this point: Japanese, English, Germans, Austrians, etc., but only a group of Chileans claimed to have climbed this final 600-foot stack of rotten slate. They said they found a series of dihedrals and ledges up the north side of the tower to the top, a claim doubted by most who know the mountain.

Richard volunteered to make bivouac platforms for the three of us, freeing Dan and me to climb higher that day and fix a couple of ropes. We swung leads on the nasty snow- and ice-covered vertical slate, Dan’l doing some brilliant leading up a verglas-coated crack. This is the same line that Paul Dix and I had chosen in 1964 after walking around three sides of the tower: a prominent crack leading directly up the south face. Just as dark was closing in, I finished the lead up to our previous high point and was amused to find a wad of hemp rope we had used for fixed line, still hanging from the old pitons. We rappelled 300 feet to the base of the tower and settled in to bivouac.

I couldn’t believe this incredible luck. Not only did we get to our old high point in a single day, but the weather was clear and calm. Always before I had believed winds would prevent a bivouac on that peak, or make it extremely risky. That night was mild enough to bivvy in shirtsleeves.

The following morning continued calm, and we were quickly up the fixed ropes. I chuckled to see that this private museum of my ownnightmares still hung on the mountain: the row of soft-iron pitons (“loin of pigs” as Richard called it), where we had attempted an alternative route and ended at an overhanging mass of loose slate, stuck to the mountain by God-knows-what; and the wooden wedges that we had carved out of our packing crates, whose hemp slings now came apart in my hands. Here I was confronted with the pitch that had defeated me in younger days. Every climber has agonizing memories about a pitch he was not able to climb and this one had been in my mind a long time. At the base of the mountain I had extracted promises from Dan and Richard that this section would be mine.

My old fear was still there, but my gratitude for a second chance canceled that out. I climbed steadily, free for awhile, then on aid. I was pleased that the technical problems could be dealt with by stacking pins, tying off jammed pebbles, and sundry other tricks that are standard in the modern Yosemite climber’s bag. The end of my “nightmare” pitch was greeted by yellow sun at the notch. I tied off the rope and my companions soon joined me.

Richard traversed, then climbed over good snow on steep, exposed slopes. Dan followed. I joined them and led through, up rock straight to the summit ridge. They later told me it had been hard, but I only remember being elated; it would have taken a good deal more to stop us.

The knife-edged summit ridge was airy; the magnificent bulk of Paine Grande and the various towers on three sides made it spectacular. An elaborate note from the Chileans was there, lavishly expressing the joy one has to feel in such a place, and “dedicating” the mountain to their various lovers and mothers. We rappelled off the tower and descended. I could not resist bivouacking one more night on the mountain, in appreciation of the outrageously fine weather.

We basked in the sun a day, then bid goodbye to Richard and Heather who were just beginning their climbing season (see “Climbs and Expeditions”). Dan’l and I portaged the boat, then, inviting one of the Park Rangers to join us, we floated the system of lakes and rivers that eventually got us to the sea. By running the one rapid on the Río Serrano—a Colorado River “7” or “8”—we avoided a portage and made our descent of the river complete. The perfect weather continued, giving us views of many unknown peaks on the Southern Patagonian Icecap. We entered salt water and motored to the head of Last Hope Sound (Seno Ultima Experanza), encountering new and exciting mountains at every turn. The one peak that has been climbed in that zone, Cerro Balmaceda, is a classic and contains many lines for new routes.

Motoring home along the sunny, blue waters of Ultima Esperanza we lounged in the boat and wondered if there were any better way of enjoying life. As if by answer, an open boat of sail, whose two-man crew was even more relaxed than ours, passed—heading into Fuegia.

Summary of Statistics:

Area: Skyring Sound, Chilean Patagonia.

Ascents: Cerro Volcán, c. 1500 meters or 4922 feet, first ascent (Miller).

Cerro Primero de Septiembre, 1554 meters or 5099 feet, first ascent (Brennan, G. Galloway, Miller, Peterson, Smith).

Cerro “Rhyme and Reason,” c. 1800 meters or 5906 feet, first ascent of western summit (Brennan, G. Galloway, Miller, Peterson, Smith, Zauche).

Attempt on Dyvenor Castle, 1236 meters or 4055 feet (G. Galloway, Peterson).

Personnel: Joseph Brennan, Dianne and Glenn Galloway, Jack Miller, Richard Peterson, Anthony Smith, William Zauche.

Area: Fjord of the Mountains.

Ascents: “Mount Thunder and Lightning,” 1994 meters or 6543 feet, first ascent (Asay, Miller).

“Three Furies,” c. 1850 meters or 6070 feet, first ascent (Asay, Miller).

Personnel: Daniel Asay, Jack Miller.

III. Area: Paine Group.

Cuerno Principal del Paine, 2110 meters or 6923 feet, second ascent and new route by the South Face. (Asay, Miller, R. Smithers).

Personnel: Daniel Asay, Jack Miller, Heather and Richard Smithers.

All climbs took place between December, 1975 and February, 1976.

* “Cuerno” means “horn” in Spanish. It has been suggested that the two Cuernos, Principal and Chico, were named for the horns of the Devil.