Fitz Roy Showed Up. My Body Didn’t.
Day 60 – Wooed by Fitz Roy, Wrecked by Reality.
All night the wind wailed and the rain tap-danced on our roof like a troupe of over caffeinated elves. But by morning? Not a trace. If it weren’t for the puddles outside,
I’d have assumed I dreamt the whole weather tantrum. Instead: sunshine. Blue skies so bright they practically scolded my retinas.
And… wait for it… no wind. A Patagonian miracle.
El Chaltén proudly calls itself Argentina’s hiking capital, and trust me, they mean capital. There are trails everywhere, most designed for enthusiastic
20-year-old mountain goats with titanium knees, not a 65-year-“young” woman whose joints have begun filing formal complaints.
So we set a plan worthy of my wobbly but determined limbs: two “easy” hikes in the morning and a “very easy” waterfall walk in the afternoon.
Off we went. And unlike literally everywhere else we’ve been, El Chaltén actually marks its trails properly, no guessing, no arguing, no “Are you SURE this is the path?” Excellent start.
Our first mirador (isn’t that the best word?) was named with classic Argentine creativity: Mirador del Cóndor.
After my mystical, private encounter with condors at Laguna Sofía in Chile, I had zero expectations. If they appeared, great. If not, my heart was already theirs.
We started climbing… and once again, the gap between my definition of “easy” and Argentina’s definition of “easy” was roughly the size of the Andes.
But Fitz Roy towered in front of us the whole way, calling to me like a ridiculously handsome lover who knows exactly what he’s doing. I simply couldn’t look away.
This felt like cosmic compensation for Torres del Paine, where the Torres ghosted us behind clouds and rain for days. Fitz Roy, in contrast, stood there posing
like a supermodel who never tires.
At the top, surprise! Two condors soared high in the sky. Too far for photos, but close enough to justify the name and wink at me like, “Told you we’d meet again.”
We continued on to Mirador de las Águilas, and by then the sun was blazing. Redhead + Patagonia sun = a tragic tomato situation. I finally put on sunblock for the first time since the desert weeks… but forgot my hat. Who remembers hats after weeks of wearing three layers and battling wind at 5°C?
The hike was gorgeous: wide Patagonian valleys, Río de las Vueltas curling through the landscape, and more condors soaring like they owned the place.
(Which, to be fair, they do.)
After a well-earned break at the top, we headed down. And that’s when my body staged a full-scale rebellion. Knees, hips, face, everything screaming,
“No more, woman! We are DONE.” By the time we reached our lodging, my head was pounding and my face looked like an overripe tomato on the verge of splitting.
The afternoon waterfall hike? Absolutely not.
Yoni, being Yoni, the overachiever of our duo, refused to surrender. After lunch and a short rest, he heroically marched off to chase waterfalls like Patagonia’s most determined amateur explorer. Meanwhile, after 60 days on the road, I’ve finally lost my FOMO. Zero guilt. I chose rest so I can survive tomorrow’s supposedly
“moderately easy” hike with “world-class views.”
Stick with me, and you’ll hear why I call it something else entirely. 😂😂
Day 61 – Coughing Through Paradise: The Views I Didn’t See.
If you were waiting for my grand verdict on the famous Laguna Capri trail… brace yourself for disappointment.
Instead of climbing mountains, I spent the night auditioning for a documentary about tuberculosis. I coughed, wheezed, shivered, and woke up feeling like
every muscle, bone, joint, and tissue had filed an official complaint with HR.
The morning was glorious: blue skies, sunshine, Fitz Roy posing like a supermodel, and I knew I wouldn’t be part of any of it.
So I sent Yoni up the trail as my official representative, memory collector, and photographer-in-chief, while I went in search of the mythical pharmacy
rumoured to exist somewhere in this tiny town.
I found it (small miracles!) and armed myself with Vitamin C and paracetamol like a warrior preparing for battle. The rest of the day I spent in bed, drifting
in and out of sleep between doses and sipping volcanic ginger-lemon tea that nearly burned a new airway through my throat.
By 14:00, I had heated up Yoni’s leftover soup from the night before and managed to graduate from “half-dead” to “semi-human.” Progress!
When Yoni came back with the most stunning photos of the trail, I didn’t even wince. Especially after he admitted that even he found the first 3km tough.
Me doing that today? Absolutely not. I would’ve needed a helicopter rescue before breakfast.
Hopefully tonight my body stops staging a rebellion so I can enjoy our last day in this charming little town of El Chaltén.
Stay tuned… Fitz Roy isn’t rid of me yet.
Day 62-63 – From Fevers to Sea Views in 24 Hours.
The last morning in El Chaltén I woke up triumphant, fever gone, throat quiet, cough reduced from “chainsaw in winter” to a gentle squeak.
Clearly, the universe was signalling: Hiking comeback day! I was already mentally halfway up a trail, hair blowing heroically in the Patagonian breeze.
Then I stood up.
Apparently, my muscles had formed a union overnight and declared a full strike. Walking? Negotiable. Sitting? Requires paperwork.
Lifting an arm? Absolutely not without overtime pay. Breakfast suddenly felt like an extreme sport, and just reaching for the kettle counted as cardio.
Message received. No hiking today.
So while I spent another day bundled in blankets, dozing, sipping ginger-lemon tea, and reminding myself that healing is also a form of adventure,
Yoni bravely headed out to conquer the trail solo. He returned later, triumphant, memory card packed with jaw-dropping views… and the reassuring
news that even healthy-me would have cursed that climb. Nothing like a husband to confirm you made the right call.
The following morning, the sky confirmed what my body already knew: it was time to move on. Rain swept in, clouds rolled over Fitz Roy, and the mountains seemed to wave us off with moody grandeur. Our bus carried us back to El Calafate without a hiccup, and a plane whisked us east to the next chapter of this Patagonian saga:
Puerto Madryn and the Valdés Peninsula.
We collected a rental car in Trelew, drove toward the coast, and landed in an apartment right on the promenade… a front-row seat to the sea and a
free evening show of local music and dancing. Patagonia knows how to say farewell.
Tomorrow: penguins, wildlife, and whatever magic this peninsula has in store.
Stay tuned…this story is waddling into its next act.
