Panorama Photo

Now that I housed the twin of N.18329 on Mountain Panoramas
www.mountainpanoramas.com/___p/___p.html?panoid=2014_XZ
I think that it is time to restore the oldest of the family, namely, the present work, which at the time came with the very long story reported below, unabridged and unchanged.

15 vertical images, 42 mm equiv, 1/1250 sec, f/5.6.

Larger image: http://bit.ly/2zlmuGD
GPS track: www.wikiloc.com/wikiloc/view.do?id=13611426

References and sources for the labelling:

- G. Buscaini, S. Metzeltin, «Patagonia, terra magica per viaggiatori e alpinisti», Corbaccio, Milano 1998
- Alberto M. De Agostini, «Andes Patagónicos: viajes de exploración a la Cordillera patagónica austral», Buenos Aires 1941.
- S. Metzeltin, «El macizo del San Lorenzo», Fondazione Angelini, Belluno 2005.
- S. Metzeltin, «Polvere nelle scarpe. Storie di Patagonia», Corbaccio, 2002.


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Not always travels go like one planned them. So, in the Aysén region I had not thought of any visit to the San Lorenzo massif, east of the Carretera Austral, having rated it less interesting than the mountains on the opposite side.
In Cochrane, however, I met five students from Israel who had been there for a short trek, and they told me that it was worth at least to go and have a look. In the trekkers jargon they spoke of the «De Agostini trek», which I later discovered to be included in the last edition of the Lonely Planet «Trekking in the Patagonian Andes». A guide that, curiously, I had with me but, having acquired my copy in Dublin in 2004, I suspect that I was not carrying precisely the ultimate version!
Father Alberto Maria De Agostini is one of the main names in the foundations of Patagonian mountaineering. After having explored the southern Andes like nobody else, he reached his most outstanding success at the age of 60, as (17-12-1943) he was able to reach the summit of the San Lorenzo, after previous recognitions of both the access and the ascent route.
In more modern times, there is another name which you invariably find when researching these mountains. It is the name of Gino Buscaini, an Italian top climber who also was for long years the editor-in-chief of the wonderful collection «Guida dei Monti d'Italia CAI-TCI». With him, the well-known "grey books" - especially those authored directly by him, reached an unprecedented level, not least because of his unique ability to capture the essential features of mountains in useful hand-drawn maps and pen sketches, artistically pleasant no less than informative.
My first and most beloved "grey" was the «Ortles-Cevedale», dating back to 1984, and carrying his signature. As a teenager, how many north-face ascents (which of course I then never realized) I dreamt on those pages!
Strangely enough, I had to wait until 1998 to learn about another aspect of Buscaini, the one which is of interest here. Namely, a new, improved edition of his book "Patagonia" revealed an unrivalled knowledge of the region. Rich in text, maps, sketches and photos this books witnesses years of faithful and regular presence in the site, together with his wife Silvia Metzeltin, a top climber as well.
One day of September 2002 I was with my bicycle on Passo Pordoi. I had joined my section of the CAI to climb a ferrata on the Sella and, while my friends were going home by bus, I waited a little before putting myself on the bicycle. Actually, the Pordoi looked out very busy that day, and I was curious to understand why. I was informed that the opening of a new centre owned by the CAI was taking place: if I wanted, I could participate. "No, thanks", I answered, "I am not so fond of listening to speeches of presidents, vice presidents and past presidents"... But when my informer added that the presence of Gino Buscaini and Silvia Metzeltin was also expected, I changed my mind: by waiting a bit, I had the possibility to shake hands with a man who had become one of my myths.
Later, unfortunately, in place of Gino came the news that Gino had dead of a stroke while walking to the Pordoi. Hard to believe, but the man who with his wife had performed the first ascent of Aguja Saint-Exupery in the Fitzroy, now had dead while walking on the quiet, wide meadows above Arabba!
But let us come to the San Lorenzo. At the fork on the Carretera Austral one reads «San Lorenzo, 28 km», such that I set out without tent and with minimal food provisions. Little detail which will become important later on: I saved weight even on spare batteries for the various devices. But then the kms turned out to be more than 70: at km 28 one simply finds a bridge followed by a fork, where I readily followed the wrong road. So, the first night I was by mistake in the Valle Rio Salto, hosting the remote and mysterious Ventisquero Calluqueo (panos will follow).
The next morning was very cloudy, but I decided to go on with the exploration. At a certain point, on the road to Lago Brown I found a "Desvio", deviation, with the arrows sending me up an amazingly steep and narrow track. No worry, at first: when being on a deviation, one simply waits the time to return on the main road. But then this track seemed to go more and more by its own and, in addition, was becoming increasingly worse. At a certain point - I had been already pushing the bicycle at times - I thought: No, this is neither road nor a track. There must have been something wrong, it is better for me to go back and to forget this San Lorenzo.
Surprisingly, at the ford of a little stream (Arroyo Las Mentas, I will learn later) I saw two "camionetas" waiting. Two young people were transferring material from the larger one to the smaller one, which evidently was the only candidate to defy the coming difficulties. "Yes, this is the right track to Fundo San Lorenzo", they told me. "How can one call this a track? No, I just decided to go back" I answered. "Make what you want" they answered me "but remember: such is the place where we live"!
When they went on, I stopped for half an hour, with their last sentence, "así es el lugar donde nosotros vivimos", rolling in my mind. No, I cannot abandon, I finally thought, and I pointed the wheels once more in the upward direction. It was reassuring to reach the heart-shaped Laguna Corazón, how they had told me, but after it the stony track became even worse, if possible, while in addition it had begun to rain heavily. In such situations, besides cursing this or that stone, this or that steep bump, your mind typically develops some fixed "background thought", often very stupid, but nevertheless useful to fight against the minutes which seem to stretch so wide...
And the "background thought" of my last kms was truly a stupid one: "Well, in a region so abandoned by God, surely I will reach a place where not even the Buscaini have ever been". The last difficulty before the Fundo was a big river to ford, but that day the water did not even reach the waist, which in Patagonia can be considered a true luxury! So, few minutes later, I was opening the door at the trench of the Fundo!
I was promptly greeted by the owners, Lucy Gomez and Luis Soto, pleased to communicate to me that I was the second ever to reach the place by bicycle, and the first foreigner, the other performance having been achieved by a local guy.
On the other hand, tourists are not unknown here nowadays: Luis is in radio contact with the Cochrane municipality and, when asked, he arranges for the transportation - by strong 4WDs - of his hosts, mainly trekkers like the five from Israel, but also mountaineers aiming to climb the San Lorenzo.
Lucy led me into a nice wooden building, where I parked the bicycle and, later, I unfolded my sleeping bag on the ground. But before, as soon as I cleaned my glasses from the merciless rain, I realized that, hanging at the walls, there were plenty of inscriptions carved in pieces of wood. I started reading from the one that was right above my bicycle.
"Gino: las huellas de tu paso quedaron en la cima, bordadas en la nieve, agigantándose pare que las siga Silvia. El eco de tu voz será guía de otros andinistas, ahora que has marchado a escalar la montaña que te llevará a descansar en brazos del Señor."
"Gino: the tracks of your steps ended in the summit, bordered by snow, becoming giant-sized, such that Silvia could easily follow them. The echo of your voice will be a guide for other Andine climbers, now that you marched to climb the mountain which will carry you to rest in the arms of the Lord".
Very well in tune, indeed, with my former "background thought"!!! And later, invited by Lucy and Luis for dinner, I understood how, for the Buscaini, this was not a place in Patagonia like many others, but perhaps the favourite one.
The following day I performed the "De Agostini trek", consisting of a walk to what was the base camp of the successful 1943 expedition. Nowadays, near this very basic heap of old but solid trunks, there is also a modern wooden hut, the Refugio Toni Rohrer, maintained by Luis and Lucy, and named after a Swiss man who died on the San Lorenzo. The place conveys an acute and wonderful sense of isolation. Add to this that, early in the morning, I had met two climbers who had just completed the first Mexican ascent of the mountain, although in the storm they had not enjoyed any sight! So, now I was probably the only man inside the whole San Lorenzo massif. But this trek will be better described with the help of some future panorama.
The next day I wake up with the intention of going back to Cochrane. Namely, my food is finished, and the batteries of the cameras are finishing as well: after all, this was intended to be only a short side-trip! But the weather is getting amazingly beautiful and, while I am having coffee with Lucy and Luis, I tell them: No, I cannot go back today, one must make the most of a day like this. Actually, I am thinking of an interesting panoramic mountain on a close ridge that I spotted yesterday, but I have a major problem: my old mountain shoes, after having walked all the Paine and the Chaltén region, have come to an end, and now they lie buried on the shores of the Lago de los Cisnes (Swan Lake) at the southern end of the Carretera Austral. So, I am here with no more than a pair of sandals, while the mountain where I aim looks out rather rocky - not to speak of the fresh snow, the higher-altitude version of the rain that I received along the access track.
Luis claims to have a solution, and disappeares for a while. He comes back with a pair of solid plastic boots: they are the old boots of Gino, which he is keeping as a souvenir!! I try them, and they fit... Luis follows the wearing of the boots like a ceremony, and slowly murmurs his thoughts: «How happy will be Gino... now he looks down at the Italian... the Italian who came by bicycle... and now goes to the mountain... goes with his shoes».
On the loose summit rocks I find a place where to realize the 360° panorama which I am presenting here. When four or five shots are missing, however, I feel something strange about the boots. Concentrated on the viewfinder of the G1X, I decide to complete the work (add that the battery is very close to die out...) before checking what happened. And what I detect is this: The old glue of one boot has cracked, such that now the rubber sole lies aside in the snow, while I am leaning on the snowy rocks only with the plastic body...
I try to tie up the sole how I can, and this lasts enough to reach a higher summit towering nearby, but in the following steep descent my improvised solution proves unreliable, such that I need to return to my sandals, which cautiously I have taken with me - actually, managing with care, I achieve to descend without harm. Meanwhile, after boots and Canon battery, it is the turn of the GPS batteries to die out. Left to myself, I reach the big side moraine, dominating the valley and the Fundo, far left of my ascent track, but it is just a pleasure to walk in the thin forest enclosed between the moraine itself and the flank of the mountain. It is such a pleasure that I go well beyond the old route - no harm, I think, because at worst I will join the De Agostini path of yesterday and follow it.
But another surprise is expecting me, when at certain point the moraine ridge shows up a huge stone topped by a noticeable cairn. The whole composes an image that I am sure to know already: but how can this happen? Neither today nor yesterday did I pass here. Actually, I need a few seconds to find out the solution: This morning, at breakfast, Lucy showed me an album of old photographs, ended by a shot of the basic ceremony by which she, Luis and Silvia had strewn on the ground of the San Lorenzo half of the ashes of Gino... And this was precisely the location!
To end the incredibly long story, I simply translate the last lines of the narration (forum.thetop.it/viewtopic.php?t=9591&start=12) that I wrote down two days later in the Cochrane public library, while consulting a copy of "Patagonia", donated and autographed by the two authors.
«Now I am here. In front of me, *his* stone, the stone of the man whom I had waited in vain on the Pordoi. And, behind me, hang his boots, whose pressure I clearly feel against my back. That strange mixture of happenings and coincidences which we call "the fate" seems to have maneuvered even the GPS batteries such that, by *losing* my path, I could *find* the place where it wanted to carry me.
I stop for a long time close to this stone... All around, a frame of mountains with already snow-covered summits, in the full afternoon of an already autumnal day, a Patagonian day of nearly oppressive beauty.»

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Originale italiano, come scritto due giorni dopo nella biblioteca di Cochrane:

L'altro giorno mi sono lasciato convincere da cinque trekkers israeliani di andare a fare un giro nel San Lorenzo, che era del tutto fuori dai miei progetti, essendo piuttosto disassato dalla Carretera Austral. Dopo 70 km, in luogo dei 28 promessi dall'insegna sulla Carretera stessa, arrivo al Fundo San Lorenzo, dove vengo accolto dai proprietari Luis e Lucy molto festosamente, perché sono il secondo, e il primo straniero, ad arrivare in bici fino alla loro remota postazione. Gli ultimi km sono tremendi, di quelli nei quali, fra un'impennata e l'altra, una spinta e l'altra, non si fa che tirare maledizioni e alimentare qualche pensiero fisso di sottofondo, spesso alquanto scemo. Uno dei pensieri di giornata era questo: Voglio ben vedere se Metzeltin e Buscaini sono arrivati anche in questo posto!
Luis mi fa parcheggiare la bici sotto un capannone. Asciugo gli occhiali dalla pioggia, e guardandomi attorno scopro una varietà di scritte incise nel legno. Comincio a leggere quella proprio sopra la bici. Ecco quello che recita.
"Gino:
las huellas de tu paso quedaron en la cima, bordadas en la nieve, agigantandose pare que las siga Silvia. El eco de tu voz sera guía de otros andinistas, ahora que has marchado a escalar la montaña que te llevará a descansar en brazos del Señor." ( http://bit.ly/3bPYNaz )
Trasalgo, in relazione ai miei pensieri di poco prima... A sera Lucy e Luis mi invitano a mangiare il loro asado, e mi raccontano nostalgicamente delle tante serate passate con Gino e Silvia che qui erano ospiti fissi.
L'indomani smette di piovere e vado al rifugio Toni Rohrer, che sorge nel luogo dove Padre Alberto de Agostini pose il campo base (notare la quota: 990 m!) per il suo capolavoro, la salita al San Lorenzo (3706 m), da lui portata a compimento, dopo diversi tentativi, il 17 dicembre 1943, all'età di 60 anni. Il rifugio sta a tre ore di cammino, ma già all'inizio incontro i due messicani che erano impegnati sulla montagna, che hanno scalato nella bufera senza vedere nulla. Da qui in avanti ho il secondo massiccio delle Ande Patagoniche - il Monte Rosa di quaggiú, tanto per intenderci - tutto per me. Sosto a lungo nel rifugio a sfogliare i vari cimeli e documenti, fra i quali una monografia della Metzeltin dalla quale apprendo come dal Fundo sarebbe facilmente accessibile una cima dal panorama spettacolare sul San Lorenzo e sullo Hielo Norte, dall'altra parte. Un vero peccato, perché grazie alla falsa indicazione del 28 km io sono venuto via praticamente senza cibo e - peggio ancora - sono qui senza scarponi da montagna. Cerco dunque di spremere il massimo dal pomeriggio che ho a disposizione, salendo a un paio di luoghi panoramici senza che però il San Lorenzo si faccia mai vedere decentemente: il tempo si deve ancora ristabilire del tutto.
L'indomani, invece, sorge la giornata perfetta. No, non posso andarmene con un tempo cosí: decido che salirò al Mirador a ogni costo. Espongo a Luis e Lucy la mia situazione: i miei scarponi da montagna, ormai finiti, giacciono sepolti dentro un tronco di lenga giú all'inizio della Carretera Austral, in riva al Lago dei Cigni. Iniziarono la loro vita sul Parinacota, all'estremo nord del Cile; forse era destino che la finissero nel profondo sud del medesimo. Ho solo i sandali, con i quali peraltro ieri ho attraversato varie pietraie e perfino un ghiacciaietto, ma si tratta di operazioni che, fatte una volta, non si desidera piú di tanto ripetere una seconda. (Persone serie evitano di farle perfino quella sola volta). Luis dice di avere una soluzione: conserva un paio di scarponi di Gino, e li va a cercare. Facciamo la prova, mi vanno bene... Lucy vuole fotografare la vestizione dei "miei nuovi" Asolo, mentre Luis osserva emozionato e gongola ripetendosi sottovoce: Chissà come sarà contento Gino che l'italiano arrivato in bici ora va alla montagna con i suoi scarponi!
Il costone sale rapido, e mi fermo solo in alto, a fotografare gli ultimi cavalli al pascolo. Con la coda dell'occhio vedo un condor appostarsi cu un cocuzzolo dietro di me. Dopo un poco, puntuale, mi sorvola silenzioso a pochi metri di altezza. Per un istante ci guardiamo negli occhi - ma è appunto solo un istante, perche' poi la sua andatura è tutt'altra rispetto alla mia di "asolante" - non fra tetri cipressi, ma su pietraie assolate.
Sulla cima innevata di fresco da uno dei due scarponi si scolla la suola, rendendolo inservibile. Devo discendere prudentemente con i miei sandali, il che richiede un po' di tempo. Nel frattempo finiscono anche le pile del GPS e, come non ho portato cibo, non ho portato nemmeno batterie di ricambio. Giú nella vegetazione percepisco di essere molto a sinistra della traccia di salita, ma la vecchia morena a lato della valle trattiene un boschetto abbastanza pulito che mi permette di traversare. Il boschetto, però, è cosí ameno che traverso troppo a lungo, trovandomi fuori traccia dall'altra parte. A un certo punto, trasalgo come due giorni prima davanti alla scritta. Davanti a me, sul ciglio della morena, si para un grosso masso sormontato da un bell'ometto. È proprio quello che mi ha mostrato stamattina Lucy in fotografia, dove lei, Luis e Silvia con una frugale cerimonia hanno sparso parte delle ceneri di Gino.
Bisogna sapere che quest'uomo era stato uno dei miei idoli fin da quando comprai la mia prima guida grigia, Ortles-Cevedale, firmata appunto da lui. Un giorno d'autunno del 2002 avrei finalmente dovuto incontrarlo: mi trovavo per caso in bici a Passo Pordoi, dove mi ero dato appuntamento con la mia SAT per salire non ricordo quale ferrata. Qualcuno al passo mi aveva detto che, se aspettavo un poco, ci sarebbe stata l'inaugurazione del nuovo centro Bruno Crepaz del CAI. Eh no, dissi io, parleranno uno dopo l'altro tutti i presidenti di commissioni e sottocommissioni: un ottimo motivo per scappare in fretta! Ma l'uomo soggiunse che erano attesi anche Buscaini e la Metzeltin, al che cambiai teoria: un ottimo motivo per rimanere! Avrei visto finalmente quest'uomo.
In luogo di Gino, invece, arrivò la notizia che Gino era morto di un qualche malanno fulminante camminando sugli innocui pratoni in direzione del passo - lui che aveva salito tutte le montagne piú difficili!
Ora sono qui: davanti a me, ho il sasso dell'uomo che avevo atteso invano sul Pordoi. Dietro, sulla schiena, sento distintamente i suoi scarponi appesi allo zaino. In mano ho il GPS che proprio non ne vuole sapere di accendersi: quello strano intruglio di fatti e circostanze che chiamiamo "destino" sembra aver manovrato anche quell'aggeggio in maniera che, perdendomi, potessi trovare il posto dove lui mi voleva portare.
Sosto a lungo davanti a questo sasso: tutt'intorno, una cornice di monti dalle cime ormai imbiancate, nel pieno pomeriggio di una giornata patagonica ormai autunnale, di una bellezza quasi opprimente.