Ushuaia – Day 3: The Icy Heart of Vinciguerra
USHUAIA
Day 3: The Icy Heart of Vinciguerra
March 03, 2023
PART I
At Alonso’s recommendation, I decided to change my plans of going to the Martial Glacier and instead head to the Vinciguerra Glacier on account of it being more impressive, albeit a much more demanding trek – type two fun lover here, clearly.
Throughout this trip, I’d been to mountains, jungles, waterfalls, volcanoes, rivers, canyons, and tropical islands. But glaciers? Not only would these be the first I’d visit on this trip, they’d also be the first in my entire life – so you can imagine how excited I was to unlock a new dimension. I’d spent my entire life playing video games, living vicariously through them, and wishing I lived in those worlds. Slowly, I started to realise our world was no less special, with landscapes and wildlife equally as incredible, if not more.
He dropped me off at the start of the trail in the Andorra Valley, one that would fork into two paths – one leading to my destination, the other to the El Caminante trail. The latter is said to house two of the most beautiful lagoons in Ushuaia – ones I’d perhaps get to visit if I had enough time. But focusing on the present, I’d be climbing all the way to a glacier that, quite frankly, seemed too high up for me to reach in one day. Still, I wasn’t gonna let that stop me. I’d said the same thing about Acatenango and look where I am now!
Mud, Bogs, and Tibetan Monk Delusions
The trail started off at an incredibly picturesque site – a grass-covered expanse flecked with low-lying bushes and beaver-chewed trunks, trees of all shapes and sizes, crystal-clear brooks, and snow-capped mountains in the background, with the Arroyo Grande coursing through it. A perfectly idyllic landscape, especially with wild horses lazing about by the river as they nipped at the grass or rested comfortably on it.
Knowing I had many hours of trekking ahead of me, I ploughed on, crossing dilapidated bridges and jumping over peaty bogs and wetlands. An information board explained that wetlands are usually flat areas whose surfaces are permanently or intermittently flooded, with the soil saturated and deprived of oxygen, creating a hybrid ecosystem between purely aquatic and terrestrial plants. The diversity of peat bogs here in Tierra del Fuego is said to be exceptional, owing to the region’s extreme climatic and biogeographical conditions. This I could certainly attest to – especially after the previous day’s trek at Tierra del Fuego.
As I trudged through mud and skipped over roots, the bog gave way to a forest. The 2.8-kilometre path to the glacier was an incredibly muddy one, giving me massive flashbacks of the El Mirador trek in Guatemala. Climbing through forest with an elevation gain of around 300 metres, I felt like one of those Tibetan monks who scale steep mountains effortlessly with their hands behind their backs – only more clumsily, and with way more effort. Not wanting to lose momentum, I kept up my speed, taking only short breaks when the uphill became too unforgiving for my poor legs and lungs.
As the forest started to thin out, I followed a tiny stream, which led me to a river meandering down from the opposing mountain – the one the glacier sat on top of. Picking my way over frozen ground and icy patches, I lay on a rock trying to soak it all in. Even eating an apple and lighting a cigarette had become a chore, thanks to the cold-induced, sudden loss of manual dexterity in my hands – and my runny nose wasn’t helping either. That said, reinvigorated by the sheer chill and the wonderful vista ahead of me, I pushed on.
Laguna de los Témpanos
A ribbon of frozen ground led directly towards the top – the stiff, frosted grass giving way to bare rocks glazed with ice – a nightmare to walk over in hiking boots and without trekking poles. The rocks, marked with yellow-and-white stripes, served as signposts, leading me up towards the summit, at which point nothing else seemed to make any sense.
In front of me stood the Laguna de los Témpanos – a jade-coloured lagoon nestled between icy mountain summits, with the glacier directly above it. One of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever had the honour of seeing with my own eyes. It reminded me of Humantay Lagoon on the Salkantay trek to Machu Picchu in Peru, although this one shifted through shades of green and brown, perfectly reflecting the surrounding mountains on its surface.
And of all the similarities, I found myself thinking the exact same thing once I got here – a prevalent theme throughout most of this trip. How the hell can anything like this exist without some kind of great design? And if there is such a thing as a great design, who the hell could come up with something like this? I mean, don’t get me wrong – science can explain it. The surreal colour comes from light interacting with mineral-rich glacial water and fine sediment. It’s “simple”, in the way that all mind-blowing things are simple once someone explains them. But even that is ridiculous. On the grand scheme of things, why should a lake look nice? Wouldn’t it serve its purpose just as well if it were a dull grey? Despite the fact that things don’t have to be nice, there’s still so much beauty in this universe – and that’s something I struggle to reconcile with my empirical philosophy.
Circling around the lagoon, the trail led towards the glacier, the harsh cold now manifesting in frozen ponds and puddles between sharp, jagged rocks, as a flurry of snow turned the scene into a winter wonderland. Nearing the glacier, and equipped with nothing but a light windbreaker over my usual multi-season hiking clothes (a short-sleeved T-shirt, long trousers, and Blister), I found myself close to freezing.
The Vinciguerra Glacier
But knowing I was about to experience something completely new, the adrenaline kept me warm and hyped up. And finally, there I was – the Vinciguerra Glacier, in all its glory.
What first appeared as a brown-grey cave was, on closer inspection, a huge chunk of ice covered in soil and smaller rocks. That was the glacier – not the white-and-blue snow sitting on top of it. I ventured towards its mouth, icicles dripping ice-cold water over my head and straight down my spine. I balanced on a rock that seemed stable enough, half terrified and half mesmerised by the turquoise water on the ground that looked frozen solid, not daring to go much further inside. The blue of the ice, contrasted by the pitch black of the cavern’s interior, was broken again by the bluish-white hue of the frozen roof overhead – literally like standing inside a cave of ice. I sat down and enjoyed the almost surreal, eerie silence, disturbed only by the occasional drip of water or a low rumble from deeper within. I genuinely couldn’t believe it – I had entered a glacier.
I did feel a bit too cavalier, though – arriving completely alone and then braving the glacier’s insides. With a few other hikers joining me at the top, I noticed that hardly anyone dared climb onto the glacier itself, the carpet of snow likely hiding crevasses that could leave you dead or, even worse, trapped in the icy grasp of a glacier until eternity. Without crampons or trekking poles, it shouldn’t have crossed my mind to attempt something that risky. And yet, it did.
It didn’t cross my mind because I mostly just went for it. One step, then another, trying to keep my balance and shift my weight sparingly. I was completely surrounded by white, the occasional specks of black rock making me feel like I was walking inside a stracciatella ice-cream tub. I could see a fault line beneath the snow, one I (recklessly) hopped over, and a few crevasses here and there – their white-and-blue mouths leading down into the innards of the frozen canyon. I walked maybe fifty metres before admitting this was an unnecessary risk and that, once again, I’d proven that even though I do get scared, I don’t let fear control me. What most people would call bravado, to me – at least in that moment – was pure adventure.
For the first time in my life, it dawned on me that the previously confined world of guided tours and established trails meant I couldn’t always experience the world the way I wanted to. It suddenly felt like I was in an open-world MMORPG, except there were no boundaries or limits unless I chose them – the only boundaries being fear and self-preservation. Usually, with a guide, you can’t quite do what you want or go where you want. But on your own? You can do whatever the hell you want. Even jump onto a glacier that might be full of crevasses. And that’s purely thrilling and exhilarating.
Revelling in this revelation, I made my way back, slipping a couple of times in the process. I found a good spot for lunch – one facing a keyhole-shaped crevasse, its pitch-black innards alluring and captivating. Definitely the best lunch spot I’ve ever had in my life. Definitely not the best lunch I’ve ever eaten though. In my hastiness that morning, I’d only packed two apples and a packet of biscuits. That would’ve been fine if I were heading straight back, but on my way down I wanted to visit another lagoon, about 1.5 kilometres from a fork around the middle of the trail. And so I started my way down, still hungry but feeling full of joy and life.
PART II
Getting Lost for the Plot
Once at the crossroads, I headed for the second trail. Whilst I’d barely stopped on the climb to the glacier, the 150 metres of elevation leading to my next landmark was a nightmare, my grumbling stomach preventing me from walking more than five minutes at a time.
Maybe that’s also why I got lost in the forest and ended up wandering aimlessly on the mountainside for an hour or so before I realised, and accepted, that I was hopelessly lost. To be fair, the trail was poorly signposted, so I can’t say it was all on me and my greedy stomach. Anyways – so yeah, there I was, on a steep, moss-and-shrub-covered mountain, having no idea where to go, while the rain conveniently timed its arrival with my distress.
I spotted a small cave and decided to explore it – if only to say I hadn’t wasted all that time for no reason whatsoever. While scrambling towards it, I kept sliding back down, my fingers making pathetic attempts to grasp the wet, slippery rock without success. My boldness finally hit its limit, and I threw in the towel and started to make my way back, the slope now a thousand times steeper in my head after I’d tumbled a couple of metres.
As apprehensive as I felt, one thing gave me solace – it was around 2PM and I had until roughly 8:30PM to find my way back, with the sun setting so late in Ushuaia. I took my time, retraced my steps, and once I got back to the last signpost I’d actually seen, I took a closer look and found the next one – the one that led to the lagoon. While most of the trail was marked with yellow poles or paint on trees, this “sign” was a tiny white ribbon tied to a branch, half-hidden amongst others. My stomach churned more wildly and uselessly than ever, its sound reverberating over the peat-bog-covered valley.
Laguna Encantada and a Hunger-Driven Sprint
A five-minute walk later, there it finally was – Laguna Encantada. It would’ve been a bit more encantada had I not gotten lost five minutes away from it, but setting my hanger aside, I found myself at peace pretty quickly, with a view like that making me forget all my woes. It’s at times like these I wish I carried a sketchbook – though, in all fairness, I doubt I could do scenes like this any justice.
So instead, picture this: a round, forest-green body of water fed by a stream coming directly from the mountains surrounding it. The green of the valley contrasting with the grey-brown mountains and the stark grey of the overcast sky. A gaggle of Magellanic geese on its bank, some of them flying in V-formation above it. It’s truly astounding how completely different this felt to the glacier just a few kilometres to the west. One landscape flourishing and teeming with life, the other an icy, barren wasteland. Such diversity over the same mountain range. Friggin’ astounding.
My way back was driven by one thing and one thing only – pure, relentless hunger. I sped back to the start like a maniac, stopping only by the riverside to wipe and rinse off the mud and the pesky spiky seeds that had got stuck to Blister during the hike. Once I got back to the trailhead, I searched frantically for a restaurant and stumbled upon a lady’s old lodge, where I devoured five huge empanadas and downed a couple of cups of coffee and a beer. Only then could I finally start to take it all in – the insane beauty of everything I’d witnessed in a single day.
Stay wild,
Marius
Post-Scriptum
To this day, this trek has been my all-time favourite. It might be mostly cause it was my first time venturing up a mountain on my own. It might be because it revealed what the Patagonian wilderness can be like. Or it might just be the fact that I went there without any expectations and had my mind blown throughout.