The Avellano Towers 2014 - Part 2

The Avenali Tower and trhe Tooth

Jim and Angela roared off back down the agricultural track in their British racing green hilux. I shut the gate surveyed my gear.

Strewn around me, cascading off a log and festooning a rusting piece of agricultural machinery, was all my stuff. I was attempting to travel light. Every item here was about to be packed into one bag and carried up into and then over the Avellano Towers before I met with John, Will and Reeve who were hopefully already in place.

The town of Bahia Murta from my drop off spot

The end of the road and the start of the "cow trail"

Due to some scheduling upsets I had done no trial pack. I was in a position where everything had to fit in my bag and once this fitted, everything had to be lifted onto my back and I had to walk. Around me lay a plethora of useful things, all in isolation small and light but I feared they might add up to a considerable bulk and weight.

It was 7pm. Jim had made a fast escape as he had a further fifty-five miles of dirt road to his house to drive. Fortunately he was experienced in the dark art of overtaking trucks on blind bends in choking dust clouds so this would not take him as long to dive as it would many others. The late hour was due to TAM airlines unceremoniously cancelling my flight from Heathrow. Jim had already gone out of his way to pick me up from Balmaceda airport, bought me food for my walk, and taken me to the trailhead.

The view back down to the Rio Murta

I was on my own about to embark upon the “short approach” to the Avellano Towers to meet John, Reeve and Will who had headed in a week earlier.

I set about trying to sort my gear. Compounding my problems were the following items: John’s new mountaineering boots, and the three piton hammers.

John always had epics with boots; it was a familiar aspect of trips with John. There had been days tramping the streets of small South American towns chasing rumours of boots. Boots abandoned by previous mountaineering expeditions, which John hopped to buy to replace his boots, which had turned out to be critically uncomfortable for the long Patagonian approaches. When this failed the boot saga revolved around a mercy package of boots being passed through a network of informal curriers in the UK to be delivered by the next group of hopeful Brits heading down.

On this trip his new boots were due to be delivered on the morning of Johns departure. Due to the complex nature of Johns address he had arranged a sign on the main road with a number of high visibility bibs hung from bushes along the small road up to his house to guide the way. Needless to say neither the sign, “Johns Delivery this way” nor the bibs resulted in success and muggins here was carrying them for John.

The river proved to be the easiest route but easy is a reletive concept

Piton hammers were another big-ticket item. There were three of them for a start. After careful consideration we had calculated that three was the minimum we could get away with. Two hammers for the lead team and one for the hauling and stripping team bringing up the rear. The hardware suppliers let us down at the last moment so I set off on the blag to borrow some gear in the last few days.

My friend James Rhodes was good for a nice shiny pezil hammer, all I had to do was go fell running with him when I picked it up.

James Turnbull also said he was good for a hammer so I headed round to pick it up from him in Outside. As he handed it over he mentioned that it had been hand made by Yvon Chouinard and personally gifted to his dad. I was welcome to borrow it but I better bring it back or there would be serious trouble.

“you’re welcome to it, its no problem, but its got to come back! Its precious with huge sentimental value.”

I was not sure about this; I generally loose a good percentage of my gear so this was a bit heavy. We discussed options and in a moment of inspiration James’ eyes rose to the ceiling. Attached to the ceiling of Outside was a veritable history board of antiquated gear. Some of this gear was of historical note, Jo Simpson’s terradactil axe, Malory’s underpants and other such equipment. Lurking above out heads were at least three piton hammers. One of which had no label connecting it to any past notables so it was quickly removed.

The treasured Chouinard tool was handed back and borrowed a Stubri piton hammer of uncertain vintage replaced it.

The third of the three hammers was a stubri ice hammer I had borrowed from Leeds University Mountaineering Society in 2005 for precisely a moment such as this.

The volume of these three hammers was less of an issue than the weight. I’ve yet to find a functional lightweight hammer!

The offending hammers

Eventually all was packed. I got everything into the huge metanoia rucksack with the exception of the rope and my smaller rucksack. Placing the rope in the alpine attack day sack I strapped it onto the outside. Getting upright was involved. First I wriggled into the straps whilst lying down. Next came rolling onto my front, and pushing up into a crawling position. From here verticality was attained with the aid of trekking polls. I was now able to stagger off up into the mountains.

I managed to stagger upwards for a couple of hours, following the vague cow trail. This trail linked cleared cow pastures cut out of the temperate rainforest. The Chilean government had enacted legislation similar to the Americas Homestead Act to encourage settlement of this region. The remains of huge burnt trees lie at award angles, left as reminders of the slash and burn techniques of a hundred years ago. Only the flattest areas of the steep valley sides had been cleared, and flat were a relative concept. The path was clear between pastures but hard to follow where the pastures allowed the cows to wander at leisure. The occasional gap cut through fallen trees to allow cows past offered encouragement.

David gaining the top of the tree ramp guarding access to the mountains in Febuary 2012

I guzzled my water in the evening heat and pushed on. I was keen to travel high enough to gain a stream that fell direct from the mountainside above the pastures before I drank. After two hours I was spent. I was feeling the effects of travelling for days without rest.

Mindful of the over inquisitive horse and frisky cows I had passed an hour before, I bivied on a flat spot with an old tree stump arranged to hopefully prevent trampling. In light of the small distance I’d covered my food supplies looked meagre; cheese, tuna, crackers, pita bread and chocolate.

I awoke at three with stomach cramps, squirming out of my bags I stumbled off a few meters before voiding my bowls. Not a good sign! After a couple of false starts and return visits to the bushes I regained sleep. I woke at six troubled by my nocturnal experiences. I was unsure if pushing on into the mountains on my own was a clever decision. It felt like a big deal as it was, let alone if I was coming down with some illness. I nibbled crackers and contemplated. The options were poor.

If I bailed I would end up back at the village miles from anywhere with nowhere to stay and with no transport. The boys in the mountains would presumably start to worry when I failed to arrive in a few days and we had no ability to contact them. I pushed on.

The two rucksack mega bag with Johns boots and the borrowed Outside peg hammer visible.

The best map avalable. Unfortunately it was not avalable until after we left the mountains.