Student Combines Geological Study and Mountain Climbing in South America

What I Learned on Top of the World

Student Combines Geological Study and Mountain Climbing in South America

by Samuel D. Krieg '98

Publication Date: January 1997

In December '95, I traveled to a region of the world that remains one of the last frontiers. What drove me to pick Patagonia (at the southern tip of South America) as my destination was clear to me, but not to others. I often heard the question, "Why would you want to go to such a place?" But I don't think I was different than any past explorer - I was in search of a true challenge, and Patagonia is the kind of place that inspires awe in all who are privileged to see it.

My trip was made possible through the Richter Grant program at Hanover College in Hanover, Indiana and Quest Outdoors in Louisville, Kentucky. My main objecstive was to photograph one of the few untouched and uninhabited regions of the world. I was to bring back photographs for further study and use by the College's Department of Geology, opening the eyes of students and faculty to a world that has remianed mostly invisible. I also was going to climb the Torres del Paine, one of the largest peaks in the region.

The first visitors to Patagonia mistook is for "the Land of the Devel." Upon my arrival, I began to understand this perspective. As my airplane was landing in Punta Arenas, it was blown about like a kite by winds of more than 60 miles per hour. After two failed attempts, our pilot finally landed the plane on the third.

After several days spent gathering supplies and arrangeing transportation, fellow climber Mike Gifford and I were off to Torres del Paine. Travling there, we witnessed an unoccupied teeter-totter in full motion. We laughed and tried to persuade each other the wind wasn't really that bad.

While Mike and our horses carred loads to our camp near Torres del Paine, i headed off to Monte Almirante Nieto. This mountain is one of the largest in the Patagonian range. Mount Almirante is 9,000 feet of sheer granite, capped at the top with 200 feet of black shale. The area surrounding this mountain was littered with huge glacial erractic boulders, once part of the Almirante itself until, through the process of weathering, they were broken off and dropped several thousand feet into the valley below.

Upon impact, these boulders explode, piling debris called "scree" along the base of Almirante. The still-present cirque glaciers are continually carving away at this massive granite giant, eroding the base of Almirante. Millions of years in the future, erosiion may have completely wiped out the magnificent granite spires and the crustal plates they rest on. The glaciers, which brought them their shape by eroding the soft shale that surrounded them, will eventually wear away this incredible creation.

The thing that really hit while I hiked around the almirante area was that I was all alone. Not once did I see signs of another person. My footprints were the only trace of humanity on this untouched bluish-white glacier. When I crawled under a large boulder to go to sleep, the only noiose was the howling wind or another sound signaling the coming weather. When I left the Almirante two days later, I was still alone, but the area's beauty kept me from feeling lonely.

From here, I headed south to Lago Nordenskjold. This lake was as blue as the prettiest sky on the most beautiful day. For two days, I walked on the shore, where I had a clear view of tshe Patagonian skyline. Before leaving for chile, I had studied material about the geologic history of Patagonia.

Hundreds of millions of years ago, South America and Africa formed a super-continent. These two continents exist on different plates below the earth's surface. The subduction zone (where crustal plates collide) has created the poretion of the Andes Mountains where there are 75 mountains more than 19,000 feet in height. This zone, between the Nazca Plate and the South American Plate, tapers off just north of the Paine massifs.

In the subduction zone, where activity was greatest, much of the molten rock that rose upward never reached the surface. The rock colled and subsided. The Paine massif crystallized to form the huge structure known as the Patagonian Batholith, covering nearly 60 square miles. The surrounding rocks eroded and weathered away, leaving the batholiths exposed. This erosion was caused by three ice ages: in the Pre-Cambrian, 700 million years ago; in the Permo-Carboniferous, 300 million years ago; and the late Cenozoic, 10 million years ago. In sthe Paine group, many peaks are capped with black slate. These older sedimentary rocks were pushed up as the batholiths rose and are especially pronounced on the summits of the Cuernos del Paine.

During my excursion to the Lago Nordenskjold area, I began to believe the horrible stories that give Patagonia its infamous reputation. Wind and rain would come and go with the passing of the clouds. I began to identify an oncoming storm by the types of clouds forming. Generally, any clouds coming from the direcstion of the ice cap were long and thin and signaled a major storm. if the clouds were tall and thick, you could at least predict that the wind wouldn't be bad. But what was beginning to frighten me was that the weather could change drastically in one hour.

Over the years, climbers have developed their own superstitions about the patagonian weather -- good weather ensued when the climbers were very quiet, when Chilean flag pointed north, when the condors were flying in low circles, or when the moon was changing; bad weather was in store if you threw a pebble into the water and sand at a hut, or when a parrot was killed or you stared at a flock flying overhead. As i headed in the direction of the Towers to meet Mike, I noticed it was the beginning of a new moon cycle. I figured a little luck wouldn't hurt, so I hurried back quietly and made sure not to look up.

The North Tower of the Torres del Paine is an almost flawless pillar of brown rock rising nearly 4,000 feet above the Torre Glacier. On a clear day, the tower can be seen from 110 miles away. The first ascent of the North Tower was in 1958. By December 1995, only 67 people have stood atop the peak. After 22 hours of continuous climbing, Mike and I were among the elite to stand on top of this granite giant. More people have stood atop Mount Everest than here. At the age of 19, I was the youngest person to climb the North Tower of Paine, and the youngest person to scale a major peak in the patagonian region. At the summit, Mike and I drove a metal pitron into a crack with our names, the date and the name of Hanover College on it.

From the top of the tower, I felt that I could see the world. The entire Patagonian region was within view: the ice cap, Lago Nordenskjold, Lago Dickson, the moraines, the valley glaciers. Everything was as easy to recognize as roads and city landmarks from an airplane. For the first time, I really saw Patagonia -- not on a map, not in a book, but right in front of me with my own eyes.

We also made it to within 300 feet of the top of the Central Tower. but there is where we met the unpredictable Patagonian weather and the dangers it holds. The winds kicked up to 60 miles per hour and rain and ice fell steadily. When Mike tried to rappel down the mountain, the strong winds blew him around the face of the tower. he was hanging in mid-air with the rope blowing straight out at an angle. I knew he was safe, because I could see there was still weight on the rope, but I had never seen anything like that before in my four years of climbing. We were separated for eight hours in that storm, and we were both covered with ice, but we both eventually made it down the mountain safely.

I left Patagonia with the feeling that I will definitely return, not only because of the climbing, but the challenge and natural purity of the region. To be truly alone on a mountain is as rewarding as being the first to climb it. When I embarked on this project, I realized it was the opportunity to convey with images the unspoiled character of an exotic land. The goal of my trip was to leave a clear impression of one of the wildest places on earth.

Patagonia is a land where short moments of beauty make kup for weeks of awful weather. In that short moment I stood at the summit of Paine, the wind was silent and the sun was warm. I forgot about the ice storms, the 60-miles-per-hour winds, the sudden weather changes, the 70-pound load in my pack, and all of the doubts I ever had about myself or the world. I only wish that everyone could experience this sensation and witness such rare beauty.

Samuel D. Krieg '98 recently completed his sophomore year at the College, where he is concentrating his studies on geology and sociology. In addition to mountain climbing, he is an avid runner, and finished amoung the top 20 percent runners in the 1996 Boston Marathon. A native of Dubuque, Iowa, he isa member of Phi Gamma Delta fraternity at Hanover.