Viva la Villarica: Climbing a Volcano in Pucon

Ice ax. Right foot.  Left foot.  Repeat. A little more than an hour into our climb of Pucon’s only volcano, the most active of Chile’s 127 active volcanoes, I thought of little else besides those precious instructions.  This silent and focused mantra, controlling my entire body, helped me move in unison with my fellow climbers, snaking upwards towards the sulfur-spewing summit.  In my head, at times, I turned it into a song—first using R&B flava, than a country twang.   In my hand, for the first time in my life, I held an ice ax—a climbing tool with a long, pointed shaft topped by a hammer-like head with one pointed side and one flat.  This tool was unquestionably the most essential component of a slew of sophisticated climbing equipment that we’d been provided with—it helped us keep our stability with each step and, more importantly, was the last thing that stood between us and a dangerously fast and uncontrollable slide down an icy mountainside dotted with clusters of volcanic rock.  My feet felt like lead weights on account of my heavy-duty, tour-issued climbing boots that our guide had just strapped to an invention I was previously unaware of: crampons.  These steel-toothed contraptions, looking like upside-down bear traps, helped our boots dig more securely into the ice, with an aim to make that last-resort swing of the ice ax a little less likely.  The increased altitude in which we now found ourselves brought faster winds and lower temperatures.  As we continued to march, I could only hear the wind-muffled crunching of icy snow under steel and Cynthia’s canvas pack strap, rapidly flapping in the wind against her hood, inches from my face.  The freezing fresh air was void of smell with the exception of that strange but familiar odor that arises only when perspiration meets wool—a smell surely all skiers and little kids can attest to.  Closing in on the overcast ceiling above us, I stopped, momentarily out of breath, to turn to look back down the mountain.  The ski lifts we’d ridden-up only 30 minutes before now looked like mere strings of unlit Christmas lights, lazily strewn about a snow-covered lawn.  With four hours to the top, and unsure if the conditions were even good enough to reach the summit, I faced forward again to continue.  Ice ax. Right foot.  Left foot.  Repeat.

Five days earlier, we traveled towards Pucon expecting a much shorter stay.  A small touristy town squeezed between the coast of Lake Villarrica and a volcano by the same name, Pucon sits in the Lake District—a beautiful collection of lakes, rivers, and snow-capped mountains that comprises the better part of central Chile and central Argentina.  We’d read that Pucon served as Chile’s year-round outdoor adventure center.  In the winter (June-August), the city is alive with visitors who ski the base of the hulking, 9,500-foot volcano.  In the warmer seasons, visitors enjoy a multitude of activities including biking, white-water rafting, hiking, horseback riding, and kayaking.  But once actually in Pucon, it becomes difficult to think about doing anything other than trying to summit The Volcano.

At first, from a distance the Volcano looks innocent—like a soft cone of chalk in the corner of a billiard hall used to slick up palms before a game of 8-ball.  But once on the streets of Pucon, the Volcano follows you everywhere and traps you in its gaze.  Like an unrelenting school master dominating a playground, Villarica towers coldly above, glaring down for the slightest sign of trouble.

Despite the poor weather that grounded all tours during the first few days of our visit, we continued to check with multiple tour operators to see if we could make the climb.  “How long do you plan to stay in Pucon?” all of them asked, clicking away at their keyboards to check for any updates to the dismal forecast.   We extended our stay by one day, then another.  Each day, unable to climb, we chose another activity to keep us busy.  Draped in a cloak of clouds and rain, Villarica taunted us as we white-water rafted, laughed at our 26-mile mountain-bike ride, and scoffed at our full-day hike to the elevated lakes of Huerquehue National Park.*  One moment, we thought we would just stay as long as needed in order to get a piece of Villarica.  Then, we changed our minds, thinking it foolish to let one pesky Volcano derail our onward plans for Patagonia and Argentina.  All the while, Villarica breathed heavily over our shoulders, entertained by our vexation.  Finally, the fifth day gave us a glimmer of hope.

We arrived at the tour company’s office at 7am.   The room was bustling with the day’s group—20 or so other hopeful individuals, all trying on their assigned equipment.  The guides made it clear that the weather was still less than ideal and there was no guarantee how far we would make it up.  If we had to turn back at any point once the climb started, we would still be expected to pay the full price—similar to all other tours (we checked!).  Determined to try, we agreed to the terms.  We were all-in.  We had to take a shot at the Beast!

We were led to our assigned backpacks and reviewed the contents.  In addition to the ice ax and bear traps, I recognized a ski jacket, a helmet, ski pants, snow boots, mittens and gators (canvas coverings that wrap around each ankle to prevent snow from getting into your boots).  The boots and helmet were high quality, but the clothing was thin with velcro instead of zippers.  The clothes didn’t add any warmth but were merely given to us to protect our clothes underneath.  Among the familiar contents there were two objects in the pack that were a bit of a mystery to us: the first was a huge (for lack of a better term) “bib-with-straps”, and the second was a red saucer-ish sheet of plastic, about the size of a serving platter.  The red saucer’s contoured bowl looked like it might be a good match for a pair of butt cheeks, so we figured it could be a sled of some sort, yet it was connected to a short handle, so we also thought it could be some kind of shovel.  No one had a clue about the bib-with-straps.  Before we could ponder any longer, we were quickly rushed into the vans without receiving any instruction.

Ice ax. Right foot.  Left foot.  Repeat. We reached the cloud-line and the wind whirled even more.  Cynthia’s pack strap flapped faster.  Focusing on each stab of my ice ax, I became transfixed by each glacier-blue wound that I left in the Volcano’s side.  Moving further up, the ceiling of clouds soon became our floor, stretching out towards the horizon in all directions.  In our new surroundings, we now found ourselves domed with curved walls of blindingly bright blue.  With the weather perfect and the Volcano’s summit in sight, it seemed that we would surely be able to make it to the top!  Just when we thought things couldn’t get any better, the clouds broke away beneath us, revealing the city of Pucon and its surrounding lakes below.  The entire group stopped to take in the view—a view we had thought, for sure, we would never get a chance to see.  We cheered!  Then, curiously, as if God had blown a ring of smoke with flawless aim, the remaining clouds formed a perfect circle around the Volcano.  He musn’t be fond of Villarica’s vile exhales towards the heavens–this might be His retaliation.

After the last of our peanut butter and honey sandwiches, we found our places in line again and made the final ascent.  As we walked further, the ground beneath us soon became a peculiar looking ice, covered with what looked to be a thin layer of dirt–strange considering that, at this altitude, the nearest dirt was dozens of meters below the surface.  Like a snow-covered boulevard median, stained gray by the passing exhaust pipes, the ground beneath us became darker and darker.  Then it hit me:  it’s soot from the belly of the Beast—spewed-up then fallen, back onto its icy face.  We were on the summit!  We’d made it!

The perfect weather continued and the toxic smoke plumed directly upward, allowing us plenty of time to explore the plateaued shelf surrounding Villarica’s mouth.  We shed our heavy packs, walked slowly to the lip, and peered into the throat of the Beast.  Fighting the putrid stench, our view presented a sheer drop of a few hundred feet that coned down towards the Volcano’s molten center.  We could hear a faint hiss from below, but for the most part, Villarica breathed in silence.  Humbled, we slowly stepped back.  Once we’d adequately distanced ourselves from the lip, our celebration began.  We posed for ridiculous pictures, ice ax still firmly in hand.   We danced the robot.  Others did head stands.  For thirty minutes, we flaunted our success in Villarica’s face.  More accurately, we flaunted our success on Villarica’s face.  It was joyous.  That is, until Villarica had had just about enough.  Abruptly, the smoke redirected towards our group and completely enveloped us, strangling our lungs with each breath.  We scurried for our packs, gathered with our group, and quickly and safely began our descent.

Together we began our march again, encouraging other climbers that had yet to summit. We breezed down the slope, careful to stay within the same slushy path our crampons had carved out for us on the way up.  About one-fifth of the way down (by my rough estimation), still a good 7,000 feet or so above sea-level, we stopped for a break.

“Alright take your sleds out,” our guide announced.  “We’re going to sled down the rest of the way.”

Of course.  Sleds, not shovels, I thought.  I know a pair of butt-cheek imprints when I see…WAIT A MINUTE.  Did he just say we’re sledding?  NOW?!?

We thought he was kidding.  We were still REALLY high up.  But he was soon walking us through the mystery components in our bag.  He showed us that the “bib-with-straps” tied around our waist and thighs to protect our clothes while sliding on the ice.  The handle of the sled connected to our belts and the sled swung underneath us, forming to our butts, creating a near frictionless surface to contact the ice with.  He had us stow our bear traps in our bags and showed us how to safely hold our ice axes while sliding down a mountain at 15-20mph (quite the oxymoron I’d say!).  Then away he went, sliding down, grinning ear-to-ear.  He quickly became a mere spec on the white canvas below.

One by one, down we went, sledding black-diamond sloped hills seemingly at lightning-fast speeds, trying not to wipe-out.  It was exhilarating.  With perfect form, Cynthia went first and was able to slide down free of any misfortune.  I laughed hysterically while sliding down the luge-like track carved out by previous members of our group. For the most part I did fine, only tumbling a few times here and there.  Needless to say, the descent was far quicker than our morning ascent.

After eight hours on the Volcano, we arrived back at our tour-operator’s lodge and peeled off our layers in the steamy afternoon sun.  Our guides invited us onto their rooftop to enjoy a few beers with our group.  Relaxing and drinking, we enjoyed the company of our fellow climbers as well as one of the best views of Villarica we’d had all week (we actually spotted our own sledding tracks from over ten miles away!).

If you look between the tall metal tower and the antenna just to the right of it, you can see our vertical sledding tracks.

That night we slept like the dead.  In the morning we boarded our bus, satisfied at all we’d done in Pucon.  As we drove away, we caught one last view of Villarica.  It felt different this time.  Then I realized: we had made peace with the Beast.  Viva la Villarica!

Notes:

*For the record, all three of these activities were awesome, even in the rain.  We had Class IV rapids for rafting and the views while biking and hiking were amazing.   However, on our fourth day in Pucon I couldn’t get out of bed—sick as a dog from all that playing in the rain.  Still worth it!