Fitz Roy: Sunrise over Cerro Fitz Roy


Hurry, hurry, we scramble, defying odds of clambering up scree, superhumanly efficient and steadfast in our resolve to greet the ever-lightening sky from atop, our tardiness no match for the sun’s punctuality, he wasting no haste in reminding us that a 7:05 sunrise happens, indeed, at 7:05.

There will be no repeat performance, no super special second sunrise, and I momentarily curse our 5:30 wake-up bell, for it leaves little room for leisure, the 3 km march uphill an unwelcome bootcamp work-out, one accelerated by confusion from fellow trekkers, their pauses to contemplate the path absolute ridiculousness when every minute, every second counts.

Oh, but we make it!

Lenticular clouds hang like Dali paintings, their spaceship forms tell-tale signs of high alpine, a meteorological bond shared across mountains the world wide, my favorite type of cloud, Russian dolls of whipped marshmallow wisps stacked into each other, perfectly oval, perfectly perfect in their reflections of the lavender blue and purple and pink splashing the sky.

The sun’s companion, a half-orb moon, dots Cerro Madsen like a brilliant white crescent, a nod to the passage of time between now and then, its full-body presentation only a week prior at our sunrise hike for Torres.

The scenery embraces us like the Earth Momma that she is, folding us into her mountain breasts as we watch her chakra colors pulse with the new day, warm and cool, orange and blue, red and green. A row of climbers string along the glacier, black forms against clementine snow, and the turquoise lake threatens to blaze, edges a corona of gold.

We are but few witnesses to Gaia’s morning bath, the opposite of our jammed-packed session at Torres, a brethren to match the digits on one-and-a-half hands, united in peaceful awe, appreciation, and sheer amazement.

Nature is my church, and this is my pew: Around us, the cycle of life instructs us on all that is holy and all that matters, sacred and profane one, practical undivorceable from the spiritual, for the beauty of life is as fleeting as it is constant, unjudgeable, uncapturable, simply present, concentrated for those willing to sample the nectar.

This morning, love swells and reverberates from mountain top to valley floor and back again, so overwhelming its melody, I feel my heart could burst from my chest, so happy am I in this moment, wrapped in my kindred’s arms.




















This entry was published on March 4, 2013 at 06:00. It’s filed under Argentina and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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