Sleeping Bags
Andean Valley of Granite
I was on a bus heading for Cochamo, a U-shaped valley in the Andes, in the Los Lagos Region of Chile. The valley is similar to Yosemite Valley because of its granite domes and old-growth forests. Rumours of the climbing inspired me to make the journey, to climb in the raw landscape named after the village five kilometres away.
The bus drove down a nar row dirt road. On the left, a steep drop into the Pacific Ocean and on the r ight, branches from jungle trees scraped against the windows. We were on a South Amer ican ‘two-lane’ road, where the bus had to pull into the ditch, or stop and reverse, for opposing traffic to pass. James, my climbing partner for the last two months, hit his head on the big television hanging precariously at the front. We were anxious to start climbing, having spent more time than we wanted in the rundown town of Puerto Montt. Our lack of preparation was starting to show. I knew we had to get off at a br idge that crossed ariver, the name of which I did not know. I was hoping a local on the bus could point us in the r ight direction. After stopping at a number of bridges, we crossed Rio Cochamo. With a smile I thanked the bus dr iver and said “Cochamo escalada,” and we got off the bus. We had arr ived in the land of granite walls, plunging waterfalls, soar ing condors and tower ing Alerce trees which promised to provide an exper ience like no other.
With more gear and food than we could carry, we stood on the side of the road, giving puzzled looks to each other. Conveniently, a small two-door car pulled over. A girl rolled down the window and asked if we needed a r ide. We accepted the offer and loaded our heavy gear into her car. The car was tiny and after our gear was loaded, there was no room for us. We stood aside and watched the
We had arrived in the land of granite walls, plunging waterfalls, soaring condors and towering Alerce trees which promised to provide an experience like no other.
damaged and overloaded car dr ive down the washed out dirt trail, hoping we had not loaded all our posessions into a thief ’s car. James and I walked into the valley, following the little car for eight kilometres. We arr ived at the trail head, found the car, and arranged a horse for 9 a.m. South Americans seem to be more relaxed about time than North Americans. Our hopes of having a horse in the morning weren’t realized. Better late than never, at 2 p.m. our cavalry arr ived and we galloped into the valley. Three hours, and 10 km later we arr ived at a picturesque meadow, engulfed by tower ing jungle foliage, and big, impressive granite walls.
In the two-and-a-half weeks we climbed the weather cooperated, never a drop of rain. We climbed until our fingers were swollen with chalk worked deep under our nails. I have climbed all over the world and the walls of Cochamo are among the biggest, best and remote I have seen.
The potential of the valley is being discovered as more climbers head there. The scale is hard to imagine, think of Yosemite and Squamish combined. There is a 1,200 m wall with three lines, a 1,600 m wall with one, and several 400-800 m walls, some that are yet unnamed. Time-travel is not needed to go back to the glory days of Yosemite, all you need is a plane ticket, as much time as possible and a half-dozen wire brushes.