Una chica muy fuerte: feminist realizations on Volcanoes Lonquimay & Sierra Nevada

Prelude

The past month of mountain adventuring has won me a lot of confidence. I didn't bring my crampons and ice axe on this trip because when I was leaving I thought, “Little me, all alone? I'm not going to do anything where I would need them.” I underestimated myself.

In the two weeks between leaving Concepción and arriving in Bariloche, I spent six days on my splitboard, climbed 3.9 volcanoes (Llaima, Villarica, Lonquimay, and Sierra Nevada), hiked some 50 miles in the snow. I survived a bout of explosive traveler’s diarrhea, nursed a bad cold and over 30 blisters, as well as open sores on my hips and a body black, purple, and red from welts and bruises.

I spent most of these two weeks in borrowed mountaineering boots and crampons, and yes, I still know how to use an ice axe. I don't need a boyfriend by my side to do big things; I'm doing more and bigger things alone.

Mountain therapy. Succeeding where years of couch-therapy just had me doing somersaults inside my head.

Me on Sierra Nevada. (Photo by Melitta)

In these two weeks, I've been called “Una chica muy fuerte,” “Eine kleine kämpferin”, and “tough”. And I am. I've always been physically strong, but right now I’m in maybe the best shape of my life, certainly of the past 10+ years; a solid ball of muscle, runner-up-of-mountains, a pack-carrying climbing machine.

And this pack-carrying climbing machine got her ass kicked by a woman who, if I needed more proof that my ovaries don't make me less of a human, provided it. Meet Melitta: in her deceptive cute blonde package probably the strongest, toughest person I've ever been in the mountains with. Period.

Volcán Lonquimay

The heartache felt on the road from Pucón to Malacahuello dissolved the minute I walked into the dining hall at Suizandina (which Frank aptly nicknamed the “happy hut” because I was so happy there), which felt like coming home, complete with dropped bags and warm hugs from my “family” there. The evening was made sweeter by my introduction to Melitta, an Austrian mountain guide on a solo ski touring adventure around Chile. The Suizandina family had decided that, as two nice young woman mountain-lovers traveling alone, we needed to meet, and it surprised nobody when we became instafriends.

Malacahuello, home of ridiculously cute llamas, among other mountain-loving, friendly creatures. HDR.

The next morning, the two of us caught a ride to Corralco to climb Lonquimay (my volcano #3). Our ride was an older mountain pair with the same plan: Chilean U. Conception Materials Science Professor Michel Ignat and his French wife, a retired x-ray technician. The two were in their late 60’s, having moved to Chile after having met in a mountaineering club (a common thread of many couples I met at Suizandina and something I’m going to have to give a try when I finally settle somewhere for a while) and spent most of their careers in France. This was his 4^th attempt at Lonquimay having had bad luck in the past with weather, equipment, etc.

Lonquimay as seen from the top of an Aurucaria forest at the foot of neighboring volcano Sierra Nevada.

Melitta: knocking off another mountain like it was no big deal.

Melitta and I chatted on the way up about mountains, life, and love while rocketing up the flank of the mountain. We were well-matched until the going got steep and I started to struggle with the traversing and slippery snow on my essentially edgeless splitboard. At one point where slush met ice, I slipped and slid headfirst a heartstopping 50 meters down the side of the mountain, grinding up my hands and bare arms on the slushie-like ice crystals that made up the upper layer of snowpack as I clawed at the snow trying to halt my slide—yet another reminder that holyshitIneedskis. While Melitta rocketed ahead, I took a half hour break to eat a sandwich while I slowly stopped terror-shaking. Then I strapped the board onto my backpack, put on my crampons, and headed back up. Not long later, Melitta came skiing back down, having already summitted (me thinking: “damn, girl!”), checked on me, then skied down to take the Ignats' backpack in order to help them make the top, too. When I made the top, I was barely into my second sandwich when she arrived—essentially her second ascent of the volcano for the day.

I had a girl crush.

Me + Melitta on the Lonquimay Summit (animated gif...hopefully worth the load wait)

We decided to rent a car together and spend both of our final free weeks knocking off as many remaining volcanoes as we could. Problem was, both of us having started at opposite ends of Chile, there wasn't much left that one of us hadn't already done, and as two independent women used to our solitude and independence, it became clear that as much as we liked each other and were well matched (or rather, she's a professional badass and I can sort of keep up), it would probably work better if she headed north to hit Chillán and a few other spots on the way and I continued my southward journey.

Sierra Nevada (the one in Chile)

But not before climbing another volcano: Sierra Nevada.

Sierra Nevada as viewed from the flanks of Volcán Llaima.

Sierra Nevada from the Suizandina breakfast room.

Sierra Nevada sits between Llaima and Lonquimay and had been giving me funny looks all week as the mountain visible from the Suizandina breakfast room. Unlike the perfectly-formed conical whiteheaded stratovolcanoes Llaima, Villarica, and Lonquimay, Sierra Nevada sits like a sleeping beast, all points and shoulders and cliffs.  It was something I didn't want to leave Malacahuello without getting closer to. When I returned to Suizandina from Pucón, I was greeted by Sergio, the owner from whom I had borrowed crampons, mountaineering boots, and ice axe for my trip up Villarica with a "Carie! I have a present for you." That present was that he was going to escort me to Sierra Nevada.

So after spending a rain day getting some work done and videos processed at Suizandina, a very antsy Melitta and I jumped in Sergio's truck for the bumpy ride to the foot of Sierra Nevada.

Melitta greets a friend met on the road to Sierra Nevada.

Sergio's truck made it as far as it could on the muddy mountain road. The rest we'd have to walk ourselves. (Photo by Melitta)

Melitta ready to hit the trail...the first several hours of which were wading through mud with our ski equipment on our backs.

The friend of Sergio's who was going to guide us through the forests that surround Sierra Nevada was "probably too drunk to move" (Sergio's words) when we stopped by his house to pick him up, so we were on our own. And we got lost, each of us taking turns choosing the wrong path until we finally hit the right one. By the time we popped out of the forest (which at the end turned into an Araucaria forest--the monkey puzzle trees again, which was absolutely surreal) and caught our first view of Sierra Nevada at 2pm, I had long given up on actually summitting and was just enjoying the being outside. So I took my sweet-ass time enjoying a nice relaxed lunch while taking in the spectacular scenery.

(Chile, I can think of some places on this planet that could stand to take a few of your volcanoes. You have enough, you wouldn't miss them, right?)

Sierra Nevada from our lunch spot at the top of the Araucaria forest.

Sergio takes a blister break on the shoulder of Sierra Nevada, Lonquimay and Tolhuaca looming in the background.

But I had underestimated Melitta. The woman had a hunger. So, while Sergio waited for us, the two of us kicked on the booster rockets and made a sprint along the ridge, racing to make the 5pm turnaround time we had promised Sergio.

There was a cold, biting wind, but I was sweating hard, pushing myself because, yeah, I also wanted that summit. And sweet lord was it worth it. Because the best part was when I dropped the backpack and board (= sail in the high winds), pulled out the ice axe, and ping crunch crunch ping crunch crunched the final ~100 meters to the top.

Hiking to the summit, board on my back and crampons on for the final climb. But check out those volcanoes! (Photo by Melitta)

And we made it. Close to 7 hours of hiking, climbing, and skiing later, we had made it. And it was real effing cold, so we took a few quick glory shots before our hands started to ice over, skated down from the summit as quickly as we could with our axes and crampons, strapped on the skis (Melitta) and board (me) and enjoyed a brief but epic powder run on our way back to Sergio.

And then we hiked down as the sun set over Chile, turning the volcanoes and clouds into piles of pastel sugar around us.

Spectacular.

By the time we returned to Suizandina I was done (in a happy way). Exhausted, blood sugar level redlined, absolutely satisfied with the day and with life in general. My ass had officially, thoroughly, delightfully been kicked. I ate everything. Drank everything. You'd think I'd just run a marathon. Melitta looked like she could do it again at least another three times, then stop for a snack, and then climb Everest...without oxygen or sherpas. A heroine for the mountain books!

Summit!! Hellz yeah! (Photo by Melitta)

Postscript

This trip has officially made a feminist out of me, a feminist in the sense of the classic Cheris Kramarae quote:

“Feminism is the radical notion that women are human beings.” 

Women are born strong, and we are strong. Women like Melitta are proof of that. But we spend our lives being told we are smaller, weaker, fairer, more fragile, more vulnerable, less competent, less capable, that our dreams are less valid, our horizons restricted, our needs and desires and roles doled out to us by the environments in which we are raised. Where I grew up, women played sports and were expected to be strong and tough in addition to beautiful and smart and kind and savvy. I was raised to carry my own weight, make my own path, dream my own dreams.

But then something happened, and it wasn't just puberty.

Aaand this little bit made all of the board-schlepping worth it. (Photo by Melitta)

I think the first time I recognized the cultural influence of gender role expectations was during a high school exchange in Germany. I was bored to tears by the segregated gym classes where the girls did stretching exercises and light gymnastics and watched with envy as the boys played soccer. Compared to the girls there, I was an oaf: my biceps the size of the average girl's leg. This was particularly ironic, since my stereotype of German woman was that of East German 'roided-out powerlifters, so I had spent the months before my exchange doubling my workout routine so that I wouldn't get my ass totally handed to me in the weightlifting competitions that I was sure would be a regular occurrence. When I told people that back home I was on my high school's soccer team, I was written off as "probably lesbian" (so, fine, I went and played soccer with a bunch of new, lesbian soccer-playing friends). What was normal for the girls I grew up with (playing soccer) was considered the exclusive domain of men in an otherwise progressive, Western country.

While sexism is somewhat more subtle in the U.S., it got to me and wore me down without me realizing it. Subtexts even from family members that, as a woman, ultimately the only purpose to my education was to find a suitably educated spouse to father my children and provide for my livelihood. Boyfriends who told me that the only reason I got X fellowship or was accepted to Y university or Z competitive program was because I was a woman, not because I had put together a good application. Boyfriends who told me that I was not smart enough to make in the world on my own. And most subversive of all, my ceding certain tasks and responsibilities to the men in my life rather than doing them myself.

Me + Melitta on the summit of Lonquimay.

It takes a while to unlearn all of that, but bit by bit I've been doing it. A few years ago I taught myself how to change the oil on my car (fun!) and then, part by part, rolled up my sleeves to learn how to test and take care of my things so that now I can go to the mechanic and not take any bullshit about my battery needing to be replaced. A year ago, I took off on my first solo backpacking trip and it was liberating to prove to myself that I still knew how to read a map, and to realize that when I plan a trip I don't wind up in -20°C weather with no lighter with which to cook the dinner I just schlepped up a mountain. In August, I defended my Ph.D. thesis, something little voices in my head had said for years I would never do/didn't deserve/wasn't smart enough for; much to my surprise it went well and was fun, and now I'm a doctor of science, which is pretty badass.

Although it wasn't my intention when I set out, so far this trip has been all about staring down the fears I have about my own limitations, most of which, I'm realizing, are in my head. As it turns out, I'm a woman, which means that I'm a human, member of a race of strong, clever, resilient, and brave primates, and I can make my own fire, bang out my own tools, hunt down my own buffalo (someday...).

I've climbed back into the driver's seat of my own life, making my major decisions not based on what someone else wants to do, or thinks I should do, or thinks I can do, but what I want to do.

It's pretty awesome.

And what I want to do right now is be in the mountains. All the mountains.

Me + splitboard on Sierra Nevada, beautiful Llaima in the background.

On week 4 of being a solo woman traveler

Two weeks ago I wrote about the downsides of traveling alone as a woman, about unsettling experiences with ill-intentioned strangers, and the darker side of people.

For my travel monthiversary I want to write about the joys and advantages of solo travel, about the wonderful people I've met along the way, and about how good this whole adventure has been for me.

A quiet, solitary moment on the road to Shangri-La

A few highlights

As I write this, I’m sitting in the back of a rental car with Ursula and Janine, a Swiss mother and daughter I met at a mountain lodge and who generously offered to let me join them on a side trip to Pucón, a volcanic region on my “want to go, but maybe too out of the way to be practical” list.

In my snowboard bag crammed in the back is mountaineering equipment—mountaineering boots, ice axe, and crampons—that belong to Sergio, the owner of the lodge I just left. When I told him my plans to climb Vulcán Villarcia, the volcano that guards Pucón, and asked for advice for where to rent equipment, he spent the next several hours with me setting me up with everything I needed (including his own personal pair of crampons), giving me advice, swapping stories, and making sure I would be careful (but also have fun).

Earlier that day I enjoyed a few hours of conversation and a trip to the local thermal baths with David, a recent grad from Munich spending a year traveling, skiing, and working in Chile.

The day before, I climbed Vulcán Llaima, which would not have been possible except for the group of Argentinians (Stephen, Pablo, Hubert, Karina, and Julián) who let me and David bum a ride to the volcano with them and with whom I spent two raucous evenings drinking wine.

The several days before that were spent in Conceptión visiting geobiology contact and very respected oceanographer Prof. Osvaldo Ulloa, who welcomed me like an old friend and made me feel at home in a city I had never been before. When I left, he made me promise to call him if I needed any help with anything and before I did made sure that his friendly lab group hooked me up with mountain contacts.

And last week was spent in a magical place called Shangri-La out of Las Trancas, near the Nevados de Chillán ski resort with Pipe, the brother of a colleague and his group of mountain guides and friends (Manu, Panchi, Ignacio, Maria, and others). From the moment I arrived at their cabin I was treated like one of the crew, part of the family.

The BackChillan family preparing for a tour in Shangri-La

Part of the family

Nearly everyone here has been incredibly generous, warm, open, and friendly. From the locals—all but a few of whom were strangers before I arrived—who have adopted, fed, housed, directed, and equipped me, given me travel tips and advice on everything from where to go to how to say “leave me alone, creepface”, and who have made me feel so at home here (Ignacio, Macarena, Fer, Coti, Ramón, nameless busdriver, the BackChillan crew, Osvaldo, Sergio, and others), to the fellow nomads with whom I have shared adventures, wine, and meals (Tom & Ellen, the good folks of the Princessa Insolente, the Argentines, and Ursula and others at Suizandina), I have been reminded every single day how lucky I am to be human. How wonderful it is to be part of a big family of organisms that, with very few exceptions, are good to each other, look out for each other, are kind to each other, who genuinely want to connect and share with each other.

Over and over again I think of this piece by comedian Patton Oswalt in the wake of the Boston Marathon bombing reminding all of us that, while there are creeps, assholes, and dickfaces, rapists, cannibals, and violent kidnappers, humans are defined not by our darkness but by our remarkable sense of “we’re in this togetherness”:

“We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We'd have eaten ourselves alive long ago.”  -Patton Oswalt 

Traveling alone as a woman is special...in a good way

Here I am, alone in the world, the solo woman traveler. Yet I am not alone. Even when I’m alone in the mountains I am surrounded by my human family. I was absolutely right to take the leap of faith that I did and jump into this adventure, alone, trusting in the basic goodness of the people I would meet along the way to make this experience a good, rich, and largely safe one.

In fact, I have come to appreciate what so many other solo woman travelers have said before me: it is a great way to travel.

First, I am free! Free to let the wind blow me where I want to go. Free to join people on adventures or free to go my way alone. Free to go out at midnight and sing karaoke duets with the bartender in downtown Conceptión, or free to sit alone in my hostel room reading a book or editing photos. It is a deeply different experience than traveling with a companion. I have found that I honestly don’t miss conversation—I get plenty with the strangers along the way and those conversations are at least as interesting and less tired.

I have felt moments of loneliness. But the people here have been so warm that those moments have been brief. And I am sharing my experiences, both with people I meet here and via contact with the people I love back home through emails, Facebook, and this blog. I feel just as connected as I ever did living as an anonymous face in the megalopolis that is Los Angeles.

I remember debating Chris McCandless's dying assertion that “happiness is only real when shared” once with an ex-boyfriend. I disagree with it: some of my deepest moments of joy have been when I've been completely, utterly alone, left to experience some bit of life's magic as the sole witness. There is something rich about standing alone on a mountain, feeling both small in the big beautiful world and deeply connected to it. Without needing to talk about it, argue the next steps, discuss dinner plans, hear what’s racing through the brain of a person standing with me, I am able to quietly soak in my experiences, and somehow more fully live them.

Sunset in Shangri-La, a quiet, breathtaking moment shared between me and the mountains

Advantages of traveling as a solo woman

Enjoying famous Chilean asado
with new friends in Shangri-La

Also, while a solo woman traveler may be, as Shannon at A Little Adrift puts it, the “lowest on the totem pole in terms of the types of travelers”, there are definite and valuable advantages. The exact traits that I described making me a target for creeps and harassment—my being a petite, friendly, clearly foreign woman—also make me a “target” for good people. I am absolutely non-threatening, so people—families, other women, strangers—trust me when they might not trust a man. My aloneness and young femaleness and foreignness makes people protective of me; people go out of their way to make sure I’m okay and taken care of. A bus driver might dump a guy off on the side of a deserted road at night without a second thought, but might wait around and make sure I have a safe ride to where I’m going. People are generous with me where they might not be as generous with a man. People take me under their wing because I seem small enough to fit there, even when they are fully aware that I can take care of myself.

Being alone also forces me and makes it easier to meet new people. While traveling as a couple, I’d end up in a private double room vs. in a shared dorm with potential new friends. I’d have dinner at a table for two, not ask a group of strangers if I could join them (or at least as often, get adopted into the “family” by a group of strangers). When traveling as a couple there were some very special and memorable times where my companion and I were invited in for dinner or drinks or a place to stay by strangers who took an interest in us, but where that happened maybe once for every month of travel as a couple. It happens to me almost every day here. It’s really cool.

How the experience has been shaping me

I am still cautious. Still deeply aware that even the well-intentioned can behave badly, still careful to avoid putting myself in situations that could turn dangerous, or even just uncomfortable and icky (e.g., no thank you, paunchy disco king on the bus, I appreciate the offer to cook me a very special dinner and drive me places but I think I’ll pass…and I’m going to go sit somewhere else, thanks). But the fear that defined me two weeks ago when I was crying in my locked hostel room is gone. I am still a sweet and petite gringa traveling the world all alone. But I am also a strong and competent adult knows who she is, what she wants, where she’s going, who has no patience for inappropriate attention, and who knows how to stand her ground and firmly say, “Dejamé en paz!” That fear has been replaced by a sense that I may be a stranger here but this is still my world. I feel able to face the unknown with confidence and with my heart open to the shining souls and walking treasure chests of experience and stories and humor of the good people that I have met along every step of this trip...and a willingness to deliver a swift kick to the nuts when warranted.

I am sure I will have more moments on this trip where I don’t feel so strong. But I am certain that those moments will become fewer and farther between now. I am loving, loving, this adventure. And, for the first time in years—maybe the first time since I first crawled down from the beloved mountains of my childhood—I feel like myself again: heart, body, and soul reunited again in Mountain Carie who, in reality, is Whole Carie.

The great big universe, as viewed from my home for the week spent with BackChillan in Shangri-La

Viña del Mar, Valparaíso, and Chile's central Coast

Strangers are friends you haven't met yet.

When I told a dear German friend of mine that I was going to be in S. America, starting off in Santiago, she immediately put me in touch with her friend Macarena and said we absolutely must meet, saying, among other things, that we are both nice and have had similar love lives. With that kind of recommendation, how could we not love each other? :-) Sure enough, meeting Maca was like meeting an old friend. An old friend with a beachfront condo in a place that was high on my list of "places you must go while in Chile".

View from Maca's place, Valparaíso on the horizon.
The big X's are the guard wire to keep people from falling
off the building.

Maca picked me up at the bus station in Viña del Mar following a two-hour bus ride that cost all of $4USD (my first experience with the South American Megabus system, and I was sold), and took me to her home which had incredible night views of the glittering coastline and we drank wine and swapped life stories.



The next day while Maca worked, I was let loose to explore the area. I took a local bus to Valparaíso, a city so unique a large chunk of it is a UNESCO world heritage site, with crazy colorful shacks and beautiful homes perched at all angles on the tens of hills that make up the port area. The place is an absolute maze of narrow alleyway staircases, funicular trains, steeply winding roads, box-like cheerful-looking dwellings, and incredible street art at every turn.

View over the Port of Valparaíso, looking toward Viña del Mar, the Andes towering in the background

Crazy, colorful, hilly Valpo

Street art adding to Valpo's color

A particularly cute street dog

More photos from Valparaíso in the Photo Album

Of course, I got lost on the way back. Not in the labyrinth that is Valparaíso, but on what should have been a perfectly navigable local bus ride back to Maca's house.

Substory: Bus Misadventure in Concón Problem was, there are two routes to the village she lives in, and I took the wrong one. When the bus blew past what I thought should have been the turn up the hill to take me to where I caught the bus from, I got concerned. When we blew around a big corner and suddenly were skipping through fishing villages, I got even more concerned. The bus driver, however, was fully unconcerned, assured me in Spanish (I thought) that he would be turning around up the hill later and I'd get to where I was going just fine (this turned out to be a wrong translation of whatever it was he was gesticulating at me), sat me up front, and proceeded to point out all the local wildlife (sea lions and pelicans!). About 20 mins later, he dropped me off at a corner, having spent all of the change I had on that one bus ride, what I estimated was a several mile walk away from where Maca lived (and at this point I was, of course, late to meet her). He pointed to a guy getting off and said what I thought was "this guy will show you how to get there." The "get there" guy was a nightmare. As soon as the bus pulled away, he started speaking rapidfire Spanish while grabbing at my arm and getting uncomfortably up in my face. I couldn't understand a single word, and when I explained this and asked him to slow down, he just got louder and faster. Frustrated, I attempted to communicate that I needed to go, but he was determined not to let me. He flagged down a bus, at which point I became hopeful that he was trying to help me after all, but I had no money for the bus and communicated that. He laughed, shoved me onto the bus, paid the driver, got in after me, herded me into a seat and sat down next to me. The loud fast in-my-face one-way conversation continued, getting louder and faster and more up in my business, now accompanied by wild gesticulating, which also made no sense to me. Whatever he was saying, I eventually noticed that the woman across the bus aisle from us was frantically waving and mouthing "no" (with that universal librarian finger-wagging motion) at me. At that point I was thoroughly concerned. So when he stopped the bus and insisted I get off with him, I refused. I knew I was nowhere close to where I wanted to be, the woman was clearly indicating that following him was a terrible idea, and the initial "this guy is bad news" feeling had grown to giant fire alarm bells. So despite the yelling, the grabbing my arm, and bus driver getting irritated, I stayed put and kept repeating, "no". Finally he got off the bus and left, cursing and gesticulating at me as he went. I was so relieved that he left; I had been trying to figure out how to get out of the situation without him following me to Maca's place. If there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's not to let strange men follow you home. I was an inch away from tears, but the woman motioned me over, asked me if I spoke English, then chided me for following strange men onto a bus, told me to stay away from strangers. Point taken. At that point I could see Maca's condo and when the bus got close, I thanked the woman for the warning, hopped off the bus, and scurried to Maca's place. Wow, was I relieved to get there. A good lesson to learn early though: don't get on a bus unless you are sure you know where it's going, have a map, don't blindly follow strangers, carry an emergency phone, and make sure to have cash and bus fare at all times.

Maca checking up on kids at the Viña del Mar orphanage

But anyhow, made it safe and sound, and Maca swept me into her car to go to an orphanage where she (a pediatrician) volunteers. Orphanages are by definition a sad affair, but the place here seemed so friendly and well-run, and the kids were so sweet and seemed so happy that it didn't seem nearly as sad as 'Orphanage' sounds. Apparently kids often get adopted, but Chile has an interesting system where if you want to adopt a child, you apply, but cannot chose to adopt a specific child.

After the orphanage we returned home for a good old-fashioned girls' night complete with excellent wine (is there anything else in Chile?), excellent music, generous helpings of sushi, and lots of laughs. Just like at home. Girlfriendsarethebestfriends! <3

Overall lesson of the trip: Strangers truly can be dear friends you just haven't met yet. Except the creepy guys you meet on the bus.