Wind shook buildings in El Chalten. In the woods at Campo De Agostini, several times I scurried out of my tent, terrified that a tree might blow over and squash me. The Wall of Hate dominated, swallowing the peaks despite usually decent weather (wind notwithstanding) in town and even at basecamp. Perfect for hanging out talking about climbing and for not climbing. Inside the black clouds of the Wall, hurricane-force winds made even walking up-glacier nearly impossible. But my idée fixe about the climbers in Patagonia proved most baffling of all: I liked everyone, damnit. No brahs, slacklines, or hula-hoops in sight — just friendly locals and a handful of normal climber folks. We must've been too early.

     Day after day we slept late, walked to town to chow pizza and chug beer, raced back to stay fit, and ruined ourselves on nine-peso (about three dollars) fifths of Doble V Argentine whiskey near our friend Freddie's tent. The Doble V sessions always started innocently enough, but then progressed with spot-on predictability. Someone would start ranting about something, and though I can't remember any of the topics, I'm sure they were all very important.

     Then, no shit, it finally happened: Freddie bludgeoned-to-death the mouse that had been raiding his food box and hung it from a tree, a sacrificial offering to the weather gods. In early January, just before our flights home, the skies cleared from Patagonia to Siberia.