Las Altas Montañas de los Andes

If you're ever in Mendoza, make sure to stay at Hostel Simplemente near Plaza Independencia.


It was early morning and we were barreling across the Argentinean plains gazing out of the panoramic windows of our double-decker bus. As the sun's light followed us west it slowly lit the coming tide. A sea of mountains was pouring forth, growing larger with each kilometer. Soon the large, white hulls of a mighty fleet of towering Andean peaks appeared one by one out of the gray morning mist. It was the crow's nest that I sought; the highest point of those mighty masts holding up the Americas.


Mashed wine grapes



Fermenting barrels


When we pulled into Mendoza, Argentina—“gateway to the Andes”—early that morning, I didn't know what was in store for me. Plenty of online research had revealed that Mt. Aconcagua, the highest peak outside of the Himalayas, was an expensive endeavor. My goal was to find a local who could take me there cheaper than the competition.

But first, we had other plans. Part of the reason we came to Mendoza was because it was described as a quaint little town sitting at the foot of the Andes, surrounded by wineries stretching miles in every direction, and filled with outdoor-loving Argentinians. Sounds like a good place to spend a while. Truth is that it’s a bustling provincial capitol of over 150,000 residents—everything from suit-clad businessmen to job-shirking hippies to leather-clad biker packs to anti-authoritarian youth—filled with smog, night clubs, and parks galore.

Mendoza wouldn’t be such a bad place if the local government would pass and enforce omissions laws. Unlike Buenos Aires, many of Mendoza’s vehicles drive through the streets spewing a thick, noxious cloud of exhaust. It makes walking outside an unpleasant affair. Otherwise, it would be a charming place to spend a few weeks.


Mendoza: old, smog-spewing automobiles, tree-lined streets, and gutters that could hold the Colorado


Sitting at the foot of a frontal range, Mendoza is divided into square blocks with north-south and east-west oriented streets, all lined with meter-deep gutters that run like rivers when the arid mountains looming above bleed with snow melt that feeds the city's only saving grace, thousands of huge trees sapping their life source from the urban waterways. At city centers is spatially intensive Plaza Independencia, celebrating Argentinean independence from Spanish rule. A few blocks off each corner is a park celebrating Argentinean heritage. There’s Plaza España and Plaza Italia, honoring local bloodlines and traditions, Plaza Chile recognizing Mendoceneans’ relationships with their close Andean cousins, and of course the ubiquitous Plaza San Martin, venerating Argentina’s liberator hero. We even found a small plaque and gazebo curiously recognizing Mendoza’s relationship with the Syrian Arab Republic.


What exactly is the Syria-Mendoza connection?


We arrived on a Sunday, just in time to start a weeklong Spanish course at a local school. I intended to study for a week or two then look into scaling America’s leviathan, Aconcagua. My first day of class we were discussing my plans in broken Spanish when my teacher informed me that it was the end of the season and I may not be able to achieve my goal. Several others confirmed this fact. I started to worry. One of my least favorite emotions is regret, and it’s not one that I often feel, but I was starting to wish I had done a bit more research. It was time for swift action.

Luckily we moved to a hostel whose owner, Romina, had lived in Chicago, spoke perfect English, and knew the local activity scene. She and her husband called all of the guide outfits and finally found a man who would sit down and talk about a cheap late-season expedition. Pablo showed up to the hostel and immediately transmitted through Romina (Pablo doesn’t speak English) that it could be done but not guaranteed. It was just the attitude that I sought. Ascension can never be guaranteed, but I wanted a shot. Without delay I started making arrangements, rented the necessary gear, and informed my school that I’d be missing the last day of my week-long course. I was heading for the mountains.

What follows is a journal-style account of my time in Aconcagua Provincial Park.