Adventure Magazine

"The bivvy boulder in Trinidad is in
the forest, but no less magical."
Right: Jordan Sterzinger reaches high in a crack on Al Centro y Adentro, a
classic 12-pitch climb in Cochamó's Anfiteatro.
The bivvy boulder in Trinidad is in the forest, but no
less magical. Several mountains encircle, providing
the day's adventure: a thin seam guards the top-out of
No Hay Hoyes (‘There are no todays’); a long corner
system demands all manner of grovelling on Homo
Santa (‘the Santa species’); the overhanging fistcrack
on Der Grantler (‘The Grumbler’) will leave you
breathless and weary, as will the steep and enormous
flake you have to traverse on Las Manos del Dia (‘The
Hands of the Day’).
It became a familiar routine to do battle with the climbs
throughout the day and plod back to our bivvy spot
by headtorch, fatigue seeping through every pore.
We then collapsed in a happy daze by the campfire
as someone passed around that evening’s shared
dinner; rice and lentils one night, freshly-mashed garlic
hummus with fresh, fire-baked bread the next.
As nurturing as this was, Cochamó is rapidly changing
as it becomes a household name among the
international climbing community. Ten years ago there
was no nearby township, and climbers arrived to a
handful of farms in the countryside, knocking on locals’
doors to ask to buy food and for a ride to the trailhead.
Only hundreds of people a day occupied two campsites
during the summer months. Today there are still no
cafes or power lines, but there's a small shop (selling
exorbitantly-priced bananas and satellite internet)
and five campsites, with daily visitor numbers in the
thousands.
And then there’s the constant fight to stave off industrial
development. Much of the land east of the river, which
includes Anfiteatro and Trinidad, is owned by Chilean
businessman Roberto Hagemann. The company where
he owns most of the shares, Mediteráneo SA, has
tried to gain consent for a hydroelectric power-plant.
Previous attempts to install dams have been similarly
blocked, thanks to the diligent efforts of local and
international NGOs.
The good news is that, earlier this year, Cochamó
was declared a nature sanctuary, protecting an 11,000
hectare area of native forest. The designation is
thought to make the area less vulnerable to real estate
development, hydroelectric dams and uncontrolled
tourism, but with two caveats: a management plan and
governance model are yet to be developed, and the
protected area does not include Hagemann’s land—
which he is now trying to sell, for hundreds of millions of
dollars—nor a vast chunk of the climbing area.
The underlying question is this: how much development
is too much, or, put another way, how wild do we
want our wild places to remain? As soon as humans
encroach on a new place, some of that wildness is
lost. If we allow visitors, how do we interact with the
land while also preserving its beauty? How many is too
many, and if we restrict numbers, how can that be done
equitably?
The balancing act between conservation and tourism
is also playing out in New Zealand, where the multibillion
dollar tourism industry is trying to gain back
what it lost in the Covid pandemic. Draft National Park
management plans could open the door to a gondola
in Franz Joseph, and a far greater number of flights
in Aoraki / Mt Cook. The plans for those areas are
currently being redrafted in light of the Supreme Court’s
Ngāi Tai ki Tāmaki decision, in December 2018, which
clarified the role of iwi in government conservation
plans. The new draft plan for Aoraki / Mt Cook is due to
be released later this year, while the new timeline for
Westland Tai Poutini is yet to be announced.
In the meantime, it seems like we should be exploring
the high and wild while they remain relatively free of
the masses. Cochamó is still such a place, with its skyscorching
condors high above native alerce forests,
pristine pools, rushing rivers, and walls of endless
granite.
One of my last climbs there was on a route called
Gardens of the Galaxy, a 840m climb up the La Junta
peak. The first pitch required some delicate climbing
around a wet streak. The crux pitch demanded some
forceful pulling on a thin flake, followed by some wishful
stemming up a blank corner. Steep slab protected
the higher portions of the climb, and my best gecko
impressions were not enough to prevent the odd fall.
We failed to top out, but that mattered little as the sun
set, bathing the valley in alpenglow as we descended.
The forest below was thriving with bird-song. Above,
the clouds swept over the summits as snowmelt fed the
river below. We were but tiny specks in this immense
place, the only people on the mountain. It was as if this
magical place existed for us—and us only.
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