To our dismay, we find we've entered civilization. We pitch our tent at the only place possible—in a designated campground at Lago Grey. It's noisy and crowded but cheerfully so. There are Australian, Argentine, French, German, Iranian, Chilean, and British backpackers on the circuit, as well as day tourists brought in by boat from the other shore. At the kiosk Gary and I buy a small box of local wine, sit in the sun with our backs against a rock wall, and let the alcohol have its way.
The lake is raw silk, blue-gray with slubs of ice threaded through. “Or nubs,” Gary says. “Or maybe toes.” He's smiling. Mountains pierce space; space pierces the mountains. “The kind you fall through?” Gary asks. “The kind you are made from,” I say. The party boat chugs across the lake toward us, lands, and takes all but the backpackers away.
The snout of the glacier changes from blue to gray. Above, there are other mountains with glaciers like white scarves pulled around their necks. Lake water slaps black gravel at our feet. What we are seeing here is either a lake in the making or a glacier on the make, but because we've temporarily lost our power of discernment, we can't tell.
In the morning Gary fashions a walking stick for me to ease the weight on my knees. I hoist my pack on, dig in. Every time I take a step my knees lock up, and for the first few yards I have to hit the backs of my legs to get them moving. Absurd as I am, I keep going. I think of the short staffs carried by Zen monks during ceremonies, meant to represent an upturned tree. Roots up, they signify strength, discipline, and imperma-nence. I imagine this whole forest torn out, the trees upended, their roots flailing at the sky.