Report from August 31, 2025

The forecast was all over the place here in El Chalten, Argentina, for my Cerro Electrico ascent.

I stayed up too late poring over it and found my brain clogged with doubt at 4 a.m.

Windy and cloudy on some models—sunny and windless in others…

At 4:09 a.m, I decided, “Screw it, I’m going.”

7,162′ Cerro Electrico

El Chalten

Argentina, Patagonia

• Summit:  7,162 feet
• Car:  1,469 feet
• Vertical From Car:  5,693 feet 
• Vertical skied:  3,401 feet 
  
• Max Pitch:  40?º
• Average Pitch:  38?º
• Aspect:  East
• Distance: 10 miles round trip
• Hiking Time From Car to Summit:  7 hours & 4 minutes
• Car to Car Time:  10 hours & 55 minutes
• Recommended Equipment:  camping gear, crampons, ice axe, skins (ropes and crevasse rescue kit if you plan to go onto the glacier)

Up at 4 a.m.

Out at 5:09 a.m.

Drove past an ambulance and a cop with flashing lights at 5:22 am (intensely rare occurrence on this dirt road in the middle of nowhere).

I almost turned around, startled by the bad omen.

That ambulance could only be one thing: a seriously injured climber/skier/trekker.

Was I about to be next?

Was this the right day for this?

Should I be doing this alone?

Hiking by 5:49 a.m.

Solo.

30 minutes of flat led to a gradual uphill that gives way to damn near vertical bushwhacking and 4th class climbing—all in the dark.

This wasn’t my first time here.

10 days previously, Greggy & I went for Electrico only to turn around after 3 hours of hiking due to icy trails and no fall zones.

Most of that ice and snow has melted out now.

I wasn’t taking any chances, though, and put my ski boots and crampons on early.

I tromped my way up the final no-fall-zone ice trail and scampered happily into the chute.

The snow in the chute was soft—it was a warm day already.

I scampered up the chute quickly and took the early exit, left into the bushes.

I’d rather post-hole these bushes than continue up the consequential chute, I thought.

3 hours and 3 minutes into the climb, I was finally on snow.

With skins on, the travel became simple, mechanical, flowy.

The first headwall, around 4,400 feet, found me with skis over my shoulder, bootpacking up.

Back to skins quickly and up.

The wind was making its presence known at this point and the clouds hadn’t parted as hoped.

My good buddy Todd Offenbacher always says, “Don’t turn around until you get turned around.”

It was windy, but it wasn’t turn around wind yet.

I continue skyward.

As I climbed, the weather improved.

Sunlight splashed the summit in sporadic bucketfuls at first.

Then sunshine remained for minutes at a time.

Electrico was in some sort of donut hole, as I could see clouds streaming and obscuring the peaks to our north and south.

Wind was blowing so hard at times down off the big peaks west of Vespignani that the snow was flying off the summits for miles and simply sublimating into the air column.

I ventured on, encouraged by the light wind and sun-kissed summit dome.

The final pitch was steeper yet soft.

My skins were glopping terribly, so I switched to crampons.

Mistake.

The post-holing was horrendous and the crampons glopped worse than the skins.

Back to skins, I made progress and tested my hip flexors with 30-pound snow slathered skis.

The snow thinned as the glacier poked out and I was forced back to booting for the final stint.

I showed up on top in 7 hours, 5,700 vertical feet, and 5 miles after leaving the car.

I lingered not.

I ate and drank without relish.

I soaked in the views of the cloud-blasted towers, deep blue glaciers, and the impossibly distant valley that I’d come from below.

Skis on, boots buckled, I dropped in expecting putrid snow.

It was hot pow!

I’m from California and I know and love hot pow.

Well, maybe it was hot wind buff?

Either way, it was hot and stable and ripable.

You had to be careful not to catch an edge, so I went as weightless as possible each transition.

The steepness of the summit dome helped.

Lower down on the open glacier, the snow was a bit tougher, so I made huge arcing downhill turns.

The icy lower cirque massaged fear into my brainstem as I’d climbed it.

By my calculations, the wind and cloud should have kept it firm all day.

I was wrong, the sun-kissed melt/freeze surface was corning up nicely.

At the base of the cirque, things got a touch sticky as I opted skier’s right into a small chute.

The chute wasn’t sticky somehow and skied well.

From there, it was an easy flat glide to where I’d first put skis on so long ago.

I took a break, loaded up my skis, put on my crampons, enjoyed some cookies, and started the tricky downclimb into the chute.

The chute was soft.

I was able to stomp down it, facing downhill most of the way.

From there, it was a bit of scrambling on and around icy trails to a flat spot where my feet happily shed their plastic covers for canvas ones.

Shoes felt great.

From here, I’d anticipated a simple, 3-hour grind back to Malvadisco, our trusty steed.

The wind had other ideas…

After 14 seasons in the howling southern winds of Bariloche, Argentina, I thought I knew the Patagonian wind.

Wrong again.

A wind came up from the valley floor like I’ve never experienced before.

Right where I had to do some 3rd and 4th class downclimbing, the wind made itself be known.

My skis acted like a sail as I made critical no-fall-zone maneuvers.

I was scared and frustrated.

I’d wait for a lull, move quickly, detect the sound of an F-16 fighter jet, then pin myself to the wall and hold on for dear life.

Not fun.

I’d avoided objective danger all day, only to fall directly into this trap.

I took my time and fearfully worked through the zone with great difficulty.

Once past the cliff, the bushwhacky gully felt lovely.

The wind wasn’t quite done with me yet.

I was thrown to the ground 6 times.

Once so hard it blew off the ski strap on my skis and popped open a buckle on my pack holding my skis.

Dayum…

As Electrico’s angle mellowed, so did my anxiety.

The flat walk across the valley floor felt like a fairyland.

Wizard of Oz forest, sparkling rivers, friendly photons.

My pack was the lightest it had been all day, and my mind glided into cruise control.

Thoughts of media lunas, egg sandwiches, and toast with butter and honey back home flooded my senses.

Ski day #7.

Gracias, Patagonia.

Photos