Cheating on Rip

Navigating dirt roads and grief on Argentina’s Ruta 40

This past week Henry and I embarked on a familiar journey: the road trip. Although the Renault Kangoo we rented was much cozier than our trusty van, Rip, it had a foldable bed in the back and a stove - everything we needed for a long drive up Argentina’s western border. Hugging Chile for much of the trip, we fell into our usual road trip roles: Henry as expert avoider of tire-popping rocks and myself as a passenger princess (This time my role was nonnegotiable since the Kangoo was manual and I’m, well, a princess).

Using the same apps we use in America to find inconspicuous campgrounds, we put on an audiobook (Sapiens) and journeyed north. Starting in hilly and lakes-side Bariloche (lots of lakes in the Lake District), we drove the famed Ruta de Los Siete Lagos (more lakes!). We stumbled upon a Gaucho Fiesta one hour down a bumpy dirt road, where kids slalom raced their horses next to a traditional asado, which almost made me go veg - hi mom!

North of San Martin de Los Andes, we ventured to the hot spring towns of Caviahue and Copahue, where we hiked among my favorite trees - massive, wild, and Jurassic-era monkey puzzles - and soaked in bubbling mud pools. (Yes all of our clothes still smell like sulfur. Yes I kind of like it).

Parking in the dark under neon stars and a distant lightning storm, we woke up next to an AI-generated waterfall and continued our journey up Ruta 40. Supposedly Argentina’s Route 66 equivalent, this “backbone of the country” was unpaved for 80+ kilometers and we saw <5 people tending to their tires and >6 abandoned cars along the (in)famous road.

As we watched Patagonia disappear in the side mirrors (the Kangoo lacked a central one) and entered Mendoza province, the real meaning of our road trip (besides wasting time traveling for fun) became ever more clear.

This part of the journey felt different from all our previous travels. And it was. Our destination, since arriving in Bariloche, was Aconcagua, the tallest peak in the Americas. Luke had guided on the mountain, and we wanted to spend his sacred day, the anniversary of his passing, in a place he cherished.

As our friend/role model/gift of a human being Myra Sack wrote to us while we were on the road:

“You've already identified this threshold you are crossing. You are shifting from your honeymoon into a phase of the journey that will be more complicated, at times heavier, or with more pangs of sadness, and yet, you may find yourselves even more present, even more appreciative of the natural world and of each other, and of this crazy, beautiful, fragile and fleeting thing we call life. This is a gift from Luke.”

And it was a gift. To be where he had been. To drive Ruta 7 knowing he, too, had gazed up at the impossibly red cliffs. To know he, too, had emptied his shoes of the relentless dirt and pebbles at the end of the trail. And to know that he, too, had loved this place.

The real gift of the roadtrip, I think, was creating new memories with Luke in a place he brought us to.

The calendar turn to March is daunting. Spring, with all its new light and growth, has for three years carried with it such heaviness and pain for those who love Luke. And, despite being in the upside down of the southern hemisphere’s seasonal change to fall, March is still March.

When planning out our Argentina time, Henry and I talked about the challenges of being on the opposite side of the world from Vermont for Luke’s yahrzeit. And we decided that despite being far from family, maybe being in Aconcagua could be a way to feel closer to Luke.

So, on March 6th, we packed up the Kangoo and headed to the park blasting Wu Tang in the dark. We hiked to Confluencia base camp, watching the morning sunbeams light up the summit.

On Myra’s advice, we walked a quiet mile alone to reflect and connect with Luke. Before leaving the park, we wrote his name in rocks by a river with a view of the summit in the background - tangibly bringing his memory onto the trail. In Mendoza we traced our fingers over the “Luke Wilhelm ‘22 Wu Tang!” he’d sharpied on the wall of a local mountaineering shop.

We drank mate in a park with a fellow guide who told us about drinking mate in the same spot with Luke and about his contagious energy and laugh on their shared ascent. And we ended the night by FaceTiming family in Vermont, eating the same meal (mac & cheese with caesar salad) and exchanging Luke stories though continents apart.

On this trip and always, I strive to keep Henry’s big bro and my friend close by, constantly on the lookout for signs (or winks). Like the massive early morning rainbow in El Chalten. Like the lightning storm illuminating the night sky as Tracy, Bruce, and Greg lit the yahrzeit candle. Like learning that the name Aconcagua means “that which comes from the other side.”

Even though we were lucky to feel close to family this past week, we are still far away - in Peru for the next few weeks. On our first stop, Huanchaco, we’ll be extra fixated on the moon, and not just because we’re still ‘mooning. We’ll be reading tide charts as we hunt for more winks - hopefully in the form of peeling lefts 😉.