Packing for our departure reveals a small problem: our sleeping bags had travelled up separately (because they needed to stop off at Confluencia, unlike the rest of our high altitude gear), and Jeremy and I couldn't now fit them into our bags, which were pretty full on the way up. The Grajales logistics plan seemingly hasn't catered for this and there is a little consternation until Tomi finds space for them in one of the guides' bags.
Of more enduring concern is the word from Penitentes that, following the snowfall, there have been avalanches on National Route 7 and the road into Mendoza has been blocked. Apparently some 6,000 cars have been stuck on the road overnight. But there's not much sense in staying at base camp, and if we have to stay a night at Penitentes while the route clears, so be it.
We say our goodbyes to the base camp staff and to Tomi, who has another group of clients coming up to base camp in a few days; it wouldn't make much sense for him to go back down only to come straight back up again. A vague plan is hatched to try to get back to Argentina when the England rugby team visit in the summer and take Tomi to one of the games as we set off down the Horcones valley.
Once we've made our way down Brave Slope (stepping to one side a couple of times to let mules edge their way past), our route is a relatively gentle stroll, though the loose ground is hard work for the feet, the day rapidly becomes quite hot and the Playancha seems much longer and more boring as a walk than on the way up. The saving grace is the spectacular evidence of orogeny [1] all around us. At every turn, the exposed rock faces tell a tale of the immense forces that have angled, folded and twisted them up from the sea bed and continental crust and into the towering peaks around us.
My knee is holding up well, but George is struggling with his back pain, which he describes as like a knife in his back. Lito and the Spanish-speaking contingent seem keen to forge on, but with no Tomi to help him on Jeremy and I decide it's wise to hang back and make sure he's OK. The heat is punishing. I've only filled up my Camlebak today and manage to drain it before we've reached the end of the Playancha. Fortunately, the water at Lito's spring is still clear enough for us to fill up again there, even though the main stream along side it is ochre with sediment washed down from the mountains.
We stop briefly at Confluencia for a glass of squash and some fruit, and to chat with two Americans who are on their way up. Suitably refreshed, we head off. Half an hour later, George remembers that he's left his jumper on a chair at Confluencia. Tempers are only just stopped from fraying, and Lito heads back for it, asking us to go slowly. Naturally, everyone hares off at top speed. Which results in the group being strung out along the route, because George's top speed is slower than Vicky, Carlos and Yacob's. Jeremy and I decide to hang back and give Lito a chance to catch up, while pacing ourselves to keep George just in sight. There are a couple of moments where the trail, which rises and falls up the valley side, isn't entirely clear and once or twice we have to retrace our steps, but eventually the group comes back together once we've crossed a suspension bridge a couple of miles from the park entrance. Fittingly, the bridge marks the point where you need a trekking or climbing permit to go further. It marks the first part of the transition back into normal life.
At the ranger station by the park entrance, Lito checks the group out and a ranger collects our permits back in. A driver from Grajales has arrived to take us back to Penitentes with two pieces of good news. Firstly, the road is clear, so we can get back to Mendoza this evening. Secondly, he has chilled beers in the car. These are distributed but there aren't enough to go around. It comes down to me, George and a solitary can. After the incident with the jumper, I don't feel all that guilty that I get in first.
Back at Penitentes, we have to wait for the mules to bring our bags in. While we're waiting, we relocate the gear we've left behind in the store room, surf the internet, leaf through a book of photos of Aconcagua by Pablo Betancourt (which features Lito and, I think, the Nepalese guide who took Jeremy down from la Gueva), and mess around on the industrial scales they use to weigh the loads for the mules. It turns out that several of the group had weighed themselves before the trip and recorded it on baggage stickers stuck on the wall. Carlos reckons he has lost 7kg on the climb; I've probably lost more, but there's no way of knowing.
After an hour or so, the gear arrives. None of it has been lost in transit, though the bag for my sleeping mat (which I'd strapped to the outside of my kitbag) has been ripped to shreds. We reclaim our bags and sleeping bags, reunite ice axes (which were safely wrapped by the guides and packed in a communal bag) with their rightful owners, and agree to take Yacob's plastic boots back to the hire shop. Except that he doesn't have a receipt and we're not quite sure which one it came from, so we surf the internet until we've located it. Then we say our farewells to Carlos and Yacob, who will wait for the bus to Santiago to come through, and begin the drive back to Mendoza.
The drive is long, but once again it's fascinating just to watch the scenery unfold. We arrive back in Mendoza late in the evening, drop Vicky off near the airport so she can catch an early flight, drop Lito off, and arrive at our hotel sometime after 10pm. We check in, leave our bags in the hall, and look for some food. The restaurant is shutting up for the night, but after some persuasion they agree to cook something for us. Steaks in Malbec sauce are accompanied by a bottle of Malbec served warm enough that you breathe it in as much as drink it. It is the best meal I've eaten in a very long time.
We haul our gear up to our room and have showers for the first time in two weeks. There is still the lingering sense that the dust is ingrained and it will be a while before I am properly clean, but this is a good start. I survey the damage. I've picked up blisters on my heels and a couple of toes from today's walk; by my standards, not bad for the distance we've travelled. I've got sunburn on my cheeks, my nose and, bizarrely, one ear. I've got some kind of a sore in my nose that has flared up and it's a bit swollen and tender. My big toes and the end of one finger are a little numb - frostnip - but that will fade with time. The toenail on my right big toe has taken a battering; to protect my knee, I always kept my right foot pointing straight down the slopes and it's been bashed against the inside of my boot. It's tender, but it looks like it might recover given time. My knee is still sore if I twist it, but it's better than it was. All in all, not too bad, and nothing that can't be fixed with the strategic application of moisturiser, sunscreen, compeed and micropore.
And so, tired, footsore but replete with wine and a decent steak, to bed.
[1] No, it means "mountain forming". Smut, as Tom Lehrer was pleased to say, is in the mind of the beholder.
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