Past Challenge

#8 Mount Burney 2000

Participants: John Shipton, Nick Banks and Chris Smith

"Here we were, boatless...blocked by 2 large rivers to the east and a mountain of unknown difficulty to cross."

In February and March this year, I travelled with five companions, to the foot of Mount Burney on the remote Munoz Gamero Peninsula in far southern Chile. This isolated mountain has the distinction of being the southernmost volcano on the mainland of the American continents. As it is habitually shrouded in cloud and tempest, it has been seen by very few people hence the unconfirmed altitude, which varies, according to different maps, from 1490 to 1750m. It has the further distinction of having been climbed only once. This was by my father Eric Shipton and two companions in March 1973. Eric had a peculiar fascination for lost volcanoes, and this one in particularly mysterious. In 1910 a ship's captain reported glimpsing an eruption taking place, which remained the only evidence of its volcanic nature. His successful ascent, at the third attempt was a combination of tenacity and extraordinary luck. The first two in 1961 and 2 involved the exploration of the fjord and lake approaches through country unseen by anyone except the now extinct Alacaluf Indians. In 1961 just after his epic Cordillera Darwin traverse on Tierra del Fuego, he travelled along Seno Skyring with cousins Cedomir and Ricardo Marangunic, launching their Zodiac inflatable to journey into unexplored country towards Mt Burney. In terrifying seas they reached one of the isthmuses connecting Munoz Gamero to the mainland, a strip of land dubbed Paso del Indio. Hauling their boat across ground covered in thick Nothofagus forest, they travelled the inland Lago Munoz Gamero. Here my father writes of " a haunting beauty" in the country, and "a sense of loneliness stronger than I have experienced in Patagonia". After struggling through more forest beyond the northern end of this lake system they discovered a large lake stretching towards their goal. Time and supplies ran out, and their outboard failed, so erecting a makeshift sail they were blown back to civilization. In the following year he returned with Jack Ewer and John Earle who recorded this journey on film. Using the same route via Skyring and Paso del Indio, they hauled their boat onto the new lake, (which still remains unnamed), walked across bog and forest, and then as cloud and foul weather shrouded it, spent 12 days circumnavigating the mountain.

Two years ago when I conceived the idea of retracing these journeys, I was amazed to find that no-one had even thought of approaching Burney since, and that I could make the same journey through country unvisited by anyone except him. To climb the peak at the end would be a wonderful bonus, but would require the miracle of weather he experienced in 1973, and I knew that the chances were heavily stacked against this. I was more intrigued to see the country my father had crossed to reach the mysterious volcano. I received great encouragement from my father's former companions in his Chilean adventures, John Earle and Peter Bruchhausen, as well as Cedomir Marangunic in Chile. I also got in touch with Jack Miller who had travelled extensively in the region and he was generous with advice and later, with invaluable help. I also had excellent maps of the peninsula from the Chilean Instituto Geographico Militar. They have produced an extremely accurate 1:100000 series of the area. On and around Burney itself there are great blank sections due to the perennial clouds that covered the area during the survey, and which for me added to the mystery and therefore the allure of the region. The maps of course don't tell the story of the difficulty of travel through untouched temperate rainforest and vast bogs crossed by innumerable rivers, or of course the diabolical weather. Peter encouraged me to get a tiny inflatable for water crossings, which was sage advice. In the end we left it behind, which was a matter of some regret later. Jack advised walking in wellingtons, which in the event he actually provided for us in Punta Arenas. After my experience in Tierra del Fuego last year we seemed to manage well with regular boots, but I have to say that the wellies in Munoz Gamero were perfect.

I had intended to find just two people to come with me. However after last year's experience with my trip across the Cordillera Darwin and the difficulty of finding people with time, money and mad enough to come for a wander in Chilean Patagonia, I accepted anyone showing keenness for the enterprise, ending up with five people. My first recruit was Brede Arkless from New Zealand, the first woman Mountain Guide, who I had met in the Garhwal Himalaya while retracing another of my father's incredible side trips. She introduced me to her Kiwi friends; ex SAS man and Everest veteran Paddy Freaney and his partner Rochelle Rafferty. Two young Canadians Scott Fraser and Dave Pfeiffer joined us as well I had pondered over the logistics of the trip for months and they were considerable. I had to acquire an inflatable and reliable engine for a start, either in Punta Arenas or shipped it in from outside. I then had to transport this, with supplies, including fuel, to the end of the dirt track along the remote Seno Skyring. This would not be cheap, and although I was boosted by an expedition award from Polartec, and the generous loan of a tent from Terra Nova I had been considering a cheaper option of being landed by a fishing boat to the north of Burney at "Ancon sin Salida" where the Spanish explorer Sarmiento had given up his search for a second Straits of Magellan. From there we would hopefully climb our mountain and then explore the area with a circumnavigation of Burney at least. I even harboured designs of walking off the peninsula, which would be a first. However the gods had other plans.

With the miracle of email to help, we all gathered in Punta Arenas from three corners of the globe. Paddy and Roche were fresh from one of the swiftest ascents of Aconcagua in history, and Scott and Dave appeared from the depths of Argentina. We all gathered at the El Bosque hostel of my friends from last year El Bosque run by Yvette Martinez. Here I had a message from Jack Miller. Jack's latest trip had been beset by particularly bad weather. He was retiring hurt and was willing to loan me his Avon inflatable Mathilde. He came down from Puerto Natales to meet us and handed over not only Mathilde but a whole set of Wellingtons and a little saw that was to be invaluable. This changed everything. I was in Punta Arenas with an inflatable and eager companions, and I could now travel the lakes as originally intended.

Several problems still had to be wrestled with however, and solved quickly before we lost impetus. We still had to get people and gear along the shores of Seno Skyring, where there is nothing but a dirt road and with few estancias away to the west, no public transport. I had hoped to get in touch with the Anglo-Chilean Friedli family, who still run Estancia Skyring half way down the Bay and who had been helpful to my father in the sixties. However messages remained unanswered. In a flash of inspiration I realised that I could change the whole approach, by using my contacts in the fishing port of Puerto Natales a three-hour bus ride across the pampas to the north, and now a booming tourist destination with the proximity of Torres el Paine national park. From here I could get a fishing boat to take us to the second of the two isthmuses by travelling up Seno Obstruccion. We could be within a stone's throw of Paso del Indio without negotiating the remote tracks of Skyring or the dangerous open waters between Peninsula Diadem and the Paso. Thereafter things moved at a dizzy rate. We still needed a more portable engine, Jack's 30hp being fairly unmanageable for the portages we would have to make. Within hours a mutual contact in Punta Arenas, Pedro Gomez, had found us a Yamaha 15 HP, probably the only one for hire in Punta Arenas. Meanwhile Brede and Roche got all our food supplies sorted in an afternoon of shopping and brilliant calculations. So that evening we piled everything onto a bus to Puerto Natales. Here we were met by Jack's friends Ruben and Maria who extended splendid hospitality to us at their Hospedaje Dumestre. The next day I went out with Dave to fit the last important piece into our plans, the fishing boat. Here we were helped by Hernan Joffre from his business Concepto Indigo. A phone call got us an appointment to meet Hernan Garrido, who is owner of the fishing boat Katyta. Hernan agreed to take us, on the 60 nautical mile trip to the end of Seno Obstruccion, starting next morning. He would leave us on the remote shore and pick us up three weeks later. I could hardly believe how easily we found ourselves sailing out of Natales and into the remote country of Munoz Gamero. We had even acquired a second smaller inflatable and 15hp outboard, hired from my other contact Fernando Viveros. This was at Scott's insistence, as the rest of us felt we could make do with the one and relay up and down the lakes. However a second engine and boats on which our lives would depend was undoubtedly a sound safety option.

Four hours from Natales we stopped at one of the last human outposts, Rio Primero, a cattle estancia which had been set up three generations ago. But we were still not half way to the end of the bay. Soon after leaving the estancia the shores become completely wild. Dense forest comes down to the shore, which is riddled with a complex array of bays and islands. The weather was fair for once in this region, and we could see remote snow peaks to the west. The whole scene was staggeringly beautiful. Towards evening we reached our landing point, and Hernan steered the boat to the shore. My first impression was of a sort of enchanted paradise. A temperate jungle crowded down to a little beach, surrounded by great rocks festooned with the great pink flowers of Philesia magellenica. Humming birds were feeding on great masses of the red tubular flowers of Desfontania spinosa. Our jungle was composed of other favourites familiar to me from previous Chilean trips. The evergreen Nothofagus betuloides was dominant here with its layered branches giving the scene a sort of oriental air. In amongst the Nothofagus was what Hernan called "Cypress", Pilgerodendron uviferum, and near the shore Berberis and Gaultheria, together with what is to me a symbol of Chile, the primitive Drymys winterii. Under all these were the white Anemone like flowers of Luzuriaga marginata. Our paradise wasn't quite so inviting once we had landed. We were immediately attacked by a sort of sandfly, and the ground was uniformly boggy, a presentiment of things to come. Nor was our paradise pristine. We had heard of the American NOLS trips in here, but more impact had been made by people cutting and abstracting the Cypress timber. As a result there was a clear path across the isthmus. Crossing this involved two "portages", first to a small lake, and then from this onto Lago Munoz Gamero. Pursued by sand flies we carried boats and engines over the 200 yards of slippery track to the small lake before settling down to our first camp. In the morning Hernan gave us a whole load of fish caught in nets during the night before saying goodbye. We watched Katyta, our contact with civilisation, disappear down the bay.

Our first portage was hard work but accomplished by midday. We crossed our small lake and then found a good track of half a kilometre on the other side that led to the eastern arm of Lago Munoz Gamero which rejoices in the resounding name of Estrecho Excelsior. Despite downpours of rain the weather was remarkably settled and we set off on calm waters down the lake that I had been dreaming about for so long. Our progress with our Yamahas outboards was far quicker than I had imagined and I almost regretted our speed as we were rushing passed country of breathtaking beauty. I felt I ought to be savouring it more. Lush temperate rainforest covered the shores of the lake, which was dotted with exotic looking islands that seemed to come out of a Japanese painting. I felt a sense of intense exhilaration to be travelling where so few others had been. As we passed a rushing river plunging out of the temperate jungle a great ice capped peak appeared in front of us to the west. It looked big enough to be our goal Mount Burney, but fact it was a mere 1000m peak nameless among 100 other nameless peaks. It is an extraordinary feature of this region that a relatively moderate altitude is enough to generate considerable glaciation, and the glaciers flow often to sea level cutting through dense rain forest. All too quickly we reached the end of Estrecho Excelsior to the main section of the lake that runs north-south. By turning north we were following my father's path and I believe were the first to do so since him. Within a couple of hours we had reached the northern end of the lake. Briefly stopping by the great torrent of the river that drains the nameless lake discovered by my father to the NW, we landed at the northern end of the lake. We later realised how lucky we had been with the weather. Normally frequent strong winds roar down the lake, making progress dangerous and slow, and we had just navigated the lake in virtual calm in an afternoon.

We had a pleasant evening gorging ourselves on Hernan's fish, sheltering from the rain under our blue tarpaulin. Along with the blazing fires directed by Paddy, this was to be the hallmark of our camps. We faced the exciting prospect the next morning, in more rain, of exploring a trail for our big portage to the great unnamed lake. We had about two km to cross with a boat and our gear and supplies across country only crossed once before. We decided to leave Jack's Avon and a motor with a week's food, and rely on the much smaller Zodiac to relay us across the unnamed lake. Nevertheless it took several trips. Carrying our first loads we forged a way along a low ridge, which provided some open ground on the crest, and reached the shores of the lake by a beautiful beach surrounded by an array of the now familiar plants N.betuloides, Drimys and Berberis, which were almost park like in their juxtapositions. Here we were however in 2001 in a place unsullied by man even with a name. By the evening we had forged several good routes and established our third camp which we called lagoon camp for its near idyllic location.

Crossing our nameless lake was a challenge. It was really two lakes joined by a narrow channel, the first stretching four miles to the west and the second four miles to the north and ending on its northern shore at the start of the great boggy plain crossed by Eric, Ewer and Earle in '62. To get the six of us across in the one small inflatable we had to make at three trips back and forth. During this operation any problem with boat or motor would divide the party. Communication would be impossible, as we would be divided by a 1000m mountain and large rivers. The return trips made by one person alone would be particularly exposed. By the time we had inflated the dinghy and started the engine with Paddy, Roche and myself on board a contrary wind, funnelled down the lake series was making white horses on the lake. We went out anyway, soon getting soaked as we bashed into sharp waves. Attempting to hug the shore to avoid the full strength of the wind nearly proved disastrous as we hit what must have been the only offshore rock. Luckily no damage was done so we ploughed on with a respite as we cruised through the narrow channel between the two sections. It was a magical moment squeezing through the wild green gap and opening out the northern section, which was flanked on the north by a snow peak with great tumbling glaciers. Turning the corner the wind and waves grew stronger, and by the time we reached the north shore we were drenched and shivering. However here we found a long tranquil beach pressed around by a dense swampy forest. I left Paddy and Roche to set up camp to set off alone on the return journey. Apart from the nagging fear that the engine would fail at any moment my main concern was that the boat without a heavy load would be flipped by a strong gust. However the wind had eased and I cruised easily back to pick up Brede and Scott. As soon as they were aboard, clinging on to gear, the wind rose again. Turning the corner into the second section it became so violent that it whirled masses of water into our faces making it impossible to see ahead. We found a small rocky island and landed for shelter. It became known as Brede Island from her suggestion that she and I be left on it while Scott went back for Dave. I was not going to be left on a rock however, and soon the weather calmed enough for us to continue and reach our beach where Paddy had already made a brew. Scott elected to make the return trip for Dave, and rather too hastily I felt, as he didn't give us time to consider different possibilities, especially whether he might stay the night with Dave at the other end. All that evening we waited in vain for Scott and Dave to show, and although we knew that the chances were they had just decided to spend the night at the other camp, all sorts of horrific scenarios presented themselves. Here we were boatless, a return journey blocked by two large rivers to the east and a mountain of unknown difficulty to cross. The angst lasted well into the morning but just as I feared the worst the boat appeared on the beach with Scott and Dave at the helm.

Our next task was to reconnoitre a way off our cosy beach. Immediately inland was an impenetrable forested swamp. However by squeezing up a steep gully from the end of the beach Dave and I gained access to open ground on the hills above. Here we got our first views of the great boggy plain that leads north passed Burney to Ancon sin Salida and the Seno Union. We were also looking at what was, on our maps, a great blank section. Included in this was the unmistakeable mountain that flanks Burney, which the '62 party dubbed "Trefan" from its likeness to that peak in Snowdonia. Again there is no official name for this obvious landmark. From our vantage point we could see that a higher-level route towards Burney would be slow and ponderous, especially with our heavy loads, and that we would have to take our chances with my father's route across the bog. We therefore took the boat for a couple of recces to work out how to get onto it, and decide which side of the several rivers to start our walk. The plain is a maze of rivers and at this point I regretted not bringing the little inflatable recommended by Peter Bruchhausen. However we discovered that by landing on the east side of the estuary of the large (again nameless) river that drained much of the plain we would only have to cross one large tributary to gain access to "clear" ground. We determined that a small amount of work would be needed to make a bridge across this the next day. However during the night continuous heavy rain fell, and when we returned the next day our harmless tributary had became a raging torrent. We tried to find alternative crossing points and, using Jack's saw, spent a whole day making bridges from nearby Nothofagus pumilio. One huge effort put us across a double stream only to find that we had got ourselves to another impassable swamp. By evening we dropped two logs across our original crossing point and this we hoped would get us across the next day. In fact by the following morning the rush of water had receded. We struck camp and motored round to our starting point in relays, crossed the tributary and set off across the plain in wellies and carrying our 30kg loads. Actually the going was not too bad and better than John Earle's woeful description in his book Springs of Enchantment. But then we were probably carrying 10kg less, equipped with our modern lightweight tents and gear. Much of the boggy plain is devoid of trees being too wet for their roots and this meant precious clear ground. By midday we had reached the foot of "Trefan" at the point where we wanted to turn west towards Burney up the nameless river that flows from the mountain. We were in the blank on the map, which however does show a lake on the south side of Burney. This looked like the perfect base for a climbing assault. I was sure that the dense bush we were bound to encounter would massively slow our progress, however fortune seemed to be favouring us. A sort of terraced escarpment was clear, and led us exactly where we wanted to go. Soon we were walking amongst trees, but eventually these closed in and we found ourselves in a vast antediluvian forest dominated by the deciduous Nothofagus pumilio. Some of the older trees rose to 20m and more and because of the extreme wetness of the climate were festooned with vast quantities of luxuriant mosses and lichen. The continuous rain means that dead trees fail to biodegrade quickly. As a result travel across the bottoms of these forests, where we had to clamber across great layers of fallen trees covered in thick moss, was extremely hard work especially with large packs. Stands of spiky Berberis spp, and thickets of Desfontania further impeded progress. The struggle was beginning to appear endless, but eventually we broke out across a steep tributary to an open bog, which led to a clear bank. Here we came across a small tarn, which was an obvious camp for the night. To the north Burney was still totally covered in cloud.

The next day we reconnoitred a route through the immediate bush and then forcing our way through this with our packs, found ourselves looking at another stretch of open bog hemmed in by forest which gave us the lead we needed. By midday we came to the banks of our nameless river, which led at last to our lake. It was a great moment. The lake that opened up to us was only half a mile across. The end we approached was pressed in with luxuriant green forest, but at the far end were great pieces of ice. The lake ended in a huge black wall, capped by a great hanging glacier. Above this and shrouded in almost eternal cloud were the ice spires of Mount Burney. We had arrived at our goal.

We called the lake Roaring Lake from the crashing of the ice as it tumbles frequently into the water below. In 1973 Eric, Perry and Riddiford had looked down at our lake from the summit, and surmised that it could be the crater formed by an ancient eruption. We felt this had a ring of truth about it. From his and John Earle's descriptions of their journey in 1962, however, we didn't recognise the lake and therefore we felt that we could be the first people here. However when I watched John's film again my conclusion was that this was where they completed their trek round the mountain, but that the place was unrecognisable as the ice had retreated massively in the last forty years.

The next day we made our first recces of the mountain, which remained covered in cloud. Brede, Paddy and Roche went up through the bush behind the camp in an attempt to get onto the SE ridge, which they didn't quite attain, while Scott, Dave and I set off for the ridge above the western shore of the lake. To do this we had to wade across the icy waters of the river. Following a rocky stream we reached the snows on the shoulder of the mountain just below the ice cap, which disappeared upwards into the cloud. For once the air was clear, and although Burney was shrouded in her habitual pall, we got spectacular views of the wild uninhabited country around. With some clarity we could see westwards to the archipelago beyond Munoz Gamero. Immediately below us was another glacial lake with ice dropping into its waters and beyond a ridge running off to the SW. The country beyond was wonderfully wild and remote, filled with untouched mountains, rivers and lakes. Scott and Dave felt they needed to explore no further as our shoulder provided an obvious route up the mountain as soon as the cloud dispersed, despite ominous looking crevasses above. However the weather was reasonable, and I yearned to get onto the further ridge to have a look round the west side of the mountain to see if I could work out my father's 1973 route. I couldn't persuade the two boys, so I set off alone. I reached the far ridge in a couple of hours and got a terrific view of the west side of the mountain, and saw what I felt was a much better route up into the cloud avoiding most of the crevasses visible under the cloud. Feeling like a country gentleman walking his estate I returned to camp in a state of euphoria.

The consensus was that our best chance of climbing Burney was from our shoulder on the South ridge and from a base camp on the western shore of the lake. So we spent moving our camp the next day across the river. The day after however the cloud remained obstinately at 800m, but I persuaded Brede with bribes of a share of my chocolate ration to come with me to the SW ridge. A tempestuous wind greeted us on the ridge, but I managed to crawl onto a further ridge to get a full view down the forested valley to the west thus completing the recce of the west side of Burney. The following day the cloud was over the mountain as usual, but Dave and Scott decided to take their climbing gear onto the shoulder. Cloud and rising hurricane winds prevented them from making much progress. Brede and I thought we should have another go at the SE ridge, with the possibility of climbing "Trefan", which is really an extension of the ridge. We waded across the river again and headed up into the forest towards the ridge. After a lot of struggling through the thick bush we found a route up various streams, and by midday were climbing towards the ridge above the tree line. However a violent wind had started, and by the time we got close to the crown of the ridge it had turned tempestuous. We had to go on hands and knees to have a look over. At the summit we were all but blown off, but the view on the other side was fantastic. We could see clear round the east side of the mountain all the way to Ancon sin Salida. Below us ran an enormous glacier that flowed off the mountain pushing a path eastwards almost to sea level. The wind precluded any advance up Trefan but our view spectacularly completed a recce round three sides of the mountain, and I was very content with the day's work. The weather deteriorated as we returned. When we got back to camp our various barometers were registering a catastrophic drop in pressure, almost to the point where we wondered if there would be enough atmosphere left to breathe. Sure enough the wind started to roar and we hid in our tents. Our Terra Nova tent with Brede and I inside suffered most, but we were sheltered enough to survive the night. By dawn the wind had eased a little, but it then started snowing. Winter appeared to be coming early.

Time was running out, as were our food supplies. There was certainly no prospect of attempting an ascent that day and probably slender prospect until this particularly violent system had moved over. I at least felt a great sense of achievement at having arrived at Burney and seen three of its flanks, although my climbing companions were filled with a sense of disappointment reminiscent of Jack Ewer's in '62. This Jack failed to see the point in Eric's epic tramp round the mountain, whereas Shipton himself felt the whole exercise totally satisfactory. At any rate we concluded that on this occasion a retreat would be in order. Rather than achieving little by waiting under the mountain for weather, which appeared to be unrelenting, we could spend time to exploring the country on the return trip.

On our way back we got bogged down in another antediluvian forest before reaching our tarn camp. From here we looked back and for once the cloud lifted for a few minutes, and we got our only clear views of our mountain. Exactly the same thing happened to Eric in 1962. After struggling through more forest Scott and Dave decided to cross the river again to get to an open piece of bog. The rest of us felt this to be a bad move, as we would have to recross the river further downstream where it would be even stronger. They went ahead and disappeared into the bush. Meanwhile our route opened out and we got splendid views to the east across to another great nameless lake and a mountain which we called "Corkscrew" and the "Tower of Babel" because of its bizarre shape. As we had predicted the two boys had a rather dramatic and icy time double crossing the river, but they had survived and luckily we met up just passed our clear escarpment. Much relieved at being reunited, we marched back across the great bog. It took us only a day to get all the way back to our Nameless Lake, despite our vicissitudes, and it was a pleasure to make camp again at our tranquil beach. The next day I did all the ferrying as Scott was feeling under the weather from his dip in the river. The weather was kind to us, the wind not getting up during our trips, and I got fairly used to cruising backwards and forwards across our lake, which we have temporarily dubbed Lake Perseverance.

The next day, with a route well marked out, we did our portage back to Lago Munoz Gamero, and found Jack's Avon as we had left it with our food dump untouched. We had seen a fox at one point and recalling how in 1973 Eric's dump had been raided, we had feared that we would suffer in the same way. Our original camp had been more than usually wet, so we set off in the boats that evening and found a pristine little sheltered beach where again the plants seemed almost arranged into a well ordered garden, a fine illusion on this wild shore.

...It had been a terrific trip which none of us will forget in a hurry. In his 1975 Alpine club report on 1973 success my father wrote, "It can be seldom that the ascent of a 1750m mountain merits the notice in the Alpine Journal but perhaps as a curiosity...." Having stood at the base of this glaciated peak on the remote Munoz Gamero Peninsula I am filled with pride at such absurd reticence. To me my father 's involvement with Mt Burney represents everything that made him a great man, his vision and passion for country, a deep curiosity for what lies on the other side of a ridge, and sheer joy of travelling "That Untravelled World". Burney remains a lodestone. It needs further exploration, scientific, as well as geographical, and of course the ambition remains to climb it for the second time in history. But there are a host of other possibilities for travel in this region, that for the moment at least, remains astonishingly untouched by climbers and other adventurers.