Going “Ultralight” in Patagonia Feels Liberating—But Can Leave Little Room for Error

Climbing in Patagonia is a lot of things but lightweight is not one of them. The area’s granite towers involve a ton of technical climbing (big rack), include some amount of snow and ice travel (crampons, axe), and are many hours or even days from the road (good luck climbing most of them without bivy gear). As a result, the gear you carry holds far more weight than climbing in the Lower 48. “I always thought the [area’s] focus on ultralight was a bit silly and contrived,” my California-based buddy Thomas texted me during my first Patagonia season, in 2023. “And then I started climbing here and now I’m one of the silly crazy people with the ultralight everything.”

I learned many things while hanging around El Chaltén last December, but the most important was how to lighten up my pack. Climbing with partners far more experienced than myself, I learned how to cut down my bivy gear to the utmost minimum. This in turn let me take advantage of brief spells of clear weather—and climb some of the greatest routes of my life. After 10 weeks spread over two seasons in the range, I am by no means an expert on alpine climbing in Patagonia. But I did pester my local partners for their tips and tricks, and I’ve outlined my most relevant learnings below.

I. Big spoon or little?

My first earth-shattering no shit moment came less than one week into my trip. I’d teamed up with the American expat Kiff Alcocer to climb a mixed route on Cerro Pollone, a rarely visited spire rising quietly behind Cerro Chaltén. While packing up in town, Kiff very casually mentioned that I didn’t need to bring a sleeping bag to our high camp, despite us camping on a glacier, and despite it being springtime in Argentina. I quickly agreed, not wanting to seem prudish, but wondered if I was going to freeze my nuts off that night.

Kiff must have sensed my hesitation. He told me about the sleeping bag he would bring for us to share: one which he used on a late-autumn traverse of the Adela peaks and Cerro Torre’s Ragni Route (WI5+; 600m) with Quentin Roberts. The sleeping bag was pretty wide, he promised, and we’d use it like a blanket. We could spoon if it got too cold. We could also bring insulated pants.

I slept great that night. And as I trudged up the glacier in the next morning’s pre-dawn alpenglow, I came to a realization that will be painfully obvious to some and completely mind-blowing to others: Not only are two sleeping bags twice as heavy as one, but individual bags are a hugely inefficient way to maintain your body heat. What is efficient? Two humans with warm beating hearts trapping each other’s heat into one bag. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t shared a sleeping bag before.

II. Just don’t stop

When Kiff and I returned to town after climbing Pollone, I felt like I had unearthed some sort of secret. I’d effectively cut the weight of my sleeping bag in half yet somehow also made it warmer. I couldn’t wait to share my findings with other friends.

Unfortunately, the big reveal of my “discovery” would have to wait, because the next day Colin Haley—known for his climbing speed, including the Torre Traverse in a day—asked if I would climb Aguja Guillaumet with him. Less than 24 hours of clear weather was on the horizon, with high winds from the west. Colin suggested we eschew bivy gear altogether and dash up the east-facing Amy-Vidailhet Couloir (WI 3+ M4; 300m) from town in a day—6,000 feet of elevation and 18 miles, all told. I had previously only climbed the mountain, via a different but similar route, over three days town-to-town. But I agreed to the idea reasoning that an in-a-day approach was the only way we could safely climb in that window. The raging winds would have made camping absolutely heinous.

Colin and I started hiking around 5 a.m. at a conversational pace. After taking multiple snack and stretching breaks, we took turns balancing on Guillaumet’s precarious summit block at 2 p.m. Free from the burden of bivy gear and the cumulative fatigue of multiple days in the mountains, I noticed my legs still felt fresh and snappy. I remained well fed and hydrated. Had the good weather continued, I would have continued climbing for hours. This in-a-day push stood in stark contrast to my tired summit elation the year before, when I’d topped out in the afternoon of my second full day in the mountains.

There is an argument to be made for going slow while alpine climbing. You inevitably see more beautiful sunrises and sunsets. You share moments of quiet satisfaction with your partner. You can lounge on a sunny boulder or in a glacial tarn, then traipse through an alpine meadow. But if you’re working with a very short weather window, you must pick up the pace. After all, thanks to our weather-dodging, superlight tactics, Colin and I were the only ones who got to enjoy Guillaumet that day.

III. Squeeze ‘em tighter

Until last December, I had never crammed more than the recommended number of people into a climbing tent, since two people in a “two person” tent leaves little room for cooking, stretching, or getting dressed. (Or maybe I am a prude!) But clearly I had lots to learn about alpine camping, because when my local friend Tomas Odell suggested we try Torre Egger’s Martin-O’Neill (5.12 M6 WI 4; 3,100ft) with Bauti Gregorini, it seemed like all but a given we’d squeeze the three of us into my tiny two-person tent.

I can’t say I slept well during our night on Torre Egger. But I did pass out for a while until our 3 a.m. alarm roused us. Employing tactic number one, our collective one-and-a-half sleeping bags kept us warm while we pondered the outstanding position we found ourselves in: strapped to Egger’s midheight snowfield, 1,500 feet above the glacier. I like to think that our light packs helped us get there with energy to spare—especially Bauti, who sent the route’s crux 5.12 slab without much difficulty the following morning. Even so, due to my route-finding error, we were forced to bail just 100 feet from the summit when a forecasted storm arrived two hours early. And as we rappelled Egger’s exposed headwall in 40 mile-per-hour winds, I understood that it didn’t matter if we had a tent with us. We couldn’t survive up there. We needed to go down.

Sharing a two-person tent three ways is something I’ve done multiple times since Egger, but I’ve realized that even minor increases in tent width can greatly increase one’s comfort. (Again: no shit.) On Egger, I used the Samaya Assaut2 (reportedly 43in/110cm wide, but due to a design flaw the floor curves up like the bottom of a tub, feeling much smaller). This required all three of us not-particularly-burly dudes to sleep on our sides. Four days later, I attempted Cerro Torre via the 30-mile Paso Marconi approach—easier climbing, much more walking and camping—and therefore opted to bring the slightly heavier Black Diamond First Light tent, which is at least five inches wider. The width gains are theoretically small but in practice feel massive. I felt like I slept, and recovered, significantly more in the wider tent.

IV. Use your brain

Looking back, summarizing all that I learned about bivy gear last year in Patagonia, I realize that most of what I’m preaching here is common sense. Bring less. Share more. Don’t bring anything at all. But, in practice, each experiment in paring down felt like a real consequential leap—more akin to driving without a seatbelt than merely risking a speeding ticket.

The decisions one makes in Patagonia have more gravity than those in less-volatile ranges like the High Sierra, Bugaboos, or Alps. Bivy gear can act as a temporary island of safety amidst a life-threatening storm, which may roll in early or unforecasted. There is a reason that each time I planned to bivy this season I did so in a waterproof tent—not a capella.

But I don’t think the moral of this story is to “be careful.” The lesson is to truly enjoy the company of the people you’re climbing with. Because whether you’re cuddling your buddy in a sleeping bag or not sleeping at all, you’re going to get to know each other pretty well.

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