The coral-colored clouds in the azure sky herald the rising sun as the
Hidatsu Maru sails up the East River, the twin-red-striped white flag of the NYK Line snapping in the breeze. The change in the pitch of the engines as the pilot boat came alongside the passenger-freighter woke Paco in his stateroom, and he made his way on deck to stand in the moist, warm morning air to watch the ship’s arrival. Across the Lower Bay he can make out the Statue of Liberty, to the northeast the skyline of Manhattan.
- / -
The announcement of the gala celebration for the expedition caught Paco by surprise. He quickly dashed off a note to Starkweather indicating that he would do his best to be in New York City at the appointed time, followed by a feverish request to the American consulate in Santiago for the necessary visa. Next came arranging passage on a ship from Valpariso to New York. What seemed like many weeks suddenly seemed like only a moment as Paco hastily made his preparations.
- / -
The South Street Seaport is rousing along with the rest of the city as Paco walks down the gangplank, carrying his trunk on his back, the orange-and-green NYK luggage tag dangling as he steps onto land. Inside was his clothing and gear, save for his skis and snowshoes – there was simply no way to fit them efficiently into the trunk, and the experienced mountaineer knew that the sea voyage could be unkind to the polished wood. Wagering that he could purchase a new pair in America, Paco stripped off his bindings and straps and packed the hardware for the trip, leaving the boards with the
matron at the
hosteria for his return.
- / -
The
Hidatsu Maru traveled the west coast of South America, passing through the Panama Canal, then crossing the Caribbean before striking the east coast of North America. By day Paco spent his time on deck, weather permitting, watching the restless sea, the passing shore, the dolphins that congregated at the bow, the birds that tailed along behind. To keep fit he performed calisthenics, chinning himself on overhead pipes in the passageways, chimneying the space between bulkheads, stretching his muscles to keep limber. At night he would practice his English with one of the stewards, a young fellow named Kogi from Yokohama, or study the map of Antarctica that José has so thoughtfully sent to him.
- / -
The port official studies the passport and visa carefully – apparently something about a Chilean arriving on a Japanese passenger-cargo ship doesn’t sit right with him, or perhaps the novelty sparks his interest. Paco shifts uncomfortably in his shoes. He considers showing the little man the copy of Starkweather’s letter –
that may only confuse things further, he decides at last, and continues to wait as the official considers the documents. Finally he stamps the passport and the visa and hands them back to Paco, a hint suspicion at the corners of his eyes – the date on the stamp reads 10 August 1933.
I have three days, Paco thinks, pleased at the timing.
Exiting the terminal at last, Paco finds a taxi.
“Grand Central Station, por favor,” he says, a bit nervously.
- / -
The city was overwhelming.
Nothing in Paco’s experience prepared him for the looming skyscrapers, the throngs of cars and people, the rush and bustle of activity that seemed to be carrying him along like a stick in a mountain freshet. The cabby was surly but efficient, delivering the mountaineer before the impressive portico of the railway terminal.
A burly police officer twirling a baton on a lanyard watched Paco closely as he waited in line at the ticket counter. Reaching the window at last, a pretty girl in a print dress gave him a business-like smile as he pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket and slides it across the counter.
“New Paltz, por favor, señorita,” he says with a shy smile.
- / -
The Wallkill Valley line of the New York Central follows the winding path of the Wallkill River on its way to New Paltz. The trip takes more than an hour, but Paco is relieved to be out of the city and among the hills and forests of the Shawangunk Mountains.
The humid air is thick and warm as Paco finally reaches his destination in the late afternoon. Stepping onto the platform of the tiny rural rail station, he gazes past the town at the rocky ridge beyond. It is as he pictured it from the descriptions from Franz Weissner quoted in the
Club Andino Bariloche newsletter that José forwarded before he left Valdivia.
Paco arranges to leave his trunk at the railway station, shouldering only his rucksack containing his climbing and camping gear as he sets off to explore the crags a few miles distant.
Saturday I am yours, Señor Starkweather, but until then, I climb for me.
