The Coldest Night of My Life Was in Patagonia—But Not in the Mountains

When Fallon Rowe bailed off Patagonia's Fitz Roy in 2017 with an abusive partner, she realized that surviving the aftermath of a failed mission can be more dangerous than the climbing itself.

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(Photo: Courtesy of Fallon Rowe)

Content warning: The following contains descriptions of emotional and financial abuse.

Carrying the last of our gear in bulging packs, we started our final descent from Fitz Roy in a defeated retreat under the cover of darkness. My partner, Dan, left me in the dust in his eagerness to get off the mountain. My stomach was angry and I had to stop frequently to allow it to empty—not ideal on an exposed, rocky mountainside, but at least no one else was there to witness it. C’est la vie.

About halfway down the steep slope, I met up with Dan. He was wincing in pain and told me he’d fucked up some ligaments in his ankle. He’d rolled it on a rock while trail running down, and now he didn’t know what to do. He was out of weed and desperate for relief. We didn’t have any pain meds with us since those had been carried off in our previous trip down the mountain.

I felt helpless and wished I had something to ease his pain. His pack must have weighed over 75 pounds, overloaded with the rest of the gear we needed to take down. To make matters worse, his stomach was also protesting just like mine. Over five miles remained to get back to the trailhead. Since our rental car had been totaled in a hit-and-run a few days before, we faced an additional long walk on the road back to town.

“Just go ahead of me, okay? I don’t want you to hear my screams as I walk,” he instructed me as he struggled to descend on his injured ankle. It made sense in theory, but didn’t work out since I didn’t want to be on my own in the dark, and I felt compelled to help him as he hobbled along.

We stumbled through the somber forest in the pitch black, sheltered by the trees for the very last time. Hours dragged on, punctuated only by many urgent stops for our exploding stomachs. We were out of food and water, had no extra warm layers, and didn’t have the tent or sleeping equipment—those had all been carried down on our previous trip out. Our careless lack of preparation is unacceptable and shocking to me now when I look back.

I thought briefly about drinking the river water, but without a filter and already experiencing an upset stomach, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. By the time we crossed the river for one final time and limped into the trailhead, utterly spent, it was well after midnight. We collapsed on our packs and both of us broke down into tears, alone in the dark in this remote countryside. I lay on my pack, looking up at the unfamiliar constellations, finding no answers as usual. All I felt was pain, exhaustion, and the stark reality of isolation.

The road was deserted, rendering hitchhiking impossible, and we couldn’t call a taxi from town. We decided to abandon our huge packs and limp to the nearest rural hostel, El Pilar, about a mile down the dirt road.

We were barely functioning at this point due to hunger, dehydration, fatigue, the cold, and whatever stomach bug we had caught. I cursed myself for not bringing another jacket, and tortured myself with thoughts of curling up in the tent we didn’t have with us. Dan struggled with his ankle, my hip was throbbing, and both of us were on the brink of passing out. We walked the mile in a foggy half-consciousness.

In a delirium, we reached the hostel, a modest, isolated outpost in the countryside. I made the soul-crushing mistake of getting my hopes up before we knocked. No one answered the door of the building, and all of the lights were out. We walked around the hostel grounds, banging on windows and doors, calling out for someone—anyone—to help us as we shivered. In an outbuilding, a woman miraculously answered the door, but shortly after seeing us and exchanging a few words, she waved us off and left us to fend for ourselves. I couldn’t blame her. If two grungy strangers showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, I wouldn’t let them in either. I felt uneasy about trespassing as we circumnavigated the main building, but we were desperate for help. No one heard us, or if they did, they ignored us.

Nada. We were on our own, unable to limp additional hours back to El Chaltén, over nine miles away. There were two front doors of the main hostel—one to the outside, then a tiny entryway, and then the door to get inside the building. The first door was unlocked, so we had a small area partially sheltered from the wind, but unheated. The second door was locked, so we couldn’t get into the actual building.

Dan decided to pull the thread-thin curtains off the windows as insulation against the ground, but it didn’t do much of anything. They were thin as doilies. We spread out these meager white curtains with their intricate lacy texture, and huddled together on the rough concrete. It was bitterly cold. With no insulation, I shivered and rubbed my limbs. I hunkered down on my side, the hard floor unforgiving on my sick, aching body. My throat felt raw from the lack of water and the intermittent crying.

Being out of food and water, and so physically fatigued, added to the difficulties. The ground stole all of our remaining heat, and we each had just the one unsubstantial layer we’d been wearing on the hike. I begged for the sweet relief of sleep, but it eluded me. Suffering and exhaustion overcame me. I stopped shivering and made no further effort to keep myself warm. I was too spent to actively prevent the mild hypothermia from setting in as the ground stole any heat.

Time passed in a sluggish haze as my brain became confused and I found myself unable to properly talk or move. I felt like I was in a dreamlike, frigid state wading through quicksand, as if the world had become too heavy and too tired. I gave up and succumbed to the cold, drifting off into the metaphorical quicksand for a few hours.

At some point, Dan must have observed how desperately cold I was in my meager hiking outfit, freezing there on the ground next to him. He left the small entryway and quested off into the night to gather some branches and make a fire. He returned and forced me to get up, helping me to my feet like I was drunk. We limped outside, and huddled in thorn bushes around the tiny flames. We passed the rest of the night half-lying in the bushes, trying to scavenge enough fuel from nearby plants to keep the tiny fire going. I watched the fire in a trance, rotating over time so different parts of my body could warm up slightly in turn, but my core temperature never seemed to increase. The fire was too small. The haze and quicksand-feeling pressed in on me as the cold settled deep within me. Never fully sleeping, never alert, just sick and hollow.

The sun finally dawned after the coldest night of my life. Sunrise lit up Fitz Roy in a magical display of coral and crimson. We knocked again on the front door of the hostel, and this time, an employee answered and ushered us inside. He let us sit on the couch by a fireplace even though we were totally filthy and had no money to offer him. I wondered if any other climbers had ever shown up on the doorstep here with the hope of warmth and water, but then realized that was unlikely—we were idiots for not having a tent and layers with us. The couch and warmth felt luxurious after lying on cold concrete and then dirt. He gave us tea, and I expressed my gratitude as the warm water graced my throat. Dan and I must have looked horrendous.

We waited there, exhausted, ready to go back to El Chaltén to lick our wounds. It was still early in the morning, but as soon as businesses started to open, the hostel called a taxi for us. An hour passed, we were picked up, driven back up to the trailhead to retrieve our packs, and then dropped off in town.

We reserved a final hostel in El Chaltén, and bought bus tickets to El Calafate for the next day. Zombified, we sat at a cafe on our laptops and looked at weather reports and the drone footage from the previous night. Dan bought us coffees, and then he made a post on Instagram with this caption:

I failed on Fitz Roy. Two years in a row I failed on Fitz Roy. The pain. The sense of loss. The anger. The amount of times I’ve screamed FUCK into 70 mph winds that just didn’t give a shit. I can’t express the hurt. It sounds ridiculous. But we gave up everything for this, and we lost. Traveling is so hard. Dragging hundreds of pounds of gear down a mountain you’ve walked 7 times in two weeks. Watching the weather smile at you leaving. Fitz’s middle-finger. There’s no way to convey the sense of shame, failure, and honest depression. Last night we dropped our packs at Rio Electrico around 1:00 AM. No movement in my right ankle, I hobble another mile and a half with my right arm around Fallon for support. We finally arrive, but there’s nobody awake at Pilar to take us to El Chaltén. Another three hour walk. So I build us a fire. We’d hoped for wine, and maybe a consolatory meal. Instead we shiver and moan and bitch at the night to turn to day. They say a watched pot never boils. But I watched one of the most desperate nights of my life… every second of it… turn to day. As it always has, and, as I trust it always will. Words can’t share the sense of loss we feel. But we’ve cut our losses, and we’re moving north for better weather. Hope all is well back home.

He was bummed about our failure on Fitz Roy, like he’d expressed in his social media post, but it seemed like his mania was providing him with ample distractions to ignore what had happened. I was worried about what would come next for us, but grateful to be off the mountain and alive, with all my gear back.

I resigned myself to go along with Dan since I had no money, and felt like I was out of options and energy. Surviving meant indulging his every desire and decision.

That evening, Dan and I discussed what to do next. He was out of weed and prescriptions, and wanted to go north to climb. Since I had no money left, I wanted to completely throw in the towel and go home.

“No, Fallon, we lugged all that big wall shit down here for Cochamó and Frey. I bet the weather will be better up north in Bariloche. Let’s buy our flights.”

I explained to him that my new credit card needed to stay empty for the eventual flight back to the States, and that I had nothing left for the flight to Bariloche. We had a serious talk about money, and I had to defend my situation. I’d only had a month to prepare for the trip, had to buy a passport and loads of gear, had put the original flight on my other credit card, and hadn’t had enough time to work and save up for this. He’d been the one urging me to come down here with him on such short notice.

He reluctantly agreed to help me if I could meet certain conditions, like supporting his climbing goals, and he chastised me about my financial situation. There was nothing I could do, and we both knew that. I was cornered, and despite feeling enraged and worried, I had to placate him. He had the money, and therefore all the power too. He said we could get jobs teaching English in Bariloche to make some money. Dan begrudgingly bought both our flights. We walked around a street market in the endless search for weed, and he had no success.

In the morning, before I got up, Dan made another social media post:

Grateful for this girl that follows me up and down glaciers. It must be nearly impossible to put up with me. Honestly, I know it’s impossible. By now, I know myself. I’m hard to date. I ask too much of people; I wear them down. She literally bleeds from both hands and knees, following or finishing my leads. Climbing with Fallon, I push myself to the point of tears. I look behind me, to make sure she’s alright, and she’s smiling. I ask her to learn a second language, and now she speaks it better than I do. Then, after a long day out, she’s everything else I need. Beautiful. Curls. Lashes. Eyes. Like… Disney princess. Lady…. With this tramp. I’m often irritable, moody, and, at my best, (let’s get real) I can be kind of obnoxious. Like lemme tell you EVERYTHING I know and EVERYTHING I don’t. I’m passionate but then melancholic. Manic-depressive. She listens, with patience far beyond me. She inspires me. Some of my most beautiful thoughts were only thought because she was loving enough to listen. And then she sits with me in silence when I’m tortured by my thoughts. I’m amazed to have found someone so patient with me; so forgiving of my many shortcomings; so understanding of my disorder. I don’t use that word lightly. Perhaps, it’s time I opened up about bipolar disorder. If anything, so I can remind myself… to be better toward those of you who’ve found it in your hearts to love me, despite my countless flaws. No girl’s ever treated me this well. I’ve learned that my time with people often burns like a fuse, but… Fallon’s been something of a candle. This post is yours babe. I love you. You’ve actually seen me at my worst. You know that; I know that. But the best is yet to come. Thank you for roping up with this wreckage of a soloist, and for reminding me that two climb way harder than one. At your service, hun. Wake up. Let’s get a drink.

I was surprised by his change of tone after he’d berated me the day before. I guessed he was finally acknowledging self-awareness of his behavior and habits, and the words gave me hope: for him, for me, for us. I also wondered if the post was just for appearances, or if it was genuine. Maybe a mix of both. Either way, it didn’t make a difference in my current situation. Before we knew it, we were shoving our carry-on bags into the overhead bin of a tiny plane to San Carlos de Bariloche, saying goodbye to the southern part of Patagonia for the last time.

Excerpted from Fallon Rowe’s debut novel, Pay No Mind: A Memoir of Climbing, Abuse, and Survival © 2025 Di Angelo Publications. Reprinted with permission. Pay No Mind is available for pre-order at https://www.diangelopublications.com/shop/p/pay-no-mind until release on November 25, 2025.