The Cleanest Line


Tango

Tango

By Kelly Cordes   |   Oct 7, 2011 October 7, 2011

by Kelly Cordes

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[Colin Haley walking out from a false start, with the Fitz Roy massif behind. Photo: Kelly Cordes]

Early winter in Estes Park, tourist season finally over and the town asleep, I stood in an empty backroom at a local bar. “Tango,” said Jay, “is the dance of passion. It’s a dramatic cat-and-mouse game – teasing back-and-forth, graceful, seductive.”

It’s so fun being a beginner. My girlfriend and I soaked up our fifth dance lesson.

“There are three main types of Tango,” Jay continued, “International, American, and Argentine.”

Wind rattled the back door. It was December 2007. Maybe getting too cold for the melt-freeze climbs now, I instinctively thought. For the past 14 years I’d devoted myself to ice and alpine climbing, which often involve mediums so fickle and ephemeral that many climbers hate it. The quixotic wake at absurd hours to pursue mere rumors, trudge endlessly with heavy packs following a hunch, and travel 12 time zones away for a potential line they saw on a crinkled photograph. In Argentine Patagonia, passionate climbers wait months on end for just one opening, one chance to go chasing windmills. You have to love the dance.

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[The breathtaking, impromptu Tango performance in the early morning hours at La Chocolateria, January 2007. Photo: Kelly Cordes]

Soon the sturdy old tables disappeared to the perimeter of the room, the music picked up, and if you wanted a beer you had to pull la seniorita de Chocolateria off the dance floor. Around three in the morning a song with pulsing staccato beats came on and the drunks cleared to the sides, all smiling in awe. Out of nowhere a young couple glided across the creaky wooden floorboards in a breathtaking Tango, un-choreographed and perfect, graceful and dramatic, as if they’d done this their whole lives. Flickering lanterns cast shadows across their faces and out the windows into the night, where moonlit clouds darted seductively between towers, swirling back and forth like dancers in a never-ending game of cat-and-mouse, dancing, dancing, dancing.

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