A week has passed since my return from Patagonia and I am no less overwhelmed than when I first flew into the barren, pink mist at the end of the world. The four hour flight crossed volcanoes, endless blue lakes, snow dusted tundra and silver glaciers. When Jill and I arrived to Puerto Natales, (the gateway to National Park Torres del Paine), it was a cold and blustery day. Not a good premonition for the weather to come.
We spent a warm, but dodgy evening in a family-run hostel there. Lumpy stuffed bobcats, rotting armadillos and fake braided hair adorned the halls and bathrooms. When our drafty van arrived at 7 am the next morning, I can't say I was disappointed to leave... three frigid hours later, our van dropped us at the ranger station to begin the trip. It was there we discovered that the park closed the next day, shutting down access to refugios (warm delightful huts that prevent hypothermia for insane winter trekkers like ourselves), and ensuring we would not be seeing anyone on the trail. Let it not be forgotten that violent winds were picking up in the valley and a blizzard had just begun on the mountain.
It was in that fateful moment that we happened upon the boatmen's cabin on Lago Pehoe. As we waited for the passenger boat to transport us across the lake where the trail began, we followed the thin snake of smoke to the doorway of the tiny house. The Chilean boatmen and van drivers were warming themselves inside, and invited us to join them. They offered us a free night's stay so we could begin the trail the following day, hopefully with improved weather conditions. A steaming loaf of bread sealed the deal, and we signed up for 24 hours of Southern Chilean hospitality.
It was a special crowd, to be sure. Three boatmen (ages 30 - late 40s) and a lanky 18-year-old house slave named "Flaco." We drank instant coffee, listened to cumbia, drank pisco sours beneath the light of a homemade disco ball hanging from the rafters, and coddled the house pet (a wild skunk who ate her own bowl of chicken soup) until noon the following day. We caught the last boat ride of the season to the trailhead and began the trek. It was just me and Wehn, two gringas deemed locas by our Santiaguino friends and merely entretenidas by our newly aquired Torres boatmen. Given the lack of daylight (it's pitch black until 8 am and the sun sets at 5:30 pm), we essentially ran through the park to reach camp before nightfall.
The aftermath of the snowstorm made for a striking and eerily lonely hike. No one was on the trail. The goal was to camp beneth the sharp "cuernos" (the defining glacial peaks of Torres del Paine). Matted underbrush, tinged by the cold breath of fall, gave way to heavy snowfall upon steep mountain faces, which eventually poured into the green lake that marked our campsite. In the four hour race against the sun, we made it to the frozen base camp. Condors loomed above the clearing, swooping behind the saddle of the cuernos and reminding us that we were quite alone on this sacred ground. Fortunately, the last stragglers at the refugio welcomed us to cook our instant rice inside and we dried our socks and jackets before returning to what may have been the coldest night of my life. My mama's advice to bring whiskey seemed wise, indeed.
Accordingly, we shaved a few nights from our five day plan, and hustled through the remainder of the park. We arrived to the final outpost, "Torres," supremely chilled and ready to receive the warmth of civilization. We decided to change the original plan and spend a day each in Puerto Natales, the tiny seaside town at the foot of the Andes, and Punta Arenas, the bustling capital of the south. Perhaps my favorite "urban" experience was at the shores of Natales, where flocks of flamingos (yes, the enormous pink, gangly legged birds) grazed the glacial sea. Very few penguins remained, as we had apparently arrived exactly when the last birds plunge into the ocean to migrate north. Those languid days were spent wandering the quiet streets, followed by packs of stray dogs and contemplating our symbolic journey to the fringes of the continent.
Quite nostalgically, I found my way home to Santiago. Perhaps it took traveling to the far reaches of the world to realize it, but I have found my place here. I felt grateful to dive back into that blanket of smog, cradled by the stagnant heat of the valley. Santiago, its desperate micro buses, intrepid street performers and crumbling colonial walls, tasted glorious to me.
