Torres del Paine Hiking Circuit, Days 6 & 7 (Paine Grande)

Remarkably, we woke up the next morning to sunshine and warmth. Instantly, our spirits soared. The trail took us inland, away from Glacier Grey and into dryer terrain. Spring was in full bloom in the park, and everywhere, the scenes were lush with blossoming trees and blooming flowers.

Almost the entire way, the trail took us along a cliff's edge, bordering the lake that lay below Glacier Grey. When we looked back over our shoulders, we'd get our final glimpses of the glacier glistening behind us.

In front of us, grasslands stretched out once again towards a horizon of snow-peaked mountains. In every direction, the scenery was just stunning.

As we finally approached the campground Paine Grande, we saw that it was situated on the edge of the bright blue Lago Pehoe, that lay nestled in the grasslands like a shining jewel. We instantly knew we'd like this place.

The walk from Camp Grey to Camp Paine Grande should have been a relatively easy one - and yet, Delta and I found ourselves exhausted by the time we reached camp. It dawned on us that the cumulative exhaustion and tension of the past few days was catching up with us, and we needed some rest. Delta's foot and swollen to the worrying size of a pomegranate, and my bunion was none to happy with the state of affairs.

We were two days ahead of schedule in any case, because we'd left buffer days incase of bad weather that we hadn't used yet. So we decided to take a day off and just take things easy. The next day turned out to sunny and bright, and we spent the day lazily lounging about our campsite, focusing on doing nothing at all.

It was the best decision we made all hike, and replenished us with renewed strength and enthusiasm for the rest of the trip.

Torres del Paine Hiking Circuit, Days 8 & 9 (Britannico and Cuernos)

Delta and I started the following Day feeling rejuvenated from our revered day off. The evening before, with a taste for "civilization", we'd spent the evening at the refugio bar dining over a bottle of wine. As we stumbled back to our tents in the dark that night, we suddenly noticed a streak of brightness across the sky.

"Delta, what is that?!" I'd gasped. "Clouds?!"

Turns out, they were the southern lights (aurora australis). Yes - I finally saw the polar lights I've always wanted to see. Streaking across the sky with it's luminiscent, dazzling beauty. We stood gazing at it for a while, before the wintry chill forced us to shuffle silently into the tent. Two hours later, when I crawled back out for my nightly pee-shesh, they were already gone, as though we'd imagined it all.

So the morning of the 12th, we woke up with rested legs, re-energized, and filled with a joie de vivre brought on by the aurora australis. It was a bright and sunny day, a perfect kind of day to visit the glorious Valle Frances. After two days in the relatively more touristy Paine Grande, we were already raring to lose the crowds and return to the solitude of the more remote regions of the park. So we decided to eschew the larger campgrounds and decide to camp instead at the tiny Camp Britannico right at the top of the mountain.

As soon as we entered the Valle Frances, the trail started climbing steeply up the mountains. There were large stretches of rock scrambles that had us hopping precariously from boulder to boulder. Most people do the Valle trail as a day hike, and as we passed others on the trail, I envied them their lightness of foot for not being lumbered with packs.

But we weren't pressed for time, and could afford frequent breaks to quench our thirsts and absorbe the stunning views.

We had just rounded a corner of the mountainside when suddenly we heard a loud roar that resonated across the valley. We'd barely had a second to look at eachother in fright when we saw the source. A rush of wind coming down the valley had collided with a jutting out section of the mountain and turned into a little tornado. It was less than thirty feet high, but spun all around with a ferocious speed, ricocheting off the walls of the valley, and hurling dust and rocks in all directions.

"GET DOWN!!" Delta screamed, and we both threw ourselves to the ground and covered our heads with our hands just in time to have the little tornado pass over our heads. We lay there like that for a few moments, just catching our breaths, and waiting to see if there was more. But it slowly started to quiet down. From the corner of my eye, I could see the tornado go past us further down the valley, bouncing off the walls leaving a showering of dust and rocks in its wake.

Cautiously, we picked ourselves off the ground, weak with the passage of exhilaration and adrenaline. The world around us had settled down, as though nothing had happened. So there was naught to be done but to continue to pick our way up the valley, ears pricked intently for any sounds of further dangers.

By the time we finally reached the top, it was getting late in the day, and the last rays of sunset lit up the magnificent Cuernos. We stood there, gazing in awe at the breathtaking volcanic mountains, feeling rather diminutive in their imposing presence. The clouds swirled powerfully around the mountain peaks, as a constant reminder of the feral power that surrounded us.

Camp Britannico was a tiny flat ground set in a dense outcropping of woods just below the peaks. Delta and I were the only campers there, everyone else having decided it wasn't worth the effort to lug their backpacks up the mountain. Just like we'd wanted, we had successfully lost the crowds.

So we set up camp under the gaze of the mountain peaks, filled our water in the nearby stream, and lavished in the solitude of the surrounding mountains. It was the most beautiful campsite we'd had on the entire circuit, and here we were, having it all to ourselves. At that moment, right there, I felt like I couldn't ask for anything more in my life. It was just absolutely, quintessentially, perfect.

We got an early start to our day the next morning, and after a fortifying breakfast, we packed up and said a said goodbye to our perfect camp spot. The journey back down the mountain took unsurprisingly far less time than it's upwards counter-part, and by lunchtime we were already back out of the Valle Frances and well on our way to Cuernos.

The hike was a fairly easy one, although it involved a couple rock scrambles that my feet then punished me for later. There were a few small rivers that required fording however, which were probably fairly small streams as a norm but which had doubled in size and force with the meltwater of the previous two hot days. Suddenly, the streams started posing a hurdle to reckon with. A couple times, we had to walk up and down the river for a while, trying to find a suitable crossing points. At other points, we had to just bite our lips in tenacity and rock to rock in a more precarious crossing than we would have otherwise preferred. But all in all, we were lucky enough to get across without incident and relatively unscathed.

As we approached Camp Cuernos, the wind started picking up again and whipped around at a ferocious fifty miles an hour. Several times, we were thrown off balance and had to steady ourselves with our poles to keep from being swept over. The lake right by the campground seemed to have a layer of mist hanging over it, which we soon realised was just a film of water that the wind was whipping up right off the surface of the lake. It moved in waves towards the land in approaching walls of water rushing through the air. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before, as with almost every other phenomenon of nature in the park.

When we went to set up our tent, we noticed several torn ropes and fragments of fabric from previous tents, in instances where the wind had just ripped poles or ropes right off the tent. Quite nervous about losing our tent too to this ferocious gale, we started collecting all the largest boulders we could find. Every available corner or stake in the tent we then bolstered with the largest rocks around. When we were done, we took a step back to sit and admire our art. Here, before us, was the most arduously and securely staked tent you would ever find. And, I'm proud to say, our efforts paid off. Despite all odds, our little two-person tent survived the feral Patagonian night.

Torres del Paine Hiking Circuit, Days 10-12 (the Torres)

We were now in the final stages of the circuit, our packs were decidedly lighter, and there was something of a jump in our gait. The section of the hike from Cuernos to Camping Las Torres was a relatively easy one, and the terrain being somewhat flat and steady, we were afforded the ability to actually look all around us as we walked, rather than just at our feet. For the last several miles, the trail took us through wind-swept flatlands with a rather barren, desert-like appearance, different from any other part of the park we'd encountered till then. The wind swirled in all directions like a mischievous nymph, whipping dramatic shapes in the cloudy expance of sky all around us. All we had to do was watch in open-mouthed awe, at this celestial theatre orchestrating itself before us.


We camped at Camping Las Torres for the night, close to the entrance of the park, revelling in the hot showers and warm refugio meal to line our starved stomachs. A relatively restful day in the scheme of things, but we had still to climb up to the Torres the next morning. Similar to what we'd done in the Valle Frances, our plan was to carry our backpacks up the mountain and camp at Campamento Torres, right by the peaks, to try and catch a sunrise glimpse of the towers in all their glory.

But the next morning, we woke up to a rainy, stormy day. All around us, the world was enshrouded in heavy, ominous cloud cover that hung low in the mountains. I took a single glance out of my tent that morning, saw the steady downpour, and just crawled right back into my sleeping bag with a heavy sigh. I was tired of the rain. Tired of being wet and cold and shivering. Tired of trying to pack the tent hurriedly while trying to keep it dry in a downpour. So we hunkered down in our sleeping bags for another couple lazy hours, trying to will the rain to go away.

By late morning, it still hadn't stopped, but it had abated significantly, and we decided it was time to get going. Luckily, pretty much as soon as we hit the trail, the rain stopped entirely, making for a far more enjoyable trek. The trail followed a steep incline up the mountain side. Although it had none of the treacherous boulders or rivers of the previous days, it tested our mettle by its dogged consistentcy. It was like walking on a treadmill at a 30% incline. For four hours. With a 30-lb backpack. Yes, enjoyable, really, I promise.

But Delta and I took our time, shuffling slowly up the incline at a leisurely pace. After all, we had nowhere else to be. And from the looks of it, our camp was right at the top of the mountain, enshrouded in the dense, rainy, thunderclouds above us. So we had no real incentive to hurry. Our only constraint was our pride. We would not let little women in their sixties overtake us. If we felt at risk of being overtaken by a kindly old lady motoring up the mountain trail, with tacit unspoken agreement we'd both increase our pace to ward them off. Sometimes, after two weeks without decent meals or shelter, your pride is all you have left. And you can get quite ferocious in how you protect it.

When we reached Camp Chileno, about halfway to our destination, the storm was brewing again, and the wind had started gusting wildly down the ravine. Several times, the trail had taken us around the edge of the mountain with a sharp unprotected drop into the ravine below, and I was none-too-eager to face something like that in steadily strengthening gusts. So we pulled over into the refugio for a cup of coffee and to wait out the storm. We ended up staying there all afternoon, warm and cosy in the refugio as the winds and rain swirled thunderously around us. We pulled out a pack of cards and played gin to keep ourselves entertained, but around 4pm, Delta abruptly stood up.
"We have to get going" he said, and started heading out. He pretended it was because the rain had died, but I have a feeling it had something to do with the way the games had been going in my favour.

Once we got back on the trail, the rest of the hike didn't take us very long, other than an accidental spill I took and twisted my ankle. Sharp pains shot up my leg and I let out an involuntary gasp. I twist my ankle often, but this time it was more serious, and I could feel it. I sat down on the trail for a few minutes, taking my weight off the ankle and feeling it's tenderness. After a few minutes, the worst of the pain had subsided, and we continued onwards. There's naught else to be done but motor on, really, when you're almost all the way up a mountain.

We camped there in the wooded campsite that night, and headed in early. We had a 4am start the next morning to try and reach the peaks by sunrise. When our alarm went off the next morning, it was still dark outside. Worse, we could hear the soft patter of snow on the roof of our tent. It was not going to be a clear morning, as we'd hoped. We weren't even sure if we'd see any sunrise light at all. It was so, so tempting to just go back to sleep. But we'd come all this way, and we were going to do the sunrise hike the peaks, whether we liked it or not.

Grudgingly, we hauled ourselves out of the warmth of our sleeping bags, pulled on our jackets and headlamps, and started scrambling up the steep rock face towards the peak. Little reflectors stuck to rocks from time to time guided our way up the mountain in the dark. This last part of the hike was steep and took us almost an hour to get to the top. But when we finally emerged, the timing was just perfect. The sun was just rising, and the sky was filled with the faint glow of pink.

In the end, the clouds didn't lift. When we got to the top, we could barely see the Torres at all. At first, I was crushingly disappointed. I'd had my heart set on a stricking sunrise picture of the Torres. But it soon dawned on me, somehow, that after everything we'd been through, everything we'd seen, it actually really didn't matter at all.

In it's own way, enshrouded in snow as we were, it was a beauty in it's own right. All around us were mountain peaks, covered in a soft dusting of snow. A beautiful, complete silence resonated across the peaks and valleys around us. We, too, were silenced - by our awe, of the breathtaking beauty around us.

It was bitingly cold, and we stayed up there by the Torres as long as we could bear. But it soon became clear that the clouds were not going to lift, and we decided to head back down the trail to the bottom. As always, the way down was significantly faster, and it was barely an hour before we were by Camp Chileno again. I paused to take a picture of the lovely refugio, nestled there in it's little valley.

When we reached Camping Las Torres again at the foot of the mountains, we set up our tent for the last time. We could hardly believe it, but we were done. We'd finished the entire circuit, and here we were, with a whole day to spare. All we needed to do was wait for our bus the next afternoon - and what a lovely place to pass a leisurely day.

All we wanted to do was rest. We crawled into our tents for a lazy nap that afternoon, to be followed by a leisurely dinner over a bottle of wine later that evening.

My twisted ankle was the size of a melon, but none of it seemed to matter. The relief was tangible. We were done. No more hiking, no more taking apart and setting up the tent, no more cold showers in glacial water. Now, it was just time to rest and feed. And that's exactly what we did, for a day. Just rest, and feed.

The afternoon of the 16th arrived far too quickly, just as we were settling into our life of leisure. All of a sudden, it was time for us to pack up for the last time, and to take our leave. Images of everything we'd seen were still raw in my memory, and flashed through my mind in rapid, unsequential, bursts.

As much as I craved the comfort of a real bed (and pizza!), I felt my heart sink at the thought of leaving the park. It truly is a magical place, pristine in its perfection, majestic in it's splendour. As we boarded the bus that would take us back to El Calafate, we turned back to the park to get one last glance, to capture one last memory, just for ourselves.

After almost a year of planning, our Torres del Paine adventure was over at last.

It's time

After two months of silence and restraint, it's time to break out the blog again.

It's time to interlock my fingers (aka typing weapons) and give them a good stretch; it's time to shake the cobwebs from my literary mind.

"Why da two months of silence, yo", I hear you ask. If truth be told, the answer is neither riveting nor in the least amusing. It's just work, plain and simple. As an HR bod, the end-of year processes are to me what February must be to an accountant. To put it plainly, it sucks. To put it more articulately, it's a moratorium on life.

And so, now, we find ourselves at the end of the year, with a bit of time on our hands and a fair share of making up to do. Don't worry - I won't talk about all those hours of work.

Having shaken off the last chains of my occupational bondage, Delta and I are about to head out for a three week hiking vacation in Patagonia, where we'll test our mettle against the elements. Finally, with exciting times facing us ahead, there' something to blog about again. It's time.

Welcome Baby G

Dear Baby G,

Welcome to our world! It ain't the most glorious, and I wish Second Ave wasn't under construction, but all in all it's not too bad a place to be.

You should know, you surprised us all with your early arrival. Just this past Friday, when we met Mommy and Daddy for dinner, all was still well and normal. Your starting line was still 3 weeks away, and Mommy was still walking around with a bit of a waddle, fondly stroking you in her round little belly as we meandered down the street for icecream after dinner.

And then, all of a sudden, the the characteristic way that babies have of deciding their birthdays for themselves, there you were, when we all least expected it!

Mommy and Daddy are of course, over the moon. And Delta and I are besides ourselves with excitement too. We're going to be your cool aunt and uncle around the corner, it's going to all be a boatload of fun. We've already found the little place we want to take you for painting pottery once you've had a couple years under your belt. And all sorts of other fun stuff, just you see, little fella.

Well, go catch a nap, li'l kiddo, and we'll see you this evening. We can hardly wait!

Love and hugs,
Ficali and Delta

Exhausted, but jubilant

Delta and I had planned on going camping up in the Catskills in early October to catch the initial glimpses of autumn colours. We'd been hoping to persuade some of our friends to come with us, so were particularly enthused when Davis, Simone and the Vish decided to join the bandwagon as well.

I'd never gone camping in the fall chill before, so wasn't quite sure what to expect. But it was simply perfect. The trees were positively jostling eachother for their turns to display their resplendent, fiery foliage. The weather blessed us with bright sunshine, and the lingering chill in the air only made us appreciate the blazing fire that much more.

I'd had my heart set on climbing a steep trail we'd never undertaken before, and luckily everyone else seemed pretty happy to comply. But none of us, me included, expected quite the task we had undertaken. Up, and up, and up we went, until several hours into the hike, we finally burst through to the top, and sat at the cliff edge, munching our sandwiches and gazing down in awe at the vast expanse of the autumnal Hudson valley before us.

And then, as Newton pointed out of all things that go up, it was time to go down. Painstakingly, knee-crunchingly, anke-twistingly, unalteringly, down. I must confess, my knees would have been rather more impressed with me if I'd had the ol' preemptive alleve. But all the same, we all made it to the bottom in the end, just in time for the setting sun. Just in time for a quick shower, getting the fire alight, and a glass of wine.

Exhausted, but jubilant. No better feeling in the world.

Help, please

Dear Gawd,

This year, you've presented me with an impossible conundrum.

The truth is, even if I hate to say it myself, you gave me the looks of a cherub. I have Ficali and Delta wrapped around my finger, just like you taught me. Every time I'm a bit bored, all I have to do is lie on my back and profer my belly, and both Ficali and Delta rush over to pet me. When I want to be picked up cuddled, I just rub myself against their legs, and they can't help but oblige. It's not their fault, that's just how cute I am.

But did you have to also make Ficali allergic to cats? Does she have to sneeze everytime she picks me up? It really is rather disconcerting. Yesterday evening, she spent a cumulative 4 hours just racked by a series of sneezes and nose-blowing antics. Really, quite the buzzkill when all I want is a quick cuddle and a snooze. This whole allergy business is quite cramping my style.

So, Gawd, I'm asking you to help. Can you please get rid of Ficali's allergies, they are intruding upon my life of pettings and hugs, a life I believe I'm entitled to.

Thank you, and sincerely awaiting your response.
Anxiously,
Queen Jaffa

Pedalling for a cause

Oh, crikey. Delta and I left our home at 6.30 am this Sunday for the MS Bike Ride, and it hit us like a crashing mass of icycles that all of a sudden, winter has arrived.

Without fair warning or the necessary preamble we fondly term autumn, Winter just decided to pay us a visit of it's own volition. Delta and I, shivering uncontrollably as we waited for the ride to start, found ourselves woefully unprepared for this icy onslaught.

Rather unfair, need I mention?

In any case, once the ride started, I pedalled with unrivaled furiosity just to warm up the ol' corpus sanctum. Inevitably of course, all the crazy pedalling came to naught because of a mischievously gusty head wind that kept the entire crowd treading in place for large parts of the ride. Rather comic, when you think about it. Less so when you're actually the poor sod freezing your butt off.

But all the same, as in every year, we did make it to the end in good time after all, and our first thought on making it was, "oh, that wasn't that bad after all!". So to those of you who supported us by donating towards fighting multiple sclerosis - thank you. We're proud to do this every year, and couldn't do it without you.

Autumn summons our biking limits

Every year, Delta and I participate in an arduous, hilly, soul-bludgeoning, day-long bike ride in the Jersey Higlands. I have no explanation for why we do this, other than our own gluttony for punishment. For I cant, in good conscience, call four hours of uphill biking "enjoyable".

And yet, it's one of our most looked-forward to events all year. This year, just like previous years, I almost started crying right at Mile 50. I was gazing up at (yet) another long uphill looming in front of me, and my legs started screaming out, help, get us away from this crazy woman! But we lumbered on, Delta, my mutinous legs, and me. Up, and up, and up. Crying and swearing under my breath the entire way.

But eventually, just like every year, we made it. Suddenly, just as we reached the end of our tether, we turned the corner, and there we were, right at the finish line. Instantly, we were filled with an incomparable euphoria, mingled with relief, and a sort of pride at what we'd achieved. It wasn't quite solving cancer or world peace, but we'd pushed ourselves to our limits, and there's always something to be said for that.

The bike ride was, of course, inevitably followed by a lot of sitting around on the couch with our feet up on the coffee table. An exercise not to be scoffed at in its own right. But not for long: for tomorrow, we embark again on another bike ride, this time fifty miles around NYC. This time, to raise money for Multiple Sclerosis (it's not too late to donate).

Again, I have no doubt it'll be a day of panting and puffing and swearing and gruffing. But I wouldn't have it any other way. For autumn is our time for pushing our biking limits.

Got kayaking out of my system, thank you

For several years now, I'd had my mind set on going kayaking. "Let's go kayaking up in the Boundary Waters!" I'd tell Delta. Or "let's go kayaking up in the Adirondacks!". So when we finally went to visit Rohinton and Jeet in Bermuda a couple weeks ago, I was determined to not let this kayaking opportunity slip through my fingers.

That Saturday in Bermuda dawned on a beautiful day, golden skies stretching generously over bright blue seas. "Let's go kayaking, let's go kayaking!" I insisted, until Rohinton drove us down to a little cove where we could rent kayaks. Once we'd gotten in, Rohinton pointed out to a little distant island on the horizon.

"Let's go out there, there's a small deserted beach on the back that we can lounge at for a while, before we start paddling back." It looked idyllic. The sea was smooth and a bright turquoise, a cool breeze gently caressed at our backs as we started paddling towards the island, barely a dot in the distance. I couldn't think of a more perfect way to spend a day. This was exactly what my kayaking dream had looked like.

The paddling seemed fairly easy going, and before too long, we were half way across the bay already. But then all of a sudden, just when we were about half way across the bay, a freak storm started blowing in. The sky suddenly darkened, blotted out by rolling thunderclouds. The sea suddenly jolted out of it's pristine blue calm, and large, rough waves started battering against our kayaks. The currents picked up, pushing us in the wrong direction: away from home, away from the island.

Rough waves rocked our kayaks dangerously. I cast around for nearby land, but in any direction, it seemed very very far away. I started panicking. All those years I'd been whinging and whining about going kayaking, I'd never really intended to die this way. Delta, seeing us start to panic, shouted loudly over the wind and waves. "Just keep low and keep paddling! Head towards the island, hopefully we'll find shelter there!"

It seemed an impossible task. The rough waves, the gusty wind, the darkening sky and murky ocean all seemed to be closing in on us. My adrenaline was pumping and hearth pounding, as each wave brought with it the renewed possibility of capsize. But we kept our eyes on the little island, kept our mouths closed against the waves crashing on our faces, and just kept paddling doggedly on. Our kayaks swayed and were pushed off course, but eventually, in a roundabout manner like a drunken swagger, we eventually drew close to the island.

"Let's paddle past that outcrop of rocks," Delta shouted, "and we'll be able to shelter from the current there!"

We paddled around the rocks, and huddling in the shelter of the outcrop, and spent a moment gathering ourselves and just marveling in our survival. Now here, clinging to the rocks for safety, we knew we could shelter until the storm blew over. For the first time since the storm started, we knew we'd be safe.

With nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass, we pulled our kayaks onto the rocks, and dove into the ocean for a swim. The waves were still high, but sheltered here in this little cove, it didn't seem dangerous anymore. And so there we stayed, playing in the relatively shallow water of the ocean cove, revelling in our safety and alive-ness, until eventually, about an hour later, the storm finally blew over. Instantly, just as suddenly as they had arrived, the thunderclouds blew swiftly past. The sky cleared up, the waves flattened out, and the ocean returned once again to it's characteristic turquoise shine.

It was almost as though we had imagined the whole thing, as though perhaps nothing had happened all morning. But as we got back into our kayaks to start the journey back home, we felt the strong currents still pushing our kayaks back, and it brought home how real the whole thing had been. Have you ever tried kayaking against a current? Needless to say, there was a lot of treading water without much actual progress. A seemingly endless treadmill of water. And everytime I paused to rest, the current would push my kayak back 15 feet again.

"Keep paddling!" Delta would urge encouragingly. But that's easier said when you don't have toothpicks for arms, mister. Still - there was no choice but to keep persevering, futile though it seemed. And finally - finally - we drew close to home again, and I gazed at the approaching shoreline with a mixture of exhaustion, gratitude and relief.

Needless to say, spectacular though it was, and grateful though I am for the day, I've got kayaking sufficiently out of my system for now, thank you.