A Winter Wonderland

We had barely been back in NYC for a week, when the ticker announcement at the bottom of the telly started blaring blizzard warnings at us.
"Wha....?! Seriously? Blizzard already?!"

 Apparently, yes.

Delta and I were lucky enough to have nowhere to go, so once we'd made sure that the kitchen was stocked with enough food, soup, hot chocolate and movies to weather a snowstorm with the respect it was due, we had naught to do but rush out and play in the snow.

Everywhere, the world around us was blanketed  in deep snowdrifts. A silence presided the city of the type only possible in snowcover.

The city was instantly pristine. The city was instantly transformed. The city was instantly our playground.

Torres del Paine Hiking Circuit, Day 1 (Camp Seron)

Once Delta and I had set our sights on hiking in Torres del Paine national park in Chile, we quickly realized there wasn't too much literature available either online or in books to help us prepare for what it would really be like. We knew it would be breathtakingly beautiful. We knew it would be windy and cold. We knew it would be the single-handedly most challenging experience we had ever put ourselves to. But other than that, the rest remained for us to find out when we got there.

It isn't an easily accessible park. To get there, we flew from NYC -> Atlanta -> Buenos Aires -> El Calafate (Argentina), followed by a six hour bus ride to the park. So when we finally got there, Delta and I were quite ready to stretch our legs and rid ourselves of the planes, trains and automobiles.

Our plan was to spend 10 days hiking the 90 mile hiking circuit around the park. Donned with our 40-lb backpacks that contained our clothes, food, tent and stove that would take us through the next two weeks, we staggered off the bus bowlegged under the weight of our own packing.

I think the best way to describe our first experience of the park would be to say it wipes the cockiness out of a hiker straight away. As soon as we hit the trail the wind whipped around the corner, slapping us in the face. Gusting at 50 miles an hour, it instantly knocked us off balance and kept pushing us off course. It felt like it was going up my noes and out my ears. Then it started raining on and off, a sideways precipitation that whipped around us from all directions. We tried to pull on ponchos, but they caught the wind like sails and once almost blew me away. Twice, I got knocked over and left by the wayside, gasping for air on my posterior. The wind howled around us, making talking impossible. Twice I yelled, "DELTA!!!" to get his attention. But Delta, just two feet in front of me, was already deaf to my shouts. I squeezed my eyes shut against the wind, and they started tearing like leaky faucets. I wasn't sure if it was the wind, or I was just crying.

Delta and I were shell-shocked. We simply didn't know what had hit us. We had certainly expected inclement weather, but nothing had prepared us for this onslaught. And yet, neither of us thought of turning around. It didn't even occur to us. We simply struggled doggedly on, using our poles to brace ourselves against the wind, determined just to reach the campground, where we could get an evening of respite and gather our senses.

It was about 3-4 hours into the hike before our bodies started adapting (if only slightly) to the environment. Gradually, we got better at maintaining our balance. We learnt how to find ditches where we could shelter from the wind, get a spot of rest, and drink some water. We even got comfortable enough to pause and take in some of our stunning surroundings. Don't get me wrong - it wasn't easy, not at all. And my pack weighed down on me like a ton of bricks. Yet, very slowly, I was getting better at learning how to deal with this situation in which we now found ourselves.

It took us more than six hours to get there, struggling against the wind the entire way. I had just reached the end of my tether and was about to just demand that we set up tent right where we were, when we caught sight of the little refugio far out in the distance. I've never seen a heaven as heavenly as the tiny tin roof of that little shack. My heart soared, and my legs got a new lease on life. Excited despite ourselves, we completed the last mile, located the refugio owner and paid our camping fees.

That evening, we had just enough energy in us to set up tent (blew over twice in the wind before some kindly strangers helped us and we finally managed to stake it down), cook ourselves a quick freeze-dried meal, and crawl bone-tired into our sleeping bags. I wouldn't call our first day enjoyable. Not enjoyable in the least. But we had, despite our unpreparedness, survived it, and I fell asleep with a smile of exhausted elation on my face. That night, both Delta and I slumbered the sleep of dead men for a solid twelve hours.

Taken right after one of the times I was knocked over by the wind.

Torres del Paine Hiking Circuit, Days 2 & 3 (Dickson and Los Perros)

We woke up on the second morning feeling immeasurably refreshed. The rain and everywhere the world around us was lit up in golden sunlight, instantly lifting our spirits and optimism. Even the seemingly relentless winds had died down, at least for the moment. It was cold - somewhere in the low 40s - but still I stepped into the tiny tin showerstall for a quick cold-water shower. The glacial water was so cold my eyeballs almost jumped spontaneously out of their sockets when it hit my back. It was like a current of electricity re-energizing my entire body, all the way down to my vestigial little toes.

Basking in the sunshine on a little picnic bench by our tent, we each ate our breakfast greedily: hot oatmeal fortified with nuts and dried fruit. I'd honestly never had anything tastier before in my life. Little red-headed birds, tweeting excitedly to eachother and us, hopped about, eager for anything we might drop. All around us, the world seemed to have come to life. Lingeringly, we finished our breakfast, rolled up our tent, and readied our packs. It was time to hit the trail again.

Our second day, from Seron to Dickson, at 12 miles over mountainous terrain, turned out to be our longest day on the hike. The trail followed along a beautiful river for a while, as it wound it's way lazily across the steppes. But then, just as we settled ourselves into a comfortable pace, the trail started rising sharply up a mountain side. Up the mountain face it went, higher and higher, with switchbacks so steep it made you question the value of having switchbacks at all. It was a gruelling hour - but Delta and I steeled ourselves for it and slowly worked our way towards the top, one foot after the other.

As we gained height, the wind had picked up again, and we found ourselves hunching against the wind and keeping our balance by digging our poled into the dirt. Finally, breathless and with trembling legs, we found ourselves at the top of the mountain pass.

We paused to take a couple of pictures, and were just putting the camera back in it's case when we heard a growing roar. It started as a dull roar in the pits of our stomach, but within a matter of a second or two, and grown into a deafening roar filling the space around us. A gust of wind about 60 miles an hour whooshed at us like an oncoming train. We didn't have time to react or even know what it was. Suddenly, we were pushed to the ground with the wind knocked out of us. The trail itself was only two feet wide. On one side, the mountain rose sharply to it's peak, some 300 feet above us. On the other, a sheer drop down the cliff to the river below, still flowing calmly more than a 1000 feet below. And there on the trail, pawns in this nature-comedy, were Delta and I, smashed up against the rocks and entirely at the wind's mercy. As a matter of sheer luck, the wind was blowing up the mountainside, and pushed us upwards against the rockwall rather than down into the valley below.

"DELTA!!!" I screamed in futility. But there was nothing either of us could do. After about ten minutes like this, pressed between the rushing winds and the rock face, we realized that this was no passing gust. Infact, the mountain pass, squeezed as it was between two talk peaks, created a keyhole that served to funnel the winds and strengthen them even further. We had only two options: we could either sit here forever, pinned to the rocks by the wind, or we could force ourselves to struggle on.

So we got onto our hands and knees and started crawling. Inch, by inch. Trying to pretend there was no sheer drop off just to our right. Inch, by inch. Punctuated by an "OWWW!" each time one of us punctured ourselves on the cactus shrubs all around.

It took us half an hour. Half an hour of pushing against the onslaught of wind, ploughing over us like an oncoming train. It wasn't far, but it seemed an eternity. And then, all of a sudden, just as quickly as it had come, the wind was gone. We had rounded a corner in the mountain, and in a matter of seconds, the wind had receded into a dull roar in the distance. Delta and I collapsed against the wall, catching our breaths and regaining our strength.

"I think it's lunch time!" I gasped, and we pulled out a pack of tuna and some crackers and greedily stuffed our mouths.

The rest of our hike that day was uneventful. Very very long, definitely exhausting, but stunningly, excruciatingly, breathtakingly beautiful. In every direction, a different view stretched out before us with a grandeur to behold.

It was coming up on 8pm when we finally saw Camp Dickson. We came up over a ridge and saw the tiny refugio far below us in the distance. Jubilantly, we sauntered down the cliffside to find ourselves a secure spot to set up camp. The refugio was on an exposed, open promontory stretching out onto a large lake, with a huge water body on one side and a glacier on the other. The wind was whipping the trees around, and this time, it carried in it a chill coming right off the glacier.

But this time, we knew what we were doing. We had learned how to stake our tent before we set it up, and how to find a shelter between two trees in which to light our stove. Exhausted though we were, Delta and I smiled at ourselves in pride. Painfully though it be, we were rising to the challenge of the Patagonian way.

Our third day was always intended to be a relatively easy one. It was a six mile walk to through the forests to the next campground, Camp Los Perros. It was a day of "R&R", to prepare ourselves for Day 4, which would be the hardest day of the hike. The dense forests provided a welcome change from the steppes of the day before, warming the air and protecting us from the fierce winds. Delta and I took our time completing the 6-mile walk, pausing frequently to take in the surrounding scenery.

There was a hush of anticipation and adrenaline in the air. Tomorrow, we would attempt the John Gardner pass, easily the toughest point of the hike. An unspoken silence hung above us. To ourselves, each of us wondered the same question: The trail to date, supposedly the "easier" part, had almost killed us. How in the world would we be able to make the pass? But neither of us voiced our concerns. There was no need to. We both knew that no matter what what, we were forging ahead, and were going to make it happen.

Camp Los Perros, when we reached it, was nestled right at the foothills of the mountain we would climb the next day. The weather had changed instantly to mountain weather: there was a damp chill hanging in the air, and Delta and I (along with the 10 other campers there) shivered as we lit our stoves and cooked our dinner. The campground had a three-sided cooking shelter to offer protection against the wind, and all the campers huddled in there together, looking out at the thickening mountain clouds with a mounting nervousness. In hushed tones, everyone shared whatever information t hey had on weather conditions and the pass traversability. But none of us really had any information. The words just masked a deeper tacit, unspoken meaning: that we were a team, we were in it together and we would look out for each other.

Torres del Paine Hiking Circuit, Day 4 (John Gardner Pass and Camp Paso)

Delta and I woke up early on the 8th, full of anticipation for the challenges of the day ahead. Excitedly, we pulled open our tent screen. And stopped short. Over the night, it had snowed. All around us, the camp was covered in 2-3 inches of snowfall. 2-3 inches doesn't seem so bad itself. But that's 2-3 inches in a campground densely protected by forests. What did that mean for exposed mountain pass above?

Unsure of whether or not we would be able to make our pass traverse today, we headed over to the cooking shelter to speak to the other campers. The refugio owner, who had a radio, which was our only contact to civilization, was trying to get a weather update from the park rangers office. But through the snow and thick cloud cover, the radio just wasn't working. Finally, he gave up and headed over to the eagerly waiting campers.

"Sorry guys," he said in spanish, "I just can't get through. No idea what it's like up there in the mountains. What you could do is just try, and turn around and come back if it's too bad up there."

All of us turned to each other in uncertainty. No one wanted to get caught in a mountain top blizzard. But neither did anyone want to just spend another day here at Perros, waiting restlessly for the weather to clear. Finally, a general consensus emerged. We would attempt tentatively to cross the pass.

By the time Delta and I finished our breakfast, packed up our tent, and were ready to head out, all other campers had already left the camp and we were already running an hour behind.

"Let's hurry, Delta!" I urged, nervous about having to traverse the mountain conditions on our own.

The path rose steeply from the camp, up the thickly forested mountain side. An hour into the hike I was over-heating, and cursing my choice to wear so many layers of clothing. I pulled off my hat and gloves in desperation.

"Put your hat back on," Delta admonished. "If your hair gets wet there's no way to get it dry again." We were both nervous of hypothermia, so I obediently jammed my hat back onto my sweltering head again.

A couple hours into the hike, we suddenly broke out above the forest line onto the bare, exposed, mountain face. Relatively protected by the trees in the forest, we hadn't quite appreciated the extent of the snow. Now on the exposed mountainside, our feet instantly sank knee-deep into the snow. It was snowing heavily and flurries of snow swirled around us, settling everywhere - our hats, shoulder, eyelashes and noses.

Although we were less than an hour behind the previous campers, their trail had already been obfuscated by the wind and snow. The only way for us to to keep track of the trail was to follow the orange trail markers staked periodically into the ground. The snowy air, the snow-covered ground, and the white, cloudy sky all merged into a single backdrop of white, and it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. The snow kept getting heavier and our visibility reduced to less than 40 meters. Sometimes we couldn't even see the next trailmarker, and would have to stop in our tracks and wait for the visibility to clear enough that we could at least find the next stake and determine our direction.

Every year, hikers die losing their way when crossing this pass in stormy weather, and this knowledge was front and center in Delta's mind.

"Do you think we're close to the pass yet?!" I asked Delta.

"We must be," he said reassuringly, "we've been hiking straight uphill for about three hours now."

Good, I was already exhausted.

And just then the trail wound around the corner of the mountain, and for an instant - just an instant - the snow stopped and our visibility cleared. We were staring up the face of the mountain, and as far as the eye could see, the trail just continued up and up and up. Higher and higher, into steep snowy drifts. And in that instance, it hit us. We had barely done a fraction of what we had to do. And the part in front of us was far harder, and the snow far deeper, than anything we had done so far. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the snow started again and the curtain on our sight. All we could see again was the next stake, some 40 feet above us.

"Effin ^%##^ freaking crapping *&&%$$ shit!" I muttered.

Delta didn't say anything. My string of profanities had said it all.

We took nervous gulps of water. Ready? I nodded. And we plunged ahead.

Sometimes, the snow was deeper than we had anticipated, and our leg would sink in past the thigh. Sometimes, one of us would set our foot on an unsteady rock that caused us to trip. Sometimes, our feet would land in water, and we'd realize we were talking on a stream flowing below the surface of the snow. Many, many times, I stumbled and face-planted right into the snow, and had to pick myself up and brush the snow off my cheeks and brow.

Our legs turned into lead. Woodenly, we plodded on, higher and higher. When we reached a point where we couldn't move our legs anymore, we'd pause for a few minutes to catch our breath and have some water.

"Delta, I have to pee."

"You're kidding, right."

I shook my head miserably. So there, behind a rock, amongst the snowdrifts in the middle of a blizzard on top of a mountain, I had to go. Definitely the most daring place yet that I've bared my posterior.

Then suddenly, the wind picked up, creating a snow-storm that started below us but was moving up the mountain side toward us. I stared at it, frozen, pointing impotently.

"Come on! We got to move!" Delta barked. And the urgency in his voice snapped me to attention and fired a renewed bout of adrenaline through my body. Somehow, we found the energy to clamber hurriedly to the top.

We turned a corner and found ourselves in a spot that looked somewhat definitely like the mountain pass. There were also two other figures vaguely discernable through the snow stumbling in the other direction towards us.

When we approached them, "are we at the top?!" we asked them, full of hope.

"I don't know," the other man said, "are we at the top?!"

If we were coming from different directions and both of us wondering the same question, then we had to be. Finally, impossibly, we had reached the top of the pass! We smiled at each other in elation, but the high winds and snow made any more indulgent form of conversation impossible. A quick shaking of hands, and we were off, stumbling blindly down the other side of the pass. Whatever happened, we had to get out of the wind and snow.

The rocky layer under the snow was sharp and treacherous. We stumbled often as we clambered down the mountain side. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we descended into the tree-line again. Instantly, the snow and wind ceased, and we could pause to catch our breath. We took exhausted gulps of water and quickly scarfed down some tuna and cookies - but a break for more than a few minutes was out of question because we instantly started shivering uncontrollably.

Once in the forest, the descent because unaccountably steep. At parts, there were no switchbacks at all, and the trail simply went straight down the mountain side. The mud was slippery and offered no traction, and incredibly, Delta and I found ourselves actually missing the snow. On several occasions, we lost our footing and slipped down 15-20 feet down the mountainside. Twice, Delta took a complete spill where we actually had to stop and see if he'd broken anything. Partly, the ground had become slippery to the point of impassable.

Partly, our legs had just lost their ability to support themselves any longer. But onward and onward the path went, winding it's way through the forest. And just as we were both at the absolute end of our limits, the path suddenly brushed up against the edge of the cliff, and broke out of the tree-cover. And there before us was a site that simply took our breath away.

We were standing on the edge of one of the largest glaciers in the world, Glacier Grey. There, below us, stretching out till the horizon, were mounds of cracking, churning, growing ice. Glacier Grey, the tip of the Southern Ice Field, dwarfing everything around it by it's enormity and grandeur. And there we were, tiny mere mortals on it's very edge, offered a glimpse into the magic of the scene. We stood there for a long time, just absorbing the beauty of what stood before us. Then gradually, silently, we turned around the proceeded the rest of the way to Camp Paso.

When we reached the camp, the other campers had already arrived, and were anxiously waiting our arrival. It was reassuring for Delta and me that someone had been looking out for us. For Gawd knows we needed looking out for!

All of us were wet, cold, bone tired, bust just happy to be alive. One of the campers had started a fire. Campfires are prohibited in the park for risk of forest fires, but on this wet and snowy night, there was no risk of starting a forest fire. We all toasted our hands and feet by the smoky fire for a couple hours, then headed exhaustedly into our tents to collapsed into a relieved slumber, just grateful to be alive.

Torres del Paine Hiking Circuit, Day 5 (Camp Grey)

We had been really hoping for some warmth the next morning so we could dry our clothes and warm the chill in our bones, but such is the way with mountain weather that we woke up the next morning to another day of snow.

All the same, there was little that could dampen our moods. We had completed the hardest part of our trek, and after today, we would gradually start entering the slightly more touristy part of the park, commonly referred to as the "W" on account of the shape of the trail.

With no real reason to dilly dally in this tiny, freezing campground, we quickly hit the trail. Today, all along the entire way, the trail followed along Glacier Grey. It afforded us frequent viewpoints and glimpses of the glacier. Dark clouds had gathered ominously across the sky, occasionally burying us in bursts of snow or rain, but for the most part they had the decency to hold off on the intense precipitation. Not that it would have mattered in any case, Delta and I were in a decidedly elated mood.

The face of the glacier was deceptively tall. The icebergs at the edge of the water, the smallest ones, were the size of Manhattan skyscrapers. The entire glacier was alive - from time to time, it emitted murmerings and rumblings that spoke of movement beneath the surface.

One has to be very lucky to actually see a large chunk of ice break off the glacier, and Delta and I had been hoping for a glimpse of this. We waited by the edge of the glacier for a while, watching for any cracks or movements in the ice.

Nothing.

But as soon as we got up and turned to leave, and there was an enormous clap that filled the air, as loud as a clap of thunder in a desert storm. This was followed by a loud, grinding roar, and we rushed instantly back to the glacier, but we had missed it by a second. The iceberg had already fallen into the water. The plunge created large waves that resonated outwards towards the shoreline of the lake. We watched on, stunned.

We waited for a few more minutes, and were just about to head out once more, when it happened again. A loud clap that caused my heart to jump into my mouth, and suddenly a grinding roar as another hunk of ice dislodged itself from the glacier. It was the size of a Manhattan building, plunging into the water below. The waves created were enormous.

Delta and I watched on, our eyes like saucers. We were just grateful to have had a chance to witness any of it at all.

Then silently, filled with awe, we turned in unison and headed further down the path.

When we reached Camp Grey that night, and set up camp, it instantly started raining again. By this point, Delta and I had been wet, cold and shivering for two days straight, and we just couldn't bear the thought of another evening in the rain. So we headed over the refugio and bought ourselves a hot dinner and a bottle of wine.

The refugios only cook one item for each meal, so you don't have menu options. So we just ordered "dinner", whatever it was. When the food came out to us, it was a large steak. Delta turned to me in concern, since I don't eat red meat.

"How are you going to eat?!" he asked.

I turned to him. "What do you mean?!" I was already half way through devouring the steak.

After being starved and cold and hungry for so long, nothing was going to keep me from a hot meal. Not even red meat.

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.