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.
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.
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.
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