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.
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.
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