It was as a teenager that my interest in Patagonia was first piqued. It’s ethereal landscapes and inhospitable terrain, dinosaur discoveries, lawless frontier life and vast emptiness. It seemed to define what wild really meant to me. Finally getting to Patagonia was the nucleus of an idea around which my wider trip has condensed.
Patagonia is vast, and technically I was mostly only in Torres del Paine, in Chile, which is just one national park within a significantly larger region that covers both Chile and Argentina.
With an eye on keeping my bag as light as possible for the rest of the trip, I did it with support. And in a group. To those who know me well, it won’t surprise you to learn that I booked this late, and with a cursory glance over the finer details. It’s the O and W routes, that’s all that I really needed to know.
Saturday 20th of January
I spend the morning drifting around Puerto Natalas searching for a coffee. Study boots, thick plaid shirts and bright shells make up the uniform of the Western traveller – you can’t miss us. I notice a Chemex in one of the windows and head in for what I expect to be my last decent coffee for days. A couple are sitting in the corner. The woman has her back to me, talking loudly in clipped German to a vast man, who’s folded himself into a paisley print armchair. He stares at me. He has a face like Ruud van Nistelrooy, but with what appears to be a blonde Yorkshire Terrier proudly draped across his equine nut. The coffee is reasonable.
The group meets at a hostel in the evening – three guides, twelve hikers and four porters. We’re two hours from the park, which we will drive to tomorrow. So, it’s early to bed in the hostel. (I haven’t stayed in a hostel since the Ashes in Australia, 2011, when I promised myself never again. There’s no other option though – I should have read the small print.)
It’s also revealed that we’re to be sharing tents. Again, apparently, this was in the small print.
Sunday 21st of January
After the two-hour drive to the park, which I spend asleep in the back of the minibus, it’s a 22km up and down to see the famous towers. It’s a spectacular view, but busy. The hiking equivalent of queuing at the Louvre to see Venus de Milo – an iconic and breathtaking piece of stonework, but the crowds rather spoil your moment.
And the wind that I encountered in Punta Arenas is as relentless and ubiquitous up here. On the odd occasion that it abates, you can feel the strength of the sun, too – not quite Antipodean, but I’m glad for the factor 50 on my face (thanks for the Christmas present, Ma).
On the way down to our campsite, every half glance at a rock or tree stump appears as a feline face before a second look resets my preconception. I would love to see a Puma, but I’m told the chances are slim. Unless you’re a baby Guanaco.
Astonishingly, Ruud van Nistelrooy is at our campsite – strutting around in tight thermal layers, proudly displaying his Teutonic package. Thankfully, we don’t encounter him again.
I’ve done a fair bit of camping over the years, but this was my first night in a tent in a long time, and sleeping next to a stranger is not something I tend to do unless I’ve had 8 pints on a first date. I usually find social situations draining, especially with people I don’t know. So, to share personal space so consistently across ten days, with no retreat, is far more daunting for me than spending ten days on my own in the wilderness. But sitting with these uncomfortable feelings is part of the process of this trip – going towards that which I find difficult. Luckily for me, my tent partner – David – a young man from Canada, seems far more introverted, so communication is efficiency-based.
Monday 22nd of January
A shorter day’s walk to our second campsite, and mercifully with limited human traffic encountered. We follow the fast-flowing River Paine – the views of the terrain and accompanying flora are stunning. And the wind keeps up its performance.
We arrive at the campsite in the late afternoon, which quickly descends into what turns out to be the nadir of the trip. My hay fever kicks in hard (I have forgotten my antihistamines) just as we walk into mosquito territory, where the campsite has thoughtfully been located. The showers are insect-ridden and the toilets are a warzone. Our tent is situated in direct sunlight, the only way of cooling it to draw pollen-thick air through the vents. I lie there in the furnace: a sweaty, bitten, and irascible mess. Trying to maintain my philosophy, but vividly conscious of the many days ahead.
I decide to soothe myself with a trip to the one space away from the outdoors[1], which has a beer fridge. I sit down to drink my Calafate ale with a sigh of relief. Finally settling into the moment, before being promptly ejected by the campsite staff so they can make dinner. I sit grumpily on a manhole cover outside, with Julia – one of the group, whom I spend most evenings with processing the day’s events – nursing my beer and swatting insects for two hours, waiting to be allowed back in for dinner. The only thing I remember about the meal is the collective incredulity at the slamming down of a tip jar on the table after the meal. No one is in the mood for charity.
My sense of humour teeters on the edge of total collapse, and I take myself to bed for a troubled over-heated night with David and several hundred mosquitos. A dilemma ensues: stay at least partially clothed and in my sleeping bag and severely overheat, but keep bites minimised and maintain some dignity. Or take all clothes off and lie naked on my sleeping bag at the mercy of the insects and give poor David far more of a wild experience than he signed up for.
Tuesday 23rd of January
Sleep is predicably poor, and David seems even quieter than usual. The showers are still infested, and the toilets now resemble a scene from 1914. Our hosts are just as unhospitable over breakfast and the tip jar remains as empty as it was the night before. Everyone seems just a little fucked off.
This will be one of the longest days of the trip, and I’m delighted to be on our way. With the route heading very quickly uphill, and away from the river plain, my hay fever abates. As does – initially – the threat from the mosquitos.
The wind is stronger than at any other point on the trip and it attempts to pick us off the path, claiming several possessions in the process, as well as nearly taking one of our porters[2] back down the mountain. Whilst we all struggle to stay upright, the first condors of the trip appear, as if to take the piss. These huge birds – some of the largest in the world – are entirely at ease. A total mastery of the conditions they face. Not once do I see a single flap of their wings, instead they weave with the fierce, turbulent wind, feeding off the thermal currents to temper their positions.
I watch the Condors disappear over a ridge, before lowering my gaze to consider a rainbow a child might have drawn, across the sky in front of us. This place is ridiculous.
The rest of the route takes us back downhill and to our campsite on the edge of a glacial lake. Surely these icy waters cannot successfully harbour mosquito larvae.
Wednesday 24th of January
During the first 20 minutes of the walk from the campsite, I’m brushing mosquitos off the back of my head in handfuls. But with stoic principles and gallows humour, I have the tools to manage this.
After a long climb, we camp at a place called Los Perros. A rudimentary site not far from the tree line, and at over 1000m the only site with any reasonable elevation. Such is my delight to be free of mosquitos, I go to bed at 8pm. It’s cold, and an all-night thunderstorm ensues. You win some…
Continued in Patagonia – Part 2 of 2
[1] In Italian, hayfever literally translates as ‘allergy to the outdoors’, which caused much mirth on a trip to Italy a few years ago when I was in a similar state.
[2] These guys are brilliant. They carry all the sleeping bags plus 5kgs of other kit per person, as well as all their gear. I feel a sense of guilt for this – I should be doing it and would probably even enjoy it. Some of them appear to run part of the route, which adds to the guilt.
Another Door In the Wall 