Thursday 25th of January
We’ve evolved to forget the pains we face; a romantic perspective of reality purveys when we’re looking through the rearview mirror. I remind myself of this as I’m packing my bag in the torrential rain – don’t do this again. I gambled on this trip and brought ‘water resistant’ gear, so my anxiety at what sort of day I have ahead is a nice addition for me to chew over.
But I know this, and I know how to deal with it. I did Gold Duke of Edinburgh for fucks sake! In North Wales! My old friend Jay and I cemented our lifelong friendship in those sheep-shit-bedraggled, heliophobic lands. And we managed it (mostly) by singing and quoting Blackadder. So, I spend much of the day at the back of the group, wet through, but grinning like a weirdo whilst I dust down our version of Paradise City by Guns & Roses[1], and try to picture the man who cleans out the public toilets in Aberdeen.
Passing the immense Grey Glacier, the rain abates, and the summer Andean sun appears. We arrive at the creatively named Grey Campsite late in the afternoon. We’re onto the W route now, which brings with it more traffic, but better facilities.
I settle down with a beer and watch the cast of characters busying themselves with a long evening’s booze-fuelled entertainment before the mutually dreaded retreat to soggy sleeping conditions.
There is revelry here; if we were ever in the wild, we’re not anymore. This is commercial enterprise with a bar and TVs showing sport.
Friday 26th of January
Rest day. There were plans for glacier hikes and kayaking, but the wind saw to it that they never came to fruition. I spend most of the day drinking coffee, including making an Aeropress for our guides – Andy, Nico and Filipe. All interesting characters to spend the days with, and with the soothing energy and received wisdom that emanates from people who have chosen to pursue a living in nature.
Three young Aussie blokes sit down for their breakfast of pot noodles and IPAs. I check my surprise that they’re on the beers at 10 am and can’t help listening in for a while. ‘We should get to that fuckin’[2] Atacama Desert next, mate’… One of them is called Jakey, which apart from being distracting, brings to mind an old client from my time living in Australia[3]. [If you’re easily offended, do not read this footnote]. They spend a while comparing pictures of the various toilets they’ve encountered in campsites along the way before scooping their beers and heading off. Australian men are some of the most predictable stereotypes on the planet.
I spend much of my communal time on this trip with Sean and Angelique, a married couple, both retired lawyers from the US Army. They have been living a nomadic life around the world for the last 18 months with virtually no possessions other than the ones on their backs. Their relationship is both inspiring to me and challenges my sense of what home can mean, and whether I even need one in a physical sense. I enjoy their company immensely, and Sean and I, in particular, share a mutual appreciation for the cut of one another’s gib. You need your running mates on these kinds of trips, and without Shaun, the colours would have been less vivid.
Saturday 27th of January
It’s a short walk to our penultimate campsite. A spot so wind-beaten that enjoying any social time outdoors is not an option. I do sit down on a secluded picnic bench though and promptly fall asleep with my head in my hands. Sleeping on the ground for a week has finally caught up with me.
I wake groggily from my sedentary nap and settle into curating a playlist of songs I’ve been singing to myself all week. Many of my earliest music memories have surfaced – the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, Led Zeppelin, etc. Music I haven’t listened to in years. The Fool on the Hill particularly resonates.
At dinner, one of our guides, Nico, persuade me to try Mote con Huesillo for dessert.
As you can see, it looks like something Baldrick could have created, so my caution is well considered. To my surprise it’s genuinely good – pearl barley in a delicate, honey-sweetened liquid. A rice pudding-light. I give the giant, mouldy testicle a miss, though.
Sunday 28th of January
The last major day of the trek and the last night of camping ahead. My energy levels are low, as is my ability to observe anything remarkable to share with you. It’s a slow-paced day with pleasant conversation and the kind of bonhomie that emerges as you near the finish of a group endurance.
It’s also a day to remember Alan, who is on my mind as we walk into our final campsite, and I sit down for a few beers in the sun. Ironically, he detested walking.
Monday 29th of January
The final day consists of a short amble to our waiting minibus and to complete the circle of the O route.
The return to Puerto Natales coincides with me finishing Bruce Chatwin’s Patagonia[4]. A brilliant book that encapsulates the essence of this unique place. Except in one regard – the crowds.
Conclusion
“Exploration is not only a physical act but also a journey within oneself, an exploration of the depths of the soul.”
Bruce Chatwin, Patagonia.
I have always found endings, partings – goodbyes – to be hugely difficult. I remember as a child bawling my eyes out when my new friends from whatever holiday we were on that summer were to leave and go home. I knew I would never see them again and I found this hard to accept. Subsequently, as an adult, I have subconciously ignored the solemnity of an ending; tried to move on quickly to avoid the difficult feeling that arises. I’m working on this, so I make a point of saying my goodbyes properly and acknowledging the parting of ways.
One morning on our way out of camp, Sean and I were ambling along, sharing stories, when he turned to say to me in his deep Kentucky accent ‘These things are all about the people; the people make or break this. See [gestures casually to an impossibly bucolic scene], I’ll forget this…. But I won’t forget you.’
I thought I was coming to this place to get away; to be alone and embrace solitude; to clear my mind in the wild. But what I enjoyed the most, was the people. Listening to stories of their own journeys; what they could teach me about myself and the work still to be done – and moments of connection I won’t forget. However hard we might try not to be, we’re all part of the crowd.
Addendum
I’ve had a few messages wondering if I’m ok and enjoyed this trek in any way. In case my writing got a little nihilistic – yes, I’m great, thank you, and fucking loved it!
I made a Patagonia playlist on Spotify, which is saved here if you’re at all interested.
[1] Take me down to the Pontypridd City, where the grass is brown and girls are… [This version hasn’t aged well, but in our defence, we were only 16]…Oh, won’t you please take me home!
[2] Thinking words or noises, most notably ‘errrr’, ‘erm’ or ‘like’, are mostly replaced in Australian English by the word ‘fuckin’’.
[3] I have told this story many times, but have never committed it in writing, so if for nothing other than posterity, here it is.
I lived in Brisbane, Australia for a short time back in 2013. (My friend Chris once compared this part of my life to the time I ran away from home as a child – with teddy bear, toothbrush and self-drawn map to my Grandma’s house – before swiftly returning). Anyway, I was working with an old colleague from banking in London to try and set up a new M&A practice in Queensland, which seemed like a good challenge to me at the time. And until I snapped a metacarpal, I also got to play the best rugby of my life on hard sunbaked pitches with a ‘run it from anywhere’ attitude, which suited me perfectly.
At the bank, we had a client who made cooling systems for high-performance vehicles, which at the time included the preeminent Formula 1 team, Redbull. These guys really knew what they were doing and had a highly profitable business, the owner of which was a tall, middle-aged alpha male called Kees. Think of every Australian stereotype from the 70s or 80s – Thompson, Lillee, Sir Les, Crocodile Dundee etc., and you have an accurate picture in your mind of how this man came across. I liked him, but he was a huge character and impossible to advise. We ran a sell-side process for him and had several private equity funds up from Sydney for due diligence sessions. Kees was already a rich man, but even a partial sale of his business would have made him tens of millions of dollars. Ahead of one of these sessions, I was trying to emphasis the importance of playing down his own personal role in the running of the business ‘they need to believe that this business is a scalable cash machine, Kees, and you being here or not won’t affect that’, I attempted to reason. He smiled ‘yeah I’ve got that, mate, don’t you worry’.
For the first threequarters of the meeting, it went well – all questions were answered on script and his towering ego was under control. Until one question got under his skin. It was something like ‘So, Kees, why is it that there are MIT graduates working in Formula 1 and your business is at the pinnacle of engine cooling technology?’ He bristled and then looked at me and said ‘Earmuffs, Jakey’. Panic started to rise before he was off. ‘See, mate, those fuckin’ English might think we’re a bunch of fuckin’ kangaroos scrabbling around in the fuckin’ dirt, but I know a thing or two about motor racing, let me tell you’. I could detect a slight recoil in the questioner, who turned to his team of analysts before asking his next question. ‘Right… Well, we understand that there is a hypothetical future technology in engine cooling. Is this something you are aware of, or even considered working on?’ I didn’t even bother to interject; I knew his ego was out of the paddock and galloping gleefully. ‘Ah yeah mate, we’ve been talking about that for fuckin’ years! And the other day, right, I said fuck it! Let’s build the cunt. And do you know what…? The fucking cunt worked!’ He slammed his hands down on the table triumphantly to emphasize his last, carefully chosen, point. I don’t remember what happened during the rest of the meeting, other than it was over quickly and they never came back. The process was then wrapped up without a sale. Kees and I did get to have several hundred XXXX Gold together at the State of Origin a few weeks later though, so that was nice for him.
[4] Thank you Chris Burwell and Chris Coltella for the recommendation, and to the former for the book itself.
Another Door In the Wall 