“IN-F**ING-CREDIBLE!,” says Darren, about 23, with long red curly hair
and large tattoos on his bare feet. I met him first on the ferry and we are
both hiking independently but at about the same pace so we cross paths often. His
socks and boots are drying on a nearby rock. “Yes,” I echo, “It is. It is IN-F**ING-CREDIBLE. The whole day has been incredible. The whole week. Who knew Chile did
national parks so well? It makes you want to go to every single national park
in the whole world.” Darren nods vigorously, grinning in agreement. We are
standing at Mirador 1, half way up the French Valley, and in front of us is a
wall of black mountain with blue sky above and white snow below. Just then, as
if the mountain also agrees, there is an ear-splitting crack, like thunder
directly overhead, and part of the glacier at the top calves off. This is
followed by several minutes of reverberating freight train roar as the cast-off
ice-chunks avalanche thousands of feet down in a cloud of fury to the valley
below, the natural amphitheatre of the bowl magnifying the sound. “IN-F**ING-CREDIBLE!,”
Darren repeats.
The path around this mountain takes about a week to walk. For the most
part it is almost at sea-level, meandering gently through forests, but every
day is different and wonderful. Mountain streams cut deep side valleys into the
hills and we cross over these on suspension bridges or climb up and down
ladders - wearing our heavy backpacks - to get to the other side, while glaciers
peek at us from below and hills from above.
Even the bus ride into the park from Puerto Natales was excellent. It
went first through farm land with sheep and cows grazing below folded hills
reminiscent of the expensive cloth worn by kings in renaissance paintings and
then by rougher land full of wild llamas and emu-like birds.
Sometimes, on a wee 900 m vertical detour up a valley, you find yourself
above the tree line, the path marked with inuksuks, and it is so beautiful
you stop to eat lunch on a big rock, and, no one else in sight above or below,
you burst into song, and sing, as loud as you can, every song you know about
mountains, each one a prayer of joy and thanksgiving for the privilege of
having the opportunity to visit this amazing place. High high above the condors
ride the thermals, mere black dots against the blue of the sky and the highest
frost-white peaks, and you know, without a doubt, there is no way, with
pictures or words, you can communicate the vastness and beauty of the space.
The whole week feels like the fourth best thing that has happened in your life
(your three kids being first, second, and third, of course).
On the last morning everyone gets up at 6 am and climbs a steep rocky
path in the pitch dark, their head-lamps a torch light parade, to get to the
Torres and see the first rays of sunlight hit the rock towers and turn them
red. We negotiate rickety bridges over fast flowing icy-cold streams, sections
of wet, slick, unstable scree, and large boulder fields. When we get there it
is cloudy, and spitting rain, and so windy that the surface of the small lake
is constantly whipped up into water spouts. The gusts of wind, punching in from
all directions, are actually scary, so I huddle under a rock with three German
men taking comfort in their presence. I don’t mind at all that we don’t get one
of the iconic sunrises, which are, after all, very rare. A sign in the campsite
says, ‘Don’t ask us about the weather. We don’t know. This is Patagonia. It
will likely be cold and windy and rainy today. It might snow.’ Our week has
been a lovely Indian Summer for the most part and I am glad to be getting a bit
of the real Patagonian experience. Now all I have to do is not get blown off the path, literally, on the
way down. I had considered staying longer, buying expensive instant oatmeal and
pasta from the meager campsite stores, hiking another six days, but the wind
and rain of the last day convince me to head back ‘home’ to my hostel and then
afterwards to go onward, see what else this part of the world has to offer.
It
has been wonderful, as in full of wonders, and awesome, as in full of awe. I am sorry that the week is over. But I am thrilled, thrilled beyond words, to have
been here.
