The sun appears as I leave

I heat up cup after cup of Milo and soup. I compact my food and throw away, trying to make it an easy hike out this morning. I dry all my things in the sun that finally emerges this morning. In combination with the wind, this doesn’t take long and I feel revived even if my feet feel iredeemably soggy and cold.

The Torres make one last appearance, and it isn’t from the perspective that I had hoped, but I felt blessed all the same. I start down the road towards the Lago Amarga station where I began. I spot large cat prints in the sand and follow with caution.

A wilderness guide from Minnesota who I greeted briefly at Perros is also waiting for the bus at Amarga. Soon a middle aged German with an earring who gave in after a day, joins us. Despite his lack of tenacity this time, he has been trekking and bike touring worldwide. It feels good to be on the bus, though it takes a while for the engine to turn over. We pass untold numbers of rhea and guanaco on the way through the pampa. I return to Omar’s hostel and take a long and lovely shower and go out to eat a full meal and some fruit salad. I drink a beer. I return to the hostel and drink more beer while I watch Return to Neverland with female Finlandian hostelmates and then The Big Lebowski with a group of American and Canadian guys who also completed the circuit that day, starting, untypically, at Lago Pehoe via ferry shuttle.

Hobbling in Rain and Gales

The light, but persistent, rain this morning makes it difficult to get up and start the day. My plans to go to Camp Chileano to the base of the Torres will be waylaid by the afternoon. The wind seems to have abated compared to the day before, but as I approach the next refugio, this proves to be a false assumption. The trail passes a lake with colors one rarely sees away from tropical lagoons, but this was anything but. The ferocity of the wind compares to that of a bonified hurricane. I crouch to wait out the onslaught, but once or twice the gusts catch me off guard and I am knocked down into the bushes. While walking up a hill the wind lifts me up a steep embankment. I am close to flying.

The cold rain fallls harder and I duck into a refugio for the first time on the circuit with the pretense of buying camera batteries. I bask in the warmth and marvel at working toilets before moving on. I don’t want to be spoiled by comfort. After laying dormant for several weeks, my injury sustained in Mendoza resurfaces. Its what I feared most the whole journey, but at least I am only a couple hours this time from completing the circuit and being safe. I can barely walk on it, though. I sit and stretch it out as well as I can and not wishing to be stranded, I limp on. A group of Israeli students ask me how far it is to the next refugio oblivious to my predicament.

My knee loosens to some degree, then came back in full force along with the rain and the cold. A young American guy sees my limp and asks "estas bien" and offers to carry some of my load. It is only one hour to camp and I estimate that I will make it there. I pass by the crossroads, with the alternate trail leading to Chileano and the base of the Torres, but the weather and my condition make the choice a no-brainer.

I pass the immense hosteleria and I’m tempted for a few moments, to check in, even as I look like a wet rat, but I know how expensive it probably is and hobble on. I walk to a campsite full of exuberant high school kids gathered around a big pot of food. They have a big fire stoked and I want to be a part of it. I start setting up the tent. A high school girl gives me a sweet hola, and I ignore the warning signal. One of the leaders, I presume, warily asks me "Necesitas ayudar?" Oblivious, I reply "no, gracias" and continue setting up until my weather and fatigue addled brain comprehends that I don’t belong here. I check the signs to confirm this and stuff my dripping tent back into the bag while a gracious student offers me food, and its tempting.

Everything is wet as I set up camp in earnest. I flop myself inside the tent and light up my stove going through the arduous and ultimately futile task of drying out. The camp host comes by to collect fees and she notices that my fly is being held to the ground tenuously by rocks. In the hasty process of setting up, I bent my stakes trying to penetrate the hard ground and she comes by with her own stakes and puts me back in business while her little boy directs her where to place them. Even in sogginess and disappointment, I sleep very well that night.

Pulling my tent out of the sky

The Americans take off earlier than I do, but I get the feeling I’ll see them again that day. The pack feels good today after two days of lightening the food weight, not to mention a full day’s rest.

Its a lot of up and down once again, but nothing to compare with the previous leg. This is the start of the shorter, and much more popular, W route and backpackers and daytrippers are around every turn with metal hiking poles clacking and taking up the entire trail. They don’t yield, and after a few incidents I barrel straight towards them.

The wind kicks up in a big way. In exposed areas I’m fighting to stay on the trail and I often don’t, pivoting my foot off of rocks and banks to recenter myself on the trail. My American cohorts come wandering back onto the trail after straying onto a side trail and we’re together again.

As I go down the valley towards Lago Pehoe, the wind is especially persistent. The lake looks like a sort of turquoise jewel in the distance. It burgeons into a full blown lake, a large ranger station and a luxury hotel on the shore. A crowd of backpackers queue up in the bluster by a fairy stop. I get temporary respite from the wind behind the ranger station and eat another cookie lunch. The Americans join me not long after and the pilot calls me a show off. He estimates the wind at 50 knots and asks noone in particular if anyone has ever seen water picked up off a lake like that.

I leave them and continue on to Italiano through occasional showers and the imposing and truly majestic backdrop of peaks. The hiking goes quickly and I cross a bridge over a turbulent mountain river carrying glacier water from the famously scenic French Valley and I walk into Italiano.

Now that I’m no longer burning calories at tremendous rates, I feel the cold aided by the howling winds. I get the poles into my tent in a wrestling match of sorts and I weigh it down by placing stones inside the tent. Regardless it takes off like a kite and I catch it before it enters the tree branches. With the aid of much heavier rocks, I erect the tent and hunch down inside and cook my dinner there forced out only when I run out of water and need to piss.

Ice Trekking

I wake up to showers. My sole intent, today, is to trek the glacier, no matter the 70,000 Chilean pesos it may cost. The ranger from the day before hikes by wearing purple gaters and a backpack. He has to hike to Grey for his days off to catch the boat across the lake and out of the park. I walk up to the cabana aside the tents that sell the tours. A college aged guide is doing chores and he tells me that the next tour is full. I give my story, that I arrived the day before and they promised me a space, so he assures me he’ll ask.

He comes by my tent in a little while and tells me I’m on. I go back to the cabana to chat with him and get out of the damp, chilly conditions for the rest of the morning, and part of the afternoon, and drink mate. It feels good to be next to the fire on such a day. I read comments in ten different languages from the guest book, only comprehending the English and Spanish, about how this was the highlight of their Patagonia trip, if not their life. The guide cooks dinner and listens to the Pixies.

A large group of mostly English and a couple of middle aged American tag alongs enter the cabana while a guide barks out instructions. One of the Americans is a Dallas, Texas pilot and he asks who the other American is, and I volunteer. Juan, the guide, overhears me talking about doing the circuit and says that I’m lucky I’m not doing the pass today. The clouds lift enough to reveal the fresh snow on the mountains. Juan guided a group in the middle of winter, in July, when it was possible to jump down the trail leading steeply from the pass. The snow was almost hip high.

We gather on the zodiac on a cold ride with pelting rain across the lake and around dark blue icebergs. Its an odd contrast to my rainy but tropical power raft ride through Iguazu almost a month ago. Juan notes how far the glacier has receded in just over a decade, hundreds of meters at least.

We climb out onto a rock and gear up. We slip on crampons, the complex strapping we leave to the guides, and pick up an ice axe and step into harnesses. After a few quick lessons on the correct technique of walking on different grades of ice, we walk up what has the appearance of fused ice cubes, intermingled with stone along the first stretch. We pass deep crevasses and small streams running through tunnels in the glacier and end at a waterfall and pull out cups to take a drink. In just days, due to the motion of the ice, all this terrain will be vastly different.

We backtrack to a wall with ropes set up. The ice climbing feels a little unwieldy at first, but once I trust the ice will hold me, I’m able to climb without much trouble, though I never get my legs wide enough for stability.

The sun makes a brief appearance, illuminates the glacier and forms a weak rainbow over the lake. The rain begins anew once we cross the lake in the puttering zodiac towards camp. Back at my tent, I cook more pasta and exchange pleasantries with the Americans. We’re all headed for Camp Italiano in the morning. I gather my cooking utensils and hunker down in my tent for another rainy night.

Over the Pass

Its getting cloudy today, but its pleasant enough. I make tea and cereal from the vestibule of my tent and pack quickly, eager to hit what appears to be my most difficult day as early as possible. Everyone else seems to have the same idea, but I get out before the rest and I feel strong once again. The way is steep, extremely marshy with mud that sucks my boots to the ankles. Woods and marsh give way, at last, to the tree line and I continue on dry land, rock and talus. I rest spotting a group of ten not far behind, and then dig my boots into the footprints up the steep snow fields and get surprisingly good traction.

I hike over the pass and on the other side is a spectacular panorama of Glacier Grey, spanning for miles from the mountains, larger than what I imagined and seeming to engulf whole mountains. I’m in awe once again. I descend quickly into the woods. The trail winds steeply and relentlessly down and I’m grateful for the ropes tied on the trees along the way. My left hip is stiff and in pain but not injured. It’s a muscle that is not accustomed to the stress and weight of a full backpack. Every once in a while I hear the thunderous report of glacial calving.

I arrive at a ranger station where the young ranger asks me in for tea. He asks about any hot girls at a previous camp. All old German women I tell him. He says that it isn’t often that someone arrives here from Perros so early. I ask him why the trail was marked closed a few days ago. He tells me a landslide hit one of the canyons, but if I move through the area quickly, I should be fine. Soon the German tour group arrives, so I eat my lunch of bran cookies and move on, merely a few hours from Camp Grey.

And if I was expecting the going to be easy after the pass, I’d be wrong. Narrow, cliffside trails rise and descend over loose dirt and stone. Tall, wooden ladders are rigged to descend and ascend the landslides. It feels precarious with my heavy pack that weighs about half of me, especially on a ladder that is tilted to the side against the rock. The pack wants to pull me flat and twist me off the ladder. I walk past a "peligro, no entrance" sign and down the final hill towards Grey where the glacier flows into a large lake with scattered icebergs.

I arrive in Grey close to 4pm, a hard, long but very satisfying day. I set up camp with the crowd and eat another big pot of pasta, drink some warm Milo and fall asleep with the sunset.

Un perro, los perros

It’s a beautiful day. I sleep in for as long as I can, but how long that is I can’t say. I eat, pack and still embark before almost everyone else in camp. This morning a group gathers around, with cameras in hand, a wild canine of sorts that has wandered into camp for some easy vittles, no doubt. I climb a hill to some more amazing vistas to the mountains and walk towards my first large glacier of note. A Brit and his guide pass on horseback going the opposite direction and I ascend some rocks to a small glacial lake and the rumbling of some snow and ice eroding off the glacier, Los Perros, hanging on the cliff.

I slip and fall down a silty path, but brush myself off with no injury. I walk by some amber colored ponds and into the woods where I see the next camp, also called Los Perros. Its early, and I contemplate, just for a moment, making a push towards the pass while the weather is good and I’m feeling strong. But, no, I reason, better to go off in the morning when I feel my best. I cook a big pot of pasta and sleep very well, very long.

Overstaying breakfast, Trail Kinks

I wake up at 6. I sit at the breakfast table at 6:30 to find a French couple, who want to speed through the Circuit in five days, diligently shoveling Muesli. Bleary eyed, I pour cereal and reach for the milk and the French girl says politely in Spanish that it is their milk and that’s when I notice "Greg" written on the carton in big letters. Regardless I get the urge to choke them with their Muesli for being so petty. Omar arrives and makes a plain omelet for me. The table gradually fills with other trekkers and as I reach for another tea bag, Omar says something about other people. I assume that he means that the tea is running low so I put it back. He grabs my plates from me and tells me, sorry, he must wash them, others must eat. I shrug and leave the table and he rolls his eyes like I’m an idiot, and he complains, in Spanish, about how long I’ve been at the table.

The bus arrives at 8 and we ride down another dirt road toward the park. We soon approach the jutting towers on the horizon. They are clearly magnificent. We stop at the admission gate to buy our tickets and I realize that I am at my stop. According to a sign in the office, The Circuit is closed, but I decide almost immediately to disregard this. I shoulder my pack and walk down the road with the Torres looming on my left. My pack already is weighing me down and its so cumbersome, I have an ominous feeling about the next week.

For the first few hours I think I am alone on this stretch of trail, but I take a break and another couple passes me. I walk through a cow pasture and around cattle into muddy fields, and this trail is not feeling very wild. After a mere 18 km I’m doubled over with fatigue on a flat, smooth stretch of trail. I pale to think how I will make it up passes and over rough terrain. I eat my lunch at Camp Seron, a small horse ranch, and think about it. I start fiddling with the straps on my backpack trying to get a better fit. I see what I imagine to be an American redneck and his son smoking and taking a break. As they pass me its clear that they’re two young Norwegians finishing up The Circuit in the opposite direction.

The adjustments make a big difference and I get a renewed burst of energy and confidence for the next stretch of trail. And just at the right time, since my first test is ahead of me, a steep hill crosses a very windy saddle. When I cross I see a dramatic bird’s eye view of mountains and Lago Paine. In the mood for celebration, I shout down at the lake. The way down is rolling and I eventually hit woods and water again and I’m getting very tired again. The last 5km to camp drags and I overtake small hill upon small hill expecting Lago Dickson to be visible from the crest. I consider, as the light fades, making an illegal camp on the spot and risking expulsion from the park, but saving my tail. The trail broadens and turns sharply uphill. I have a very good feeling this time, and there it is like a beacon, horses grazing, a group of tents and a refugio cabin, Camp Dickson.

I nearly slide down the loose rock into the valley. When I arrive, the young caretaker asks, "Como estas? Cansado?" Si! I set up camp and quickly boil two packets of ramen before darkness sets in completely.

Getting Ready

Everything today revolves around getting ready for my trip on the circuit. I eat an Omar breakfast and do some food shopping, then replace water bottles that are now rolling in the holds of various Argentinian buses. I buy a map from the store and a bus ticket from Omar. I stop at Erratic Rock to get a briefing on TDP from the mate sipping American . His information is helpful to be sure. I rent a backpacking stove and at that point my preparation is complete and I pack my bag. I watch DVDs the rest of the afternoon with some Irish blokes. Requiem for a Dream is particularly strange and good. I eat and I return to packing mayhem in my room. Everyone is prepping for a trek. Everything settles, soon enough, and I call it an early night for the early one tomorrow.

Early Departure

I spend my last day in Ushuaia in rest. I send out postcards and do a little reading and relax for the challenging Torres Del Paine circuit. When I tell Luca, the Italian, cigarillo smoking proprietor, I’m leaving, he says "finally! I thought you were living here."


The hostel is still noisy when I try to get some early sleep. I’m in for a restless night. The Irish woman on the lower bunk has an early bus into Rio Gallegos. At my request, she nudges me awake at 4:30 AM. I eat my remaining fruit, since it cannot come with me across the border to Chile, and walk down the street already glowing in first morning light.


I board the bus with a large group of mostly Germans and a few French for another 15 hour journey. We ride the ferry once again and file through customs. It soon becomes apparent that we are running too late to make the connecting bus. An Israeli girl with a nose ring walks to the front of the bus to inquire and she comes back with a dubious answer. The head of a German tour group goes to the front to ask more questions. We are dropped off at a police checkpoint outside of Punto Arenas where we will be picked up by the connecting bus.


We stand along the side of the road in the coming dusk and wait. The bus arrives and we are shuttled into a rainy Puerto Natales. I walk to the popular Erratic Rock Hostel and have a bad feeling about my chances for a room, and alas the gregarious balding Oregonian proprietor confirms that they’re full and points me around the block to another hostel. I walk in on some backpackers eating dinner and they tell me to shout "Omar!" The beds are lined with plastic and have no sheets, but it’s a place to lay my head. Omar tells me his home is my home.


I walk to a restaurant where half my bus is by this time eating, as well as one of the bus stewards, an odd, but funny guy who uses mime to communicate. I eat salmon and an avocado salad and pay 4300 pesos for it, which could be $100 for all I know about the Chilean exchange rate (Note: about $8). Nevertheless I pay it and return to the hostel for glorious sleep.