Patagonia (11/8-11/16)

When I was in third grade, I did a project where I was required to choose an explorer, then present on his or her (it was inevitably always "his," unfortunately) journeys, discoveries, etc. I chose Magellan. Ever since that day, I've had a small fascination with the land and seas he charted, far down at the tip of this expansive continent. I've long fantasized about a journey of my own that would take me, via the Pan-American Highway, from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, down to the fabled fiery lands of Tierra del Fuego. Finally, and somewhat unbelievably, I was on my way.
Our plane to Patagonia brought us to Punta Arenas, which is the furthest South Scott and I were destined to voyage. There followed a three-hour bus ride, throughout which Scott and I were entertained by listening to the narrated-for-the-blind version of TRON ("We see Sam's face, just as a rock FALLS FROM THE SKY!" - the narrator had trouble modulating his voice when things got exciting) and Dad snapped about a thousand photos of the Patagonian sunset, while leaning heavily on various sleeping tourists for a steady shot.

The Matching Mollers with TdP in background

We arrived in Puerto Natales, the jumping-off point for all excursions into the Torres del Paine National Park, just as the sun finally set (around 9:30pm) over the edge of the world, illuminating the jagged snow-capped peaks and inland sea, and emphasizing the strange, heavy silence and seemingly charged air.
We slept in a hostel called the Erratic Rock, befriended some Dutch people who were more than willing to share their ample wine, and woke early for a hearty breakfast (replete with some political commentary by the positively ebullient proprietor, Bill), then caught yet another three-hour bus to the actual park. One nap, a crowded catamaran, and a lunch of sliced (moldy) cheese, crackers, and salami later, we were ready to set out on foot.
For the next six days, we hiked everyday for up to 10 hours, then slept in the scattered, high-class refugios (glorified cabins with dinner service on tablecloths and triple bunkbeds) or camped outside in the wind in Scott and my tiny tent (the original plan was for my parents to sleep in the refugios and for Scott and me to sleep outside, but the prospect of sharing rooms with heavy breathers and the presence of one self-proclaimed champion snorer chased my dad outside a few of the nights).

If interested in our route, you can trace our travels on a map of the park!

First view of Glacier Grey, with icebergs in Lago Grey

Day 1: Campamiento Pehoé to Refugio Grey
Day 2: Refugio Grey up to Campamiento Paso and back to Grey
Day 3: Refugio Grey to Campamiento Pehoé
Day 4: Refugio Pehoé to Mirador Francés, then back down and on to Refugio Los Cuernos
Day 5: Los Cuernos to Refugio Las Torres
Day 6: Up from Refugio Las Torres to Mirador Las Torres at 3am, nap, then down to the road and out!

It's difficult to try and capture the invasive beauty of Torres del Paine. Perhaps suffice it to say that there were definitely wind spirits bursting across the myriad lakes with unabating vigor, churning up the ancient energy stored deep within the bosom of the cerulean blue; there were creaking glacial forces that manifested as roiling cascades diving down ice faces only to disappear into mist in midair; there were birds and foxes that fought through the torrential winds to tiptoe through ethereal, silvery-twilight forests that made you think of hobbits and elves...in a word: breathtaking.

Water spirits on Lago Nordenskjol

There was the improbable chance trail meeting with a Frenchman we'd met in Arequipa, Peru, who surprised us with how unsurprised he was to see us (he was the same Frenchman we'd run into on a similarly-remote trail in Colca Canyon, several thousand miles away from where we now were).
There was also a group of rambunctious Canadians who wanted nothing more than to dash through the arresting granite beauty throughout the day, then get completely sloshed off of boxed wine and pisco sours in the evenings in the warmth of the refugios. They were on the same schedule as we were, and - apart from the fact that they had higher standards for food than we did, and loudly abhorred everything we were served - were quite pleasant to leapfrog the trail with. On our final hike to Mirador Las Torres, in fact, we formed a train of headlights with them leading up through the predawn mists, and when my headlight batteries went out, I was thankful for the extra illumination from the Canadians. (We got lost and climbed up a scree slope anyway). At the top of the mirador (to which we arrived at around 4:30am - the sun did not, in fact, rise until sometime after 5am), we all huddled together for warmth, my dad and his new Canadian friend bouncing up and down on the balls of their feet to ward off the chill while a friendly San Franciscan named Carolyn and I warmed some wine over her camp stove to make mulled wine with some cinnamon and orange zest I'd gotten from the refugio.

Valle Francés - top of a long hike

Unfortunately, the fog was thick, the sunrise obstructed, and the dense hanging clouds made it impossible to view Las Torres, the stunning rock towers for which the park is named (but you can see them here). On the way down, however, the fog began to clear, and - already halfway down the mountain - my irrepressible father convinced a disgruntled Scott to reascend for a potentially better view. Once again at the top, this time with a slightly improved view, Scott inexplicably (and accidentally) flung his camera from a 15-foot cliff, to smash dramatically on the rocks below. Hours later, I would absentmindedly piece it back together and hit the "on" button - only to find it still functioned swimmingly (despite serious cosmetic damage and a broken telephoto from taking buggy videos in the sand dunes). For comparison, the "playback" function on my brand new camera broke within two weeks of our trip starting, and Scott's camera is from eBay. Go figure.
The Canadians were also good for a night's entertainment when a mother-daughter pair of doctor/pilots decided to operate on one of the men's infected, blood- and pus-filled toes. I think it may have been the most thoroughly documented surgery of all time, and certainly had the greatest spectator enthusiasm. I even drew a group-autographed rhyming comic strip entry about it in the Refugio Los Cuernos guest book - be sure to check it out if you're ever there!
As I said, it's really difficult to capture the insane, stark beauty of Torres del Paine, but hopefully the pictures give some idea of its grandeur. Overall, we spent an unbelievable week in an unmatchable location with near-alien geography and bone-shattering winds with two of the people we love the most. Magellan would be proud.