Day 3: An Ode to Los Cuernos

Sunrise on this day revealed a thinning layer of cloud, accentuated by a most dramatic wisp that insisted on lingering just over the lake, like a scarf around the mountains. In the morning I retraced my steps, reveling in this new twist on familiar scenery, and then turned eastward to see the Cuernos del Paine towering above me, closer now and clearer than it ever seemed they would be. An undulating trail yielded angles before I finally ended camping right at their base. These are some of the most iconic mountains in the world, and I could hardly believe that I was there. I felt like I had stepped into one of the books or postcards that I had so often seen. This was the day when it really hit me that Patagonia had moved from a distant dream to an immediate experience.

Click to enlarge any of these photos.

I was taken by this because of what appears to be the shadow of a mountain in the cloud on the upper left.

This series, above and below, shows a retreating cloud as I approached los Cuernos. Mountains can't move, but this cloud certainly made it seem like they could.

Sunset over los Cuernos

Day 2: Lake Pehoe to Glacier Grey

After a restful night on soft grass, I was ready for a hike into the mountains, and the real start of the circuit around los Torres. After a gentle ascent that took me to a low ridge, I had lost sight of Lake Pehoe but gained a line to Lago Grey on the other side, along with pleasant little ponds resting in pockets of the rocky ridge. Heavy clouds threatened overhead, and I was just hoping it was cold enough to snow instead of rain. Cold is one thing, and snow can be brushed off. But cold and wet...not my idea of pleasant. Luckily I had a few minutes of snow on the ridge, and then not much else. This was the start of good fortune that would accompany the weather all week. Toward the end of the flurries, I caught sight of a large blue mass in the distance, which would be my destination for the day. As I approached, I was stunned by the immensity and power of the glacier parked in Lago Grey. I had seen bits of "glacier" before, but that was mostly snow that melted in the summer. This was a honkin' hunk of ice, rendered blue by light reflecting off the air pockets stuck inside. I stationed myself at the head of the glacier for quite some time, basking in its literal glow, and was lucky enough to encounter some afternoon sun, after which I worked my way back to the campsite, a wooded area next to a gushing stream. Life was good.

One of the ridgetop ponds that marked my crossing from Lago Pehoe to Lago Grey

And the first signs of snow, sprinkled over a frozen pond

You can see the heavy clouds in the distance, and chunks of the glacier that had broken off and were floating through Lago Grey.

And then my first view of the glacier itself, sending its two arms around the rock in the middle. The rocky outcrop on the right was my vantage point for the next picture.

A bit of sun graced my afternoon

Click to enlarge

This bit of edelweiss (below) was hiding in the cracks of the rock above.

As the clouds began to lift, the true expanse of the glacier showed itself.

As did the jagged peaks that were looming directly over me, which had been hidden until now. You can see the fresh snow on top.

Welcome to Patagonia!

Hiking through Torres del Paine National Park, in the Chilean Andes, has long been a dream. The problem has always been timing, as the trek requires an extensive time commitment, and our summers are their winter. And it's not just any winter: Torres del Paine is on the southern tip of South America, so you can imagine how cold it gets. The winds run a fairly constant 40 mph in summer alone. So I've been hesitant to go during June, when the days are at their shortest and temperatures lowest. However, I finally decided to get more detailed information this past spring, and was surprised by what I found. The average low is right around freezing, not the arctic -20 that I was expecting. And the fierce winds actually die down in the winter. That, combined with the lack of crowds, made a winter hike through Patagonia suddenly appealing. So it was that I landed in this desolate area on June 13, only one week from the shortest day of the year.

The vast, barren environs of Patagonia are widely acknowledged to play with people's minds. Land unfurls for miles -- lifeless expanses of yellow grass and tough scrub -- endless pampas that can make you feel incredibly alone. Here and there herds of sheep and horses pop up, only occasionally accompanied by a gaucho, and then suddenly an unlikely flock of flamingoes or a skittery guanaco, a relative of the llama. To top it all off, the Andes jut up in jagged spires, completing the odd juxtaposition of the barren and the exotic, the open and the imposing. And as soon as I arrived, I felt my mood start to shift; worries and stress dissipated into the wide-open spaces, and the sky seemed to open the landscape, both inner and outer, to a world of possibility. Nicholas Shakespeare once wrote that being in Patagonia can bring out the most extreme parts of one's personality, whether good or bad. This would indeed be a vacation, not just of place, but of spirit.

On the way into Torres del Paine National Park, I was greeted by this sight, with Paine Grande on the left, and the Cuernos (Horns) del Paine on the right. The trek I was about to take essentially forms the shape of a W, heading up a valley behind Paine Grande, then coming back and going up a valley behind the Cuernos, and then coming back and going up a valley behind the bulwark on the right, which obscures the namesake of the park, los Torres.

Los Cuernos across a field of pampas.

I felt lucky on the first day to have virtually no wind, which made photos like this possible.

Many of the trees and bushes are gnarled, bleached, and dead. But their silvery colors were a perfect compliment to the water, rocks, and mountain on this cloudy day.

I was lucky enough to catch some late fall colors, above and below, as well.

Late on the first day's hike, which isn't actually part of the W because you have to hike about 10 miles just to get to the start, I reached Lake Pehoe, a turquoise expanse that seemed to gleam in the gray light. In season, most people take a boat across the lake to start, but I couldn't imagine missing the sights of the day, and was grateful to have gone when the boat wasn't running. As an added bonus, I was told that I wouldn't even be charged a park entry fee. I guess when you go off-season, they're just happy to see you. And no, I didn't photo shop these.

On the left of the photo, you can see a lodge on the shore of Lake Pehoe (click to enlarge). In season, there is a chain of these that provides food and shelter for the massive number of hikers who come to do the trek. During the winter, however, they are mostly closed, which seems fair given that I only saw two other hikers over the course of the week I was out there.

My camp spot for the first night, safely (and softly) ensconced in the high grass on the lake. You can see an aerial view of this spot (sans tent) in the photo of the lodge, above.