TORRES DEL PAINE
I'm sitting here, viewing the magnificent Los Cuernos (the horns) of Torres del Paine, and I am at peace with the world. I've finally achieved my seemingly impossible goal.
The sight of the majestic mountains is worth every sacrifice I have made –even yesterday's not so pleasant journey to get here.
Shall I admit it? A miserable journey is perhaps a more fitting description of what I endured.
We knew it was going to be a long day's trip. We had to travel from El Calafate, Argentina by public bus to the Chilean border at Cerro Castillo. There, hopefully, we'd be met by our driver who would transport us across the steppes for several hours before arriving at the entrance to Torres del Paine National Park in Chile.
Our destination was the Hosteria Pehoe, located in the heart of Torres del Paine. The small hosteria claims a privileged location on a 12-acre private island on Lake Pehoe. You can only get to the hosteria by walking across a narrow wooden foot bridge that extends about a block over the water to the island. I couldn't wait to get to this place where the view was suppose to be superb.
My anticipation was somewhat diluted when I awoke that day: The reason? We had to ride on a crowded public bus almost all day, and I awoke feeling nauseous from something I had eaten. The illness lasted all the way from El Calafate to Cerro Castillo. To say the least, the journey wasn't pleasant. Worse yet, we almost didn't catch our bus, which would have been a minor disaster, shortening our stay in Torres by at least one day, if this happened.
We were deposited at the tiny El Calafate bus station. We understood our bus would depart for the Chilean border at 8 a.m. We bought tickets and sat in the small lobby with our luggage—and waited. Nothing happened. Jean, as usual, was patient. I, as usual, was more obsessed with time. We waited for an announcement about any bus. There were none.
As time passed, I said to Jean, "Maybe I'd better go around to the back of the station. Some buses are back there. I'll take a quick look to see if our bus is there."
I did. I was shocked.
The bus to Cerro Castillo was parked there—already filled with passengers. In fact, it looked overloaded. I ran inside, hustled Jean and our luggage to the bus and tossed all our belongings into the luggage bin. We managed to squeeze into the last two seats in the back of the bus just as it took off.
By mid-afternoon, after crossing endless brush-covered pampas, we reached the Argentine border. We got off the bus and stood in a blustery cold wind in a dust storm for an hour waiting in line to pass through customs. I was freezing and feeling quite ill. Finally, we emerged from both the Argentine and the Chilean customs offices, and I couldn't have been more relieved when I saw another "Hiebert x 2"sign.
Headed toward Torres del Paine, our pleasant Chilean driver pointed out our first sighting of guanacos. The rust colored animal is a wild relative of the vicuna and domesticated llama and alpaca. Natives of the Central Andes have depended on the guanaco for food and fiber, and the population of herds has diminished considerably. However, the guanaco is still common in Torres Del Paine. We saw them frequently grazing along the highway and in the park.
Finally, we passed through the entrance to Torres del Paine National Park. An hour and a half later, we began to see solid granite mountains rising up from the flat steppes. I was mesmerized when the first sight of the craggy peaks I had seen so often in photos suddenly came into view.
My questions about the beauty of this World Heritage Site were satisfied by the end of that first ride. The unique rocky turrets of rose colored granite of Los Cuernos, the three huge frost polished towers of granite of the Torres del Paine from which the park gets its name, aquamarine glacial lakes, steep narrow valleys into which icy rivers flow down from the surrounding snow-covered mountains—altogether they comprise a national park that lives up to its reputation as one of the most spectacular, unspoiled, pristine wilderness sites on the planet.
We drove miles along the empty two-lane highway to Lago Pehoe. Finally, our driver dropped us off on the highway at the lake's edge. There at the far end of the little wooden bridge we viewed the tiny island where we would spend the next several days. A burly hosteria helper showed up. With our baggage bumping along behind us in his wooden wagon, we crossed over the bridge toward the Hosteria Pehoe.
I could see we wouldn't be disappointed. The scenery in every direction was spectacular. The Hosteria Pehoe faces a direct view of Los Cuernos. The jagged peaks of The Horns were reflected in the silvery calm water of the lake that late afternoon. To the west of Lhe Cuernos, the three granite peaks of the Torres were visible. The views from the island retreat were all that they claimed to be.
We checked into our room. Totally exhausted, I collapsed on the bed, though it was just six p.m. Our interminably long day of travel was over. After a six-year wait, I was finally in Torres del Paine, and the best was yet to come.
It happened just a few minutes later. Jarred awake by a loud pounding on our door, I rose from my bed in a sleepy haze--to greet my son Doug and his girlfriend Kelly. They had just arrived from their eight-day circuit trek of Torres del Paine.
You can imagine our delighted reunion over dinner that night—and our great enjoyment for the next two days. This turned out to be the special time I had hoped it would be. I had been concerned that Doug would arrive after two weeks of trekking, tired, dirty, and ready to head for home. I knew he would miss his two beloved lab dogs (which he did, but he carried a laminated picture of them in his backpack for his six week trip).
Not to worry. He and Kelly had already trekked many miles in Chile. They had circumnavigated the mountains of Torres del Paine without a hitch, and they were still full of energy. They had loved every minute of it, they said.
I was so pleased to hear this. It would have spoiled much of my enthusiasm for this trip if they had arrived unhappy campers. After all, I had suggested that Doug should add on hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu in Peru as a spectacular ending to his trek. I had hoped that since he and Kelly live in Denver and mountain bike and snowboard at high altitudes, this trip would be a perfect fit for them. I was right. I only wished I were strong enough to do what they had already done. But never mind! I was very proud of what they had already accomplished.
Our next two days passed all too quickly. We had many good meals at the hosteria. On the second day we headed off for an excursion across Lago Grey to see the Grey Glacier.
Doug hired a driver, Raphael, to take us through the park to the lake. The afternoon before, Jean and I had hiked along the hilly road for several kilometers to the refugio Pehoe. We were already familiar with the dust and curves of the two-lane highway. The hike also had introduced us to the constant westerly winds that dominate the climate of southern Patagonia . This weather pattern came into full force as the four of us arrived at Lago Grey at 9 a.m. We were just in time to pick up tickets for the catamaran excursion that would take us across the lake to the glacier.
However, just moments after we purchased our tickets, the announcement came that the boat trip was cancelled because of high winds. We were intensely disappointed but understood the decision. We had already experienced the huge wind that was howling across the lake. It had almost knocked us over as we had made our way into the hosteria. We estimated it was blowing about 50 mph and gusting up to 70 mph at times. Trees were almost bent over to the ground, and blowing sand stung our eyes as we walked toward the building. On the lake huge waves rose high in frothy whitecaps, beautiful to behold but clearly too dangerous for a small excursion vessel to navigate safely.
Undeterred by the fierce wind, Kelly and Doug hiked down to the beach and crossed over a suspension bridge. I should have gone too, but I opted to stand outside on the deck. I let the wind pummel me, enjoying the bracing effect for awhile. Finally, I gave up and joined Jean in a sunny corner of the lobby. We spent a quiet morning, drinking espresso and munching cookies and a banana from our box lunch. Relaxing in the brilliant sunshine, we watched the wind push the drifting clouds swiftly across the blue sky. We needed a respite from our constant movements of the past several days, and we took advantage of this tranquil moment to enjoy the beautiful scenery.
Returning to our own hosteria in the early afternoon, we found the violent winds unabated. Walking back across the bridge, I actually had to hang on to both sides of the railing to make it across safely.
Sadly, I watched Doug and Kelly pack their gear. Heavy backpacks stowed on their backs, in the late afternoon they recrossed the bridge and became tiny stick figures as they stood on the highway waiting for the bus that would take them to Puerto Natales.
By now they were anxious to head off to the lake district of Chile and then on to Machu Picchu. (I had to wait a month before they returned to the US before hearing of their many "amazing" adventures after they left us.)
On our last day in Torres, we awoke to discover we hadn't yet really experienced the full force of the notorious Patagonian wind. Huge gusts had rattled our windows and howled through the night, loud enough to awaken Jean several times. A cold drizzle fell from a grey leaden sky, but we decided not to let this bother us. We decided to catch the catamaran that crossed Lago Pehoe and check out the Paine Grande campground on the other side of the lake.
On the excursion boat, I knew this would be my last chance to enjoy the total exhilaration of being at this special place. Never mind the bitter wind that blew across the lake. I was the only person foolish enough to remain outside on the top deck as the boat crossed the lake. The famous Patagonian wind whipped across the tips of the whitecaps, catching the spray and falling rain and showering me with cold droplets of water. The needle-like spray stung my face, and the wind flattened me against the railing. Even with my waterproof rain jacket zipped securely, the jacket ballooned out as if to lift me off into the stratosphere like a hot air balloon. Finally, I gave up standing and hunkered down in a sheltered corner of the deck. In this cocoon-like state, I crossed the lake taking in each special moment on this, our final day in this remote paradise.
Regretfully, Jean and I would leave the next day. After an interesting six-hour drive across the steppes to Puerto Natales, we would return to Punta Arenas and fly back to Santiago. One additional day there and our trip to the end of the world would be over.
I will always retain vivid memories of this journey. Torres del Paine left me with a sense of awe and appreciation for the fragile beauty of the diminishing wilderness regions that remain on this globe. It gave me an even more intense belief that we must protect such pristine environments and safeguard them from the incursions of civilization and so-called progress.
I can close my eyes right now and see black granite spires reaching high into a brilliant blue sky. I can see the Grand Paine covered almost always in a shroud of pale grey fog. The Lago Pehoe appears, sometimes overcast in deep fog, but more often shimmering in a brilliant mosaic of teal, periwinkle, rich turquoise or deep lapis lazuli as the depth of the lake changes beyond the shore.
My yearning to set eyes on this special place has been satisfied.
I remind myself that back in Punta Arenas I stroked the foot of that marble statue in the plaza again—the one that promises one will return.
Something tells me this wish might come true one more time.
