It is true that even a stopped clock is right twice a day, assuming of course it is not a sun dial, which ours is far from being. It rained all night, and continues to rain this morning. Our breakfast will be served at eight, and check-out is at nine. Packing up, keeping dry, getting food, and finding a place to ditch our packs, is our morning’s mission. Any chance of seeing the Torres Del Paine is pretty much shot. But like Atticus Finch or Don Quixote, we will try.

We realize storage for backpacks is at a premium. There is one small outdoor alcove, mostly protected, and we cram our packs into it. Others follow suit, so ours are now completely covered, but will be difficult to retrieve.

Breakfast in Chileno is chaos. Those with rooms have the early 7:00am seating, campers like us are seated at 8:00am. That is of course if you are willing to sit on a 7:00 am-ers lap, as they continue to eat well beyond 8:30. We are finally seated, but must wait what seems like forever for coffee and eggs. The coffee is so dreadful we wonder why we waited at all. I fill up with bread and caramelized jelly, plus corn flakes and warm milk, from what animal I am not quite sure. We Americans really are pigs, expecting far more service than the Chilean resources seem capable to provide.

Torres Base

We eventually grab our sack lunch, pack up, and head out into the rain. The primary reason for our sojourn is to pay respects at the foot of the parks namesake, Torres Del Paine. Our faith is based on believing, rather than seeing. Over time our water proof gear begins to water. We are soaking from wet-head to sloshy-sock. We splash through mud and dance over rickety bridges, clearly unworthy of OSHA approval. The final 45 minutes are steep, rocky, wet, and futile. We appear at the shore of the small largo below the towers, the towers, however, fail to appear.

We dash, fall and slide back down to Chileno. We squeeze in soaked to soak in the warmth of the huddled steamy tourists. The smell is probably as you imagine. Our clothes never dry, but protected from the wind, warm ever so slightly. The entire Chileno service crew is eating lunch, so all tourist services are on hold. In other words, we cannot order hot drinks and food, but we can watch employees consume them.

We push back into the cold, and climb out of Chileno and down the long stretch to our final camp, Las Torres. We get a break in the weather, dry our tents and quickly set them back up as the rain returns. It continues off and on, but never very long.

Tomorrow afternoon we will catch the bus back to Natales.

We wake on our platform peak to the gentle sounds of off and on rain. We heat water for coffee and wait for a rain-break, in order to pack up for a trail-break. A guide we met at the top of Britanico is now putting on her rain pants. “It is going to rain pretty hard all day,” she warns. I point out the similarity to yesterday’s incorrect prediction. She is adamant. Based on her professional experience, this is for real. John, Brian and I dutifully put on our rain gear. Mark, the non-believer, goes light. It begins to rain, but not very hard, and not for long. We are soon perspiring in our pessimism, except optimistic Mark, whose temperature remains optimal. We hate him for it.

The rest of the day we leapfrog the guide and her two Indian clients. Each time we pass we remind her of the current weather. She simply smiles and says, “Patagonia.”

To Chileno

Brian is not feeling well. He appears to be fighting a sore throat, but presses on. The views on the right cheek of the W (as Brian refers to it) are not the most spectacular of the trip, but they will do. We take the shortcut trail towards Chileno, then turn a corner and up the home stretch. It rains slightly off and on, but nothing to write about. Okay I lied, but you shouldn’t read much into it.

Chileno Tent Platform

At Chileno we are assigned platforms on which to construct our tents. The screw heads on the platform stick up so far we fear our tent footprint will be destroyed. A worker lays down a strip of masking tape, as if it possesses magic anti-ripping powers.

No cooking is allowed by backpackers at Chileno, so we are required to take full board. Dinner is not until 8, so we beg the kitchen for some boiling water and rehydrate our refried beans for burritos.

Brian’s company phone, which is a replacement for one that accidentally went through the wash, is acting up. It got damp early in the trip, and he has had it off ever since. Currently it will not come on, so we have it on external lithium battery life support, with hope if not for a full recovery, at least one to a reasonable quality of life.

Tomorrow we will climb and attempt to see the Torres Del Paine. The weather forecast is 100% rain all day. We think this is good news, given that predictions have been so consistently wrong.

Leaving Paine Grande

It rained all night, but fizzles out as we wake at 6:30 am. The kitchen area does not open until 7:00 am, so Brian heats water for coffee at a nearby picnic table. A French girl warns us she has been severely scolded for cooking there. A few years ago that is precisely where I was told to cook. These rules are so hard to follow.

Mark picks up a weather forecast: 93% chance of light rain all day. It begins to sprinkle, so we quickly pack up our damp tents before they become completely soaked tents. We put on rain pants and jackets, and get an early jump. Within an hour of hiking, in the now blaring sun, we are near heat stroke. Brian proclaims, “Patagonia sure is hot, except when it’s really cold.” Patagonia weather is very strange.

We make our way to the recently, but now formerly, collapsed bridge. There is new wood, cables, and hardware, yet somehow it retains that “far from perfect but probably good enough” feel. We cross with little fanfare to Camp Italiano, where we stop for a quick lunch. Brian and I mix up powdered humus and stuff it into tortillas and then into our mouths. We ditch our backpacks by the ranger station and begin our significantly less burdened climb up the French Valley. The cliff hanging glaciers put on entertaining shows by pushing their friends over the edge. The thunderous roars and rushing avalanches never get old.

French Valley

There is a crowd at the French Mirador, but it thins significantly as we work our way towards Britanico. The advertised 3 hour climb takes us about 2, even with Brian’s non-bending knee. The views from the final lookout are spectacular. It is for me the most spectacular single spot in the entire national park.

We take a variety of pictures, which will clearly do no justice to the spectacle. We work our way back down towards our packs. The down is harder on all our knees, but especially Brian’s. We re-shoulder our burdens and head across the middle of the “W” towards the new Frances Refugio. We check in and begin the engineering adventure of pitching our tents on staggered wooden platforms, constructed on a steep forested floor. Tent stakes need not apply, though a provided hatchet and a handful of nails helps significantly.

French Valley

It begins to rain as we cook our meals pitched on our platforms. Brian declares this a far more dangerous fire hazard than the illegal-to-cook-on picnic tables of this morning. Patagonia rules are as fickle as the weather.

Tomorrow we will glide beneath Los Cuernos, and make our way up to Chileno.

I wake during the short period of darkness known as night, for biological reasons, and enjoy the southern stars. Orion is out and familiar, but the Southern Cross is not often in my view. The next time I wake we are re-treated with the huge fox, apparently quite comfortable in camp. Brian, John and I head to the lodge for our breakfast board. We explain that our fourth, Mark, will be along shortly, but that we would enjoy starting with just coffee while we wait. Heads nod in total agreement, and then immediately our toast and eggs arrive. Rather than let our only chance at hot food get cold, we shrug and try to enjoy the Mark-less meal. Mark eventually arrives for his toast and eggs. By now, we are well into multiple bowls of cereal and yogurt. At least in terms of feeling full, Brian declares this one of our better meals. John asks for more bread, which is resoundedly refused, with obvious disgust for the North American pigs that we are. We are provided sack lunches of sandwiches, nuts and bars for our journey on.

Lunch stop near Grey Glacier

We pack up in no particular hurry, then head south down the west side of the circuit. The views of Grey Glacier and largo are impressive, but are slightly undermined by the exceedingly entertaining appearance of ridiculously large hares. This part of the circuit is amped up in population, and with the possible exception of John, we tire of the constant holas and small talk every 100 yards.

We break at a beautiful overlook, take pictures, then begin to indulge in sandwiches. A CONF (National Forest Corporation) employee appears and begins speaking in Spanish quite enthusiastically about our sandwiches. We assume he wants to know where to get one, and we begin a pantomime show which clearly disappoints our audience of one. His much more powerful and moving one-man show, however, convinces us we are NOT allowed to eat sandwiches anywhere other than at a refugio. Why are we provided a lunch at a refugio that we are only allowed to carry to the next refugio? Perhaps we could have simply carried a coupon to the next location, which we would be lighter and far less tempting to consume along the way. At any rate the whole thing is ridiculous, but provides humor for the hungry.

Camping at Paine Grande

We arrive at Paine Grande in time to finish our sandwiches, setup camp, cook dinner, shower and play cards. Without surprise, the rain returns.

Fresh snow above camp

It rains most of the night. The good news is our dry things remain dry. The bad news is our wet things remain soaking wet. We wait for a small break, then make a break for the bathroom and the cooking room, which thankfully are two different rooms. We make several coffees, oatmeal, and Pop Tarts. The room heats up again with bodies and stoves. We hear rumor that the bridge is now open, but only to one person at a time. The military’s lack of complete confidence in their repair is a bit disconcerting, but if it holds up, will save us a tremendous amount of hassle.

Red Fox

Without hiking today, it is difficult not to eat more than our share. While in the cooking area the biggest fox I have ever seen strolls by. I race out in the cold to get my video camera, and to tell John to come quick with his still camera. A paparazzi of cameras begins to pursue, including two girls who have taken point. With discipline to stand our ground we can have as many wonderful pictures as we want. But alas, each of us stepping forward for a slightly better shot, keeps our friendly fox on the fly. If Aesop were alive, he would immortalize our greedy tale.

Brian and John drying

The sun peeks out between short bouts of rain. We move our wet cloths in and out of our tent, trying to keep pace. Our cloths become two steps drier, then one step wetter, during each cycle. Eventually they become dry enough that the risk of leaving them out is no longer worth it.

Tonight we have full board, which means dinner, breakfast tomorrow, and a sack lunch handed out at breakfast. We sort our food, figuring out how much we can eat. Brian and I make bean burritos for lunch.

Dinner is soup, stewed chicken, mashed potatoes, and something that seems tiramisu-like. Brian is not overly impressed, but we did not have to cook it and, more importantly, we did not have to carry it.

Climbing towards Paso John Gardner

We wake early, hoping to hike 6 hours over the pass to the free campsite at Paso. With no reservations, however, we may have to press on to Grey, an additional 5 hours according to the map. Unable to find room at the tables, we huddle around the counter where a few years ago I melted my jacket when my stove flipped over. While we heat water for coffee and oatmeal, a woman at the table knocks over her stove with a huge pot of hot milk, sending it everywhere, including the laps of strangers sitting across from her. Suddenly the counter seems nicer than the table.

We pack up and begin our long climb up the pass. The forest is a tangled web of roots and mud. We break through the trees into the exposed rocks. The light rain comes and goes, but eventually turns into light snow. The views are still spectacular. Brian’s knee is slowing him down, but not Mark, as he plows up the pass ahead of us. We are blessed with little wind and decent visibility. We meet Mark at the top, and celebrate by posing in front of the now visible Patagonia Ice Field.  We are clearly National Geographic Explorers, at least it seems to us.

Looking down on Grey Glacier

The hike down is steep and grueling, even more so for Brian with his knee. The light snow turns back to light rain. We begin to soak through. It is deceptively slow, so Brian and I fail to switch to full rain gear. At Paso we are turned away, even with Brian’s limp and knee brace. As the rain grows in intensity, we press on. The down is not quite as steep as below the pass, but steeper than Brian wants. We negotiate a stream crossing and ladder with no problem. Knowing that a bridge has already failed in the park makes crossing the long wooden planked suspension bridge over the gorge even more exciting. Although we each cross alone, it feels as though someone is messing with us, as the bridge bounces up and down.

We soldier on in cold rain, but thank the Patagonia wind gods for their gentle kindness.

We arrive at camp soaked, drop packs and go straight to the cooking area. The propane stoves and body heat have created a soothing sauna, which we slowly absorb. Unable to stop to eat much on the way in, we gorge on calories. I shovel in spoonfuls of Nutella, while Brian makes hot water for miso soup. We pound down crackers, cheese, cookies and anything else we can dig up. Rather than set up tents, we stay until we cook dinner. Once the tents are set, we are pretty sure we will not return, and we are right.

Tomorrow we will sleep in, and attempt to dry out – assuming the sun god is willing.

It rains during the night, but stops as we wake. The sun breaks through and blasts our rain fly, allowing us to pack up dry. I make coffee, oatmeal, and enjoy another smashed Honey Bun. Brian takes a quick shower and we are on the trail by 9:15 am.

Looking back to Dickson Glacier

The hike out of Dickson is up, but pays us back with great views of Dickson largo and glacier. The trees becomes lush and rainforest like. Brian asks why I did not tell him about the awesome trees. Not completely distracted by the trees, Brian’s knee begins to bother him. At a creekside stop he takes Ibuprofen and borrows a knee support from Mark. The going is slowed, but no one seems to mind as we soak in the views and enjoy the songs of the song birds. The sun appears and disappears frequently enough to keep us guessing as to what to wear. We stop at a waterfall cascade for a lunch of salami, cheese and crackers.

Los Perros Glacier

After a steep scramble up loose rocks we crest to spectacular views of Los Perros Glacier. It is windy and cold, but we hang around long enough to be rewarded with an entertaining snow avalanche, which spills over a cliff like a Yosemite waterfall.

At Los Perros we check in, then set up tents in a brief hail storm. The weather is fickle and constantly changing. We join a group in the cooking shelter. We are the only USA representatives, but feel quite welcome, and squeeze in to make our meals. I cook Thai curry rice with Thai tuna. Brian makes a concoction of fettuccine noodles, soup mix and tuna, which he declares a success, even though he burns it on the bottom of his pan.

Later Brian and I play pitch, while Mark looks on, between bites of mashed potatoes and spam.

We plan to go over the pass and stay at Paso, but Mark never figured out how to make a reservation. We are hoping they will not turn away a limping Brian in a knee brace. The Ranger said the weather tomorrow should be like today, which means sun, clouds, rain, hail, and wind.

Welcome to Patagonia.

Yesterday’s late down translates into today’s late up. The sun beats us up by several hours. Although honey was confiscated, Honey Buns were not. I make a breakfast of a big fat Honey Bun, oatmeal, and Starbucks Via coffee.

We hike our way up and around the famously windy pass above Lago Paine. Brian is knocked to the ground at least once. We are all walking like drunken sailors against the amazing force. John tries to blow snot out his nose, which goes airborne in an unexpected direction. Turning to avoid his own projectile, the momentum of his pack spins him around and he falls completely off the trail.

The ranger at Coiron takes our passport information, then provides us news that the Chilean military has been called in to repair the bridge. They now expect it will be done in 5 days. Given we were told in Seron it would be fixed in 2 days, we are not sure their presence is helping.

Looking Down on Dickson

We make it to the Dickson overlook, where Brian asks if there are possibly better views than this, or if this is this as good as it gets. We set up camp well ahead our our previous night’s record of 10 pm. To kill some time, we hike along the shore in search of better views of Dickson glacier. I have mashed potato with hickory tuna burritos for dinner.

The ranger tells us rain is likely tomorrow during our hike to Los Perros. We do not like this ranger.

Flying Through Natales

Brian and I wake 15 minutes late for breakfast. So much for redemption. Mark and John are already enjoying the crepes and coffee crystals. We join in for ham, cheese and rolls. After eating, we sort and pack our gear and food. The food seams far less than we want to eat, yet far more than want to carry. We have full board twice on the trip, so we only we need 7 days of food.

Mylodon Hug

We leave our bags at the hostel and play tourist for the morning. We could have taken the 7:30 am bus to the park, but given our oversleep performance, we would have certainly missed it. Besides, walking before we go walking seems like such a good idea. The next bus is not until 2:30 pm, so we have plenty of time. We get massive sandwiches, which we use to lead a parade of dogs throughout town.

From the bus to the park, we see plenty of guanacos, rheas, and eventually the massif Torres Del Paine. At the gate we pay, get maps, and view a mandatory video, whose main point is that if we start an accidental fire we will spend six bonus years in Chile, probably making license plates. At the end of the video, there is a Spanish announcement which causes quite a ruckus, involving frantic disappointed glances and hand gestures. Eventually an English version is released. A critical bridge is out and to complete the W route or the full O circuit requires a catamaran excursion and significant doubling back. Trekkers have come from around the world, only to find the alphabet broken. There is some hope that O circuit folks like us may find the bridge repaired by the time we arrive, almost a week later.

Adding to our confusion, the trail from the guard shack, which we plan to take to Seron, does not appear on the current map. We are told it is decommissioned and we must go to Las Torres, via another bus for 3,000 play money per person.

Brian is laughing as we finally hit the trail. He has never started a backpacking trek at 6:00 pm. Luckily we are so far south that it stays light until 10:00 pm. We make our way and beat the barely setting sun. By the time we set up camp and have dinner, it is 11:00 pm. An Australian overhears Brian’s concern about having enough food and offers to share some. We assure him we are not hungry enough for Vegemite, but he seems more than pleased and quite surprised when I offer him a precious Cherry Ripe. He shares good news that the bridge is expected to be repaired in two days.

As we try to sleep, the locals scream-talk at each other over blasting music, for several more hours.

Goofing on the Plane

The night before my flight to Miami I realize my American Airline boarding pass says “Rick”, from my old Advantage Milage profile. All my identification of course says “Richard”. I call customer service and a very nice woman tells me she is happy to fix it, but I risk losing my assigned seat. She suggests I go to the airport ticket counter early, where they can easily do it and keep the seat.

The next day at the counter, Gary, counters her claim, telling me a name change will cost $200. I explain that I called customer service and the agent said it can be done free of charge. He tells me it can, if there are notes in the electronic record, but there are no notes. He speaks to a supervisor and returns with the same undesirable answer. My explanation in person, with full emotion and hand gestures, is apparently not worth $200.

I keep the wrong named ticket and try my luck at security, where I have plenty of time to make new friends, including the security supervisor who desperately wants me to have something with the name Rick on it. I show her my connecting boarding passes on LATAM airline with Richard, but this creates another suspicious situation. Why do I have so many boarding passes? I explain that the LATAM website says I need 2 copies for each leg of the flight, 1 for the airline and 1 for me to carry onto the plane. Making it worse, I have Brian’s 4 boarding passes printed to give him in Miami. I stand before the mercy of security, with an endless stack of boarding passes for Rick Romine, Richard Romine, and Brian Romine. Apparently multiple personality disorder is a TSA protected class, as I am eventually given leave to go.

In Miami we are to meet John, but there is more confusion. Brian and my bags are only booked to Miami, so we have to exit security, pick them up, then go back through security.  I arrive at Concourse D, then walk further than the Patagonia “O Circuit” to get to Concourse H, where I meet Brian. John texts a picture of himself, and we wait for him in front of the LATAM ticket counter. The line keeps getting longer, and John never arrives. Later we will learn he missed us, reprinted his boarding pass and went back through security ahead of us. Giving up on John, we join the huddled masses in ticket line. The line is so slow they stop taking people from the front, and start pulling people from the back who are about to miss their flight. The longer this goes on, the more people who were on time are now also about to miss their flights. I feel as though we are in socialist Venezuela, where everyone will equally miss their flight.

In Santiago we go through Immigration and then Customs. What food you are allowed to take into Chile is a complete crapshoot, but not declaring food can bring significant fines. We all declare plant based food, but get very different examinations. John receives the full treatment, meaning they go through everything. The customs agent is particularly excited to confiscate his honey packets. His dual packets of salami and cheese get mixed reviews. They cut off all the salami sicks but give back his cheese, which is strange since dairy products are listed as forbidden. Another agent starts looking through my food bags, and becomes so overwhelmed by the quantity, she simply lets me go. Yet another agent waves Brian through without so much as a single question. They have clearly had enough of us – next please!

In Punta Arenas, we have reservations for the 3:00 pm bus to Puerto Natales. We try to get on an earlier bus but get busted instead. I tire of the freezing cold wind, and go inside to try my luck at the ATM slot machine. I receive translation support from a German who reads Spanish and speaks English. I lose service charges to the house, but eventually win a pile of extremely fake looking money. Finally on a bus, we see ostrich-like rheas running in the road. The bus driver honks his horn, well actually the buses’, but the rheas seem not to care. Brian is amazed at the amount of counter correction required to drive a bus in the Chilean wind.

We arrive in Puerto Natales and walk towards the hostel. We are clearly important dignitaries, as a team of the city’s finest K9s escort us from street corner to street corner. Each dog has its own territory, and the handoffs at each crossing are cordial, yet formal. We check into the hostel, throw down our things, then head quickly to the market for salami replacements and various minor items.

We walk to Erratic Rock for fuel canisters, since we were not allowed to bring them on the plane. We luck out and find a free partial in the hiker bin and purchase three others, some of which will probably go back into a hiker bin at the end of our trip.

Back at the hostel, Brian is crashing and ends up sprawled across his open roller bag, zipper marks embedded in his sleeping face. We buy late bus tickets for tomorrow, since we clearly are not packing tonight. We will still have time to hike, because it stays light until 10pm.

John, Mark and I leave Sleeping Beauty, and go ask the hostel hostess for a restaurant recommendation. She suggests El Bote. I ask for her favorite dish, which she describes in broken Spanglish as some kind of meat that sounds to me like casserole. The hunt is on.

Guanaco Cacerola

On top of the restaurant menu board at El Bote is Guanaco Cacerola, described in English as Patagonian camel stew. This has to be what she meant, so I order it. It is quite tasty, very much like beef stew in a wine sauce. I return to the hostel, thank her for the recommendation and proudly tell her I ate the Guanaco. Her face drops as if I have just eaten her family’s puppy. I gather Guanaco is not what she was telling me to order.

I fall asleep full of guilt and guanaco, hoping to do better in the morning.