On the Road in Patagonia - Part 2

We concluded Episode One with our three wayfarers holed up in a Patagonian lodge on the Serrano River, having already spent four nights at the edge of the world. They had taken in the sights of Punta Arenas; stepped aboard the first ship to circumnavigate the globe; communed with penguins; assisted the injured at the scene of an accident; and had gotten a taste of Torres del Paine National Park. Now they would be lacing up their hiking boots a little snugger and hitting the trails of TDP. Because, after all, that was the foremost reason for coming here.

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EL VALLE FRANCÉS
Day Four was to be our first big hike of the trip, and Kevin and I were at the Pudeto dock at 8:30 in the morning to catch the first ferry of the day. Nevertheless, even though we arrived a half hour before departure time, there was already a long line queued up at the gate. As we would soon learn, day-hiking any of the segments in the western half of the W Circuit was a challenge of logistics and timing. Our objective was British Camp in the French Valley, which meant catching the first ferry at nine o’clock to Refugio Paine Grande. From there it was an eight-mile hike up to British Camp. Time, however, would be our real constraint, not distance. Neither of us relished spending the night sleeping on a cafeteria table with no sleeping bag, so it was imperative that we return to the refugio before the last ferry departed at 6:30 p.m. We would need to keep a vigilant eye on the clock throughout the day. 

By providence alone—or maybe pure luck—we made it aboard the ferry before it was deemed full and the gate was closed, leaving a dozen frustrated hikers on shore to wait ninety minutes for the next one. The half-hour cruise down Pehoe Lake to Refugio Paine Grande was beyond scenic, gliding past a labyrinth of nooks and coves. It was a nice lull, because once we came ashore, the work would begin.

On the ferry to Refugio Paine Grande.

We were pounding up the trail from Refugio Paine Grande at 9:45, huffing over a windswept ridge and along the shoreline of Skottsberg Lake. It was through here where we encountered the ghost forest, the eerie skeletal remains of the 2011 blaze. Kevin set a brisk pace, and in two hours we were crossing the suspension footbridge over the French River into Italian Camp (4.7 mi). Located at the mouth of the French Valley, the camp sits astride the trail junction and midpoint of the W Circuit, making it popular with trekkers. Lightweight dome tents were scattered along the river, partially concealed in the dense lenga forest. There was a Park ranger hut as well. Not lingering, we took the trail fork leading up into the French Valley, a much steeper endeavor than we’d experienced so far, and ascended until we came upon the perfect spot to take lunch and absorb the incredible view. 

A little history on the names of landmarks here: The French Valley—also called the Valle Frances—was named after the French homesteaders who settled on this land in the late 19th century, long before it became a national park. Italian Camp got its name from the Italian climbing team who used this site as a base camp for their first ascent of Cerro Paine Grande back in the 1950s. Likewise, British Camp, higher in the French Valley, was used by the Brits for their alpine sorties in the 1960s. Though not as popular as trekking, mountaineering in Torres del Paine is world class.

Ghost forest.

Big wall on Cuerno Norte.

French River

We spent a great deal of time at lunch relaxing and gawking at the scenery, but alas, we had to get moving. The trail was much steeper from here, switch-backing up loose terrain at times, winding through boulder fields and woods. Sometimes the trees and underbrush were so impenetrable that the trail literally went right up the middle of a shallow steam, leaving us to hop from stone to stone and make the best of it. And just when you thought that maybe you’d lost the “trail”, another cairn would appear in the stream up ahead. Through breaks in the forest canopy, we would catch glimpses of the peaks and rock walls that towered over both sides of the valley. Sheets of ice clung precariously to Cerro Paine Grande, and occasionally chunks as large as a school bus would break off and come crashing down in slow motion to the sound of rolling thunder.

All afternoon we had kept a close eye on the clock, always gauging how far we were from the refugio, because the further we hiked into the French Valley, the longer it would take to return. Bottom line: It was getting late and neither of us wanted to miss that last ferry. We were just under two miles short of British Camp when we decided to turn around. In all we hiked 12-13 miles round trip, making it back to the refugio with time to spare.

Grandeur in the French Valley.

Cerro Paine Grande.

Footbridge across French River.

On the cruise back across Pehoe Lake, we chatted with Pete and Nicki, an Irish couple from Belfast that we had met earlier in the day. We had bumped into them a few times on the trail—even hiked together for one long stretch—so by the time we were riding the ferry back to the cars, we were getting along dandy. As it turned out, their trip itinerary was very similar to ours. Their plan was to move over to the east end of the Park in a couple of days. That was our plan, too. After that, they were heading up to El Chalten. So were we! It only made sense to exchange contact info so we could stay in touch. And so it was, we had bagged a remarkably beautiful segment of the W Circuit, and made a couple of merry friends along the way.

Pete, Nicki & Kev on Pehoe Lake.

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WIND AND ICE
If you were to ask me to describe Patagonia using only one word, it would have to be “Wind”. It blows day and night in the summer months, from a subtle breeze to a gale-force blast, sometimes going from one extreme to the other in less than a minute. We watched a woman get knocked off her feet by a sudden gust, like she’d been hit by a truck. In fact Cristobal, the guide at Erratic Rock, had advised all backpackers to use trekking poles—not to gain more stability on rugged trails or stream crossings, but to keep from getting bowled over by the wind (for Exhibit A, click HERE). These westerly winds in the southern hemisphere, notoriously dubbed the Roaring Forties and Furious Fifties, sweep across the Pacific Ocean unimpeded by continents that would slow them down, as happens in the northern hemisphere. Thus they continue to gain momentum over the ocean and rake across the Patagonian landscape with a vengeance.   

Kevin and I had experienced a small dose of these winds yesterday during our hike into the French Valley. But it was nothing when compared to the unremitting gale that battered Kev, Denise and me the next day as we staggered across a thousand yards of exposed beach to reach the Lago Grey ferry boat for the glacier tour. It was blowing so hard, pea gravel was being kicked up and flayed against our legs. The same went for the waves on Grey Lake, which were torn from the surface and flung ashore as a fine, stinging spray. It was a bona fide maelstrom (this is where the lady got knocked over), and when we finally reached the ferry, numb and rattled, I asked the good captain if they ever canceled the tour due to the wind.

“Si,” he answered. “When it gets bad.”

A three-hour tour...

Grey Lake with Cerro Paine Grande in the distance.

Thus as we steamed up the eight-mile length of Grey Lake, directly into a ferocious headwind that was screaming down off Grey Glacier, I felt thankful we weren’t experiencing “bad” conditions. As it turned out, we motored right up to the terminus of the glacier, no problem. And even better, the wind mysteriously tapered off to manageable gusts—which goes to show that in Patagonia, if you don’t like the wind conditions, just wait a few minutes (unfortunately the inverse is true as well).

Three miles wide and seventeen miles long, Grey Glacier is one of forty-eight that are fed by the giant Southern Patagonian Ice Field (6,500 square miles!), a stranded remnant of the last Ice Age. And all of this chilly ice plays a role in Patagonia’s fickle weather when the westerlies come swooping across it. More than anything else, wind and ice continue to sculpt and define the land.

Like the SS Minnow, our voyage to the glacier was a three-hour tour—sans the shipwreck on an uncharted isle. We returned safe and sound, and the wind had diminished, making the walk back along the beach much more pleasant. But chances were good that it would be back tomorrow. Or maybe within the hour.

Hiking back to the car, safe and sound.

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ALL YOU CAN EAT
After three nights at the Hotel Rio Serrano, we moved over to the east end of the Park and checked into the Hotel Las Torres, which is located right at the foot of the Torres del Paine cordillera. We shared a room with three single beds. It was dorm-style living, complete with pillow fights (for the record, it was Denise who hurled the first pillow). If everything went as planned—meaning, cooperation from the rain gods—we’d get two days of hiking in, one of them being the hike up to Mirador Base Las Torres, the must-do segment of the W Circuit that we had heard and read so much about. In fact, Kev and I were so stoked that we opted to tackle it the first day.

That is, until we looked out our window in the morning and saw the high country enveloped in ominous dark clouds and the forecast calling for rain. What now?

“What about that Puma Dining Trail?” Kevin suggested.

Yes! Cristobal had recommended it to us back in Puerto Natales. It was in the hills, south of the Paine River, where it would be a little warmer and possibly devoid of rain. Maybe. Four miles round trip, it was not a big commitment: If it started pouring, we’d turn around and dash back to the car. And according to Cristobal, there was a “surprise” at the top of the hill where the trail ended. Denise was keen on checking it out as well.

Okay, Puma Dining Trail is not its official name: that’s what Cristobal nicknamed it due to the fact that the valley it traverses is a genuine killing field for hungry pumas. Yep. That’s right. The trailhead itself is unmarked, but we found it near a big bend in the road, right where Cristobal had said it would be. From there, a path led into scrub-covered hills and up a valley festooned with summer blossoms. The clouds hung low, threatening rain, which infused a mystical ambiance to the morning hike.

Storm brewing in the high country.

Soon enough we came upon the wooden sign, printed in English, which warned us about the pumas and provided pertinent information on what to do if, indeed, we were to come face to face with a big cat. “Stay calm,” it cautioned. “Be wary.” Duly noted. “Do not run!” And my favorite… “Fleeing may frigger an attack.”

For days, this became our inside joke. “Be careful you don’t frigger an avalanche.” “That should frigger a response.” “It’s Roy Rogers, king of the cowboys, and his golden palomino Frigger.”

A little further up the valley, we came across the other end of the food chain: a guanaco carcass. Ten minutes further, another one... and then a third one. Scientists have estimated there are roughly fifty pumas on the prowl in Torres del Paine, and around 2,700 guanacos. Hence the Puma Dining Trail, all you can eat. From there on, we kept a watchful eye on the high grass. But the only four-legged creature we ever spotted was a small herd of guanacos on a misty hillside.

Don't panic...

All you can eat on the Puma Dining Trail.

Guanaco in the mist.

We found the “surprise” at the end of the trail, sheltered in a shallow cave near the summit of a lofty hill. They were pictographs: Faded red hand prints, and animals that resembled guanacos and pumas. It is estimated that they were painted onto the wall six to eight thousand years ago by distant ancestors of the Tehuelches .

By afternoon, the sun was starting to punch through the clouds and warm up the day. Denise opted to chill at the hotel while Kev and I went back out for another hike. We picked the segment of the W Circuit that goes from the hotel—which anchors the east end of the W—out to Refugio Los Cuernos on Lake Nordenskjöld. It’s seven miles all the way out to the refugio, but we only made it as far as the Arriero River (roughly halfway) before turning back. After all, we didn’t want to miss happy hour.

Rock art.

And as soon as we stepped into the Hotel Las Torres lounge, who did we see? Pete and Nicki! They had grabbed a site in the campground next door and had stopped in to say hi. Over a round of drinks, they recounted their harrowing hike up to Mirador Base Las Torres earlier in the day. The weather had been horrendously cold and windy, but despite all that, they tramped up into the clouds and huddled under a boulder and waited and waited for the fog to lift and reveal the giant towers—which never happened. Instead, it started to snow!

Our Irish friends would be driving back to Puerto Natales tomorrow, where they would turn in their rental car and catch a bus into Argentina, first to El Calafate, and then on to El Chalten where we would hook up with them again. But before they departed in the morning, we insisted that they hike up the Puma Dining Trail to check out the rock art cave. And if they spotted a big cat along the way, all they had to remember was not to panic and don’t run—because fleeing could “frigger” an attack.

Happy hour at Hotel Las Torres.

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THE SORCERESS
Fernando Magellan’s first contact with the Tehuelche people was on the Atlantic coast of what is now southern Argentina. His armada had been waiting out the winter, anchored in a protected bay, when a lone, naked man appeared on the shore and began to dance and shout in a bizarre manner. He was a strikingly tall man, his entire body painted an ashen white with black and red markings. He was convinced that the strange vessels in the bay had come from the sky.

At the time of the Magellan Expedition, the most popular read in Europe was a novella called Primaleón, a fantasy yarn of Spanish chivalry and adventure. One of the characters in the book was a giant named Patagón, a creature who bellowed and stomped his feet and gnashed his teeth—just like the big naked man was doing on the beach that day as Magellan watched. The expedition’s official chronicler, a Venetian nobleman named Antonio Pigafetta, recorded the encounter in his journal, referring to the peculiar-acting native as a “patagón”. In truth the Tehuelches were not giants, but when standing next to the European explorer of the day (average height 5’-4”), they probably did seem like it. Magellan coined these nomadic people the Patagónes. And the vast land where they dwelled, he called Patagonia.

Early 18th century illustration of Patagonian giants.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, after yet another long day on the trail, I was looking forward to a hot shower and relaxation—until Denise reminded me that we had a show to attend at nine o’clock. She had spotted a poster in the hotel lobby that advertised a theater performance of dance and rituals of the Selk’nam people of Terra Fuego, the neighboring tribe south of the Tehuelche realm. Denise was a dance major in college, so the show would be right up her alley. In fact, both Kevin and Denise have always been attuned to the arts and music. When we first met thirty-seven years ago, Kev was the drummer for Urban Sprawl, a SoCal new wave band, and Dee was his girlfriend who danced all night in front of the stage, busting moves that would’ve impressed even Twyla Tharpe... But I digress. It was obvious now that I wasn’t hitting the sack early. 

The hotel theater was an intimate affair with seating arranged on three sides of the performance floor. Denise, bless her, had nabbed us front-row seats, center stage. Before the show started, the director came out and talked about the five-act performance and the now-extinct Selk’nam people, and while the tribe might be gone forever (a sad story in itself), their language, rituals and folklore carry on with the troupe of young artists we were about to see. Then the lights went out and the show began with the moaning sound of… you guessed it: the wind.

Selk'nam woman. (from Martin Gusinde collection, 1918-24)

What followed was a dreamscape of animated images of guanacos and pumas and real-life Selk’nam hunters stalking through the forest in the cold light of a full moon. The hunters were armed with bows and spears and wore nothing but loin cloths, their lean bodies adorned with geometric stripes and dashes of red and white paint. Since the performance floor was at audience level, they would sweep past us only an arm’s length away, their primordial chanting punctuated with grunts and shouts. In Act 2—also known as Attack of the Hummingbirds—half-naked men wearing bird masks flitted about the stage. Between the muted lighting and the rhythmic chants—not to mention that eternal, hypnotic wind—I got to where I no longer knew if I was awake or dreaming.

The plot thickened in Act 3 when a sorceress emerged from the darkness, swaddled in heavy guanaco furs that flowed to her ankles, and proceeded to twirl and creep around the stage. As she glided past us, she leaned in close and gave me a fierce glare, her hair all disheveled. Her real target, however, was the protagonist in the story—the tribal chief’s son—and she cast her spell upon him right before our eyes. He did a good job of resisting her. It even looked like he might win the fight. But when the witch suddenly let her guanaco wraps fall to the floor, it was Game Over, for she didn’t have a stitch on underneath, other than strategically-placed stripes of paint. Instantly the chief’s son fell under her spell. And just as instantly, I was wide awake... Only to have Denise jab me in the ribs, making me feel like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar (or maybe gawking at a sorceress in her birthday suit). Ultimately the chief’s son was saved by his friends and the witch was killed—only to come back in the final act, floating and writhing in the background as a ghost.

I’ll have to admit, the show was impressive. And kudos to Denise for insisting that I go. On the way back to our room, she shimmied and glided down the hallway like the sorceress had done, smooth as silk, proving that the Selk’nams were doing the Moonwalk long before Michael Jackson.

Selk'nam dancer. (from Martin Gusinde collection, 1918-24) 

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UP TO THE TOWERS
It was to be our last hiking day in Torres del Paine, and from the view out our hotel window that morning, it was shaping up to be sketchy. The wind had raged most of the night, raining hard at times. Nevertheless, there was no dithering from Kev or me at breakfast on whether or not to go for it. We were committed. We were hiking up to Mirador Base Las Torres, good weather or bad. It was the Big One. 

The six-mile trail to Mirador Las Torres is the eastern-most leg of the W Circuit. For backpackers trekking the W, this segment will either be the first or last day of their trip, depending on which direction they are doing the Circuit. For us, the hike would begin at the front steps of the hotel, and with no constraints of ferry schedules, we were able to get an early start. Our goal was to reach Refugio Chileno (3½ mi) by mid morning. In this we succeeded. The good news: The clouds shrouding the high country were breaking up and patches of blue sky were a welcome sight. The bad news: The wind was icy cold and blowing like hell—and our hearts sank when we saw the sign at the refugio: “Trail to Las Torres CLOSED due to high winds.” That certainly “friggered” a few F bombs.

Refugio Chileno

Yet we decided to keep going—not because we were rebels and didn’t care if we got kicked out of Chile for not following Park rules, but because several other hikers were continuing on up as well. They couldn’t kick us ALL out. Right? The trail fork to Mirador Las Torres was still another mile ahead; we could make a final decision when we got to there. But as we rambled along the beautiful Ascencio River, I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t turning back. If the trail to the mirador was blocked off, I would sneak around and keep going. Yes, Cristobal’s dire warning about regulations came to mind. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to make the call: When we reached the turn-off, the trail was open.

Ascencio River

Upper Ascencio Valley

French woman and her daughter, en route to Mirador Las Torres.

The final ¾-mile climb to the mirador was steep, threading up through boulders and cascading streams banked in wildflowers. Eventually the trail emerged above tree line where the wind was relentless. The steep grade, however, leveled off considerably as we traversed the exposed moraine, up and through more giant blocks, around a corner, and suddenly there they were: Las Torres.

The three massive towers of golden granite was a sight to see, their sheer walls so intimidating that none of them saw first ascents until the early 1960s. The North Tower (7,400 ft) went first, climbed by an Italian team led by Guido Monzino. Then the South Tower (8,200 ft) was climbed by another Italian, Armando Aste. And finally the Central Tower (8,100 ft) was summited by Chris Bonington and Don Whillans of Great Britain. All of these dudes were the badass alpinists of the day.

I found an overhanging boulder near the lake that provided us shelter from the wind and a stunning view of the towers. Wind-driven clouds scuttled across the sky, their shadows drifting along the landscape below. Nirvana. We lingered here for a considerable spell. It truly was magnificent.

Mirador Las Torres

Las Torres 

On the way back down, we stopped at the uprooted tree burl where hikers have placed hundreds of stones on its gnarled tentacles for good luck. We added two more. At Refugio Chileno, Kevin bought a couple bottles of cold beer and we slaked our thirst overlooking the Ascencio River before continuing on. It was during this last stretch out of the mountains when my cell phone pinged, telling me that I had a text message. We hadn’t had good cell service in a week, and suddenly I had four bars! The message was from my daughter Allie.

“Dad, are you butt-dialing me again?”

And that, folks, is how the Patagonian Butt-Dial was started. Ambling down the trail, sixty-five hundred miles from home, in the middle of the mountains at the bottom of the world, I made calls to Terry and my daughters before the signal could fade away.

“Can you hear me now?”

Pack train coming down from Refugio Chileno.

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