Kindness of Strangers

Saturday, January 31, 2009

On our fourth night in Torres del Paine National Park, as we watched hunks of iceberg drift by our refugio from the cozy dining room, we unexpectedly found ourselves in conversation with Jeff and Erin, a 30-something couple from Washington DC traveling around the world. After six months on the road, they are the first Americans we’ve met who are embarking on the same type of adventure we are, and as you can imagine, we had a ton to talk about. We spent the entire evening swapping stories, tales of woe, and travel advice in equal measure, sharing a box of El Gato red wine over rib-sticking beef stroganof (not as bad as it sounds, I promise you). The next day we walked 19 kilometers together; trudging up hills had never been so much fun, as the hours flew by deep in conversation and laughter. We took in the jaw dropping vistas of Glacier Grey in complete solitude, clapping enthusiastically as a massive chunk of sapphire ice cracked from the glacier’s face and plummeted into the lake, its firecracker crash reverberating through the valley.

“We won the day!” exclaimed Erin. Seeing a puzzled look wash across my face, she explained that she and Jeff had come up with the idea during one particularly bad day. “Even on the worst days, you have to come up with at least one thing that saves the day. And once a day is won it can’t be lost.” This was the best philosophy I’d ever heard, not just for everyday life but particularly for traveling, where bad days usually seem to grow even worse. Employing Jeff and Erin’s logic, the day has to get better. “Winning the day” is a daily reminder and practice that we should delight in life’s small moments, something that sounds easy in theory but that I struggle with constantly. I find myself beleaguered by everything that’s going wrong, the good in a situation completely obscured by the negative. That night, we celebrated finishing the “W” over calafate sours, a delicious local drink that brings to mind a grape-tinged margarita, but in my mind I toasted to winning the day.

Yesterday we learned, purely by accident, that LAN Chile delayed our flight from Peru to Bolivia by nearly thirteen hours…and never bothered to tell us. Not only would we find ourselves camping out in Lima’s airport for a full day, but all of the plans we had made for Bolivia were contingent upon our timely arrival. After trying unsuccessfully to place a call to the airlines, we finally gave up; and after four hours of sleep and an early morning flight to Puerto Montt, we spent all morning in LAN Chile’s local office attempting to fix our ticket. The end result? Bolivia will be dropped from our itinerary altogether. Of course the change requires authorization, and it being Saturday, well, the saga will continue on Monday in another office.

“We have to win the day,” I said to Maikael, as we made our way towards the bus station to catch a four-hour ride to Chiloe. After settling ourselves in our seats, two young men, toting a small band of wooden instruments, bounded on the bus. They crowded the aisle, tentatively plucking a few strings, when the conductor gave them a pointed look that said, “Don’t play those things on here.” As soon as the bus roared to life, the door between driver and passengers safely sealed, the duo began playing a boisterous tune. One guy strummed his small guitar while the other whistled on a rustic flute, and soon they were singing in harmony. Normally these spontaneous performances annoy me, but they were really good. I found myself grinning stupidly, and when they offered their CD for 500 pesos – about 75 cents – I snatched up a copy, as did most of the bus. I studied the CD cover, a crude black and white photocopy, announcing the group as Hijos del Sol: Sons of the Sun. “My day’s been won,” I announced to Maikael.

We are currently in the process of scrubbing off layers of dirt and calluses from our phenomenal 52.8 mile (!) hike in Torres del Paine National Park. Today’s departure was a fitting place to pass Day 200 of our trip.  Maikael will be writing a post on our experiences in the near future, but until then, you can whet your appetite with our photos from the park, which can be found on our web album. (Warning: copious mountain vistas are in your future.) Happy trails!

Friday, January 23, 2009

“You are crazy. Let me say this with more gusto: C-R-A-Z-Y,” wrote my friend Cybele, and I agreed completely. The last time I set off on a multi-day journey into the wilderness I was gripped with fear and doubt, and Cybele confirmed that I had lost my mind by attempting New Zealand’s Milford Track. But having survived – dare I say, even enjoyed – the experience, I was ready to do it again. Now that’s what’s really C-R-A-Z-Y.

Tomorrow we set off for Torres del Paine National Park to hike the famed “W” circuit, so named for the shape of the trail, an anticipated highlight of our trip to South America. In fact, it’s what got us dreaming about visiting the continent nearly 10 years ago. I’ll never forget the dusty pink spires splashed across the front page of the Seattle Times’ travel section one Sunday, looking like some wind-swept no man’s land. They looked like the kind of mountains that Froddo struggled up on his way to Mordor. “Where’s that?” I asked Maikael. I couldn’t believe it when he responded, “South America,” a place I had always associated with steamy jungles and crushing heat. More than any place I had ever seen, it looked like the ends of the earth, and I found it impossible to believe that, not only could you visit those ragged peaks, but you could climb amongst them. We wanted to go there. Badly. As our bus idled at the Chilean border crossing yesterday, those same craggy spires looming in the distance, it was hard to believe we were finally here.

To prepare for our big adventure, our hostel, Erratic Rock, hosts a daily information session. Run by two guys from Oregon, Rustyn, one half of the duo, gave an engaging talk about the ins and outs of hiking the W, from how to get to the park to what to pack (and more importantly, what to leave at home). He often leads guided hikes into the parks for “richies,” people looking for comfortable, short stints into the wilderness. “But they’re tourists, not trekkers, and there’s a difference. They’ll walk an hour in, stop for a beer, give themselves a high five, and walk right back out.” I wanted to be a hiker.

In Patagonia, the wind is fierce. Rustyn reported gusts that can lift a grown man off the ground and deposit him in another location; holding on to one’s tent can quickly become akin to flying a kite. That’s how crazy the wind is. Still, despite the area’s notoriously intense weather, there is no special gear required. Rustyn is a proponent of adopting “the stink uniform,” consisting of one quick-dry top and pair of pants that will be our outfit for the next six days. At nights we get to change into comfy, dry pants, shirts, and socks. That’s it: no special Goretex or super dooper shoes. “Some Australians hike it in flip flops,” he assured us.

This experience will be different from hiking the Milford Track in many ways. While we’ll be out on the trail for six days, as opposed to Milford’s four, our accommodations will be deluxe in comparison. A series of refugios, which are souped up dorms, boast equipment rentals, full meal services, hot showers, and swanky bars. This was a major selling point for me, as we will have to pack very little into the park, making the load light and the walking all the easier. Hikers have an option to camp instead of staying at the refugios, the latter being a considerably more expensive option, but did I mention the hot showers and full meals? And we won’t be following the same path as we did on the Milford Track, meaning we probably won’t share the same sense of camaraderie with our fellow hikers. But did I mention the full bar?

I haven’t gotten cold feet. In fact, I’m a lot less nervous than when I started the Milford Track. Rustyn assured us that completing the W equals a lifetime of street cred in the hiking world. Even if we do enjoy a glass of wine every evening. And did I mention the hot showers?

We’ll be back to civilization the evening of January 29th!

The rest of the Ushuaia photos finished uploading, in the Southern Patagonia album, and the photos from El Calafate are uploading as we speak (fingers crossed!) in the same album.

Thursday, January 22, 2008

We traveled thousands of miles around the world to see a block of ice.

I know, I know: it sounds crazy. But we were on our way north through Patagonia, and El Calafate, the gateway to Los Glaciares National Park, was an easy stopover on our way to Puerto Natales to begin a six-day hike through Torres del Paine National Park (more on that insanity later). And, it’s not just any block of ice. The Perito Moreno Glacier is one of the world’s largest, measuring the size of Buenos Aires. Having just visited Buenos Aires, a city akin to New York where you can walk for days and never see the other side, it was difficult to grasp the magnitude without seeing it for myself. But what really makes Perito Moreno unique amongst the world’s glaciers is its activity. Most glaciers just lie there, slabs of cold on Earth’s Barcalounger that move at, well, a glacial pace. But Perito Moreno is advancing at breakneck speed – at least by glacial standards – at one meter per day. The result? You can stand at the glacier’s edge and actually witness its movement.

Our small tour bus wound its way down the old road to the glacier, bypassing the caravans of high-season tourists on the main road. We passed through barren, wind-swept fields as clutches of sheep frolicked in amber grass and paraded through calafate bushes, a blueberry-like fruit native to this neck of the woods. The bright aquamarine waters of Lake Argentino, the country’s largest, sparkled in the early morning light, colored by glacial mineral deposits. Spires of meringue-topped mountains crowned in the distance, sharp as thumbtacks, a dramatic backdrop in this rugged landscape.

As we approached the glacier, the loudspeaker on our bus crackled. “Ten seconds to liftoff,” boomed a muffled voice. There was buzzing and whirring, as ground control continued its announcement. “What the hell is going on?” I asked Maikael. “Are we preparing for liftoff?” The music swelled, and as the opening notes to Superman soared through the speakers, the Perito Moreno Glacier filled our field of vision, a molasses river of blue-tinged ice pushing its way through ragged mountains. The bus erupted in a riot of applause: Patagonia Backpackers knew how to put on a show.

Over the next three hours, we were treated to a full sensory experience of the glacier. An excellent series of “balconies” provide multiple viewing opportunities of the glacier from a variety of angles, and boat tours lend an up-close-and-personal feel of the north and south faces. We jockeyed for position on the first balcony, and within minutes chunks of ice were falling from the glacier, causing waves of excitement to rush through the crowd.

The size of the glacier is deceptive. The smallest pieces, looking like snowballs, created a firecracker “boom” that reverberated through the valley. The glacier stands up to 60 meters, about 180 feet, above the waterline, the equivalent of an 18-story building at its highest point. (Imagine another 360 feet under the water!) What looks like a sliver often amounts to a five-story building crashing into the icy waters, creating a fierce splash that sounds like a freight train being lobbed off a cliff. We watched in rapt attention as the glacier repeatedly sloughed off tons of ice at an alarming rate: what looked like boats bobbing in the distance were actually icebergs. As we navigated through the waters of the glacier’s north face, the clear blue spires looming overhead, a mammoth block of ice cracked off, the biggest yet, creating waves that rocked the boat to and fro. It is difficult to grasp the scale of such a massive thing.

We napped on the bus ride home, exhausted. Who knew glaciers could be so exciting? Just as I drifted off to Dreamland, the blare of a thousands alarm clocks jarred me from my sleep, the opening strains of Time from Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album rocketing through the bus. It was time to get up – and onto our next adventure.

After losing our chance to watch the inauguration by TV, we lost our Internet connection, which means that, not only did we miss out on today´s festivities, but the rest of our photos never uploaded from Ushuaia.  So hang tight and stay tuned!  Hopefully the Internet gods will smile upon us again tomorrow.