A Short Walk in the Paine

On the often under appreciated South American continent Chile’s Torres del Paine National park is perhaps, along with the nearby Los Glaciers national park in neighbouring Argentina, the most famous trekking destination. And within the park, the grand circuit as it is called is only surpassed Peru’s legendary Inca trail as the most known trek in all of Latin America. All the hype that surrounds a place such like this often discourages one, as few places can in reality approach the mythical aura that surrounds them. Arriving in Santiago, nearly 3000km away, the much heralded beauty of the park is often thrust on the visitor. “Have you been to Torres del Paine ?” is the incessant question well meaning Chilean’s will plough you with. The further south you head, the more insistent the locals become that you make for their world famous park. I was never in any doubt as to whether I’d visit this southern wonder. Trekking in Southern Patagonia was one of my main motivations in visiting the continent, and to trek in the regions most heralded park was always going to be right at the top of my agenda. So it was that in early January, in the height of an especially sunny summer blamed on El Niño, I disembarked from a thirty hour bus trip at a small terminal in the bustling port town of Punta Arenas. Originally this provincial capital was to serve me only as a gateway to the area. Yet typically of travel I ended up using this town as a base for more than three months of trekking. My first stay in those endless southern days of the Punta Arenas summer was brief. Two short nights later, I was hitching to Puerto Natales beneath an enormous pack and leaden skies. Chileans are a naturally friendly and amiable people and hitch hiking proved a very enjoyable and efficient means of travel. Numerous short lifts later and by mid afternoon I was in the small touristy Puerto Natales. Ambitiously I decided to try hitching the remaining 150km of poor dirt road out to the Park. Luck was on my side, and I got in at 21:00, with enough light to walk for 30minutes from the administration centre, pitch tent and cook an unadventurous pasta dish before the westerly glow weakened. That night the I had my first encounter with a companion that kept with me for four months in patagonia. The at first gentle rustling of the grasses, turned to a tangiable force, as the stalks bent low beneath the incredulous strength of a wind I’d heard warnings of long before. My tent shook and swayed as gusts continued through the night. I woke the following morning to the misery of having to drop a tent in winds that threatened to flatten me. My first night had been on an unsheltered grassy plain, and for three hours I toiled into a head wind to traverse that flat exposed expanse. One can see the main massif consisting of the Torres (towers) Cuernos (horns) and the flanking Cordillera Paine grande and Cordillera Paine chico (big and small mountains of Paine) from many kilometres distant. Its an imposing spectacle to approach, this great block of a mountain, appearing thrust out from the main range, isolated with its many peaks and valleys, towering nearly 3000m above the lakes and plains at its base. The Grand Circuit circles this mass of granite and sediment, covering almost 100km of rugged and breathtaking country. After the initial approach one suddenly comes upon a turquoise lake, wherein the whole spectacle of the massif would be reflected if the wind would lie. Even toiling along with a hefty pack, and being buffeted by aggressive and incessant winds is not enough to stop the most disenchanted trekker from pausing for a while to gape. For half an hour one skirts the shore of this surreally coloured lake. Great grebes and upland geese occur sporadically, adding to the natural feast. At the far end of the lake I reached the refugio named Lago Pehoe after the lake. Here one meets with the path that circles the massif, and I took lunch, crouching out of the wind. I chose to do the circuit clockwise, against convention and the constant stream of trekkers going the other way. From the lake one has to climb for an hour to clear a low ridge, through stunted groves of Nothofagus trees. The intensely glaciated landscape results in little barren ridges interspersed with moist hollows. A further hour through this landscape of trees and rocks, climbing gently all the while, and one can see the huge Lago Grey. Confined to a long glacial valley, the mighty glacier Grey feeds one end of this soft brown body of water, while the Rio ....... drains the other end, at the side of a sandy spit peppered with stranded icebergs. Along this stretch I felt a growing pain develop in my right Achilles tendon. The descent toward the glacier is steep and rough, and I found a lovely secluded campsite just as the discomfort of the tendon was preying on my mind. I had already walked 25km that day which turned out to be my biggest days walking in the park. I submerged my troublesome foot in an icy stream and ate a huge supper in an effort to lighten my pack. Weary from the long walk, I slept soundly through a storm that drenched parties with lesser gear throughout the park. The morning dawned fresh after the nights storm, but clouds still hung low and threatening for most of the day. I vowed to walk less and more cautiously, and set out at a methodical, but by my long limbed standards slow, pace. A low pass connects the two valleys that form the western and northern boundaries of the massif. The stretch from the snout of the glacier to the base of this pass and it corresponding camp turned out to be the worst section in the park. A veritable obstacle course of fallen trees, muddy slopes and rocky river crossings, the 5km above the glacier took me a torturous 3 hours to complete. The first sections up the pass the next morning were not much better. The route is worn smooth, and with a little rain, as is so common in this corner of the park, becomes a treacherous slide that one has to crawl up. Fortunately I had an ice-axe, which served to greatly aid traction as I heaved myself up to the snowline. Abruptly one clears the stunted Lenga forest, to open packed scree. Not only is walking suddenly easy and unhindered, but views open out down to the glacier. The contorted ice mass of Glacier grey lies 700metres below. I was blessed with a fairly clear day, and looking up valley, could see hints of the endless white expanse that forms the southern of patagonia’s two icecaps. This is the most remote corner of the park. Its at least three days walk out in any direction and commitment to the walk is total as on leaves the icy valley of glacier grey behind, and heads into the lush forested slopes of the Los Perros (the dogs ??) valley. The endless rains in this corner of the park result in a quagmire rather than a path, but delving into my bulging backpack, I extracted my gaiters and marched serenely on, making good time. The party of three Americans that were walking at the same pace as me seemed to marvel at both the weight and amount of equipment I carry. In retrospect, there was no need for a some of that vast range of outdoor gear I carried, and on my return to the park I came back with a stripped down pack, weighing less and packed with more food than the monster I battled along with round the circuit. After passing the spectacular ice fall of los perros, one enters magnificent forest. Nothofagus species (southern beeches) dominate the park, and this stretch of lenga (nothofagus pulimio) is amongst the most ancient I came across. To complete the scene, I was lucky enough to bump into a pair of Magellanic Woodpeckers. Big black birds, with white rumps, the male has a rich red head. Both have bizarre crests that give them as distinct woody woodpecker look. That night was spent camping at Refugio Dickson, on another glacial lake. The massif of the Paine range lies behind while the Patagonian Andes stretch out north, icy and glacier covered, across the lake. The main trials of the walk are behind here, at least for me. Most trekkers, heading the other way, are only about to embark on the essence of the hike, having spent two days idling along a lush flat floodplain. I limped rather than idled that distance. My Achilles tendon was almost as thick as a my wrist, and each step was a misery. As if to compensate for my misery, the weather cleared to leave me beneath blue skies, and the floodplain was snowed in under daisies, with all the overpowering splendour but none of the diversity of a namaqualand spring. I ended my first trek in the Torres after 6 days. I spent a further day in the park resting my tendon in the rather ambitious hope that I would be able to continue, but quickly realised it would take a bit more care and rest than that, so reluctantly headed back to Punta Arenas, for ice packs, ibuprofen and rest. It was a month before I returned to the park. My tendon had improved beyond all expectations, and I’d learnt a few more tricks of trekking in these Southern latitudes. When trekking in ones home country, shopping for food and other preparatory tasks become quite routine. One only needs to head down to the local supermarket, where you know the exact location on all the shelves of each of your favourite brands of hiking food. In a foreign country, the whole task of preparing to trek can be rather more complex. There are new supermarkets to be located, a whole new world of foodstuffs to be tried, and good brands of old staples like pasta to be distinguished from the bad. It took me a couple treks to achieve this. Also, back in South Africa very few people ever hike for more than a week continuously, and then almost none of those that do, do so solo. On my return to Torres, I arrived self contained for nearly two weeks. Most of what I knew from 6 years hiking the berg, in terms of what to take, how to pack, and even how to approach a trek mentally stood me in little stead. In some ways, I had to relearn a lot of what I thought was common sense. By trying to trek the circuit berg style, I’d injured my tendon, and almost ruined a summer in patagonia. I came back with a lighter pack (although not much!), and a wealth of knowledge gleaned off many other trekkers. The main secret turned out to be the omission of lunch. This bulky, expensive and often not very nutritious meal was replaced with energy drinks, and double breakfasts. Once my body got into the routine of it, the technique stood me in good stead for the “W” and the following 3 treks. Aside from the grand circuit in Torres, there is what is called the “W”. This connects the southern half of the circuit, plus includes sidetrips up the Torres and French valleys, as well as going as far as the glacier. On a map these routes form a rough “W”, and hence the name. It takes a day or two less than the whole circuit, and is better set up for the inexperienced trekker than the circuit. In fact, it combines a lot of the best scenery in the park, and given the choice of one or the other, most people complete the “W”. However, rather than hurtling along as I did on the first trek, I realised that time was no object. Unlike most tourists, rushing Torres to fit it in in their lightening 3 week tour of Chile, my only deadline was a plane ticket 9 months away. So this time I immersed myself in the mountains, taking 11 days to complete a walk most people do in 5. I base camped a couple of times, and day walked far up both the Ascencio and French valleys. In the quaint little V shaped Ascencio valley, that looks for all the world that it should be somewhere hidden in the Alps, I got well clear of the innumerable day walkers that flock up from the hotels below to view the Torres, and explored high and remote rivers, that only climbers get to visit as they pass to tackle one of the many world class routes. In the french valley, I struggled through driving snow and sleet to the view point from which one can best appreciate the huge cirque of vertical granite. For my efforts I got mediocre views and had my weighty camera blown over on its stable low tripod. I left that point, cold and with renewed respect for my ancient old Nikon and the raw strength of the Patagonian wind. One day I rose at dawn, and watched the awesome spectacle of the suns first rays touch the tops of the polished granite fangs of the three Torres. Another afternoon I scrambled and climbed down to Glacier Grey, strapped my crampons to my boots, and with a swing of the ice axe, heaved myself on to that river of ice. Exploring the mammoth contorted body of ice was a wonder my bushveld and berg matured mind could not quite wrap itself around. Aquamarine rivers flowed down indigo crevasses, leaving pools of the deepest clearest purest blue imaginable. The shattered ice forms peaks and troughs, overhangs and caves. Were it not for the steep walls of rock that contained the glacier, one would quickly become disorientated amongst the sculptures of ice. The weather declared a truce for most of that second trip, as surprising and fragile as any middle eastern peace accord. I swan in deep icy lakes, and lounged on black sand beaches. After the pain of the first trip, thumping my way through on my own pointless schedule, I came to realise that if one took the time, and met the stunning but harsh landscape on its terms, it was indeed a paradise. I had not a scrap of food in my pack, nor fuel for my battered stove when I reluctantly left the wilderness to return to civilisation. As I walked the last few kilometres to the administration centre, past the campsite where well over a month before I'd slept my first of 18 nights in the park, I made a silent vow to myself. Looking across at those fairy tale mountains, flirting with the early morning mists, I couldn't help but marvel that nearly 3 weeks of familiarity had done nothing to dull their impact. I vowed, that before too many years have passed, before too many roads infiltrate this wilderness, and well before the rapidly retreating glaciers have left only rock and dust, I will return, on a perfect summers day, such as this It is a vow I intend to keep.