Days 48-50: It Rains in Torres del Paine

It Rains in Torres del Paine

Days 48 – 50

February 14 – 16

Torres del Paine National Park, Chilean Patagonia

In Southern Chilean Patagonia, there are two busses that go from Puerto Natales to Torres del Paine National Park: one at 7:30 AM and one at 2:30 PM.  Unfortunately for me, I had no food left over from El Chalten, I didn’t get in to Puerto Natales until midnight, the supermarkets in town don’t open until 9:30 AM, and I needed 9000 calories in my pack to survive my stay in the park.  The 2:30 bus was empty save for a few souls, and I imagine that this route exists more to return people from Torres del Paine than to take them there.  At 2:30 sharp, the bus driver closed the door and chartered us towards the park entrance, blasting “YMCA” by the Village People.  On repeat.  The whole way there.  I cringed at the thought of this song looping through my head while trekking through the park.  

I arrived at the Ranger Station two-and-a-half hours later, paid the exuberant entrance fee, checked into the campground in Torre Central, and searched for a patch of home for the next two nights.  I set my tent up between two trees that provided intermittent shade and a break from the high winds: they were predicted be strong tomorrow afternoon.  I stayed at camp that afternoon and planned for my next day.  Because I couldn’t get a campsite at Paine Grande, the only way for me to see the French Valley was to make it a day trip, albeit a very long day trip.  It was 20 kilometers (12 miles) one way just to Mirador Frances (French Viewpoint).  I silently accepted the 40 kilometer challenge and stayed up reading until the earth darkened, putting itself to sleep.  

I awoke to the drumming of raindrops on the top of my tent at 6:00 AM, a much later hour than expected.  The NOAA weather report was wrong; if the storm was delayed by six hours, it might rain all day.  I poked my head out and saw stagnant winds keeping the clouds in place; the skies reminded me of rainy days in California.  I remembered too well that rainy days there are just that: a day of rain.  This wasn’t going anywhere.  If I wanted to see the French Valley today, I was going to have to get up, suck it up, and get out there.  

At times like this my fancy hiking umbrella comes in handy, but a previous experience with Patagonian winds in El Chalten that almost destroyed my umbrella meant that it was sitting in a storage room in a hostel in Puerto Natales 90 kilometers (55 miles) away.  Labeling it dead weight finally bit me in the butt.  Within ten minutes, my pants were completely soaked, the cold air stealing the heat from my legs that were just gaining momentum.  I reasoned that if this was the worst of it, I could endure.  A fear flashed in my mind that the clouds would never lift, blocking any view of the French Valley, nullifying my efforts.  I shook it off; I wasn’t going to let cold and rain deter me that easily.  

I came to my first water crossing; I could tell the levels were higher than normal.  It was here I met Jen, a solo hiker from Seattle.  We found the best spot to cross and decided to hike to the French Valley together.  I had to submerge one of my boots just to make it across a creek.  I felt a light squishiness with my first step on the other side: a bad sign.  

But that decision to hike together didn’t last.  At the next water crossing an hour later, the river was running deep, fast, and cold.  The stone bridge that normally ensures dry feet was submerged far under the rush of water that flowed over the rocks.  Many people had gathered here, looking for a feasible crossing.  We trekked a long span of the river before deciding on the best place to cross.  In the time spent searching, several thoughts crossed my mind: I was already behind schedule, the clouds threatened to nullify my efforts, any more water crossings would be overflowed due to the rain, and I would definitely have to cross this river again, likely in the dark at the pace I was going.  And 40 kilometers feels longer with wet feet.  I told Jen that I would make sure she made it across before heading back.  She waved at me from the other side, blew me a kiss, and we parted ways. 

The walk back was colder.  Back at camp, I enthusiastically stripped down, dried off, and climbed into the warmest sleeping bag of the trip.  The drumming of raindrops that woke me up several hours prior now lulled me back to sleep.  In my head, I earned the early afternoon bedtime. 

My alarm went off at 1:50 AM.  Is it that time already?  I swiped for a snooze until 2:00 AM and put my pants on.  It was much warmer this morning than last, probably because there was no freezing cold rain this time.  I climbed out of my tent to the good news of a clear sky; last night’s high winds blew the storm away.  Bright stars spanned from horizon to horizon, save for the north where the tall mountains reached well into the sky, blocking the low-lying stars.  That’s where I was going: to the base of the mountains that granted their name to this national park: Torres del Paine.  I strapped my boots and hit the road, leaving at this early hour to watch the sunrise at their feet.  

A four hour trek feels longer at night.  It’s easy to lose the path, and there is no scenery to keep my mind engaged.  I had my thoughts and the five meter field-of-view granted by my headlamp.  I found a rhythm to my breathing and kept my legs moving.  The terrain changed, growing steeper as I neared the glacial lagoon sitting at the foot of Torres del Paine.  As I crested the top of the final hill, I could hear waves sloshing back and forth: that must be the lagoon, I must be here.  A cursory scan revealed I was the first one up there.  I was surprised, until I realized how early it was and how fast I was moving.  It was still pitch black outside, save for the brilliant astral backdrop.  I turned my headlamp off and my eyes started to adjust, revealing the outline of three vertical behemoths on the western horizon.  Those were the towers.  I set up my camera and tripod, adjusted all of my settings, and opened the first shutter.  I have a new love, and it is called astrophotography.  My naked eye doesn’t see the sky the same way the camera does, and I never know what is going to come out of the camera until I press the “review” button.  Ideally, I set the scene during the day, and shoot at night.  But for these blind shoots, the first shot gets me in the ballpark, the second shot is to check my correction, and the third shot, after any minor adjustments, is all money.  

The Torres del Paine massif at night.  The long exposure make the slow moving
clouds stream from the northwest.

A close-up night shot of the towers.

More people arrived as we neared sunrise.  Foreboding clouds to the southeast threatened to take away the luminescence that direct sunlight provides to the towers.  They were low, but not low enough to block out the sun entirely.  A red glow appeared at the top of Torre Central, gliding down the towers, picking up the other peaks, and painting their lengths with a soft sunrise glow.  My camera was on its tripod, and the only mind I paid it was to hold down the shutter button.  Watching these granite geological marvels light up and glow from red to orange was too captivating to avert my eyes.  They were lit for less than a minute, and then the sun moved behind the foreboding clouds.  The massif returned to gray.  The crowds cleared.  I stayed for another hour, ignoring the cold and the wind.  

The morning sunlight painted the towers red and orange
Note: the white balance here makes them appear gold.

Sunrise portrait of the towers showing a true-to-color image.

Panorama of the massif ridge line.  The clouds have already blocked the sun
from reaching the towers, only occasionally touching the bottom of the massif.

Because I made my ascent in the dark of night, I had no idea what path I would see on the four-hour journey back to camp.  After a 45 minute steep descent through the boulder field, I entered a coniferous forest reminiscent of others here in Patagonia: rife with tall standing trees and numerous more blown over.  Just as the sun broke over the top of the clouds, the rain started.  A light rain, with no wind.  This type of weather is a strange kind of pleasant, and the trees that have yet to fall provided intermittent shelter and a kaleidoscope of light through their branches and leaves.  Exiting the forest, I hiked the cliffs of the river valley that converged all the waters falling from the mountains here.  In the gorge below, the serpentine raged white noise.  

The trees here provided shelter from the rain.

Some of the flora found on the path.

Back at camp, my Patagonian adventure was over. Save for transporting myself from here to Santiago, Chile, my time was up and I would see nothing more of this unbelievable region of the world.  I waited for a lull in the rain before breaking down my tent, packing up, and moving towards the park entrance.