PATAGONIA BACKPACKING - TWO WEEKS IN THE AYSÉN

Lost in the solitude of Cerro Castillo and Parque Patagonia

It’s May 2020 and the world is still wrestling out of the grips of the coronavirus pandemic, so I wanted to acknowledge that with a few words here. I’ve always believed in the power of story to inspire imagination: after every journey I take the time to document in some form, big or small. Bottling up an experience in photos or words means that I (or someone else) can re-open that memory and breathe into it another life, whether in daydreams or in planting the seed for a real adventure. The hours spent editing and sifting through thousands of images are in investment. They’re a deposit into an account that I hope you too can withdraw from, whether you’re quarantined in a small apartment hungry for escape or embarking on a flight to Chile, gathering any last morsels of to feed your stoke before switching to airplane mode.

I didn’t expect my stress level to spike so early, before we even arrived to a trailhead, let alone the airport. Leah and I realized my passport was close to expired. In two months it would become a useless book of odd stamps. For the entirety of the journey to Balmaceda I held my breath, relaxing my chest with every checkpoint that allowed me through. Our layover in Santiago was short and before long we were eagerly pressed into the airplane window, absorbing the serrated, expansive landscape underneath the airplane’s wings.

The shuttle from Balmaceda Airport carried us through the Chilean countryside and landed us in Coyhaique. It was Leah’s idea to suggest a trip to Patagonia in February, an easy request for me to agree to given how moved I was by my last visit to the region. She gets the credit for suggesting the northern part of Patagonia as well: the more sparsely populated Aysén. Fortunately for us, it gets overlooked by foreigners and is almost entirely unknown to the hordes of trekkers (myself included) who assumed hiking the world-famous Torres del Paine and El Chalten was synonymous with “having gone to Patagonia.”

We didn’t have much to do in Coyhaique beyond acquiring lighters and fuel canisters, which required a patchwork of Spanish and help from a pair of friendly carabineros (the national police force). I took this, and other minor logistical struggles, as a good sign there hadn’t yet been enough foreign foot traffic in the region to make things like shuttle arrangements and shopping for outdoor equipment seamless. We spent most of the afternoon laying in a park, proud of our choices in ice cream flavors, lazily watching the city’s residents enjoy the austral summer weather.

Day 1 - Las Horquetas Trailhead

Not over-eating at the hotel’s breakfast buffet was the first challenge of the day. We’d be carrying our meals for ten straight days of hiking, and I had decided to allot myself only 2,500 calories a day to pack light.

With an almost too-full belly, I ambled my way downstairs to meet our driver. It seemed we were his only job for the day, and I wondered what he’d do with the rest of it. The car sped along the winding road connecting Coyhaique and the town of Villa Cerro Castillo. We came to the the Las Horquetas trailhead, right at the halfway point, much sooner than we expected and took photos by the sign before pushing past the wooden gate.

Eventually the trail emerged from the forest into an open glacial basin; we were close to camp. Despite taking our time, we arrived with several hours of light and found an empty tent spot at the Río Turbio Segundo camp. It was another sign that we had no reason to rush, no clock to race against.

Day 2 - El Penon Pass

We followed the open river bed of Río Turbio, the stillness of the morning broken by the clacking of polished stones under each footstep. The trail slipped into a forest where the climbing began at a gentle grade. From the campsite that morning we had eyes on the pass we’d go over, about 2,000ft above. Within an hour we were at the base looking up at the loose blocks of rock that would serve as our staircase.

After filling up at a waterfall, we made an adjustment of our layers. A strong, cool breeze pushed us along and picked up in intensity as we ascended. We were never worked by the effort, only stopping take in the valley that we’d soon lose sight of. Looking down, we could make out the tiny, colorful backpacks being hauled by hikers who got a later start. I thought about how our windbreakers must look to their eyes.

I decided to take advantage of how warm I felt from the hours of hiking. I hadn’t bathed in two days and figured taking a dip into the rushing river nearby would cool me down and leave me feeling refreshed. I acted on the impulse before I could talk myself out of it. Leah thought it was a terrible idea given how chilly and humid the air was. She wasn’t wrong; at the El Bosque camp the sky and sun were entirely blocked by thickly forested tree cover. I figured a few minutes of exercise could dry me off and I’d feel more at ease. Before she could talk me out of it, I ran barefoot down the trail to the river and submerged myself in the cool water, careful not to slip on the smooth rocks below the surface. The water was cold, but not as cold as I made it out to be in my head. After some jumping jacks, I was drier and cleaner than when I had started.

I retreated into the tent and settled into a comfortable lull, laying on the nylon fabric and feeling the soft, lumpy dirt under my bare back, not even bothering to set up a sleeping pad. Leah rapped on the tent wall and said the Chileans guys asked if we’d join them on a hike to the vista. There was a side trail out of camp I knew about, but figured we’d look into later. I didn’t know when that ‘later’ would be, so now seemed as good a time as ever. I was curious about these guys so I said I’d be ready in 5 minutes, a challenge given all of my clothes lay outside the tent.

The trail was a half mile, but entirely uphill and over damp and loose boulders. It seemed like a staircase into the sky. Up ahead there was only a thick coating of fog. It wasn’t exactly raining but we were walking through a heavy mist that dampened our clothes and skin. I was doubtful there’d be much for a view, but I was having too much fun. Since emptying my backpack of the tent and food supply, I was flying up the slope and felt like I could ascend forever.

Leah and I weren’t sure whether the guys spoke much English, so we engaged with Ignacio (the one who invited us) in our broken Spanish blended with some scraps of English tossed here and there. It turned out the others were friends from university and all spoke perfect English. As teenagers they were admins on Minecraft servers and picked it up easily. Nearly all of them were interested in talking about politics though, bitterly disagreeing with each other about whether left-wing policies were appropriate for Chile or whether that would undo decades of economic progress. This conversation was happening against the backdrop of large protests in Santiago, almost a thousand miles away. Some of the guys had even participated in the riots. For me, it was unusual seeing how fluidly they toggled between their friendship and their differences. I couldn’t imagine that happening in the US with the prevalence of identity politics.

The trail crested over a ridge, revealing a massive bowl rising up to several jagged peaks, all semi-obscured by wisps of clouds, and dropping down into a glacial lake spotted with chunks of frosty white ice. Fortunately for us the wind calmed, so we spread ourselves out. Besides us, there were only three others to share the scene with. The other group was lugging a table-sized lump of glass-clear ice stranded on shore and attempted to toss it back into the lake.

Day 3 - Patagonia Winds

I woke up several times throughout the night, checking my watch only to see that just a few hours had passed. Each time I opened my eyes the storm brewing outside was in a different stage of intensity, increasing as the night progressed. The flapping of the tent walls grew louder and I became more uncomfortable with each passing hour as I needed to pee. Stepping outside, even for a brief moment, would I’d return to my warm down sleeping bag soaked. I’d probably wake Leah in the process and she’d call me out for all the mud I’d inevitably carry on my feet.

At 4am I decided I’d sleep better if I just got it over with. I stepped out into the pitch black night but didn’t very go far. I took just a few careful steps to avoid stumbling in the dark. While I went about my business, I took in both how quiet and how loud the forest was. The only sound was the loud hush of raindrops slapping onto millions of leaves above me and silently disappearing into the spongy earth below. I slipped back inside, somehow without stirring Leah, and managed to brush off most of the dirt clinging to my damp feet. As I lay in bed, counting down the hours til our alarm, I played out what was ahead of us. Today would have been the most scenic part of the hike. We’d be hiking by Cerro Castillo, the namesake of the park, and it would be shrouded in clouds. I mentally prepared myself for a full day of trudging through the mud with hours of sideways rain, wet gear clinging to my skin, and limited visibility.

Sunrise was at 7am but we were able to turn off our headlamps as early as an hour before that. From within the tent, we could see the exterior was caked in a layer of mud from last night’s storm and needed to be brushed off before stuffing it in my backpack. Leah and I optimized our packs so our sleeping bags would stay dry and protect our cameras. After shaking off as much dirt as I could, I stuffed the damp tent in the bottom of my pack.

It was 7:06AM. We were finally ready to go. There weren’t any rangers stopping us on the trail. In fact, there were several tents that were still up. I wondered if they had even heard the ranger’s warning or if we just got lucky thanks to our friends.

While day-dreaming under a clear sky, we preemptively assumed the ranger’s warnings were overblown or we had gotten lucky with a turn in the forecast.

We were climbing up what was a nearly feature-less pile of rocks that formed Morro Negro, a round hill compared to the massive, angular Cerro Castillo to our right. The challenge wasn’t the terrain; it was the location. We were now at the crossroads of several wind tunnels that pressed on us. Each new step was labored and we pushed against an invisible wall to make any upward progress. Even holding a conversation with Leah exhausted my lungs, so we quietly forced one foot in front of the other.

When we reached the top of Morro Negro, we could see a rainbow dropping down in the valley. We happily embraced about this, naively assuming the other side of the hill had calmer winds. Where we stood, we estimated wind speeds of about 70-80 mph. To our immediate surprise, the gusts ratcheted up as we descended the switchbacks. Shifting my weight between legs would leave my knees buckling from a sudden shove from an unexpected direction. Whenever I turned to face south, the wind would slip into my rain shell hood, which was tightly wrapped around my face. The rapid berating of fabric against my temples was deafening. A few minutes ago it was hard to speak aloud; now it was hard to just think to myself.

I would later hear that our Chilean friends from yesterday had overslept and didn’t leave until three hours after us. At the windy section of the trail, they ran into the ranger. She made an exception for them, judging them to be capable enough as a group.

Leah and I were exhausted from the full workout of wind-wrestling with packs. We sat down and looked at a map once we found a forested patch of trees to take shelter in. Our plan had been to skip right through the Porteadores camp (an hour away) and settle into the Neozelandes camp (an additional two hours away). By all accounts this was the pro move. Neozelandes was closer to amazing views, had more space, and the hike to it was fairly flat. Despite that being universal knowledge, most hikers would give up their lofty ambitions of pushing on with heavy packs and weary legs once they caught sight of a place to settle down.

While we descended into Porteadores, Leah called out that her knee and ankle pains flared up dramatically. We reconsidered whether we ought to push it further once we reached the first camp. However, when we finally made it to the crowded Porteadores camp we knew we wouldn’t be staying long. The outhouses were the worst we’d seen and the tent sites were virtually stacked on top of each other.

We prepared a late lunch of the breakfast we held off on earlier. With my shoes off and a bowl of oatmeal warming my lap, I leaned against a log and let my mind wander. This camp had a collective mood, as if everyone was sharing a sigh of exhaustion. We had all tussled with the wind descending Morro Negro. We all woke up earlier than we’d planned and all carried wet tents. That reminded me to lay out my tent in the sun while Leah took a nap by the river. An hour later, we shouldered our packs once again and pushed on to Neozelandes.

The trail to Neozelandes was two hours of flat hiking through deeply wooded forest. One of the more scenic points of the entire park, Laguna Duff, would be a four-hour round trip after unloading gear at Neozelandes. The hikers who stationed themselves at Porteadores planned to do this portion quickly with light packs. I tried to gauge whether Leah would be interested in pushing on after we made it to our camp. Her achilles tendon had her wincing with every other step. Leah said she was fine with me running ahead to get a view. I knew if I ran I’d make it back by sunset, a perfect window of opportunity. I declined her offer though and we walked into camp together.

We retreated into our tent just as the first threads of a storm materialized. I convinced Leah to step out with me back to the meadow, just to see what kind of sunset there’d be. All around us, the warm and welcoming valley transformed into a grey and menacing scene. Even the peaks above looked sharper and meaner with the fading light. While we walked back to the safety and warmth of our sleeping bags, I thought about what it must feel like to be at the top of one of these great peaks. Down here we only got a small taste of the suffering this beautiful place could dish out.

Day 4 - Leaving Cerro Castillo

We had about seven hours of hiking ahead of us, partially backtracking a trail and partially hiking for about three hours on a gravel road. We kept our hopes up for a passing car once we emerged onto this seemingly endless road. It was entirely deserted of cars and of trees as well, totally unprotected from the sun at high noon. We were lucky to get even a fleeting breeze that day. Leah and I took several breaks to lather up on sunscreen, smearing it onto our sweaty faces with dirt-covered palms. After a few hours of quiet and focused hiking, we saw a car that picked up a couple ahead of us. To lift morale, I announced that unlike them we’d earn each mile of this park without any help. Leah’s knee was splitting in pain, so I’m not sure how much my words helped.

Leah wasn’t happy with being stuck in Puerto Ibáñez with nothing to do except get pummeled by wind. She made her frustration clear by not speaking to me, besides telling me I was a fool for insisting we schedule a driver so early. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of arguing on a vacation, so I did my best to find a place for us to hang out. We walked the entire length of the town until we found the one open cafe. Over coffee, wine, and water we unwinded and relaxed before making our way back to the ferry building.

Day 5 - Parque Patagonia

Our driver raced south, overtaking the few cars on the road and leaving a thick cloud of hot air in his wake. I tried to journal on a tiny notepad while seated in the back but the ride was so bumpy I ended up with my pen ink scribbled on my pants. I instead stared out at the expansive landscape we were tearing through, most of it was a barren desert of rolling hills with no escape from the sun.

We headed into the ranger’s station to check in at the park gate. Today’s stretch of hiking would involve several stream crossings and from what I’d read, the ranger had answers on where the best points to navigate the more dangerous, fast currents would be. A stern-faced man in a crisp CONAF uniform curtly greeted us. He introduced himself as Cesar and didn’t mirror any of our smiles. In Spanish, I told him we were hoping to hike our way to the city of Cochrane, sixty miles away. He stared at us blankly and eventually replied "Dígame, cuál es el plan?” I traced my finger along the framed map on the wall showing our route and roughly where we planned to camp. He paused, and then showed he was satisfied with my hand-waving by ripping two permits out of a booklet. Before we left, I remembered to ask about the river crossings. His face grew even stiffer. Beyond somberly telling us that they were “muy peligroso,” we didn’t get much else out of him.

The second crossing of the day would be the first real obstacle that would give us serious pause. A half mile down the trail we’d be crossing the Río Jeinimeni, which drained into Lago General Carrera, which we had crossed just the prior evening. While I sat to put my socks and boots back on, a hiker headed in the opposite direction gave us valuable advice. He advised we go downstream to a point denoted by where the water would be more brown than blue. He acknowledged it would seem unintuitive given it was a longer stretch to the opposite shore, but it was also shallower. His friend chose the direct route and emerged soaked to his chest with a waterlogged backpack.

We carried on through the trail, relieved to have the most ‘peligroso’ of the stream crossings behind us. What I hadn’t given weight to were the many stream crossings ahead of us. Within an hour the trail, emptied out into an open glacial riverbed. The stream crossings here were benign: no more than five feet across and shallow enough to step into without wetting a knee. Unfortunately there was a stream every hundred feet. While Leah calmly plodded through the currents, confident in her waterproof boots and gaiters, I tried to become efficient at removing my trail runners, splashing across barefoot, re-wearing my footwear, and then chasing Leah down before she crossed the next stream.

Although we were stubbornly proud of our divergent methods, I was eager for the monotony of this routine to end. I was thrilled when we had a steep climb up a dirt path hidden in the forest, veering away from the network of stream crossings. I eagerly raced on, grateful for the searing pain in my quads. This was a familiar kind of burn, one I was used to from training, unlike the challenges of a stream crossing. I waited for Leah at the top and we both stepped onto the crest together for a view of Lago Verde.

We could see from our perch above the lake that the trail would snake down the steep hillside and traverse toward yet another glacial basin. Despite seeing this, mentally I had already declared victory, assuming the pass we ascended marked the end of our wet struggles. It was only after we picked our way through the descent, littered with downed trees from an avalanche, that we came face to face with what would be a mile of glacial stream crossings between us from the campsite. Unlike earlier, this web of streams was denser. I gave up on putting my shoes back and decided I’d walk barefoot over the polished rocks til the next stream. This plan worked, but it slow and painful if I stepped on any awkward rock that jutted into the fleshy parts of my foot .

I started to regret the decision to leave my water shoes at home. Leah similarly decided to forgo them as well. A couple had passed us hours ago, giving us a glimpse into what our hike would have been like in an alternate universe: they hiked with water shoes the entire day, cruising through each stream crossing without a moment of hesitation. We caught up to them only when they took breaks. We had assumed they would be in camp hours before us, but it was quite the opposite we’d later find out. They arrived hours after us, presumably getting lost in this last mile of the glacial basin, when all trail markers disappeared and it was anyone’s guess which way led to camp. Although I lacked water shoes, I had our route saved on on a GPS watch, which ultimately kept us on the true path.

We sat in the hut and chatted with the hikers, who were from Barcelona. Puri had the best command of English and told us they had been living out of backpacks for five months, stretching every dollar. Some months they managed to spend as little as 500 euros each. When they arrived to a city, rather than scope out hostel or campgrounds, they would find soccer fields or empty tracts of land. Only if there was a long spell of torrential downpour would they treat themselves to a single night indoors. I quietly thought about how I spend several times that amount just sitting at home in New York City.

As afternoon became evening, the hut grew more crowded; our footwear seemed no drier than when we started so Leah and I decided to settle in for the night. I was doubtful there would be much of a sunset given the cloud cover, but we stepped out anyway to get our last glimpse of Valle Hermoso before tucking ourselves in. For the first time in the entire trip, I was exhausted and all of it was mental.

Day 6 - Valle Hermoso to Valle Aviles

Leah and I were charging forward, feeling a strong momentum. Unlike yesterday, which was comprised of starts and stops with every stream crossing, today we had no obstacles. The only reasons to stop were to absorb the spectacular views or to admire the guanacos eyeing us with suspicion. We also saw no one else, possibly due to our late start.

We were so focused that we ended up on the opposite side of another glacial basin, one braided with the swift currents of the Rio Aviles. Traversing across at this particular point would be too challenging so we backtracked for easier path. To my surprise, Leah suggested we try lifting a heavy log to create a bridge across a short, but deep, section of the river. It was an absurd idea but I was happy to try. We removed our packs and lifted the 8ft-long log up. We haphazardly dropped it into the current and it was swept instantly into a useless position. We spent nearly an hour trying to figure out how to get across, ultimately settling on simple backtracking til we found a short section that was easier to cross.

Day 7 - Dinner with Jimmy and friends

The tops of the mountains, dusted with snow overnight, looked brand new to our eyes. Valle Aviles was the most deserted part of our entire trip so far. We were all alone, outnumbered by the vastness of the pristine wilderness.

We asked to be dropped off at the park headquarters, a two-mile hike away from our campsite for the night. I was eager to get those last two miles behind me but Leah suggested we celebrate our luck with a drink.

The park headquarters complex housed a boutique hotel, a restaurant, manicured lawns, and some property still owned by the Tompkins’ estate. The estate included a house perched on a hill, an orchard, and Doug’s Cessna 206 that he would fly in while considering which swaths of land should be brought under his conservation umbrella. We considered splurging on the restaurant but the reservations were booked for the dinner service. We sat in the empty bar room, talking through wide grins about how lucky we were. Leah handled the bill while I went to the men’s room. Less than a minute later she stuck her head in and whispered “Jimmy Chin’s here! He’s in the restaurant right now!”

Leah went to the bathroom just after we said goodbye to them. While I sat down and waited out front, Jimmy walked over to me. He asked about where I lived and if I was interested in moving out West. He also asked what we were having for dinner. I responded that it’d be another meal of freeze-dried goodness at the campground. This was the second time he asked about dinner, so I had the feeling an invite was imminent. I didn’t get my hopes up; I knew the tables were fully booked.

Leah and I said goodbye once again and lugged our packs down the road, laughing at how cool it was to run into them in Patagonia. As we shouted excitedly over the wind, we could hear running behind us. The footsteps belonged to a familiar face that I couldn’t put a finger on. When he came over, he said that Jimmy sent him to “find those kids and invite them to join us.” I recognized him from some of Cedar Wrights films and I knew he was a professional climber. While we walked back to the restaurant, he introduced himself as Timmy O’Neill. The name clicked. Timmy once held the speed record on the Nose of El Cap with Dean Potter and was quite hilarious.

Over dinner, Leah and I got to know Pablo and the kind of documentary film-making work he does, straddling adventure and humanitarian issues: drug wars in Mexico, climbing in Antarctica, kayaking in Greenland, and ivory poaching in Africa. It was getting dark and Pablo kindly offered us a ride to our campsite two miles away.

That night Leah and I were giddy with excitement and incredulous at what had just happened. Part of me expected to wake up any moment and find ourselves napping by the side of the road awaiting a hitchhike. It also sparked a deep feeling of curiosity about my own life. While looking across that dinner table, I saw in everyone the kind of work that I wished I was doing. I knew wishing for a change wasn’t enough though. The talented people seated around me didn’t get to where they were by accident. They took big risks and followed their passion for storytelling and exploring. I couldn’t tell if making a big leap by setting aside my career would be a regrettable move given how much I had already invested in my current path. I mulled over these thoughts until I fell asleep.

Day 8 - Lagunas Altas

We had another leisurely start from camp, ascending up a steep hillside for hours once we got going. From high above we could see a panoramic view of the wall of mountains to the west. This wall of rock and snow guarded the Southern Patagonian Ice Field, most of which remains unexplored because of its inaccessibility. When we stopped to study the horizon, I imagined Leah and myself on one of those peaks peering out into the vast sea of ice that few people have ever looked at. We’d be on a natural line that crudely divided the desert steppe from the glaciers: a world of ice and and a world of dirt in one frame.

Leah and I continued our climb, ascending higher until we reached the howling Paso Los Condores. We were entirely exposed to the wind coming in from the Pacific, slamming into the slope we were traversing. Having no one else around and being smothered by a wind that sucked the air out of my lungs felt eerie. It was both loud and quiet, chaotic and still. We rounded a corner to see a family of guanacos quietly watching us, entirely unbothered by the gusts. For fun, I started making up lyrics to the tune of Dylan’s Blowin’ in the Wind, yelling the words as far above the din as possible so Leah could hear me.

Once over the pass, we knew that it would all be downhill from here til Cochrane. We guiltily trampled our way through sensitive alpine ground, but confident we were on trail following marked metal posts. There wasn’t enough foot traffic here to ‘flatten out’ the sensitive vegetation, so we had the unusual honor of starting the process.

We arrived to a camp area alongside Lago Tamangito to find an open field of even more delicate alpine plant life. It was entirely deserted except for one group of Chileans teenagers. We had the room to spread out and therefore never got close enough to see their faces. Just as we were settling in for the night, I broke the zipper on my tent rain fly by pulling it impatiently. I craftily repaired it, and then promptly broke it again as it got dark. I gave up trying to fix it, figuring that it had been a warm day and likely would be a warm night. To my surprise, I woke up to frost dripping onto my nose in the middle of the night. It was actually the coldest night so far. I stepped out to pee and nearly fell back into the tent when I looked up. The sky was so densely packed with stars I didn’t know which direction to look at first. I was tempted to wake Leah up and a shooting star beamed through the sky.

Day 9 - To Cochrane

I woke up with a soreness that radiated dully throughout my back down to my calves. It was the coldest I had felt all trip and my muscles were tense throughout the night. When I stepped out, there was even a stiffness in the air. Beneath my shoes, which I regrettably slipped on without socks, I could hear the crunch of frost-covered plants. I still couldn’t believe we were allowed to camp on such fragile ground. I crouched to study at the knobby soil, which looked like the biological crust of lichen and moss that I saw in the Utah desert. Leah woke up and we both made our way over to the lake to fill up water for breakfast.

By hitching a ride a few days ago, we were ahead of schedule. Rather than spend our extra day by the lake, Leah and I started the hike down into the town of Cochrane. Along the trail we came to a CONAF cabin with several trail maintenance guys. There was a fork in the trail and I intended for to take the right. They all insisted that I take the trail to the left to get to Cochrane and we obliged. After about 10 minutes, I realized they had sent us along a much longer route that would add hours to our day. We backtracked and walked past them awkwardly, ignoring their shouts to us in Spanish.

We were relieved to find a bar open in Cochrane. As soon as our packs were clumsily shed, we sank into the seats and emptied the glasses of water on the table. We were too indecisive with the menu and ended up indulging in more than we could reasonably eat in a single sitting.

Cochrane is the southernmost town along the Carretera Austral road connecting rural Patagonia, only linked by road to the rest of Chile in 1988. We snagged bus tickets to Coyhaique for the following morning. Although we thought it would’ve been nice to stay in this sleepy town that sported a two-story house shaped like a mate gourd, we were eager to check out more of the northern Aysén.

Day 10 - Return to Coyhaique

We woke up before sunrise and walked through the quiet streets of Cochrane to the bus terminal. I suggested we sit on the left on our drive north, figuring that would give us the best scenery. Leah was in and out of naps while I was fully awake, mesmerized by the scenery we passed. It took over 7 hours of driving on bumpy dirt road to make it back to Coyhaique. In a way we were reversing the north-to-south traverse completed mostly on foot over the last week.

We passed by Villa Cerro Castillo and stopped for a bathroom break. Cerro Castillo dominated the skyline in a way we hadn’t been able to fully appreciate earlier. The massif was pressed against a clear blue sky with no clouds to obscure the jagged peaks. Leah and I disagreed whether it looked more impressive with or without the clouds.

Day 11 - Queulat National Park

We woke up early again to pile into a car, this time for a four-hour drive each way. I wondered if we should have gone mountain biking instead of committing to more time on the road. At our first rest stop, Leah found a stray cat to play with. It took me almost an hour to realize that’s what was causing my face to become itchy and red.

We regrouped and made the long drive back. Fortunately, this part of the Carretera Austral was on paved road. Our driver stopped for a break on the side of the road and we shuffled out to stretch our legs. There happened to be a couple on road bikes stopped at the same spot. They were Canadian retirees biking the 770-mile length of the road. Leah and I had been fantasizing about doing a similar trip and asked them for advice. They said they had absolutely no idea what they were doing and they weren’t cyclists back home either, which explained the beet-red sunburn worn by the man.

Day 12 - Claudio’s Horses

For our last full day in Patagonia, Leah suggested we ride horses. The hotel we were staying at, another gift from Leah’s parents, linked us up with Clauido, a local gaucho in the area. One of the staffers at the hotel, Jocelyn, was assigned to drive us to his ranch. She told us about how Claudio’s land had been in his family for four generations, which meant his ancestors were part of the founding settlers of Coyhaique in 1929. As we caught sight of Lago Frio, about a 30 minute drive outside the city, I asked which part of the lakeside was in Claudio’s family. Jocelyn turned around and looked confused. She said, “All of it is his. We’re driving through his estate now!”

I assumed an image of Claudio as a barrel-chested, mustachioed man with leathery skin — a stoic with his roots firmly planted in the Coyhaique elite. While we drove through his property, I pictured us coming to a stop at a large rustic cabin staffed by dozens of farm hands. Instead, we were greeted by a thin, wiry man who had a friendly smile. He was just as happy to dig into the bagged lunches that Jocelyn handed out as we were. All around us, about a dozen dogs yelped excitedly at the new visitors. One of the smaller ones was chained to the body of an old car lacking wheels in the yard. Through Jocelyn’s translating, Claudio mentioned this dog had been misbehaving. Leah and I both needed to use the bathroom and Claudio offered us the one in his home. His house was a simple shack, overflowing with bits and bobs of plastic and metal wiring holding together various tools and analog gadgets.

Claudio assigned us our horses and had an extra one for Jocelyn, who mentioned that she grew up riding. It was clear I had no idea what I was doing on my “beginner-friendly” horse. Claudio kept insisting that I kick mine with the back of my foot to move forward. I nervously increased force until my horse finally responded. This authority lasted only a few seconds before my horse decided to stop and eat another mouthful of grass. I looked up and saw Jocelyn’s horse in a full gallop, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. I looked back at my own horse, which seemed to want nothing to do with moving. Leah was comfortably maneuvering her horse and tried to give me some tips.

While learning how to speak to my horse, I found out that the gallop from Jocelyn’s horse wasn’t intentional. She was eventually launched off and landed in a ditch. Claudio went into a full gallop to chase after her, shouting for her to stay down after seeing her stand up and collapse. Leah and I weren’t sure what to do so we kept our distance. I wouldn’t have been able to move if I tried. I figured I might as well let my horse get its full share of grass for the afternoon. Jocelyn eventually was taken to the hospital for a concussion. Claudio returned to us and gave me more tips on what I ought to be doing. It seemed my horse just didn’t care, and I figured I might have already pegged myself as being unworthy of its command. I also became more reserved about how hard I’d kick after seeing Jocelyn. I looked at the nine feet separating my skull from the rocks below with a lump in my throat. We were moving at a slow pace up a hill, with Claudio yanking my horse along with a short rope. I would’ve been embarrassed at the sight under other circumstances. I even considered just following on foot the entire day.

After a half hour, I gave up on trying. It was only then that I had a breakthrough with my horse. I forgot my horse was there entirely in fact. I simply pivoted my torso the direction I wanted to go and adjusted my hands and feet according to the speed I desired. Leah noticed my new comfort with the horse and that I was finally smiling. I thought this day wouldn’t be so bad after all.

We made our way to the highest point on Claudio’s property, high enough that Lago Frio shrank into small blue circle. Claudio led us through a range of scenes. We started off in an open field of burnt stumps and logs, apparently caused by a lightning storm a decade ago. We then moved on to a dense, forested area. We stopped for lunch and Leah asked Claudio how many horses he had. He said he had about 20, which was far more than he needed for working his farm. For him, it was something he took a lot of pleasure in.

Every gate we opened doubled how impressed I was that Claudio was fortunate to call this place home. We were followed the entire time by a team of six dogs, all running through the woods alongside us and between the horses. When we came across an open field of cattle, the dogs leapt into action. They sprinted to circle the dozens of cows. Claudio yelled the names of the lead dogs, “Turbo! Toby!” while waving his hands and whistling. The mass of cows clustered together and nervously shuffled forward. One of the bulls in the herd broke free and began chasing the dogs, only later to be chased back into the mass by the team of herders. A similar pattern unfolded with a band of sheep we saw in the distance. Before Claudio could hold the dogs back, they immediately went to work.

Claudio was eager to share the photos he snapped of Leah and myself with his phone so we traded contact information. He would message me days later to say he hoped we got home safe. I wondered how often he took tourists out to share his property on horseback. We later sent Jocelyn a message and it sounded like she had gotten stitches.

I’m grateful that a place like the Aysén region still exists and is accessible to those who put in the effort to experience something different. I’m thankful for all the friendly people I crossed paths with and for the stories they shared with me.

Most of all, I’m happy that I got another memorable experience with Leah. This was our first backpacking trip together and I’m looking forward to a lifetime of moments like this.

Thanks for reading; hit me up with any feedback or questions!