Today I decide to try my hand at fly-fishing on the Pelo River. My grandfather and father were both passionate fly-fishermen and I am eager to see if I’ve inherited the gene. 

As I understand it, fly-fishing is a sport of rhythm, patience and intuition. As I get out on the river I find there’s more to it: 

Step 1: Tie a surgically sharp hook to a long piece of line attached to a flexible pole. 

Step 2: Hurtle the hook past your face at white hot speeds. 

Step 3: Repeat step two. 

Step 4: Land your hook in front of a trout who is a whole lot smarter than you and knows to stay away from these things.  

Step 5: (Optional): Do this for hours and hours, or until the beer runs out. 

I begin to think I’m the Milkman’s kid. 

To my utter astonishment, and that of the “Trucha” on the end of my line, I reel in the first catch of the day. In the ensuing hours I will also snag the boat’s steering column, the engine cowling, the cooler and my rear end. 

My guide, Hernan, deserves a saint’s place in Heaven for his patience.  I watch in awe as he looses a roll cast that seems to defy gravity. He lands a lure in a promising spot as gently as a snowflake drifts to Earth with a natural rhythm that stems from a deep inner peace. He doesn’t have to try. 

 It dawns on me that when I let go of my need to succeed, I cast without effort.  Learning to let go is one of the hardest things I will have to do and another of the lessons I take from here.  I am grateful to have been able to study in one of the world’s most beautiful classrooms. 

Tonight is our last night in Patagonia. It seems unreal that only two weeks have passed. In my mind, I have journeyed across oceans of time in this magical world.

On the long journey back to the lodge I think a lot about rhythm and timing. How each of us is seemingly ruled by the timing of our lives. One chapter of my life has closed and another is dawning.  I am impatient to find my place in this new world but naggingly aware that the Universe sets its own pace. I must learn to flow with the rhythms as they come. 

 Dinner is lively and everyone seems satisfied at an amazing trip among amiable people. Afterwards some of us head for the hotel’s outdoor hot tub. 

As I gaze up at the Milky Way I realize that since I lost my best friend and companion of the last 15 years, I’ve been drifting in a universe without stars. In such blackness no bearings can be taken, no course reliably charted. 

I have traveled half a world to make sense of my exile and seek solace in the wilderness of Patagonia.  In the process I have discovered that the real wilderness is the daily existence to which I must reluctantly return.  I know I cannot remain in a gentle orbit around the memory of my wife.  Life, like a river, flows forward in time and those who resist the current risk drowning. 

Perhaps there is a purpose to this time of becoming.  In the holy places of this ancient land I have found a universe within myself. Among the galaxies there I find hope. For now, it is enough. 

Traveling to Central Chile - Puerto Montt and Ossorno

We are met at the airport in Puerto Montt by Gerardo, who will be our guide for the remainder of our stay here.  Of German descent, he bears classic nordic features - glacier blue eyes beneath a gray mat of parted hair that trails away into a pony tail.  His face has become somewhat jowly with age but his energy is boundless. We are three hours late in arriving and he is eager to get to Puerto Varas, where we will stay the night. 

The main thoroughfare of the city snuggles the shores of Lake Llanquihue. Our hotel looks as if it elbowed its way into a prime spot on the waterfront. On the beach across the street, the crumpled remains of what appears to have been a tramp steamer litter the shore. These rusty bones are a timeless reminder that the lady of the lake must sometimes be appeased like any other jealous goddess. 

Northeast of us looms the Ossorno Volcano. Tomorrow we will trek over her broad flanks on our way north to Petrohue and Lago Todos Los Santos. 

Tonight we have dinner overlooking the water. Gerardo shares the history of the region, which is dominated by German settlers brought here to farm the land. The German presence remains to this day. In the village square an evening concert features accordion music and German folk tunes. Dinner is excellent and the Pisco flows with Oktoberfest abandon. 

 We are joined at dinner by Ernesto, who will take us safely over the volcano tomorrow. Ernesto is a descendant of the native Mapuche, a fierce warrior clan that was able to keep northern invaders off their land until the 19th century. Their plight is the same as that of indigenous peoples around the globe who couldn’t compete with the implements of modern warfare or disease. Of 500,000 original Mapuche, only a fraction survive. Many of those have emigrated north to Santiago in search of work. The farms where they once lived are now replanted with timber destined for the warehouses of home improvement centers around the globe. 

In the morning we set out for Ossorno, which is enveloped in the mist that has accompanied us since our arrival in Chile. The long steep trail runs up through dense forest thriving in the fertile volcanic soil. 

  We pass over a field of boulders left over from an ancient pyroclastic eruption. I imagine a seething maelstrom of ash, rock and superheated gases rushing down the mountain at more than 60 miles per hour. 

I am reminded of the experience of a friend who was stationed in the Philippines when Pinatubo erupted. He remembered an ash cloud so thick that vehicles traveling down the main street created horizontal lightning from the electrostatic friction. I am continually amazed at how lucky we are that the Earth is not a more violent place. 

At lunch Ernesto downplays the widespread belief that the Mapuche practiced Capacocha, the sacrifice of children to appease the gods. He alleges the Catholic Church invented the rumors to help impose their religion on his people. But there is controversy on this issue. There are grisly allegations from an incident linked to the aftermath of a devastating tsunami in 1960. Investigators claimed that a five-year-old child was dismembered on a beach and left as offering at the order of a Mapuche “Machi” or priestess.  I am unsure who to believe. The story seems unlikely and yet this place has a history as violent as the land that surrounds it. I choose not to judge what I don’t understand.

We have now reached the downward slope of the mountain. The terrain here is steep and covered with scree. My thighs are screaming by the time we get to the lakeshore below.  I can only imagine what Gary is suffering. 

We pass through gullies where flash floods have washed enormous gashes in the volcanic soil. We hike due east to reach the shores of Lago Todos Los Santos. We hike for another three or four kilometers along the beach before reaching the Petrohue Lodge. Gerardo is waiting for us, beaming. This is a popular place among Chilean vacationers and it is alive with activity. Outside the hotel bushes of vivid red flowers host a hive of Picaflor, or Chilean Hummingbirds. These tiny birds are fiercely territorial and brave to the point of recklessness... 

Eco Camp - High Tech Blossoms in Paradise

After lunch we make our way across the southern end of the Valley Encantado on our way to the Eco Camp. Gary hobbles on gamely, bringing up the rear. He has decided to tough out the rest of the trip though his decision will later result in arthroscopic surgery and a painful rehab. He bears his ordeal with dignity and without complaint. 

The enchanted valley borders the eastern flank of the Cordillera Paine, the central massif of the park. This is the boundary between sub-polar forests to the north and the steppe land below.

Immediately to the south of the park are the large glaciers and lakes that have scoured this land with a slurry of rock and ice for millions of years. 

In 1880 the plucky Lady Florence Dixie became one of the first travelers to visit the park, describing the Torres Del Paine memorably as Cleopatra’s Needles.  Fortunately the United Nations Educational and Scientific Organization (UNESCO) has designated the park as a world biosphere reserve. 

As many as 75 of the plant species found in the park are of European origin though the dominant vegetation is Fescue, which is hardy enough to withstand the harsh winds that sweep across the steppe.

We amble along in silent contemplation. After a time the low steady gait of hiking becomes automatic. The mind separates from the body and one is only aware of the omnipresent NOW.  I sense that Zen has its origins in this kind of calm. It is a kind of heightened awareness that stems from total relaxation.  

In his 1978 novel The Stand, author Stephen King has his protagonists walk from Colorado to their final battle in Las Vegas.  I now understand why.  The quieting of a mind opens new pathways of thought and sharpens your senses. You begin to think about the whole sky rather than the cloud that’s raining on you. 

I wish there was a way to preserve this state of mind when I return to life in the North but it seems  unlikely. What I’m feeling here isn’t possible to sustain at home. Western society is by its nature intrusive, particularly the hive mentality of social networking.  The hermit back on the Serrano has a point - horses don’t Tweet. 

Late in the day we arrive at Eco Camp and blissfully shed our packs after what has been among the longest hikes yet. We step into a cluster of geodesic domes that squat in the high hills below Almirante  Nieto’s benevolent gaze. It is an unlikely setting at first, high-tech blossoms among the perennials of an ancient garden of Eden. That’s the purpose of this place, to demonstrate a happy marriage between the needs of humanity and its surroundings. These domes are designed after those constructed by the native Kawesqar, a people that flourished here centuries before Magellan. The hemispherical designs parry wind loads of up to 180 kilometers per hour.  As has been the case in so many wild places,  an intuitive understanding of the land yields a harmonious blend of form and function.   

Everything at the camp is designed to be mobile in keeping with the nomadic traditions of the region, including the delightful shower in which I wash away the accumulated soot of the day’s hike.

At breakfast the following morning we have a heartbreaking decision to make. Rain has made the rock wall passage along the Rio Ascencio slick and somewhat dangerous. This is our only access to the interior of the massif and to the foot of the Torres Del Paine.  Poor judgement here could have permanent impact.  Winds are gusting in excess of 90 kilometers per hour. Tony informs us that portions of the trail approaching the towers are narrow and precipitous. Even for those who believe themselves surefooted enough, mist and rain obscure the best views. The risks are obvious. To break a leg here would be a nightmare of logistical problems. Bad weather and rugged terrain would make rescue difficult if not impossible.  I decide not to chance it. I can always return another time. To hobble myself for a lifetime isn’t worth the risk. 

Instead, a group of us opt to explore the highlands on the southern side of the Rio Paine, just south of Almirante Nieto. 

Herds of Guanacos, llama-like creatures of the camel family, graze on these slopes. They are the preferred prey of cougars, as is attested to by the numbers of denuded skulls we encounter in the grass. The wind blows hard enough here to pluck my frameless glasses from my face and hurl them about 30 feet away. At a promontory facing the river valley I lean my weight into the wind without fear of falling.  Across the river to our north, rain obscures the towers and much of Almirante Nieto in a veil of mist.  I wonder after those who risked the hike. I hope they’re OK. 

According to Bob, most of the park was underwater at one time. My mind warps at the thought that conditions on the planet can change so dramatically, even over millennial time scales. 

Over our heads South American Condors surf among powerful thermals searching the valley below for carrion. One spots me and drops into a tight orbit over my head. When I show signs of movement he stoops out over the river and sweeps away to the west, disappointed that I’m alive. 

We hike down along the trail closer to a rocky outcrop where we will have lunch. We perch among the rocks out of the wind  and watch young Guanacos vie with one another for dominance. I lie back on my daypack and listen to the wind. When I awake, I find a small chocolate heart on my chest. Judy and Tom are celebrating their fifth anniversary with all of us. Ducks plash in the water of a nearby lake. I’m glad I didn’t take the risk of hiking into the central massif. 

Later in the day, the clouds begin to clear and the Towers drop their veil. They are glistening, almost incandescent in the afternoon sun. The broad shoulders of Almirante Nieto obscure our view somewhat but what I’ve seen today is enough for a lifetime. After lunch we begin the long trek back to the Eco Camp, where we will spend another night before returning to Punta Arenas for the flight up to the lake country in the middle of Chile. 

At the airport the following day we say our goodbyes to Eduardo and Lucho. I offer my hand to Eduardo and he takes mine in  both of his with a smile that starts in his eyes. I learn later that this gesture is one of affection, almost a blessing. I am grateful that I have had the opportunity  to know him and Lucho. I will miss them both deeply.

In the Mezzanine of Geologic Time

Eventually we make our way to Hosteria Las Torres in the shadow of Paine Grande Massif. We settle into comfortable cabins nestled at the base of the mountain’s emerald throne. Gary’s knee has worsened from a throbbing nuisance to a genuine threat to his continued participation in the trip. He will have to decide in the next 24 hours if he is fit to continue. 

Just a year earlier, Gary was airlifted off a mountainside in Bhutan after overestimating the strain his 57-year-old body could bear. The experience left him unbowed, yet now he is faced with the prospect of another humiliating withdrawal. He is subdued but hopeful.

Dinner that night is a lively gathering in the main hall of the hosteria. The conversation around us is the usual babble of a dozen different lands. No one needs an interpreter to understand that everyone is having a good time. 

At a table nearby, a Dutch mother nuzzles a buttermilk baby with cheeks like Macintosh apples.  A sun-faded blue kerchief adorns her head and honey blond braids fall away to her midriff.  She smiles at our group and we engage in the halting small talk that comes at the end of a long day on the trail. 

We chat among ourselves of the things we’ve seen and  things we hope to see in the days ahead. Fortunately, there are none among us who take themselves or this quest particularly seriously. Patagonia dulls that kind of intensity. 

Gradually, we drift off to our cabins. Tomorrow, we will make a push northeast to the Eco Camp, our home for the next two days. Eco Camp is a concept of environmentally friendly living that attempts to balance comfort and stewardship. I look forward to learning more.

* * *

We are trekking through the mezzanine of geologic time today. A scruff of vegetation drapes low hills in  swatches of yellows and greens. We pass through a valley dominated by Almirante Nieto to the North and Lago Nordenskjold to the south.  Bob, the retired Chevron geologist, crouches on a rock and inspires us to imagine a time when this was a vast lakebed. Horses now roam where pre-historic fish once hunted prey. Since that time, a relatively recent 10,000 years ago, this land has been a constant victim of fire. In 2005, 40,000 hectares of grassland went up in smoke. It staggers the mind to imagine flames from horizon to horizon. 

We pause for lunch and nestle ourselves in a place where time is truly only a construct of man. The rhythms of existence here are bounded by wind and rain, not the metronome of ambition and accomplishment. I notice I have forgotten to put on my watch and I am secretly delighted.  Perhaps there is hope for me yet. 

In the hills, where erosion has stripped the land bare, layers of sediment reveal the underlying history of a region warped by violent turmoil within the Earth. Fissilitic shale covers the trail in a sharp, brittle mulch. The sedimentary rocks here date from the Cretaceous 145 million years ago. 

In the distance a Gaucho makes his way along the edge of a small lake. He pauses while I snap a photo and I struggle to imagine what his life is like. Does he have a family? Where do his kids go to school? Will they become Gauchos or Santiago lawyers? I haven’t the courage or the Spanish to ask. He waves and moves on. 

On the Trail - Facing Challenges From Within

The following morning we set out beneath leaden skies in a half hearted rain. I enjoy the mist and the wind, as it heightens my sense of adventure. 

It’s not that the Patagonian wilderness is unnerving. It’s passiveness allows a great unfolding of spirit, a kind of blossoming of the soul. On these trails your challenges come from within. What you do with them determines who you will become at the end of your journey. Patagonia only allows the process to take place. 

Eduardo leads our group up into the hills in a slow, steady lope. His arms crossed, elbows resting in his palms, he resembles a Shaman displaying secret signals to ward off evil spirits. His spare, slight frame is ideally suited to covering rough ground and I am continually amazed at his ability to glide over the terrain.

Eduardo’s second in command, Lucho, brings up the rear. Among the younger members of our crew, his knowledge of the region is impressive. On his calf he sports a tattoo of scythe-like shapes that he claims generate energy during the rigors of mountain climbing. 

We pass through forests not unlike those found in North America. Harry and Lissa provide me with the names of local flora, which include wild foxglove, tiny red-budded flowers called Nostra and the fragile blue petals of Estravita. The trail is wide and easy. Rains have been heavy in the past few days and where the waters have gathered deeply, hikers are confronted with pond-like puddles. 

As we pad along the clouds withdraw for a moment and Cuernos, or “The Horns,” emerge from the gloom. The mountain’s sheer presence speaks to something in my soul. I get a giddy sense that in such a place magic prevails over physics. The feeling leaves me somewhat uneasy, as if I am trespassing in the realm of spirits that will find me wanting and cast me to my doom. I am glad I resisted the temptation to bring a copy of Tolkien on this trip. 

Passing through the mist, Cuernos is many mountains, now incandescent and towering and then veiled and mysterious. Rising like the shoulders of the Earth, it seems to bestow a silent benediction on all who approach. I yearn to reach its summit and embrace the Heavens beyond.  It won’t happen. Not today anyway.  But I sense the experience has awakened something in me that was dormant before - an awareness of an expansive universe and a grander scale of existence. 

I had a similar experience in the Himalaya three years before. Arriving at Lukla Airport I was so taken with the stark beauty of the surrounding mountains I missed a step departing the airplane and fell flat in front of two hundred assembled trekkers. 

Eduardo passes the lead to Lucho and drops back to shepherd the rear. As we pass through gently sloping terrain, the mist is both irritating and gently cooling, a moist and clammy companion. 

Ahead a small lake has gathered on the trail. Islands of shrubbery protrude and Lucho attempts to navigate the high and dry route. We wait and watch at the edge. In an elaborate series of leaps and lunges, he gets halfway across the ankle-deep pond and looks back to see who’s following. No one moves. Unimpressed by the gymnastics, I step into the water and slosh past him. Some of the others follow and some seek an alternate route. As I pass he looks disappointed, as if his leadership is being challenged. It isn’t. My philosophy stems from a passage I once read in The Way of the Samurai - if your fate is to be wet, bear it with dignity. Wet socks can be changed. 

Torres Del Paine - Defying the Ravages of Time

 After a three-hour struggle, we reach the far shore of the lake.  Beyond is the entrance to the Torres Del Paine National Park.  Torres Del Paine translates to “towers of blue.” The towers are the reason most of us have come to Patagonia. Like stone cathedrals, they resolutely defy the ravages of time.  They are little more than the product of millennia of erosion, a geologic gap tooth smile. But man, what a smile.  

The trails leading into the park are beautiful, but unremarkable. Tonight we will stay in the Torres Del Paine Lodge, a hiker haven for those at the end of their road and those just setting foot on it.  

The lobby is thick with people in varying stages of adventure. Snatches of German, French, Dutch, Spanish and Flatbush greet the ear. 

Reception is besieged by a polyglot throng lobbying to get into or out of the lodge. I imagine a similar scene in Singapore just as the Japanese sailed into the harbor in 1942. 

Thanks to the Sierra Club our only task is to muscle our day packs through the crowd without creating an international incident. Gary and I shuffle up the white pine stairs to the second floor. Grainy black and white photos of bare-breasted Alcalufes indians and long forgotten Euro adventurers adorn the walls. 

We arrive in our room to find four bunk beds and Wolfgang, a sleepy engineer from Dusseldorf. He blinks at us through coke-bottle lenses as he folds his clothing with Teutonic precision. His English is much better than my German, though having spent a college semester in Germany, Gary speaks with him comfortably. He is on holiday having left what I suspect is a tightly-coiffed housefrau back in Dusseldorf. He doesn’t seem in a rush to get home. 

Dinner that night is an elaborate affair in a specially erected tent on the lodge grounds. Freshly showered and ravenous, I head down to the tent through a refugee camp of hikers. 

Inside the tent the kitchen staff from the Eco Camp hovers over simmering pots of pasta and other delights. Piscos are poured and I take a moment to learn more about my fellow seekers of spirit.

There are Peggy and Bob, a dentist and retired Chevron geologist from San Fransciso; Jonna, a counselor and former peace officer from Mammoth Lakes, California; Norma, a researcher from North Carolina; Tom and Judy, he a merchant seaman sailing out of San Francisco and she a housewife; Harry and Lissa, ski instructors from Durango, Colorado; and Stephanie and Jake, she a lawyer and he a consultant from Atlanta; and my roommate Gary who hails from Ft. Lauderdale. All in all an interesting and eclectic group. I will take from each some small gift of greater understanding before this trip is over. 

Tonight they will confer upon me the nickname “Pisco Pete,” a gift I proudly accept whilst pouring another round. I am fortunate fate has landed me among such good friends.

Lago Grey - A Battle of Wind and Wet

Today we prepare for a three-hour journey northwest on Lago Grey, a glacial lake just south of our destination, the Torres Del Paine National Park. Shrouded in a light morning rain, the beige-tinted waters of the lake appear tranquil to even the most doubtful seagoing travelers among us. Winds are gusting from the north, driving the rain into the bay windows of the comfortable lake house where we wait for the ferry. Hot chocolate, enveloping armchairs and a stunning view lull us into a sleepy complacency. For me this is the way life should be. 

We are all eager to get to Torres Del Paine. The park is the focal point of our experience. No longer will we be ferried about like school children in vans. Now our strength and  determination will carry us through some of the most stunning scenery in the world. 

First we have to get there. 

The wind is rising now and white caps have appeared on the lake. In the middle distance we see hikers walking on a brown smudge in the middle of the water. A sand bar divides the lake in two providing a land bridge to the northeast. 

We are signaled to assemble on a pier north of the sand bar from which we will depart on a launch to the ferry. Packed into an open-air work boat we clutch our day packs and huddle in the rain. Regrettably for those crouched in the bow it is impossible to stay dry. 

Relentless whitecaps hurl themselves against our launch, a drenching  baptism for the reluctant faithful. I sense that today’s trip will test the skill of captain and crew in a battle of wind and wet. 

We arrive at the waiting ferry, which is about the size of a fishing trawler with picture windows. We  scramble aboard  and are quickly ushered to the main cabin. 

We take our seats and watch as a crew member grimly looses us from the mooring. Briefly we drift astern before the ferry gathers its pluck and slowly turns its beam to the oncoming waves. As we gather momentum, the violence of the lake makes itself known to all onboard.  Like a ballet dancer we leap, shudder, drop, submerge into a hiss of spray then rise again.

A few hundred feet into our shoving match with the lake, a member of the crew stumbles to the front of the cabin with a microphone.  Unsteadily he clutches the rail and gives us a wan smile. In Spanish and again in halting English, he lets us know that the captain is evaluating the situation and will decide in another few minutes if today’s trip is even possible. 

I look out the port picture window to the southwest. The channel is in the middle of the lake and I realize that we are at least 50 meters from the nearest sheer walls of granite.  I notice that someone has helpfully mounted a stainless steel hammer next to the window. Its purpose is now clear. If we capsize, this window will be our only way out. 

However, even if we were lucky enough to get out of the overturned vessel, in this frigid water our epitaph would be noted in one of those 10-second blurbs on CNN, including  B-roll of helicopters hovering over a grim search for survivors. Somehow when you’re actually in the situation, it seems that a ferry disaster deserves a lot more coverage. I nibble at a chicken and avocado sandwich and wonder why I feel the need to risk my life to appreciate it. 

After a three-hour struggle to travel about 12 kilometers, we arrive to board a waiting launch that will ferry us to a stable shore and the long hike into Torres Del Paine National Park.  

Serrano Glacier - A Slow Motion Avalanche

Today is a day I’ve dreamt of for some time. We will travel south on the python coils of the Serrano River to a hanging glacier of the same name. In the limited vessel of my imagination, I struggle to visualize the titanic forces  of a slow motion avalanche flowing on a millennial timescale. 

We will be transported downriver in yet another zodiac, this one outfitted with cafeteria chairs bolted to the deck plate. 

We receive rescue-orange environment suits for the bone chilling two-hour journey. In our hooded jumpsuits, heads bowed in unison against a stinging rain, we resemble newly penitent souls being ferried across the River Styx. 

We alight at a pier for a quick portage to a waiting zodiac further down river. At the end of the second journey, we begin an hour-long hike to the foot of the Serrrano Glacier so named for the soldier who discovered it in 1950. 

Along the trail we sample Chauda berries. Pea-sized and white, they are slightly sweet and have the crunchy texture of a tiny radish. 

I trundle along behind my roommate Gary whose knee has begun to trouble him. He favors one leg, which results in a pronounced wobble. In his orange suit, grizzled grey beard and red ski cap, he reminds me of a garden gnome.  The image is misleading. A highly talented lawyer, I sense that in a courtroom Gary would be a troll to be reckoned with.

Like me, Gary is searching for meaning in the mythical places of nature. But as he will later admit, his search has more to do with staving off old age than the thrill of adventure. 

Suddenly, the glacier emerges from the forest and I am stunned at what appears to be a day-glo blue meringue of ice and rock spilling into the water below. I never expected a structure so unimaginably powerful to be so fragile as this. 

The glacier has retreated more than 100 meters in the past decade.  It is a disturbing reminder that change is constant, the only variable is its pace. 

Back on the river, we pause briefly to deliver supplies to a local hermit. He waits at the river’s edge where a member of our crew salutes him and scrambles up the bank with a burlap bag full of supplies. He seems to be in his early sixties, though age and appearance differ among inhabitants of harsh lands. This is a man for whom these people seem to care deeply. They know his existence is not easy. He has chosen to fill his days with privation and the company of his horses. He has the courage of his convictions and that matters among his fellow Patagonians. They worry openly about how well he will pass this winter when supplies come less frequently, if at all. 

We return to the river and our prayerful pose in the rain. For me there is an uneasy sense of gradual vanishing, a loss of the rare and wonderful.

Traveling North To Chile's Glacier Region

In the afternoon, we pile our luggage into a waiting van before setting out on a 247-kilometer journey north to our next destination, the town of Puerto Natales. 

The two-lane highway leading us north seems to stretch into geographic oblivion. Occasional cars and buses hurtle past in a hooting blur. A moment’s inattention is a death sentence here, as is attested to by the surprising number of makeshift shrines along the roadside. 

We press on across thousands of acres of pampas and steppe. Gnarled and misshapen beech trees huddle in clumps like shipwreck survivors. Beyond the scrub the plains gradually give way to low foothills and the smaller mountains that are the servants of the Andes. 

Eduardo, our lead guide, dozes impassively in the front seat. We pepper him with questions about our surroundings, which he answers somewhat wearily, like a parent responding to an overly curious child.  He was born to the continental vastness that gives the rest of us pause. 

In another life, Eduardo was a molecular engineer before he realized that God cannot be found in a lab. His religion is the land and sharing it with his young son. When he speaks of his son, his  broad face brightens visibly and his mouth involuntarily warps into a smile. 

To our west, low clouds drift across the endless plain. Like enormous Portuguese Men O’ War, they trail hanging bands of rain that temporarily obscure the foothills beyond. We turn west onto unpaved roads that carry us into the glacier region of Chile.  Along the way we pause at the Cueva Del Milodon (Cave of the Milodon), home to an herbivorous bear-like sloth that roamed here in the basement of geologic time. The enormous cavern was licked from surrounding rock by the erosive forces of a vanished inland sea.  It is vast enough to accommodate more than a thousand people and is the site of a popular annual film festival. 

Further west we pass Lago Del Toro, the largest lake in Chile. Its water stained a vivid turquoise by suspended glacial silt, the lake sits like a massive gemstone inlaid in the rugged terrain that surrounds it. 

We arrive in Puerto Natales, a squat borough of about 20,000. The city occupies the banks of a fjord that stretches west to the open sea. A spanish  navigator in search of the Strait of Magellan dubbed the fjord the Ultima Esperanza (last hope), a despairing moniker which survived its creator. 

Gratefully, we unfold our cramped limbs like firewood and stack ourselves outside the van. Luggage is lugged and after a brief washing up, I head down to the bar. There I am introduced to Pisco, a South American liquor distilled from grapes. A Pisco Sour is an unlikely combination of Pisco, egg whites and local bitters such as Amargo. Vaguely reminiscent of a daiquiri, it is also the nectar of the gods after a long day of traveling.

In the bar of our hotel we meet Sebastian, the manager of the outfit shepherding us around Patagonia. 

A thirty-something refugee of a corporate career, he now helps ferry mid-lifers like me around his home region. Sebastian seems more suited to a bank in Santiago than the outskirts of the Earth. He is handsome and urbane but I sense somewhat relieved to be in a place where humanity is prized over position. He speaks lovingly of his family and the life they have built here.  Like the others I meet in Patagonia, I sense there is nowhere else he’d rather be. 

In the morning I wander the town. As was the case in Punta Arenas, life is spare here but there is an underlying vitality that is bracing. Above the city pier an angry gash of blue black clouds surrenders to the healing light of dawn. 

A lone gull, hoping I’ve brought breakfast, circles overhead feigning disinterest. The burned out shell of a large waterfront hotel looms nearby.  It is a sad reminder of the impermanence of things once majestic.

I wonder that I’ve travelled 9,000 miles to this outpost on the edge of the world.   I have come to Patagonia in part to cope with the loss of my wife to breast cancer the year before. It is a difficult time of transition and for the moment I join my friends in wanting to be nowhere else on Earth.

Strait of Magellan - A Sailor's Paradise

After breakfast we travel to the outskirts of the city where a dozen of us are bundled into an 18-foot inflatable zodiac with a plastic roof and windows fastened to a skeleton of PVC pipe. The rig looks sturdy enough for a quick trip out to Magdalen Island where a penguin rookery awaits the eager photographers among us.  As we clear the shelter of the harbor we quickly discover why the Strait has such a dubious reputation among sailors. 

A gradually rising chop intensifies to four-foot swells careening into one another like sumo wrestlers. Deftly, our twenty-something pilot Gonsalvo surfs us around, over and occasionally through swirling canyons of water. We experience a stomach loosening lurch and a member of our party loses his scones to the sea. 

I am among the fortunate souls who’ve never known seasickness. Apart from the spine-shattering violence of dropping from the crest of a passing wave, I am enjoying myself immensely.  After gunning the engine to power our withered looking troupe over the biggest wave yet, Gonsalvo casually answers his ringing cellphone. Taking a call in the Strait of Magellen seems the ultimate “Can you hear me now” moment. 

Gonsalvo’s elan is a lesson for me on which I will draw later in life, namely that the larger the challenge, the more relaxed you should be in meeting it. Patagonians don’t sweat even the big stuff, probably because they’re too busy trying to survive. 

Eventually our hardy craft gains the lee of Magdalen Island and a pale, gaunt parade gratefully staggers onto a makeshift pier. 

Magellanic Penguins on the beach regard us like unwanted relatives who’ve dropped in unannounced. They waddle off muttering among themselves.  I think they’re hoping we don’t plan to stay the weekend. 

Magellanic penguins (Spheniscus Magellanicus) differ from their Arctic cousins being somewhat smaller in size. Their markings are unique, more tie dye than black tie.  

Millions of them live along the coasts of Chile and Argentina but the species is classified as “Near Threatened” due to the vulnerability of large breeding colonies to oil spills.  Declining fish populations and a nearby colony of sea lions have also taken a toll.

The birds seem resigned to their windswept existence. To keep things interesting, occasional squabbles break out among neighbors over disputed nesting sites. The spats lead to a deadly earnest Kabuki dance of aggression that lends variety to an otherwise unremarkable existence.  

Having had a taste of a penguin’s sandblasted life, we are stuffed back into the zodiac for the punishing return journey.  Lunch awaits us, though few are thinking about eating when we finally enter the safety of the harbor...   

Life in Punta Arenas

Our van pulls up at the Jose Noguiera Hotel. Originally built by a transplanted member of the Russian aristocracy, it reigns over the block like a Grand Duchess at a country fair.  It’s less noble neighbors seem to sniff at its pretense but the building's dignity is unassailable.  It is here that Ernest Shackleton will seek assistance from British explorer Allan MacDonald for help in rescuing the remainder of his 28-man crew marooned on Elephant Island.  Though the attempt was unsuccessful Shackleton did eventually rescue his shipmates. Twenty-two of the original 28 crew members survived what was arguably among the most grueling journeys attempted by man. Sadly, many of the crew were later lost serving in the First World War. For a moment I am overwhelmed at the irony. To outrun a frozen exile across thousands of miles of polar ice only to die in the murderous fields of France seems an appalling waste of life.

The hotel staff are gracious and eager to please and we are led to our room, which gives out onto the bustling street below. After lunch I give in to the fatigue that comes of endless journeying and awake refreshed, hungry and curious about my surroundings. 

Nightlife in Punta Arenas is similarly a reflection of the region’s external influences.  In the Spanish tradition, nothing happens here before 10 p.m.  Unlike vacation towns in warmer climes there is no apparent reckless abandon among bar hoppers here. Conversation in  local watering holes is subdued but intense and earnest.

Chilean friends greet one another in a familiar, grateful embrace. Shared humanity is precious in an uncertain world and their affection is genuine. It is hard to imagine these  people thriving among their emotionally distant cousins to the North. I envy them their warmth.  

At around 3 a.m., clots of Punta Arenas’ young head for home. Like youth anywhere they share their enthusiasm with the entire city, especially the hotels where the tourists are staying.  

Later, church bells call the faithful to mass in a city that is predominantly Catholic though according to Maria also hosts a Hindu Temple and several synagogues. 

Wearily we make our way to breakfast and I half expect to see the Tsar sipping darjeeling tea in the drawing room. Breakfast consists of a variety of cereals, scones and some unidentifiable meats of local origin. After years of learning life’s lessons the hard way, I opt for the relatively safe choice of a scone and some coffee.  Bland food is a good idea for later today we will encounter the Strait of Magellan... 

The sleek LAN airliner that’s carried me over the Andes makes a long, slow turn to the east and dips into Punta Arenas, home of the last big airport north of the Antarctic.  

Softened by the ordeal of intercontinental travel, I am grateful to renew my bond with Mother Earth. At the airport arrivals awaiting checked baggage swap silent glances with trekkers seasoned by adventure. They are longing for a return to pedestrian joys in Europe, America and beyond.  The trekkers look weary but deeply satisfied like couples who’ve been happily married longer than expected. 

In the van on the way to the hotel, my guide Maria shares the history of this stark region 1400 kilometers north of the Antarctic Circle. It is a sad mix of European colonialism, shifting economic fortunes and control of once vital sea lanes. 

  On the main road leading into the city, we pass homes designed to withstand harsh, wet winters. Red tin roofs crown walls alive with pastel colors in quiet rebellion against the dreariness of the landscape.  The homes resemble the features of the Chilean people who built them; lean, spare, handsome and somewhat feral. This is not a place for whimsy. 

For all the comforts imported by Europeans, the native worldview is still shaped by base elements and fundamental forces. To look into the eyes of a Patagonian is an experience defining and deep. Empathy is among the charms one finds there. Pity is not.

We pass Chilean Army outposts, where sleepy troops keep a wary eye on the border with Argentina. Argentines are known in the neighborhood for their territorial appetites. Chileans like to keep tabs on the border. 

Amid the blur of passing scenery, Maria points out the city cemetery. Buried within these walls are the larger than life settlers who stole from nature a foothold in a forbidding land. Like the landscape that surrounds them their history is one of forced choices. Many of the names in this walled oasis belong to Croat refugees, some of those exiles of atrocities committed during the Second World War. 

No place can escape its own history and Punta Arenas makes no apologies for its own. Patagonia is a land settled by outsiders imported to impose their will on a stubborn, unyielding countryside. As we purr into the city, European influences dominate.  Like the inhabitants of Punta Arenas themselves these structures are a mix of influences, hybrids dignified and distinct. 

Clusters of students strut past mildly curious tourists in high-tech hiking boots and fanny packs. Aged Chileans  watch from balconies and doorways silently hoping for any change of rhythm to lend spice to the day.  

A current of moderate weekend traffic drifts us past the city square where a statue commemorates Ferdinand Magellan’s discovery of this place.  Legend has it that if you kiss the toe of his statue, you will one day return to Punta Arenas. I decide Magellan's toe can wait until another day....

Patagonia - Land of Ancient Rhythms

I sometimes fear I will be blinded by the wonders I’ve seen.  In Patagonia the miracle was the rain, glistening on cathedrals of granite, a glacier’s tears flowing down the shoulders of the Earth, a diamond dancing in a rare blossom.  The rain taught me to look inside myself and see past the pain of loss, but that lesson would come later. 

My surrender to the ancient rhythms of the Andes began somewhere in the night, high above the crooked spine of South America...

(Author's Note: this journey was undertaken in February 2009)