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.