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.