Torres del Paine, Patagonia Part 2: the upper crescent of the “o” circuit trek.

Day 1: Camping Central to Camping Seron

We head out, relieved at the near-averted crisis of missing our very first reservation of the trek. We look at the map from the Ranger showing us the way to the Seron trail. 

She warned us that because the trail is flooded, there are many side-trails. She instructed us that it is essential to keep our eye on the main trail so that we don’t get lost. Great. 

We start following the instructions from the ranger to find the trek to Seron. We take a few turns, no luck. No signs. Keep going, check out the map again, no luck. Come on! Where is the stupid trailhead!? We wander toward the hotel with a crowd hoping someone can point the way, even though we know we are heading in the wrong direction. We run into the Colorado bros again. They are heading up to the Torres del Paine base, about a 7h hike. They greet us like old friends and start singing a song together. They are high. I am getting frustrated and start lashing out at Al.. Why are we going so far in what we know is the wrong direction? I don’t want to add all this extra distance. He takes off picking up speed away from me toward a ranch house full of horses. Whatever. I turn around and start walking back in the direction shown on the map. It’s gotta be that way, somewhere.. Arghhh! Why is this so hard?!

I had read online that it was nearly impossible to get lost on the Torres del Paine trek because of high traffic and well-maintained trails. Still, I guess it’s a bad sign that we can’t even find the start of the damned thing. I go back to the original trail where I thought it was and look around. I see a distinct trail up on the hill. That must be it. Al has caught up to me at this point and has uncovered valuable information: It’s this way, he points confidently over in the direction we already know it’s supposed to be. Thanks, Al..

We decide to start on the trail we see even though there is no marker stating Seron. We come across 2 girls and I ask in Spanish, “Esta es a Seron?” – pointing in the direction we are heading. They look at me like I have 2 heads. We pass them up and keep going. Probably about 1km along the trail, we see a trail marker. Hallelujah! 

Now confident we are going the right direction, we start picking up the pace. We need to get there, and fast. The trail is flooded along the way and muddy. It’s kind of slow going between my runny nose and coughing fits, the mud, and the wind. The wind is impressive and can almost knock me off my feet. 

I’m starting to get an appreciation for the notorious Patagonia weather. It changes from warm and sunny to overcast, raining, and windy within minutes. We decide to keep the rain gear on our packs and our rain jackets on for efficiency. We pass a group and ask how far to go to Seron. “Ocho kilmetres,” they say. We check our watches, about 3pm. OK, sounds good. We will make it. We figure we are going about 2.5km per hour or so. We pick up the pace again. I’m starting to feel better after warming up a little. The flooding of the valley is impressive, and we have to take a lot of side-trails to keep out of the mud. Finally, we see it! Camping Seron!

It's a great campsite. There is a building where they will be serving our food and register all the guests. They show us to our tent. It is an awesome Marmot expedition tent built up on a platform! It has a ton of room and literally – mattresses. I am so excited. 

The bathroom building has hot showers. This is how to do backpacking, I think. I take a nice hot shower, put on my thermals, and I snuggle onto my mattress to read my book until dinner. The wind is more gentle and breezy. The sun is out. I keep my tent door and vestibule open to let the breeze in. Ahhhh. I drift off to sleep in the tent to the sound of the wind and gentle flapping of the tent.

Al wakes me up. Time for dinner, he says. We head over to the building. They have a mini-“bar” area where you can purchase beer or wine or order pizza. I’m not interested. I need water and juice, something hydrating. This day was mentally and physically exhausting. We sit down to a 3-course hot meal served by delightful staff. They play great music and sing along joyfully. The first course is a nice, hot broth soup. Just what the doctor ordered, I sniffle and cuddle up to my hot bowl. I breathe in the steam, hoping it can help to clear my upper respiratory passages. I taste it. Nothing. No taste whatsoever. My virus has taken away all ability to smell and taste.

One of the two girls sitting across from us ask, in Australian-accented English, “Hey, did you guys take the bus to the wrong place as well? I think we saw you there.” Yes! we exclaim. We exchange stories about how confused we were, and how we eventually got back to the correct place. We have remarkably similar stories, and we quickly become easy friends.

They are two young women, probably in their late 20s, who are just starting a tour of South America for 8 weeks. They are enjoying an Australian benefit called “service leave,” which they earn 13 weeks paid time off after every 7 years that they are continuously employed by the same employee. Amazing! What a benefit! I love to hear these stories of different approaches to societal wellness and happiness. They are funny and entertaining dinner-mates, using terms such as “Spag-balls” – which means spaghetti and meatballs. We are happy to know they also purchased the support package, and we will be sharing most meals along the way. It’s nice to have someone who speaks English and is sharing a similar experience. They are fit, but not crazy outdoorsmen types. They are normal. They are like me. It makes me feel better. 

Next to us is a family with 2 small boys with unwieldy curly, dirty blond hair piled on top of their heads. They have dimples. They are absolutely adorable. They are speaking Italian. I am so impressed that these kids are doing this trek. I ask their dad in Spanish how old are the children. “Seis y ocho,” he replies. Six and eight. I'm starting to feel like I can do this trek after all. 

Next course is chicken and veggies cooked inside a yellow bell pepper with rice on the side. We get a nice mousse for dessert. I eat what I can, explaining to the girls that I am sick, not dainty. This is not like me. After dinner, we head back to our tents to get to bed early for an early rise, camping style. Rise and rest with the cycle of the day. 

Day 1. Central to Seron.

The wind overnight is impressive, but the weather is like an advertisement for the tent. The tent is just awesome and holds strong. We sleep pretty well and wake up refreshed to a rainbow across the campground.

Day 2: Camping Seron to Refugio Dickson

Today is a longer hike to Refugio Dickson. It’s supposed to be about 18km(11mi) and 6 hours, mas o menos. 

We will have indoor shared bunks tonight to look forward to. We head over to a generous breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, cold cuts, cheese, and coffee. One of the Australians, Laura, brings me 4 tabs of cough and cold medicine of Sudafed with Ibuprofen. I want to kiss her. I take 2 with breakfast and head out to grab our packs and take off. We head out just about 8:15am. It’s another overcast and windy day. We put on rain gear from the start. I feel like I am almost floating on air after the Sudafed. Man, I forgot how much I love this stuff! It's a total hassle to purchase my favorite miracle drug, Sudafed, in the meth capitol of America, so I've mostly just suffered through my colds. I had almost forgotten how much simple symptom-relief is worth during a bad cold. I breathe in and out through my nose. I can take nice, deep breaths. Amazing.

We make great time hiking today. There is a lot of bushwhacking through long grass to avoid the flooded trail in the valley below. We get a little off-track a few times, then end up trailing a Chilean couple going a similar pace who seem to know what they are doing. 

The views are very different today. It’s a fun hike. I still have a hard time eating anything for lunch, so we don’t stop much. We run into a German professor hiking alone who doesn’t want us to pass him, so he picks up his pace to avoid us overtaking him. We see Refugio Dickson come into view just about as-scheduled at 2pm. The gray clouds above and wind are getting more threatening as we descend into the valley of Dickson and check in. We head into our first refugio just as the rain starts falling, relieved at our timing. We take off our muddy boots and gators and head inside for a shower and to snuggle into our thermals again. The sleeping room is small and barely fits 2 twin bunkbeds. We are told we will be sharing the room, so we assume it must be the Australians. They are the only others with plans to stay in refugios rather than tents.

We head into the common area to read and relax, stretch, and check out some of the games/activities. I look through the guest notebook with entries dating back to 2014. The notion of having absolutely nothing to do except scroll old guestbook entries is surreal. No access to wifi or data. No TV. No email or messages with the daily onslaught of complaints and needs and to-do items of the Pre-Anesthesia Clinic. I haven’t felt this peace since the 21 days on the Colorado River of the Grand Canyon in 2011. This is what I am missing in life. Nothing except staring out the window and watch the rain fall, feeding the already muddy pits around the valley. I stretch my toes and reach down for them, feeling the tightness in my hamstrings. My feet look good, no hot spots or pain. Just an expected level of fatigue. My water-resistant gore-tex Salomon shoes are freaking awesome. I am prone to getting blisters, especially on my heels. But nothing, they look great.

We see the Australians heading our way about 2h after our arrival. They look miserable and soaked to the bone. They are still smiling as they enter, though, exclaiming, “How long have you guys been here?!” and “Our shoes are completely absolutely drenched.” We thank our lucky stars again for our timing and show them the way to the hot showers.

Once they are dry and warm, we sit by the fire and visit some more. We find out that Tenika is a child-protective services social worker employed by the Australian government, which is a coveted and competitive job. She tells us a few horror stories, including one home visit during which the curtains were moving not from the wind through the open windows, but rather from the mass quantity of roaches living beneath. Nightmares. Laura tells us she is a safety officer for a mining company. They live in the Perth area. They have been friends for about 10 years after dating boyfriends who were friends with each other.

They are trying to dry their gloves and socks by the fire and we huddle up closer. The rain isn’t relenting, and it is getting colder by the minute. I have all of my layers on and am still shivering. I see the Italians heading our way. The kids are dragging their legs and one falls into the mud. They look totally beat. Their mom takes them into the refugio while their dad goes to set up the tent. They are staying in tents, but purchased the meal services in the evenings. They stumble into the refugio to get dry and warm. The boys start playing with a game in the common area. There is a ring tied to a long string hanging from the ceiling. You sit on the sofa and swing the ring up toward a nail on the wall, trying to land it onto the nail. I watch, again in awe that we are allowed to waste time in such a manner. 

I can remember a time when I did things like that, but it seems like it has been since I was their age. It’s so hard to justify "wasting time," and yet I can almost feel the cobwebs of my brain clearing, allowing for me to think and be creative again. The constant onslaught of information and data in my day-to-day life creates so much clutter in my brain. After the boys are done, I gravitate toward the game and sit on the sofa, swinging the ring toward the nail, over and over. Click. Click. Click. Click.

I eventually give up, realizing I’ll never hook the ring no matter how much time I have to dedicate to the task. I look over to the chef working hard in the kitchen. He has been kneading dough by hand for quite a while. He listens to music and focuses intently on what he is doing. After a little while, I realize what he is doing. He is making lasagna by hand from scratch for our dinner.

We share the fireplace area with the Italians. The wood is almost out. We start looking around for more firewood. The Italian dad asks the staff, and they gesture outside as if to say, good luck: everything is soaked. Oh well. I start to observe the Italians more carefully.

The mom is naturally beautiful. She has long, light brown hair which she keeps tied up high and pushed back with a headband. She is thin, fit, and healthy looking. Her complexion is perfect. She is completely at ease on the trail with a heavy pack, but she also looks like if she dressed up, she would be absolutely stunning. The dad is also very attractive. He has an easy smile and warm demeanor. They are the kind of people I want to be in the next life, if I could choose. He buys each of the adults an Austral beer to unwind. They have a 3^rd adult with them, a young man in his mid-20s. He doesn’t appear related, but the boys are clearly very attached to him. He gives the boys plenty of attention, and they idolize him. He plays cards with them. They are all laughing and joking. They are so charming. Like many Europeans, they all effortlessly change languages from Italian, Spanish, and English depending on who they are talking with. I’m sure they probably could change to another language if there was an indication for it.

We sit down to dinner and again enjoy 3 courses: soup, homemade lasagna from scratch, and dessert. 

I am having a hard time eating anything at this point, and Al is constantly nagging me about how important it is to eat. I know, I reply, it’s just hard. I take a bite. It sits in my mouth like a tasteless and heavy rock. I chew with great effort, my body physically rejecting the swallowing to come, but my mind insists. I take a huge swallow and feel it go down with each esophageal peristalsis to land in the empty pit of my stomach. Ugh. And again. I have never had such a hard time eating in my life. Every bite is a colossal effort. I eat what I can, then pass along the rest to Al. Tomorrow is an easier day to Camping Perron. About 12km(7.5mi) or 4.5 hours. So far, we seem to be right on the mark for the estimated times. We can take our time and get there with plenty of time to rest before the difficult day to follow. We will be crossing the John Gardiner pass the next day, by far the longest and most difficult day of the O circuit trek. The Italian mom confides in me that she is worried for her boys on that day. She tells me they are plenty strong enough physically, but mentally struggle to get through the difficult parts. They have never done such a long multi-day trekking trip with the boys before. I don't say anything, but I'm a little worried for them too. 

We all snuggle into bed by 8pm and fall asleep to the sound of the rain falling on the window, warm and dry. I am grateful to be sleeping this cold and wet night in a dry bed.

Day 2. Seron to Dickson. 

Day 3: Refugio Dickson to Camping Perros

We wake up the next morning after sleeping 12-13 hours straight. It is still drizzling outside and the ground is completely saturated. The Australians check their shoes, and sadly announce that they are still wet. And cold. We get ready and pack before breakfast. Breakfast is standard along the trek: undercooked scrambled eggs, bread, cold cuts, sliced cheese, and coffee. The 6 year old Italian looks at Al and says in perfect, unaccented English, “Can you please pass the salami?” Al and I look at each other, astonished. As Al passes the salami over to the multilingual and polite 6 year old doing an 8 day backpacking trek, and he mumbles to me under his breath, “We’re just terrible parents, Em. That’s all there is to it.” We are always reminding our 3 year old to be polite. We try everything to encourage him to be physically active, but with minimal success. He is a bookworm, no two ways about it.

We finish up breakfast and get going. Today begins with a more dreary mood, starting with the weather. It’s gray, cold, and drizzly. The mud is thick and unavoidable. 

I’m saving my last 2 sudafeds for the “difficult” day of crossing the pass, so I’m congested and coughing continuously. We are hiking today toward “Camping Perros,” which is a primitive campground. No food service. No showers. Tents. And that will be our preparation for the next day, which is an 11 hour hike over a pass gaining about 600m(1900ft) and then a long downward trail losing 1200m(3900ft). We will be eating leftover tuna sandwiches for the next 2 days. Barf.

Despite the mood, once we warm up, we are enjoying the rhythm and simplicity of life on the trail. We are wearing our gators to keep the mud out of our shoes and pants. We are grateful that we purchased some cheap carbon trekking sticks at Costco before leaving. We don’t usually hike with sticks, but with the mud, having them on this trail is a lifesaver. One of our Australian friends has already taken a few falls because it’s so slippery. I'm sure my sticks saved me more than once from the same fate. 

We make good time again today. We don’t bother to stop and eat since I am basically incapable of eating. Al is a camel and bolus feeds whenever convenient. He has no normal human hunger cycle. Instead, his relationship with food is a pure energy-essential bodily function of life. It's one of the strangest things about him to me, coming from Louisiana where our lives revolve around ones meals. 

As we approach the Perros Glacier, there is a mirador just 50 feet off the trail. It starts to rain and snow, and we decide the extra 50 feet probably isn’t worth it and we book it into the campground to register and get our gear into dry shelter.

This campground is run by a different company. While Seron is run by “Fantastico Sur” and sets you up with platformed expedition tents and mattresses, Perros is run by “Vertice.” Let’s just say they have a different approach. 

We are shown to our tent. It is a small tent set up in the mud without a tarp. The floor of the tent is wet. The sleeping pads are really only worth it to try to stay out of the mud and water. And the sleeping bags are not rated for the temperatures we will be in. Awesome.

There is a shed-like shelter for people to hide from the worst of the elements to cook. Everyone who has arrived is huddled inside. Clothes are hanging from all available space. The stench is awful. Everyone is trying to dry out their gear. The guys in the corner are playing crappy music on a stereo and have a full glass bottle of cheap vodka proudly on display. We eat our lunch in the shelter, then Al heads into the tent to read and rest. I am not overly attracted to hanging out in that wet tent, so I gear up and walk back over to the Perros Glacier Mirador by myself. It’s close by. I see the Australians checking in at registration and greet them. 

I stop by the running river to fill up my water bladder. It’s pretty awesome that you can drink all of the water in the park without treating it! It’s glacier melt. Pure, natural, mineral water. Cold and delicious. I tell myself I should drink at least 2L this afternoon. I tend to not drink enough while hiking, and I’m sure I need it with my illness.

I wander over the rocks toward the Mirador Perros. I’m completely alone. It’s very lightly snowing. It’s peaceful and tranquil. I hear an avalanche, and look up to watch a giant chunk of ice fall into the water. This is my happy place, I think. This is why I’m here. 

I sit for a while. The only thing interrupting the peaceful quiet is my nagging, continuous, terrible hacking cough. The cold really worsens my asthma, and I mentally kick myself for not bringing my inhaler. I haven’t been able to take more than about a half breath all day, and my body keeps doing this strange “grunting” thing. It’s almost like the physiologic response of a newborn trying to pop open their small airways. I wonder if maybe I have atelectasis that my body is trying to pop open, or maybe even pneumonia. Sigh. 

I wander back over to camp and watch people trickle in. I see the Italian family arrive and wave to them. Tomorrow will be a long and hard day for them. It’s taking them about 2h longer than projected times so far, and tomorrow is projected to be 11 hours. 

I wander back over to the tent and ask Al if he’s ready to eat dinner. We head back to the shed and try to choke down a bit more of the damp tuna sandwich. I do my best, then wrap up the rest. I just can’t eat that crap anymore. I hike up my pants, which are getting harder and harder to keep up above my hips. 

After dinner, we visit with some of our fellow trekkers. The German professor traveling alone tells us he has lived in the US for 20 years now, despite his thick German accent. As we admire the 6 and 8 year old Italian boys shoveling their backpacker dinner into their mouths, he laments to us about his 11 year son who would never do something like this. He tells us his 11 year old is very lazy physically, and he has a hard time relating to the boy. He lives in Ohio with his mother and likes to play video games, he announces, staring at the ground. He tells us a story about once after a snow storm, in order to get the boy out of the house, he offered to pull the boy in a sled over the snow. He concludes the story by saying, “We both kept our promises. I pulled the boy the entire time, and the boy never got his ass out of the sled.” He laughs brusquely as we watch the Italians. 

They are hard not to admire. Their young companion shows the boys how to ignite the backpacking stove with by knocking 2 metal pieces together to create a spark. They are so impressed. They take turns making sparks. The companion is in his 20s with a beard. He walks around barefoot, even though I have on every single pair of socks I brought with me. He looks more comfortable out in nature than he would if he was required to participate in urban society. He’s much more comfortable with the kids then making small-talk conversation with adults. He makes shy eye contact and has an easy grin before quickly diverting his eyes away. He strikes me as precisely the kind of guy you want to have around if something bad happens out here. He looks trustworthy, calm, genuine, and competent. 

I chat with the Italian dad for a few minutes. He tells me he is employed by Nestle. They are currently living in Santiago, but have moved frequently in the past decade for his work. They have most recently lived in Copenhagen and Morocco. The boys are on their last week of summer vacation before heading back to school. 

We start to get ready for bed despite the early hour because tomorrow will be such a long day. We plan to get up around 5am to be ready to hike as soon as the sun peeks out around 6am. We figure this should allow ample time for the 11h hike with a buffer to get to Refugio Gray, where we will have a hot shower, hot meal, and refugio bed awaiting us.

Trailhead to the "Paso"

Day 3. Dickson to Perros.

Day 4: Camping Los Perros to Refugio Grey

I toss and turn all night, coughing dreadfully. I keep having sweats and chills. I fall asleep freezing and wake up drenched. At one point, I am literally counting minutes until we can get up. I feel wet and cold and sore. Miserable. As my 5am alarm rings, I leap up and crawl out of the sleeping bag. It is still pitch dark and raining. Al peeks out from under his eye covers. He says, well we can’t hike in this darkness, might as well sleep in a bit longer. Oh no you don’t, I say. I’m not gonna pretend to sleep a minute longer. I’ve been waiting for that alarm all night. 

I pull on my muddy shoes and head over to the shelter with my old, damp, tuna sandwich in hand. I have to eat today. I need the energy. I eat what I can, including some granola bars and trail mix. Al comes in a few minutes later and easily downs his tuna sandwich. I watch him with jealousy.

I go back to the tent to finish packing. Al left the tent door and vestibule wide open with the water dripping directly onto my pack! My pack is sitting in a puddle of muddy water. I am furious. I shake off some of the water and storm off to go brush my teeth. What the hell is wrong with him? Who leaves a tent zipper wide open in the rain? Doesn’t he care at all about my stuff? Isn’t this hard enough for me without all my clothes being drenched? I try to cool down, but when I see him it all comes pouring out. I demand an apology, but don’t accept it. I am angry and anxious about the day ahead. I seem to be getting more sick each day. I pop my last 2 sudafed tabs, strap my headlamp over my fleece hat, and prepare to head out, with or without him.

The Australians ask to tag along to the trail head. We wait for them and the sun is barely peeking through the trees as we get started on the muddy, uphill trail. We have to use our headlights to see the ground. It’s snowing.

A combination of my residual anger over my wet pack and the energy from the Sudafed tabs propels me to start fast. We leave the Australians in our dust in no time, and we are the first hikers out breaking trail this early morning to get over the John Gardiner pass.

As the sun gets brighter, my mood starts to lift as I look around to all the snow-sprinkled rocks and trees around me. It’s quite a beautiful morning. 

As we break through the tree line, things start to change. We are exposed and climbing over steep, slippery snow-covered rock. The wind is picking up and we begin to struggle to see the trail markers. The visibility gets quite low, at some point about 20ft. 

The German professor overtakes us. He is thrilled to be in the lead. He takes off ahead of us. We can follow his tracks for a little while, but with the wind and fresh snow, his tracks quickly blow over as he expands his lead. In some areas, the snow is actually almost knee deep. I mentally thank Al again for the gators. Brilliant.

My hands and face are starting to get really cold and slow to move. They are definitely losing sensation. I change my buff to be a balaclava to protect some of my face, but when I try to cover my nose it fogs up my sunglasses. I need my sunglasses to protect my eyes from the wind, snow, and hail. I have to sacrifice my nose. I yell over to Al over the wind, “Hey, is my nose white?” “No, keep going,” he yells back, barely looking. He clearly thinks the best course is getting this over with as fast as possible, but I am seriously starting to get concerned about the condition of my fingers and face. I yell out to him again, “I need my warm gloves! My fingers are getting frostbitten! I can’t feel them at all.” I reassure myself by looking down as I watch my numb fingers move around, seemingly independent from the action of my muscles. I'm relieved that they can still move, even though I don’t feel a thing. He pulls off his warm gloves and passes them to me, putting on only his soft shells for protection against wind and cold. I think he’s crazy, but I take the gloves anyway. It helps, and I start to feel a little stabbing, tingling pain indicating some blood flow returning.

At the peak of the pass there is a tiny bit of protection from the wind. I stop Al, telling him I have to get some warmer layers. This is insane. I throw my pack down, pull out my down jacket layer and put it under my soft shell jacket. Then I pull my rain pants out and pull them hastily over my shoes and gators. Thank god they fit over my shoes. I pull my gloves back on. Another German trekker hiking alone passes us. He is in his 20s and has the amusingly awkward mannerism of a body that became surprisingly large surprisingly fast. He floppily passes us by, lankly limbs waving, and yells out through the wind and hail, “Taking a break, are you?” “No, we need warm layers,” we scream back, but he is already off in the distance, trying to get through this brutal blizzard.

View from just over the top of the pass.

I feel a million times better as we walk again. I needed those layers desperately. It was well worth the stop. I would have put them on before if I had any idea what we were getting into. We make the transition between sharp uphill climbing to maneuvering downhill along snowy rocks. We are through the worst of it, I think. The wind dies down. It’s almost a different world on this side of the pass. The sun starts to peek through a bit. We can see the Grey Glacier in the distance. The size of the glacier is staggering. It goes on as far as you can see to the north. It has deep crevasses and a blue hue. It is magnificent. As our faces and fingers start to defrost, we look over at each other and smile. We made it. Hallelujah. The rest should be downhill, physically and mentally.

Grey Glacier

Happy to be on the other side of the Paso.

We arrive to Area de Acampar Paso, an 8km(5mi) distance, in 3.5 hours from start time. It is supposed to take 6 hours. Al is ecstatic. The fact makes me depressed. 

I can’t believe we made it through so fast. We didn’t have to go that fast. It didn’t have to be that difficult. All of the endorphins flood out of my body, and I feel entirely drained. We sit at Paso for a few minutes and try to eat. Pesty bugs surround us. My muscles are quivering. I'm shivering from the cold. I’m so hungry. I stare into my tuna sandwich and pack it back up without a nibble. I pull out a cereal bar and stare at it before putting it away too. My stomach is like a pit, but I can’t eat. I know I need the energy. I know what we just did required an incredible amount of energy. My hiking pants are getting looser by the day. At this point, I have to pull them up under my pack strap to keep them up. We go to the bathroom and head on our way again. We still have another supposed 7km(4.5mi) or 5 hours to go to get to Refugio Grey. Downhill.

Mood.

Toilet.

My quads quiver with every downhill step. I am cold, yet sweating, with all of my layers still on. I am unwilling to take them off after the scare over the pass. I know it’s dumb. You aren’t supposed to sweat, because then you lose more water and get cold faster. I don’t care. I ain’t taking it off. I stop every 1km or so and sit on a rock. We did the first part in half the estimated time, so I figure I don’t have to kill myself anymore.

Al tries to persuade me to eat. I try, but it literally just sits in my mouth. I can’t explain it. I've never experienced this. Food is disgusting. My muscles plead for fuel. My GI tract protests. It’s a war. I find a small bag of dehydrated peaches and my stomach flutters a bit. Mmm, that sounds fantastic. I try to pry it open. My hands don’t work appropriately. I try to bite the package open. I can’t get the damned thing open. I plop onto a log, put my head down, and start crying uncontrollably. I don’t have the energy to take off my pack, so it’s pushing me farther forward as I watch the tears and snot stream freely from my face into the mud. I just can’t do it, I tell Al. I can’t do this anymore. His affect softens as he tries to comfort me. He tells me I have to eat. We have to finish, there is no choice. He reminds me we have a bed and shelter coming up. He pulls out a milk chocolate bar and opens it, encouraging me to eat it. I manage to get the chocolate down. I immediately feel like I’m gonna have diarrhea after eating an entire chocolate bar on a totally empty stomach. I start to cry some more.

“Dear God, please if you help me not have diarrhea on this trail today, I will be such a better person forever. I promise. Amen.”

Al spots my dehydrated fruit package in my hand and asks if I’ll try to eat it. I can’t open it, I bawl, triggering another flood of tears. He pulls it from me and opens it effortlessly, then feeds me the entire bag, piece by piece. It goes down easily. I start to feel better. My muscles stop quivering. I drink some water and shed some layers, then we head out again.

Every step brings us to lower altitude, warmer temperatures, and closer to the Refugio. We start making better time. We cross several fun and spectacular suspension bridges. 

My feet and quads are screaming with the relentless downhill. I much prefer going uphill. I start to joke with Al. “MIS POBRES RODILLOS,” I yell at the top of my lungs into the emptiness. “My poor knees!” Al laughs, and acknowledges a rare admission, “My knees are killing me, too.” I guess we're getting to the age at which our knees sometimes hurt. Fun fact. 

We stumble into Refugio Grey at about 2:30pm, 2+ hours faster than estimated time for the day. I want to cry again at the site of it. We go in and check in, grabbing a hot shower STAT. We put on some dry clothes. I am relieved to see the interior of my pack is completely dry. Al is lucky, because I was fully planning to take his dry clothes if mine were wet.

The refugio is much bigger. This is part of the “W” circuit, which sees a lot more volume. It has 2 floors of rooms with 2 sets of bunks each. There are 2 huge bathrooms, with 3 showers each. The common area has a full bar, long picnic-style tables, and sofas with a wood-burning fireplace nearby. It’s like heaven on earth.

After we are showered, warm, and dry, we head down to the leather couches to lounge in the common area. We end up chatting with the German Professor. He is an tenured astronomy professor at Berkeley for the past 20 years. His wife is a German language professor in Ohio. They have been unable to find jobs in the same city, and hence live apart full-time. His 11 year son lives with his wife. He is on a 6 month sabbatical. He was living in the Ohio winter with his wife and son until he determined he could no longer tolerate such a lifestyle, and headed to South America to backpack in Patagonia. He has been backpacking his whole life and has a clear affinity to the outdoors. His gear is from the ‘80s or ‘90s and looks like it has survived a lot of mileage.

His department has been contracted to work on the data from the Cassini satellite. He is fascinating and brilliant, but humble. He wants to know instead about Al’s other adventures, so he proceeds to tell him stories about Denali, Aconcagua, Rainier, his bike trips across the US and from Paris to Beijing. I listen, knowing the stories, but again impressed by what Al has experienced in his lifetime. The German teases us, asking how Al can go from such adventures to accepting the fully-supported "refugio package" in Torres del Paine. I raise my hand, and Al gestures over to me. He says, “I’ve proven myself. I’ve done enough suffering.” I think, yeah, I’ve done enough suffering today alone. Screw that. I don’t need to sleep in a damp backpacking tent tonight to prove a damned thing. I feel no shame, only gratitude, about the bed awaiting me.

Across from us are 2 American girls in their 20s running through the typical, unoriginal, liberal topics of our time. They chat through the entire predictable list: Fire and Fury, Steve Bannon, Trump is an idiot, gun control, #metoo, lack of government-supportive leave packages, and how they are so culturally advanced because of their open-mindedness due to extensive travel. It's so tiresome. It's not that I don't agree with some of it, but it is so empty. I am so bored with the monotony of self-righteous political ideology. Ideas are cheap.  Ideologies are even cheaper. Someone else has done all the thinking while others blindly get in line. The real work is putting energy into figuring out why and how to implement change. It's more complicated than people want to admit. 

I watch them, wondering if they realize how ironic they sound down here, lamenting the many hardships of being educated, rich white Americans on extended travel for pleasure. One is a lawyer, the other is travel bum from a wealthy family. It all turns into soft, white noise in the background as I slowly drift off to sleep.

The weight of my head pulls down quickly as my eyes pop open, awake in an instant. I look around and see the Australians at the bar drinking red wine. I get up and run to them, giving them huge bear hugs. I was so worried about their wet feet today in the snow! We exchange stories about how we all broke down and cried today, and we laugh over a perfect glass of Chilean red wine.

We sit down to dinner, and the Australians remind us this is where they are staying for their “rest day.” This will be our last day together. I sheepishly ask Laura if she has any more Sudafed to spare. It has made all the difference in the world, and I’m happy to give her all the money I have for whatever she has leftover. She brings me 6 more tabs, and I just want to hug her again. These girls have been lifesavers for companionship, sharing equipment and gear, and pharmacologic cough-and-cold symptom relief. I’m sad to be parting from them. I ask for their names to link up on Facebook. Who knows, we may visit Perth one day? Or they may visit Albuquerque?

We sit down to soup, an enormous plate of black beans and rice, and a brownie for dessert. My appetite picks up a little, and I’m able to eat an entire half plate of my beans and rice. Praise the Lord.

As we are sitting down to dinner, we see the Italian family arrive and walk into the refugio. Al gets up and runs over to them, asking how they are doing. We were really worried about those kids on the pass, figuring that the snow would be waist-deep on the smallest one in some places. They tell us that the pass was completely clear and wind-free when they passed just 2h after us! They had excellent visibility and no problems. What a relief! Better us than them having to suffer through a blizzard, we all agree. We all chat again about how impressed we are with the kids. 

After dinner, we hang out by the fire upstairs to stretch and warm up. I pass my feet over to Al for a foot massage. People passing in the hallway either snigger at my weakness or praise Al for his generosity. I could care less what they think as I lay there. I’m warm, dry, and having my feet massaged by my love.  There is no privacy, but this is heavenly.

After stretching, we head to the bathroom to brush our teeth. I start coughing uncontrollably and watch with horror as my beans and rice start pouring out of my mouth onto the floor and then the toilet. You have got to be kidding me, I think. What is happening to me? Do I have an ileus? A bowel obstruction? I have no abdominal pain. This is just bizarre. I have never experienced these symptoms before unless I had a viral gastroenteritis. I go over to the sink to wash my face and teeth, then reluctantly pull a bunch of paper towels to clean my fresh rice and bean vomit off the floor. Unbelievable. People pass and either stare accusingly, as if I’m drunk, or sympathetically, as if they know it could be them. I could care less what they think. But I pity myself, that's for sure. 

We head into our rooms and realize we are sharing with a middle-aged Chinese couple who we met on the trail. They are both on their bunks with the lights on, laying motionless with their eyes closed and hands folded over their bellies, like zombies. It is a strange sight. I pity them having to share the room with me, coughing all night. It’s probably a Chinese person’s worst nightmare to share an enclosed space with a sick white person. Oh well, nothing I can do about it, and I drift off to sleep.

Day 4. Perros to Gray.

I wake up in pitch dark after hearing a loud “BAM.” “OOF,” the Chinese man exclaims as his wife scrambles out of bed to help him. Oh my! The old man fell out of his top bunk all the way to the floor! I am torn between cracking up laughing and trying to see if I can help as he climbs back up the ladder. Poor guy. Well, maybe now we are even. We both woke each other up. I snuggle under the cover to try to muffle my giggles. Now that was funny.