“The next passage in my journey is a love affair,” John Steinbeck wrote of a place dear to me, “I am in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana it is love. And it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it… It seems to me that Montana is a great splash of grandeur… The land is rich with grass and color, and the mountains are the kind I would create if mountains were ever put on my agenda… It seemed to me that the towns were places to live in rather than nervous hives. People had time to pause in their occupations to undertake the passing art of neighborliness… Love is inarticulate. Montana has a spell on me.”
If you have ever heard me talk about Montana, you know I am also under its spell. Some places have the power to reach in and take hold of my heart, refusing to let go, no matter where I am in the world. Montana is this place in the US for me, Italy has my heart in Europe, and now I have found my love affair of the south: Chilean Patagonia.
Experiencing anything that moves me to my core, challenges me to be my best self, and offers me the landscape to do it can be hard to explain to someone on the outside of that experience, just as Steinbeck struggled to clarify how Montana affected him. Yet, like Steinbeck, the experience of the place moves me to words.
The 5-day W Circuit trek of Torres del Paine National Park, in the very south of Chilean Patagonia, was the first place I went when I left my entire life behind in Montana last fall. It was my first stop in trying on the reality of living indefinitely on the road, where I surrendered myself to being open to what unknown changes that road would bring.
It also happens to be one of the most wild and beautiful places I have ever seen in all of my travels.
Hanging glaciers broke into avalanche before my eyes, snow thundering over the cliffs below and echoing against the stark silence of unspoiled nature. Galaxies only visible from the southern hemisphere appeared in the endless black of the night sky, unpolluted by light of any kind. Turquoise waters filled the valleys at the feet of towering snow-capped peaks.
Groups of condors watched from overhead, riding the currents of the wind, unthreatened by civilization. Wind whipped through my clothing to my bones, in a cold, deep, tangible embrace, which I welcomed with arms wide open. Grey Glacier groaned and cracked in my face, threatening to calve at any moment, alive and wild, lending its perfect ice to my lakeside Pisco Sour.
I could taste this place, smell it, feel it, hear it, and see so much more than I had ever seen. Everything was new.
The expansive beauty of peaks and valleys in every direction embraced and challenged me. It invited me to question myself in its presence, to reflect on my own presence. I recognized the same peaks, the same depths, and the same untamed beauty within myself.
This offered a deep sigh of renewal amidst a period of change and grief. Instead of pain, I discovered the fervor and enlightenment of possibility. Living so presently for five days, off the grid, prepared my heart for the Raw and the Wild, and then sent me off with confidence to navigate an unfamiliar path.
Five months later to the day, I had completely circumnavigated the globe. I was back, this time with a different purpose: to share this magnificent place with others.
I just finished my second W Circuit trek in Torres del Paine. It was different, of course, because that extra magic that you can only experience when seeing something for the first time, was absent. I’m sure you know the feeling. I will always remember the first time I saw the Colosseum in Rome. Emerging from the metro below, I saw it towering over me and was nearly knocked off my feet by its grandeur. I will never get to behold it for the first time again.
When revisiting a place, instead of the wonder of everything being new, the magic transforms into a deepening bond of familiarity. It knows me, and I know it, and I love it for that.
This time in Torres del Paine, I was the guide. I was the one who knew the trail, the best places for photos, lunch stops, and water breaks. It was as if it were my place that I was sharing with others. I felt proud to be introducing it to a group of amazing women from Montana who were hungry to meet it. Getting to experience it again through their eyes fascinated me in new ways.
I got to witness their first views, their jaw-dropping unbelief at what lay before us, their enthusiasm to keep going, even on the long days, and best of all, the unbreakable bonds we created with each other in an environment free of technological distractions.
Torres del Paine is a landscape for connection, both internal and external. And I am grateful. For the open, deep, exploratory conversations we had on the trail, the perfect plot of grass or rock on which to share a bottle of wine or a picnic lunch, the absence of the outside world, which allowed us to focus on ourselves and each other amidst this great place. For the aches, the pains, the sweat, the camaraderie, the accomplishment, the growth.
With Chile, it is love.
I’m living in Argentinian Patagonia now, just to see what it’s like. I like it, but it doesn’t do to me what Chile does to me, and I understand that now.
Last week, as I sat on the bus headed back to Argentina, I stared out the window at the outline of the mountains of Torres del Paine. No matter how much I wanted to hold onto them, they only moved further away into the distance behind me, eventually disappearing beyond the horizon.
Part of me lives in those mountains, or rather, I think part of who I am now was born in those mountains. They taught me that every point along the trail was better than the last. Even when I didn’t think it could get any better, it did. Over and over again, rewarding me for my hard work and dedication for coming as far as I had, even when it meant leaving something beautiful behind.
To try to explain this is like Steinbeck trying to explain his love affair with Montana. I can type some words, and you might appreciate them, but I will still feel that words don’t do justice to what this place is for me. And that’s okay. My story is not your story. Perhaps Torres del Paine has a story for you, you’ll just have to find out for yourself.
