In The Presence of Giants
A Glimpse of Argentina
Argentinian Patagonia stretches on in a taupe and grey desert. Layers of gradated hills line the planes. On the road from Calafate to El Chalten, there seems to be little life, yet it hums with a quiet being. Every few miles a fluorescent turquoise lake appears, stark against the colorless ground. Eventually, the road parallels the Rio de las Vueltas and Lenga trees dot its banks. The water in the river is so light that it appears void of color.
I have grown to love the “semi-cama” bus, staring out the long windows at tundra and forrest, lake and sea. I have spent entire days on them and have been hurdled through time and space. Everything and nothing is happening outside of this rectangle. On this particular ride, I pondered over the scale of this feeling for astronauts.
I considered the non-linear nature of my journey (how cosmic!) Nothing about my path has made sense, but what is sense anyway outside of another way to label whether or not one adheres to a set of made-up rules? Fuck making sense. I want to make something messy and true and strangly beautiful, most importantly true.
The next day tested my limits. I have hiked miles in the rain in Teton and trekked through the mud in Clay Butte, but Los Tres Sendero to Fitz Roy lookout takes the cake. Not because of the difficulty level of the trail, but because of the downpour swirling with the harsh Patagonian wind. 3/4 of the way through the hike, wind burnt, soaking wet, and shoes sloshing with water, the wind picked up and pushed me backward. I huddled behind a tree and attempted to shield myself from it, cursing the weather and myself. I had made up my mind. “This is treacherous and miserable, I will not continue. I have to turn back.”
When I stood up to begin the descent, the rain stopped, the wind died, and a thick cloud parted to reveal Fitz Roy shining and all of its golden brown, ice blue, silver, jagged glory. Underneath it lay a lush valley with vibrant green brush and an endless aqua-blue river. In this instant, re-vamped by the landscape, I changed my mind. As I climbed, I began to think about how essential it is to be reminded of the unpredictability, the rage and the formidable power of the natural world. We should not be in awe of and indebted to the wild only when it is soft, warm, and forgiving, but also when it is relentless and torrential.
During the hardest parts, I pictured a hot shower and a steaming cup of coffee. I wondered if, sometimes, this was an appropriate and necessary aspect of remaining present. I think even Siddhartha Gautama himself, at times, slid into a picture of a feast, a warm bath, and ample cups of tea as he sat in meditation and the storm raged at his back.
The Doublé V
I began The W Trek in Torres del Paine National Park in Patagonia on February 5th. On my first day, an uncharacteristically calm and clear one, I hiked to the base of Torres Mountain, the most famous of the park’s features. Standing underneath these three peaks jutting into the atmosphere, I had a “don’t blink now” moment. I could not take my eyes off of this astonishing natural formation.
The humungous face of granite and sandstone glittered, its outer layers slick with water from a cascading waterfall tumbling out of a glacier’s mouth. The clouds seemed to play on fast forward, shadows covering the water in rotating sheets. Then the sun broke through and the edges of the spires wore mauve tiaras.
As I marveled at the forest of lenga trees resting just below the towers, the bright green lichen spidered the silver branches and the light was breaking through the leaves. I was thinking about saying “thank you” to the earth for showing good graces today and permitting me good weather. But, then, I thought about how silly it is that we assume Earth exists and functions for us. Those who come face to face with extreme weather regularly or who have seen natural disasters can attest to this: Nature can chew you up and spit you back out again, batter you against her edges, chill you to the bone, spin you around in white water. She does not ask for your forgiveness or your gratitude. She never asked to be a god or a symbol of one.
Over the next few days, hiking miles through this wonderland of varying microclimates, delicate ecosystems, and mind-boggling geological formations, I had a lot of time to get lost in the tunnels of my own conscious mind for both better and worse. I psychoanalyzed myself, went down rabbit holes, and had some interesting thoughts and dialogues with myself, as well as some incredibly stupid and ridiculous ones. But I also experienced a clarity that is difficult to come by in day-to-day life. Out there, I was present in a way that allowed me to recognize that it is not so much that life is complicated, but that I tend to complicate my own life by letting myself be led in directions I know I do not want to go and then having to backtrack, pushed and pulled by forces that speak more to the hardwired part of my brain and less to my essential, honest soul.
On the other side of the W Trek, I was brimming with gratitude and wonder. It felt as though I was waking from a beautiful dream. As I rode the bus into the sunset towards Puerto Natales and away from the park, I stared out of the window at the layers of earth unfolding around me. I looked over my shoulder and I couldn’t tell whether or not the flamingos I was seeing perched at the edge of a salt flat were real. I had to ask someone to confirm that these were indeed flamingos. I chuckled to myself. “Of course they are.”
This sensation was a constant throughout my time in Torres; not quite convinced that what I was seeing, feeling, and experiencing was real. Nothing else outside of that place mattered or existed because of how entirely I was embraced by the existence of it. On my last night at Grey Campsite, I was running through options as I considered my final day. Thoughts like, “I have a full day tomorrow. Should I get back to catch the ferry earlier in the day,” crossed my mind. When I met Laura and Leah, two American travelers doing the O Trek, I was distracted from the need to decide.
With the draw of hiking with friends for a change, I chose to enjoy my day and catch the later ferry. It ended up being a stunning, cloudless, radiant day in Torres. I spent the day with Laura and Leah, high on the buzzing energy that nature provides. Again, I was pushed back and humbled by nature. Slow down. Slow down. Slow. Down. To quote another Mary Oliver poem,
“When I am among trees…they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness and discernment, and never hurry through the world, but walk slowly, and bow often.”
I think this sums up the humbling experience one has in nature. You forget your own importance and are swallowed by these giants; trees, mountains, cascading waterfalls, and rainbows. In their breadth, you hear that whisper.
“Stop rushing. There is nowhere to be, but here. Look around you.”
