By Eric Van Dam (University of New Hampshire)
Sunsets are a funny thing in Patagonia. As the leaves on the ñirre trees unfurl from their aromatic bundles and newly-born guanacos take their first shaky steps over mats of neneo grande on the dusty valley floor of the Chacabuco, the austral summer marches ever forward. Days begin early and the sun hangs high in the sky even towards early evening. Yet, just as the sun reaches the end of its lazy arc through the lenticular, flying-sauceresque clouds, it swan dives into the mountains with startling speed. Having grown used to such luxurious amounts of light, somehow I always forget that the sun descends at the same speed everywhere in the world and has no particular understanding of the Chilean disregard for punctuality. Despite having spent three months in this beautiful country, I could only count the amount of sunsets that I’d seen from start to finish on my fingers. This was precisely what was on my mind during our last hike of the semester into the Jeinimeni Natural Reserve. With my pack now as wide as it was tall due to the camera bag and tripod that I clumsily lashed to its sides, I was determined to capture this elusive scene on tape.
The sun setting over the Jeinimeni Range
After two days of hiking into the mountains, I found myself on just the scene that I was hoping for. Reclining on my pack with the vibrant waters of Lago Verde behind me, I was facing west towards La Gloria and the other nameless peaks of Jeinimeni. Whittling a small soup spoon from a scrap piece of firewood, I listened for the mechanical sound of a shutter blinking as my camera fired off shot after shot a couple of meters next to me. There was still at least half an hour until the show began, but I wasn’t going to take any chances this time. Thin shavings of lenga flew off my knife in front of me, momentarily shimmering in the air as they were filled with wind and golden light, finally slingshotting past my ears as the valley’s gusts took them. The people that I’ve spent these entire three months with, who I can happily call friends, were spread out in either direction. From a passing observer, we all appeared as small dots scattered across the plain in a crooked line, not unlike the red wooden posts sunken into the dirt that show hikers the way through the valley.
This scattered line of people returned after the last glow of orange drained from the clouds. We had all decided to sleep outside: lining up sleeping pads and mummy bags sardine style underneath the stars. Just thirty meters away, a puma glided over our camp stoves and empty bowls, the only evidence of its presence being a set of prints dug into the bank of the nearby eddy where it paused to drink. Elliott and I would later find more puma sign the following morning, as we waded into the ice-cold water in running shorts with homemade grass fishing line and dip nets. Although our attempts to catch one of the small brown figures darting through the water failed miserably, we both felt satisfied in a different way for our use of that lazy Thursday in Valle Hermosa. Only halfway through our “Humans and the Environment” final exam that afternoon, Liz and Jess announced that we needed to move camp. The rain that drove us all into our tents the night before had collected and swollen the tributaries that ran along our path back home: making our way out of Valle Hermosa more complicated if we didn’t leave before things got any hairier.
The old estancia shelter, now the center of the Valle Hermosa campground
Just an hour later, everybody had retreated back a mile to an old wooden house grandfathered into the park from the former estancia. There, we rediscovered our new friend, Archie: a young Englishman just out of secondary school spending a year between academics in Chile. We’d seen him the day before in tow of two seasoned mountaineer types after their small motorboat landed on our side of Lago Verde. They stopped to chat by our campsite for a little while, but left to attend to some business with hurried apologies. Five gallon barrels that they jerry-rigged to their backpack’s external frame bounced over bushes of calafate as they disappeared. Archie had been waiting on the side of the Caraterrra Austral (Patagonia’s dirt road superhighway) when these two, Andres and Juan, pulled over and gave him a lift far past where he had originally intended. Now he was on the same itinerary as us, looking to make it to Cochrane in a few days’ time. Archie kept mostly to himself and retired to bed early, but seemed to share the common thread of independence and resilience that ran through many of the travelers that our group had met in country.
It’s too early to say, but I thought that maybe Patagonia has done something similar to us as I saw Archie disappear under the rotten lintel of the house. Taking advantage of the rusty wood stove on the back wall, our group continued talking long after Archie went to bed. Rain continued to patter on the mega mid’s tent fly as Desi, Elliott and I dozed off to sleep.
An old lenga forest
We spent the next morning crossing rivers just as the clouds began to clear. With our boots slung across our packs, we held onto each other as we forded what used to be calm streams just a couple of days ago. Holding hands and plunging a hiking pole into the milky blue water, I couldn’t think of better people with whom to spend the day. Hiking has always been an introspective time for me. This day was no exception. As we walked over colorful collages of rivers tones and floated through misty lenga forests, I reflected on our time in Patagonia.
The Round River semester here is a program that equals more than the sum of its parts. Every experience on this trip has built on top of the last. We’ve gained conservation perspectives that we hadn’t known existed, hiked through untouched glacial valleys, counted birds in old Nothofagus forests, surveyed for viscacha on the cliffs of the Chacabuco Valley and tracked huemul deer along the edge of the Southern Ice Field. In a blur of lectures, backpacking trips and side adventures, we all underwent a time in our lives that we’ll never forget.
Yet, much like a Patagonian sunset, the end of this semester has crept up on us, and we’re all headed back to the States in just a short while. It’s a sad thing to see for sure, but mixed with the blues is excitement. Many of us are on the final straightaway of their senior year, and others still have some time left. While we’re still finishing up packing and departure arrangements, there’s a buzz in the air in anticipation of our next adventure. Nobody knows where we’ll be at the end of this school year, but I know that we’ll all keep exploring.
Our group photo during a break on our second day of hiking
Top photo: Elliott looking out on the valley 2km up the Sendero Avilés