Torres del Paine – Day 3: Crossing the Cuernos
TORRES DEL PAINE
Day 3: Crossing the Cuernos
April 03, 2023
PART I
The second day promised to be the easiest of all – a 14.6-kilometre flat trail that would lead directly to the next refuge I’d be staying in that night. Having power-trekked my way up Base Las Torres the previous day, I woke up feeling sore as hell. With the idea of getting myself a head-start, I quickly overcame the pain and, after breakfast, started on my way.
The first part of the trail was the same as the previous day’s, going through the valley right beneath Monte Almirante Nieto. Having started a bit later, the views that welcomed me this time round were enchanting to say the least – with the clearest, most incredible rainbow framing the pink-lit mountains in front of me, the slowly rising sun on the other side painting the landscape in all hues of orange and red.
The path to the next campsite led straight through the valley instead of going up the mountainside like the previous day’s, with more magnificent views keeping me company throughout – like a perfectly still pool of water reflecting the clouds above just like a mirror, as horses stood grazing right next to it.
The Humbling Hill
Then it was the first uphill. Of course, having been on so many treks over the previous few months, I knew better than to not take trail descriptions with a pinch of salt. Time and time again I had been told a trail would be easy only for me to find myself clutching at my chest like a cardiopathic old man. So I was expecting this.
What I wasn’t expecting was the toll that one hill took on me, considering I was now heaving all my belongings with me. As good as I felt about being so fast, I also had to admit to myself that I probably wouldn’t go half as fast were I to carry the additional weight of a tent and food supplies. So yeah, I guess that was a bit humbling.
The view at the top was rewarding though, with the blue Laguna Inge and the mountainous backdrop making for an excellent vista – the lenga once again making me doubt whether the mountains were covered in rainbows or whether it was an optical illusion brought about by the leaves changing their colours. The small lake was quickly overshadowed by that of Laguna Nordenskjöld – a teal-coloured body of water covering some 28 square kilometres named after the Swedish explorer who discovered it.
The rest of the trail would pretty much follow its banks – a long, long trail going up and down, surrounded by red-leaved lenga trees on all sides, the path varying from gravelly and rocky on the mountainside to sandy and streamy close to the natural, black-pebbled beaches on the lake.
Wildest Dreams
As extraordinary as the views were, I can’t say I didn’t find myself annoyed. First of all, we had been told this day would be an easy one and the trail flat. It was anything but – especially when having to go up multiple hills victualled with all your belongings. Second, my feet seemed to be crapping out on me as the extra weight of my bag seemed to make them sorer than ever. Third? I guess it’s the fact that despite the many gorgeous views along the way, there wasn’t this one particular view waiting for me at the end, motivating me to go on as fast as possible.
I took many more breaks than I needed, my exhaustion piling up from the previous day. At one point, I even found myself daydreaming, staring at a random bush for way longer than I probably should have whilst pondering about how tough life would be if I were to be immortal (having to escape from the Russian government for the rest of my life), or how I’d be the perfect man for Taylor Swift (were I not two centimetres shorter than she is).
Despite my negative outlook and weariness, it was still an amazing hike. As I lay on a rock feasting on an apple with the lake right below me, I certainly did hope that “one a day” would keep the doctor away. Away from Malta, that is.
Having been told that eating the blue calafate fruit would ensure one’s return to Patagonia, I did my damnedest to try and find some. Instead, I drank Calafate beers and hoped they’d do the trick instead. As “okay” as I had come to feel about going back home, I also had no idea how I’d be able to cope without such views on a daily basis. I had grown so fond of this scenery that it felt as if nothing would ever be able to rival the Patagonian wonderland. But that’s the thing. There was so much more of the world left for me to see. Perhaps someday, as jaded as I might sound, I’d trek somewhere that would make these landscapes look like crap!
On I went, saluting all the fellow hikers coming from the opposite side with an endless barrage of “holas.” Before, I’d kinda resent the word – the meaningless greetings flung about between unsuspecting strangers who’ll never see each other again. Having realised I’d no longer be saying that word in a few weeks’ time, I found myself cherishing the very act of exclaiming it to each passerby. Having started a bit earlier than anyone else, this time round there was no need for “permisos” either – being alone for the better part of the trek. This had been exactly what I had been looking forward to. Being alone in the Patagonian wilderness – a picture I had in mind that was simply brought to life there and then.
The Missing Bridge
Finally, when it felt as if my feet couldn’t take it anymore, I reached Refugio Los Cuernos, meaning I was some three kilometres away from my goal. Only getting there, at least for me, was easier said than done.
Separating me from the wooden lodge in front of me was a river – one I had no idea how to cross. Somehow, the orange posts and red-marked trees that had become my best of friends in Patagonia had betrayed me and I got lost. I ended up on the riverbank contemplating my next move – whether I should take off my shoes, wade across the fast-moving body of water and get to the other side, pushing my way through the shrubs and bushes. Only that would have proven futile given the fence that surrounded the lodge.
I tried yelling out to ask for directions, but this too seemed quite useless. I retraced my steps and, after some thirty minutes, I had finally spotted the bridge connecting to the other side. I have no idea how I managed to miss such a massive feature for the life of me. Once at the refuge, I simply dropped myself on a bench, feeling as lifeless as a wilted flower. Taking off my shoes felt a lot like what I imagine taking off a bra after a long day would feel like. With my puppies getting some much-needed airing out and rest, I could finally have my sandwich. As much as I had struggled and complained internally, I was still an hour ahead of schedule – something which undeniably lifted my spirits.
In fact, after the break, I was once again well on my way to the next and final stop for the day – a similar trail to the previous with beaches, bridges and log trails on the way and an alarmingly steep zig-zagging path up the mountainside at the end. To top it off, the promised land of Refugio Francés sits right at the bottom of yet another distressingly steep hill – one I’d surely resent the following morning as I’d have to make my way up the switchbacks once again.
PART II
The Master of Fire
Once there, I checked into the next hostel; a wooden lodge with a polyhedron-shaped tarp as a roof which surprisingly offered great insulation against the cold and strong gusts of wind. Then, I made good use of my welcome drink ticket. Nothing better than a beer and a cigarette after a hike. As always, the first thing on my mind was to have a shower and get the dirty, muddy, sweaty clothes off of me and wash them.
As soon as I laid them out to dry, the forecasted rain shower marked itself present and I found myself fighting with the stove trying to make a fire in order to dry them. I gotta admit, for someone who had never done that before, it was quite the feat. With the thinnest log being the size of my thigh, I had no idea how I’d go about getting it to burn. I tried matches (almost wasted an entire box), tissue paper (nearly emptied the dispenser too) and even prayer, but despite all that, all I could get was a tiny flame off the cortex that would go out the second I’d stop feeding it.
At this point I found myself wondering how on earth forest fires occur, and whether it was me or trees that were, in fact, stupid. Enter Clive, an American guy who, upon seeing my struggles, went out to get some small twigs to feed the flames – being so used to lighting fire back home in wintertime. By the end we had a good ol’ fire burning up in our room. I’d say it was 25% my effort and 75% Clive’s, but the idea to dry off clothes was 100% mine and it certainly was a good one: day three out of six and I had no smelly socks and sweaty tees.
Chilean Relativity
With my mind now at peace, I could finally enjoy a well-deserved dinner. Crowded around the communal tables were Roman, a guy from Germany, and Jimena, a gal from Mexico. As we shoveled down our food with the ravenous hunger only a “flat” 15-kilometre trail can produce, we all reached the same conclusion: the day’s trek was anything but easy.
We eventually coined a new term for our struggles: Chilean Relativity. We came to the realization that here in Chile, measurements of time, distance, and even physics are more of a “vibe” than a fact. For instance, the trail markers might confidently state a path is fifteen kilometres, only for every single one of our pedometers to register twenty-two by the end. If a map says a section is “flat,” it simply means you aren’t literally rock climbing with a harness – it doesn’t account for the fifty “mini-hills” that feel like Everest when you’re carrying your life on your back.
Even the weather forecasts seemed to follow this logic. A park ranger might tell you it’s a “calm afternoon” with a straight face, while outside, the gusts are strong enough to tip a cow or send a smaller hiker flying toward the Atlantic. We laughed about the “Patagonian flat” and the “Patagonian breeze,” realizing that to survive the W trek, you gotta learn to subtract 50% from the promises and add 50% to the actual effort required.
As we were rushed out of the dining hall to allow the next group of hungry trekkers to come in, we didn’t mind the dismissal. We all found it a good excuse to go get some rest. We shared one last look of mutual dread and excitement as we checked our gear, preparing ourselves mentally for the following morning – the one everyone whispered about as the hardest day of all.
Day three:
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- Weather:
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- Overcast and rainy
- Wind: S 5kts
- Temperature: 6°C
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- Weather:
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- Position:
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- 51°01’38.9″S
- 73°01’30.1″W
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- Position:
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- Trek Profile:
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- Distance: 22km (allegedly 14.6km)
- Elevation gain: 200m
- Time: 4.5hrs (average 6.5hrs)
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- Trek Profile:
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