Actually, just leaving Puerto Natales on the bus for our next one night stand. It’s always strange coming back to a town you’ve visited briefly, as it seems more known than it could be. In a flurry of strangeness, it assumes unwonted familiarity. So you see, Puerto Natales is a grid of fairly grotty tin shacks, variously tricked out as tour agents, restaurants, car spares shops and hostels, on a pretty lake with black necked swans, and lots of entrepreneurial spirit. The World Over.
We togged up for our hike later than I’d planned (quelle surprise) because Adrian just goes so slowly in a morning. The books all say it’s an 8 hour round trip, and we were due to catch our bus at 1700. So we left at 9.15 – already no rests are in prospect. The first part was an easy stroll through a flat river valley and across a little suspension bridge. Then it got tough. 400m of climbing for a solid hour. And guess who had the pack? Still, the weather was perfect – not as searingly hot as yesterday, very still, not too bright. The second hour was slightly easier, along the high side of the valley of the Rio Silencio, amongst shrubs, flowers and scree runs. The trail is well-marked and very worn, but well-tended, with areas redirected regularly ‘for recovery’. At 11.30 we stopped at the Refugio Chileno for an out-of-date beer, but hey, beggars have never been choosers. The third section went along the valley nearer the river, in and out of woodland, attractive, but still tough going. By the time we reached the 4th way point, marked 45 mins to the Mirador Torres del Paine, we knew we’d have too little time, because we were exactly pacing the official estimates. Since these had been measured by a ‘moderately experienced group carrying 15k packs’, I didn’t know whether to be depressed or pleased. In any case, I was flagging, so Adrian took the pack. Much easier! We planned for lunch at the Refugio, but they were eating. We felt we couldn’t wait, so devoured the hotel’s horrid ‘Sweet Dreams’ chocolates. Although we had over an hour to spare at the Hosteria, the walk back was enjoyable rather than a panicky scamper. Betty was right about this place – it is very nice, a sort of cross between an estancia and a safari lodge. Lunch buffet ($18) was over, so we raided the souvenir kiosk for two bread rolls and a tube of cream cheese – 800 cents (80p). Breaking into the cheese was tricky – it took me 15 minutes and was finally accomplished by scratching through the plastic film with a beer bottle top: two litres of which later, a bus arrived.
There is an impenetrable mystery of life held by travel agents: somehow, they contrive to move people about according to schedule. Mostly. Consider: I booked through The Cruise People in London, by e-mail, fax and phone; they booked a Peregrine cruise and tour; Peregrine commissioned Gador Viajes, who advised Turismo Stipe, who booked Tour Express, Coortes, B. Fernandez, and a host of other charming personages who introduced themselves, did something for us, were tipped, and disappeared, smilingly, from our lives. Other philosophical thoughts bloom too: why do hikers with sticks assume they have a right of way on tracks? Why do some people (Yoof with earphones, Italians, career hikers) refuse to say ‘Ola’ as you pass them? When did I get tendons on my shins, and why are they on fire? Who fitted explosive charges behind my kneecaps? Why does every Patagonian vehicle have a cracked screen? Who do Chilean restaurants find bubbly wine infra dig? All these things may ultimately be answered, but in the meantime, just keep musing and travelling.