Torres de Paine, someone said it meant blue,
Seemed to mean a lot of other things too.
Like winds that wouldn't let you fall,
That held me like a kite, hair dragged back and gortex blustering,
45degrees to a rocky floor,
Eyes frozen open,
Cheeks pinned high in aerodynamic grin.
Winds that sucked snot from the nose,
Pulled at my rucksack, tripped feet and shoved me about like a ring of bullies.
Meant misjudging distances.
Peaks competing with clouds, getting closer, opening up and weeping into blue lakes. Really blue.
Startled hares, dead silver forests, wind blasted prairies along the way too.
Birds everywhere, gloomy light glimpse of fox and mountain cat.
Calm and eerie in the darkening woods, curious orange fungus Mario persuaded us to eat.
Walking into the 11 o clock sunset, somehow not there yet. Surely soon.
Pitching the tent in the dark, burning the pasta,
Pissed navy twats harmless enough, I look like their mate "Tooty". Corey's headtorch leads the way. Serious sleeping bag envy - I swear I'll wear all my clothes tomorrow night.
Waking sore and unslept, into me the cold had crept,
But soon banished by porridge and thought of glaciars.
Bounding back to my Buck´s Mills days,
Agile boy with bendy bones, flying from boulder to boulder; rock to rockpool,
All buckets, nets and excitement.
Now feet flowing a flurry of anticipation,
Granite peninsular yielding further and further,
The onslaught of the copper sulfate cavalcade.
Scrambling up the final jagged incline,
Howling and hurling an armada of icy daggers that sting the skin and pin against stoic rock.
The marble beast is letting us know who´s boss.
Crushing down 60 kilometres, it snakes its way out of a veiled lair,
An artificial horizon hidden amid snowy sky. Inhospitable.
Some sort of calm as it draws breath, ready to begin another assault,
Each way of fury hitting harder than the last.
We get the message, and we´ve had our fun - we turn.
But Geordie stands transfixed, motions a don´t move finger
- Something is approaching, hurtling in off the wind, distant, distant, then suddenly pending and
Opening its wings like a parachute, stalls, hangs - Condor.
Condor at 2 metres no more!
Enormous bird with body like a beaver, legs like fat cigars, tucked up perfectly parallel,
Everything aligned and sleek - the bird that´s too cool to flap when it flies,
Cocks its vulture neck to check us out, check we´re not dead. I meet its crystal eye.
A suspended moment, lived in, atom bomb in the mind, instant blank, all thought ended.
Bird that looks down on the rest. Deity of the Moche, Chimor, Incas and many more.
Millennial reverence imparted in a moment. A benediction.
With whooping disbelief we beat a defiant retreat from the half forgotten glaciar´s rage.
Looking down, then up, shaking our heads as we go.
Exchanging glances, trying to say something. Still dumbfounded - a satisfying feeling when shared.
The only thing that remains is to jump in amongst the icebergs and try to ride one.
See if we can´t win the glaciar´s respect too.
Condor circling loops of approval overhead, three pioneers slip into the murky blue, descending rapidly.
The shock is instant. I had not prepared for this.
Not for genital submergion. What about the boys? How would they cope? How would I even get dry after?
I´m fully clothed before I´m back in the water again. Beginning to get warm, but the icerberg´s waiting.
Once in a lifetime opportunity I tell myself. The boys will be ok, they´ll have to be. "Ahhh fuck it!"
I hurriedly re-undress.
Stopping to chop up chorizo.
Propped up by my pack, a pleasure to throw down anywhere - waterproof trousers, never a wet arse.
Never questioning the walk ahead. Slipping into an easy rhythm. Up at the front, views opening out.
Idling between memories that no longer hurt,
Out at the front leaving tracks in the dirt.
Hurrying ahead to take a photo:
Colours that contrast; contours converging; frames that appear between water and sky, the trunks of trees, land and cloud, one mountain and the next,
And light, always light.
Torrential rain in the afternoon, trudging through the lowlands, letting it fall, no thought of shelter
- More variety and just wonderful.
Down by the lakes, little hills full of flowers: burning red, princess shoes and all sorts.
Tunnels of gorse and tiny leaved trees. Rain pooling in narrow muddy paths. Shoes saturated.
Wind picking up again. Swinging wooden bridge, one at a time, good fun.
Arriving under gloomy pines. Things falling thunderously far away.
Getting the food on with freezing fingers. Smell of sausage frying mingles with the damp.
A jumper thoughtfully lent.
Hand slapping the tent, Jerome´s deep Dutch voice "C´mon guys." Horrified to be woken but glad to get going. Discovering how good granola goes with porridge. Packing up the tent in the cold and wet, a miserable chore - couldn´t feel my fingers at all. Up across the boulders and into the woods. Spine chortling with delight at walking without equipment. No backache, brownie in coat pocket.
Stopping to watch a family of birds. Parents teaching the chicks grace and how to find food on greasy moss. Making a mockery of the rapids. Skimming across gushing ranges, alternately riding and defying startled currents that would knock a man down. We stand mesmerised and ignored by these stream street performers. Art has few natural predators. Everything blends to grey around the mountain´s shoulders. Then comes the blizzard, and the mind goes with it. Blown down the disappearing valley, resting on leaves. Everything changes. A snow mood descends. The wind stops, the procession continues, filling footprints with fresh feet. Creeping. Crunching self consciously in the soft silence. Feeling of mystery and intrigue. Everything seen so far disappeared in white. Like falling through the wardrobe. Ocuppying the same space, we take a new route back. Crack, boom! Slithering slopes. Avalanches, that shake the leaves from branches, the thunder heard before. I taunt a lofty glaciar, looking for a rise. "I don´t believe that one could send us a block of ice crashing. Hasn´t got the volume, nor the know how. An adolescent glaciar that one, a little underwhelming and, sickly, yes somewhat sickly. Hardly a few metres thick I´ll warrant. No, certainly not capable of.."CREAK! THUD! Eyes race to the scene, only ever catching the sifting aftermath. We´ll call this one a draw.
Flying saucer clouds and other drifting shrouds,
Cast shadows on spectacular scenes.
Shifting from glassy lake to cragged rock,
Eclipsing thought, killing the clock,
Giving birth to new senses,
Rubbing dirt in camera lenses,
And chasing off things badly thought.
Sucking on a square of chocolate,
Resting malevolent blisters,
Long grass under the arse again.
Striping down a carrot with swiss army blade,
Munch another biscuit, cream cheese and crackers,
And up again, keen to beat the rain, arrive with daylight to spare,
Maybe David and Helen will be there.
Living out of bin liners - the only insulation against daily seasons. Black bag next to black bag in a black bag. Can´t see where you´re going in there, all textures equal. Game of hunt the thing I need. Charity case to the Doc for things I didn´t bring. Things to fix my ruined feet, that slide and rub in boots bought on the cheap. Learnt a lot about how to walk. "There´s no bad weather, only bad clothes." Some savy norwegian. Smug and warm.
Tired, quiet and aware,
Pulling bits of twigs from my hair.
Fur in cuts on fingers and dirt under the nail,
Fanning the feeling that lingers,
Walking in the rain and hail.
Walking in the wind and sun,
Thinking without words,
None to self doubt or reprimand,
None to choke or shun.
None to write eulogies,
Retell tomfooleries.
Nor harness a moment´s intensity.
None to desrcibe images, explain the rule of thirds,
None to fall into verbal malaise,
Wandering with flowers and birds.
Tired, quiet and aware,
Letting my feet go where they dare,
Letting anything go,
Wishing you and many more were there:
Drinking from streams on all fours,
Leaping cross puddles.
Feeling boots drying for the first time in days,
Watching giants hover in the haze,
Reflected uneasily in thick blue waters,
Lakes of uncountable age.
Sitting at their edge throwing pebbles at a floating log.
Perched on a ledge, granite towers emerging through the fog,
Lit up red by the sun´s first rays,
Exalted and peerless,
Fearless in many ways.
Remember telling someone I loved a long time ago,
About climbing to the top of a mountain to let out a wild yolpe.
- Woke from frustrated dreams to this thought,
And told it to a sleepy ear,
One which knew I´d go looking, and didn´t need to hear.
That let me go looking: for forrests, lakes, dessert and ocean,
For fjords and condors.
The colourful and abundant, the desolate and featureless,
And for my mountains, at the top of which I find I´m speechless.
