Fading Away

As icy, gusty winds threatened to blow away my tent, I wriggled in a sub-zero sleeping bag trying to recall why backpacking alone in the remote mountains of Chilean Patagonia seemed like a good idea. Before I zipped myself into the sleeping bag, suspecting the durability of the tent I rented at a coastal town in the straits of Magallanes, I scoured around for stones and waylaid them sideways on the flaps. Yet the force with which the winds rattled the poles struck gongs in my heart. I crawled out, fully dressed, to investigate and reassure myself. There wasn’t a soul around for miles, only glaciers.

Darkness yet to envelope the faint haze of light, I saw the glaciers adorning the craggy, tempestuous mountains that rose above the vast southern swath. Putting a stop to my admiration with its sheer might, the wind forced me down to my knees. I balanced myself clasping the thin, moist blades of grass in the sliver of patch next to the tent. Shivering, I retreated inside and barricaded myself. In an interspersing moment of silence, I picked up the tiniest of ticks from my watch. It dawned on me that time would always trickle at a slower pace here. And that I wanted to reclaim the seconds that escape us in our daily lives. Back home, time was like a tall shadow, always ahead and always elusive. Here, time settled, however fleetingly, like dew drops on the soft blades of grass.

The next day, I chanced upon a scruffy gaucho with a weathered brown horse. A warm smile belied his distinguished wrinkle worn face. He wanted to know where I came from and chat away the weariness. Realizing that my broken phrasebook Spanish was no match for his rich dialect, he grinned at me. He gave me empanadas and I offered him cookies. Eating the empanadas, he preferred to save the cookies, we watched chunks of ice calving off the glacier to thunderous roars.

On my way back to civilization, I hitched a ride in a farmer’s vegetable truck. This time, I was luckier with the language. He knew bits of English and the crumbs of Spanish I knew were good enough for him. He spoke, over the whirring engine, about the melting glaciers and how much they had retreated in recent years. The land Bruce Chatwin immortalized in his book had turned into an outdoor lab for global warming.

The farmer went on to speak about wines. But something distracted me. In the distance, I saw a gaucho riding the pampas. I looked at him for as long as I could see, determined to keep him in my horizon. For ever.