Into My Future

I’ve packed my camp. I want to make time today, and I should head out. But I want another trip up the mountain. I hiked to the cross yesterday, after wading to the end of the continent. It was cloudy, and the view was blocked. Now it’s nice, and I want to see what I’ve missed. When will I be here again? When will it be an hour hike to look over the Straight of Madgellen?

Of course I’ll go back up! So what if I start later, don’t go as far as I hoped. This trip won’t own me. I’m not going to force-march up the continent, missing cool side trips to make time. I prance up, bouncy with energy from not having a pack. As I reach the summit, the Pacific Ocean rises into view.

The coast is layers of fjords, like Norway or Alaska. Snow crowns the peaks, but it doesn’t look like proper glaciation. Wind comes in a steady push, strong enough to flex the cross. The island I reached yesterday is a dot, black in an aqua sea. I’m not positive it’s the end of the continent. My map is unclear at the scale of a hundred meters, and it was the farthest point I could reach. It looks farthest from here, but I can’t tell for sure.

Does it matter? I either reached the end of the continent or a few hundred meters off. I had one of my deepest experiences. I won’t stress. I spend a few minutes taking pictures. Then I stand in the wind, and just…live. Photography is good, but it can take something out of the experience. Now I’m just…being. Being in the wind and the sun and the view.

There’s a joy in moving fast. But there’s another joy in stillness, enjoying a scene I’ve earned by my body’s effort. I let myself become ready, and then descend. I won’t return to the island. Not this trip at least, so probably not ever. But I doubt I can top yesterday’s experience, and I don’t want to dilute it. I take a long last look. A humble little spit, some black rocks with seaweed. It affected my more than my sharpest mountains, my biggest cliffs.

I turn my back with a trace of sadness. It’s the emotion of leaving a close friend made in a short time, someone I’m not sure I’ll see again. And like a goodbye with a person, I won’t look back. Not for awhile, not until I’m far away.  First I need to move into my future.

The way back is faster. My pack is lighter by two days of food, and I know the way better. I cross rivers easier, without yesterday’s hesitation of jumping in cold water. It’s mechanical now. Get naked, jump in, put clothes on, keep moving. The weather alternates sun and rain all day, creating some great atmospherics.

I make the first river, with over an hour of good daylight. Maybe I can pass the lighthouse today, camp on the road. I go awhile longer, gauging daylight by the presence of sun on the opposite shore. Eventually this goes, and I reach a small bay. It’s sheltered, gentle, almost windless. That’s a rare treat in this part of the world. The sky has a hint of dullness. Subtle, not dark—but warning that it will be in an hour.

I sit down, feel a rush of pleasure in my legs. They’re tired. And it’s perfect camping here. I could make another 5 kilometers and then race the darkness setting up a shitty camp. I’d wanted to make distance, because right now it’s 80 kilometers to Punta Arenas. If I get close to the city, camping will be minimal. I’ll have to either do a short day tomorrow, or a really long one.

Fuck it. That’s a problem for tomorrow, and I’m sure I’ll manage something. I set up while my cous-cous boils, and then relax. There’s a pleasure in sitting with tired legs and nothing to do. Just watching darkness settle over the sea.  I’ll try to move fast this trip, but I’ll make time for this kind of thing. Otherwise it’s not worth doing. I smile. Some part of me already knows I’ll try the whole 80 kilometers tomorrow. I mean, what else would I do?