I’ve stayed in the hostel at Villa O Higgens for three days. It’s a bittersweet feeling the fourth morning, tightening the straps of my backpack. I’ve met some amazing people, and we’ve bonded closely in a short time. Part of me doesn’t want to leave.
But part of me is excited to start. I’m feeling strong and rested and well fed, and the heart of the trip is ahead of me. It helps that outside the window, the weather looks perfect for walking. The sky is grey and breezy, overcast without being wet. I’ll be able to move fast without sweating, and without being cold.
I give a last round of hugs, and then march for the door of the hostel without looking back. Outside, the road is firm, dirt slightly soft from the night’s drizzle. I hold pace for a few minutes, and the world shrinks to forest and mountains and sky.
Now and then I’ll see a house of unpainted wood, heated with a wood stove and surrounded by a wooden fence for livestock. They’ll be a few modern twists. A rancher might be working with a chainsaw, and most people have cars. But otherwise, the people seem to live as they always have, raising animals for eggs and milk and meat and then trading some for what they can’t make themselves. I’ve heard of urban Chileans saying it’s another country here, and I see their point. The world’s cities are globalized, so that Santiago has more in common with Amsterdam or Beijing than the hinterlands of Patagonia.
The land gradually opens into a valley, long and wide and exposed to the weather.
Wind drives into my face. It’s strong enough to make the very air a stiffness to plow through, slowing me down. I lean into the gusts, like a winter animal pulling a sled. Wind pierces my clothes, sending chills rippling over my skin. A sensual moisture gathers in the air. It’s about to rain. I bow to the inevitable and put on my jacket.
The air slowly thickens into a drizzle. It stays this way for awhile, not getting better or worse. But clouds sulk low and dark and churning, hiding all but the bottom flanks of the mountains. The sky has enough ammunition to downpour all day, if it wants. I wince at the threat and try to walk faster.
The rain stays light—but with the wind in my face, every drop is a cold sting. I march harder, hoping for something resembling shelter where I can stop and eat lunch. My legs are getting damp when I pass a quarry, where they excavated material for the road. There’s an ugly wall of rock carved out by machines, and it’s protecting a little patch of dry dirt. I skirt out of the rain with the dull gratefulness of a tired animal.
When I take off my pack, a core of heat wisps from my body, taken by wind like the warmth of a candle in an arctic waste. The back-pack is often the warmest layer of clothing, because of the way it traps heat near the back. But I had to take it off. It has my food.
My pot is full of rice and canned mussels and sardines, fried in a pan last night with lemon and paprika. I slosh on as much olive oil as I think I can stomach and start eating. I finish it all: it’s more efficient to stuff myself when I stop moving and then stop less often. I want to rest longer—but I’m already cold, in the 15 minutes it took to eat. I need to move unless I want to put on all my clothes or get into my sleeping bag. And besides, there’s supposed to be a free hut shelter 49 kilometers from Villa O Higgens. If I reach it, I won’t have to set up my tent in the rain. I walk back to the road and push on.
Hours pass one raindrop at a time. It’s mostly drizzle, with occasional bursts of harder rain. Even more rarely, the sky is dry—or at least, sometimes water isn’t actively falling out of it. But even then, the wind pushes a brisk humidity through gaps in my clothes. The wind fluctuates between strong and moderate all day. But it’s never mild, and it’s always blowing into my face, slowing me down.
By evening I have a worn, stubborn energy that pushes me through the weariness hanging in my steps. There’s only a half-hour of daylight, maybe less, and it’s raining again. I’m scanning the sides of the road for somewhere to camp, searching for somewhere dry among the swampy, boggy moss. There’s a few higher patches of ground, but these are hopelessly lumpy for a tent. The world grows a shade duller. The sun must be down. Soon, I’ll have to find the least soggy patch of ground and put up my tent in the rain.
A dirt side-road appears on my right, blocked by a wooden fence. But there’s no lock on the gate. Instead, a bike tire loops around one post. This is what I’ve been looking for. A wooden fence with a bike tire. The shelter will be here. I open the gate and walk down the road, into the seeping dusk. The road opens into a field, and at the edge, there’s a little stone hut. On the walls are hundreds of thank-you notes in several languages, left by the travelers who’ve slept here. The door opens easily. Inside, the hut is calm and dry. There’s a stone fireplace and a little wood, but I won’t use it. I don’t need it, and I want to save it for people who do.
I feel a gratitude so strong I just sit and stare. Someone built this with stones and clay and work. Someone gave their time to this shelter. No—someone gave their life to this shelter. That’s what time is. Some of our life. And now, the builder has opened their shelter to travelers. The builder is letting people use this space and expecting nothing in return, not even the pleasure of a conversation.
I’m overcome. In an instant, tears flow fast and solid, and I let them quiver without sadness or shame. I’m just so… moved, at what someone did for me, and for everyone on this road. In time, the tears fade into a calm love for the world. I put some money in a plastic bag, with a note in Spanish and English.
“Someone helped me with this shelter. I’m really moved, and I want to give back to the Carretera. Please only take this if you need it, and then tell me your story.” I add my name and email, so that someone can reach me.
I’m not totally naïve. Probably, someone will take it and I’ll never hear of this again. I don’t care. It feels right, to leave it. I eat dinner and then lie down in utter peace. It’s soothing watching light seep out of the world as the night settles. It’s soothing listening to the rain whisper on the roof. Its soothing hearing the wind question the stones of the hut in short, thin whispers. I melt into the warmth of my bedding, and into the softness of dreams.
