I’ve rested two days in Coyaique, stuffing my face with veggies and carbs. The deadness in my body is gone. Instead there’s a thrill as I tighten the straps on my pack. I’d forgotten the sheer lust for moving that a healthy body can feel.
I take my first steps at a joyous pace. My pack is light, with only a day and a half of tasty food. I don’t need to carry five days of rations anymore, not with towns every fifty kilometers. Instead I can bring tomatoes and apples, and other stuff I actually like. No more drinking olive oil.
The day is cool and cloudy; perfect for moving. I’ll need to be fast: yesterday I Skyped with my family, and agreed to join them for a raft trip before my summer job. Now I have 19 days to reach Santiago and get on a plane. If I want to walk the whole Caretera, I’ll have to reach Puerto Montt a day before. That leaves 18 days for 612 kilometers. Two days ago, I would have dreaded the challenge. Now I’m excited for it.
As I walk, the landscape gradually steepens into forested bluffs, cut by stiff rivers. Short cliffs guard the side of the road, slimy from the algae and moss of tiny waterfalls. I stop at one of these and fill my bottle, without bothering to filter. Everything I’ve read said the water is drinkable, unless you’re right by cattle pasture.
My energy holds the rest of the day. I make only 37 kilometers, but I’m okay with that, because I didn’t start until around noon. I camp in a creek-bed, near a gentle waterfall that casts a moistness over everything.
The next day is steady and calm. The road follows a series of wide, open valleys, flanked by hills so steep they’re almost cliffs. And by the third day out of Coyaique, I’m back in the mountains.
In the early evening, with an hour of sun left, the road winds into a range of cliffs. They’re two-hundred-meter granite walls, almost the height of the Chief in Squamish. These cliffs even look like Squamish—there’s the same stains of black, lines of algae and lichen fed by seeping moisture. I feel a wave of homesickness.
And then I’m lost in the past, when my body could climb. I remember the dance of physics, the way slight, subtle movements could turn something impossible into a move that was almost easy. It felt magical at times, twisting my torso or shifting my legs and feeling the weight ease off of my arms. I remember the strength I had, when simple tasks sent power rippling from my shoulder down my arm. And most of all, I remember the art my body was capable of, the way it could weave and flow up the cleanest path on a face, muscles almost dreamy in the easier sections. My lungs rush, and a tension stiffens my forearms.
I want to climb.
I want to leave the road and bush-wack up to these cliffs. They look impregnable, but they’ll have cracks and features close up, weaknesses I can’t see from here.
As I stare, unwilling memories rush back. I remember straining on that cliff in Turkey four months ago, and feeling something tear in my body. I remember letting go of the rock and accelerating into space. My partner caught the fall, but there was a wrongness in my shoulder that was worse than pain. When I looked, my arm was hanging an inch and a half below normal, with empty air where the shoulder muscle should have been. I fought back revulsion at the grotesque, fucked-up body that was me. On the ground, I strained my brain for the Wilderness First Responder course I’d taken two years earlier. Then I put the dislocated shoulder back in.
I shouldn’t climb.
Not yet, even if my soul remembers how. Even if I’m feeling a sad, rushing longing for the body I used to have and the things I used to do with it.
I know I have no right to be bummed. I should be grateful for the body I still have. But that thought doesn’t help, even though I know it’s true. It just brings an extra layer of guilt. I’ve found a way to be unhappy now, on vacation in Patagonia.
I close my eyes. I taste the sharpness in the air, the scent of rocks and trees and breeze, and slowly, the smells trigger images of peace. Cold, clear creeks ripple over rocks. Flowers shiver as a breeze sweeps their meadow. Trees stand short and thick and strong, sculpted from hundreds of mountain winters.
I remember an old injury that kept me from running for a year and a half. It got worse and worse until the bottom of my foot would hurt when I stood up out of bed. Walking five minutes was painful, and half an hour was excruciating. And now I’m here, moving over a marathon a day through land I’d never dreamed I would see.
I smile a real smile, unforced by guilt. I open my eyes and gaze at the cliff, peacefully, just enjoying its beauty. I note the kilometer marker, in case I want to come back and climb when I’m stronger. And then I turn away and walk on.
The road winds into a dry, cool forest of pine, in a high valley with mountains on both sides. A band of sun glows on a peak like an orange crown, retreating upward in a slow surrender to the orbit of the earth. A few minutes later, I sense the sunset. I can’t see the horizon, but there’s no mistaking the mellow quality easing into the world. As the light softens further, a feral energy creeps into my stride. I’m not sure why, but I often gain strength as the day weakens. Maybe it’s a primal urge to reach shelter before dark. Or maybe it’s just the pleasure of watching twilight settle.
My energy carries me higher, to a creek frothing down from the peaks and churning under the road. It’s a beautiful place to camp, but I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to waste this energy, not when my body is so alive. Still, there might not be good camping in fifteen minutes, and that’s how much daylight I have. I’ll take it.
I scramble up the creek bed. Soon I’m far enough from the road that the water drowns any noises from cars. I craft a series of flattish rocks into something resembling a surface, and then I set up my camp in practiced speed. Tarp down, then bivy sack on tarp, thermarest in bivy sack, sleeping bag on thermarest. I put on my warm clothes, and then I’m done. I can just…sit.
I watch as the last grey drains from the world and the mountains harden into black masses, darker than the rest of the night. Sometimes I’ve wondered why I’m here, on this trek. Right now, I wonder why I wanted anything else.
