It’s been four days since the sickness, and all traces have gone. If anything I feel better than normal. Maybe I needed the time off my feet, and the sickness gave a rest I would never have taken otherwise. All I know is that I’m stronger than I’ve been in weeks.
I’m also nearing the end of the trip. I’ll reach the town of Chaiten by early evening, and from there it’s sixty kilometers to a ferry terminal. Then I have to cross two bodies of ocean, with a ten-kilometer walk in between ferry rides. And after that, it’s 99 kilometers to Puerto Montt. If all goes well, I’ll be done in five days.
I’m curious about Chaiten, because I heard a volcano destroyed most of the town in 2008. I imagine a smoking mountain, brooding over humble wooden buildings like a sullen god. But when I reach the town, there’s no evidence of a volcano. Instead, there’s the same wooden houses and quaint shops I’ve seen everywhere on the Careterra. There is an “urban” core of larger buildings, typical of the villages that are thousands of people instead of hundreds. I go to a supermarket and load up on the kind of food I only eat in towns; heavy produce I can’t justify carrying.
Outside, there’s a small creek that looks glacier fed, with a few seagulls circling overhead and a nice gravel bar near the ocean. It’s a thirty-second walk, and then I can sit on my backpack and start my feast. The first course is a half-liter of milk with cornflakes, eaten from my unwashed pot that last had pasta. There’s a lingering taste of oregano and olive oil, but it doesn’t ruin the cereal. Or maybe, I’m just too hungry to care. After the cornflakes I eat tuna and sardines, and then a giant bunch of grapes and half a dozen raw tomatoes, eaten like apples.
Then I chill.
It’s nice to just be by a creek, gazing at seagulls and buildings and hills. It’s nice to smell the thickness of the ocean air; to savor the salty humidity on the breeze. In my ‘normal’ life this would probably bore me, but now there’s something fulfilling about it. Maybe it’s just the appeal of doing nothing, when I’m usually having to walk. But I can’t sit forever. I have to make the ferry terminal by tomorrow evening. I take in the scene a little longer, and then I stand up and walk on.
An hour later, I reach the first hint of the volcano. There’s no mountain—or if there is, it’s hidden behind the clouds. But the sharp, living pines of the last month have begun to die. Soon, the hills are covered by millions of grey, skeletal trees. Nine years ago they stood and choked, unable to run from the ash and gas that suffocated the land. I wince. I’m lucky to be animal; able to move from danger.
The next day is cool and breezy, overcast but without a hint of rain. Gradually, the hills return to life, and by late morning there’s no sign up the volcano. But the land is changing in other ways. With every hour, the plants seem to grow bigger and softer, and by evening the hillsides are bursting with lush, vivid growth. There’s ferns and mosses and leaves the size of my head, clustered in a density that’s almost tropical.
Something about the plants brings home the sheer distance I’ve covered. I knew I’d gone eleven hundred kilometers, but eleven hundred is only a number. It’s something to understand on a sterile, intellectual level, the kind of ‘understanding’ that comes from adding figures and looking at maps.
Eleven hundred is not the language of the land. It’s not the glint of the glaciers or the hue of the lakes or the short, strong pines that have guided me for most of the month. It’s not the churn of the rivers, uniting a trillion tiny drops of rain into a power that carves rock. It’s not the cliffs I’ve wanted to climb, or the grasslands I’ve crossed and the tundra I’ve smelled. It’s not the sunsets I’ve watched, so many now, each a little different than any before, and it’s not the cold, eternal purity of the stars. And eleven hundred is not the life I’ve drawn from the earth, the berries I’ve eaten and the water I’ve drank, unfiltered, straight from the mountains.
Eleven hundred is not the language of the body, either. It’s not the loose, flowing power in my muscles, fresh and strong for the day ahead. It’s not the weariness of racing the dark, exhausted and sore, feet numb from all the days on the road. It’s not the bliss of lying in the sleeping bag, watching the last of the light and knowing I can rest. It’s not the brush of the rain on my cheek, so many days, faint and soft and almost dry, and it’s not the cold, windy sun, all those hours in my eyes.
And eleven hundred is not the language of the heart. It’s not the free-spirited joy of meeting another traveler, unplanned and unplannable, sharing food and words and smiles. And it’s not the loneliness of saying goodbye, turning away and walking out of their life.
Eleven hundred kilometers is true, but it’s not real.
These plants are real.
As I stare at them I remember Patagonia. I visualize the skyline of Cerro Torre, so cold and bleak and beautiful it seemed like another world. Well…it was another world. It was a land of rock and sky and lichen, and wind that howled off mountains to bring the glaciers against my skin. And I walked from that other world. I walked from there, to this jungle here.
I want to sit for a while and just…reflect. I want to re-live the last month, to remember all the places I’ve seen and the words I’ve shared.
But by the road, colors are already starting to soften. The dullness is subtle still, only the barest difference from day. If I had to guess, I’d say the sun set 5 minutes ago. But I’ve seen enough sun-sets to know what will happen next. A heaviness will gather under the trees, and slowly, it will strengthen into a shadow. The shadow will seep outward and upward, drowning a little bit of color with every passing minute. In 20 minutes the last green will retreat from the forest, leaving only a deepening grey. In half an hour the grey will be hard black, with only angles to illuminate the land. And in 40 minutes, the world will melt into the vauge, formless darkness of true night.
40 minutes. That’s how long I have to reach the ferry terminal. I chance a bit of running, and then decide against it. I’m 113 kilometers from finishing the trip. I won’t risk re-injuring my shin.
The last grey is dying when I reach the campground. It’s just a lawn where people pitch tents, and there’s no one there, not even someone to pay. Worse, there doesn’t seem to be anything like a grocery store. Damn. I’d figured there would be, so I only bought enough food to get here. It’s gonna be a sad dinner. Well, I’ll just have to deal with it.
I set up my tent, and then finish the last of my food. Trail mix. I’ve already eaten everything better at lunch. Not that I ever thought hotdogs would be better than anything, but they are more caloric. I’m still hungry, and at least hot-dogs filled me up. Hopefully, there’s some kind of grocery store that’s open tomorrow.
I go to bed, but I leave the bivy-sack unzipped. It’s turning into a nice night, and I want to sleep with the stars on my face.
