I'm in Chile. I just finished a life-changing 4 day cruise around Tierra del Fuego where I saw my first glaciers and met a boy who I thought was special (spoiler alert: he wasn't). I'm now in Puerto Natales and going to see the breathtaking national park of Torres del Paine over the next 3 days — a trip for which I'd been planning and saving for a year. And right now, I'm sick as a fucking dog.
The "ick" started the last morning of the cruise — enlarged glands, sore throat, and just a weird feeling in my head. It was like I was outside myself — like my head was floating in a sea of cotton balls. Parts of my brain had stopped functioning, mostly the parts that govern reason and general intelligence — you know, like all of it.
I wake up the next morning in my hotel in Puerto Natales, and I feel like walking fucking death. I mean, the Grim Reaper would be wondering if I was his next date in the underworld. I take a COVID test that I had brought with me from home... negative. My temperature is normal. Okay, so I just have a really nasty cold. Well screw this then. I decide I'm not letting this stop my plans. My stubborn, military mind takes over. Oh you're sick? Suck it up, buttercup, and get to work.
It's my first day visiting Torres del Paine. I blow my nose continuously, and it just keeps coming. Actual brain matter must be draining out through my nose because there's no way one human can generate this much snot. I'm armed with a box of Kleenex I stole from my room, two bottles of hand sanitizer, a handful of cough drops, my inhaler, water, two handkerchiefs I use to breathe through on occasion in the van, and a healthy dose of complete fucking obstinacy. I refuse to wallow in my illness, not to mention my disappointment over a boy. I'm going to enjoy myself, even if it kills me... which at this point is feeling like a distinct possibility.
The famous Patagonian wind accompanies us, which has come to feel like a living presence on this trip. It's pervasive. It's alive. It's simultaneously energizing and crippling. It's cold yet strangely soothing. I love it. It's like I'm never alone. The wind howls across your ears and it's so loud it's like someone is speaking to you. But it's comforting somehow.
We reach Lake Pehoé. It's marvelous. The glacier-carved pool is turquoise in the sun and the light dances on the surface like tiny stars. I'm overcome, and I just want to sit in the moment. I feel my dad's presence. He's with me. I know he's always with me on these trips. And then I can't stop the tears from falling — I'm crying for the beauty I am witnessing, for the change I know is coming in my life, for the loneliness I have started to feel this past year. I cry because I hate being sick, and yes, I cry for the connection I thought I had with the boy. The fucking boy. I say his name on the wind, wondering if it will find him. I am disgusted with myself.
Day three of walking death. I wake up wondering if I should cancel my excursion. This is my last chance to kayak in Patagonia — I had two other kayak excursions planned on this trip, and both were cancelled due to the wind. This is it, and this is the excursion I was most looking forward to. I am not backing out. If I die, at least I die doing something I love, right? Maybe the Reaper has a nice robe for me. I do look good in black.
Somehow, by the grace of the gods of Patagonia, I start to feel better. I'm not quite ready for my date with death just yet.
We see glaciers. We eat glacier ice. I swear it heals my throat. We kayak a river. I drink from it, too. I've never kayaked a river before, but I'm hooked. I feel strong. I'm in the front so I'm the "muscle," and the woman I've been paired with has river kayak experience and is in the back steering. We're not a bad match. I'm having the time of my life.
We go to where the waters of the Rio Serrano and the Rio Grey converge — blue meets gray. It's beautiful and poetic. You can actually see where they touch. They mingle, but stay distinct. There's too much history in the sediment they carry to change their nature... much like us.
We're kayaking along — the river is tranquil here and we're just enjoying the views. Then, on the left bank of the river, there appears a white horse. I actually gasp. He's watching us, like the intruders we are. We are the curiosity here. We are the ones who don't belong, and he lets us know it by his watchful gaze. He's careful. He's beautiful.
We continue on, and then we see them. I stop paddling mid-stroke because I can't believe my eyes. There's a small pack of four wild horses galloping down the river next to us, following us, the white horse leading.
I'm in awe and I start crying — I couldn't have stopped the tears if I had tried. I am overwhelmed. I thank God for this moment. This is why I travel. This is everything. This is what I live for. This is life.
They follow us for a ways, just long enough that I'm able to snap a couple pictures and grab a short video. It was such a special moment for me, one of my favorites of all my travels. I'll never forget the connection I felt — like the horses were saying, "Hello, welcome. Let's play!" as they chased us down the river along the shore.
I survived the rest of my trip, although I must have used up all my energy and left my good vibes on the river and in the kayak that day, because the next was the worst I felt the entire trip. But that's a story for another time....