That time I went kayaking…
and was sick as dog
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 de 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 couldn’t really think clearly, although I didn’t know it at the time. I just knew I didn’t feel like myself. That first day, I thought it was just because I hadn’t slept much on the cruise. It was not just that.
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. I’m taking that excursion I have planned. 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 de Paine. We’re doing two small hikes today, which I’m excited about even though I feel like I have an actual mucus plug shoved up somewhere between my nasal cavity and my brain. 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. Where is it all coming from?? I’m taking little breaths through my mouth when no one is looking so people don’t think I’m really a mouth breather. The Mucinex I’ve taken has done shit. The exercise and fresh air will do me good, I tell myself. I am 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 breath 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.
I’m in a group with four other people - two young women traveling together from Texas and two men from Canada who seem about my age. The girls are social and fun, and I like them both immediately. One of the guys is rather quiet, the other more talkative, but both are very nice (as though you’d expect me to write, “those Canadians were real assholes!”). I’m happy with the group. I just wish I could be talkative - I want to be outgoing and smiley and fun. But I am fighting the urge to die right now. My energy is low and I know it, but I am powerless to give more than I am. My social anxiety is taking over, too. The more awareness I have that I am not myself, the deeper my insecurity becomes, the faster my thoughts spiral, and moments of depression pass through me. I feel like I am always on the outside. Normally, I can push through. Today, with the Grim Reaper trying to cop a feel, I cannot.
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.
The second part of the day we hike to Lake Pehoé, and it’s gorgeous. The sun is shining and every curve in the path reveals a new majesty that is worth having its picture taken. I stop and snap some photos along the way, but I’m constantly playing catch up with the group. The guide has a schedule and we must walk fast if we are to see everything. I’d like to take him out at the knees, but I restrain myself. So I stop, take some pictures, then run. Yes, run. And repeat… and repeat. The beauty of nature has given me strength I didn’t know was there I guess. Sickness be damned! I am a veritable mule. I will, however, pay dearly for this later.
We reach the lake. 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, take it all in. I feel so blessed that I get to witness this. And 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, I am crying because there are times when I still miss my dad after all these years, I cry for the change I know is coming in my life, I cry 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 now of walking death. I wake up wondering if I should cancel my excursion. I don’t remember the last time I was this sick. I take another COVID test - still negative. I assume it’s all the wind to which I’ve been exposed the past two weeks, and I’m sure my time on a ship in confined spaces didn’t help. 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, so I’m not backing out. I am going to dig really fucking deep and rally. 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.
I drink two cups of throat coat tea, I gargle with salt water, I take more medicines, I drink some coffee, and I eat a good breakfast. 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.
My guide for the kayak excursion meets me in the lobby. I immediately like him. He’s a short Chilean guy that has a good vibe about him. I feel like we would be friends. The van is already full with a group of Canadians (more Canadians, eh?). I sit on the first bench seat with the lead kayak instructor. I speak in shitty broken Spanish and the fun guide and the driver in the front and I talk most of the way there. I’m feeling like myself again.
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, who has river kayak experience, is in the back steering. We’re not a bad match actually. 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 stop for lunch then we carry on a little further.
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. I snap a quick pic with my phone to capture this blessed moment. He keeps his eyes on us until the river takes us away, out of view. I’m smiling all the way through.
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….