Bathed, rested and safely back in Puerto Natales, Chile after five days roughing it in Torres del Paine National Park and our accidental hiking club has gotten together at the parilla in town that came most recommended by ostel owners and locals some of us had inquired to.  If asado is a South American style of slow-grilling meats over a grate in a large brick barbecue, the parilla the grill and/or restaurant that handles the mass quantities of meat and gets them cooked to perfection.  Standard parilla style typically involves a grab-bag of meats — steaks, lamb, chicken, pork, chorizo, morcilla — served on a large metal hot plate and placed in central locations on the table.

“Have you tried the morcilla yet?” someone asks as I reach for one of the dark red sausages.

I hadn’t, but I’m about to.  I know that morcilla is “blood sausage,” and I know this turns a lot of people off, but I’m not sure entirely what it is comprised of.  It’s softer than regular sausage, like a warm, chewy paste, but the flavor is pleasant and meaty, with strong spices applied for extra kick.

“Not bad,” I say as they watch me chew.  “What exactly is blood sausage, then?”

“It’s just blood.  Blood, flour and spices!”

“Well, I like my steaks bloody as hell anyway, so I am not bothered by this,” taking another bite.  The soft texture takes some getting used to, but I don’t find myself disgusted by the meat (or lack of meat) in any way.

Over dessert, the topic of hitch-hiking in South America comes up and Renata, the Italian woman, is a pro it seems.  Viajar a dedo (“traveling by finger”) is far more common and accepted in South America than it is in Europe (and certainly moreso than in the United States).  She’s already had several successful trips — generally with a partner, but at times flying solo as well.

Having not purchased my bus ticket to El Calafate yet from Puerto Natales, this seems like an intriguing new idea and something else to cross of the ever-growing to-do list.  Her destination is El Chelten, but as it’s two hours past El Calafate, we’d at least be able to make the bulk of the unguided trip through border crossings and the infamously desolate National Route 40 together.

I had to add Puerto Natales to this map, and it turns out it's on the far west coast. You get the general idea, though.

The Long Way Out of Town

At 7:30, we meet outside the large landmark of a church in the center of town.

At 8, we’re safely at the edge of town, in the shadow of the Milodon.

At 9, we’re still staring at a Milodon.

Renata has never waited more than twenty minutes on a ride before, and I’m beginning to feel like bad luck.  It would be so much better if we could just hate the occasional townsfolk (this isn’t a high traffic town) that pass by, but they’re so polite in their rejections of free transportation.  As we thumb the universal signal displaying our need, every driver shrugs sadly at us, waving their finger in a quick, short circle.  The same signal, sideways in the direction of the head universally means “crazy.”  Aimed upwards, however, it loosely translates to “I’m just driving short distances around town so, really, what’s the point, eh?”

Waiting for a ride outside of Puerto Natales

The hitchhiking scene in the States is so overrun with boogeymen and homeless, it’s interesting to see so many people make eye contact with me.  At home, most drivers practice a focused forward gaze upon realizing a hitchhiker is looming on the shoulder, effectively ignoring them out of existence until having safely passed.  Each of these Chileans look almost — regretful? — that they can’t pick us up.

Eventually a truck stops and apologetically explains that he’ll only be going about two miles down the road.  I’m reminded of a scene from Steve Martin’s The Jerk where, upon waiting to be picked up all day, Martin’s character accepts a ride from a driver only going “to the end of this fence.”  After a long enough wait, even the smallest distances are worth the haul, just to break the monotony of standing around.  We get in.

Walking to Argentina

It’s been half an hour since the trucker dropped us off on the shoulder of a fairly barren road that disappears straight into the horizon, giving us a clear view of the cars and trucks that come by with a frequency of about one every five minutes.  In a patch of dirt across the way, the trucker is still assisting a friend, which is ostensibly what brought him out here in the first place.  He’s already apologetically told us that both vehicles will be returning to town when done.

Another shrine of plastic bottles. Being labeled "Difunta Correa" this time solves the mystery, as plenty is available online when that term is searched for.

With 156 kilometers to cover (Note: The Torres circuit was 76 kilometers in total, but it was spread out over five days), walking isn’t a viable option, but it does help pass the time.  A pyramid of disposable plastic bottles awaits us as we crest a hill, with no notes or  explanation for why they’ve been arranged as such in the middle of nowhere.  (see side picture: these are shrines to Difunta Correa, an unofficial saint that died on the road with her newborn child.  the “miracle” was that her newborn survived ten days alone as she continued to produce breast milk.  Yup.) As we investigate, a small blue hatchback pulls over and we grab our gear excitedly and stow it in the back.

Like before, Renata does most of the talking.  She’s fluent in Spanish, and without her, this entire trip would’ve been infinitely more awkward, as the primary reason most truckers seem to pick people up is the desire for conversation and a break to the monotony of the open road.  In the car, she talks to the man driving the car while his wife sits in the front seat silently and his small child in the back never lowers his fixed gaze from me for the entire ten-minute trip.

A road branches off from the main highway serving only those travelers headed towards Argentina, which we are but our ride is not.  A small, open shelter has been erected in the middle of the intersection whose purpose isn’t known, but given dense clouds that might be hinting at rain, I’m extremely appreciative of it.  Waiting another half an hour, we talk, eat, throw rocks, do nothing.  Another small car eventually comes — it’s the first one to head down this road since we started this iteration of the waiting game, and a rush of joyful adrenaline fills me as it stops.

An older woman — a mother, or mother-in-law — sits in the backseat and doesn’t seem overjoyed at our cramped addition to the vehicle.  It turns out that a small village is formed directly next to the Chilean border post, and while this family, freshly returned  from grocery shopping in Puerto Natales, won’t be crossing, they can get us directly to the border.  A trunk full of groceries means we sit with our unyieldy backpacks in our laps, filling their ride to almost clown-car proportions.

"You are now leaving Chile."Â On foot.

Leaving Chile is easier and filled with far less drama than coming in.  The guard seemed minorly confused by our lack of transportation in the arid, emptiness of the sub-Andean environment.  With no transportation in sight, we begin the slow, uphill walk into the no-man’s-land between Chile and Argentina — 7 slow, uphill kilometers with full packs, wearing us down.  A single 7o’s Trans-am with tinted windows passes as we slowly walk our way into Argentina.  He’s still at the border twenty minutes later and we subtly glare in his direction.

Argentina lets us in with little fanfare.  I easily could’ve brought apples along this time.  An American man in his 50′s waiting to be let out of Argentina chats us up for a while, expressing his jealousy for our free-form, low-budget travel.  As I watch him head back onto his climate-controlled bus, the jealousy runs both ways.  We’re eventually picked up by a Chilean couple heading into the first town past the Argentinian border, as they claim shopping is far cheaper there.  A significant intersection lies about five kilometers out of town, and for the ease of our trip, they offer to take us that far out of their way with no prompting from us.

At the intersection, a lone truck stop serves us lunch and we resume our post along the shoulder of the road.  It’s colder now, and I use the respite to put on long underwear while we wait.  An older trucker takes us in, giving us our longest ride of the day, over sections of desert highway that are at times unpaved, slowing our movement to a crawl.  He talks with Renata about a son that is also a trucker, and how they often pick routes allowing brief meets for lunch or dinner (or Christmas, he adds).  My eyes get heavy as they talk, and when I wake it’s hard to say how far we’ve traveled.  He pulls in to a gas station to let us out before kindly accepting our gracious thanks and heading off in a different direction.

Two German backpackers are already at the shoulder waiting for a ride when we arrive; they’ve been waiting here for close to two hours.  Renata and I wait several hundred feet down the road from them, granting them first access to whatever comes along, but a truck passes them by in favor of us and he’s only got room for two.  Our initial excitement gives way to guilt as the Germans come over to find there is only room in this truck for two.  Our backpacks are already loaded, but Renata and I stare at each other for a moment and then decide we can’t conscionably screw over the Germans like this and retrieve our things, clearing the way for them.

“That was the right thing to do,” Renata says.

“I know!” I say through gritted teeth, looking at the ground.  “We are Good People.”

Karma works in our favor, though.  Within five minutes we’re on a truck delivering bags of cement to El Calafate, and within ten, we pass the Germans, waving possibly more giddily than is necessary as we notice them vanishing behind us.  Our new driver speaks a bit of Italian, meaning that he and Renata now have twice as many ways to say things that I cannot comprehend.  I smile and node my head a lot and laugh when they laugh.  He’s going all the way to El Calafate, and that’s the only thing that matters to me.

My final ride drives off after dropping me off safely in El Calafate.

Eventually, conversation trails off and we spend the next hour passing few other vehicles on the barren highway until fifteen kilometers outside of town when we stop to let Renata off.  She seems if nothing, more excited about the prospect of moving on alone.  I tell her to email me when she gets in (it’ll take her another six hours to do the two-hour trip, but she eventually arrives safely) and wave her off, happy to see that a truck has already stopped for her before she’s even out of sight.  Maybe I was bad luck.

The young driver gives up early on trying to make small talk with me, but doesn’t seem bothered by my poor Spanish.  In town, he points down the road and I’m able to interpret that the primary hotel/hostel district is up ahead.  I know how to properly utilize the word “gracias” and do so relentlessly.

In the end, I traded ten hours of my time for what would’ve been a four hour bus ride and thirty-five bucks.  It was neither too difficult nor too dangerous for me to consider doing again, but it was definitely far too boring at times.  And while my Spanish is passable these days, it’s not quite good enough for entertaining the random truck drivers that might be willing to trade a ride for a little bit of conversation.

But it is fun to say I walked from Chile to Argentina.

Walking to Argentina

Ushuaia, as seen from a boat that may or may not be headed to Antarctica

Ushuaia – pronounced “oosh-WHY-uh”.  Alleged southernmost city in the world.

Puerto Williams in Chile argues this claim, but Ushuaia is at the very least the southernmost place where you can visit a casino and a strip club in the same night without walking more than three blocks.  Also, Puerto Williams has a population of around 2000, and Chile itself defines “city” as “an urban entity with more than 5000 residents,” which means they are the clear loser here by their own wording.  Unfortunately, this battle over nomenclature is an ongoing source of strife between the two countries, as Argentina makes it difficult for ships and services to reach Puerto Williams, strictly to hinder the growth of a potential rival in the quest to be “southernmost.”

Sunrise from the window of the plane, minutes from landing in Ushuaia

From the t-shirts, signs and other assorted tourist kitsch, Ushuaia clearly gets off on being called “The End of the World,” though upon stating that’s where I was on facebook, responses made it seem as though friends thought I was experiencing some sort of existential crisis.  A series of ice-capped mountains trail off into hills that eventually drop off into the sea, with the large town of Ushuaia rolling down the slope to the water’s edge.  A large port made up of equal parts cargo ships and luxury cruise vessels spreads out at the bottom of the city into the Beagle Channel, which is the body of water connecting the city to the meeting point of the two massive oceans.

After being “discovered” by Captain FitzRoy of the HMS Beagle in the late nineteenth century, a township was established which later led to the construction of the city’s infamous prison.  Using Britain’s knack for sending dangerous convicts to as remote and inescapable a place as possible (see: Australia), Argentina established the jail in Ushuaia because it was at the southernmost tip of the island of Tierra del Fuego.  As they were now forced colonists, the prisoners spent their days chopping wood, building most of the early structures in the town as well as the End of the World Railway, which still operates today for train afficianados.  Not being one myself, I opted out of the ride.

The tall mountains of the Martial mountain range frame the city on all sides but the one perched over the Beagle Channel

Being the only significant port city in the south where Atlantic meets Pacific, it remains a major stopping point for vessels traversing between the two oceans, despite losing a great deal of business when the Panama Canal opened.  Unlike Puerto Williams, Ushuaia and its 64,000 inhabitants are undeniably a city, with fully functional airports, hospitals, school systems, mass transit and all the other fun benefits and pitfalls that come with city-dom.  It’s also the capital of Tierra del Fuego (literally “Land of Fire”), the large island south of the Strait of Magellan that, despite being surrounded on all sides by Chilean territory is considered part of Argentina.  Its separation from the Argentinian mainland stands out a bit on South American maps, but no moreso than Alaska’s does in maps of the United States.

In addition, Ushuaia is the name of the ship (the MV Ushuaia) that will be taking me to Antarctica, thus giving me a reason to be this far south (over 1000 kilometers more south than the tip of Africa) in the first place.  Planning out this marginally epic trip over half a year ago, it was uncertain which March cruise I would be able to secure a spot on, so I went ahead and gave myself the whole month to explore down here.  It’s Patagonia, after all, and if it’s scenic enough to inspire a line of international outdoor-wear, there should be enough ways to fill a couple weeks.  I’d only just flown in from Buenos Aires, where I’d spent the night at the airport passing through from Sao Paolo.  Arriving at eight at night, only to depart at five the following morning left little time for urban exploration.

San Martin, the equivalent of Main Street.

Dense, red wooden beams line the ceiling of the airport giving it the appearance of a ski lodge — an image that seems to be embraced throughout the town.  Main street, filled with fancy restaurants, travel guides and ski/snowboard supply stores could be mistaken for being found in any upscale Colorado ski town.  Glacier Martial overlooks the town from nearly any vantage point, a permanent blanket of ice over one of the largest mountains bordering the small city.  Year round, a chair-life brings tourists up to the glacier, though serves skiiers more in the winter months (May-October), despite there being only a single, marginally interesting trail descending from the primarily forest-covered slope.  A far more interesting and diverse mountain for winter sports lies about ten minutes outside of town, though remains closed down entirely during the warm season (which March occasionally teeters frigidly on the edge of).

The Hostel at the End of the World

Several nights into the Freestyle Hostel, I wake to a British girl complaining about the bass-heavy, all-night dance party that permeated the door of our room and prevented her from more than cursory sleep interludes.  From my perspective, it’s a downside to a hostel with some of the best personality of any that I’ve stayed at thus far in my journey.  Though upon returning to the hostel several weeks later, I opt out of the notorious “room #3″ which receives the brunt of any late night festivity’s overlapping.

My friend Patrick torments Rasta-Max while he works.

“Hey.  Hey.  Check out this lighter.  It’s, uh, cool.  The flame is green.  Go ahead,” implores the imposing figure with a long beard and dreadlocks swinging down far below his shoulders.  His accent is Argentinian, but the cadence takes on a slight Jamaican flair.  Or maybe it’s just what in the States would be called “the stoner accent” applied over standard Argentinian English.

“But Rasta-Max, it’s just going to electrocute me like your gum did the other day.“  It didn’t even look like a real pack of gum, though admittedly I expected more of a mousetrap style of accidental self-torture than the surprisingly potent electric jolt it supplied.

“Hey.  No.  This is good.  Check it out.”  His hand has been making a steady offering gesture towards me with the implement of pain loosely disguised as a lighter.  Bulky as he is, “bear-like” is a perfectly valid descriptor for Rasta-Max, though his penchant for hugging everyone that walks into the hostel and a steady grin that comes off as warm and genuine despite his occasional electric torment of clientele limits him to the realm of the “teddy” or “panda” varieties.

Antarctic cruise ships, freshly returned from the seventh continent or preparing to depart

“Will it make you really happy if I use your lighter?” I sigh.  A crowd of newcomers has now gathered around expectantly.

“You–” he breaks off into a slight snicker.  “You love it.  It’s green.”

“Ok, Rasta-Max.  Fine—AHHFUCKGGGT!“  The faux lighter drops involuntarily to the floor as my hand seizes up in a jolt of temporary, localized paralysis that includes much of my forearm.  Despite full awareness of the punishment that was to come, I was unprepared for the strength of the burst.

“Are you happy now, Rasta-Max?” I ask.

He picks up two pieces of metal from the ground with a slight frown.

“Aww,” he says sadly, walking back to his desk.  “You broke it.”

The dining area is small, but has that undefinable property that quickly brings travelers together.  Many comment on this over the course of my stay — that Freestyle is undeniably a “social hostel” — though we fail to put into words precisely what causes this phenomenon.  On paper, it’s no different from many other hostels I’ve stayed at, but has a definite life and character to it that transcend the sum of its parts.

“I got here three weeks ago and just haven’t been able to leave.  This is probably my favorite hostel I’ve been to in South America,” an Irishman tells me.  His opinion has to be taken with a grain of salt, though, as this is the same person that arrogantly told my similarly Irish friend “you know, you’re the only Irish person I’ve met around here that’s as interesting as me…”

A group of us — equal parts male and female — are eating dinner together when a girl suggests checking out the town’s strip club.

“Which one?” I ask.

“There’s more than the one?” she asks.

“There are three,” someone says.

“Four,” I correct.

“You really know your strip clubs…” someone directs at me.

“Look, the tourist section of town is small.  It’s hard to miss giant billboards of slutty, near-naked Argentinian women over seedy, windowless buildings.”

From the sidelines, a long-haired child of about five that we assume to be a girl walks up to us and presents the entire group with a pair of emphatic middle fingers and a tremendous grin.  Most of the group laughs.

“I just can’t find this funny,” says an American woman.  “I’m a teacher back in the States and this is just the worst kind of behavior to encourage in kids this young.

“Hey, what are you guys doing with my son,” Rasta-Max yells at us from behind the counter.  The boy quickly runs away from us and back towards Rasta-Max.

The city, as seen from above

A plan has been in the works all evening  to check out the city’s lone dance club, but like most clubs in Argentina, it won’t get interesting until around two in the morning (going on until around seven) and we’ve now come up with an interesting way to kill an hour before dancing.  A pink palace sits four blocks from the Freestyle with non-functional windows and a sign in English proclaiming it to be a “men’s club.”

“Is this a strip club?” someone asks.

“I think so,” I say.  “Between being listed as a ‘Gentlemans Club’ and the two fat, rounded palace spires on the roof that are clearly meant to be giant tits, I’d be surprised to find a family restaurant inside.”

I lead the way into a dark, smoky room comprised of an L-shaped bar taking up two walls, while dark, mismatched sofas line the remaining walls of the small room.  My entrance breaks up a conversation between a stout, muscular man behind the bar and two women leaning slightly against it that quickly bolt upright upon noticing me.  Only women sit upon the sofas, and they all adjust their postures and stare at the newly entered group intently.

“This is a whorehouse,” one of our group says to the entire room.  Those in the doorway immediately shuffle back out without even glancing inside, leaving me furthest in the brothel as everyone else makes a quick exit.

“So..,” I say to the bartender.  “Well, thanks anyway.”  I make a halfhearted wave and turn around.  His impassive stare sits latched on me, unchanging, as I uncomfortably follow suit behind the others.  Two of the other strip clubs are closed, including one whose prominent billboard proclaims it to be a “Nihgt Club,” leaving us but one option.  A small wooden stage along one side of the room has a single topless occupant, not dancing so much as talking to two cheaply-dressed men that don’t appear to be tourists.

“NO!” a short, older man with a mustache barks as he walks briskly towards us.  “Nonononononononono!  No chicas!”

What kind of strip club doesn’t allow girls?  It seems odd to kick out nine potential drinkers from a strip club due to some inexplicable form of propriety, but the girls leave and we head out after them.

“Your strip club sucks anyway, man!” someone says.

“No chicas,” the man retorts.

Kayak Patagonia

Gray skies and mist add a subdued, ethereal tone to our kayaking experience

“So you want me to set up the canoe trip for you,” Rasta-Max asks us.  Only a girl from California and myself have any interest in the trip, but we’ve got enough to have asked Max about it several times.

“You mean the Kayak trip?”

“No,” he says.  “No, that’s different.”

“Yeah, I know — we want the kayak one.  With the kayaks and the meat and stuff. You know if it’s gonna rain tomorrow?”

“It’s Ushuaia,” he answers.

Posing from a lookout point with Lago Escondido in the background

It’s a valid answer.  The weather here has fluctuated wildly every day, as cold, bleak clouds give way to sunny days that are surprisingly warm for “the southernmost city in the world.”  Nights are always chillier, and bring about strong winds that exacerbate the situation, but I still never required more than my hoodie at any given time.  This was a good thing, as I owned nothing warmer.  Every day here is rainy and sunny and gray and beautiful.  They generally take turns.

Sunday at seven in the morning — some people are just getting back to the hostel to pass out into their beds — it’s rain’s turn.  Our guide and driver ushers us into the rear of his SUV with most of the gear; two of his friends already are firmly in place in the backseat.  Their English is as choppy as my Spanish but we make light conversation as slightly frozen rain slushes upon impact with the windows of the car.  A large, hollowed-out gourd of mate (“mah-TAY”) is passed around the car, though I’ll give a few paragraphs to the ubiquitous tea in my next “Food and Drinks” post.

Setting out

At Lago Escondido (“Hidden Lake” — Two discrete lookout points along the drive displayed the large, mountain-framed lake quite visibly, so the name is confusing), as I stand in the icy rain with a cotton hoodie on, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake.  Our guide has a few spare articles of clothing, and the windbreaker and hat are useful.  The gloves go to his female friend and there isn’t a second pair.  I cram my hands into my pockets and ball them into cold fists.

“Oh my God,” the Californian girl says.  “This is horrible.  I almost don’t want to go.”

A perpetual whiner, one of my projects for myself was to cut down on complaining during my time abroad, especially about things I had no control over.  My primary rule was to never be the first in a group to complain about any source of misery.  As the seal was now broken, I poignantly added:

“Yeah, this fucking sucks.”

A double kayak is lowered into the water and the Californian girl and I get in.  She’d had a good sales position in the States before the weight of never having traveled became too much, causing her to optimistically drop out of everything at 30 and head out for at least a year, covering much of South America and Australia.  Recently, the weight of not learning had been weighing her down as she contemplated staying somewhere for a few months to pick up a new skill or hobby like surfing or Capoeira (Brazilian dance-fighting).

No explanation was given for while all the trees along the beach were dead

Whether it’s chemicals or nutrients in the water, weird reflections from the clouds or some ethereal quality of being this far south, both of us are hypnotized by the rich, blueness of the water.  Putting my hand in, I’m surprised that it’s not very cold either, though this could just as easily be related to the sickly white frigidity of my hands as to any unnatural warmth endemic to the lake.  The effort of propelling the large, two-person kayak forward steadily warms me and then, eventually, my hands as well.  Blue sky cuts through the clouds at times, hinting at a bright, vivid warmth that never actually stays.

A forest of dead, leafless trees with long spindly branches dots the beach we park along, adding to the eerie effect of the cold, gray morning.  It’s unnaturally quiet and creepy, but any trepidation about our current situation is eased by the unloading of a stockpile of meat large enough to fill more than twice our current party.  Forget soccer.  Asado is the national sport here in Argentina.  It’s like our guide explains while stacking wood for his slow-burning barbecue:

Starting the fire for our asado

“Forget soccer.  Asado is our national sport here in Argentina.”

American men (sorry, “men from the United States” — a subtle distinction that matters to a lot of South Americans) do pride themselves on their ability to char meat to acceptable flavor levels, but there’s an impatience to the barbecuing that doesn’t seem to exist in Argentina.  A proper asado raises the meat high enough above the burning embers to require a solid hour or two of slow roasting before serving, even in the woods under sub-optimal, rainy conditions.  As wet leaves burn their way down to viable kindling, I follow a stream inland in the shadow of imposing, snow-capped Patagonian mountains until it trickles down to a massive beaver dam blocking the passive of water from above.

An hour passes and I make my way back to the asado site, which is slightly protected from the drizzle of rain by a thin canopy of trees and the grillmaster who has apparently spent every moment of the past hour gently maneuvering the burning embers to ideal grilling specifications.

The Beaver Dam

“How you like meat?” he asks.

“Rare,” I say.  He’s confused by the term, which surprises me (and continues to surprise me months later — in the land of meat tourism where giant, bloody slabs of beef are the norm, how is this word still in any way foreign?) and I resort to broken Spanish to attempt to clarify myself.  “Rojo.  Sangre.  Mucho Sangre.” (“Red.  Blood.  Much blood.”)

MEAT

“Ahh,” he says.  “Si.  We say ‘vuelta y vuelta.’  ‘Vuelta’ is ‘turn,’ and so, ‘turn and turn.’  You turn meat once.  Then you turn again.  No more.  No more cooking.”

“Yes.  Yes, that is what I want.”

Like most tourist excursions in Ushuaia, the trip is fairly expensive.  Eighty dollars for a five-hour kayak excursion including a way-more-than-all-you-can-eat meat barbecue would be relatively inexpensive in the States, but it’s a high end experience in South America.  Sticking to my budget, an average day shouldn’t surpass twenty dollars, so by this point I’m cramming more than a week’s worth of savings into less than half a day’s entertainment.  But as the bottles of wine and Quilmes (the “Budweiser” of Argentina, this pilsner is basically pronounced “Kill me’s”) start to flow, it’s clear that they don’t intend for any tourist to feel short-changed.

Vuelta y vuelta

As the wine flows like wine, so does the meat.  Far past the point where the succulent, dripping meat has evoked any joy in those devouring it, the grillmaster continues to fill freshly emptied spaces on his makeshift grill until every last dripping chunk from his large cooler has been mildly charred and doled out to the long-since-filled crew.  The air mists up occasionally still, but it’s warmed enough now that sitting around the fire digesting an irrational amount of red meat is at least mildly palatable.  Looking at the massive pile of meat remnants I’m reminded that a friend’s annual “F-Day” (“F” for exorbitant amounts of Food amongst other things) is less than a week away, and while I’d rather be here than anywhere else, the surplus of short-term friendships with little in the way of anything more significant does get to me at times.

Not working is still pretty sweet, though.

My First Glacier

Glacier Martial overlooking the town. The range pictured was fully covered less than a hundred years ago, but melts back a little bit every year.

Glacier Martial shrinks down significantly every year, but seeing as this is my first visit, it’s still fairly impressive for my first glacier.  The trail upwards from the chairlift died close to a quarter mile ago (I’m still not thinking in kilometers yet, which makes gauging anything around here difficult) and we’ve pulled ourselves exhaustingly up rocks that take on additional ice with each meter’s ascent.  Ice covers the last of the viable hand or foot-holds, theoretically blocking further passage up the glacier.  Futilely, I form my hands into a taut claw shape and attempt to drag myself just a few feet more, instead falling sharply to my knees and scraping my hands along the sandpaper-y, jagged sheet of ice before rolling down awkwardly onto the glacier’s rocky border.

Ice spreads out above me in a massive inverted triangle.  It’s only impresive until we make our way downwards far enough to see just how immense the glacier stretches out above the speck of a triangle that only recently spread out before me imposingly.  In the end, the highlight of the trail is the spectacular view of the now insignificant southernmost city in the world.

The ride up to the start of the trail.

End of the line

Me, at the end of the world