Eaman and I knew we wanted to WWOOF at least once during this trip, and we thought that Patagonian Argentina or Chile would be ideal because the landscape is beautiful and working for accommodation and food would be smart considering the high-priced region. We were accepted to only one farm — some farms were full, others didn’t respond — so the choice was made for us. We’d be working for two weeks at a farm in Trevelin, Argentina, helping with a potato patch, picking fruit and assisting with jam production.
The view:
Looking back at these last two weeks, it wasn’t all fun and games. In fact, there were days when I wanted out…badly. But in the beginning, it was so fresh and exciting.
I mean, look at the farm?
Tons of fragrant lavender:
The kitchen with a wood-burning stove:
Mate dispenser in the kitchen:
Our bedroom, probably the most luxurious, spacious accommodation we’ve had since our New York City apartment:
Our first day couldn’t have been more idyllic. Our host Michael, a British widower who has lived in Argentina for the last 30-some years, scooped us up from the bus stop and cooked us lunch with the sugar snap peas we had just picked from his garden before telling us that there had been a change of plans. He wanted us to come to his daughter’s home 20 km away for his grandson’s 4th birthday party, where we could have some cake and pick some fruit there.
Fun!
In addition to his Trevelin farm — called a “chacra” based on its size — Michael also owns a home in Esquel, an apartment in Buenos Aires and a gorgeous fly fishing lodge by a river. Two of his five children live full-time at the lodge, and that’s where we headed for the party. But I think “gorgeous” is putting it lightly. Their sprawling property — filled with cherry trees, rose bushes and rows upon rows of lavendar bushes — is like a dream. I would’ve taken pictures, but I didn’t want to be that WWOOFer busting out her camera on day one.
In between politely gorging our faces with trays of desserts, we met Michael’s family and friends. They were all friendly enough, but we didn’t want to intrude. This was a family function after all. But when we did have some opportunity to chat with various people, there was a common thread to the conversations: Michael apparently wouldn’t be an easy person to work for. It came in different forms, such as, “So is Michael working you hard yet?”, “Is Michael being very [imitates cracking a whip]?” and, my favorite, spoken by a British guy about our age, who works at the lodge, “Yeah, if you were sick, Michael would put you on the next bus out of there because you’d be of no use to him.”
Interesting. But Eaman and I brushed it off. The next day while picking berries on Michael’s chacra, Eaman said that he admired someone who works that hard for something he’s passionate about. I thought so, too.
Our duties included picking fruit, erecting an electric fence, chopping and collecting wood for the stove, helping with meal prep, ridging soil and killing detrimental beetles on the potato patch. We killed the critters by picking them up with our fingers, placing them on a leaf and squishing the leaf — with the beetle inside. (It’s an organic farm, so no pesticides allowed.) We’d have bug guts all over our fingers, but believe it or not, I didn’t hate it. In fact, we both got a lot of satisfaction out of murdering more and more each day. We often turned it into a competition… as Eaman is often prone to do.
The kitchen garden, where we picked fruits and veggies nearly every day:
Black currants:
But pretty soon, we understood exactly what everyone was talking about re:Michael. Every task we did around the farm was followed by a negative comment about what we had done wrong. The sprinkler was supposed to move back instead of forward after an hour, even though he never told us that. The meat should’ve been cooked without oil. The potatoes should’ve been ridged with soil from further away. The wood Eaman picked for chopping wasn’t good, even though we told Michael which wood we were getting beforehand.
(Let me just put it out there that a lot of what bothered me to a great extent on the farm didn’t bother Eaman as much. This recount is of how I felt.)
All this cristicism could’ve been constructive had Michael properly given us directions. But he never did. He never showed us around the kitchen garden, so no wonder I picked brussel sprout leaves for a salad instead of Swiss chard. I had no idea! But he sure made me feel dumb for it. We were usually guessing through our work, hoping that we’d be right. But he’s the kind of guy that even if you do something right, he’ll find something wrong with it. Don’t get me wrong, he did thank us from time to time on certain jobs well done (i.e. the electric fence, one of the projects we were particularly proud of).
Chopping wood. The wrong kind apparently:
I often wore long-sleeves to protect my skin from the sun and fend off allergies. Of course I broke out into a rash on my hands, arms and legs anyway. But note to self: Get long sleevs that are NOT black unless I want to overheat:
Why didn’t we ask questions, you say? Well, Michael had a way of making us feel stupid for questions that may have been simple for him but weren’t so obvious to us. There were more than a few times that I wanted to mouth-off and tell him he had 30 years of experience on us, so chill the eff out. We never claimed to be farming experts and made that very clear in our initial email. If he wanted experienced WWOOFers, he shouldn’t have taken us.
To make matters worse, he had a knack for serving up smart-ass comments to most any of our innocent questions. We were driving by a small shack of a house and Eaman asked if it was abandoned. Michael said, “No, of course not. Don’t you see the woman out there hanging clothes?” Then, a few minutes later, upon seeing a flying helicopter, he said to Eaman, “Look. There’s an abandoned helicopter.”
On someone else, the language could’ve been construed as sarcastic but ultimately good-natured. Michael, however — in all his unsmiling, terse, perpetually frowning glory — was just plain mean. Nothing ever seemed good enough.
And it sucks to say, but it broke my spirit. I came into this experience wanting to learn a lot and make the most of it. I wanted to understand the process of jam-making, soak up whatever I could about gardening for my own future mini garden and bake breads in my off-time. But in that negative place, all I ever wanted to do was finish my tasks and read in our room. What a horrible feeling it is to do everything with such hestitation and fear, constantly rehearsing the lines of rationale in your head about why you did something so as to hopefully be less culpable. (Not to mention the fact that Michael is very possessive and militant about his jam-making, so apprenticing was completely out of the question.) Some days, I was physically and mentally exhausted and wanted so badly for the days to pass sooner.
But it’s unfair to say it was all bad. First of all, Michael was gone most nights and some days, as well. (We’re 99% sure he has a girlfriend in town.) But beyond that, the setting was unbeatable and the fruits and vegetables we ate straight from the garden were the best we had ever tasted.
Eggs from his chickens with the most yellow yolks I’ve ever seen:
We also enjoyed and thoroughly made use of siesta time. From around 2 to 5 p.m. every day, Eaman and I would take nice long naps and get immersed in our books. (I’m currently reading and loving Gregory David Roberts’ Shantaram.) I’m already having trouble getting through the days without my three-hour wind-down.
Plus Michael’s dog, Milonga, really took to us. If you know me, then you know dogs are my obsession verging on mild hysteria. Milonga liked adventure and always followed us outside as we worked. As corny as it sounds, she was like a little bright light that kept me going when Michael deflated me.
And it was a real mood-booster to have Eaman there. I don’t even know how crappy I would’ve felt had I been alone. But even if work got us down, we created all sorts of inside jokes, enjoyed the outdoors and even found this jungle gym-esque piece to play with:
We also treated ourselves to a nice dinner and tea time. (Trevelin was once a Welsh colony, so tea houses are a huge part of the teeny tiny town):
We also went to check out the grave of the famous horse, Malarca, who risked his life to save his owner’s during battle. (Let me clarify that Eaman was the one who was dying to see this, Trevelin’s claim to minor fame.) But it was a 20 peso (about $5) entrance fee — not a lot, but a lot to see some horse’s grave — so we decided to stay outside the perimeters and just look at the picture of the grave.
Eaman got pretty choked up about it:
At one point, we even spent the night at the family fishing lodge, where we got the chance to kayak on the beautiful river, and Eaman had a chance to dabble in fly fishing. (It’s necessary to have a license to fish in Argentina and since Eaman didn’t have one, we went out there at our own risk. It hadn’t even been five minues before a patrol boat came around the bend for a routine check. We quickly hid the pole and pretended to skip rocks. They didn’t notice, but that’s when we called it quits.)
The lodge also gave us the chance to partake in a South American tradition — well, one that’s recommended in the safer countries: hitchhiking. Since Michael didn’t stay at the lodge, his daughters said they could either drop us off or we could hitchhike. But she had two sick kids on her hands, and to be honest, they didn’t do a great job of making us feel welcome. We felt intrusive, though still apprecative that she had let us stay, so we hitchhiked.
In the heat we walked for maybe 40 minutes in the dry, blazing desert-y heat with, maybe, 10 cars driving right past us. Then we saw a little red car — near the end of its life — slowing down. Of course the car about to die with the chain-smoking, beret-wearing greasy man agreed to take us back to downtown Trevelin. True, the car was about the sputter its last breaths of diesel-fueled life and the doors didn’t have handles on the inside to leave and I could feel the rocks from the road dent the bottom of the car, but he was nice enough, and we made it back to the chacra one piece.
But I digress. Back to the farm…
So did Michael’s mood change for the better at all? I’m so glad you asked.
Last Tuesday, after more than a week of Michael’s criticisms and complaints, Eaman had had enough. Now, I’m scared of confrontation, sometimes to my detriment, but when Eaman has been wronged, he isn’t afraid to stand up for himself. It’s one of the things I admire most about him.
I was in the kitchen with the two new WWOOFers — an Argentinian girl and her French boyfriend — who had arrived the day before while Eaman was outside with Michael. Michael had just scolded us for not cleaning the bathroom and had moved on to scolding Eaman for not figuring out how to work a sprinkler. The two of them went outside to figure it out. When Eaman reappeared, without Michael, he said to me under his breath, “I just went off on him.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Everything,” he said.
But when Michael came in, he didn’t seem ruffled by the apparent smackdown. In fact, he asked us if we had been getting enough food. I figured Eaman’s talk had had some effect on Michael, and I was dying to know the details.
I had to wait until our post-lunch siesta for Eaman to spill the details. I made him repeat everything just so I could relish in the vengeance all over again. He had told Michael that never, even during six years in finance, had he ever dealt with such a negative, complaining person. How he only criticizes instead of appreciates how hard we’re working. How people — even his own family members — had warned us about how tough and unwavering he’d be as a boss.
Michael listened to all of it and apologized, explaining that no one had ever told him those things. Eaman told him that most people aren’t as outspoken as he is.
Later that day, Michael wanted to correct us on yet another task we had been doing wrong. It had to do with the potato patch, and we figured it was best to wait for the other two WWOOFers so they could learn from Michael. (With a language barrier, if we taught the newbies, it’d probably be wrong and we’d get in touble for it.) But Eaman was still frustrated from earlier in the day.
He asked: “Shouldn’t we wait for the other two? I don’t want to have to teach them! When are you going to teach them?”
“It’s none of your business! Do you have to argue everything?” Michael was now the mad one. Eaman and him went back and forth like that — Michael telling Eaman he was acting like a child, Eaman saying the same to
Michael — yet somehow the fight just fizzled at one point, and Michael showed us how to properly ridge the potatoes as if no outburst had ever come up.
I guess that’s one thing I give Michael. He doesn’t hold grudges. And after that double-header Tuesday, things changed quite a bit.
Michael lightened up. He made better conversation. He even showed us how to do a folklore dance, a craft he’s practiced for years. It wasn’t a complete 180 — at one point we were scolded for overstuffing the laundry machine — but it was a vast improvement.
Michael even took us to an agricultural expo in Trevelin. We worked on the chacra in the morning and headed off in the afternoon for the showgrounds, where merino sheeps and rams worth $30,000 (!) were being judged as if it were Best in Show. It was weird and wacky, and I kind of loved it.
Oklahoma-bred Eaman, right at home on some haystacks:
Cherry pie!
And Michael even drove us to a further-away bus station the morning we left, which avoided us having to catch a way early bus from Trevelin itself. So like I said, he wasn’t made of stone per se.
But will I WWOOF again? The short answer is probably not. The longer answer is that unless I knew 110% that the host was nice, helpful and willing to teach us, I don’t think I’d voluntarily go through it again. Don’t get me wrong; this experience will remain one of the highlights of this trip. I learned so much about farming, I have a newfound appreciation for where my food comes from, Eaman and I bonded even more as we went through an intense experience, and, um hi, we saved about $500 in food and accommodation. But the experience also confirmed that my skin isn’t that thick. Like I said here, we’re not all built for everything. Eaman withstood everything with a lot more calm and unflinching focus than I did. But for me, going through days and only wanting them to end asap was exactly the opposite spirit of this trip.
So we’ve decided against WWOOFing in Hawaii, as originally planned. For me, it’s a mix of this sour experience, the fact that we’d have to sleep in a tent for a month and the fact that the host farm we’ve been in touch with has stopped responding to our emails. (With an understanding of just how strenuous farm work is, sleeping in a tent sounds miserable.) For Eaman, it’s really just a matter of the latter two. Either way, we’re excited to go Hawaii and be thrust into the adventure of having to find a job (at cafes, restaurants, stores, etc.) so we can try to live there for a few months.
I don’t want to discourage anyone from WWOOFing. Just know that how your host functions can really affect your experience. But whether it’s a good experience or bad, I guarantee you the experience will be worthwhile.
With just two days to spend in Bariloche, we knew we didn’t have time for much — not that we minded considering how active we were in El Bolson. But we knew we wanted to bike the 60-some km Circuito Chico, a popular route that can be driven, biked, or if you’re ready for a long day, walked. It takes you through lakes, mountains, hotel resorts and if you’re lucky like us, on an adventure with a crazy Argentinian man.
We went on the ride with a friend from our hostel — Annika from Germany — and early in the route we noticed a couple of guys had stopped to pick cherries on the road. Since that sounded like a genius idea, we joined them. Pretty soon we were chatting with them — Alberto, a half-German, half-Argentinian jewelry distibutor and his 19-year-old son, Juan, who was on holiday from university in Buenos Aires.
When we all got our fruit fill, Alberto invited us to ride with him and Juan to his favorite secret spot. Now, if I were alone, this would be a blazing red flag, and I’d high-tail it out of there. Solo backpacker female goes to secret spot with local man and son? No thanks.
I was comfortable with Eaman there, so we all agreed to follow Alberto’s lead. And that’s when the got equal parts crazy and hilarious.
The secret spot was a hidden lake ripe for swimming. How did we know that? Well, when we arrived to the lake, Alberto immediately dropped trou completely — with a just-to-be-polite “Is it OK if I…?” and into the lake he went with his son looking on, embarassed.
We hesitated to go in at first, but it looked so inviting and seemed like a good way to escape the incessant biting horseflies. So we jumped in, too — in our swimsuits, not commando-style! — and it was the most refreshing swim of my life.
Alberto, showing us the hidden lake:
The lake we swam in:
Post-swim:
From that point, Alberto took it upon himself to serve as our personal tour guide, taking us to great pit stops and regaling us with facts and personal life stories. (The best moment was when we asked Juan if he had any siblings and he said no, only to have his dad correct him, explaining that he had a sister in Bali, where Alberto spends half the year. That Alberto…international playboy.)
But I gotta say, there was definitely something off about Alberto. Beyond stories of working for Colombians under the table in Amsterdam in his 20s, he told us he sells jewelry — casual stuff like shell necklaces — on beaches. OK, how do you spend half the year in Bali solely off selling fake stone necklaces? (Pretty sure the pendants are laced with powdery substances.) Second, he told us he avoids paying import tariffs by smuggling his necklaces across borders. Don’t worry, we made sure he didn’t drop anything into our drinks while we weren’t looking.
Stopping for beers along the way:
But joking aside, Alberto was what made a ride that everyone does so unique. He kept us entertained, showed us things the usual tourist would never see and motivated us on some of those excruciating uphills. Who knows, we may even see him in Bali later this year.
Also worth mentioning about this ride is the ash situation in Bariloche which plagued the tail-end of our ride. Remnant ashes of the June 2011 Chilean volcano eruption continue to move east toward Bariloche. It’s forced the local airport to close and has hurt tourism — mostly at the 4- and 5-star resorts — quite a bit. Mostly, though, it just creates a thick, foggy haze over the city, even now.
How bad it is each day depends on the winds, and at the end of our ride, this is how hazy it got (it’s mainly hazy in the high altitudes; visibility at our eye level was totally fine):
We didn’t totally mind because seeing it was also kind of a unique experience, but I could see how dealing with it everyday could become a nightmare.
Back at the bike rental shop some six hours after we began — Alberto said the typically three-hour Circuito Chico is better as a longer excursion with many stops — we exchanged contact info with Alberto and got a free chocolate treat from the rental shop:
Beyond this ride, the only other major activities included napping in our hostel’s garden and sitting out by Lago Gutierrez. We clearly didn’t do as much in Bariloche as we did in other places, and I’ll be honest, it was intentional.
Bariloche is supposed to be a big, sought-after destination for wealthy Argentinians and backpackers alike, but to us, it seemed rather unappealing. All we had heard about it was yes, it’s gorgeous, but it’s also incredibly touristy not to mention the fact that the ashes can put a serious damper on a day of sightseeing.
We were so unbelievably content in El Bolson that going to a more commercial city seemed like the exact opposite thing to do. (The scores of luxury resorts upon entering Bariloche confirmed the hearsay.) I’ll be the first to admit that we probably didn’t give Bariloche a chance. We didn’t even go downtown to try the famous chocolate shops! But I think that’s what’s so great about this big, big world we live in: There are so many places to go that you can always find the one that’s just right for you. And if you’re smart you’ll spend more quality time in the place that speaks to you most (ahem, ahem — El Bolson — ahem, ahem).
As I last mentioned, we’re currently road-tripping through the state of Chubut in Argentina for a week of small towns and beautiful hiking. We started in Esquel, a former Welsh colony, where we spent one night. There isn’t much to write home about re:Esquel, but we’ll be going back there for a few days — one of which will be spent at the very untouristy Los Alerces National Park — before we begin WWOOFing in Trevelin (30km south of Esquel) January 8, so I’ll offer a more detailed report about it then.
Now the plan was to spend two days in the hippie, organic-loving town of El Bolson before making our way a little further north to celebrate New Year’s Eve in Bariloche, the glitziest city Patagonia has to offer, relatively speaking, thanks to the droves of Argentinians who flock there around this time of the year for vacation.
We arrived in El Bolson on Wednesday without a hostel in mind. One, La Casona de Odile, was listed both on a hostel booking site but also in my book under the pricey ‘A’ listing category, so I figured it was worth a look, especially after we asked a local for directions. He said this particular hostel was more in the country and less in the downtown, a term I use lightly for El Bolson.
The country? That sounded amazing–and a perfect balance for the more “city” experience we’d have soon in Bariloche. And, as we later found out, amazing is putting it lightly.
The property is a sprawling lavender farm-nature retreat-botanical garden heaven. And we were in luck, because this multi-hyphenate wonderland was in fact a hostel just as of last year; it used to be a bed and breakfast, making my Footprints 2011 guidebook a smidge outdated. They could be charging much, much more for this place, so we’re lucky to have caught it so early. But even if it were more expensive, I’d probably pay extra pesos to be here. Sorry I’m gushing, but I’m in love. Take a look:
View from our dorm window:
Hammocks in the backyard:
And this is also in their backyard:
Obviously we went for a swim and skipped some stones:
Love that I’m in a bathing suit at the end of December:
We instantly fell in love with the hostel and once the owners told us all there is to do El Bolson — note: a lot! — and how they’d be throwing a New Year’s Eve dinner party, we immediately extended our stay two more nights to stay through January 1. We can have a city NYE anytime; this country NYE would be much more unique. Even better, since this is hippie land, they’re actually offering a vegetarian option for the dinner party. Has hell frozen over? Because I think South America just gave me an option besides beef or ham.
We’ve had such full days here already — hiking, swimming in canyons, eating the best ice cream of our lives — and this town is still filled with more goodies that we sadly won’t have time for. But as for the fun we’ve had so far, I’ll save the stories for Part 2 of why I love El Bolson.
For now, check out more reasons — beyond the great staff, perfectly chilled-out playlists and well-equipped kitchen (I’ve missed you cumin, thyme and curry powder!) — why we love La Casona de Odile.
The living room:
The book exchange, the biggest I’ve seen in a hostel so far, though most of the books are in Spanish:
The breakfast, which features the most delicious homemade wheat bread and jams:
This one-week-old kitten, who has frozen my ice cold hatred for cats into a melting smushball of love. Don’t tell my future dog(s), but I had her sleeping in my lap after dinner two nights ago:
And how she and her sister (brother?) keep each other warm at
night…on a surge protector no less!
Again, with the backyard:
This row of goats who passed by their backyard river:
And a random horse!
Can never get enough lavender:
After our trek through Torres del Paine, we headed back to El Calafate, Argentina, where we’ve spent the last four days in complete relaxtion mode. Reading, eating, buying chocolates, watching I Want a Dog for Christmas, Charlie Brown on YouTube — it’s like our own holidays away from home.
Last night, our hostel, I Keu Ken, hosted a lamb BBQ with drinks, music, a raging bonfire and tons of Argentinian merriment. Apparently, Christmas Eve is a big night for partying here, so it was a long night capped with a ride in the rear bed of a pick-up truck to a bar in the “city.” Good times, sketchy townies.
Everyone’s dinner:
My dinner (because I don’t like lamb and wanted to save some money):
Applauding the chef:
After bouts of homesickness the past few days, last night was the perfect way to recalibrate. Just gazing at the stars on the clear night, looking around at all the people who’ve come from across the globe and seeing fireworks burst in almost every direction reminded me how exciting this year of travel is and will be. These are the moments that will last a lifetime, as a jolly (drunk) old Brit told me by the fire.
Poppin’ champagne at midnight:
Tomorrow we leave El Calafate and hop on a 24-hour bus (meh) to Esquel, Argentina where we’ll road trip for a week, celebrate New Year’s in Bariloche and then begin our two-week WWOOF farming gig January 8.
Until then… cheers and Merry Christmas!
P.S. When we were in El Calafate two weeks ago, we did a four-hour trek on the giant Perito Moreno glacier. I look back with a little regret because it turned out to be more expensive than its actual worth, but it’s hard to dwell on those details when looking back at the pictures… except for the fact that I slipped and one of my legs dove straight down into an icy cold hole on the glacier, which ended up cutting my hand, and not long after, I tripped up on my cramp-ons (spiky shoes strapped to your boots to facilitate hiking on ice) and ripped my pants.
Batman Band-Aids were all we could find back in Buenos Aires:
Glass of whiskey with ice from the glacier. We were a bit mad about the overcharging for the whole trek, so when they also offered some free mini alforojes, we took four…each.
Of all the places we wanted to visit on this trip, Patagonia was the one place with the most vague itinerary. We knew we wanted to go, but to do what, when and for how long were all questions marks.
But Torres del Paine, the 242,242 hectare-size national park near Puerto Natales, Chile was a destination that constantly popped up in backpacker conversations. After Google-imaging the heck out of the place, we were convinced we had to go there, too. Turquoise-colored lakes, snow-capped mountains, brilliantly vivid wild flowers…yes please!
(Our own pics:)
But how exactly to attack this park was the question. There aren’t really guided tours, so camping (and carrying all your equipment) was the only way to do it. Since we had no camping skills — save for my trip to the Outback when someone else set up my tent and Eaman’s trip to Wisconsin when he didn’t pack enough warm clothes — we thought a few day trips would suffice…until we were told the park was two hours from Puerto Natales and doesn’t suit day trips. Then we thought, OK, we’ll do a few days but stay in refugios (rustic hostels) along the way…until we found out they’d be almost $100/night each. Later we thought maybe one night of camping to get a feel for it… until we talked to the guys working at our hostel.
They mapped out the famous ‘W’ trek as if there were no other option. It would be more than 80 km of hiking, camping every night and fending for ourselves without a guide.
It’s funny because there was never a moment when Eaman and I thought, “Hmm, should we do this?” We just went for it. And that’s how we ended up going on a five day/four day trek through Torres del Paine.
The path we took is certainly well worn, but even though you see other hikers, you’re often on your own. Its course takes the shape of — you guessed it — a ‘W’, with uphill, downhill, rocky terrain and magnificent scenery. But this trip was about way more than a series of beautiful paths.
This was a full-on camping trip (with rented equipment).
The days weren’t over until we pitched our tent, cooked our food, cleaned our pots, got water from the stream for the next day and hung our food so mice couldn’t get to it. This was the real deal.
Our home for four nights:
It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I would think that means a lot considering I’ve run two marathons as well. There were times I felt stronger than a bear, times when I wanted to cry and times when I wondered why the heck I signed up for this damn thing. It taught me a lot about myself and a lot about life. Here, nine lessons I picked up during our five days of fun:
1. I will never, ever, in a millions years be OK with going to the bathroom outside or having dirt under my fingernails. Call me a priss, but both so fully and completely gross me out. Yes, I had to go to the bathroom in the wilderness during this trek, but I’m trying to block it out of my memory. As for the fingernails, it’s just a pet peeve.
2. Camping is the ultimate relationship test. I think all couples should go on a trek like this before committing for the long haul. Most of the time, we were practically giddy thinking of how happy we were to do this together. But there were times — like when we got lost for two hours or when we had to pack up our tent in the freezing rain — that really tested our patience and involved long portions of hiking without speaking to each other. And to top it off, you see your mate at his/her dirtiest and shabbiest while camping. No hiding. Lucky for us, we passed the test.
Beginning of the trek:
End of the trek, still happy:
3. Anger is the best motivation. On day 3, when we got lost for that aforementioned two hours, we were angry. We felt stupid and frustrated for losing our way and wanted redemption. So on day 4, we completed an 8-hour portion of the course in 6 hours. We were beasts on those uphills!
4. A piece of chocolate goes a long way. Chocolate, or any treat for that matter, should be a mandatory part of your packing list. It gives you that extra boost when you’re feeling low and energy-zapped. I think the chocolate donuts — they’re like candy, not real donuts — we purchased at the Los Cuernos campsite played a small part in the speediness of day 4.
5. I don’t love camping. I feel like people automatically write you off as a wuss for a statement like that, but that’s not fair. You can’t be built for everything in life, right? This trip has been a good way to figure out exactly what makes me tick. What I now know is I don’t hate camping; it’s just not my kind of thing. I have a huge problem with germs, I detest spiders, and I hate the idea of finishing a good workout only to fill myself up with sodium-filled instant pasta. And in the case of hiking the W, I was so cold at night in the tent, I wanted to cry. That being said, camping does make you appreciate little things like hot showers and good food. But just so we’re clear, I love hiking. I could hike for 8, 9, maybe 10 hours a day and be fulfilled. I’d just like to come home, shower and eat a healthy meal after. (FYI Eaman took to camping much better than me and really likes it.)
6. Always prepare for rain. Before the trek, a rental shop worker told me the weather would be beautiful and not to bother renting waterproof pants. I trusted him. Why would he lie if he could’ve made a quick buck? Well, it rained the last day and that hike uphill in my yoga pants to the final viewpoint of the torres (towers) was pretty miserable. Lucky for me, I was still half-asleep at that early morning hour that it didn’t hit me that much.
7. Bring ankle boots for a strenuous hike like this. In our low-cut hiking shoes, our poor ankles were going every which way. It slowed us down quite a bit on the slippery downhills.
8. Walking sticks are a godsend. Not only did they alleviate stress on our joints and help us maintan a rhythm, they also gave us a nice upper body workout. Get two; they’re a must!
9. It’s really refreshing not to look at yourself in the mirror for a few days. I had no idea what a mess I was and the only way I had the slightest clue of my personal filth was thanks to a facial wipe I used on day 3… and it wasn’t pretty. But who cared? All us campers were dirty, but in a way, it was a badge of pride.
Check out a few more snaps from the hike:
Someone’s funny work:
You can refill your Nalgene straight from the stream:
I will never eat ramen noodles or instant pasta again:
Breaking to take off our hiking shoes and stretch our feet was a highlight:
The color of the water, totally un-Photoshopped here, was more blue than the waters of the Caribbean:
Drinking mate on day 4 when we got to our campsite early:
We hoped to get up in time to catch the sunrise at the towers on day 5 — a one hour hike uphill from our campsite — but clouds and rain made an early wakeup call pointless since we wouldn’t be able to see the towers. Instead, we got up a little later (at 5:30 am) and saw whatever we could. Sure, it was hailing, snowing and raining in every direction, and we couldn’t see the top of the towers, but we caught an incredible double rainbow. Very Skittles-esque.
