By Bobbie Surber
Day 1: The Adventure Begins
The morning light over Puerto Natales was soft and silver, with a misty rain that whispered rather than shouted. Tom and I shouldered our packs, my heart fluttering with a mix of nerves and anticipation as we stepped into the unknown. We boarded the early bus from Puerto Natales, joining a mix of wide-eyed trekkers and seasoned hikers, all bound for Torres del Paine National Park. The drive itself felt like a quiet ritual — the final stretch of comfort before the wild began. As we moved deeper into Patagonia, the land shifted again: golden steppes gave way to alpine slopes, windswept plateaus, and glimpses of distant glaciers. At the park entrance, we checked in with our reservations and caught the connecting shuttle to the Central/Torres sector, arriving at Refugio Chileno, our gateway to the trek’s first challenge.
We hiked for several hours along the Río Ascencio, winding through lenga forests – native beech trees with leaves that whispered in the wind — crossing footbridges, and climbing switchbacks softened by moss and whipped by gusts. The relentless Patagonian wind pushed against our packs, howling around bends – a constant reminder that nothing in Patagonia is guaranteed.
By late afternoon, we reached Refugio Chileno, perched at the edge of a forested valley. For the next two nights, this would be our home: a reserved tent platform with meals provided by the Refugio. The food here was the best of the entire trek, and the staff radiated warmth and kindness. Though the quarters were small and cramped — especially with day hikers seeking shelter — the atmosphere remained joyful and welcoming.
The setting was raw and beautiful — the kind of place where you arrive dusty, tired, and utterly alive. We laid out our gear, adjusted our layers, and walked down to the river to watch the sunset light up the granite towers in hues of copper and rose. Our bellies full of fresh salmon, brought in by horseback, and some much-needed vino Tinto, we climbed the stairs to our tent platform surrendering to the exhaustion of the day.
Day 2: Mirador del Torre – The Towers
Despite the wind and rain keeping frustrated hikers at bay through the morning, we kept a close eye on the forecast. Around 1 p.m., the clouds began to lift – just enough to give us hope that the iconic granite spires we had come to see might finally reveal themselves.
The climb was tough: wind whipping, rain falling, slippery, rocky switchbacks slowing our pace. But the moment we reached Mirador Torres, the clouds cleared fully, unveiling the full glory of the towers rising sharply against the sky. Seeing the towers for the first time stopped me in my tracks. I had dreamed of this moment, one of the most iconic sights in Patagonia, and now I had arrived. After the long, grueling climb, standing at the base of those towering granite spires was nothing short of humbling. They rose with such raw power and timelessness, carved by ice and wind over millennia, that I felt both incredibly small and deeply connected to something far greater than myself. That glimpse, brief and breathtaking, was worth every bone-weary step.
Day 3: Humbling Miles Along Lake Nordenskjöld
We woke up in our tent excited to see what day three would bring. It wasn’t until I climbed down the stairs of the tent that I came to terms with smoked legs and aching knees. Oh lord, I felt old! We had heard this would be the “easy” day, relatively flat, a chance to recover. That turned out to be not exactly accurate! The trail stretched endlessly in rocky, uneven waves, one steep climb after another, each followed by a jarring descent. The ups and downs felt cruel, especially on sore joints and tender muscles. The wind rarely left us. It pushed against our packs, howled around bends, and made balance tricky over exposed rock sections.
We traced the shoreline of Lake Nordenskjöld for most of the day, its slate-blue water glinting beneath a thick ceiling of clouds that later broke open to brilliant blue. The views were stunning, even through the fog of physical discomfort: sprawling valleys, snow-dusted peaks, and the icy blue lake curving endlessly at our side. It was wild and cinematic — just enough magic to keep us moving. A family from the East Coast crossed paths with us several times throughout the day. Each time, we shared a moment of mutual misery, cheering each other on with dark humor and tired smiles.
By the final stretch, the fatigue wore thin on both of us. Tom, usually my steady, optimistic hiking partner, hit a wall. Frustrated, he picked up his pace and took off ahead, muttering curses at the unknown trail gods. Too tired to keep up and trying my best to hide my giggles at Tom’s colorful curses. I soldiered slowly up and down the trail ever longing for the day to end and preferably ending with a pisco sour or glass of wine.
And then it happened: A section of trail gave out underfoot – loose rock, bad timing, tired legs. I tumbled hard, unable to catch myself. When I landed, I knew instantly my left knee was in trouble. The pain was sharp and deep. Sitting in the dirt, stunned, breathing through the sting. Alone, I took slow, careful steps, stopping often. My knee buckled repeatedly. Doubt crept in as to whether I would even make it to camp. The trail seemed to stretch forever.
Then, finally, just as the trail descended toward Refugio Los Cuernos, I saw Tom waiting, his earlier frustration replaced by quiet concern. He took my pack without a word and helped me down the final stretch. I was still upright, still walking, but just barely. The relief of seeing him was immense. We reached the Refugio together, subdued, exhausted, and deeply relieved.
Refugio Los Cuernos sits tucked beneath the jagged black horns of the Cuernos del Paine, towering, wind-carved peaks that look like something from a dream. The setting is spectacular: to one side, the deep turquoise waters of Lake Nordenskjöld; to the other, the dramatic silhouettes of the horned mountains looming above like ancient guardians.
The Refugio itself is small and charming, wooden cabins scattered along a rocky slope, connected by boardwalks. Our tent platform was nestled into a gentle rise just a short distance from the bar and dining hall. The communal area buzzed with tired hikers sharing meals, comparing stories, and soaking up the fading golden light.
That night, we ate with our boots still on, grateful for the hot food, a precious ice pack provided by the staff, and a warm place to sit. The staff, kind, and patient despite their long day, served up hearty portions and laughter with our meals. As the wind howled outside and the peaks turned dusky purple, we sipped wine and leaned into the warmth of it all. We were sore and injured in new places, but also held, somehow, by the land and by each other.
Day 4: The French Valley
The morning started slowly as Tom checked on my knee, confirming that I tore my meniscus already compromised years earlier. We talked through how best to continue the trail. The staff at Los Cuernos kindly offered, for a fee, to transport my backpack to the next Refugio. I gratefully accepted. Shedding 20-plus pounds gave me the best shot at finishing the day ahead.
I set out earlier than Tom, knowing he would catch up quickly. I often joke he is part man and part mountain goat, thanks to years of summiting peaks across North America and, more recently, 26 nights of hiking in Nepal. My pace would be slower, and we both knew it.
I arrived at Refugio Francés mid-morning and took a welcome break. With sweeping views and a patch of sun warming me, I indulged in a second breakfast while waiting for Tom to catch up.
Before reaching Campamento Italiano that afternoon, we paused on a narrow ledge, the forest thick around us, wind whispering through the trees. Below us, the French Valley unfolded like a hidden cathedral: raw, vast, and breathtaking. I dropped my trekking poles and leaned back against Tom, my heart pounding as I looked up. For a moment, I simply forgot to breathe, overwhelmed by the sheer scale and silence. Jagged granite peaks rose like spires; their faces streaked with snow. Glaciers spilled down cliffs like frozen waterfalls, suspended in time. Somewhere high above, an avalanche cracked like distant thunder, echoing through the stillness.
It was not just the view. It was everything it meant, that we had made it here, injured, and uncertain, every step hard-earned. I stood there, breath finally returning, feeling both insignificant and fiercely alive. We rested for a while, watching clouds drift low over the valley walls, the wind tugging gently at our jackets. Many hikers dropped their bags and headed up the trail to Mirador Británico, a high lookout deep within the valley. That had been our original plan too.
But my knee had its own truth to tell. We knew that if I pushed too far, I might not be able to walk the next day. So, with a bittersweet kind of grace, we turned west toward Refugio Paine Grande, skipping the deeper valley climb.
The trail to Paine Grande offered long, sweeping views of Lago Skottsberg, the wind carving whitecaps on its slate-blue surface. We followed the ridgeline, battered by gusts but buoyed by the promise of shelter, and a hot meal at the end.
When we arrived, Paine Grande felt massive. Easily the largest Refugio we had seen, it sprawled at the base of the mountains, surrounded by a wide field dotted with rows of identical lemon-yellow tents, each fluttering in the wind like wildflowers stitched into the grass. The bright, bold color was almost joyful, defiant against the gray sky and rugged peaks surrounding it.
Inside, the Refugio was warm and bustling. Hikers shuffled in camp slippers and fleece layers, swapping stories and queuing in the cafeteria-style restaurant, trays in hand, hungry in that special way only trail days create. We claimed our assigned table, plates piled with pasta and warm bread, our bodies already loosening in the glow of arrival.
After dinner, like every night on the W, we headed to the Refugio bar. It had quickly become our ritual: wine, cold Patagonian beer, or a celebratory pisco sour, frothy, citrus-bright, the perfect end to the day. That night, sipping wine with my knee gingerly stretched beneath the table, something in me settled. I was in a place that felt unreal, wild, remote, and somehow tender, with a man whose gaze held warmth and love. This shared journey deepened our understanding of each other and quietly strengthened our bond. Gratitude settled beside me, humbled by the magic of the moment.
Join our Facebook ExNotes page!
Never miss an ExNotes blog:
Help us keep the lights on:
Don’t forget: Visit our advertisers!
It started like any great ride: a cool Thursday morning, Sedona fading in the mirrors, Bisbee as our stop for the night, and an early morning border crossing on Friday. I was back on Tippi, my Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro. Tom rode his Yamaha 900. Ahead of us? Three days with Tom and Lynn in their Sonoran paradise and, of course, some excellent Bacanora—a local smoky cousin of tequila.
The lake whispered under sunlight slicing through the clouds while the cold bit like a sudden awakening. We lucked into front-row seats, perfect for nature’s ice show. Then, out of the mist, the glacier appeared, nineteen miles long, three miles wide, towering like a twenty-story giant barging into the lake as if it owned the place.
I remember reaching the lodge after completing the rim-to-rim hike, a long, steady climb from the Colorado River to the quiet heights of the North Rim. My legs were leaden, my pack dusted with red earth, and each step through the final miles of the North Kaibab Trail carried the weight of the canyon behind me. The landscape narrowed into cool shadows and silent stands of fir and aspen. As I crested the rim and glimpsed the lodge through a break in the trees, a quiet stillness settled in. I walked into the stone-and-timber building, ordered a hot meal, and sat near the window overlooking the vast expanse I’d just crossed. It wasn’t dramatic or loud, just a deeply satisfying end to a long journey.
