Refried Neurons

Good morning, Torres del Paine!

We’d booked ourselves into a hotel the night before, but thanks to a late arrival we didn’t get to see a bloody thing. First thing in the morning, we marched straight to the reception to try and extend our stay—until we heard the price. Four times what we paid online the night before. I mean, what’s that saying? Location, location, location? Yep. The hotel was dated, water ran only at certain hours, and breakfast was just about passable—but holy shit, the location. I’m not even exaggerating: probably the best spot in the entire park.

Perched on a tiny island on Lake Pehoé, accessible only by a floating bridge, the hotel sat right opposite the iconic Torres range. We had the most photographed peaks in Patagonia smack bang in front of us. It was jaw-dropping.

It was a real shame we hadn’t arrived earlier to soak it in. We tried to make up for it by lingering over breakfast with that view. But alas, after snapping our postcard-perfect photos, we checked out and moved on to the next adventure.

As usual, we’d done minimal research. We knew about the famous W Trek, which you can do over several days, camping as you go—or you can tackle parts of it, which is what we chose. No tents, no desire to carry one either. You can book pre-set tents in the park, but that needs serious advance planning and comes at a price. Chile’s not cheap.

The nearest section of the W Trail to us was only accessible by boat. After about a 30-minute drive, we found ourselves at the ferry terminal. Did we check the schedule? Of course not. But fortune favours fools, and somehow we arrived just in time—early enough to snag tickets and a spot in line, but not so late that we missed the boat like some poor souls did. The next one wasn’t till late afternoon and was heading back, not in. We laughed our arses off, realising once again we had more luck than brains.

We found seats by the window while the staff loaded the enormous backpacks of multi-day hikers. Half an hour later, we landed at the trailhead, which branched off in two directions.

Park tickets aren’t cheap, but once we were on the trail, we were grateful for that—because it meant fewer people. I swear we passed maybe six or seven hikers going the opposite way and a few more heading in our direction. Or maybe we just started way later than everyone else. It was after midday…

The trail was, like everything in Patagonia, bloody stunning. We walked through low brush with dramatic mountain views on our left. The red and green vegetation popped beautifully in the sunlight. Climbing a small hill, we came upon a series of small lakes, and soon we found ourselves in what looked like another world: a burned forest. Charred, white tree skeletons rose like sculptures from the greenery. It looked absolutely otherworldly.

There was an info board, and—shock horror—I actually read it. Turns out, a few years back, some absolute genius decided to take a shit on the trail, wipe, and instead of burying the paper or doing literally anything else sensible, thought it was a bright idea to set it on fire. Result? 17,600 hectares of native forest went up in smoke. That’s like burning 1.5 Parises. I mean—how fucking stupid do you have to be? People never cease to amaze me. Like those who pick up dog poo in a plastic bag and then hang it on a tree. WHY?

Anyway. We carried on and after about an hour and a half reached a shelter—another reminder of why the park charges what it does. There were toilets, drinking water, and a spot where multi-day hikers could stash their gear. No one guarding it, just pure trust. The W Trail is shaped like, well, a W—so certain sections are in-and-out rather than loops. Hikers leave their big bags behind, tackle the spur with a daypack, then return and camp. Smart.

We had our own little break here: loo stop and sandwiches we’d made during breakfast. I used to be a bit embarrassed about taking food from hotel buffets—until I heard a famous travel writer (name escapes me) admit he always does it. It’s smart. Keeps you from grabbing overpriced junk mid-hike. So now I’m like, fuck it. Judge away. They weren’t fancy sandwiches but I was bloody grateful to have them.

As we munched, a massive bird landed on the roof. No idea what it was—but majestic as hell.

Fed and vaguely rested, we headed further up the leg of the trail that was supposed to lead to a glacier and lake. The path was gorgeous, meandering alongside a crystal-clear river. We didn’t have time to make it all the way—we only had 20 minutes out and 20 minutes back before we had to catch the return boat. We did catch a glimpse of the glacier from afar, snapped some shots, and turned around.

About half an hour after we doubled back, we heard this huge boom, like a grenade going off. A massive avalanche thundered down the mountain into the valley we’d just left. No one seemed to be hurt, but bloody hell—glad we’d already cleared that area!

On the return we took a different route. That’s the advantage of doing the W in sections: you can explore alternative trails. The first path had been through valleys and burned forest; this one was slightly elevated and offered panoramic views over the lakes. We passed bushes heavy with pink, purple, and white berries. A group of Chinese hikers were happily scoffing them, so we tried one or two—but I wasn’t sure what they were, so I stuffed a handful into my bag to ID later. Forgot all about them until we landed back in Europe. Thank fuck we weren’t flying into New Zealand or I’d be paying a hefty fine.

The hike back was quicker—less winding. We returned to the ferry terminal with about 40 minutes to spare. This shelter was more like a mini hotel—restaurant, shop, the works. The shop was packed with hikers grabbing supplies. We skipped that and went straight for pizza.

By then it was nearly 6pm and we still had 3–4 hours before we’d be back in town, so eating there made sense. There’s no phone signal in most of Patagonia, but at the shelter you could pay for an hour of Wi-Fi. We needed it—no hotel booked, no signal since the day before, and I needed to tell my partner I was still alive (last time he heard from us, we were leaving El Calafate). So we devoured our pizza, booked a hostel, and decided to go for something a bit more comfortable since M wasn’t feeling great. It was a hostel with four bunk beds—we just booked the whole room.

Dinner sorted, we queued up for the boat. I wasn’t risking a last-minute arrival again. Sure enough, 20 minutes later we were on board, and I don’t think everyone made it. I was relieved. Then I started praying we hadn’t been towed—we’d parked in a slightly dodgy spot.

We hit the road around 7pm. M was feeling rough, so I took the wheel. On the way in, there’d been roadworks—now I knew why. Google rerouted us via the other road out of the park, forming a rough loop with the one we came in on. This one? Oh my god. Pothole city. It was like rally driving. Some were marked in red paint—most weren’t. The views were still mind-blowing, but this time I saw them disappearing in the rearview mirror. I just wanted off that road before darkness fell.

M, when not sleeping, was nervously muttering about us losing a wheel. We didn’t. We rolled into the hostel at exactly 10pm. And thank fuck—it was lovely. Modern, clean, fresh linen. The dream.

Good night, Torres del Paine. You mad, wild, incredible place.

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