Refried Neurons

Good morning, Puerto Natales!

Our hostel turned out to be a proper little gem. Yes, the bathrooms were communal — but think more Architectural Digest than youth prison. Clean, modern, actually quite pretty. It felt like one of those ‘curated’ spaces influencers pretend they wake up in — I didn’t even mind that strangers were allowed to use it. Breakfast was included and served in the hostel café, a bright little space with big windows, which made for a really lovely, civilised start to the day.

We weren’t in a rush. M wasn’t feeling great so we declared it a lazy, car-powered tourist day. None of that 20-kilometre uphill nonsense, thank you very much. Just views, waterfalls, guanacos, and mild existential dread.

At breakfast we met a lovely Dutch couple. Very Dutch — tall and blonde. It was their last comfortable meal before setting off on the full W trek. They’d booked it months in advance and were sleeping in pre-set tents — the deluxe kind of suffering. Mid-to-late 40s, clearly fit, outdoorsy. We swapped a few travel stories, and after the last spoonfuls of yoghurt and goodbye waves, we were off.

Torres del Paine is two hours from Puerto Natales, which is the closest actual town. There are a few hotels scattered around the park and its fringes, but unless you’re happy selling a kidney on the black market, it’s not exactly affordable. Personally, I liked the idea of returning at the end of the day to real food and wine, rather than freeze-dried mush and a head torch.

We’d barely left town when we stopped — a horse was stranded in a fence. Not tangled, just stuck and looking very unimpressed. Despite knowing that most gauchos probably keep a shotgun by the door, I wandered off to the nearest farmhouse. I did not cross the fence — fuck no — but thankfully the dogs kicked off and within minutes the farmer came out.

My Spanish wasn’t up to the task, but Google Translate apparently got the message across. He gave a little nod, grabbed a dog, and headed off toward the fence. Job done. Karma collected. Time to carry on.

First wildlife sighting: guanacos!
Now, these things — imagine a camel and a llama got drunk, mated, and then raised something fluffy, confused, and fabulous. Not quite sheep-level adorable, but close. We did a slow drive-by with the windows down, like wildlife paparazzi.

Then — fuck fuck fuck — slamming on the brakes.
Ahead, a gaucho herding sheep. I’d literally seen a documentary where gauchos complain about their dogs getting mown down by tourists. Still, did I slow down? No. Not until a sheep bolted and two dogs gave chase — straight into the road.

We just about stopped in time. I had a full-body jolt of guilt and imagined explaining to the farmer that I’d flattened his working dog because I was too busy admiring guanacos. Also, with no phone reception and no spare tyre, I didn’t fancy waiting roadside for six hours to be rescued from the aftermath.

Lesson learned. We now drove like pensioners on Valium.

Passed a now-familiar construction site (M had no interest in exploring it again), and then a lovely lake I swear I didn’t remember from two nights ago. Oh wait — probably because I was so focused on not killing us in the dark. But the lake was stunning. We even stopped for some photos.

At the park entrance, everything was far more official than last time. No sign of the drunken ranger — just staff actually checking tickets. We flashed ours with pride. Unfortunately, it was also the exact moment the tour buses rolled in. We made a mental note: if we want the trails to ourselves tomorrow, we’ll need to be there an hour earlier. Possibly still in pyjamas.

Yes, you can take the bus from Puerto Natales — it stops at various key points in the park. It’s the budget-friendly way to do it, but your freedom goes straight out the window. We, on the other hand, were gloriously smug in our little rental car — full of cheap Argentinian petrol and a playlist of questionable taste.

Next stop: Cascada Río Paine.
You hear it before you see it — that fierce glacial roar. Then you get out of the car and boom — there it is. Crystal-blue water tumbling over rocks, snow-capped peaks in the background. If you don’t say “bloody hell” at least once, you may be dead inside.

We stayed there a good while, doing nothing in particular except staring, listening, and saying things like “bloody hell” every few minutes. Then a slow drive through the park followed — stopping here and there, pretending to be influencers, taking Insta-worthy shots that will never see the light of day.

Our lunch was a soggy sandwich from the hostel, eaten with a million-dollar view. Very Bryson. M, unfortunately, was going downhill fast — feeling increasingly rough, like she’d swallowed a small cactus. We made one final stop that involved a short walk. The wind was howling. M took one look outside, swore, and curled up in the front seat. The car, she declared, was now her bed.

I braved it alone. Joined the human river of day-trippers headed to Salto Grande — another utterly ridiculous waterfall. Taller, wilder, wetter. The wind blasted us all with spray, even under blue skies. But it wasn’t just the waterfall — it was the setting: Cuerno Principal rising behind it, a jagged gothic backdrop. Unreal.

There were even some proper information boards! Apparently the range is made of multiple rock types, pushed upwards by magma that never made it to the surface. A dramatic geological mess. Which was fascinating, right up until I started thinking about it actually exploding one day. At which point, I legged it back to the car. Enough wind, enough existential dread. Also, it was nearly 4 p.m. — and we had no dinner reservation.

Driving around Torres del Paine is like watching Top Gear, only you’re behind the wheel and the car is shit (so, basically, exactly like Top Gear). The winding gravel road snakes between lakes and jaw-dropping mountains. Every turn reveals something new. It’s amazing — as long as you forget you don’t have a spare tyre.

A quick note: there are loads of hikes in the park besides the famous O and W circuits. You don’t need to be a masochist with carbon fibre knees. There are gentle, scenic trails — even multi-day treks with puma conservationists, tracking the big cats through the mountains. Apparently puma hunting is still an issue — sheep are an easy meal, and farmers are, unsurprisingly, not thrilled.

On the way out via the western gate, there was no one checking tickets. Not that I’m suggesting skipping the entrance fee — the money is important — but it’s definitely more of a trusting system than a strict one.

We passed more of those strange roadside shrines — tiny red wooden boxes, like dog kennels dressed up for fiesta. They’re offerings to saints and spirits, complete with flags, bottles of water, and all manner of odds and ends. Festive. Slightly eerie. Very Chilean.

M slept through most of the drive. I was relieved to see the horse from earlier was no longer stuck in the fence.

Back in town, we marched straight to our favourite restaurant, ready for a glass of house red — only to be told it was fully booked for some massive group dinner. Utter devastation. Stomach betrayal. We turned to Uncle Google and wandered the streets, grumpy and starving, before finally collapsing into the first place with available seats.

It was fine. Massive plates of meat. I finally tried Patagonian BBQ lamb, which has been hanging in the windows of literally every second building since we arrived.

Bellies full and blood sugar restored, we went souvenir hunting and stumbled upon a shop with genuinely beautiful things — not the usual mass-produced crap. I left feeling smug and inspired. Might finally sort out my own souvenir shelf at home.

Then: back to the hostel. Showers. Pyjamas. Bed.
Tomorrow, we go again.