In Pictures, El Chaltén (Patagonia)

Finding empty trails and soft light in the Southern Hemisphere.

After two hours of peering out the bus window, weaving through glacier blue waters and snow-capped peaks in the distance, the feeling really started to take hold. It was excitement, mostly, but also nerves. Every now and then we’re fortunate enough to live moments that were otherwise resigned to imagination. Seeing Patagonia for the first time was one of mine.

We arrived in El Chaltén in mid-May, late fall in the southern hemisphere. It was the last week before the town was effectively closed for the winter. Most of the 3,000 inhabitants had already left, and only a handful of restaurants and shops were still open (but still plenty of wine to be had). We were cutting it close, but it also meant we had the town and the trails to ourselves.

In 1985, the Argentine government founded El Chaltén to establish a stronger foothold in the region after a border dispute with Chile. You feel its forced existence throughout - maybe it’s the corrugated metal roof and sidings that seem to be the dominant aesthetic or how every aspect of the town solely exists for the hikers. There’s a curious energy, but it doesn’t diminish from the austere beauty of the area, especially late in the season.

Shoulder season is always a risk, especially in mountain towns where the weather gods don’t keep a schedule. The threat of rain loomed all three days we were there. The other challenge was light. In May, El Chaltén gets about 9 hours of daylight. Laguna de Los Tres, probably the most famous hike with views of Monte Fitz Roy on the Argentine side of Patagonia, is about 14 miles round trip. If you assume about 30 minutes per mile, under perfect conditions we’d need a minimum of 7 hours of daylight for the hike.

With that in mind, we got an early start on the trail. It was cold and a little windy, but otherwise beautiful and only a handful of other hikers to be seen.

Within the first two miles, I could see the top of Fitz Roy peeking over the hills, blanketed by a beautiful diffuse light. I don’t think I truly appreciated the significance of this in the moment - the stories and silhouettes I’d seen and read about for years were suddenly a reality.

Unfortunately, we never actually made it to the Laguna de Los Tres. The light was fading and the descent to the lake was looking too icy without proper gear. But I suppose that's the nature of shoulder season travel. You trade the perfect conditions and iconic views for something else: empty trails, soft light, and the feeling that you've stumbled upon something meant just for you.