You finally made it. Patagonia. The sun is out and expanding into a spectral flare through the windshield. You open the door and step out. The scene unfurls before you like an immense diorama, deep, older than dirt, and something inside you shivers. The motor turns off and you’re greeted by a silence that drills a hole right into your brain. Your ears struggle with the deafening stillness. Damn. You didn’t want to be so affected. But a tear forms on your eyelid as your senses open to the sunlight. It throws brushstrokes over the jagged range of peaks with sweeping gestures. A minor wind tussles your backpack straps and the clouds inch torward the far horizon.
This is why you came down here. To look upon the spectacular Torre Del Paine range, the one you built in a puzzle when you were nine. The one you daydreamed about your whole life since then, that strange orange and pale-brown landscape, the snow sifted on rock like so much powdered sugar, the Gigeresque rockscape.
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And you stand there, spiritually naked, thousand miles from mankind, the celestial craftsmanship of your beloved earth surrounding and embracing you. All the planning and money spent, all the tribulation of deciding, all swept clean in the face of nature’s true majesty. You can hardly take it in, hardly fathom what you’re witnessing. Real? Or just a snapshot on a cardboard box. And your mind spins to grasp it, satisfied in your decision to come to Chile. Almost complacent that you dreamed so big. This moment is majestic, something to revel in. You did it. And time is inconsequential.
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