Ascencio Valley, Torres del Paine NP, Day 100

One hundred days on the road. The time has just flown by, mostly because Christi and I have barely stopped to draw breath. And today is no exception. Our last hike in the park is deep into the Ascencio Valley to see the sunrise transmute the cold granite spires of Torres del Paine into awe-inspiring crimson towers. It’s an unmissable spectacle – at least according to the guide book (and written in small print is ‘assuming the weather cooperates’, which it rarely does in these parts). Unfortunately, we have to be up before 4 am because it’s a 2-hour hike to the viewpoint in the dark and along a treacherous icy trail. And it’s bloody freezing. It transpires that no-one else, not even Christi, bought into the tourist spiel, leaving me to pile on every layer of clothing I brought with me and step out into the cold night alone.

I wear a headlamp which hides more of the trail than it reveals. It’s still snowing and the only sound I hear is the crunch of my own footfalls as I move slowly up the Ascencio Valley. The further I go the deeper the snow becomes, but my main worry is the black ice. That, and the rushing waters of the frigid Ascencio River somewhere below me. In the pre-dawn light the sky remains dull and overcast. There will be no magic show today; no alchemy. I’m slipping more than I’m hiking now and reluctantly, I turn around and trudge back to the refugio.

Note to self: stick to sunsets and enjoy an extra few hours in bed. Later, as a relaxed and refreshed Christi joins me for breakfast, we watch other hikers prepare to take on the hazardous trail – perhaps more sensibly they embark upon their journeys during the cold, gray light of day.

Eventually we, too, leave the hobbit hole, but instead of heading up the valley we turn south back towards Hosteria Las Torres. From there it’s two bus connections back to Puerto Natales and the Erratic Hostel II, where we enjoy a wonderful steaming hot shower. There’s no time to relax, however, as we catch the 7 pm bus to Punta Arenas, 3 hours to the south. We arrive at 10 pm and taxi to our new temporary home, which is run by a Croatian grandmother called Emma. She also has a frill fetish and, believe it or not, a shrine dedicated to Martha Stewart. OK, I made that last bit up, but I think Martha Stewart is a goddess in these parts.