Hardly anyone has heard of it. And let’s hope it stays that way. In fact, I’d rather not even mention it by name. Not because I selfishly want to have a unique experience, but so that it can remain just as it is: authentic, unique, beautiful, and deserted
A long-distance hiking trail stretches across Chile, from the sweltering capital all the way to the windswept Tierra del Fuego. It winds its way through active volcanoes crowned with white snow caps, primeval araucaria forests, and past the dwellings of the arrieros (local cowboys) and the indigenous Mapuche people. It continues south through the impenetrable Valvidian rainforests, along the slopes of countless fjords, past the blue lakes and glacial tongues of Patagonia. Diverse, wild, and unpredictable.
Does it sound like a dream? It lingered in my dreams for a long time. For years, like a distant mirage on the horizon of my subconscious, it beckoned from the other side of the world, urging me to escape the desert of reality. Until one day, I could no longer ignore it. “We’ll set out next winter,” was the agreement I made with myself and the other member of our two-person team. And next winter, we’re setting out.
Before we set off, everything looks somehow simpler and more vibrant on paper and in photos. Route planning, trail research, gear list, to-do list, to-buy list, and whatever-else list. Dreaming of distant lands through which we’ll blaze a trail, unstoppable as the wind.
Buy the last few—inevitably expensive—essentials. Check off and weigh all the items, give up some of them, and make life easier on your back and legs—even if it means doing without some of the comforts of the Western world for the next few months. Arrange everything neatly side by side and take a photo from above, just like we see “outdoor influencers” do—without whose wise advice we wouldn’t even know how to pack on our own these days. Then, one by one, we neatly stack all the items into a clean backpack, like a game of Tetris. And try it on your back—yes, in terms of both price and weight, it’s worth its weight in gold.
We’ll plan the route as if we were elite athletes. Hundreds of kilometers of challenging navigation through rugged mountain terrain. Of course, completely disregarding the condition of our aging joints and—after winter—atrophied muscles. And disregarding the fact that we really aren’t elite athletes. “It’s all in your head,” they say. Well, tell that to my legs, hips, and back.
But enough with the negativity. Three endless flights, stocking up on supplies in Santiago de Chile, and a few hours on local public transportation to the start of the trail itself—and suddenly you’re here. Months of planning have become reality. Surprising and almost tangible. You can feel it in the air as the scent of ancient pine forests, on your skin as the scorching sun of Chile’s fading summer. And on your back, weighed down by a backpack into which someone has probably secretly slipped some rocks. And off you go.
It doesn’t take long before we leave the national park visitors behind, carrying their portable folding grills and family tents. From here on, we’re accompanied only by circling vultures, likely waiting for us to fail. The wide, well-trodden trail turns into a narrow path that occasionally disappears entirely, only to reappear later.
At times, you feel like a medieval explorer. With no clear trail, you make your way through unspoiled countryside. Hours and days pass without any other disturbances to the peace. Your thoughts slow down, and the absence of cell service has an almost meditative effect. “Damn!!!”—so maybe it’s not quite that pristine after all. My still relatively clean and undamaged boots have tested the friction coefficient of cow dung. And it won’t be the last time. Cows and horses, along with their owners, are the primary creators of the only existing trails leading through this landscape.
The volcanic desert, along with the scorching sun, accompanies us for dozens of kilometers at the start and tests our strength. We held up, even though the first health issues arose almost immediately. Sunburned skin, blisters, sore hips, a stiff back. Most of these symptoms disappear just as quickly as they appeared. The human body is simply a highly adaptable tool of our minds. And here, the mind is so preoccupied with marveling at the constant stream of new and incredible visual stimuli that it doesn’t even have time to dwell on minor aches and pains.
Physical and mental synchronization with the route makes you forget the worries of the world “down there.” Everyday problems boil down to when, where, and how to replenish calories; when and where to get the desired number of hours of much-needed nighttime rest; and which way to go next.
The total number of kilometers and days spent camping is gradually becoming irrelevant; what nourishes the soul here isn’t the achievement of daily goals, elevation gain, or pace per kilometer. Experiences gain in importance with each passing day and become the essence of our present existence. Wild horses gallop beneath majestic volcanoes as a symbol of the freedom that we, too, get to taste—at least for a moment. Natural hot springs serve as occasional, well-deserved moments of relaxation. Elegant cowboys living in modest wooden dwellings. Goat meat, which we’re served several times in exchange for just a few words exchanged in our poor (practically nonexistent) Spanish. Nature so surreal that if we hadn’t brought back photographs, I’d probably still think it was all just a dream.
We venture into civilization only in urgent cases—when we need an escape plan in the event of a sudden turn for the worse in the weather, or to restock our supplies. We haven’t seen the city in weeks, and we don’t miss it. I admit that thoughts of a hot shower and a hearty dinner cross my mind more and more often, but a single glance at our surroundings quickly dispels those thoughts.
The volcanic landscape has been shamefully transformed into fertile pastures for cows and goats. We walk past deep lakes and over high mountain passes. Chilean cowboys are slowly being replaced by the indigenous Mapuche people. These are people who have inhabited this landscape for thousands of years and understand it like no one else. And who, unfortunately, like most indigenous peoples around the world, bear the deep injustice inflicted by white colonizers. The distrust in their eyes is hard to miss. Even the pastures have been replaced by araucaria forests—far older than the tribe that inhabits them. Once upon a time, it wasn’t goats but dinosaurs that grazed among these very trees.
Section by section, we make our way through hundreds of kilometers of challenging terrain. We scramble over the frozen rocks of the riverbed because there’s no other way. We fight our way through impenetrable undergrowth, wade across wide rivers, get swallowed up by swamps, and lose our way. Sometimes the journey takes on a life of its own. Sometimes it doesn’t. And suddenly we’re standing at the end. Exhausted, with torn shoes and aching muscles. But filled with gratitude. Gratitude for the chance to return to our roots for a moment and be part of nature. We didn’t complete the entire route, and such ambitions never even existed. But we’ve achieved our inner goals.
Words by Vojta Žídek, images by Michael Novotný.
