The Scariest Thing I Did in 2017... Was Also The Most Spectacular

Confession: I’m terrified of walking down New York City subway steps. With snow, ice, trash, and pushy passengers to dodge, I’m convinced my fate is to slip and haphazardly face-plant, limbs strewn in every direction. So instead, I overcompensate, white-knuckle gripping the rails and trudging slower than the tortoise, consciously exhaling with each step.

So when I planned a bucket-list solo trip to Patagonia in southern Argentina, I considered skipping El Chalten all together. After all, it’s a trekking town, known for its famous dramatically steep peaks emblazoned on the Patagonia clothing logo.

But the more I studied up, the more I wanted to soak in Mount Fitz Roy with my own eyes... from the best viewpoint possible. The most recommended trail was to Laguna de los Tres, with every source ranking the seven-hour hike “challenging” and the “most difficult trail.” I thought it might be best to connect with a group, but Say Hueque, who helped me piece together my perfect Patagonia itinerary, told me it was best “self-guided” and that I would be fine on my own.

I started having visions of slipping and being stranded down a rocky ravine in the Los Glaciares National Park — where there’s no cell reception — unsuccessfully trying to channel my nonexistent inner Cheryl Strayed.

So I compromised with myself and opted for the Laguna Torre trail, rated “moderate.” Even though I was chasing adventure, having turned 40 earlier in the year, my definition of “daring” sat somewhere between the green circle and blue square ski-slope ratings of life.

When I arrived in El Chalten in late November, I slipped into reporting mode, quizzing everyone I could find. I explained my fears to the Posada Lunajuim hotel staff, Sofia and Juliet — and they said I’d have no problem. I went to the tourist information office and pulled up screenshots of steep rocky paths that I had found online and asked if it was really that dangerous — and they said it wasn’t that bad. I stopped another solo traveler in the street and asked him how the hike was and whether he thought I could do it alone — and he had no doubt that I should. All these votes of confidence from strangers were baffling to me.

The weather was another factor. The hotel told me that it would be a bit windy, as it always is in Patagonia, getting worse after 2 p.m. So if I could make it up and down the treacherous last stretch up to the lake before then, I should be fine.

That afternoon, I successfully finished two shorter “practice” hikes and decided if I could find good hiking poles, I’d go for the big time. After shopping around town, it turned out my hotel had a whole basket of them in the corner to borrow. Maybe this was meant to be.

So I told the little voice in my head to simmer down and went to book the shuttle to the trailhead. But it turned out, all the seats were taken. A sign! That’s it, it was time to bow out.

However, my ever-intrepid front desk friends found another company and got me the last seat. Okay, maybe the signs were telling me to go after all.

I carefully packed my backpack — basically assuming I was going to be stranded overnight. I had medication and first aid supplies for every kind of scenario, an emergency blanket, headlamp, energy gels, multiple layers for every body part, and — of course — enough empanadas from the local bakery to survive overnight.

With limited satellite cell reception in town, I told a friend back at home where I was headed, leaving out any sense of anxiety. For all she knew, I was just going for a walk in the park.

But then the voice started again: What if I got hurt? What if a storm blew over? What if I got lost and couldn’t find my way back? Shut up, little voice.

The Journey Begins

When the shuttle arrived, I sized everyone up. I wasn’t the youngest, I wasn’t the oldest. I wasn’t the fittest, I wasn’t the least fit. I wasn’t the one with the fanciest equipment, but I wasn’t the one with worst. I wasn’t the only one on my own... but I was the only woman hiking solo. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all.

As we drove toward the trailhead in the rickety van on the stony dirt road, I thought I should follow my instincts... and this just didn’t feel right. Maybe I should ride back and spend the day at the craft breweries.

But I couldn’t. We got off the shuttle and put our names on a clipboard... instinctively, I stalled and fell behind, so I wouldn’t have the pressure of anyone behind me.

Just before the last couple took off, they asked if I wanted to join them. I hesitated. My fears would all subside if I was with other people. But that would also mean I’d have to push myself to keep up with them, an undue pressure I hadn’t thought about, which could hurt in other ways.

“Thanks, but go ahead,” I said, while the little voice launched into hysterics.

But this was my journey and I was going to go at my own speed. Whatever that may be. The shuttle drove away. I was stranded. There was literally no where to go... only the town, seven hours away. The good news was that the sun didn’t set this time of year until 9 p.m. It was just after 10:30 a.m., so I could take it nice and slow.

The first section was of the hike was supposed to be about two hours along the Rio Blanco, with promises of a glacier viewpoint along the way. The sun was shining and there was a crisp coolness in the air — perfect hiking whether. So I took my first step... and let the journey begin.

The trail started innocently enough, winding up and down hills in the forest. At times, it hugged the river and at other times, it dove deep into forests under tall tree canopies. I kept time and distance on my phone’s RunKeeper app to have a sense of how much progress I was making. About 45 minutes in, I could feel blisters starting to form on my feet. Maybe going on two hikes the day before was a bad idea.

So I found a large fallen tree, sat down, and put Body Glide Anti-Blister foot glide all over both feet (see, I was paranoid about every situation!). I was already behind. I should have been to the glacier viewpoint by now and here I was, deep in a forest. But there was no road back, so I kept going.

The soft steady sound of my hiking shoes against the forest floor was accompanied by the occasional tweeting bird and the constant ruffle of the leaves by the ever-present Patagonian winds. I focused on being in the moment, soaking in the solitary experience of having all this nature to myself. A true gift.

Then, I peered through two branches and saw that unmistakable pure glacial blue that I had seen back at the Perito Moreno glaicer, outside of El Calafate. There it was, the promised Glaciar Piedras Blancas, sitting so grandly in the distance, crowned by the those spiky stone peaks so indigenous to Patagonia.

I paused. Breath-taking.

Then I heard some voices. Strange. I had fallen so far behind that I hadn’t seen anyone for the last 90 minutes. I made my way ahead and found that the mother and 20-something daughter from Texas who were on the shuttle were at the viewpoint, taking in the sight as well. I thought they had been one of the first to leave, so I did find it a bit strange, but we chatted and took each others’ photos. The mom reminded me so much one of my dear friends back at home, down to her witty sense of humor, and the daughter had the same sharp and smart nature as my friend’s daughter as well. It was comforting.

They continued on. Then I continued on. Soon, I passed them again... and this time I kept going. I didn’t love the pressure of having people behind me, but I wanted to get down the peak before the strong winds kicked in and it was already past noon. I’d catch the rough weather on my way down. Maybe it was okay. Or maybe I shouldn’t go up to the top. I still could skip that leg of the journey.

Red Flag

Just as I was grappling with the decision, I heard someone running toward me, “Excuse me! Excuse me!” It was the daughter. ”My mom fell and can’t remember how she got here.” Uh oh. Not good.

She asked if I had cell service. Even though I knew I didn’t, I tried. I followed her back to her mom and we sat her down. Calling for help wasn’t an option. So the daughter ran back to get another gentleman who saw the fall. I sat down with her mother.

I tried to offer her something from my backpack: water, a granola bar, maybe a scarf? She was kind and wouldn’t take anything except for a little Neosporin for her lip that she hit on her fall. I asked her how many days they had been in Patagonia. She hesitated. And then grew frustrated. She couldn’t access that information in her mind. Okay, no more questions.

She kept apologizing for holding me up and asking where her daughter was. I explained. A few minutes later, she asked again. When we had spoken earlier, she was too sharp to be repeating questions so quickly. Something wasn’t quite right.

To keep her mind on something in the moment, I directed our attention to the view. We could still see the glacier. We talked about how special it was to be here in this moment.

Soon her daughter returned with the guy, and we talked through the options. We were two hours into the hike now, so they could go back, but we hadn’t seen anyone at the little hostel at the trailhead, so what if they went all that way and couldn’t get help? There was a camp ahead, but we didn’t know what it would be like. There was still a three-hour hike back to the town after that and what if there was no help there?

After much discussion, they said they would continue ahead. The gentleman was heading the opposite direction as us, so he would look for someone with a radio that way and I’d go ahead of the women and ask in our direction. I got their information and forged ahead, with a new mission.

Not long after, I ran into two girls and asked them if they had a radio. They didn’t, but I told them the situation and they said the mother and daughter needed to turn around — it was too far to go ahead. I went back with them and we discussed it. They would turn around and hopefully there would be someone at the hostel. But I would continue asking if anyone had a radio, just in case.

Thankfully, I started running into more people going the opposite direction, but no one had a radio. I explained the situation to everyone and told them to look for them. Every stranger, no matter their level of English, was so gracious and so helpful. There’s no bond as strong as that connection that happens among traveling strangers.

Almost an hour later, I found myself at the camp. There were one or two tents up and that’s it. It was such good thing they turned around. As I crossed through, I saw two people hiking toward me... and one looked like a local guide.

“Do you happen to have a radio?” I asked.

“Yes!” he said.

Score! I gave him all their info — their names and their hotel. I showed him on the map where they were heading back to.

“Okay,” he said. I hesitated to leave. But he didn’t seem to want to call until I left.

So I left the trust in his hands and journeyed on. Now that I had crossed that task off my list, it was back to the original dilemma: I was about to reach the steep stretch and here was my final opportunity to opt out.

At the bottom of the path, there was a crowd. Both those recovering from the hike and those about to go on it. It was nearing 2 p.m. and the weather was beautiful and warm now, but it was about to start getting bad. I asked a group of women sitting on a bench what the trail was really like.

“It’s very steep,” a Canadian woman replied to me. “And rocky.”

Exactly the words I didn’t want to hear. And seeing what the mother-daughter were going through with no help in sight should have been the biggest red flag of all.

“But you have to go,” she continued. “If us old fogies can do it. You can too.”

With that kind of encouragement right at the springboard, how could I turn back now? And just as I walked away, she said the most essential advice: “Remember: One step at a time.”

Step By Step

So basic. So obvious. But so important for me to hear those words.

It became my mantra as I started up the loose stone path. At one point, I thought, this isn’t so bad! What was I worried about? Then I ran into a British couple that I had met on my travels and they told me it was about to get really steep and slippery, but that I had to go on. And when I got to the top, there was a surprise beyond the second hill. Well, now I had to go on!

I would have been comforted by the number of people on the path, but with my delay, they were all headed down, some in big groups with guides with radios! Another sign I should turn around.

Maybe I appeared as if I was struggling because one guide grabbed my poles and made it shorter, telling me that would help on the upward climb and to make them longer for the downhill climb. It did!

It got so hot and sunny that I had to switch my knit earflap hat for my running cap and stash all my layers.

The path went on and on. There were watery stones and slippery patches. There were narrow turns where I couldn’t even bear to look down. There were times I lost my footing on loose rocks. But I kept going, keeping my new mantra in mind: One step at a time.

Just before 3 p.m., I reached the top, expecting to soak in the most spectacular view I’d seen. Instead, I felt snowflakes pelting toward me as I squinted for a view of Mount Fitz Roy through the clouds. It was too cold to stop for a rest, so I kept walking toward the second hill.

Cold, tired, and disappointed, I kept taking one step at a time up... and that’s when the big blue lake revealed itself. Twin lakes, separated by a peak, yet one was a pure soothing blue and the other was covered with snow. And as I looked up, the sun broke through to reveal just enough of Mount Fitz Roy.

Many may wear those famous peaks on their clothing (ironically, I only own Columbia, no Patagonia!), but to experience it and have a story that’s just my own about those peaks is the epitome of the transformative nature of travel. Especially solo travel.

As I stood up there, on a continent so foreign to me, I finally knew what it meant to feel on top of the world... as I ironically stood so close to the bottom of it.

I wasn’t even half way through the hike. As I started my journey back, my pole broke and I had to use them at lop-sided heights. But I trudged on. Wobbly around the edges, but one step at a time.

It took me more than five hours to get back to town. At times, it rained steadily. At times, it hailed so hard it hurt. At times, it snowed so much it stuck to the plants. And at times, everything cleared and sun rays beat on my back.

In all, I hiked 14 miles through four seasons of weather for nine hours. There were moments I thought I’d need to seek shelter and wait until the next morning, but one thing kept running through my mind: “One step at a time. One step at a time.”

Soon the skies parted and I was rewarded with the most spectacular scene. I stopped, unconcerned about time or place and just let the day’s experience sink in.

Finding Meaning

When I got back to my hotel, I tried to reach the daughter to see if they made it back. With the spotty service, I couldn’t get through to her, so instead I asked my hotel to call hers. They confirmed they were both back and resting. A true relief.

Then the other receptionist at the hotel said, “You know about the woman who fell?” Turns out it was news that had spread through town! “Small town,” she commented. But apparently it was the story of the day, along with the unexpected snow and hail.

The next day, I was able to reach the daughter and she confirmed that it was concussion, but that her mom was well and they were continuing to enjoy their trip. And she reminded me, it was Thanksgiving day: “Today, we are thankful for you!”

But I will forever be thankful to them: To the daughter who remained so calm under pressure and handled it like a pro. To the mother who, in her most troubled moments, was worried about holding me back. Once the incident happened, the little voice quieted... knowing I had to continue the journey not just for me, but for them as well. We were in this together.

I’ve since sent them photos from the rest of the hike — they belong in their photo album as much as they belong in mine.

I may have gone on a solo hike through the most challenging of circumstances, but I know I made it to the end since it truly was a shared journey.