It is noon, and we are almost officially done, boyfriend and feet soaking in the river, the 5 km from Torres the overlook to Torres the hotel done in a couple of hours, downhill killer on knees and quads.
Per typical fashion, Graham submerges in the freezing cold river, shock value of ice cold current rejuvenation, I’m sure, and the rest of us content ourselves to less drastic dipsmof skin in river.
The end in sight, we find the towers again at the bottom, their mountain neighbors clear as day, for our morning mantra comes to fruition entirely too late, fog lifting, us too close to the finish line to do much about nothing.
Other than eat a congratulatory hot dog, that is, the best frank ever, or at least, in this situation, and like lemmings, we line up for subsequent visits to the little kiosko, $2 wieners a stellar deal in this overpriced haven, our clutter of wet gear promptly reprimanded by the Hotel Torres staff, a small little man in hotel outfit eager to purse his lips our way, right after Sam and Emma’s tent rolls through the parking lot like a tumbleweed, sending me on my ass as I chase it over the field and down the slippery lip.
Our crew grows and grows as we wait the 2 PM bus up and outta here, and on cue, the further we drive from the park, the clearer the view, the Torres tall and staunch by the time we revisit the entrance, a total shift in scenery from our initial introduction to the fog-laden park a mere six days ago.
How ironic, I suppose, that we spend almost a week in search of this view, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, only to find it right where we left it–under our noses.
Where In The World Is Gwendo? 