Graham’s weather website is spot on, the morning a wash in a rainstorm, and I, for one, delight in having nothing to do, nowhere to go other than deeper in my sleeping bag until noontime sunshine. Not a bad excuse for outlining our ceremony, years of togetherness simplifying the process:
Justice of the Peace?
Wedding details secure, Mirador Moestri appeals to our inner adventurer and calls us out from our refuge into a pretty, little afternoon.
Turns out we are essentially right there, Cerro Torre just beyond the levee, through the fog, so off we go, trail barely visible along the right-hand bank, us whipped by the famous Patagonian wind–a phenomenon we hear so much about but only encounter now, its strength brute but nothing compared to legends of people and tents barreling like tumbleweeds through mountainscapes–Graham capable of diving head first into the rush, buoyed by the hurricane force.
Me, it bullies, so swift and insistent that it literally knocks me from the trail and scurries me along like a naughty school child, spanking included.
We lead the charge to the mirador, most visitors happy to sit and watch in the shelters, uninterested in breaking trail, or, at the very least, finding it, but we persevere and make it to the official end, yet another glacial view, pocket of bright blue lake in a sea of murky green. Glacial run-off is most definitely the original spa water, so fresh and clean and silty all at once, flavored by swirls of ground-up minerals, their salts tasty and gritty.
The gusts carry us back to a rainbow end, me, half frozen to the core, this Patagonian wind cutting through jacket, fleece, zip-up number 1, zip-up number 2, tee, pants, undergarments, Graham, a sailor on land, Titanic-style, invigorated. The wind whips through the evening, and for the life of me, I simply cannot warm up and end the day as it starts–dinner in sleeping bag brought by my oh-so-sweet man.