It rained for three days straight before we could climb the pass. Ceaseless and loud, large blue drops of water poured off of our 60-liter backpacks and pooled in our hiking shoes. We set up camp on flat ground and dug trenches around the sides of tarps hoping the water would drain. This was particularly important because our tarps, unlike tents, had no bottom layer. Without a floor, our limited belongings were constantly damp; respite came from a singular dry pair of socks, tucked in our sleeping bags. Late at night, when I found myself shivering, I did sit-ups to generate enough body heat to fall back asleep. I have never been that cold before. I have never been that happy.
Before coming to college, I spent three months hiking in Patagonia with the High Mountain Institute (HMI) Gap Year program. After high school graduation, in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, I made a split-second decision to take a year off before coming to Occidental. I spent the fall working for room and board on a farm in Italy and the winter working at home. With the spring semester left open, I stumbled across the HMI program. And at least for a certain amount of time, it gave my life a clear and tangible direction: a big X marked on a waterproof map. I often find it difficult to talk about that time because I will never be able to condense my experience into a short, transmittable anecdote. Although it is difficult to talk about this experience in a condensed way, those three months in the rain alongside 11 other people taught me the following.
A lot of what I learned pertained to the essentials of backpacking. As a New York City native, I can now do a surprisingly long list of practical things, like set up camp in high winds, use a Garmin GPS, ration out weeks worth of food and plan a trail when there isn’t one to begin with.
But I also learned about how to survive as a group, rather than alone. The first time I met this random assortment of students was on a windy ferry ride across Lago General Carrera. Soon, after a few misread first impressions, we knew each other well (an essential component of our survival).
I walked mile after mile in a single-file line with the bravest people I know.
Each night, huddled together under a group tarp, we shared our separate and distant lives, and in doing so, I learned what worked and what didn’t in our group.
I kept track of everyone’s favorite trail meal and found that cinnamon buns were a crowd-pleaser.
Lacking phones, we found songs we knew in common (“Green Light” by Lorde) and sang them as we walked.
I leaned on them for survival, and they did the same. We became one ecosystem, moving through the deep and unfathomable wilderness of Patagonia.
On the Chilean side of the National Park, we hiked in about 10-day sections, taking breaks to refill rations and move locations.
Slowly stepping sideways, I learned how to cross a river for the first time. The freezing water pushed hard against my thighs, begging me to fall in.
I came face to face with a glacier, older and larger than I could have imagined. I woke up to the bellowing sound of it cracking. I have never seen that color blue before, and I haven’t since.
Once, after a long day of off-trail walking I locked eyes with a gray owl. Neither of us moved.
After coming down from the rain-delayed pass, the wind was so strong that we had to lay down flat so that rocks wouldn’t hit our heads.
I found myself at the mouth of the Soler Glacier. I picked up a chunk of glacier, tasted it, and passed it to my friends.
I learned how to spot a homestead from the tall yellow poplar trees that stood out against the dark backdrop.
I smelled pieces of moss every chance that I could.
Under the light of the Southern Cross, like an anxious scientist recording data, I wrote down everything I could, determined to remember it all.
Slowly, just as I learned how to move around other people in the group, I found ways to fit in the overwhelming natural world that surrounded me.
I do not think I will ever be able to pinpoint an exact lesson I learned from the woods, people, bogs and glaciers of Patagonia. Each day the world presented itself to me with a striking quality I had never experienced before. At first, it was overwhelming, but after three months there, I found the small things that made it doable. It is both comforting and distant to know that these things are all still there, as I am sitting here in Southern California.
I know that they shaped me, and that years later this experience remains within me. I am sure of this because when I close my eyes it is all still there: the moon reflected on the glacial lake and the taste of the raindrops, cool and sweet rolling off the tip of my nose.
Contact Nora Youngelson at youngelson@oxy.edu
