I wake up and, for a moment, have no idea where I am. The orange tent is inexplicable – I have spent half a lifetime avoiding camping and would describe myself, at best, as a “novice camper”. And then I know – and have to pinch myself at the wonder of it – I am in a place I have dreamed of for years: Patagonia (the Chilean bit). I put my head outside. Seeing is not believing. The Torres del Paine national park makes you feel you are about to meet God.
This landscape of blue, green and silver, of granite spires, glaciers, lakes, mountains and daisy-filled meadows, robs you of words. I quote Gerard Manley Hopkins to myself, the nearest I can get to doing justice to the view beyond the tent’s opening flap: “The world is charged with the grandeur of God…” – words that could have been written for this place.
We are camped beside Laguna Verde and mountains half-dressed in snow, referred to as cuernos – horns. We – a small group of riders from the US, Germany, France and the UK – are about to set out on a seven-day trail ride. It is the camping that is, for me, the challenge. I disqualify myself at every turn. In spite of having what a London shop assured me was a warm sleeping bag, I’ve had to put three jumpers over my pyjamas (the temperature can dip below freezing), wear a bedsock on my head and empty my suitcase’s contents over the sleeping bag for extra weight. I reach into my pocket for what I believe to be loo paper and pull out an Earl Grey tea bag. I mislay insect repellent and lip balm repeatedly. At least with books, I am doing better. My little Patagonian library includes Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia, William Henry Hudson’s Idle Days in Patagonia and an enchanting Victorian equestrian classic, Riding Across Patagonia, by Lady Florence Dixie.
On behalf of her readers, Lady Florence enquires: “Why Patagonia?” She answers: “Nowhere is there an area of 100,000 square miles which you may gallop over, and where, whilst enjoying a healthy, bracing climate, you are safe from the persecutions of fevers, friends, savage tribes, obnoxious animals, telegrams, letters and every other nuisance…” Substitute texts and emails and not much has changed. She explains loftily that she is travelling without servants, as when “roughing” it they “fall ill at inopportune moments”.
We do better – our group is led by Sabine, a lovely, animated guide, and Daniel and Armando, baqueanos (cowboys) who ride with aplomb. Armando is also a fabulous break dancer. We have a sensational cook, Panchi, whose ability to conjure meals out of thin air makes this strenuous trip intermittently luxurious (bacon pancakes for breakfast, with calafate jam – a silky relative of the cranberry – are a particular delight).
It is summer in Patagonia, but we have been told to pack for every season. Florence Dixie uses “bracing” to describe the weather’s volatility – an understatement applied to its famous winds. The day before the ride starts, the wind seems strong enough to push us over. The first night, it is like a mad animal trying to get inside the tent; outside, hectic grass and clover gyrate. The agitation in the air says: “Hurry up – get on your horse and go.” And then it stops. Days of calm heat ensue, but with an attendant sense that the effort to mount a perfect summer day cannot last. This is, after all, the wild south.
We are introduced to our horses – stout-hearted, sensible, super-fit Criollos – and given tips on western riding. I enjoy the rebellious relaxation of English rules, treating the horse as an easy chair, not rising to anything. But there is a great deal of rapid, slightly hair-raising, downhill riding. Lean back and think of Patagonia…
My horse, Totora, a sympathetic dun gelding (named after an austere lakeside reed), regards walking with disdain. Why walk when you can trot? Why trot when you could be cantering? The trip includes exuberant fast outbursts – joy riding across the pampas, through ancient beech forests, curving along the edges of lakes. The longest ride is 40km and takes more than eight hours.
This trip is described as being for “intermediate” riders – and it is. Our evenings include a comparative study of aches, swellings and saddle sores. Rumour (probably unreliable) has it that if you take the non-camping version of this ride, the estancias (ranches) offer painkillers in lieu of chocolates.
On the third day we desert our horses and visit a glacier via a swing bridge which bounces at the end, making people look progressively drunker as they cross. We take a boat to Grey Glacier, which is 28km in length and covers a total surface area of 270km. Its frozen walls are almost 35m high. Seeing it is mind-blowing. It is the turquoise compressed ice that thrills me most. It is only 9.30am and the crew serves the Chileans’ favourite poison: pisco sours mixed with glacial ice, an appropriately grey drink. But we scarcely need the liquor – the glacier is intoxication enough.
Grey Glacier is our first. Our second, Glacier Dixon, is not much visited because of its inaccessibility. We glimpse it through mist and rain. It seems to belong to another world. Every day we stop for picnics in enchanted spots (looking over the Andes is especially marvellous) and slip into a rhythm of food and sleep – taking post-picnic snoozes in the sun. But on Glacier Dixon day, the weather is too fierce for picnicking. We shelter with the Argentinian carabinieri who control the border. They welcome us into their cabin with kisses as if we were the very people they had been waiting for – even though they didn’t know we were coming.
They brew maté (South America’s much-loved, swampy tea that you suck through a silver straw – with the aura of an illegal drug). This is one of the many times during the week I feel I’m in a magic-realist novel (Isabel Allende is Chilean). What you realise when you are in South America is that the fiction isn’t magical, it is just real.
We marvel at Lake Azzurro, named, with a striking lack of imagination, by the 19th-century writer Florence Dixie because its “crystal waters were of the most extraordinary blue I have ever beheld”. And on one of the hottest days I plunge into the fast-flowing Serrano river, applauded by Chileans on the bank. The temperature is about 7C and the “swim” over in half a dozen strokes. But the preposterously cold water is blissful after a hot ride. Everywhere the water is so clean you can drink it.
All week we spot birds: condors are commonplace. We also see an eagle circling a pretty waterfall, Cascada Zamora. We see falcons, parakeets and rheas – a sort of dowdily conspicuous ostrich – and Magellanic penguins. The most commonly seen animals are guanaco – unlikely creatures that resemble a child’s gone-wrong drawing of a deer. We also see plenty of skimpy grey foxes, and I cherish the sighting of a runaway armadillo. The flowers are improbable, too: rampant lupins (someone should bottle their gorgeous scent), orange velvet Virgin’s Slippers and porcelain orchids – an inky craquelure on their creamy petals.
On the last day, Daniel sings Spanish songs in passionate snatches as he rides on with an eagle’s feather added to his hat – as if extra plumage were required. All week I have been charmed by the Chileans’ laid-back friendliness. But by now I am almost singing, too, at the prospect of hot showers ahead, courtesy of an estancia – some of our camps have been “wild”, with no showers or loos. I have chapped lips, saddle sores and swollen eyelids that make me look like a condor. And yet – I could not be happier. Panchi cooks an asado – a whole lamb over a fire – as a parting feast.
On one side of us, the extraordinary Torres stand like gap teeth in a granite mouth. On the other, a full moon rises. It has been an awe-inspiring week. I am never going to be a natural at camping – but I do get the point: the total immersion in a landscape, with nothing to come between us and its beauty. And now, finally, it is time to say goodbye to the horses. Respectfully I scratch Totora’s brow; he has been fast and unfurious for a heroic seven days. He responds by closing his eyes – almost.
Essentials
Ten-night camping and ranch ride itineraries run (in conjunction with Blue Green Adventures) between November and March. Rates start at £2,420 per person and include twin-share accommodation, meals, all riding and transfers from/to Punta Arenas airport. For more information contact Ride World Wide (rideworldwide.com). Flights to Punta Arenas were arranged by Journey Latin America (journeylatinamerica.co.uk) from London via Madrid and Santiago, and cost from £998 per person, including taxes
Browse The Guardian’s selection of horse riding holidays on the Guardian Holidays website
