Walk on the wild side in Patagonia

At seven o’clock in the morning I like a nice cup of tea and some poached eggs on toast, preferably in bed. Today, things are different. Instead of breakfast, a guide that looks like an olive-skinned MacGyver is speaking to me in a language I don’t understand.

“Are you doing the scramble? Do you need one pole or two? Have you packed foul weather gear in your day pack?”

I have no answers to this sporty lingo, so I copy the professional-looking hikers – who last night were friendly fellow guests at my hotel in Torres del Paine National Park – by filling up my water bottle and grabbing a handful of chocolates from reception.

It was my husband Stu’s idea to come to Patagonia in southern Chile, because he always wants to be doing something active, even on holidays.

“Don’t you love the feeling of sitting down at the end of a hard day’s activity, exhausted, knowing you deserve your drink and a hot meal?” he says. “Don’t you feel guilty lazing around the hotel, eating afternoon tea and watching movies when there are such beautiful surroundings to be explored?”

“Oh yes, definitely,” I lie, thinking about the times when, lying on the beach, I reach up to put sunscreen on and am rewarded with an icy mocktail from the waiter.

But after seeing photos of the snow-capped Paine Massif mountain range and dramatic glacier, I too wanted to visit Patagonia. Travelling with luxury adventure company explora seemed like the perfect compromise: by day we could choose from several exciting hikes and horseback rides, before returning to dine and sleep at explora’s exclusive Hotel Salto Chico. In other words, we could explore the wild beauty of Patagonia, without sacrificing any of our comforts.

In the lobby, everyone else is stuffing chocolate bars in their pockets. I eat all mine, wondering why they all look ready to climb Everest.

“There you are!” exclaims Stu, loping through the lobby with a serious-looking backpack slung over his shoulder. His cheeks are flushed pink from the icy wind outside, his blonde hair curling out from the blue beanie pulled over his head. I’ve never seen him happier.

“Sorry, I was in the shop,” he continues. “I came down a bit earlier, saw everyone in foul-weather gear and figured we’d missed a major weather report for snow and torrential rain. I tried to grab us some waterproofs, but they’re all too big, so we’ll just have to risk it.”

“Got us a day pack, though,” he grins, unzipping the backpack and putting our water, lunch boxes and three jumpers inside.

“What do you mean risk it? Is it going to snow? And what is a day pack?” I huff, running alongside Stu. I try to ignore the other hikers, many of whom are stomping their feet in anticipation of the day’s activity.

One of them waves at me but I don’t recognise her under the woollen hat, scarf, fleece, jacket, two pairs of trousers and gloves she’s wearing.

I stare down at my baggy khaki pants and the hiking boots I chose not for their grip but because they were pink. I look like a Backstreet Boy, not a hiker ready to clamber over a mountain and visit icebergs. I start to feel a bit scared and suddenly wish I was in our room, watching a movie with a hot chocolate.

“Grey Glacier hike, let’s go!” shouts MacGyver and we all lumber out towards the boat that will take us to the Pehoé Refugio, starting point of our day-long trek.

Iceberg dead ahead

As our van pulls into the ranger station, I scan the sky for grey clouds. There are plenty – the wind is howling and the sky is bruised blue, white, green and black.

“We don’t have waterproof pants,” I announce to the kind-looking elderly couple standing next to us, hoping they will tell me to go back to the hotel.

“We do, they’re great,” they reply, glaring at us disapprovingly. I want to cry.

The wind whips at our faces as we cross a wheat field. I pull my hat down to my eyebrows, my fingers red and sore.

“I’m still cold,” I complain as Stu hands me all of his jumpers to put on. “Will I die of hypothermia?”

“No,” he says, patiently. “Put your hands in your pockets, I’ll carry your poles.”

After the coldest twenty minutes of my life, we follow MacGyver – whose real name is Gino – up a rocky path. Happily, it’s sheltered, so feeling comes back to my fingers.

Uphill isn’t as hard as I expected and, without the 60 kilometre per hour winds, I even start to enjoy the crisp air on my face. The cool temperature gives me unexpected energy and it doesn’t take long to arrive at a ledge overlooking Lake Grey, a sprawling expanse of turquoise glacial water. It sparkles in the sun, looking like it’s covered in gold glitter.

Two things please me. First, Gino announces that the steepest part of the walk is over and there will be no more uphill bits. I’m so relieved that I turn to hug Stu, but he’s looking at a bright blue iceberg floating serenely down the lake. To its left is the enormous Grey Glacier, which looks a bit like the world’s biggest freezer in need of a good defrosting.

Even the most experienced-looking hikers are impressed. A couple of them even tear open a celebratory quinoa bar. We stand in awe for a few moments before Gino rounds us up, saying we’ll have plenty of time to look at icebergs on our boat ride across the lake at the end of the day. There is still three hours of hiking ahead of us.

We leave the ledge and turn right, into a beautiful forest. It had felt like a (cold) spring day on the way here but now, plodding along the soft bed of yellow, red and brown leaves, it’s as if we’ve stepped into autumn. This is my favourite part of the hike so far, because I can admire the park’s incredible beauty. Before, I’d spent most of the time staring at the ground, picking my way over loose rocks and carefully avoiding anything that might be slippery.

During our picnic lunch in a sheltered alcove, Gino tells us about the local flowers and birds that live in the park. While everyone coos over the invisible Chilean sparrow in the local lenga trees, I can’t help staring at my fellow hikers. I’ve never met so many people who would choose to go on an adventure holiday (albeit a luxury one), and I’m strangely fascinated.

Many, it seems, are not professional hikers at all – they’re just dressed like them. Some must have spent thousands of dollars in North Face, something I would have done if I had known what North Face was, and if I hadn’t known Stu would force me to take it all back, insisting that kind of “gear” wasn’t necessary.

I chat to a friendly woman from Florida. She and her husband are celebrating their retirement with a two-month South American trekking “holiday”. They do plenty of sport and eat quinoa every day. I feel like a lazy blob next to her and regret at least two of the five chocolate bars I ate earlier.

On my other side is a young Chilean couple, who have plenty of nice clothes they keep taking off. Every time we get to a viewpoint they strip down to their “base layer” (hiking speak for the first bit of clothing you’ve put on, like a vest or a t-shirt) and strike a pose for the camera.

At first, it makes everyone feel a bit awkward, like we’re watching a fashion shoot without the supermodels. Then they tell us this is what they do on every holiday and it’s just so strange that we all start giggling uncontrollably, breaking the ice.

The hiking part is over; we spend the next two hours crossing Lake Grey on a ship that takes us right up to the glacier wall. We steer past rogue icebergs lurking in the lake and then, in front of our eyes, a chunk of ice breaks off the glacier and plops into the water. As everyone rushes to take photos, the captain guns the engine and charges away – these icebergs are as big as our boat, and no one wants a repeat of Titanic.

Back at base

We get back to the hotel feeling invigorated and healthy. Over dinner, there’s a sense of camaraderie; everyone’s tired but happy. My legs are aching, so when Gino comes over with a list of the following day’s activities, I tell him I’m going to relax in the hotel with a book.

The next day, Stu leaves to go to “the towers”, a challenging nine-hour hike that ends with a view of three mountains disappearing into snow. I sleep in and have a late breakfast. I sit on the lounge and read. I take some photos. I write my mum an email telling her I went hiking, saw an iceberg and didn’t fall over once. When lunch comes I’m the only guest in the dining room and I wonder where Stu is, and what his hike is like.

Halfway through my ravioli, a strange feeling comes over me. I put my fork down. I don’t quite feel like I deserve it.