Three Days Alone in Torres del Paine

I arrived in Puerto Natales in late May, the beginning of Patagonian winter. The hostels were half-empty. The gear shops were closing early. Everyone said the same thing: 'You're going now?'

Yes. I wanted the park to myself, and I got it. On the first day of the W Trek, I saw two other hikers. On the second, none. On the third, a guanaco and a condor, both of whom seemed equally surprised to see me.

The weather was punishing. Wind that knocked me sideways on the ridges. Rain that turned to sleet, then snow, then back to rain. I pitched my tent behind boulders and cooked inside the vestibule, watching the stove's blue flame and listening to the fabric snap.

But the light—god, the light. Winter sun in Patagonia is low and golden, even at midday. The towers glowed pink at dawn. The glaciers were blue-white against black rock. I took more photos in three days than I had in the previous three months.

I won't lie: it was hard. My hands were numb most of the time. I rationed my food poorly and ran out of chocolate on day two. I questioned the decision more than once, huddled in my sleeping bag at 3 a.m. while the tent shook.

But I'd do it again. There's something about being alone in a place that big, that wild, that strips everything else away. You're just a body moving through space, trying to stay warm, trying to keep going. It's the most honest I've ever felt.