standing tall in my birthday suit

Last week I turned 21 while on an epic voyage through Patagonia. Ironically enough on my actual birthday this city girl found herself on a walkabout of sorts, trekking up a mountain without a trail, scaling boulders, chancing the tall grass teeming with unknown danger, and finally arriving at the top, triumphant and naked, bellowing in the gusty winds, with the Andes on one side and Fitz Roy on the other.

birthday view

Coming to Argentina I knew my 21st birthday was going to fall right in the middle of our vacation time. When I found out that the day—which is typically dedicated to barhopping and inebriation—would instead be spent hiking and camping, I wasn’t really sure what to think. Oddly enough, I was the one that advocated going to Patagonia in the first place. At the same time, however, I had anxieties that Mother Nature would fall short of the fabulously chic birthday scene I always imagined for this milestone in my life. Foolish as I was, I decided that I would celebrate my birthday “for real” when I returned to Buenos Aires.

We arrived in Patagonia at the El Calafate Airport—the only thing in the middle of an immense mountainous valley. Leaving the tiny hanger in the dark, we could immediately feel the boundlessness of the land and the absence of city lights. That night we stayed at the Marco Polo Hostel, a bright orange casita, with puppies bounding about, friendly foreigners, and general happiness in the air.

The first few days were spent exploring the wilderness of El Calafate: horseback riding into the backcountry, hiking through the woods, and climbing the ice glaciers. Immediately we all realized the disparity between the physical shape we were in, and what the week’s activities would require of us. I recall a particular level of anxiety following the glacier hike, which left me in a heavy sweat, stripped down to a tank top with no reason to feel any warmth at all—other than the abnormally rapid beating of my heart.

After surviving those initial ventures into nature, however, I started to take on a sort of zeal for such activities. I began criticizing my friends who suggested cutting out the camping section of our trip—assaulting their characters and calling them “pansies” and other unmentionable names. So it was decided that we would persevere on by car, first to El Chalten where we would hike and hostel, and finally to Chile to the National Park, Torres Del Paines, where we would camp.

The day was April 5th, the four of us were in need of a car to get to El Chalten, but none of us were old enough to rent the car. We decided to walk into the car rental, guns blazing and confident, and hope that they wouldn’t notice that I didn’t turn 21 until the next day. As we sat nervously in the rental place, opposite the adolescent agent who kept one hand held over his infected eye, it became evident that we weren’t as slick as we’d thought. But fortunately for us, here in Argentina, rules are more like guidelines, and shortly thereafter we drove away, feeling like bandits, in our a white Volkswagen golf.

El Chalten was a beautiful, charming place three hours from El Calafate. The town became home to a series of wonderful misadventures (including the accidental breaking and entering of a hostel we mistook as our own) and the scene of my immortalized naked hike. The pueblo had one bar, a cerveceria, which brewed its own beer and served as the soul source of nightlife. The owners became rather of fond us after we spent much of our time in the quaint little spot, and on the night of my birthday the waiters named me Rosita, and brought me colorful drinks, and birthday brownies for the table.

Though we’d become quite attached to that little town, we couldn’t really imagine going back to the cerveceria another night, and thus we carried on. We drove for hours in the rain—and eventually in the dark—on broken dirt roads, the car packed to the ceiling with our luggage and foodstuffs. When we finally arrived in the national park, we were exhausted from travel, and quite honestly unsure of our ability to set up camp in the dark, so we slept in the car, in our sleeping bags, unable to move more than an inch.
It was only about four hours till daylight, and as our accommodations didn’t lend themselves to a peaceful slumber, we got up early, and went in search of the perfect spot to camp. It was still raining when we started driving, but as we ascended further into the Andes, we rose above the rain clouds where the sun shone brilliantly on the endless mountain ranges and snowy peaks. Stepping outside the car to admire the icy summits (which seemed miraculously within reach) we were hurled over by the forceful winds careening across the landscape.

We spent an embarrassingly long time constructing our pre WWII tent, and eventually decided that one tent would suffice for all us. Looking around, all that could be seen were the regal Andes, and what I imagine to be the bluest lake ever. It seemed that we were the only ones in the world. We discovered secret sanctuaries, and mysterious waterfalls, and eventually all built up the courage to jump into the glacier water. After nearly losing sensation in our legs, we air dried ourselves on the giant rocks, in the frigid air, which felt amazingly warm to us.

The next day we drove back to El Calafate. Not surprisingly, I accidentally booked my return flight to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in South America—also known as “the end of the world.” But eventually I made it back to Buenos Aires, after taking an interesting detour, and seeing what’s on top, and what’s at the end.
I canceled my plans for a belated birthday celebration in the city—it seemed unnecessary at that point.

BTW: check out this link: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090427/ap_on_re_eu/eu_odd_switzerland_nude_...

"VOTERS BAN NUDE HIKING IN ALPS: SUNDAY APRIL 26"