The day had finally arrived, the event for which the whole trip to the Elqui Valley was an excuse. Colin and I had come to Pisco to see a total eclipse of the sun, which neither of us had seen before. There was a lot of excitement about the eclipse, even in Concepción where it would only be partly visible. I was nervous about obtaining eclipse glasses, which are really the only equipment an eclipse viewing requires. Luckily, I received a hot tip that the Astronomy department at the Universidad de Concepción was distributing a limited number of eclipse glasses and I managed to snag two pairs. I needn’t have worried. By the time eclipse day had arrived, we had two more pairs foisted upon us by our hostel host. He had handed two to us upon walking in and then slipped another two under the door to our room, just in case.

The eclipse was going to be visible in a narrow band in the Coquimbo region, and we would be almost at the center of totality. It would start at 15:22 and totally would happen for a 2 minutes and 36 seconds starting at 16:39. Our plan was to climb out of the valley to get high to see the eclipse, as well as have a beautiful backdrop for the spectacle.

Unlike the trail from the previous day, this trail started was accessible by walking out of the village. The street Baquedano leaves the village and then makes three hairpin turns, the last of which we were instructed to leave for a dirt trail. Seemed simple enough. The day was hot and the hairpin turns were very steep. As we stopped at one of the switchbacks for water, a dog paused with us. There had been several street dogs that had accompanied us on the way out of the village. When we turned off the road onto the trail, the dog stayed with us. She decided to adopt us and would trot in from of us and turn back to make sure we were following. It was nice to have a dog guide as the trail splintered off like a river with many tributaries. Luckily, we our goal to get up to the ridge was quite straightforward, and once we got to the ridge, the only way was up.

We had gotten a late start and I was concerned about finding a good spot to watch the eclipse that wasn’t more than an hour and a half from the bottom of the ridge. I did want to get stuck in the dark. I of course brought my headlamp, but still, the sun sets swiftly in the valley. Colin really wanted to make it to the top of the mountain. Though I was reticent because I wanted to be in a good spot to watch the eclipse, we hurried to the summit. By the time we left the summit it was almost 1:30. In the end we stopped at a spot that was almost an hour further away from the bottom than I would have wanted. But, it was also a lot higher up, which turned out to be crucial.

Totality was scheduled to happen at 16:39. I remember looking at the sun’s position at 15:20 and noting that the sun would be setting behind the mountains. It looked close to them, but not nearly close enough so we set our things down on an excellent spot where the ridge formed a shelf. We sifted through the many pairs of eclipse glasses that we had accumulated and selected a pair. The dog did not care for them. Colin and I lay down to watch the show.

The show was very slow. The eclipsed glasses obscured everything except for the sun, which looked like a tiny yellow disk. The moon ate through the yellow disk very slowly, so slowly that it was difficult to notice any effect of the sun’s disappearance until finally, totality was almost upon us. We couldn’t sense a difference in the air. Perhaps it felt a bit like twilight, but perhaps we were imagining it. Only a tiny sliver of the sun was left in the glasses until suddenly, the glasses went dark. I took my glasses off. The mountains were shadowy. Then I looked up. Colin said, “The sun set!”

It was a clumsy struggle to stand up after sitting still for so long, but we looked back up the ridge and indeed the shadow of the mountain was visible a few meters ahead of us. So we sprinted up the ridge to beat the sunset. When totality did happen a few minutes later, it was not the calm and mystical experience we had planned for. Instead we were panting on a mountain side, walking backwards every few steps to make sure we could still see the sun. Luckily, there was divot in one of the mountain tops, probably a volcanic crater, that the sun perfectly fit into. It looked like it was sitting in a bowl. So, because of this crater and because we had sat much further up than we had initially planned, we did not miss the solar eclipse. It was not exactly a calm experience, I was too sweaty and out of breath from the uphill sprint to notice the change of temperature that supposedly accompanies a total eclipse, but I was struck by how crisp and black the sun disk was, and how far the white flame of the corona shot out into the sky. Then before I was able to catch my breath, it was over.

We hurried down, not bothering to watch the second half of the eclipse. The sun was setting fast. We met the first people we had seen all day at a spot about an hour and a half down where I had thought we could watch the eclipse. Definitely nowhere near high enough. By the time we reached the turning off point of the ridge, I took out my headlamp. Our intrepid canine guide was still with us. She was a lot more helpful than my headlamp for navigating in the dark.

The eclipse was an amazing experience. Especially after talking to the other people at the hostel who had gone to official viewing points with hundreds of people with very badly organized infrastructure, I was very happy about our decision to hike up the valley and sit all alone with a dog for company. Even though we almost missed it. Especially since we almost missed it.

The stars were aligned. Not only was it a long weekend, it was the last projected sunny weekend before the rain set in. Pax was still reeling from our failure to summit Cerro Quinquilil a few weeks ago. This time, we had set our sights on a more iconic and perhaps more ambitious summit: the Volcán Antuco.

Antuco is in the Parque de la Laguna del Laja, a national park containing a large lake next to the Argentinian border. It’s about three hours away as the car drives, but double that by public transit. Pax has wanted to climb this mountain with a while, she attempted it a few months ago but because of a combination of weather conditions and the abilities of her hiking buddies, she didn’t make it. I definitely did not have my friend’s starry eyed-fervor when I invoked the name of Antuco, by gosh darn it, I was going to do it. I just wanted to enjoy the last chance to sleep outside before the sheets of rain slanted in. Why not climb a volcano and go out in style?

There is mismatch between Chile’s bounty of nature and Chileans’ enthusiasm for enjoying it. Around 20% of Chile’s area is national park, and yet the culture of camping and hiking, and the infrastructure to support these, is not so well developed. Besides touristy hubs like Pucon or Puerto Natales, it is difficult to find information about hikes online or even at the local mountaineering store. But it’s the attitude that really surprises me. In Seattle, hiking and camping was what people did on the weekends. When I said I was going camping that weekend at the end of May, my Chilean friends all looked at me like I was crazy and said, “You know it’s going to be really cold right? Like freezing.”

We left for Antuco early Saturday morning by way of two buses, and then hitchhiked to get into the park. We were very lucky as the first car that drove by stopped for us. A little aside about the man who picked us up: he was photographer from Santiago who was working on a book about the area and was currently very interested in taking pictures of the road signs leading up to the park. He stopped intermittently with his monster camera taking pictures of road signs that he found baffling (“It says ‘peligro’, but what kind peligro? Rock falls? Flash floods? So imprecise”). Our ride took us all the way into the park and left us right in front of the ski center where Antuco loomed large and white. We were planning on climbing Antuco the next day and so turned away… for now.

We first did a hike through a stunning bowl of lava field that culminated into a lovely soggy marsh. We had planned to hike to some alpine lakes but by the time we crossed the marsh we were very wet (especially me) and tired. Couple that with meeting some snow-covered hikers returning from the lakes and we decided that we did not want to go the lakes so badly. But our hike was not in vain, for not only did we seem some beautiful sights, but we also used the most charming outhouse I have ever encountered. It was made of wood, had a real toilet seat and even had a window and towel pegs. Delightful.

One of the hikers asked us where we were going to spend the night. While he was very condescending (Of course we brought a tent with us, you nitwit!), he recommended that we go lower because of the cold. We ended up camping on the trail. It was cold, but Pax had the excellent idea to fill our water bottles with boiled water and stuff those into our sleeping bags. Genius! Wake up was at 4AM. I was not looking forward to it.

After a difficult wake up and camp clean-up we were on the road by 5:30 AM. The moon was full, making flashlights unnecessary. Antuco was far enough that it looked big, but not intimidating. At least not too intimidating by the light of the moon. It took us an hour to walk to the ski center at the base of Antuco. It was strange to walk through the ski center in the dark. The cabins had an empty, abandoned feel, and we passed through a gate where the ski lift poles lines up and marched up. We marched alongside, on the coarse lava gravel. Antuco rose up impossibly high in front of us, almost into a perfect cone. We were told that climbing it would take six hours. We abandoned our packs to the side of the ski lift poles, and by the time we made it to the snowline, it felt like we had already climbed a mountain. It was incredibly steep and the lava gravel was not fun to walk on as it slipped out from beneath our feet. The snow made a walking a lot easier. By the time we cleared the ski lift, the dark was turning grey and pink and the sun touched some of the lower areas below with gold. The views of the Lago de le Laja and Sierra Velluda were spectacular. We enjoyed the rest of the sunrise, and greatly heartened, we forged ahead.

I had no prior experience of hiking in the snow and completely relied on Pax to lead the way. She squinted at the summit. By now we were close enough that the pointed cone looked less steep than before, except that we needed to crane our necks far back to be able to look at it at all. She pointed to a slight bulge on the left and said we would have to avoid, and then pointed to a ridge (I had to take her word it was a ridge) and said we would follow it. Almost like we magic, we soon found another set of footprints that had been made by hikers the previous day. The footprints seemed to follow the path that Pax had layed out for us. It was 8 AM and we were optimistic. The point was pointy but it no longer seemed like an inaccessible ethereal chunk of rock, we were on a path and on our way. We were cheery and said, “Four more hours? We’ll make it in two.” We were wrong.

We set out on the ridge and soon the path became steep but not unpleasantly so. In spots with greater snow drifts the footprints were carved out in stair-like steps by the previous hikers. Pax said we were lucky, because if the steps were not there, we would have had to carve them out ourselves. As we went further, parts of the path were wiped clean from people sliding down the mountain. Pax made steps by kicking her toe directly into the snow. I followed, kicking as well to deepen the step. This was where ice crampons would have come in handy. The mountain still loomed large, but we felt like we were making good progress, and at 9AM I had the gall to to say we should wait on stopping for a snack since we would be at the top by 10AM. Unfortunately, our progress was hampered by patches of bare volcanic skree. As we scrambled through, sending streams of loose gravel down the mountain, it was clear that without the snow, we would never have been able to make it up the mountain. By 10:30, we finally made it to the top, only to find that the summit still loomed ahead. We had only made it to the false summit. Swallowing our disappointment, we pushed on. Sometimes, Pax would turn and look down and exclaim about how far up we had gone. I turned around once and saw the sky fell away into the Laguna de la Laja far, far below. My head spun and I turned back quickly, digging my hands into the snow to stop myself from feeling like I was going to tumble off the mountain.

We pushed on. I felt out of breath. Maybe the altitude was getting to me, or maybe it was that I was cranky from getting tricked by the mountain into thinking I was at the top. But finally, at noon, we had reached the craggly point. It required a lot of scrambling and climbing up rocks. Pax got there first and looked back to me and said I was not going to be happy. I hoisted myself up the last bit and saw it for myself. Another false summit.

Nope. That was it. I was done. The last part was a very steep pile of gravel. Pax was adamant that she was going. I would have been happy to stay right there. The view was awesome, did I really need to scramble my way up another pile of rocks just to say I climbed Antuco? Did I? It took me a false start and then four minutes of brooding by myself before I realized that yes, yes I did. And so, I walked back out into the wind and to the cone, determined to make it to the actual summit. It was not pretty. I was about as graceful as a newborn giraffe on roller skates. But. I made it to the top. And yes, I ate my own words, because it was totally worth it.

The crater was a snow filled bowl. Piping hot steam came out from the rocks which was quite a lovely reward. Pax and I ate our PB&J sandwiches and I felt very accomplished and slightly embarrassed that I almost did not push myself to follow through to the end. The view was amazing, it felt like we were looking down from an airplane. The weather was also perfect, so clear. After enjoying the summit for a half hour, we started our way back down. Because of the last piece of cone was so steep and uncovered skree, it took us forty minutes to go down which was twice as long as it had taken me to climb up.

Once off of the cone of doom, and safely back onto the snow, Pax suggested that we slide down when able. Up until now, I associated sliding with those n’er do wells who had ruined the steps in our path up the mountain. I was slightly bemused, but game to try. We sat in the snow and I naturally dug my heels in to stop from slipping. But Pax said the trick was to keep the legs as extended as possible as you brake by by bending them. I gave it a try and oh my gosh, it was so much so much fun. For those few seconds where the mountain wooshed away beneath us, it made going up feel totally worth it. The sliding exacerbated some minor wardrobe failure: I was wearing two pairs of tights and scrambling down the lava cone meant going down on butt most of the time, which tore holes in both pairs. After sliding down, snow accumulated and settled around my ankles my pants. But I didn’t care. I was having such a great time! By the time we made it down to ridge, both pairs of leggings had been shredded and my underwear was full of so much ice that it looked like I had grown an extra bottom. We slid down the mountain as much as we could, until we were forced by the rocks to go by foot. Twelve hours after we had started hiking, we were at the bottom of the mountain.

This was great last hike to do before winter rain set in. Not only did I learn how to climb in snow, and slide down a mountain, I also stood at the summit of an active volcano. I think that was an experience worth sacrificing two pairs of leggings for.

For the semana santa (Easter long weekend) I went camping in Pucón with Pax, an American undergrad in the oceanography department. I had not gone hiking in a while and was really excited to go to Pucón, which is a town near the Argitinean border, about six hours away from Concepción at the foothills of the Andes and the photogenic Volcan Villarica. Pucon caters to outdoor activities and has multitudes of “adventure agencies” to facilitate whatever hiking, climbing, mountaineering, or rafting activity strikes your fancy. Pax is from Alaska and is a highly experienced outdoorswoman and mountaineer. Her goal was to summit the volcano Quinquilil without fail. My goal was to breathe mountain air without embarrassing myself with my rusty camping skills.

We left for Pucón Thursday afternoon and stayed the night in a hostel. This was my first time staying in a hostel since traveling in Chile six years ago, and I had a strange deja vu experience of the curtained bunk beds, mismatched dishes, and threadbare couches draped in scruffy travelers eagerly planning their next activity.

Pax and I left the next day around 8 AM. We took a local bus to Currarrehue and from there, shouldered our packs and set out to the edge of the town to hitch a ride 20km to the trailhead. I have not hitchhiked in a very long time, but it is considered to be quite safe in Chile. Indeed, the person at the tourist office had recommended that we get to the trailhead that way. It took us three cars to make it all the way, but the last car was driven by experienced hikers and they helped us find the trailhead. And so, by 1 o clock we were off.

The sun was shining and it did not feel like fall, except the leaves were starting to change to red, so the trees were that gorgeous motley of red and green. The landscape reminded me a lot of the Cascades in Washington state, which makes sense as its on of the same coast and at a similar latitude, but on the opposite hemisphere. What I found very striking about the Pucón area were the many volcanoes, and while Volcán Villarica is the most famous one, we had our eye on Volcán Lanín for much of the hike. It’s been over a year since I’ve hiked with a pack, but I was gratified that I could keep up with Pax (my pack was lighter, but still counts!). We arrived at a good campsite at around 5 pm, set up camp, and decided to climb a nearby knoll to watch the sunset. This was my first real test of grit. As I said, Pax is from Alaska and so climbing up a rocky knoll is a cakewalk for her, whereas I associate rock climbing with the time in middle school when I made it halfway up a rock face and then refused to peel away from my perch after peeking down. But, I was not about to lose face and so I carefully picked my way up the rocks behind Pax. Our way also involved a scramble through the underbrush that my hair did not enjoy. But it was very much worth it. We got a beautiful view of the pinkening volcano in the sunset.

The next day, we broke up camp and continued along the trail for an hour until we made it to the end. But Pax wanted to continue the climb up to the top of the cerro Quiquilil. Cerro Quinquilil is an extinct volcano. It is not a beautifully regular cone like Lanín or Villarica, but has a stubbier shape with a large pointy cinder cone of igneous rubble at the top. And that’s what Pax wanted to climb. She began to say that it looked too difficult for us (i.e. me), but we would give it a try. We first had to get to the base though, and this involved crossing a trail-less valley and my first foray into mountaineering.

I have to now explain what it means to be “cliffed out”. It means being unable to continue walking because the ground’s edge falls away into a cliff. The only way to deal with this (especially when you’re a beginner like me) is to turn around and try to go lower or higher. This kept on happening with our attempts to cross the valley. It did not concern me too much as I was merely following Pax. She taught me some principles of climbing, such as needing to have three points of contact to the mountain at all times and how to kick the ground to make sure one’s foothold is firm. It was challenging and I enjoyed it. At one point, we had to climb down a tricky bit of rockface and Pax had to direct me to place my hands and feet. The rock was akin to basalt, igneous and very good to grip, but also very loose in places and the ground was covered in skree (large pebbles that can be nudged into a minor landslide by a misplaced cough) that made walking difficult. We eventually made it to the other side and walked along a flat expanse of lava sand. This was my favorite part of the hike as as it felt like walking on a elevated moonscape. We made it to the base of the top, but unfortunately, that’s where we had to stop.

One of the properties of cinder cones is that they are extremely steep, and this one looked like it was made almost entirely of skree (didn’t I mention the consequences of nudging skree?). By the time we had crossed the valley it was already early afternoon. We could have attempted it, but we watched two condors loop over head instead. It was a bit of a disappointment for Pax, but I was very pleased to have made it this far. I see the appeal of making one’s own trail, there is definitely a thrill to feel like you’re walking where no one else has gone. And beyond our mountain was a whole other landscape to explore. I guess I’ll just have to come back.