Patagonia. Finding Light in the Darkness
High on the mountain trail, the wind roared through the treetops of Patagonia, a soundscape of violent, rhythmic swirls that mirrored the brushstrokes of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. This relentless gale is the architect of the region, evidenced by the stunted, twisted trees that have spent centuries bowing toward the earth.
Days earlier, I had survived this same strenuous hike, convinced I would never make this nighttime ascent again. Yet, here I was, drawn back to these formidable slopes by the hope of capturing images of Patagonia in all its colorful autumn glory and by the unshakable determination of my friends Noel, Ana and Francis.
That earlier hike up had left me weary, my hip and knee still recovering from recent surgeries. I knew this second climb would again test my limits, but fortunately, Noel had arranged for a porter, Mattias, to help carry our gear. He met us in El Chalten, Argentina at the Pudu Lodge and immediately lightened my load by taking two of my lenses and a tripod. That may not sound like much, but it made my backpack significantly lighter as we set out on our rainy 3 AM ascent.
We were confident we knew the way and that is why we had hired Mattias, not a guide, but rather as a porter. But our confidence faded early into the hike when we reached a clearing with three diverging trails, and none of us could recall the correct path. Mattias, who climbed this mountain weekly, surely knew the way, yet he said nothing, firmly staying within the bounds of his role. Francis eventually made a semi-confident call: we’d take the rightmost trail even though we knew that was the direction that would take us closest to a steep drop off into the valley below. Mattias offered no reaction, no nod of approval, nor word of caution. Was his quiet meant to affirm our choice, or simply allow us the space to learn? I couldn’t tell. Yet as we proceeded up the path nearest the ledge, I felt sure he would have spoken if we were in danger. Our headlamps lit the way as we walked and chatted with him about life in Argentina. He was training for a marathon and these hikes kept him strong. His quiet presence and my lighter pack made this second ascent feel much less grueling.
Our goal was to be in place at Hidden Falls for a sunrise shot. The ephemeris showed sunrise at 8:15 AM so we estimated that we might see alpenglow on the peak of Fitz Roy as early as 7:45 AM. We arrived at the cliff above Hidden Falls around 6:30 AM, over an hour before first light. Mattias handed us our gear, offered each of us a sip of hot tea from his thermos, and then turned back down the mountain. The wind was violent and the cold was bitter. I shivered, wondering how I would endure until sunrise.
We stood on a narrow strip of land between two worlds. To one side lay a rocky expanse of boulders, moss, and wind-shaped trees; to the other, a jagged cliff fell away into a dangerous drop toward the river. Noel began scouting the area while Ana and I sought refuge behind a massive boulder, hoping simply to survive the next hour as the wind roared around us.
Moments later I heard Noel’s voice cut through the wind's roar. He knew my love for night sky photography and shouted, "Look up!" In my exhaustion and discomfort, I hadn’t even considered the sky. I had assumed the sky remained obscured by lingering rain clouds. But when I tilted my head back, I froze in awe. The sky had cleared completely and was so free of light pollution that the Milky Way stretched above me in stunning clarity. I could see not only the dense, glowing core of our galaxy but also the arching band of stars and dust that makes up the spiral arm on which we live. Back home in the Eastern United States, only a long-exposure photo reveals such detail. But here, from the far southern tip of Argentina, it was visible to the naked eye. A smile spread across my face. It wasn’t the sunrise I’d planned to capture, but it felt like a quiet nudge from something greater.
Suddenly, my extreme discomfort no longer mattered. I stood up and walked about fifty yards away from the boulder and the cliff. I quickly secured my Nikon D850 with a 17-35mm f 2.8 lens attached, onto the tripod. I took a test shot at an 8-second exposure. When the display lit up with the playback, I stared in disbelief. It was a perfectly exposed Milky Way in just 8 seconds! In the light polluted skies of the eastern United States, this was something that would have taken 15 - 25 seconds. I was giddy!
Noel and Francis were off scouting compositions, and Ana was still tucked behind the boulder. Though I wasn’t very far from them, I found myself briefly, quietly alone. Alone in Patagonia. Alone on a mountaintop in far southern Argentina. Alone beneath the stars. But I didn’t feel lonely, not even for a moment. What I felt was a beautiful solitude, a stillness that held no fear. I kept shooting, though compositions were scarce. Mostly, I just watched the sky, taking long exposures of our galactic home and letting the wonder settle over me. Eventually, a subtle light began to spread, and the Milky Way began to fade. My attention turned to photographing Fitz Roy and Hidden Falls.
I have often reflected on that night. As I stood there wrapped in wonder, it felt like the veil had been pulled back on something eternal. The Milky Way, expansive and clear, stretched overhead offering me a private encounter with the immensity of the cosmos. No voice spoke, no sign appeared, yet its beauty carried a quiet assurance: 'you are seen, you are protected, and though small, you are of grand and immeasurable value.'
I thought of Mattias, walking just behind us. He never told us where to go and never corrected our course. But I believe deeply that had we wandered toward danger, he would have stepped in. His silence wasn’t neglect: it was a belief that our own struggles would make us more capable navigators.
Looking back, I see his quiet presence as a reflection of a deeper truth. We are all allowed to wander for a reason. We must find our way through life’s demanding climbs and storms, knowing that even in solitude, we are never truly alone. And if we stumble, I know there is a presence, watchful and loving, that will not let us fall.