In the shadow of the Torres del Paine
South of the world ends with an outburst. Where the Andes are ending, nature reserves a final festival of stones. We crossed the border of Chile and a farewell because the other side, only vicunas and rheas govern the untamed land of green lakes and mountains impossible.
The dirt roads were clear. there is nobody in this corner of America. The Patagones were its original inhabitants but the man killed the man and today only hear the echo of winds. The image seemed eternal Laguna Amarga. The brightness of the waters seemed to pay homage to the Patagonian handsomest profiles: The Torres del Paine.
We are staying in a hotel, which is rather hut or shelter or gazebo, place for contemplation in any case. For its windows comes full force of a vertical landscape, a monstrous beauty created based on endless chasms and stones. The air is more eloquent than any words, when the condor flies over the peaks of the Andes.
The air is more eloquent than any words, when the condor flies over the peaks of the Andes.
We decided to rob the tower sunrise and remained stationed at his feet, Heat a coffee, first light. Clouds collided with the bulk of rock and found that neither time could erode its figure. Then, and a drum, We witness the glow of dawn. Rays stained rocks in a circus game, a light show that left us that morning frost recorded on the map of memories.
We leave the national park Torres del Paine, as one who abandons a dream, trying to distinguish reality and duermevela.
There are places that neither the imagination reaches design, hyperboles of nature. The Andes die gracefully, haughtily, with all the dignity that a stone is capable of accommodating.
