Patagonia Stars – Part 1: One Tent

The guide was supposed to be a group. The group had cancelled, and the company had rebooked Ana onto a private trek with a man called Tomás, who had sent a single message in very good English: Don't worry. I know the way.

She had worried anyway. She had flown eighteen hours from Toronto with a backpack too heavy for her shoulders and a head full of plans that had not included a stranger, a tent and a mountain.

He was waiting at the trailhead outside El Chaltén, leaning on a battered blue truck with a weathered face and a faded green cap. He was taller than she expected, quieter, and he looked at her pack before he looked at her face.

"Too heavy," Tomás said. "We'll fix it."

"Hello to you too," Ana said.

"Hello." He smiled, briefly. "Sorry. I talk better when I'm walking."

They walked. The trail rose through forests of southern beech and then out onto open ground, with the wind pushing hard against their backs and the sky huge and blue above the peaks. By the second afternoon she had stopped complaining about her shoulders. By the third she had stopped noticing how often she looked at him.

He was careful with everything. He checked her boots, her water, her layers, the weather. He never made her feel slow. When she slipped on wet rock and grabbed his arm, he didn't flinch or laugh. He simply stood still and waited until she was steady, his hand warm and firm on her elbow.

"Thank you," Ana said.

"Any time." He let go gently. "The mountain will try to make you careless. Don't let it."

That night the sky turned grey and then black. The wind rose to a howl. They pitched the tent in a hollow behind a boulder and crawled inside just as the first rain came sideways across the valley, hard as thrown gravel.

The tent was small, and there was only one. The space between them was about the width of a sleeping bag.

"I'll take the outside," Tomás said.

"You'll freeze."

"I'll survive." He wiped rain off his face with the back of his wrist. "Ana. You can say no. I can sleep under the tarp. It's not a problem."

She looked at him in the faint blue light of the headlamp. He was wet, tired and completely serious. He was waiting for her answer, without pressure.

"Stay inside," she said. "Please. It's too cold for heroics."

He laughed, quiet and surprised, and climbed in beside her. They lay on their backs, shoulders nearly touching, listening to the storm.

"You're not scared?" he asked after a while.

"I'm scared of a lot of things," Ana said. "Not of you."

The rain drummed on the fabric. Somewhere out in the dark, a river roared. He shifted a little, not much, and his hand found hers in the space between the sleeping bags. He didn't move to hold it. He just let it rest there, warm and still.

"Tell me something true," Tomás said, very low. "Something about home."

She told him about the lake near her parents' house, where she used to swim before dawn when she couldn't sleep. He told her about his grandmother's farm, and the year the snow never melted, and the first time he had seen a condor and cried like a child.

By morning the storm had blown itself out. When she unzipped the door, the sky was pale gold and the peaks were glowing like lit candles. Tomás was sitting on a rock outside, a mug of coffee steaming in his hands, watching the light come up.

"Good morning," he said, without turning.

"It's beautiful," Ana said.

"Yes," said Tomás, and looked at her at last. "It is."