Torres del Paine Day 2 - Valle del Frances

I don´t sleep well. It´s too cold, even wearing my woolly hat, and the wind bellows menacingly all night which makes me thinks I didn´t do the tent zip up properly. I feel my hips dig into the ground even though I have a ground mat and my self-made pillow of fleece and t-shirt is woefully inadequate. I must try to moan less or I´ll become a whinging pom' to my Australian tent mate.

We´re up at 7am for our W circuit leg to the French Valley. It´s starts off bright but is overcast within minutes and from then it changes constantly from rain to sun, to grey skies and gusty winds. Four seasons in one day is the usual description given of Patagonian weather. Layers constantly on and off.

The walk past Lago Skottberg is undulating and beautiful. The lakeside is covered in fire-bush trees which flank the snowy mountains. Mini tornados are whipped up by the wind on the lake.

We arrive at Campamento Italiano 2 1/2 hours later before starting the steep ascent up the Valle del Frances to the Campamento Britanico. The valley overlooks an overhanging glacier (on Paine mountain) covered in moraine dust which is pushing its way down. The walking is hard, and it turns into a scramble over rocks and boulders with hands and knees. At this point I start to think if having a baby is similar to trekking. The girlfriends I have that have children have always said they´d never have another child after their first, yet a couple of years later they´ve forgotten the trauma. I think trekking is the same for me. However many times I say to myself I´m never going to put myself through the agony again, the next day I´m doing it again. Maybe senility is setting in.

I´m relieved when no one wants to go any further than the camp and we head back - another 3 1/2 hours retracing our steps to the camp. 20km in 8 hours. All in all, not a bad day´s work but I´m exhausted.

At dinner Daniel and I manage a nerve-biting game of Jenga which goes to 38 levels. I lose.

It rains all night and whenever I wake, which is often as I´m cold, all I can hear is the pitter-patter of the rain.