Adventure: Return From Patagonia

SANTIAGO: 9:14 PM

The wall behind the chef was littered with random restaurant debris. A paper towel dispenser mounted at an angle. Small, Japanese figurines. A map of Chile, paper towels, and what looked to be a replica of an ancient tapestry. “Why would anyone compile a display like this?” I wondered to myself. And then the sushi arrived, and I immediately understood why. The sushi was the best I’ve ever had. I ate things for the first time, things I’ve eaten numerous times before, but only as impostors. Now I know. The wall of random things faded from my mind, even though it was still right there, right in front of me. Culinary transcendence.

I’m not home yet, but I have departed Patagonia. Sadly, I should say. What a place. If you find yourself asking, “Did you do ‘X’?” or “Did you see ‘X’?” or “Do they have ‘X’?” most likely the answer is “Yes.” We came, we saw, we did. Nonstop movement for two weeks. But why, you ask? The purpose of this trip was to scout for a potential future Patagonia workshop. (Something different.) When Evelyn Salinas approached me and asked if I had ever considered teaching in Patagonia, I said, “No, but I’m interested.” (More on Evelyn later.) We spoke on the phone, as you do, and had several Zoom calls, which normally do the trick. However, with Patagonia in particular, I realized I needed to see it before asking anyone else to come along.

This place. Where do I start?

In 1977, my father bought land in rural Wyoming. Wind, cold, high elevation, wildlife, and very, very few humans. It was paradise. In fact, it was my father’s masterpiece. He painted ONE epic painting in his life, and the painting depicted the benefits of untouched land. (He didn’t really paint; this is a metaphor.) Patagonia reminds me of 1977 Wyoming, only far, far more expansive and even fewer people. I’m stunned. I’m astonished. This was supposed to be the busy season, but there were days with three-hour drives, seeing only one other vehicle. And when the perfect tarmac roads ended, and the gravel began, there were often no other cars. (Inside parks had more vehicles, but still far fewer than I imagined.)

This is not a place to rush. Rushing would shortchange you and the place. Yesterday morning, I sat on Evelyn’s porch and just stared into the void. The view was incredible, and in the entire expanse before me, ranging from the Andes to the endless other peaks in the area, there was one small light. That’s it. ONE small light. There is no sprawl. There is no gas between Punta Arenas and Puerto Natalas. (One station.) The feeling I get is that they don’t want what we have. In fact, what we have is the opposite of what they want. Excess, sprawl, development. Endless consumption.

But let me get back to the photography. In my twisted little mind, I wanted to answer the question, “Could I come here with a short lens and be happy?” I dream of light travel. One bag. Simple, easy, quick. But when you add photography into the mix, especially in a place where wildlife and landscapes are the most common photographic pursuits, I was unsure I would find the answer I was looking for. But I did, and the answer surprised me. Yes, I could. I could come here with a 40mm lens and make a body of work. Would I potentially limit myself when it comes to wildlife and landscapes? Yes, but I’m okay with that, because the thing that emerged for me is the perfect connection between this place and my journals and notebooks. (Full disclosure, this was the first foreign trip where I took my entire Nikon system. Zf with 40mm. Z8 with 24-120mm for video and my 180-600mm for wildlife. It was a good test, and it was nice having the full range of focal lengths, but in hindsight, I barely used the Z8 and longer lenses, and I barely made any video footage outside of a few time-lapse clips. I could easily use the phone for video and skip the long lens images entirely.)

I’m not talking about traditional photography books. There are enough already. I don’t need another landscape or wildlife book from Patagonia. Every hotel I visited had ample stacks of each, and they were beautifully made. The landscape and puma books come from authors who have been covering those subjects for years with unlimited time and experience. I will never have that. What I’m talking about is a personal narrative of place.

This place screams for experience, then story, and THEN photography. In other words, a healthy perspective where the internal narrative overpowers the need for a classic photo-reportage.

There is a reason why Bruce Chatwin’s “In Patagonia” is SO popular. This is what I’m talking about. A merger of word and image, edited, designed, and printed out to adhere in a notebook of choice. Anyone who has been with me for any amount of time knows how important notebooks are to me. I would describe journals as the single most important creative “thing” I do. They are the centerpiece of my entire world. I’ve been contributing to journals daily since 1993. They contain my personal thoughts, my ideas, all the beginnings of my projects, the ongoing aspects of a project, and a random assortment of fiction, overheard conversations, and more. (I will also make two Blurb journals using BookWright, as I always do. One will be an 8×10, softcover, and the other a new wire-o, which I find works best with simple designs.)

So, as I sit here now, in the lobby of my hotel in Santiago, I think about the future. I think about returning here, a year from now, with students who want to attempt a similar mission. There are many, many details and images to share, but this will do for now. (Met a super cool local photographer who I want to include as part of the final notebook build. And we want to offer a scholarship for a local Chilean photographer.)

This place will haunt me. It already is. This place will motivate me to FINALLY get serious about relearning my Spanish. (Chilean Spanish is fast.) I have much to edit, design, print, and release. My other workshops are also going on as usual. Elena and I are scheduled for Japan and Albania, and I’ve got shorter, smaller events in Hong Kong and Spain.

I just walked in my door at home. My bag is somewhere in Texas still, an ongoing airline snafu, but my body is here. My mind, however, is still in Patagonia. (The bag was in ABQ at one point, but is now back in Texas.)