Patagonia, measured in Camp Italianos

How we kicked off the new year with wind, wine, and enjoyably questionable decisions

Some people do vision boards. We did blisters.

This adventure started with a flight route that raised several eyebrows and at least one TSA sigh:

Copenhagen to Helsinki to Miami to Punta Cana to Santiago.

Questionable. Ambitious. Deeply on brand.

The first layover kicked off with a cold plunge. Not the cute kind.

At Löylykontti (Helsinki) at midnight in December, we sprinted straight from the sauna into the Baltic Sea, which was thrashing the rocks like it had personal beef with us. Violent. Loud. Absolutely not for the weak. There is no photo evidence because "Finnish sauna" is sacred, under-clothed, and phones are felt to be disrespectful.

The Miami layover involved evening drinks at the marina, because staying at airports is for the sane.

Punta Cana was too short to leave the airport, foiling yet again the attempt to visit the DR, but we are certain our flight to Santiago appreciated our Taco Bell dinner.

Reunions, runners, luchador masks

Breakfast in Santiago reunited us first with Drew and Allen, two of our beloved Pacific Northwesterners, who arrived donning luchador masks and motivational attitudes. Our Fellow Runners with Kickball origin stories. Allen goes by Danger. Drew loves horses. Two couples are freshly separated from their very loved dogs. Their doodle, Leo, at the family holiday fest in Portland. Our Sami, Sir Magnus Waffles, is holding down the fort and writing his biopic with our extended family, the Meadows, back in Denmark. The adventure hit a little harder because of it.

Dinner and drinks with some of our favorites, Mati and Ainura, followed. City tour. Ceviche. Pisco sours. Pool time. A life-size gingerbread house that had no business being there but somehow worked. Santiago was the soft landing before heading south.

Logistics season begins

An early flight dropped us in Punta Arenas, where logistics officially took over. Then it was a puzzle to store the luggage (Jay paid a guy to borrow his car), catch the boat, and make it to Magdalena Island. Itty bitty penguins everywhere. Elephant seals. Wind is doing what wind does best in Patagonia, asserting dominance. Warm cocoa on deck.

Back in town, our check-in guy showed up wearing a Bend, Oregon Blockbuster shirt. The universe remains extremely committed to the bit. Gear checks. Butane. Pickles. Charcuterie. The things you never want to realize you forgot once you're already committed.

Christmas Eve, but make it brisket

Christmas Eve brought another cozy bus and our arrival in Puerto Natales. Expecting closed shops, we instead rented missing gear, found brisket, and somehow secured a table at Last Hope Distillery. Calafate Gin. Cervejas. A moose-like dessert that looked suspiciously like Torres del Paine.

Christmas Day, parrot shirts, and pickle diplomacy

On Christmas Day, we donned our FARM Rio parrot shirts and officially hit the trail. Bus. Breezy catamaran. Unreal views of Torres del Paine National Park. Lunch featured Allen's pickles (which, unfortunately, he didn't get any of) and camp sandwiches. Peak-season campsite availability dictated the plan, so we leaned into an accelerated W Trek. Windy hills. Guanacos on the transfer. Views that did not feel real.

Night one at Camp Francés included repeated walk-bys of Camp Italiano, now a formal unit of measurement. We decorated a Christmas tree with pinecones, cinnamon sticks, and dried oranges. Discovered the camp bar. Drank a little too much Chilean red wine. Allen performed unintentional gymnastics off his tent ladder while wearing a luchador mask (as one does) and survived. Another ladder claimed a second victim later (let's be real, it was Nancy). New friends. Christmas, Patagonia style.

Boxing Day: character building, apparently

Boxing Day was a push. Oatmeal breakfast. Thirty-three kilometers. Mirador Británico delivered a horizon-wide rainbow that felt wildly undeserved and absolutely perfect. Camp Italiano appeared again. And again. Waterfalls roaring. Wind tunnels on pebble beaches. Calves filing formal complaints.

A surprise puma sighting at camp boosted morale, but we missed him. Horses grazed casually as we walked into Central Camp, like this was all very normal. Empanadas. Camp meals. Immediate sleep.

The Towers, the wind, and choosing smart

Day six came fast. Drew and I navigated to the Towers at 4:00 a.m. Short sleep. Big wind. Ninety percent chance of rain. Gusts strong enough to remind us that not quitting and making smart safety calls are, in fact, different skill sets. We turned back on the ridge due to visibility and conditions, as recommended locally.

Later, we returned our very stinky gear, celebrated properly back at our ol' friend El Brisket, and quietly held space on the trail. Jay was already thinking about where the next craft beer might be.

Borders, beers, and too many fries

Another sleeper bus carried us across the border into Argentina, complete with stray dogs who appeared to be enforcing customs. El Calafate delivered immediately. Craft brews. Burgers at La Zorro. Beers at Patagonia Brewing. On our first night, we accidentally ordered five portions of French fries. Language barriers are real. We ate them all. The post-hike crew rose to the occasion.

Ice, condors, and a proper tradition

The glaciers at Los Glaciares National Park were next. Another bus, whoo-hoo. A perfect sunny day on the water. Bright blue ice towering over boats. A condor perched on a rock face, immediately named Diego by the kids onboard.

Before leaving Perito Moreno Glacier, we revived a long-standing tradition. Whiskey on glacier rocks. Cold air. Blue ice. Perspective served neat. Some "neat" traditions.

Miles, mate, and a proper send-off

Our final day in El Calafate was spent walking intentionally to reach 1,000 miles for the year. Mate shopping. Gaucho poncho hunting. Flamingos at Laguna Nimez. A decadent celebratory dinner at MAKO with oysters, parrilla, and a paired local vinho menu.

A later start finally brought us to El Chaltén. Afternoon hike to Mirador de los Cóndores. No bird sightings, but flawless visibility. Nordic-inspired tiny homes felt exactly right.

New Year's Eve, but with horses

New Year's Eve took us into the countryside. More gaucho shopping. Horseback riding through the hills. Farm dogs chasing rabbits. One dog ran the entire route like a horse and should be promoted accordingly. A brand-new kitten. Dinner at Estancia Bonanza with Fitz Roy watching quietly as the sun dipped low. We danced in the golden light, drank Argentine wine, ate like barbecue kings, tango'd to live music, and welcomed the new year by the iconic view.

New year, same legs

New Year's Day came with snoozed alarms and a later 10:00am trail start. Drew, Jay, and I hiked with Allen in our thoughts every blistered step. Strong legs. Slower pace. Sandwiches bigger than your head. Ten kilometers later, plus two Multnomah Falls' worth of elevation, we drank icy water from the Río Blanco, watched condors glide overhead, and soaked in watercolor views of Fitz Roy, helicopter rescues, and the surrounding lakes. In town, Allen closed out a rough year in the most perfect of venues. Dinner with the full crew sealed it.

On our final day, we bused back to El Calafate and flew to Santiago, hoping to squeeze in one last night outing before heading our separate ways.

Patagonia felt like a reset. A send-off. A slightly unhinged but very intentional way to step into the new year. We arrived counting kilometers and left counting everything in Camp Italianos.

And yes, the whole thing was worth it. Even the flight route. Even the Taco Bell.