And so I rode out into the wilderness of the southern Patagonia. A real huaso (Chilean counterpart of the Argentinian gaucho), Juan, was my guide in Torres del Paine nacional park, telling me stories of the horses and uncovering the hidden secrets of nature, like magmic formations, berries and birds... On the trip we met not a single human being... only the horses running free in distant valleys... From the horseback (my creolle horse was called Pistola) I watched the condor in its flight over the snowy peaks of the Andes and down the deep valleys, looking for the flesh of the dead... probably sheep or rodents left by the pumas... there I was... galloping across the blossoming grasslands in the infinite hinterland of the pampa... crossing mountain rivers... racing with the rising winds... witnessing an avalanche on Monte Almirante Nieto, that I climbed the day before... sleeping in an old hacienda overlooking las Torres under the starry southern skies... admiring the guanacos, ancestors of the llamas, that were standing proud on the hilltops, their gaze fixed on the unreachable horizon... eating the blue calafate from the bushes... to come back. To Patagonia. The unending steppes, treacherous silent lagunas, majestic mountain ranges, glaciers and fjors... I know it sounds like a romantic novel, but that what it is.