Have you ever glommed on to a piece of information and carried it with you, even if you can’t remember its origins or vouch for its accuracy?

That was me with the city of Valparaiso and hot dogs (or completos, as they are called in Chile).

Someone, somewhere in Peru told me that Valparaiso had the best hot dogs — topped and smeared with avocado — in all of Chile, possibly in all of South America and quite possibly in all the world. Thus, images of avocado (the ultimate fat) atop hot dogs (the ultimate junk) stuck with me, securing Valparaiso a coveted spot on our South American itinerary.

I was so excited in fact that I told anyone headed to Chile that they must visit Valparaiso, if only for the hot dogs. I even remember writing about it with urgency on a friend’s Facebook wall when I heard she was flying into Santiago.

“Go to Valparaiso for the avocado-topped hot dogs. Best in Chile,” I said, my hot dog excitement getting well ahead of me — and the fact that I had little to no basis to make this recommendation.

I was on a mission. And I would make it everyone's mission.

And oddly enough, I don’t even really like hot dogs.

Fast forward a few months and we finally arrive in Santiago. We’re hanging out with our virtual-now-real life friends, Eileen and Margaret, and I mention my in-mind Valparaiso hot dog obsession.

Confused looks.

Keep in mind that these gals know Chile, having lived there for something like (I hope I'm getting this right), 7 and 20 years respectively. So you could say, they know the place well.

Shoulder shrugs. Valparaiso had hot dogs just like anywhere else in Chile. But my hopes of a Chile dog to beat all dogs? Temporarily dashed.

We day-tripped to Valparaiso anyway. But it was sketchy, a dangerous sort of place to look for hot dogs.

We'd been warned of Valparaiso, perhaps most so by the people on its streets. Passers-by would eye our cameras and bag and point — no, not to steal them, but to suggest that we should put them away so that no one else would. As we walked into the hills above Plaza Sotomayor, just about every person we passed pointed up in the direction we were headed, shook their heads and said something to the order of “Peligroso.” (Dangerous.)

As we climbed further still, a crazy guy shook his arms, did something like a rain dance, shouted “Police, police!” and drew his finger across this throat. Against our better judgment, we climbed further still.

Suffice to say, we survived to discover a fascinating neighborhood, one of Valparaiso's many.

But no hot dogs.

Valparaiso is a port town, with a down-at-the-heels underbelly feel to it. But well beyond that, it has a spirit. It's offbeat and wickedly artistic with its knock-your-socks-off street art. The people on the streets and at Mercado Cardinal, one of Valparaiso's fresh markets, were warm and colorful. The photos in the slideshow below tell it best.

And although we had only one day, we enjoyed our visit immensely. For its aesthetic and most of all for its people, Valparaiso stands as one of my South America favorites.

Photo Essay of Valparaiso, Chile

You can view the photo set here.

But wait a minute. You dragged me through this sketchy, charismatic city, but I signed up for a piece about hot dogs. What gives? I want hot dog intelligence.

As it happens, we got our Chilean hot dog fix at La Vega market in Santiago. Logs of pure mystery meat (as hot dogs apparently ought to be) were smothered in rich, creamy avocado, mayonnaise and chopped tomato salsa. Chile does in fact take hot dogs to a new culinary level (this, from a kid who grew up on deli dogs and Texas wieners with chili and mustard in Scranton, Pennsylvania). So in my limited hot dog experience, Chile delivered the best dog in Latin America. (Yes, yes Brazil, I know you've got something mad and over-the-top, too. But, that's for our next visit.)

Hot dog trivia: any guesses why the avocado, mayonnaise and tomato-topped hot dog is called a completo Italiano?

The post A Hot Dog Hunt in Valparaiso (Chi-Chi-Chi, Le-Le-Le) appeared first on Uncornered Market.

Most articles we read about Torres del Paine National Park in Chile focus on Patagonian meadows, turquoise lakes, and rose-tinted granite towers in sunrise.

We’ll allow our photos to do that bit for us.

Instead, we’ll take a different tack and share some of the lessons –- about yourself, your marriage (if you have one), Patagonia, expectations, life, and travel – you might learn from trekking in Torres del Paine.

Lesson 1: Indulge in Small Victories. They Are Good for Your Marriage.

On the first day of our trek, we teamed up with a group of other trekkers and began the 17.5 km (10.5 mi.) walk from the trail-head fully laden: enough food for 6 days, a tent, sleeping bags, copious layers and various camping and trekking bits and bobs.

“The extra weight for camping gear isn’t too bad,” I remarked to Dan halfway down the trail.

He glared back; turns out he was carrying the tent and the bulk of the food. As easy as this opening terrain was, this was the first of our trekking days. Our energy was high, but we were out-of-shape and stiff and we needed to be broken in.

By the time we arrived at our first camp, Paine Grande, we melted across the wooden benches in measured avoidance of our first test: put up the tent.

Praise to the gods of all religions large and small that the shop that rented us our tent insisted that we assemble it before we left the store. Fortunately, there was no candid camera to capture that those moments of suspended fruitlessness. I think we were there for 30 minutes, maybe 45. And we had to go inside to consult the prepared tent twice to figure out where all the sticks and stabilizers belonged.

But such preparation paid off. When time came to assemble the tent for real at our first camp, it took maybe five or ten minutes.

But something nagged. The rain and wind cover didn’t really look right and flapped in the wind.

Ah, so what. The tent is up.

In a merge of simple pleasures and life’s small victories, we stood back in the glow of our assembled tent and watched the sun set on a nearly perfect day.

Lesson 2: Wind Blows

No winds howl, rush and change direction like those that blow through Patagonia.

What was supposed to be a quick 3.5-hour trek up to Gray Glacier on the following day turned into an exhausting five-hour haul in the face of howling Mother Nature. At the exposed mountain pass viewpoints, winds were powerful enough — easily in excess of 70 miles per hour — to knock us to the ground, packs on.

When you are forced to grab random strangers and defensively fall into picker bushes, you know you are in trouble. In these conditions, a 100-yard walk took about 45 minutes; it was exhausting.

Lesson 3: Take estimated hiking times on trail maps with a grain of salt.

After clearing the hellish and windy pass, Gray Glacier — our day's destination — lay ahead, visible.

“It can’t be much longer,” we muttered to each other in hopes that repetition of this phrase might make it reality.

Ah, the mantra of the Torres del Paine trekker facing a map with grossly underestimated hiking times and a fully laden backpack.

We are convinced: the people who documented the Torres del Paine trekking maps never actually trekked Torres del Paine. The national park staff calculated hiking times assuming perfect weather, wind at the back, no packs and an average speed of Israeli trekkers straight from military service in full sprint.

Lesson 4: Much like life, trekking is a continuous exercise in expectation management. Your satisfaction may be aided if you expect the worst, for you reduce the risk of being disappointed.

We dreaded the return from Gray Glacier through the previous day’s wind tunnel. We braced ourselves for the worst and battened down our backpack hatches, but the weather had changed for the better and our return from Gray Glacier was pleasantly uneventful, save a rainbow or two.

That evening at Italiano campsite, we joined the other trekkers and sought refuge from the cold in a cooking shelter leanto. The night's menu, an array of packaged foods: soup, pasta, rice, mashed potatoes. It didn’t appear hopeful on the culinary front.

But expectations be damned — camping cuisine reached new heights that evening. Collin, our fellow trekker, fashioned a new culinary masterpiece in ultimate comfort food: instant mashed potatoes blended with beef soup mix.

Surprisingly delicious.

Lesson 5: There’s freedom in the truth, even if it happens to be delivered by a guy in white sweatpants who says in the next breath, “Is it OK if I wear jeans hiking so long as they are not too tight?”

As the wind and cold drizzle drove us to huddle in the cooking shelter on that third night, Assaf, one of the least experienced but perhaps most astute Israeli trekkers, observed, “Why do people do this to themselves? Look at them — they are all suffering.”

We laughed so hard. While at first I thought he was joking, a cursory look around revealed the cold, dark, damp and challenging truth in his words.

Lesson 6: A day that begins with a swollen face and mouse turds can end well.

When I awoke on day four, my left eye was swollen shut from a bug bite and mouse turds were scattered around the tent. As I tried to imagine what transpired overnight, I wondered whether I'd have to quit the trek and find a hospital.

Fortunately, as breakfast unfolded (unfolded? we had oatmeal with dulce de leche every morning – a delicious combination, by the way), the swelling in my eyelid and face subsided.

During breakfast, everyone’s gaze was diverted from me and each shared his story of mouse frustration from the night before.

“They ate a hole in my tent.”

“They ate through my backpack.”

“They ate half our food.”

“They pooped in my shoe.”

These mice were relentless. Cooking gas containers had teeth marks on them. Even the nature-loving Canadian park rangers couldn't abide these bold rodents and were driven to crushing a mouse in their tent in the middle of the night.

After a hike up the French Valley that delivered a smorgasbord of both weather and views, our motivating force to continue: wine in a box, rumored to be available at Cuernos, our next campsite.

That evening, Collin’s mashed potato masterpiece was outdone by Vlad’s onion, salami and cream sauce pasta that he shared with everyone. And never had boxed wine tasted so good.

Besides what nature has to offer, this what a social trekking experience is all about: eating, drinking, laughing, sharing. Each has his own pace during the day, but everyone meets together in the end to share in life’s many simple pleasures.

For many, seeing the sunrise over the torres, the towers for which the park is named, is the highlight of their trek. Our alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 4:30AM. We were huddled together trying to stay warm against the freezing temperatures of the night in a rented tent that wasn't quite meant for people of Dan's height. The temptation to turn off the alarm and roll over instead of heading out into the frigid pitch of pre-dawn was difficult to resist. Under these circumstances, there's always a danger that each waits for the other to make the first move.

The previous five days, we'd survived wind storms that forced us to cling to mountainside shrubs. I'd suffered a mysterious spider bite that made my eye look like I just emerged from a heavyweight boxing match.

We were worn. No pain, no gain, they say. Fortunately, we'd been rewarded with mind-opening landscapes and trekking camaraderie that more than made up for it all.

And this morning's trek would cap off six days' effort with a sunrise view of the namesake towers, the Torres del Paine.

I don't recall which one of us made the first move, but we motivated one another to pile on layers of clothes, switch on the headlamps and hit the trail. The weather didn't appear promising. There were ominous clouds that suggested coming rain, but we hoped it could all change in the couple of hours it would take to reach the towers.

You can see in the photograph above what found when we reached the towers. Early morning wake up calls can be painful, but usually they're totally worth it.

For us, the highlight was the beauty in the progression of nature and the camaraderie of other trekkers to enjoy it all.

There's no denying, Torres del Paine National Park is beautiful. However, we are going to buck the trend (of travel blogging and more specifically of coverage of Torres del Paine) by offering the trek a measured “Thumbs up.” We had read so many reviews and recommendations of this as one of the top treks in the world, so we were expecting a lot. We believe it might be better considered “a nice trek” rather than a trip of a lifetime. Again, much in life goes refers back to lesson #4: expectations.

Practical Details: How to Trek Torres del Paine Independently

Puerto Natales in southern Chile is the common jumping off point for Torres del Paine treks. There are early morning (7:30 AM) or afternoon buses to the Torres del Paine National Park for around $24 round-trip. Entrance into the National Park costs $30.

Camping vs. Lodges: We belabored the decision because we didn’t have any camping gear, nor did we have much experience camping independently. For us, the cost of the lodges ($50-$80/night/person) was prohibitively expensive, and the flexibility that camping allowed moved us to rent camping gear (something we had never done before). We highly recommend camping the entire “W” trek as this avoids more backtracking and allows you to camp closer to the main sights. The cost of camping per night varies between free for a few of the public campsites to $8-$10/person at the private campsites.

“W” Trek vs. the Circuit: We decided to do the “W-plus” trek, meaning that we began at the Administration building, which means we added an extra day to the trek (i.e., 6 days total). We really enjoyed the first day and the panoramic views it provided, so we recommend it.

Our decision to trek the “W” rather than the circuit was initially based on time considerations. If we had more time, perhaps we would have chosen to trek the full circuit (8-10 days), which adds the back side of the park to the “W”. It also reduces backtracking. Even in retrospect, we were done with camping after about six days so we didn’t have any regrets about ending our trek when we did.

Renting Camping Gear: The ideal situation is to have your own gear. However, everything you need can easily be rented in Puerto Natales the day before your hike. Erratic Rock offers great, free information sessions daily at 3 PM that provide information about the route, the gear you need and what to pack. They also rent gear. This is where we rented all our camping and trekking gear (e.g., tent, mat, sleeping bag, cooking kit, waterproof pants, waterproof jacket). However, it’s not cheap (e.g., $25-$35/day). We recommend to rent sleeping bags from Erratic Rock since they are comfort rated to -10 C (do not skimp on the sleeping bag!) and rent the tent and other gear from other local joints with more favorable prices.

When to go on the Torres del Paine trek: The high season for the Torres del Paine trek is December to February. We did our trek in mid-late March shoulder season. The positive: the trail and campsites were less busy and the leaves were changing to shades of yellow and orange. The downside: the weather was perhaps a bit more erratic and cold. We usually enjoy trekking in the shoulder season (we did the same for the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal) so this worked for us.

Our route on the “W” plus trek: Day 1: Administrative Building to Paine Grande campsite; Day 2: Paine Grande to Gray Glacier; Day 3: Gray Glacier to Italiano campsite; Day 4: French Valley to Los Cuernos campsite; Day 5: Los Cuernos to Las Torres campsite; Day 6: Sunrise view of the torres and return down to catch a bus out of the park and back to Puerto Natales.

Where to eat in Puerto Natales: La Picada de Carlitos restaurant (corner of Blanco Encalada and Esmeralda streets) is a large place usually full of locals and travelers. The food isn’t particularly gourmet, but it is hearty, tasty substantial and relatively inexpensive. The crab-stuffed cannelloni ($8) was our favorite dish. And no, it wasn't crab substitute; nor was it skimpy on the crab. The grilled salmon was also substantial and tasty. An ideal end to a long walk through the woods.

The post Torres del Paine Trek: 6 Days, 6 Lessons, Many Photos appeared first on Uncornered Market.

There we were at the end of the trail in Chile’s Torres del Paine National Park. We had completed the “W” – 60 miles, fully laden – and were basking in the warmth of the Patagonian sun. In the process we had become proficient at assembling our tent in strong winds, cooking wondrous meals with packaged pasta, and securing our stuff from mice at night. We appreciated nature in full: not only the beauty of its rainbows, glaciers, condors and granite towers, but also the wrath of its hurricane-strength winds.

At the end of our journey, the feeling of camaraderie amongst our fellow trekkers was palpable. We all shared an accomplishment. In the soft grass at the trailhead kiosk, we indulged in overpriced potato chips and cracked open celebratory beers.

But something was missing.

The next day, we visited Perito Moreno Glacier. The weather was nearly perfect and the autumn foliage provided a postcard-perfect contrast to the whites and blues of the ice. Nearby El Calafate was a nice enough town with its cast of friendly, decent people.

But something about this experience felt a bit empty.

Trading on the Native Cliché

As we waited for change from a purchase at a photo equipment store in El Calafate, I flipped through a stack of plastic-wrapped sepia tone photographs of Native Americans – locals one would presume – likely taken around the turn of the century. The photos were meant to invoke the same “native” imagery found in jewelry and souvenir shops around town.

All the photos were iconic: portraits of women in long braids, shots of wizened old men, and family scenes of weathered elders and grimy-faced kids standing in front of basic homes and dressed in half-outfits made of oily, tattered fur skin. Some of the faces were reminiscent of schoolbook images of native North Americans, some recalled indigenous Andeans we’d met in Peru and Bolivia, and others hinted “Eskimo.”

Special thanks to Ben McRae for going back to the shop in El Calafate and sending us these photos

Audrey asked, “Are these photos of the indigenous people who lived in Patagonia before the Europeans?” After a quick nod “yes,” the clerk swept along with the business of our transaction.

The designs carved into knick-knacks and necklaces and splashed on the walls of trendy restaurants all traded on the same cliché. The idea: buy one, purchase this, eat here — and you too can collect or feel a bit of human history from the place where you climbed all those mountains, hiked all those trails, and took in all those rocky outcroppings.

Nothing wrong with that, but those images left me wondering: Where did all the native people go? No, I'm not talking about the people in the photographs. They are all long since dead. But what happened to their children? And their children’s children?

Are the people in those photos meaningful memories to anyone these days?

History books tell us that European traders gave locals blankets laced with smallpox and other diseases. It’s one thing to read about the decimation of indigenous people like it’s an object of distant history, but it’s something entirely different to experience it viscerally and feel the void.

A Childhood Memory

All of this reminded me of a scene from a drive across the United States with my parents when I was twelve. We were at a gas station somewhere in Arizona along historic Route 66 near the Painted Desert. As we filled the gas tank, my mom purchased two dream-catcher wall-hangings from a Native American family selling them out of the trunk of their old powder blue beater of a Studebaker at the edge of the station lot.

The weavings were terrifically colorful and featured all the inimitable trademark faults of something handmade. They were so unlike the typical ubiquitous tourist schlock peddled in gas station souvenir shops along our cross-country route.

My parents were under no illusion that their purchase would right any historic wrongs, but we all felt good about it. As we completed our transaction, however, the owner emerged from his store in a rant, screaming and cussing after the family. Heads down, mother, father and son scurried, packed up and drove off — probably to the next gas station, to the next fleeting transaction, to the next chapter in a story of feeling unwanted in a place their family once called home.

A Few Indigenous Faces

We have not seen any local indigenous people or communities as we’ve bounced back and forth between Chilean and Argentine Patagonia. We suppose there are some, but they certainly don’t feature naturally or prominently in the average Patagonian travel and trekking experience.

There are hints of mestizo culture (mixed indigenous and European), but the feel in this part of the New World is decidedly European, post-colonial. The few native-looking folks you’ll see are likely economic migrants whose families are rooted to other mountains, other lands.

Our Perito Moreno glacier guide emphasized this point as she described recent developments in her hometown, El Calafate. After the airport was built in 2001, the town grew from a shepherd trading post of 5,000 people to today’s tourism service station of 20,000. Pointing to the outskirts of town, she remarked: “Over there, that's where the Peruvian and Bolivian construction workers live. It’s very different than what you see downtown.”

Just a few weeks before at a local grocery store in Ushuaia, the very southern tip of South America, I remember seeing the first patch of dark indigenous skin I had seen in two months (keep in mind that we had been in Buenos Aires and Uruguay just before). A Bolivian family was on a Sunday shopping outing at the grocery store; the husband likely a local construction worker. I wanted to approach them and ask them their story; perhaps we had visited their hometown during our recent visit to Bolivia. But my inner censor got the better of me and I figured it better not to ask.

The Scale of History

On so many of our treks and travels we’ve met and stayed with families with ancestral roots in their current home that predate the last wave of colonization. Theirs is a story of a long-standing human connection to the land and the places where they live. Their presence provides an added cultural dimension to a trekking experience; it serves to complete a story that begins with nature.

But in Patagonia there are few, if any, who can share a creation story like those told in Guatemala, Peru or Bolivia — passed orally from generation to generation for hundreds or even thousands of years.

Some Patagonian families have lived there for generations, their European ancestors having arrived as early settlers or guests of the penal colony, while many more have appeared in the last decade to take advantage of the tourist boom.

But who came before them?

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