Spring in motion
A field note from Patagonia National Park
Chacabuco Valley from “Alto valle” camping.
The first time I heard a long-tailed meadowlark sing across the open steppe, I knew I had arrived in the right place.
It was early October, the season when spring begins to whisper its return in southern Patagonia. I had joined Ethos for a curated journey inside Patagonia National Park, part of their Spring in Patagonia program. I came expecting flowers and gentle walks — but what I found was something deeper: a rhythm, a way of being, an invitation to move slowly and see with new eyes.
We were a small group, guided by professionals who don’t just know the region — they belong to it. Based in Puerto Guadal, our guides were trilingual, warm, and deeply knowledgeable in geology, botany, birdlife, fungi, and the intricate webs that hold this landscape together. They brought the territory alive with calm precision and care.
We slept in spacious expedition tents, set up in designated campgrounds inside the park. These camps were nothing like the rugged setups I had imagined — they featured well-kept bathrooms with hot showers, sturdy wind-protected quinchos for meals, and a level of cleanliness and comfort that reflected deep respect for travelers and the land.
Meals were prepared with purpose, using local, seasonal ingredients, served in shared tables under shelter. Everything was zero waste. Every bite told a story — of place, of season, of thoughtful design. One night, we had homemade stew and fresh bread still warm from the fire. Around the table, we spoke softly, or not at all. There was no rush. The silence was full.
Our walks flowed with the landscape — never technical or rushed, but rich in meaning. One afternoon, we paused for over an hour beside a high-altitude lagoon, watching a pair of upland geese gliding silently over the water. No one reached for a camera. We just watched. The moment stretched and deepened.
Each day offered something distinct: a new path to explore, a quiet moment by the fire, a thoughtful exchange about rewilding and restoration. We weren’t ticking boxes — we were letting the land set the tempo.
One morning, a Magellanic woodpecker danced between the trees, tapping its presence into the trunks. Later that day, a Chilean thrush showed up near camp, as if to remind us we were guests in a much older story. Birdwatching wasn’t an activity on the agenda — it was part of being there, part of paying attention.
I returned with a quiet body and clearer eyes. Not because something extraordinary happened, but because everything —from the logistics to the silences— was handled with such deliberate care, that even the simplest things felt full of meaning.
That, I believe, is what spring in Patagonia truly offers:
a way to return to what matters.
This story is one among many.
If this way of traveling resonates with you, let’s talk.
We offer curated journeys each season — designed with care, lived with depth.
