I think my body is writing checks my knees can’t cash, and this is becoming increasingly frustrating. Despite frequent lamentations about the lean muscle mass just melting off of my body like the cheese from the pizzas I am eating near daily, I am still in better physical condition than most urban people. I recognize this. I know that when compared with even the frequent exerciser, because of a good set of SNPs donated from my pop (for those of you who skipped that day in biology or didn´t work in life sciences for three presidential administrations, SNPs are single nucleotide polymorphisms, the genetic variations in our DNA that make us all different) and about twenty years of consistent exercise, that I am quite fit. Basically, for such a runt, I’m a strong little fucker.

My joints, I suspect as a result of all this activity, are not.

Because I usually refuse to do things the easy way, I spent two days in Chalten sprinting up trails, shaving hours off the park’s recommended times for the hikes. All that mountain goating left my knees swollen and creaky as a barn door in the summertime. Subsequently, I spent an extra, unproductive day wandering around town when I should have been en route to Chile and therefore did not have enough time to complete the famous “W” trek through the park.

However, after looking at the topo for the trek, I deduced that I could complete two of the three sections in just under two days by bolting first up the trail to the Towers del Paine, and then making quick work of the 11K trail out to the refugio below the French camp. As water is abundant on the trail and both tents and food can be purchased at each campsite, I would have been able to travel light. By dumping my pack at the base of each ascent, I could make short work of the difficult sections and would only be burdened for the easier, relatively flat stretches between climbs. Looking at the elevation, elevation gain, and distances between sites, I concluded that I could, arriving in the park at 11 AM, make the towers by 3:00, and the camp by nine. By waking early the following day, I could boogie the 5K to the next trail head, drop my pack again, up and back the steep trail to the French camp inside of four hours, and then saddle up for the long walk to ride the ferry across the river in order to catch my bus and get the hell out of the park. All in time to make my bus back to Chalten, my flight to Ushuaia, and my boat to Antarctica.

I would have had to endure two long days of walking in my lead heavy trekking boots (I prefer light approach shoes or sandals for anything other than but the most brutal trails of rock and scree and mud), but at under 20K a day, it was nothing impossible. Hell, as I was under seven thousand feet the whole time, it didn’t even seem difficult. Tiring. But not difficult. I have bagged Kili via the Arrow Glacier, fast-packed the twenty-two mile up and back Whitney trail in under eleven hours, and have been hauling thirty pounds of climbing gear up and down various trails, including the infamous 45 minute slog up to Tahquitz from Idyllwild for near a decade.

But every guide, ranger, and most of the hikers I met all said it couldn’t be done. No way. Not a chance. You will never make the bus out that night by six.

No way. No how.

As I had a lot more to lose than just my pride (oh, somewhere in the neighborhood of five thousand dollars in various lost tickets), I figured I should take their advice. But just in case I did the first leg and was convinced they were wrong, I decided I should pack for it anyhow, bringing my sleeping bag, my pad and enough money for food and shelter. Hell, if the weather in Patagonia held, I wouldn’t even need shelter.

Of course, I forgot to activate my watch alarm that night, and woke confused and groggy that morning to the sound of someone pounding away on the door to my hosteria. I leaped out of bed, threw whatever I thought I might need in a bag (oddly enough I didn’t need a laptop power supply, an iPod sans headphones, and the rest of the crap I forgot to remove), and just BARELY made my bus. Subsequently, however, I had no time to eat breakfast, buy food and replace the precious few Chilean pesos left in my wallet after dinner with Paddy and Amy. Although I had enough cash for tents, food may have been an issue. Let’s just say I would have been eating light. And stalking, catching, and killing a guanaco with nothing but my pocketknife is both exceedingly difficult and strictly prohibited by the park. Not that I would mind, of course.

I hate llamas. Ornery, spitting, bucktoothed bastards that they are.

Regardless, I asked again at the station before I began if it was possible to do two legs in less than two days.

No way. These times are established by the Chilean army. They are intended for the best, strongest walkers. You should budget MORE time they told me.

I have come to the conclusion that the Chilean army is staffed largely with asthmatic octogenarians and double amputees.

Shit. I´m so gonna meet a death squad when I cross that border again. I would like to apologize in advance to the noble Chilean soldier with the machine gun.

I hammered that trail, with pack, in well under their two hours, even though I thought I was walking slowly. I made the Towers del Paine in another ninety minutes and was back at the base by six. This includes two stops at the refugio to rest and eat. As they claim the final eleven kilometers to camp takes four hours, I was left with more than enough time to finish before dark, walking even at their glacial pace.

Unfortunately, despite the relative strength of my legs and my lungs, my knees began to throb like a techno club on the descent. And pushing for those extra four hours may have pushed me over the limit. I am beginning to think that my trekking days are coming to an end, as no matter how willing I am break a personal record by sprinting to the top, I’m not willing to break an ankle or an ACL when I hobble my way down. Trekking poles (like my cushy North Face tent and approach shoes and climbing gear and summit pack, left in the garage) would help, but really, not much. As I have absolutely zero interest in a sedentary life, I think my thirties are ushering in a new period for me. A period that inevitably will involve freebasing ibuprofen and back alley BJs for another hit of glucosemine.

So I found myself at the base of the mountain facing a dilemma. Do I head out or head home? I looked at the reward to risk ratio. Proving those bastards wrong, on the upside, or losing an ACL and/or a trip to Antarctica in the process.

I opted out.

I’m still pissed at myself for taking the easy road.

But I’m in Ushuaia, just four hundred miles and a few days from projectile vomiting myself all the way to Antarctica.

And for the record, it’s really goddam cold here.

I figure that after two weeks of cabin fever and emptying the contents of my stomach into the South Atlantic, I may be ready for another go at the Towers del Paine. Only this time I may buy a pair of Gore-Tex trail shoes to see if I can walk the whole W in two days.

Of course after I hobble up to the ranger station with knees the size of cantaloupes just to call them a bunch of weak-lunged sissies, I won’t have the knees to out run the inevitable ass kicking. So maybe I should just shoulder the pack, swallow the pride, take it slow and enjoy the scenery.

Nah. I’m a masochist.