Campamiento Central—> Base de las Torres del Paine (and back)
After seven days of backpacking, looming ahead was 21km/13 miles (round-trip) and 901m/2956ft of elevation to reach the base of las Torres, the crown jewel of Patagonia, and my final hike on the O-Circuit.
I woke up late that morning, but I packed up my belongings for the last time. Breaking down camp no longer felt like a chore. In fact, it felt like a welcome morning ritual, as routine as brushing my teeth. Since this trail was out and back, I got to leave my 25lb backpack at the campsite then I hit the trail right at 8am.
Hoping to beat the crowds, I hustled, passing large tour groups along the way. I was surprised at how the trail life had conditioned my mind and body in only a week.
For example, my heart no longer raced when I hit aggressive elevation. I had more confidence in my feet as they hopped from rock to rock over running water. My introverted self stopped to converse with friends I made over the past week on the trail. We laughed and hugged each other goodbye, knowing I would probably never see most of these people again. Even though I traveled to Chile alone, because of them, I never really felt lonely.
The terrain was aggressive. I was practically pistol-squatting my way up, scrambling over sharp rocks. I gazed down into the valley whenever there was a break in the trees, relishing my last day on the O-Circut. When the trees ended, the trail continued up, exposed to gusts of wind and sporadic buckets of rain. The trail became loose, slippery shards of dark, metamorphic rock. The only way we knew where to go was to follow the orange posts hammered into the ground. Even without my backpack, it was challenging.
I got to the top at exactly 11:22 AM, the month and day of my mom’s birthday. Her passing a few months prior was the catalyst of my one-way ticket to Chile. Even the wind and rain stopped to reward me with a moment of peace. The glacial lake that sat beneath the three majestic towers was so still I thought it was frozen and everything was quiet. Gloomy clouds pooled at the summits of each tower.
“I heard las Torres are incredible when basked in sunlight, but even in the rain they are incredible,” said my friend Jeff, whom I bumped into while hiking. I agreed. Even in the rain, they are incredible. Everything felt right.
Only six other people were at the Torres with us. It felt beautifully intimate and profound. Jeff and I split a Kind Bar and sat beside each other in silence.
At that moment I felt whole. I felt like I was fulfilling my every potential as a human. Over the last eight days, I maxed out my body, my mind, my social skills, my problem-solving skills, my sorrow, and my self-love in the most healthy way— fully present and one step at a time.
I did it. 8 days and 100+ miles hiked with a 30-pound backpack on these short but mighty Filipina legs. Holy cow, I did it, and I felt…light. I thought I would feel like a hardcore, brave woman at the end of it all, but I surprisingly didn’t feel brave. I felt like sunlight.
I felt free.
A Torres del Paine O-Circut Slideshow from my Camera Roll
A few years ago I read a short fiction story, I don’t remember the title, but it was about whales and hummingbirds. Both animals were given a set number of heartbeats before they would die. The whale’s heartbeats are slow, and so it lives many many years before it uses up all its beats; however, whales also move slowly. They do fewer things in a set amount of time, as opposed to hummingbirds. Hummingbird hearts beat quickly, and so they use up their beats and die sooner, but with their fast little wings, they also move quickly and can do more things in a shorter amount of time. In terms of experiences, both animals live a full life though one may seem shorter than the other.
Pics from our spontaneous trip to Colorado in 2017
In my mom’s case, she was like a hummingbird. She zipped towards every opportunity life had to offer, and did everything she was called to do much sooner than the rest of us.
She was hardly ever still. I remember, on multiple occasions, trying to make my mom breakfast in bed, but I could never wake up early enough. I’d have to wake up at 4 am to start cooking, because she wakes up at 5, even on weekends, and even then she would hear me in the kitchen and get out of bed to help. She was a really light sleeper. I’m sure it came from her conditioning as a single mother.
She would tell me the story of when we moved into our house. I was 2 years old, and she bought a house on her own. She told me she was so scared that she placed cans beneath every window in the house in case someone tried to break in and for a while the two us of would sleep on the floor in the living room. She just replaced the cans with extra sensitive hearing, and we were good to go. Once she worked through her fear, there was no stopping her. In that particular scenario and throughout her life.
She did everything she wanted. Ate whatever she wanted. Went anywhere she wanted. Bought whatever she wanted. All of this is within reason, of course. She was also very responsible, but she knew how to enjoy life. I remember her waking me up because she wanted waffles from this place in Lake Arrowhead, so we packed up and went within the hour.
I can go on and on with the memories. We shared so many little ones that now mean so much. Like walking to church every Sunday, or playing tennis in the mornings, or trying new restaurants downtown, or sitting in her room and talking for hours. We were friends. There are also so many things I want you all to know about her. If I got it all down, I would be up here talking for hours.
But, for the sake of time, I’ll try to narrow it down.
*My mom was born on November 22, 1964, to [her parents]. She [has two older siblings and one younger sibling.] In 1971, they moved from Manila, Philippines to the house [in Los Angeles.] She married [her pen pal] and together they had me, Jessica, their only child, in 1995. After divorcing two years after my birth, my mom was free to raise me on her own terms, which included 13 years of Catholic school, figure skating lessons, voice lessons, piano lessons, ballet, basketball, and, believe it or not, a few more. We went to museums on the weekend and spent lots of time with family. She loved her family, and she showed it.
My mom adored my cousins. She would take them out whenever possible, but also she made sure to talk to them. Made sure that they were okay. Made sure that they felt loved by her. She always wanted 8 kids of her own. Knowing her knack for children, I’m sure she could’ve handled it, but I’m glad she was able to care for my cousins with as much love as if they were hers.
She made sure to spend time with each of her siblings and their families, and her cousins and their families. Weekly mahjong nights, Vegas trips, spontaneous lunches, or simply just hanging out at the mall chatting over Cinnabon, she made time for her family, and she loved it. She was close to everyone. Always so friendly, so patient, and so positive, with a youthful energy that brightened any room. It made for a lot of happy times. Even when life got difficult, her attitude always got her through it.
One of the most impactful memories I have of her was when she was caring for my grandma last year. Tatay and grandma were living with me and my mom, and grandma’s health was declining, plus COVID was in full swing. It was just the 4 of us in the house, I’ve never seen my mom work so hard. I’ve seen her work hard my entire life, but it was nothing compared to watching her care for her mother. She was up multiple times in the middle of the night every night helping my grandma use the restroom while still working full time during the day. My mom would cook the food for all of us, feed my grandma, then eat last. I watched her make so many phone calls for doctor’s appointments, and I’ve watched her administer medication, and I watched her lift my grandma and dance with her and laugh with her. But, I’ve also watched her cry at night, because she was so tired. She thanked God that He gave her the opportunity to care for her mom, but she was so tired. I saw it, but I never really understood it until I had to do the same thing.
On July 12, 2021, my mom was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. It was already in the liver, abdomen, and lungs by the time we caught it. She played tennis earlier that day. She was ineligible for any treatment, and we were given just a few weeks. I started grieving on July 12, 2021. I knew that the future I always envisioned with my mom was no longer going to happen, even under the best circumstances. I remember hugging her when we got the news that it was terminal, knowing that these hugs were numbered. We spent every day since then telling each other everything we ever wanted to say. She told me how proud she was of me, and I told her how proud I was of her. Lots of “I love you’s.”
For the next few weeks, after being discharged from the hospital, I was in charge of her care. Administering her many prescriptions, troubleshooting pain into the night, all while processing the grief I was feeling. I would cry every day, throw things at walls, and wonder how my mom did this for my grandma with such grace. Now, I only cry when I think about her in pain. My mom took her last breath with Andrew, my boyfriend, and I singing The Sound of Music songs by her bedside. She was soon surrounded by her dad, her siblings, and my cousins. All the people she cared for so deeply. Like a hummingbird, Melanie Garion, this energetic, tiny, powerhouse of a woman, had reached the end of her life on earth, a life that she lived so well.
Lastly, I’ll finish off with words my mom asked me to say. We were lying in her bed maybe two weeks before her passing, and I asked if she wanted to write something that I could read aloud at her funeral. She replied, “Originally, I wrote something down that’s a little longer, but now, I think I just want to remind people to, “Always say, ‘I love you.’”
Memorial Service | September 11, 2022
When I first decided to have this memorial, I knew I wanted to take a few minutes to say a little something. I couldn’t figure out what to say, which is why I ended up writing this at 3 am this morning.
I couldn’t figure out what to say, because, this isn’t a funeral. I wasn’t going to write a eulogy. I already did that. I already talked about her life, her 56 short years that overflowed with more love than some people experience in longer lifetimes. I already talked about her infectious energy… her unparalleled independence….her unmatched work ethic, compassion, patience, thoughtfulness.
I already talked about how she worked with quiet competence, like a tree with deep roots. She kept her efforts humbly beneath the ground, while the fruits of her labor spoke for themselves.
This is not a eulogy. This is more like… an epilogue, where we discover what happened after the events of her life.
How has her legacy affected those she left behind? What has become of them?
I can start.
My mom was my air. She was everywhere, all at once, keeping me alive. And the thing about air is that you don’t really realize that it’s there until it’s gone and you’re left gasping.
One year ago today, my partner, Andrew, and I sat beside my mom’s bed, singing songs from the Sound of Music. We sat there for hours talking, singing..crying, while my mom lay unresponsive, her chest still moving with her faint breathing. I remember taking my eyes off my mom for a moment to look at Andrew and laugh at something funny he said. We laughed for the first time since we sat. Then I looked back down to see my mom’s chest completely still. And she was gone.
Oftentimes I wonder if that was what she was waiting for. To hear laughter. To know that she wasn’t leaving a broken child all alone. That joy was possible, even in the face of death. It felt like an unspoken agreement between me and her. That her peace was contingent upon my own. That I do not wallow, but instead continue to seek joy in all that life has to offer, even alongside sadness and mourning.
Even when the doctors told us that my mom was dying, my mom and I frantically tried to say everything we wanted to say only to realize, that we already knew everything about each other. I didn’t need to rush a connection with her because we already had one.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s been painful. My mom was my mom, but also my best friend. We would play tennis together. When our washer broke for a few months, we would go to the laundromat and shoot our dirty clothes into the machines. We ran all our errands together, even into my mid-20s. She gave me lots of hugs and told me she was proud of me all the time. We ate out a lot and talked a lot.
So it hurts. It hurts to know that the person who knew you best isn’t here. Isn’t here to care for you when you catch a cold or to check up on your when it’s 3am and you haven’t come home yet. She won’t be here to help me choose a wedding dress or babysit my future children. And I live with that burden; however, I do so in the midst of countless moments of guilt-free joy. Joy from long talks with friends. Joy from meals shared with family. Joy from dipping your feet in a cold river. Joy from learning something new. Joy from good food. Joy from God’s creation. A splendor my mom can reap everlasting.
My mom was my air. She was everywhere, all at once, keeping me alive. And the thing about air is that you don’t really realize that it’s there until it’s gone and you’re left gasping. But, one year later, you realize the air is just thinner and over time, you learn how to breathe again.
I am basking in the warm California sun as I reminisce on my last few months traveling alone in Chilean Patagonia. When I arrived in Santiago in early February, my heart would race every time I left my hostel. I took taxis everywhere, afraid of public transportation. I would constantly search for wifi to look up simple things, afraid to use my spotty Spanish to ask for help. I called home often, afraid of missing out on what was happening back in LA.
Every week the fear would abate. Soon I was hitchhiking to a volcano in a car full of badass backpacking Chilenas I just met as we shared our latest adventures. Growing up painfully shy, I often pause these days to rejoice at the person I have become:
A person who feels competent enough to backpack and camp alone. Open enough to express myself in a language I am still learning. Confident enough to be the first to extend a hand in friendship. Free enough to trust that I will always be okay.
Part of that freedom came with accepting death- my mom’s and my own. I remember laying on a petrified log in Playa Cole Cole, watching seals bob out of the water and thinking, “Death is coming, and I intend to make life so beautiful that when death does come for me, I can go satisfied, whether it comes tonight or 80 years from now.”
I closed my eyes, listened to the ocean, and felt the chill breeze raise goosebumps on my skin. After a few breaths, I opened my eyes to a fiery sunset as I surrendered to all that life had to offer.
This Mother’s Day, I offer all my growth, longing, and joy to a woman who lived so well that God called her home early. My first Mother’s Day without her physical presence has been so profoundly shitty, but………yeah. That’s it. Just shitty. And honestly, that’s okay.
I woke up to a flooded tent. Well, “woke up” would imply that I slept. The intense wind, pouring rain, cold temps, and constant need to pee resulted in a restless first night. Also, I forgot my tent pegs, so I had to line my tent with rocks. All night I watched the wind thrash my tent around, praying the rocks would hold.
I stayed behind to mop my tent with my only towel and wring out my damp clothes while my new friends hit the trail. They waved goodbye to me apologetically as they left. At 11 am, I figured I had done all I could and decided to start walking.
Within the hour, I was climbing up a steep, consistent incline of switchbacks that faced the campsite. It was frustrating not to see the starting point get farther as I trudged my way up. At the summit, I stopped to eat the last of my Oreos while watching a couple begin the incline far below.
The woman caught up to me quickly, and we snacked together while we watched her husband plop down on the side of the trail about halfway down.
“Pobrecito” Poor thing. She said.
“Animo!” You can do it! I yelled down to him.
We had a pleasant though choppy conversation. My Spanish is conversational, but the Chilean accent was so hard I might as well have been traveling in Italy. I understood almost nothing.
I wished her luck, and I continued walking.
The rest of the hike was flat, peaceful, and quiet. The only sounds came from the occasional babbling brook, rushing wind, woodpeckers, and hawks.
I walked, and walked, and walked. Hours passed without seeing another person, and though the view was beautiful, it was unchanging.
I sang songs to pass the time.
When couldn’t sing anymore, I practiced talking to myself in Spanish.
That didn’t last long.
So, I started trying to make up songs in Spanish. A challenge!
While trying to think of a rhyme for arbol I approached a wooden sign. It had information about the upcoming wetlands and a map with the distances scratched off.
“Pumas and wolves rely on these wetlands you are about to enter. Stay still and see if you can hear them,” it read in Spanish. Perfecto. I thought.
A wooden boardwalk replaced the dirt trail as I walked over the wetlands. It was magical, and it took my mind off my solitude. Unfortunately, that didn’t last long. The magical boardwalk and wetlands ended, and another dirt trail began. I was back to the same unchanging, grassy landscape. I did not know how much longer until the campsite, and there was no signage of how much I completed. I wasn’t tired nor frightened for my safety, but for some reason, I felt anxious.
I was walking through an open plain when the trail dipped deeper than the surrounding grassland, so I felt like I was walking in a trench. Around me were miles of a vast, empty, grassy expanse, and I was alone in it. The anxiety intensified, making my stomach queasy, and then it bubbled to the surface. I started to cry. I knelt and sank lower into the ground, threw off my backpack, and I cried even harder. I miss my mom. I said it out loud.
It was like that part of Wild where Cheryl Strayed saw a fox in the snow, yelled in an attempt to scare it away, and ended up calling out for her also cancer-stricken and deceased mom. I understand how she felt.
Memories of laying beside my mom in her hospital bed holding her hand while she wept. Or cooking meals for my grandpa while organizing my mom’s medication while entertaining visitors. Or removing the IV that kept her alive though in excruciating pain. Or being told, “stop saying you’re young. It’s hard on everybody” when I expressed that I was 26, motherless and tired.
These memories weighed heavy, but they were nothing compared to how painful they were in real-time.
Oddly enough, this last thought made me feel better.
These memories are simply that: memories. Still shitty and still heavy, but there is a growing distance between them and me. The doctors’ appointments, the grocery shopping, the nursing, the cooking, the funeral planning, the cleaning, the lawyer/bank meetings…everything was in the past. Being responsible for managing my mom’s pain while listening to her beg God to take her. It was hell, and now it is over. I am now responsible for my own pain management, for nursing my own mental and spiritual wounds.
I used the sides of the trench to stand up. I hoisted my 30lb backpack back onto my shoulders and walked confidently into the expanse without bothering to wipe the tears from my face.
After two-ish more hours, I looked down into a valley and saw the campsite beside a massive green lake. Mountains with baby blue glaciers set the backdrop to this dreamy, rainy, overcast scene. I hiked down with excitement and set up my tent by the water. I heard two friends call my name, and I smiled as they walked over to greet me. “You made it! Also, we found these on the trail!”
One of them held out his hand and in it were two crooked, rusty, old tent pegs.
“Now maybe you can get some sleep tonight!”
I laughed, used a rock to happily hammer my new pegs into the ground, and then gathered with the rest of my friends for dinner.
Hike Info
Length: 19 km (11.8 miles). Elevation Gain: 730 m (2395 ft.) Terrain: Easy dirt trails even during the steep ascent. For about an hour after the initial ascent, you walk on the side of a mountain that is exposed but felt very safe. Winds might change the experience. Loose rocks on the final, steep descent to Campsite Dickson. Other Notes: Do not attempt if you do not have a reservation at the Dickson campsite! The rangers will send you back!!!
Jess Outdoors 
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