Within the Rainforest of Chilean Patagonia, Pushing My Limits at a Path Working Retreat

It’s 3 a.m., zero degrees, and drizzling, and I’m standing in the middle of the Punucapa rainforest in the southern Los Ríos region of Chile, about to go for a run. Back home in my comfortable corner of south east London, with its mere four months of annual sunshine and warmth, I’d become desperate to not be a fair weather runner. But this now seems like a rather extreme approach to my New Year’s resolution to embrace running in the wet and cold.

I’m not alone: a canopy of evergreen, moss-covered trees, and a floor of giant Jurassic ferns envelop me along with 80 other runners, all awake and full of adrenaline at this unseemly hour. An Indigenous Mapuche singer’s voice rings out into the silence in an ancestral welcome chant; we are on his people’s land, and he wishes us safe travels as we scale the punishing mountains.

Soon, though, it will be just me, my head torch, and the dancing mist as my warm breath rapidly condenses into the pitch black night. Trail running is increasingly evolving from a niche, counter-culture sport that ultra runners do to punish themselves into a mainstream driver for travel. The UTMB Torrencial in Valdis year welcomed 3,000 people from almost 30 countries; it’s now the biggest trail running event in Latin America

Valdivia in winter is a good place

“Valdivia in winter is a good place to learn to love the rain,” head organizer Marcela Escalona promises me the evening before, showing me around the bustling race hub full of warm showers, massage tables, and tasty meals of asado (smoky, grilled meat) for the finishers. “In the quiet of the off-peak season, runners here can enjoy the freedom of the rainforest.”
As part of the race’s 900 per cent participation increase in recent years, women like me—new to the sport and running shorter 6km and 12km distances—are the quickest growing group.

I could have stuck to the trails on the outskirts of London, but having wanted to explore South America for years and finding myself devastatingly chair-shaped and suffering from the January blues at the top of the year, the invitation to “face one of the darkest nights of the year” in the mud, rain, and cold was exactly the adventure I was looking for. The shortest 6km race seemed achievable; I’d start my trail running journey, unlock South America, and leave the 100km ultra ultra to those impressive, fit individuals I aspire to be.

But 24 hours before beginning I was crying on the phone to my girlfriend, chastising myself for being so impulsive. What if I trip and slide down the mountain? What if I’m so slow in the mud they kick me out before I finish? What if I freeze halfway through my run because I’ve not got enough layers? What if all the pro runners laugh at me, a fledgling beginner? And on a deeper level, why do I feel the need to pursue such extremes, rather than being content with my weekly local ParkRun?

Fast forward to the horn blowing and I

Fast forward to the horn blowing and I sprint like the proverbial hare. This surprises me, because I’m reliably the tortoise; I run a consistently slow six-and-a-half minute kilometer, but now I’m running it in five. My watch tells me I’ve just run my fastest kilometer ever, and still the other runners are outpacing me. The panic of being left behind kicks in, but the pendulum beam of my head torch lulls me into a slower rhythm, reminding me I didn’t do this to win: I just need to finish.

All I can see is mud; my running poles sink a good six inches per stride as I haul myself up the 350 meter ascent. My local “hilly” park maxes out at 50 meters of elevation. In laypeople terms, I’m used to running up a 15-story hill. This is 105 stories, in a place where it rains 10 months of the year, and it’s a total mud pit. I’m one misstep away from sliding down the mountain like I’m on a giant slip and slide.

At 1 a.m. that morning I’d woken with my race day alarm to a text from my mother: “Don’t break anything. Love you.” Rousing words as I mentally check my survival thermal blanket, safety whistle, first aid kit, water, and tracking chip are all secure in my running vest in case I hurtle back down to the jungle floor. Before this trip I was on the verge of burnout. My average day involved moving from one screen to the next.

My longing to try trail running grew

My longing to try trail running grew from knowing it would require my full focus to deftly navigate exposed tree roots, intruding branches, slippery rocks and gushing, knee-deep streams: a zone of forced mindfulness. In the peace of the darkness and silence of this ancient temperate rainforest wedged between the Pacific Ocean and the Andes, I’m overcome by a wave of utter bliss.

My body is alert but my mind is in nature’s own sound bath. I pause to inhale the sweet balsamic of the Mañío and the pepperiness of the ancient Canelo trees. The Valdivian rainforest has some of the cleanest, freshest air in the world. The only survivor of the last Ice Age, the Los Ríos region is a real dinosaur landscape; a hidden gem of Chile that most travelers skip in favour of the popular San Pedro di Atacama desert in the north or the marvels of Torres del Paine in southern Patagonia.

When I finally hit level ground and sturdy gravel, only hundreds of meters from the race’s end, I’m suddenly sad to be finishing. My legs are jelly, but I’m on an endorphin high and want to keep running. Why did I limit myself to 6km? Warm cheers and smiley faces greet me as I finish at 4:25 a.m., yelling “¡Buena! ¡Buena!” I did it; I didn’t fall. I’m almost last, but who cares.

I want to keep running

I want to keep running. Let me back into that glorious rainforest. At 9 a.m., when most local Valdi del Sur, pisco sour in hand. Looking directly across the Cruces River at the mountain I just scaled, I can see the deep green, conifer shapes of the rainforest. I wonder how those ultra ultra runners are going on their 100km, 18-or-so-hour journeys, almost envious

Another sip and my thoughts melt; the yin and yang of hard trails and cossetting recovery. Re-entering the race hub in my finisher hoodie, other runners look up and nod, silently welcoming me into the tribe. I curiously seek out 100km finishers, wondering how it all began for them. Santiago-based Carlos’ first race was 14km: “I cried when I finished 14km and said never again. Then I moved onto 30, 40, 50km races.

When I realized I couldn’t run a race without crying I decided to keep going: 80 and now to 100km.” What’s the limit, I ask? “Mont-Blanc,” he says with a dogged grin. The hallowed pinnacle of the UTMB World Series, Mont-Blanc, is an astonishing invite-only 174km trail with 9,900 meters of elevation gain through France, Italy, and Switzerland. “One day?” I wonder to myself.

Determined to explore more of the Los Ríos

Determined to explore more of the Los Ríos region before I head home, I spend a few days in the lap of luxury in the middle of the jungle. A two-hour drive from Valdiotected biological reserve, Huilo Huilo. Home to some of the rarest animals in the world—Darwin’s frogs, pumas, and the adorable miniature pudu deer—Huilo Huilo also houses three Michelin Guide hotels

I stay in Montaña Mágica, a literal treehouse with a waterfall casually cascading down the side. Going to sleep surrounded by snow-topped volcanoes, with the perfect white noise of a waterfall, watching tall spindly Nothofagus beeches swaying outside my picture-book circular windows, is a magical moment. Over the next few days I mix lounging by the spa and gentle self-guided trails through the jungle with some of the reserve’s winter activities.

I continued to pursue Chile’s magnificent extremes by snowmobiling up and snowshoeing down Mocho Choshuenco volcano in the morning and bathing by the side of a ravine in the Rañintulelfu hot springs at sunset. I think back to my nervous beginnings in Chile, fearful of my limitations. Sitting on the edge of my ability expanded my belief of what’s possible—and with mountains, sub-zero temperatures and pouring rain now in my running wheelhouse, the only logical next step is to go further.

Huilo Huilo has a 20km trail race in November on the side of the volcano. Maybe this time I can watch the sunrise from the trail, back in flow in the rainforest.

Source: www.cntraveler.com