She looked down upon us like a malevolent runner up in a beauty pageant - complete with baton and sash, beautiful teeth and perfectly coiffed mane. It was only a poster, but still unnerving, for this was El President, Cristina Kirchner, who in unique circumstances succeeded her husband in 2007 as the country's leader. Now ranking amongst the worlds most powerful and wealthy women, her record at the least is dubious, with some shonky economic practices, appointment of friends and allies and a 10-fold increase in her personal wealth since assuming office (the President has wide ranging powers under Argentina's constitution). She actively encourages comparisons with Evita, is combative and belligerent and rarely wears the same outfit twice (although has only worn black since the death of her husband in 2010). Only slightly less unnerving were the adjacent posters of highly dangerous wanted criminals and the sad pictures of missing children, each with massive rewards.

For we were at another windswept outpost with disinterested carabineros crossing the frontier between Argentina and Chile (again).

From El Chalten we'd ridden across blank rolling plains and low hills covered in scrub, that gradually evolved into more fertile pasture lands and estancias of sheep and cattle as we entered Chile, heading southwest towards Puerto Natales.

And these family run bus services always delivered a jarring arrival - with us being ejected onto some backstreet after pulling up in the front yard of the family house.

And tonight, after orientating ourselves and realising that our chosen hostel was on the wrong side of the tracks in this tough town, we opted instead for the superbly efficient Swiss-owned and operated Casa. Our host had all the personality and none of the emotion of a contract killer as he showed us to our rooms. But be bad everything you could imagine for the visitor - including maps, pamphlets, bus schedules, books on local history, etc in multiple languages (all meticulously indexed) plus the neatest store room full of camping gear to rent - again meticulously arranged and he took calls in multiple languages as we waited for him to help us. Then suddenly we understood his attraction to this place as his wife - a roly-poly Chilean with dazzling green eyes and infectious smile appeared from the kitchen.
I had my own domestic chores to attend to, scouring the aisles at the local supermarket for more supplies whilst our junior team members made up for their cable TV deficit...and I felt almost domestic as I queued to get my sack of bread and fruit weighed and agonised over which pasta and sauce combination was the best meal for our little family.

The steadfast beating of rain on the close tin roof woke us early and we debated whether to stay in and wait out the weather, but the precision and absolute confidence of our host's forecast "...it vill clear dis afdernoon and dumorrow it vill be Zunny" convinced us to set out.

We dozed fitfully on the long ride out to Torres del Paine and it could easily have been in a dream as we spied the oddly graceful guanacos (think llama crossed with deer and hare) and the just plain odd rhea birds (think ostrich) lolling about in the paddocks as we passed.

Disappointingly, clouds and mist shrouded to the peaks of the cordillera and leaden clouds rolled in from the south, bringing sleet and showers.

We were given a stern lecture by park rangers about the strict rules of play: no fires, no rubbish, no leaving the trails, trekking to cease at 7pm, all of which seemed overkill until we observed first hand the devastation wreaked by fires in 2008, cause by careless campers and clearly evident in a whole valley and mountain side of charred stumps.

We also took special note of their warning on the dangers of the Pumas that inhabited the park...never travel alone and never leave food out.

Suitably chastened, we took a long lunch in a small boathouse cafe overlooking a milky green pond where we watched the radiating overlapping patterns on the water as the rain fell in dollops. Fortress Paine remained shrouded in mist and rain, unyielding today.

We made our way slowly to the base of the trek and at a break in the weather set off. Amazingly, the clouds parted and we were marching upwards in fine sunny (hot) weather...the cordillera generates its own rapidly changing weather system ("four seasons in one hour") and we were experiencing it today.

Onwards and upwards we doggedly pressed on - it was open, exposed climbing up steep rocky gullies and dusty switchbacks with absolutely no relief on the ascent for the first 3 or 4 kms. We stopped often, dripping in sweat and breathless, munched on our dried fruit, nuts, chocolate and water and continued...
Eventually we cleared the precipice leading into the valley and levelled out, but just as we did the skies darkened, the wind - absent till now - picked up fiercely and heavy rain came at a sharp angle directly into our faces. Nice. The track now hugged the steep valley wall, at times just fine scree where someone had carved out a narrow path, no rails just focus straight ahead on the path and don't look down, oh and just try and ignore the howling wind pushing you around and the sleet cutting into your face and hands...
I took the lead nervously, slowed our pace and encouraged (forced) the boys to stick close. After a few kilometres we began descending sharply, came out of the storm, forded a river and took shelter at a Refugio. Miraculously, the skies cleared and the sun re-emerged, illuminating the remainder of our trek which now changed dramatically into beautiful forest trails.

Making camp and cooking dinner we ran into the full force of an Israeli backpacker legion. They dominated everything: the space, the facilities and above all they commandeered the silence...with the young women in particular practising for their roles later in life as non-stop yada-yada machines, every second filled sound.

We sat in relative silence, cooked and ate our pasta, boiled our tea, cleaned up and went to bed.

I rose early, before dawn (in Patagonia this is EARLY) to see the sunrise swipe across the actual Towers of Paine, the centrepiece of the park, three gigantic granite monoliths shaped by the forces of glacial ice.

It was only as started climbing the steep path, through the scrub and low forest, alone with just my headlamp for finding my way in the dark that I remembered the warning about those Pumas...suddenly every twig I broke or rock I kicked along became a siren song...
And this trek was even steeper than yesterday, and technically more demanding, especially after clearing the tree line whereupon it became a boulder strewn path marked with red poles at long intervals...but thankfully it was shorter and after 40 minutes of huffing and puffing I emerged onto a pile of boulders under the massive towers where I wedged my self tight out of the wind and waited - along with about a dozen other hardy souls who had made the same trek this morning. Even some of my new Jewish friends were here, unable to leave the silence alone, singing folk songs in Yiddish.

The towers shone metallic in the dawn light, clear and distinct against a deep blue sky and it wasn't long before the sun touched the tip of the first tower, setting it ablaze in a deep golden rust, slowly progressing across and down the giant rock face in a wonderful show - the colours becoming leas intense as the full strength of the sun took effect.

It was all over in half an hour and I began the knee/thigh straining hike back down the mountain to our sleeping Princes...

We trekked back in much better circumstances (our Swiss prognosticator had come through) and rewarded ourselves with expensive burgers and beer at the base-camp hotel whilst the hard core crew pressed their noses up against the window.

But we didn't linger, with another bus to catch tonight to Punta Arenas.