lockdown reflections: the hanging glacier of queulat, chile

At the peak of a volcano hike, a cute French guy pinned a star on my Google Maps. The following day, our legs still aching, Jasson, Mariya and I set off on our trek to the starred Ventisquero Colgante - the hanging glacier - which required slipping through mud and fighting off falling caterpillars. After hours on a trail flanked by forest, we emerged to a viewpoint that framed the glacier in all its splendor. My jaw dropped. Whether it was the sight or the rush of cold air, I was covered in goosebumps.

As we stood gawking, we overheard a Chilean woman next to us describe how the glacier looked a few decades ago, when the ice cap filled the space between the two peaks. I watched hikers emerge from the forest, each of their tired faces lighting up as the glacier came into view. Eventually, we had to head back before the park closed. As we turned away, Jasson said, “Well, let's take one last look. We'll never see it like this again.“

As I recalled this moment, here’s what ran through my mind. I’m young, I know, but I also know that one day too soon I’ll look back and wish I’d stopped to look more often. In normal times, life can feel like a relentless push to the next goal, stress, dream, worry, what-now, what’s-new. I blink to another moment gone. I find another hour flown. I dive into another sleep after another exhausting day.

In pandemic times, life has been forced to pause for eight weeks and counting. Among the constant hum of despair, I find a strange peace to the slowness. It’s a peace tinged with guilt, knowing that the world outside my bubble is devastating. But I allow heartache and hope to coexist - because in lockdown, I’m learning to take a long look at each day.