It was in April when we decided to climb Cerro Sarnoso. The day dawned clear, with that fresh air that heralds the changing of the seasons. We set off early, with a thermos of coffee and some fruit, taking our time. The idea was to walk, observe, and breathe a little more slowly.
The path began among damp grasses and low bushes. As we progressed, the landscape opened up. The trees receded, and the wind began to grow stronger, cold, but clean. On the horizon, the volcanoes rose, their snow-capped peaks glistening in the sun. Puerto Varas lay below, small and still beside the lake.
Climbing the hill wasn’t difficult, but it was demanding. One of those ascents that forces you to find a rhythm and maintain it, step by step. Sometimes we didn’t speak; other times, we spoke only to share an observation or a smile. Alba often stopped to admire the textures of the stones, the hues of the dry grass, the small flowers clinging to life among the rocks. It’s those details that make a hike different, as if the place reveals itself only to those who take the time to truly see it.
Upon reaching the top, the wind picked up and the silence was almost absolute. We sat for a while to rest, gazing out at the lake. From there, we could see everything: the Osorno, Calbuco, Puntiagudo, Casablanca, and Puyehue volcanoes, and the surrounding lakes stretching out like a mirror, with the clouds moving swiftly, changing the light every instant. Nothing needed to be said. It was one of those moments that speaks for itself.
We stayed for a good while, until the sun began to set and the sky turned that golden hue that only autumn in the south possesses. Then we began our descent, slowly, letting the light accompany us to the end of the trail.
On the way back, with a slight weariness in our bodies and clear minds, we felt that calm that comes from places where time seems to stand still.
Cerro Sarnoso gave us that: a pause. A longer look. And the simple, yet rare, feeling of being exactly where you want to be.
