Santiago seemed to last forever. The peaks rose on the horizon, those great continent-dividing Andes Mountains, dusted with white across their uppermost reaches. Close enough to touch, it seemed, but still so very far away. For what seemed like a long time, we wound through the traffic-choked thoroughfares of the Chilean capital, gliding from freeways to city streets, taking locals-only shortcuts and brief dashes across small neighborhoods. “We’re going to where the Maipo begins!,” declared Andres, a finger held in the air, the other hand firmly on the wheel.
And then, in short order, that great, steaming city fell away. We climbed in altitude, curling through a deep river valley, the surface of that flow flashing down below. As the sun tried to break through the clouds, Andres looked a little entranced as he recalled his history here. As a kid, he said, he and his father—an architect—would ride high into these hills to survey the land and perform ecological studies. “We went way up there, where there’s snow,” he said, pointing again, and shaking his head. “It was beautiful, so beautiful.”…