Grapes Upside Down

59. Mango Kiss

~Madisen~

Noah and I spend time together and time apart throughout the rest of our journey through Torres del Paine. We share hugs on ledges that hover over deep, expansive valleys of foliage, textured mosaics of muted greens. His fingers dangle close to mine as we hike in step, his flesh finding mine with light brushes of warmth that counteract the constant rasping of harsh wind against our skin. Parts of the hikes are excruciating, and my muscles burn like ice and fire battling extinction. 

We swing between cute banter and personal conversations that allow us to know each other in the ways we were only beginning to scratch the surface of the first time around. Underneath Noah's nonchalant exterior are layers of passion for his many interests. He's filled with fascinating insights, expressed with a beautiful confidence that compliments his shy side. As he digs deeper into my life--the thought process of my mind when I'm searching for meaningful photographic moments, my somewhat useless obsession with rockhounding (collecting stones, basically), the plot lines within the comics I create for Elly, and my avid practice of studying Spanish thesauri--I feel myself settling back into this life. The real version of myself, which I lost track of with Ignacio, of a nerdy college girl with niche artistic hobbies who generally treats others with care.

During various legs of our trek, the girls and I laugh our heads off mocking absurd Chilean peculiarities, recounting drunken nights out at the discoteca and roasting Brock, who recently got himself into major trouble with Aventuras Chile. At one point, Clara literally topples over in a fit of laughter, pulled by the weight of her backpack onto the middle of the muddy trail, limbs flailing like a beetle stuck on its back.

For five consecutive evenings, we repair the disintegrating tangle of polyester and bent-up rods into some semblance of a tent. We're getting closer and closer to being without shelter in the wilderness, yet we become less worried and more amused by our precarious circumstance with each passing day.

Every night, Noah expertly takes the lead in arranging seven massive hiking packs, seven mud-caked pairs of boots and seven sleeping bags into a six-person tent. And as he works, he always makes a point to catch my eye and wordlessly tease me from across the tent. With a subtle fanfare meant only for me, he places my sleeping bag a good distance away from his, pretending to glare at me. Sometimes he adds a quiet tsk-ing sound, shaking his head while performing an elaborate show of hand signals, essentially warning me to stay away. I attempt to play it cool in front of our friends, suppressing the giggles yearning to burst through the dam inside me. Each moment spent with Noah, I can barely contain the ripples of joy bubbling and expanding through my heart.

I know that I'm truly feeling like myself again, because my appetite suddenly returns in full force on the second-to-last day of hiking. At lunch, I scarf down my sandwich and apple, longing for one of Graciela's homemade meat and vegetable soups. The trail is rigorous, and an hour after lunch, I feel my stomach rumbling with cravings for every snack inside my backpack. I break out a bag of dried mango and devour almost the entire thing as I continue plodding forward. For whatever reason, it's the most delicious thing I've tasted in a decade.

Reaching the peak of a long, gradual incline, I throw off my hiking pack and double over, hands on knees, to catch my breath. Noah is standing a few paces away contemplating the mountains, but I don't even have the energy to greet him.

My heart rate eventually settles down as I take in the unreal views around me. When Noah finally swivels his head towards me, I discover that he looks sad.

"¿Qué pasa?" Invading his personal space, I explore the dulled stripes of his Malachite eyes as if hunting for the clues to his melancholy. "Estás triste."

"Mm," he assents with only a brief syllable of sound.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Sahara."