Majesty
As you drive into Torres del Paine, you’re struck by the sheer grandeur—the otherworldly beauty, the majesty—of the mountains rising before you.
Majesty can be defined as impressive beauty, scale, or stateliness.
I’d never thought much about the word, other than “your majesty.” But standing there, it felt fitting. These mountains reign over the lakes, the fields, the guanaco, and all of us who have come to witness their quiet command of this landscape.
And now this chapter—the photography workshop, this deep immersion in light, patience, and perspective—draws to a close. It’s given me a foundation to build upon as I head back into the world, ready to keep learning, keep discovering. I’m not sure how often I’ll rise willingly before dawn again unless someone’s beckoning me toward a hilltop to photograph a brilliant sky—but I’ll keep my heart open to that, too.
Our last day greeted us with yet another display of extremes: snow lining the road as we drove toward another of Patagonia’s many microclimates. The air felt sharper here, colder. The mountains wore a light dusting of snow like powdered sugar, cloaked in mist and mystery. Out the window, the landscape shifted and redefined itself with every curve of the road—rolling fields of yellow grass gave way to wiry, ghostlike trees still bare from winter; valley walls deep with dark green fell into shimmering blue lakes. The roads grew rougher, gravel spraying the undercarriage, rain carving channels into the earth as we drove toward our next lesson—action photography.
We arrived at the stables where the gauchos waited with their horses, ready to become our models for the morning. Two of them took turns galloping across the open field, ropes swinging dramatically through the cold air, the thud of hooves echoing across the valley. Cameras clicked in rapid bursts, trying to catch the blur of motion, the rhythm of horse and rider moving as one.
Action photography with the gauchos — Patagonia, Chile
And then it was my turn to climb into the saddle.
My horse—Loica—was a sassy girl, which felt fitting for me. She stopped often for snacks, slowed the group, tested me at every turn. Kind of like me when I see cheese. I was nervous; she sensed it immediately. Maybe my tension made her anxious, too. But as we made our way down the muddy trail, something shifted. I loosened my grip. She relaxed. We began to trust each other a little.
At one point she broke into a run—well, more like a determined trot down a small hill—and I bounced awkwardly in the saddle, giggling with delight. Fear gave way to joy. The kind of joy that comes from letting go, from realizing that control isn’t the point—connection is.
By the time we returned, my cheeks were flushed, rain clung to my jacket, and my hands were half-frozen from the cold. But my heart… lighter. Maybe majesty isn’t just what towers above you. Maybe it’s also what carries you forward when you decide to trust.
After the ride, we drove on, the landscape shifting again—more snow now on the ground, the cold deepening as we climbed higher into the mountains. By the time we reached the lodge for a traditional Patagonian gaucho barbecue, the world outside was blanketed in white. We trudged from the van through the snow, cheeks stung by sleet, and stepped into warmth, laughter, and the smell of fire and slow-roasting meat. Music played, people danced, and the windows fogged from heat and happiness. After a long, cold morning, it felt almost like a holiday—a fitting sendoff to an unforgettable five days in Patagonia.
The people of Explora must see thousands of travelers come and go, yet they have a way of making each one of us feel seen. Maybe it’s their partnership with Katsu Tanaka and Nikon, maybe it’s the shared rhythm of long days and communal dinners—but somehow, this remote lodge at the far end of the world began to feel like home. A place of belonging, far from the noise and schedules of San Francisco.
Over these days, we’d witnessed so much: snow and sleet, wild wind, and the first bright flames of Patagonian spring flowers. Guanacos and gauchos. Waterfalls that seemed to thunder even in silence—white water tumbling into turquoise pools beneath a brooding sky. And a glacier—like a frosted blue Slurpee of ancient ice—sprawling between black, glistening rock. All of it, alive with quiet power.
The ride to the airport was quiet and bumpy. We each stared out our windows, lost in our own reflections. Some were heading home to jobs, families. Others to retirement and rest.
And me—to Santiago first, to slow things down for a few days, then north to the Atacama Desert and on to Valparaíso. After that? I’m not sure yet. Maybe Machu Picchu. Maybe somewhere I haven’t thought of yet. The path keeps unfolding—and for once, I’m not trying to control it.
Somewhere between those quiet miles and the hum of the engine, I started thinking about everything this place had revealed.
Among the many takeaways I’ll carry from Patagonia, the one that lingers most is something I think I’ve been rediscovering since Spain and Portugal in 2023—the trip that changed everything. Wander. Don’t take the same shot as everyone else. Cross the bridge. Get low. Look into the light instead of away from it. Be curious. Be brave enough to see differently.
Because there is majesty all around us if we just let it reveal itself. It doesn’t have to be a mountain range at the end of the world—it might be in your own backyard, along a quiet city street, or painted on a wall. It’s everywhere, waiting for us to notice.
And whatever makes you feel alive and free?
Do more of that.
Follow my journey on Instagram @odiseabyemmy. For more photography from the wild horizons of Patagonia, visit Emmy Photography.