End of the World
In Patagonia, our mornings went something like this: the night before, over dinner, our instructor would outline the next day’s plan. There was always a sunrise shoot—because why not? The views off our doorstep were predictably breathtaking, every direction a postcard. The only unpredictable thing was the weather.
Each morning around 5:30 or 6, I’d wake to the sound of howling wind or rain against my window and peek out from behind the blinds to see what the day had in store. Then I’d wait for the WhatsApp message from our fearless leader: were we a go, or on call? Safety always came first—but so did the question of how much wind and rain we could actually shoot in.
Most mornings were freezing—at least for this California native. Along with my camera gear (and tripod if it was a sunrise shoot), I layered up: long johns, two pairs of pants, fleece, parka, beanie, gaiter. My hands hated the cold; gloves made adjusting my settings impossible, so I gave up on them.
Our first morning brought a successful sunrise shoot—downright balmy in all those layers until the sun actually rose. Fun fact: it’s always coldest right before sunrise.
The second day, we were officially on call: winds up to 100 kph (60 mph), driving rain. At those speeds, large buses—and even the smaller tourist vans like ours—aren’t allowed to drive within Torres del Paine National Park. Most guests at the hotel hunkered down to watch the chaos outside: whitecaps, spray, a sea of angry waves. The famous mountains kept vanishing into the mist, then reappearing like ghosts.
By afternoon, though, our instructor made the call: go time. Still windy, but no rain, and sunlight breaking through. The lakes surged beside us as we drove. Beautiful anger. Beautiful rage. Beauty in all its forms.
The daily update at Explora Torres del Paine — Patagonia, Chile
Amid it all, our instructor smiled, unfazed by the chaos. In his calm, I could see the lesson: that part of photography is possibility—asking, what can we still do today? How can we take advantage of what nature gives us, instead of fighting it?
The next morning: on call again. The wind and clouds canceled another sunrise, but I managed to capture the sun illuminating the horizon through my window, all pinks and golds—me still in my pajamas, warm and dry. Later, when the weather eased, we ventured out for a macro lesson—focusing on the small worlds often overlooked: tiny blooms, textures, and the quiet details that bring a landscape to life. The weather hadn’t completely calmed, though; rain and snow turned the ground to mud—slippery, cold, messy. But we were rewarded: glowing green lakes, flashes of wildflowers, and even a few wildlife sightings. Proof that patience—and second chances—often reveal what we’re meant to see.
It was in those vast fields, kneeling close to the ground for a macro shot, that everything stilled. The wind eased, the clouds parted, and blue sky opened above me. The flowery shrubs around me became tiny flames in the landscape—delicate, resilient, brilliant against the pale ground. I just sat there for a while, breathing. Slowing it all down. The workshop had been intense, and maybe I just needed this one quiet moment to be. Not to shoot, not to frame or adjust—just to listen. To feel.
I thought about how often I struggle against my own programming—the instinct to document everything, to capture and “keep” experiences instead of simply living them. What if I stopped trying to hold on so tightly? Later, will I want the photos to remind me what it all looked like… or how it all made me feel?
Awe. Freedom. Curiosity. Wonder. Gratitude.
I reflected on a conversation with a classmate and thought about just how far south I was—how close to Antarctica, the end of the world. I hadn’t realized until then how near we were to the world’s last horizon—where the known gives way to the unknown—and the thought tugged at something deep within me. Someday, I want to go there—to stand where land and ice and sky blur together.
But for now, I was here, breathing in crisp, clean air and feeling both small and infinite all at once.
A long, quiet exhale into stillness.
At the end of the world.
Follow my journey on Instagram @odiseabyemmy. For more photography from the far horizons of the world, visit Emmy Photography.