Chile
By Sebastian LaTorre
Sand, Silence, and Sunset in the Atacama
I enter San Pedro de Atacama from Bolivia, crossing out of Salar de Uyuni and into northern Chile through one of the most striking landscapes I have ever seen. The Atacama Desert stretches endlessly in every direction, dry and high and impossibly vast. This is the highest alpine desert in the world, and it feels like it.
As we move toward San Pedro, the scenery keeps changing. Bright turquoise water at Laguna Verde, towering peaks like Volcán Licancabur, and distant volcanoes cutting sharp silhouettes against the sky. Everything feels exposed and raw. The air is thinner here, the light harsher, the colors more intense.
After the cold of Uyuni, San Pedro feels warm and calm. The town is quiet, low-key, and dusty, built for travelers who come for the landscape rather than nightlife. There aren’t many tourists around, and the pace is slow. My uncle Marcelo and I settle in easily, grateful for the warmth and the stillness.
One day, we decide to go sandboarding.
We head out into the desert toward massive dunes that rise out of the flat terrain like frozen waves. I strap the board to my feet and start climbing. Each step sinks deep into the sand, making the hike up feel twice as long as it should. At the top, I pause, looking out across the Atacama, then push off.
The ride down is fast and weightless. Sand sprays up around me as I carve straight toward the bottom. It’s exhilarating in the purest way. No tricks, no crowds, just climbing and riding again and again until my legs are tired and my face hurts from smiling. It’s one of those simple adventures that stays with you.
Another day, Marcelo and I rent bikes and ride out toward Valle de la Luna. The road stretches on through terrain that looks completely unearthly. Salt ridges, eroded rock formations, wide open space in every direction. We bike for miles, stopping often just to look around and take it all in.
We leave the bikes behind and hike up to a high point overlooking the valley. As the sun begins to drop, the landscape changes color minute by minute. Orange turns to gold. Gold fades into pink. The entire desert glows. We sit quietly at the top, just the two of us, watching what might be the most vivid sunset I’ve ever seen. No rush. No talking. Just color and silence.
Too soon, it’s time to leave Chile.
We head back toward Peru, but the border crossing doesn’t go as planned. A trucker protest shuts down the Pan-American Highway, blocking all vehicle traffic. There’s no way through. So we shoulder our packs and start walking the final kilometers across the border on foot.
Around us, older travelers carry their belongings slowly, struggling under the weight. The protest is about wages, about livelihoods, and it stops everything in its path. At one point, Marcelo points off to the side of the road and tells me not to walk there. Landmines, he says casually. I take a photo of him reading the warning sign, shaking his head. It’s one of those travel moments that feels almost unreal.
Two days in Chile is all we get. Sandboarding in the desert. Biking through a valley that looks like the moon. Sitting on a mountaintop watching the sun disappear.
It’s brief, but it’s unforgettable.