![]() His wispy beard was so thick with sea salt that it had divided itself into forked tips. Nestor Masangkay was dressed in worn oilskins and a greasy leather hat. He was not following a trail-in the Cape Horn islands, at the nethermost tip of South America, there were none. Blackflies and mosquitoes droned in the air, and the summer fogs that shrouded Isla Desolación had temporarily broken apart, allowing a watery sunlight to speckle the valley floor.Ī man walked slowly across the island's graveled flats, stopping, moving, then stopping again. To the east, the wall of a snowfield gleamed a bottomless blue. It was mid-January-the height of summer-and the crevasses between the patches of broken rock were mortared with tiny pinguicula flowers. ![]() T HE VALLEY that had no name ran between barren hills, a long mottled floor of gray and green covered with soldier moss, lichens, and carpha grasses. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |