The Thrilling Patagonia Special I’d Really Enjoy

Patagonia highlights: Torres del Paine, glaciers, and big skies

Written originally for Editions Photography. I’ve been on a bit of a Top Gear and Grand Tour bender lately. Clarkson, Hammond and May have given us years of comedy, chemistry and questionable decision-making, and they’ll keep doing it for a long time yet, just delivered to us neatly on demand.

Today I finished Andy Wilman’s book, and it set off that familiar little daydream. Not the one where you buy a supercar and instantly become interesting. The other one. The one where you point a vehicle at a far horizon, load up a couple of cameras, and see what happens when you give yourself permission to be unbusy for a while.

If I were to do an epic road trip, it would be Patagonia. Big skies. Sharp weather. Landscapes that look like they were designed to make you shut up and stare. But here’s the key difference between their specials and my fantasy: I do not want to get into international incidents, drive on “roads” that are basically a suggestion, or break down every ten miles for the sake of banter.

I want comfort. I want heat that actually works. I want to stop because the light is right, not because something has fallen off.

The co-driver(s), and the luxury of shared moaning

I’d take my brother and sister.

Partly because he’s streetwise, partly because he’s a steady head, and partly because you can’t do a long drive without someone who understands the sacred art of complaining about football in a way that’s oddly soothing. Sheffield Wednesday’s results would provide more than enough material to fill the stretches between fuel stops, wind warnings, and the occasional moment of silence where you both realise you’re somewhere genuinely special.

My sister is also keen on photography and she needs a bit of a good luck in life. She's also blue light trained, so probably the best driver out of the three of us. Capable of navigating some of the trickier roads on the route.

A trip like this needs someone you can be quiet with. Someone who won’t talk over the view. Someone who can handle the practical bits without turning it into a military exercise.

The vehicle: a campervan that behaves itself

The car choice matters, and I’m not pretending it doesn’t. Patagonia deserves something dependable and genuinely comfortable.

In my head, it’s a modern VW California-style camper, finished in electric blue, with a pop top, a rock and roll bed, a diesel heater, and brakes upgraded for long descents where gravity starts acting confident. The newer California line-up is very much built around “adventures great and small”, with trims aimed at different levels of camping commitment. 

Inside, it’s simple: clean storage, a proper place to sit, and the kind of warmth that turns “weather” from a problem into background texture. I’m not chasing discomfort for the story. Patagonia has enough story on its own.

The Photography kit: two Fujis, two moods

I’m taking two Fuji mirrorless bodies. One set up for the wide, cinematic stuff: sky, mountains, long roads, the geometry of a campsite at dusk. The other ready for wildlife and details: a condor carving circles above a ridge, guanacos standing around like they own the place, frost on grass at sunrise.

The goal isn’t to “cover everything”. It’s to give myself two clear choices so I can stay present. One camera for the big scene. One for the small interruptions. No lens-swapping in wind that tries to sandblast your eyebrows off.

The route: big highlights, minimal nonsense

Patagonia is vast, and the trick is not to turn it into a checklist. Mine would be a loop with proper pauses. I really want to explore Chile and Argentina. I have been to the Falkland Islands, but I won’t be declaring that at customs.

Torres del Paine: drama on tap

Start in Chilean Patagonia with Torres del Paine, because it’s one of those places that looks like a film set even when you’re just walking to the loo. It’s also one of the best-known spots for wildlife watching, including pumas, with guanacos as a key part of the food chain. 

I’d do the easier hikes, not the heroic ones. I want the viewpoints, the lakes, the sudden weather changes that make the light go theatrical. Then I want to get back to the van, make something hot, and look through the day’s shots without my knees filing a formal complaint.

Los Glaciares: the ice that rearranges your perspective

Cross into Argentina for Los Glaciares National Park, using El Calafate as a base, then head to Perito Moreno. It’s one of the most famous glacier visits for a reason, with boardwalk viewpoints that let you watch the thing creak, crack and occasionally thunder. 

From there, I’d push on to El Chaltén for the Fitz Roy massif. Even if you never summit anything, the landscape has that clean, sharp-edged feel that makes you reach for a camera without thinking. 

Península Valdés: wildlife, properly

Then I’d go looking for the kind of wildlife moments you can’t manufacture. Península Valdés is a classic for southern right whales during the breeding season, with peak viewing often discussed around late winter into spring. 

If the timing is right, it’s the sort of place where you can watch the sea become a stage, without needing to be an expert. Just you, the wind, and something enormous moving like it has all the time in the world.

The wildlife: quiet power, sudden surprises

Patagonia’s wildlife list reads like a field guide written by someone with good taste. Pumas, condors, guanacos, penguins (I have seen them in the wild), whales. 

And then there are the unexpected stories. Recent reporting covered research into pumas preying on Magellanic penguins in Monte León National Park, which is exactly the sort of detail that makes the region feel alive and complicated rather than postcard-perfect. 

You don’t go to Patagonia to “bag” sightings. You go to learn patience again, and to accept that nature does not care about your itinerary.

What I’d shoot: “ordinary” moments, noticed properly

The best travel photography, for me, isn’t the obvious hero shot. It’s the connecting tissue:

• condensation on the inside of the windscreen at dawn
• a hand on a map, the old-fashioned way
• a roadside stop with a view that belongs on a cinema screen
• the van’s pop top silhouetted against an absurd sky
• my brother looking at the landscape like he’s trying to decide whether to make a joke or keep quiet

And then the classics, but done in my way: long exposures of water, harsh mid-day contrast on rock, the soft blue hour when everything looks calmer than it really is.

This is exactly the kind of trip that would produce a set of Editions prints that actually mean something. Not “travel content”. Proper keepsakes. A limited run. Numbered. Each one tied to a short field note, so the story stays attached to the image, like it should.

The Editions Photography angle: a drop built from miles

If I did this, I’d turn it into a mini-collection: Patagonia Field Notes. Ten to twelve images, each chosen for light, place and restraint.

Not every frame would be a mountain. Some would be campsites and petrol stations and quiet interiors. The bits people normally crop out. The human parts.

Because the real point of the trip isn’t to imitate a car show. It’s to travel with intention, come home with a body of work, and make something you can live with on your wall.

And yes, we would still moan about Wednesday. Some habits are too comforting to leave behind.

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