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It was 2:45 am. My vision hazed, my toes chilled, my back stiff; time to pack up camp and head out. I had just successfully survived my fourth night of camping in Parque Nacional Torres del Paine and now I was just 9 hours away from completing my first ever multiday trek. Last stop: el Mirador de los Torres, quite possibly the most photographed lookout in Chile. But what that photograph does not show, is the journey to the lookout. Paige and I moved out. It was not-so-surprisingly quiet. There was the crowd of folk eager to make it up to the base in time to see the sunrise and those that preferred to begin the final ascent once there was light. We fell somewhere in between. I took the lead while Paige was trailing close behind. We hadn’t spoken much, except to suggest a water break or point out a tricky step. At one point, I nearly tumbled to the ground when crossing a small stream. I turned towards Paige to give her a heads up, when suddenly I felt as if all the air in my lungs slammed down into my stomach before escaping my body. I could not breathe. In the flash of a second, my flashlight highlighted the shadow of Paige and her plus one. Meters behind her, a powerful shadow, one with a light step but heavy presence, stopped in its tracks. It was a Puma. Native to Chile, Puma’s are known to populate the Parque Nacional Torres del Paine, but I was not prepared to come within petting distance of one of these elusive creatures. Just as soon as my brain confirmed that what my eyes were seeing was real, it took off in the opposite direction. I was stunned. Unable to move or speak for what felt like minutes, but, was only mere seconds. Once Paige passed the stream, she turned back to wave me forward, and we continued our way. For thirty minutes I continued walking, one anxiety-filled step after another, propelling me forward, in silence, until I was able to blurt out “PAIGE, I SAW A FREAKING PUMA”. I was excited for the unexpected excitement to be over. There were only a few remaining kilometers, and an intense uphill, rock-scrambling battle, between us and the lookout. Right before the final leg of the hike, standing beside a beautiful ridge, seemed like the ideal opportunity to take a snack break. I set down my backpack and grabbed a granola bar. As I began to open my snack, it was as if the sound of the tearing plastic wrapper echoed throughout the ridge, calling all those who may be interested in finding out what was inside. An unsettling silence ensued, when suddenly two pointed, furry ears, followed by a mischievous-looking face, popped up out of the ridge; an incredible site from 100 meters away. But quickly that 100 meters became 90, then 70, then 40. I realized that this curious animal was coming towards me. Much smaller than the last, I recognized this hour’s creature as the Gray Fox. Upon seeing a fox, my first thought went to Dora the Explorer, more particularly, her arch nemesis Swiper the Fox. Soon, this fox was steps away from me, and to my surprise, was more interested in my backpack than my granola bar. He sniffed around a bit before he snatched my backpack and made a run for it. At this point, the irony of my ‘Swiper the Fox’ thought was not yet lost upon me, but the playfully unfortunate moment faded when I realized that this fox was running off with my passport! After a few desperate attempts at chasing, distracting, and pleading with it, the fox lost interest in me and my belongings and dropped my backpack on the ground before bolting back into the rocks. I eventually reclaimed what was mine, powered through the final stretch of the trek and made it to the breath-taking lookout. Once at the top, it appeared that, yet again, there was not a soul in sight. The only encounters that Paige and I had during the 4 hours there, were with animals.