The following piece is an article I submitted to a number of trekking magazines late last year. In typical fashion it was duly rejected by each and every one, so - hooray! - here it is for your pleasure. Enjoy!
Hidden Gold
There's gold in them thar hills! La campana shines in the evening light.
On August 16th, 1834, Charles Darwin found himself in the Quillota valley in Central Chile. Taking the chance to escape from the constant seasickness, which plagued him for the duration of his now famous voyage on the Beagle, he had ventured inland to study the geology of the Andes up close.
He took an excursion to climb La Campana mountain, spending two nights on the summit. In his diary he noted that he had never spent a day more enjoyably. No small praise from a man who was in the middle of a five-year journey around the world.
Nowadays, despite being a popular destination for Chilean picnickers, La Campana mountain and its eponymous national park seem to have escaped the attention of the Gringo tourist trail. With barely a passing mention in most guidebooks, this is a fine place to get some practice in for the Inca Trail, Aconcagua, or Torres del Paine without having to deal with the altitude problems of the first two, or the capricious weather of the latter. And best of all, you're more likely to bump into a condor than a Gore-tex clad, trekking pole wielding European backpacker.
Our plan was simple, or so we thought. Over three days we would climb La Campana, then cross the park in a circuit from south to north and back again. Should be easy. The fact that the beautifully detailed map advertised on the park's website didn't seem to exist, shouldn't be a problem... should it? We did, after all, have the rather quaint and very rough sketch map, which is the best that CONAF, the National Park authority, could provide us with (and even getting hold of that took three days searching). With its "approximate distances" and "estimated altitudes", everything would be just hunky dory.
And so we found ourselves, on the morning of the 19th of September, rolling up at the Park's south eastern entrance. Mildly hung over from celebrating Chile's national day in nearby Olmue the previous night, my friend Robin and I paid our entrance fee and hitched our tent in the campsite.
Having admired the peak of La Campana, towering above Olmue the previous day we were anxious to get going at last, so we shouldered our day sacks and set off.
The trail up La Campana begins gently, meandering uphill through lush southern beech forest. In the early morning it was cool and damp in the shade of the trees, the easy pace giving us plenty of chance to warm up our leg muscles and walk off those pesky hangovers.
Due to the fact that the entire Chilean population was busy tending their own sore heads at that time (boy, can those guys party!) there was not another soul in sight. Just us, and the wilderness for company. Bliss.
We found ourselves gaining altitude surprisingly quickly, reaching the mid point of the climb, at an abandoned copper mine, with barely a bead of sweat having been shed. We took in the views back down the Quillota valley as the early morning mist finally broke up to let the sun shine through, bathing everything in a fine emerald glow. Not a bad start at all.
We were joined by two Chilean marines, the only other people we saw all day. We soon got into an in-depth discussion, comparing the relative virtues of English and Chilean munchies. I'd have to rate Tuareg coconut biscuits as the finest in that countries' range of edible treats. They certainly give anything that McVities ever produced a run for its money.
After a quick breather we set off again, ready to take on the more challenging part of the climb. From here on the path developed a rather annoying tendency of following a near vertical gradient.   With the sun starting to make its presence felt, it soon became apparent that we were in for a rough ride.
As we climbed higher the trees thinned out, eventually disappearing altogether. We found ourselves in a parched, rocky landscape, surrounded by towering granite cliffs and huge boulder fields, remnants of cataclysmic landslides. The path was no longer a path, but a series of yellow markers sprayed onto the boulders, usually so far apart that it was not possible to see the next one along. Scuttling from one huge rock to another, we soon lost all sight of any markers and were left with no option but to follow the last resort navigation technique for mountain climbing: the only way is up. 
The real punishment began as the sun approached midday, beating down from above and reflecting off the rocks under us. Below was a sheer, thousand-metre drop to the valley bottom, each footstep sending a scurry of pebbles and scree into the void. One step out of place and we'd be taking the quick route off the mountain. This was beginning to feel like slightly less fun than it should be. We swore and sweated our way upward, counting off false peaks in a cloud of dust and heat, hoping against hope that each one would be the last. Pictures of Judy Garland haunted me, smiling innocently and teasing, "We're not in Cumbria anymore, Toto."  Ya don't say.
It's a long way down... The final scramble
And then, just as grumbles were becoming tears, the brown wall in front of me gave way to a huge expanse of blue stretching off to eternity. A breeze like a gift of God cooled the sweat on my face as I found myself falling forwards. Where once there was a vertical rock, now was thin air and beneath, at last, a flat surface!
A much deserved reward. The summit of la Campana
When I was finally able to peel my body off the ground, I was awestruck. Talk about a view! A crystal clear blue sky in all directions, dotted with wispy cotton candy clouds. To the west, the ocean and in the opposite direction, the Andes with Aconcagua standing head and shoulders above the unbroken line of mountains. All around, the dark peaks of outlying ranges loomed out of the haze of the valleys, and closer still, reaching out from where we stood, jagged ridges of the kind that would make Striding Edge pack its bags and depart to a retirement home for has-beens.
Robin joined me and we made our way over the rocks, looking for a place to eat our lunch. Lizards scuttled away in all directions as we disturbed their mid day basking, while in the distance, two condors glided amongst the mountains. Bizarrely, and perhaps sadly, graffiti was everywhere. Anyone dumb enough to climb a 1900 metre mountain with a pot of paint and a brush has kind of earned the honour of leaving a record of their achievement. But does it have to be in a place as perfect as this?
After lunch and some self-indulgent scrambling, we made our way back down. Shaking off dignity like an unwanted fleece, we opted for bums rather than feet as our preferred mode of transport.
The following morning, we made our way by road to Cajon Grande, the south-western entrance to the park. We explained our plans to the park warden, showing him the route we intended to take.
"Very bad idea. This trail isn't signposted and is very overgrown," He told us, "You should take the other path, it is much easier."
We tried to explain that we were planning to take the route he was recommending on our way back, but the idea that a circuit means not walking the same way in both directions didn't seem to click with him. Eventually we gave in, promising to go on his beloved path.
And then carried on according to our original plan. We had the dodgy map and we were going to get a circuit out of this, dammit!
The day started off very similar to the previous morning. Gentle pace, cool shaded forest, only this time we were following a pleasantly babbling brook up a deep, steep sided valley. As the morning wore on, the trees gave way to more open, drier terrain, covered in cacti, puyas and acacias.
After a couple of hours we reached a flat grassy area on top of one of the smaller hills. Imaginatively, it was blessed with the name "The Plateau" on the map. So far, so good. Looks like the map is doing its job, after all. Lack of compass shouldn't be a problem then.
Oh, sorry, did I forget to mention that? Well you know, the chaos of packing and all that, there's always something you forget... As I said, though, shouldn't be a problem.
Except that we seemed to presented by a series of paths at this point, where only one was marked on the map. Eenie, meenie, minie, mo, that one looks nice, lets give it a go!
I'm not sure how long it took us to realise that there shouldn?t be farmland and small houses in an uninhabited national park, but it was certainly a while longer than might have been sensible. It might have been a good idea to stop for the "umm, err" head scratchy part of the thought process. Just to save a half-hour's unnecessary walking, if nothing else.
Lost, like defeat, isn't the kind of word that comes easily, especially when you're hell-bent on doing something. So after a quick reassessment of our situation, it was democratically concluded (by me, the un-elected guide of this little venture) that we would find our path very easily if we just climbed up and over the ridge to our left, and then down into the next valley. Which is where the map reckoned it would be.
Off we go again. This time into very dense woodland. The really annoying kind of woodland where everything that grows has prickles. You can't see the outside world because all these prickly things grow so close together, and you can't climb the prickly things to get your bearings because they are all too flimsy to hold a person. More like a huge hedgerow than woodland, really. Did I mention that it was brain-fryingly hot as well?
We eventually sat down to lunch after one of those funny time spans which might have been anything between half an hour and a couple of lifetimes. Hot, tired and bothered, we scowled at each other over our sandwiches. Some kind of salvation would be needed pretty soon, or there would be a very nasty walker's tiff. At least in the middle of nowhere, no one can hear you scream.
I can't say as I remember how long we carried on walking for, nor do I want to, but eventually we left the prickly bit behind us and I began to get a good feeling at last. The kind of feeling that means you're getting somewhere. Finally we'd be making headway again. Only a matter of miles now, surely, and we'd finally find ourselves at...
The Plateau?!?!?!?!?!?!?
%$�@%�$=#%>�~&$%�%!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Lost? Yes! Defeat? Admitted! There, can we go home now? Please? Kissing pride goodbye, we turned around and headed back to Cajon Grande, happy in the knowledge that one campsite is much the same as any other once you're asleep. The only thing that we might possibly be missing out on is that extra rock under the tent, just below the left shoulder blade.
The next day, to give us a taster of what we missed out on, we decided to make our way to Ocoa, the northern entrance to the park. Only this time we'd cheat and use wheels instead of legs.
The Ocoa sector of La Campana National Park is famous for its population of Jubaea chilensis, the Chilean palm. Harvested almost to extinction for its high quality syrup, this is one of only two remaining areas where this species exists in the wild. Having feasted my eyes on the fine specimen in Kew's palm house, I was really looking forward to seeing this species in its natural habitat. And a fine sight it proved to be. Darwin described these as being, "for their family, ugly trees." I'd have to disagree.  Shaped like overgrown cola bottles, the gigantic trees crowded the valley bottom and hillsides. The size and girth of their enormous trunks was overwhelming. Curiously, their coconuts are tiny, about the size of an acorn. Tasty, though. Strange to think that something so huge can grow from such a tiny seed.
Jubaea chilensis, the Chilean palm, "For their family, ugly trees." Unlike me, Charlie wasn't impressed.
Weaver bird
From the tiniest seeds... The Chilean palm coconut. Doesn't it bear a curious resemblance to Zippy?
We followed a trail through the forest, meandering among the giant trunks. Weaverbirds sat on acacia trees, hurling abuse at us as we passed. This side of the park was considerably drier than the southern side, the going dusty and uncomfortable.
After following the trail for six kilometres we arrived at a huge waterfall, our default destination for the day. Tucked away in a deep gorge, the sight of this huge column of water gushing over the rock face was a refreshing compensation for the previous days' failure.
From our vantage point, high up in the valley, we took in sweeping views of the way we had come. Mountains and palms working in combination as a feast for our eyes. Turning round to look at the interior of the park, we could trace the path we were on as it led up into the cluster of hills and mountains. Was one of those distant peaks the plateau, teasing us from afar? I had a pretty good feeling I could spot it.
It was all I could do to stop myself from striding off to find out. Maybe another time. On this occasion time was not on our side. We only had a few weeks to get to Peru for our return flight. Still, before too long I would be on the Inca Trail, jostling for space amongst the backpackers, guides and porters. That should make up for it.
Local legend says that when the Conquistadors arrived in this part of Chile, the natives used witchcraft to hide all their gold in the peak of La Campana, which is why it shines so brightly at sunset. Whether the tale is true or not, anyone looking for a place to walk, away from the crowds and rubbish, somewhere with challenging climbs, great views and plenty of wildlife, will certainly find gold hidden here.   
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