We returned to camp after a morning ski. Splitter weather stretched as far as the eye could see – a rarity in Southern Patagonia. Glaciar Torre is subject to extreme winds and generous snowfall during early October; today was unusual, and its unusualness was loud and clear. The scorching sun overhead helped dry our sodden gear from yesterday's storm. I threw a Kodak roll into my 6x7 and walked out onto the point. I sat with all my senses present. The glacier was alive. All I had to do was observe. With air so still, I heard Sam fart in his tent 100 feet away. At first, deep rumbles made me question if all the Yerba I've been sipping wanted out of my stomach, but the roars gained clarity and, with a head turn, revealed a large avalanche surging its way down an Easterly alpine face; what beauty to witness from afar. Rocks the size of a Hilux took turns releasing off the North side of Cerro Solo, clacking their way down the slide paths, and eventually dunking into the lake. The glacier's toe is ever-changing, and today its cyan cracked walls were discharging pronouncedly. We’d watch the calving ice penetrate the stillness of the water and draw out ripples, and afterwards, listen for the sound to make its way up to us. Like a resonance of welcoming thunder reverberating through our ears. And yet also felt disturbing, bringing up discussions on our changing climate. The icebergs gradually flow downstream, creating unique shapes in the lake along the way. Nick pointed out a heart, it’s subtle but it’s present. The heart was a reward for being observant, acknowledging who we’re with, and witnessing this romanticized landscape as reality.