Sand dunes, mountains and moonscapes converge in Chile’s Atacama Desert | Canada Voices

Confession: It never occurred to me, until I was in my fifth decade, that flamingos can fly.

I knew they had wings – famously handy appendages when it comes to flight – but I never clocked that the birds did anything more than stand around on their toothpick legs in the shallow end.

And so I was extra tickled watching these pink creatures glide overhead in Chile’s Atacama Desert. It is one thing to know (or realize sheepishly late in life) that flamingos fly. It is quite another to stand on a salt flat watching cotton candied-coloured birds, some with wingspans stretching 1.5 metres, coast over lagoons with the Andes in the distance.

The Atacama Desert is the driest place on Earth, save for the planet’s polar deserts. Yet South America’s three species of flamingos – Chilean, petite James’s and yellow-legged Andean – are hanging out at Laguna Chaxa, using their beaks to scrounge up food from the lagoon’s floor.

“Here we have an extreme life, a strange life and a beautiful life,” Rodolfo Alvarez says as he guides me and another guest along a pathway in the Los Flamencos National Reserve. “We have this crazy geology, this crazy geography, and it creates this diversity.”

We arrive early, to beat the day’s first whispers of wind and the September heat on the salt flat. The sky is cartoon blue, with a gentle ombre effect thanks to a touch of haze from wildfires and mining pollution. The lagoon is mirror smooth, reflecting the flamingos and mountains in a way that makes photographers giddy. The ground is crusty white, with rich browns and coppery reds running throughout.

The Atacama is defined by sand dunes and salt flats, mountains and moonscapes. There are hot springs, geysers and turquoise lagoons. Birdwatchers flock to Laguna Chaxa for the flamingos and Andean avocets. Instagrammers hit up Laguna Cejar to float effortlessly in its calypso water. Astronomers, both professional and amateur, gather here because the lack of humidity and shortage of humanity means the night sky is clear and dark.

“The Atacama Desert is a window to our universe,” Alvarez says.

We stop in Toconao, a village home to around 800 people, most of whom consider themselves Lican Antai (a.k.a.: Lickanantay or the Atacamenos), one of 11 Indigenous peoples recognized by Chile.

The community’s marquee attraction, a church bell tower dating back to the 1700s, sits in the village’s main square. Its crisp-white structure stands in contrast with the town’s squat browny-grey buildings, constructed with volcanic blocks from a nearby quarry. Some of the homes have black flags outside, in protest of the area’s lithium extraction industry.

Chile produced roughly 20 per cent of the world’s lithium in 2024, second to Australia, although the South American country tops global reserves. And the Atacama’s salt flats are ground zero, dividing residents in villages like Toconao. Lithium is a key ingredient in rechargeable batteries, which are championed as an alternative to fossil fuels. But experts have also tied lithium production in the Atacama to sinking salt flats and shrinking flamingo populations.

Toconao is about 40 kilometers south of San Pedro de Atacama, the desert’s small oasis town that serves as a hub for tourists. Nayara Alto Atacama, a luxury resort that blends into its surrounding rock formations, is about three kilometres from that centre. Zen vibes drip from the 42-room resort, which is dotted with gardens and a handful of outdoor pools with loungers and umbrellas for much-needed shade. (Don’t forget to visit the llama corral.) Staff encourage guests to drink water to stay hydrated throughout the day and distribute little humidifiers to combat the dryness at night.

The hotel has its own observatory, a platform on top of an adjacent hill, complete with telescope. We each claim a lounger and stare up at the sparkles. Shooting stars flash and fizzle.

For northerners, it is an entirely different sky. The Southern Cross, Centaurus and Carina are among the constellations that pop in the southern hemisphere.

I take a turn at the telescope and the guide asks me if I could make out Saturn’s rings. Maybe? He takes that as a no and fiddles with the focus until I gasp. I never knew I was fond of stargazing until this exact moment, when I could see the chief characteristic of a major celestial constituent with my own eyes. Bucket lists, I decide, can be retroactive.

Tourists are wise to book guides for excursions – whether short drives or multiday hikes. The Atacama’s vast, wild terrain makes getting lost a real possibility. And the potential for dehydration adds another layer of risk. That, and the guides have Chilean wines at the ready when you break for lunch or stop for sunsets.

One afternoon, we explore an area called the Vallecito, following a guide through lunar-like formations on the valley floor, up to the top of a rugged ridgeline. Soft sand accumulated on the other side, turning what should have been a mountain-y rock face into a sea of giant dunes. Joel Colque, our guide, takes off his shoes and socks and encourages us to do the same. It is time to descend.

I start slowly, wanting to take it all in. But sand dunes are for being silly, not introspective. I run, jump and twirl my way down. A driver picks us up at the bottom and we bounce through the desert in search of the perfect spot to watch a perfect sunset.

The next day, we tackle Rainbow Valley, a full-day hike that starts with ancient art carved into the red rocks, involves a guanaco grazing mountainside and ends with herd of llamas rolling in the dirt. We summit at 3,302 metres above sea level.

The final incline leaves me winded. Our guide offers an out, blaming the thinner air. I know the truth: my shoddy fitness.

“Congratulations,” guide Pablo Ponce says. “You can throw up in peace.”

Our prize, however, awaits. I gasp – yes, literally, again – when we are back on the valley floor, on the other side of the rock formation we just climbed. The formations – not quite hills, mountains or hoodoos – are desert red, lichen green, ashy white and dusty blue. There’s purple and mauves and sparkles. Our guide explains that the greys and whites are a result of a group of minerals called feldspar, but I’m pretty sure it is because dinosaurs painted this landscape.

“Nature is a work of art itself,” Ponce says.

If you go

Latam Airlines flies to Calama, in the Atacama Desert, from Santiago. I travelled between Calgary and Los Angeles with WestJet, and L.A. and Santiago with Latam.

Nayara Alto Atacama arranges ground transportation and excursions. The hotel prepares picnics for day trips and the dining room’s menu changes daily. Order the fish, every time. Eat the flower garnishes. Rooms from $1,116, includes breakfast and in-room mini bar.

Pack sunscreen and clothes suitable for excursions with temperatures ranging from just above freezing to intense desert heat.

The writer travelled courtesy of Nayara Resorts, which neither approved nor reviewed the article. Stories are based on merit; The Globe does not guarantee coverage.