BY ERIN WILLIAMS Special to The Washington Post

In the mountains of Patagonia, the stormneedn’t pass for her to find peace

To be fair, my son, Ewan, is game formost any trip. And I’m famously lucky tohave a mother-in-law as charming andadventurous as Jane.

Still, no matter how lovely your travelcompanions are, family trips — especiallythose of the multi-generational variety —are fraught with potential problems.Throw in a foreign country, even one astourist-friendly as Italy, and you up the

ante for aggravations.Which is why we settle on an itinerary

that promises something for us all.Museums, churches, a ghost tour, a

visit to a cat sanctuary, a highfalutinscavenger hunt using GPS, and, of course,fantastic food and wine. We decide to goduring our son’s spring break, in March —which itself is a compromise, in that it’s alittle chillier in Venice this time of year

than Gail and I would like it to be for Jane.But it’s the only time we could all go.Instead of a Grand Tour, ours is to be aGrand Compromise.

Foremost, Gail and I vow to slow down.This means, among other things, startingour days later, so our preteen son isn’tgrouchy from lack of sleep and Jane willhave time for morning ablutions that

VENICE CONTINUED ON F5

Three generations, a lot of canals and a cat sanctuaryCompromise was

the key to success on onefamily’s trip to Venice

KLMNO

TravelSUNDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 2014 . WASHINGTONPOST.COM/TRAVEL EZ EE F

NAVIGATOR

Charting a slow year forregulations that helpprotect travelers. F3

WHAT A TRIP

Sisters retrace their great-grandmother’s steps on atrip to Niagara Falls. F2

BED CHECK

Old Virginia glamour andthe best of autumn in theAllegheny Mountains. F3

ESCAPES

At Yogaville, asanas,atmosphere and —sometimes — coffee. F6

JAY GOODRICH

my shelterin the wild

Andrew and I were alone at the lookout, the fierceweather probably deterring other hopeful souls. Wehuddled on a boulder to wait for the gray curtain tolift from the spires.

We had planned the five-day hike as part of a20-day trekking excursion in Patagonia, the approxi-mately 300,000-square-mile expanse of wildernessstretching across the bottom of Chile and Argentina.For months, we had looked forward to restoring ourworn-out selves by backpacking and camping.

Wild areas are our escape from urban trappings:jobs, cellphones, gridlock, e-mails, deadlines, con-crete. More important, they are a place of calm andprovide solace as we endure life’s biggest blows. They

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The icy wind whipped and swirled, nearlyknocking me off my feet. Snow lashed myface. My husband and I struggled to see theTorres del Paine summits through the fog.After a wet, cold, three-hour uphill hike, I

hoped the slushy precipitation might clear, even for amoment, so I could glimpse the Torres — the trio ofgranite mountain peaks that are arguably Patagonia’smost iconic sight. On a clear day, their jagged grayedges scrape the sky hundreds of feet above a snow-field and a meltwater lake, but at this particularmoment they were hiding.

The Torres are often the highlight of the approxi-mately 45-mile W Circuit trek in Chile’s Torres delPaine National Park. On this day last December,

Dawn breaksnear LakePehoé in

Chile’s Torresdel PaineNational

Park, with theiconic Torres

del Painemountain

peaks in thedistance.

When I tell a friend that mywife, Gail, and I will soonspend a week in Venice, hesighs appreciatively.

Then I mention we’ll bebringing our school-age son. My palgroans knowingly.

I add that my mother-in-law will alsobe coming. To which he says: “Are youinsane?”

BY PAUL ABERCROMBIESpecial to The Washington Post

PHOTOS BY MARCO SECCHI/GETTY IMAGES

A gondolier sails along the Grand Canal and another readies gondolas in Venice. A travel clan spanning a wide age, and interest, range can be ripe for mishaps — or amazing fun.

F4 EZ EE KLMNO SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 2014

are where we find peace.

Coming to terms with lossCheryl Strayed, who wrote the best-sell-

ing memoir “Wild,” is helping to popular-ize nature’s healing abilities. The outdoorsplayed a tough-love role in her story,which appears on movie screens Friday.Hersolomisadventuresonthe2,650-mile-long Pacific Crest Trail through California,Oregon and Washington helped her cometo terms with her mother’s death.

Although my situation is different — Ihave an outdoorsy husband, and we weremuch more prepared than Strayed waswhen she hiked much of the PCT — I felt akinship with Strayed when I read “Wild.”After my 62-year-old mother died unex-pectedly in 2009, I began planning to hikethe entire trail. Long drawn to the moun-tains and lakes of the Sierras, I had day-hiked sections of the PCT near Lake Ta-hoe. I dreamed of a five-month trek spentin a daily rhythm of hiking, eating andsleeping. Frightened by what my mother’searly death might portend for my ownmortality, I didn’t want to wait any longer.

The plan was delayed in 2010 when myfather-in-law was diagnosed with cancerand died a year later. Andrew and I dealtwith our shock and grief by losing our-selves in the northern reaches of RockCreek Park. Whether it was the Sierras orhere in the domesticated woods of Wash-ington, D.C., I understood the pull of thenatural world when we need to heal. Forme, the appeal was less escapism thanrejuvenation, although at times it wassome of both.

Prior to these deaths, I had headed intothe wild whenever everyday stresses be-came overwhelming. When Andrew and Ilived in Arizona, we camped among Sedo-na’s red rocks and watched storms rollover the desert. When California was ourhome, we explored the craggy NorthernCalifornia coastline, redwoods and Sier-ras. In Washington, we find sanctuary inthe sylvan landscapes of the park, still, aswell as Shenandoah National Park andWest Virginia’s Dolly Sods Wilderness.

These local areas had long been weekly— and often daily — pilgrimages, but afterthe deaths of our two parents, we beganseeking out farther-flung, wilder places.We handled our grief by returning to theSierras and hiking sections of the PCTnear Lake Tahoe, climbing across graniteridges overlooking alpine lakes andscrambling over glacial moraines in theDesolation Wilderness. We putteredaround on a ramshackle boat in the Gala-pagos and mountain biked in the Andes.We hiked Kauai’s infamously challengingKalalau Trail, teetering along the plung-ing cliffs of the Na Pali Coast.

Nature gave me few answers, but itreminded me that there is more to lifethan daily existence. It made me gratefulto be alive and appreciative of the rootsand rocks that kept me grounded.

Even when things didn’t go our way, Iwas still happier inside a tent or on a trail.On an off-season camping trip in Icelandafter Andrew’s father died, gale-forcewinds and rain hammered our tent. Wehad made camp alongside Iceland’s larg-est natural lake, Thingvallavatn, during ablustery storm that had kept us awakenearly all night. It had been raining for

HIKING FROM F1

five days.We hunkered deep inside our sleeping

bags as the tent’s walls pressed on us andrain misted in under the fly. Our shelterwas nearing collapse.

I looked over at Andrew. His browneyes regarded me through a hole he hadcreatedbypullinghismummybag’sdraw-

string so tightly around his face, only hiseyes and nose were exposed.

“Are you cold?” I asked. It was barelyabove freezing.

“No, I’m actually fine,” he answered, hisvoice muffled. “Are you?”

I was fine as well — in fact, I was utterlycontent, although I imagined that thewinds might blow our little tent into thesky like a kite and drop us into the lake.

I wormed my way closer to him, andeventually we dozed off to the sound oftent fabric snapping in the wind. In themorning, puddles pooled under our sleep-ing pads and rain beaded on our sleepingbags,butwewerestill snugandwarm,andgrateful to have experienced the storm.

The W CircuitBy the time we left for Patagonia, grief

was no longer a crushing presence, butcontemporary D.C. life had left me feelingbedraggled. I ached to lace up my boots.Even when there wasn’t a crisis, I had agrowing need to get outside, and for lon-ger periods of time.

We had planned the trip for six monthsbefore boarding our flight to Chile, poringover gear lists and replacing some of ourthreadbare 18-year-old backpackingequipment — “prepare to experience ev-ery season in one day!” warned the guide-books. As training, we lugged our loadedpacks along Rock Creek Park’s WesternRidge Trail and during weekend trips inShenandoah. Really, it was just anotherreason to get outside.

Andrew and I arrived in Torres delPaine National Park, the first leg of ourtrip, four days before our climb to Base delas Torres. I pressed my face against thebus window during the two-hour ridefrom the park’s gateway town of PuertoNatales, mesmerized by the sprawlinglandscape and the surprising abundanceof wildlife: guanacos that resembled pe-tite llamas, massive Andean condors, in-congruous flamingos and ostrichlikerheas with little chicks that ran franticallyafter their fathers. Once in the park, wetook a choppy catamaran ride across LakePehoé to begin the W Circuit trek.

Our starting point was Paine Grande,one of the park refuges that lie alongsidethe trail. Some hikers stay inside thelodge’s comfortable rooms and otherscamp. However, nearly everyone warmsup inside with showers and a limitedmenu. We cooked pasta over our tinycamp stove inside a backpacker hut, butwe sipped hot tea inside the lodge beforesetting up our tent in the twilight.

Of the more than 100,000 people whovisit the park each year, most are fromoutside Chile. The breeze carried frag-ments of laughter and different languagesthrough our tent walls. This was nowherenear a solitary wilderness experience, andwe were surrounded by dozens of otherpeople. Yet I still felt at peace as we driftedto sleep.

From Paine Grande, we hiked about 40miles over five days to reach the Torres.The beginning of the trail wanderedalongside Grey Lake, bedazzled with blueicebergs broken off a glacier that is part ofthe 220-mile-long Southern Patagonia IceField. Winds ripped across the water,nearly blowing us off the path.

Each morning, we packed up our campand cooked oatmeal with dried fruit with

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When nature helps us weather our stormsJAY GOODRICH

PATRICK BRANDENBURG

ERIN WILLIAMS FOR THE WASHINGTON POST

In Chile’s Torres del PaineNational Park, the vista of LakePehoé, top; hiking paths,center; sunset over a bridge inAscencio Valley. Wild areas canpromise escapism, rejuvenation— or a little bit of both.

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 2014 KLMNO EZ EE F5

include rolling up her hair. What’s more,we — especially fleet-footed Ewan —pledge to literally slow our walking pacefor Jane, recovering from an inflamedheel. When not gallantly helping hisgrandmother over the city’s umpteenbridges, Ewan’s free to race ahead. Withno car traffic, Venice is about as safe as acity can be for kids.

We also make accommodations over,well, accommodations. Occupying mostof the top floor of the palazzo Ca’ Moceni-go is the three-bedroom penthouse over-looking the Grand Canal that we’ve rent-ed. From the altana — rooftop deck — wehave a panorama of the city. An old-fash-ioned elevator makes trips to and fromour fifth-floor perch a cinch for Jane. Andit’s added fun for Ewan: After helping hisgrandmother safely into the elevator, hedelights in racing up or down the stairs tosee if he can beat the lift before giving hera hand back out.

What’s more, the palazzo’s past guestsinclude Giordano Bruno, the 16th-centu-ry philosopher-turned-martyred hereticwith whom my mother-in-law is benignlyobsessed (she has a picture of him on herkitchen wall). That the palazzo is ru-mored to be haunted by Bruno’s ghost isenough to make Ewan a fan, too. Hegleefully tells us one morning that he’dheard Bruno’s ghost talking to him (inItalian, natch).

Gail and I would be happy with hum-bler digs. But here we each have our ownroom. And at half the cost of a couplerooms in an upscale hotel.

Stirring later every day also meansother concessions. We forgo a favoriteritual of morning cappuccinos and peo-ple-watching at a local cafe in favor ofso-so espressos brewed in our apartmentkitchen’s stovetop pot. But Gail and Iadmit that not having to get dressed firstis a plus, and the view has its own charms.We all marvel at the workaday traffic onthe Grand Canal. Boats for firefighting,police, mail delivery, garbage, even anarmored one for hauling money. We de-cide it’s like an aquatic version of a

VENICE FROM F1Richard Scarry children’s book.

Restaurants, with something for eachof our tastes, are blessedly compromise-free, save for distance to and from. Fortu-nately, the several near our apartment areall excellent. And each serves my belovedsaor, a Venetian specialty of sweet onions,vinegar and fish (in this case, sardines)that I make something of a mission to tryevery chance I get. Ewan’s usually irk-some habit of toting electronics every-where is now welcomed when he volun-teers to be our official food photographer,snapping photos of everything we eatwith his iPod. Soon Ewan is documentingmost aspects of our trip, freeing the rest ofus from photographic duties.

Even one of Ewan and Gail’s sharedhobbies turns out to offer something forJane and me. Strolling through the coolmaze of Venice’s canalside walkways,Ewan finds more than a dozen “geocach-es” — small containers hidden by fellowplayers of this worldwide treasure-hunt-ing game. Using her iPhone’s GPS, Gailshares clues about where these smallboxes are hidden. From each, we extractand sign a tiny notebook or scroll, some-times even swap a prize. Though game forgeocaching, Jane especially likes the littlehistory lessons about the city woven intothe clues. I’m happy to have an excuse towander the city and, with the pretext ofwanting my companions to rest their legs,stop at cafes for another fizzy VenetianSpritz cocktail.

Unlike many tourists, I’m content nev-er to set foot in a museum. Gail is onlyslightly less of a philistine than I am. Highculture to Ewan is like kryptonite toSuperman. For Jane, it’s catnip.

Which is why a visit to the art galleriesof Ca’ Pesaro is leavened with gelato. Andwhy, one drizzly night, we take a ghosttour that offers a survey of some of thecity’s more ghoulish history. A visit to theiconic Doge’s Palace wins us all over whenwe spring for a behind-the-scenes tour ofthe palace’s secret passages, hidden tor-ture chambers and prison cells.

There’s no debate about visiting Gattiledi Malamocco, a sanctuary for more than

a hundred abandoned and abused cats onthe nearby island of Lido. We all areunabashed cat lovers. Getting to Malam-occo on our morning of choice, though,has its challenges. A vaporetto – or waterbus — brings us to Lido, where we grab abus that takes us to one end of the island,followed by a half-mile walk to the fishingvillage of Malamocco. Ewan again doeshis parents proud by helping his grand-mother navigate muddy potholes. Thesanctuary is a series of small buildingswhere cats of all ages and degrees ofhealth live. A volunteer named Ricardogives us a tour, introducing us to each catby name, and explaining when and whyit’s been taken in. Gail and I share a smileas Ewan pets every cat that will let himand whispers soothing words. When hehappens upon a particularly friendly cat,he insists we all offer a pet or chin-scratch. Only hunger for lunch tears usaway.

A visit late that same afternoon to CaffèFlorian on Piazza San Marco is a perfectcompromise, in that it allowsJane to revelin the famed cafe’s live music, Gail and meto enjoy the stage-play of Venice streetlife, and Ewan to run semi-wild in thecity’s only true piazza, leaping to chase aglowing spinner toy bought from a streetvendor.

Gail and I had all but sworn off havingany chance of going out alone, much lessindulging in the city’s night life. But whenJane and Ewan volunteer to stay homeone evening, we’re almost out the doorbefore they’re done talking.

Westroll—morebrisklynowthatwe’reon our own — and linger over dinner at arestaurant a little farther afield. Late as itis when we leave the restaurant, we real-ize we don’t have to cut short our date. Sowe pop into a cozy bar for ombrette,traditional Venetian glasses of wine. Bythe time we return home, it’s late, thoughneither of us knows — or cares — whattime it is. Who knew a multi-generationaltrip could be so easy — and romantic?

travel@washpost.com

Paul Abercrombie is a writer in Tampa.

If you goWHERE TO STAYWeb sites offer a wide variety short-termapartment rentals, including cozy studios(about $150 a day), one-bedroom lofts($210), multi-room apartments that sleep10 ($685) and luxury penthouses (topping$1,000).

The Red House

011-39-041-309-1289

www.veniceredhouse.com

Views on Venice

011-39-041-241-1149

www.viewsonvenice.com

WHERE TO EATCaffè Florian

Piazza San Marco

011-39-041-520-5641

www.caffeflorian.comRegarded as Italy’s oldest cafe, CaffèFlorian offers light Italian snacks, dessertsand a dizzyingly extensive (and expensive)list of coffees, wines and cocktails. Splurgeon the $7.50-per-person charge to sitoutside to hear the orchestra — and sip apricey espresso ($8) or Venetian Spritz($24) — and you’ve bought yourself a front-row seat for some of the city’s best people-watching.

WHAT TO DOGattile di Malamocco

Via Teodato Ipato

Malamocco, Lido di Venezia

011-39-041-526-5002

www.dingovenezia.it

In the town of Malamocco, on the nearbyisland of Lido, this cat sanctuary is home tomore than 100 abused and abandonedfelines. Free, but by appointment only.

Venice Ghost Walking Tour

www.viator.com

By reservation only; about $32 per person.

Tours start atop the Rialto Bridge.

Doge’s Palace Secret Itineraries Tour

www.viator.com

By reservation only; about $79 per person.

Tours start at the main entrance to theDoge’s Palace.

INFORMATION

en.turismovenezia.it

— P.A.

PHOTOS BY MARCO SECCHI/GETTY IMAGES

With La Salute church in the background, a gondolier sails Venice’s Grand Canal, which can get so bustling it feels like an aquatic version of a Richard Scarry book.

A gondolier waits for customers. Venice’s maze of canalside walkways even hide geocaches, prizes in a scavenger hunt game.

other trekkers. Each night, we snug-gled deep into our sleeping bags, insu-lated from the biting Patagonian chill.

In between, we dawdled along thetrail, admiring aquamarine lakes, for-ests, wildflowers and the black-capped, hornlike Cuernos del Painemountains that stand sentry over thepath. We hiked the French Valley,flanked by glaciers hanging off moun-tain slopes and granite walls, and atelunch under Cerro Paine Grande, thehighest summit of the park’s moun-tain range. We drank unfiltered waterfrom glacial meltwater streams.

Rudimentary bridges often crossthese streams, requiring hikers tocross single-file. Yet many streamshavenobridges, andhikersmust crossby hopping gracefully across rocks. Iwas not graceful and fell into a stream.

“Are you okay?” asked Andrew, whowas standing on the other side.

“Yes,” I said, “just a little cold.” Thewater was frigid enough to take mybreath away.

I couldn’t get any wetter, so Islogged through the water andplopped down on the stream bank. Ibailed water out of my boots, thenspent a blissful hour catnapping as myclothes dried in the sun.

Hidden towersFor the last day’s hike to the Torres,

sheeting precipitation and relentlesswind slowed our pace, the weatherchanging from sunshine to drizzle torain to sleet to snow — not uncommonweather for Patagonia’s fickle summer-time. Starting in a river valley, wecrossed stream after stream, climbingthroughabeechforestthatthinnedintoshrubs before hitting a boulder-strewnglacial moraine field. Andrew led as wepickedourwayalongtheslipperyrocks,and I clung to his solid 6-foot-4 framefor support against the gusts.

We were exhausted by the time wearrived at the Torres. I wrung waterout of my gloves, shaking my hands towarm them. No other hikers had beeneither intrepid or foolishly optimisticenough to attempt the hike, let alonesit down and wait for the storm to passand reveal the soaring peaks.

“Is this where they’re supposed tobe?” Iasked, squinting throughthe fogand snow. We were on the shore of thechalky gray lake directly under theTorres. The towers’ snowfield wasbarelyvisible, andwecouldnot see theTorres looming above.

“I think so,” he said. He took mysoggy hand in his. The storm showedno sign of clearing. “Are you disap-pointed?”

Wesat there together, shiveringandholding hands, and I thought aboutthe infinity of the landscape and theintimacy of our tent. The two of uswere alive together in this vast andbeautiful wilderness, whether or notthe weather cooperated. A view wouldhave been nice, but it was not why Ihad come here.

“No,” I said. “Let’s stay for a while.”travel@washpost.com

Erin Williams is a writer living inWashington, D.C.

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If you goWHAT TO DOTorres del Paine National Park

Magallanes y la Antártica Chilenaregion

www.parquetorresdelpaine.cl/en/

011-566-1-229-1931

Entrance fee is about $30.

The park is about two hours by busfrom Puerto Natales. Companiessuch as Buses Fernández(www.busesfernandez.com), BusesPacheco (www.busespacheco.com)and Bus-Sur (www.bussur.com/opensite) offer daily service. Rides areapproximately $25 round trip anddepart from the bus terminal neardowntown Puerto Natales.

Erratic Rock Hostel

Baquedano 719, Puerto Natales

www.erraticrock.com

011-566-1-414-317

It’s not necessary to hire a guide forthe hike, but this Puerto Nataleshostel offers a popular freeinformation session on how do itsafely at 3 p.m. daily.

WHERE TO STAYFantastico Sur(www.fantasticosur.com) and VérticePatagonia (www.verticepatagonia.com)operate the park’s network of lodges,campsites and cabins. Tents,sleeping bags and mats are availableto rent for $3.50-$16 per night.Online reservations arerecommended during the highseason of January-February, even forcampsites and equipment.

WHERE TO EATBasic, American-style meals areavailable at the refugios and costabout $12 for breakfast, $16-18 forlunch and $20-25 for dinner. Thosewishing to cook their own food inseparate camper accommodationscan stock up at one of PuertoNatales’s groceries such as Unimarc(www.unimarc.cl).

— E.W.

Our smooth ride in the Floating City