Since 1983, I have chased the fleeting elegance of lenticular clouds across the Andes. My first encounter happened at Volcán Osorno, where a perfect cone of vapor rose above the summit.
Smooth layers wrapped the peak as if the sky had sculpted them by hand. In that instant, I understood why lenticular clouds often resemble UFOs. Their shapes appear too precise, too luminous, to feel entirely earthly.
Through the decades, I followed these forms into the wilds of Patagonia. Torres del Paine became a natural stage for them. Many consider it one of the best places in the world to witness these rare formations.
The winds there carve radiant crowns, floating discs, and long, bridge-like structures that hover above the peaks like silent visitors.
Patience soon became part of the craft. Some journeys offered wide panoramas, with mountains holding layers of cloud like stacked halos. Others revealed a single crown above one solitary summit.
On many days, I carried all my equipment and came back with nothing. These clouds appear only when the mountain and the wind agree to create them. That uncertainty shaped my work as much as the landscapes themselves.
Each photograph marks more than a moment of weather. It reflects a meeting with chance and wonder. Art does not always come from human intention alone. Sometimes, the sky and the land create it together.
This timeline — from Villarica in 1983 to Torres del Paine in the 2000s and beyond — forms a personal archive of encounters.
These skies often look like they belong to dreams, or even to other worlds, yet they remain deeply tied to the Andes that shaped them.
Explore the series at gcs.photo — fine art photography where water, memory, and time become poetic meditation.
