by Becky Wicks
It all looks very romantic, watching strong men on horseback rounding up herds of nervous sheep in the late afternoon sun with the help of four glossy-coated dogs, but that’s from a car window. Get up close and your much-admired gaucho has skin like leather, breath that smells of burnt beef and no interest whatsoever in discussing anything that isn’t related to his flock of domestic alpacas.
Autumn and I totally underestimated how long it would take to reach each place in this country. Distances are deceiving on maps, especially small maps, like the ones on our iPhones (ahem). We had no idea it would be a twenty-three hour journey from Pucón down to Punta Arenas via a night bus, two taxis and a plane; nor that it would then take almost another full day of travelling from the atmospherically challenged Punta Arenas to get to the EcoCamp Patagonia in Torres del Paine.
Usually this particular journey takes four to five hours, but José had to stop to let us take photos, let us get lunch, let us get lost on the way back to the van from the toilet, etc. At one point, we saw no less than three ginormous eagles in the space of ten minutes. We pulled to the roadside each time to try and capture them on camera and, each time, watched them soar away over the scraggly trees before we could take a picture.
Long rides have their highs and lows, but if you’re planning to travel Chile, I would definitely advise you to book your transport as much in advance as possible, especially plane rides and especially around public holidays, else you’ll be backtracking like we had to do from Pucón back up to Santiago in order to fly back down south. Error.
Anyway, I suppose most journeys, although long, offer the chance to reflect on what’s happened so far and also to think about the people who make these lonely trips on a regular basis, either for work, leisure or to pay homage to a loved one who never got to make it to their final destination at all.
28/09
Home sweet dome …
I jolted upright in the middle of the night, thinking my duvet was on fire. Sweat was pouring down my neck, my hair was damp, and I looked up to see the open jaws of hell at the end of my bed. After maybe three seconds of fearing for my life and waiting for Satan himself to crawl under the covers, I realised it was just the log fire reaching its peak in our little dome-shaped home and that flaming hell was actually safely confined behind a glass door.
Having woken Autumn with my shrieks, she said it was my fault I was hot because I piled on the logs before falling asleep, in case we froze.
Reflections in Torres del Paine.
There’s just no controlling the temperature in Patagonia’s Torres del Paine, no matter how hard we try. As with the majority of places we’ve visited so far, we’ve come here at what people are calling ‘the wrong time’. The EcoCamp Patagonia, nestled in what looks like a patch of Hobbit real estate at the base of the three jagged, pink granite mountains which puncture the sky above this 2422-square-kilometre national park, seemed a far better option for ‘the wrong time of year’ than pitching a windproof tent by an icy lake.
To be fair, for the last two days the weather has been surprisingly sunny and dry, proving once again there’s no wrong time to be anywhere, really. There’s a ‘not as popular’ time, but these are so far turning out to be quieter, less crowded by tourists, with random bursts of amazing weather that we get all to ourselves.
Perhaps the total opposite of waking in a sweaty mess in front of a fire was the teeth-chattering chill that came with holding a glass of ice-cold whisky yesterday, as the wind whipped relentlessly around our ears on the deck of a moving boat. The ice in my glass had just been chiselled off an iceberg, one of many floating like sculptures carved by the hand of God on Lago Grey, a glacial lake. It’s fair to say neither Autumn nor I had ever drunk an iceberg before yesterday, but the thrill of doing so made up for the fact that we were forced to huddle deep into our unattractive Marshmallow and Tyre Man outfits while we did it.
A group of Brazilian ladies on holiday to escape their husbands batted their eyelashes at their perplexed tour guide and managed to obtain and consume several bottles of complimentary whisky as we floated around the jutting, glacial blue masses. Within half an hour of sipping their first drinks they were drunk and had started a little karaoke session inside the boat, using the captain’s microphone.
We watched them with amusement through the windows from our place on the deck as it was explained to us why the more compact and towering glaciers are all a Smurf-skin shade of blue. It turns out that this is because whereas the red/long wavelengths in white light are absorbed by the ice, the blue/short wavelengths are transmitted and scattered across it. The further light travels in ice, the bluer it appears. Or something like that. I was finding the facts a little hard to grasp, being more than a little buzzed on whisky.
We went inside to sing with the Brazilians and our guides took photos to embarrass us with later. I joined in with a song that’s been following me all over South America, called ‘Quiero Casarme Contigo’ by the Colombian singing sensation, Carlos Vives. It’s a song that appears to get more airplay here than, say, Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ or John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ have ever had since they were written. I don’t think I’ve gone a day without hearing it somewhere. I defy you to Google it and not get it stuck in your head.
Right now I am listening to a rather sexy, long-haired EcoCamp guide called Diego playing it on his guitar. I can see his ponytail blowing in the soft breeze as he sits on a sun-soaked bench overlooking what must be a hundred kilometres of green open space stretching beneath Torres del Paine’s line of ragged peaks that rise like spiky serpents out of a cottony ocean of clouds. This Chilean part of Patagonia is unbelievably bewitching.
It’s also easy to see why Chileans refer to their country in general as el ultimo rincon del mundo — the last corner of the world. Out here in Patagonia, you really do feel as though you’re a million miles away from everything else. If you’re planning to see it with your boyfriend or girlfriend, I envy you, as it’s probably one of the most romantic locations I’ve ever visited.
Autumn and I walked from the EcoCamp out to the milky blue Lago Nordenskjold today, with two girls from Melbourne and our two Chilean guides, Claudio and the guitar-playing Diego. As soon as we left the EcoCamp and caught our first glimpse of the craggy slopes and grassy plains resplendent with spouting signs that winter’s almost over, we forgot how unfit we are thanks to never using that skipping rope with weights in the handles that Autumn packed. We concentrated instead on spotting the wildlife around the lake. We saw tiny frogs, beetles, lizards, scorpions and a fair few guanaco (part of the camel family) carcasses to prove that pumas are out here too, somewhere.
In Torres del Paine, the precipitous peaks are encircled by condors. Bleating lambs scurry after flocculent sheep, hares hop across vast, windswept steppes, and nandus, which look like small ostriches, waddle away from you faster than you can focus your camera on them.
We passed a bunch of prickly shrubs called mother-in-law’s seat and learned that all berries growing in Torres del Paine are edible. There’s no way you’ll go out like the guy in Into the Wild, if you go wild here. Also, the park was given UNESCO status in 1978, so you can embark on numerous trails safe in the knowledge that you won’t be shot accidentally by a deer hunter, either.
The most popular trail in the park is the W Circuit — a three to four day hike, during which you can camp or stay at designated refugios along the way. This would be a cheaper, much more rustic way to see Torres del Paine, and several people doing this have come in to share dinner and drinks with us around the communal table at EcoCamp, just for a touch of heat and comfort. It sounds like quite an adventure — one I wouldn’t mind doing myself one day. But having seen their wind-slapped cheeks and stoplight red noses at this time of year, I think Autumn and I would both prefer to be woken up by a demon fire every night, than by the jabbing hands of Jack Frost beside an icy lake.
It was during our hike to Lago Nordenskjold that I met Mirador, the special
stick. Don’t you love it when you find a good stick? It adds an element of adventure to any outing, I say. With nothing but the great outdoors around you, you’re free to be a kid again and even give your stick a name and magical powers, like you used to. I called mine Mirador, because that’s what was written on the signpost next to where I found it.
Claudio later told me mirador means ‘lookout point’ in Spanish, but it was too late by then. Mirador and I were inseparable and plus, when you say it really slowly in a deep, low voice, it sounds like the name of a warlock. Go on, say it. Say ‘Mirador’ in a low voice, slowly.
See? Warlock. You can’t abandon a warlock once you’ve found one.
Mirador also came with me on our hikes to Lago Azul and Laguna Amarga, the latter of which means ‘bitter’, as this ancient pool of milky water is very high in minerals, very salty and has a PH content of eleven. No life can survive in it, so the surroundings are eerily silent, devoid of all the birds and wildlife we’ve been spotting elsewhere.
Our guides from EcoCamp all love birds. They’re very knowledgeable about everything, really, and speak great English, so I’m finally learning something firsthand without having to Google it all afterwards, but I would say their specialty is definitely birds. Every now and then on our drives to various hiking trails, the van will come to a halt, we’ll all jolt forward and Claudio and Diego will jump out, dark hair flying out behind them, stubbled chins pointing skyward along with their cameras.
‘Look! An Andean condor!’ they’ll cry. ‘Look, a long-tailed meadowlark! A southern crested cara cara! And is that … no it can’t be! Is that a black-chested buzzard eagle with a red-gartered coot?’
After the Galápagos, I thought I was destined to view birdwatchers a bit like I view hikers: old men with rucksacks on their backs and binoculars round their necks, sporting hats to stop the bird shit getting in their hair and cameras with ginormous lenses compensating for everything else they’re lacking in life as they hide behind trees and bushes. But I’ve been wrong. Birdwatchers are sexy. At least, they are in Chile.
Anyway, my own hunt for the elusive puma was unsuccessful, in spite of Mirador’s magic puma-attracting spell, because pumas are terrified of humans and it’s extremely rare to spot them here. In fact, you’re more likely to spot a UFO, according to Jose our driver, who’s actually seen them — the UFOs, that is. Apparently, UFO sightings are quite common in Chile and Argentina, especially in a town in northern Argentina called Capilla del Monte, which is home to a sacred mountain called Uritorco and the hundreds of spiritual pilgrims who flock there at any one time. I think I’m going to have to go there.
As well as pointing out the shrines on the way to Torres del Paine, Jose pointed to dips and cracks in the towering peaks, which have on his various drives been known to shimmer with inexplicable lights. A chemical reaction, you might think. A low flying aircraft? Maybe so.
But you know what? Out here in the last corner of the world, a frozen Narnia where icebergs can chill your whisky, pumas can pounce as soon as you become complacent, and a magical stick can be as powerful as your imagination will let it, an alien nation existing in the shadows doesn’t actually seem so ridiculous at all.
30/09
Tierra del Fuego and some wild OATs …
Deep in the fjord, the ice on the banks to one side of our ship was frozen into the shapes of tidal waves that looked as though a surfer in snow-gear might appear on a crest and freeze like an icicle halfway down the mountainside. I sat with Autumn and three koalas on one bed, drinking red wine as she captured these blue-white, otherworldly scenes with a wide-angle lens through the window.
The good ship Stella Australis, with its ever-changing views, is proving an exceptional home on our cruise from Punta Arenas over to Argentina’s Ushuaia, not least because we paid a bit more for a suite, and because all food and drinks are included. It’s an expensive addition to our trip at almost US$2500 each for the four-night voyage, but there’s really no other way to see Tierra del Fuego, or reach Cape Horn — the end of the world. We figured, if we’re travelling this far, we may as well go as far as possible.
Of course, as far south as possible would have meant going to Antarctica, which is only 650 kilometres from Cape Horn. But as usual it’s ‘not the right time’ to visit, the season for Antarctica being from November through March.
Contrary to popular belief, visiting Antarctica on your trip through South America doesn’t have to break the bank. We’re told that in season, a last minute cruise from Ushuaia into the frothing wrath of the Drake Passage and beyond to walk in Shackleton’s footsteps can cost as little as $4000 if you’re willing to share a triple cabin and aren’t too fussy about your food. We’re also told it pays to stock up on sea-sickness pills, tour a number of agencies to compare prices when you arrive, and rent your expedition clothing in Ushuaia to save lugging your own about. Also, be flexible. Apparently it’s not uncommon for people to have to wait one or two weeks in Ushuaia before finally securing a sacred place on a ship.
Cruising to Cape Horn on the Stella Australis, a boat with just a hundred cabins and a gourmet nightly buffet that would put any hotel in Vegas to shame (mini king crab hot pot, anyone?), is exciting enough for us. Plus, our shipmates are a group of retired passengers from California. The place cards on their allocated tables in the dining room read OAT, and I, Autumn, and our new friends Stephanie (Australian), Rachel (Swiss) and Mariela (German), the only other solo female travellers on board under thirty-five, have been trying to figure out what that OAT stands for. We can only imagine it’s Old Age Travellers.
Now, you might be thinking you’d prefer a sexy oceanic fiesta with a wet T-shirt competition every night at nine in the hot tub, instead of bingo at six before bed time, but cruising with old people is like having access to a hundred grandmas all wanting to tell you about something wonderful. And you’re at sea, so there’s no way they can get distracted by The Antiques Roadshow, abandon you mid-sentence and then forget what they were saying. Also, they go to bed early, leaving you with full reign over the song book during the scheduled karaoke night on the top deck; or, as is the case for Autumn and me, they allow you to be the stars of the cruise ship fashion show.
Tierra del Fuego (meaning Land of Fire) is separated from mainland Argentina by the Strait of Magellan, with a total area of roughly 48,000 km2. It’s one of the most untouched and unspoilt places on the earth and therefore one of the most extraordinary. There are no park rangers. Only the Stella Australis and, I think, one other ship ever visit some of the sites on this voyage, which means that we as passengers are responsible for the landscape. Our expedition leader explained how the guides and other staff on the ships sometimes have to pitch in to help build bridges through the park, to enable the relatively few visitors to explore in safety.
On our first disembarkation in Ainsworth Bay — a coastal inlet fed by the meltwater of the retreating Marinelli Glacier — my feet sank up to my knees in fluffy snow. I looked about at the enchanted forest surrounding us as I struggled to walk behind my shipmates and honestly felt more magic in the air than could ever have been conjured up by Mirador.
Here is a true ethereal wonderland, where bursts of colour in the form of hardy shrubs rise triumphantly like splayed fingers on buried hands. As Autumn and I and our new friends posed in our mismatching winter warmers on washed up chunks of glacier ice, I thought about the fact that hardly anyone gets to walk paths like this. Hardly anyone gets to make-believe they’re the Snow Queen reigning over such a magical forest. And in this sub-polar Magellan forest, few people get to see these trees, gnawed to the size of small stools by beavers in the quest to build their dams. I felt exceptionally grateful.
As our guide explained the whys and hows of the environment and my feet grew numb in my trainers, I watched a four-year-old kid trip and fall in the snow over and over again, each time almost being buried by the sheer volume of it. But each time her grin was wider and her laughter louder and it was hear
twarming to think of how she’ll store these memories. Being from Sydney, she’d never seen or stood in snow before.
Heading back to the Zodiacs for some hot chocolate and whisky (they give you whisky after each departure on this ship of dreams), my hands were numb with the cold, but while I was waiting for my turn to go back to the ship I met three guys from different parts of Chile who are actually living for three months in Ainsworth Bay. They’re researching elephant seals and rely on the cruise ships to bring them supplies.
I always wanted to be an ice queen in Narnia …
I had a chat with them. They were all quite good looking, so naturally I started imagining what we’d do at night if the ship sailed off without me and I had to share their tent. They showed me their waterproof clipboard, which they write on in waterproof pencil, and which had a lot of notes on it about elephant seals. I’m still not entirely sure if elephant seals really exist in Ainsworth Bay or if these guys are just so cold and starved between deliveries that they see things on the horizon, but I nodded encouragingly and promptly fetched them some warming whisky in polystyrene cups.
I left hoping they find what they’re looking for. We’d seen an empty beaver’s dam, two geese, a forest and some snow in Ainsworth Bay and that was about it. It’s beautiful and everything, probably one of the most incredible patches of the earth I’ve ever had the good fortune to set foot upon, but there’s a reason people visit for a couple of hours and then go back to king crab hot pots and unlimited wine.
After lunch, we headed back out to see some waddling Magellan penguins (endemic to the Southern Hemisphere) and a flock of what must have been at least 5000 cormorants all dropping their white loads like dangerous missiles onto a giant black rock … and, occasionally, us. We all threw our hands over our heads, pulled our hoods up, but couldn’t stop looking anyway. It’s almost impossible to describe the light in people’s eyes when they see things like this, things they’ve travelled far and wide to see that go beyond all expectation. You catch it now and again and it almost makes you want to cry.
