20,000 Miles South

by Helen Schreider

Once we were inside the tunnel, the circle of daylight from the entrance faded quickly. A brief twilight and we were in the blackest night. Boring two holes through the emptiness, our headlights flared from ice stalactites, reflected from roaring streams of water, and transformed the rails into twin silver lines. A half mile, then a mile, a sign proclaimed the international boundary, and we were in Chile. As we slid over patches of ice I tightened my grip on the wheel. Depressions between the ties became more marked, and too late I understood the need for planks. By the mile-and-a-half point the wheels were jumping from tie to tie—shades of Costa Rica. With a quarter of a mile left to go we stuck in the ice between two widely separated ties.

  I was disgusted with myself for not having first inspected the full length of the dank tunnel. With a deep drainage ditch on either side and less than three feet between the jeep and the tunnel walls we couldn’t turn back. As we rocked free, a noise from the transmission punctuated the echoing sound of the exhaust. Fifty yards from the entrance the noise grew to the metronomic evenness of a missing gear tooth.

  Just outside the mouth of the tunnel was Caracoles, a small switch house of the Transandino Railway. Standing in the door, a man stared at the clanking apparition that appeared. In a canyon of blinding snow-peaked crags La Tortuga lurched off the tracks; the metronome reached a crescendo, and the motor thudded to a halt.

  The nightmarish hike that followed to Portillo, seven freezing miles of ice-filled tunnels, the arrangements we made there for a special flatcar, and the disappointment we felt as we watched La Tortuga pushed up the ramp at Caracoles all formed a chain of events that brought about still another change of plans. Even if the transmission had not gone out we could not have continued: the “downhill” road we had been going to take was covered with piano-sized rocks and five feet of snow. But as we swayed in the caboose of the freight train that carried us forty miles to the Chilean town of Los Andes we resolved to cross this pass under our own power. Instead of shipping home from Buenos Aires we would cross the continent again to reach Chile and ship home from Valparaiso.

  In the back yard of a Los Andes hotel I was faced with the same problem as in Colombia—how to get at the transmission without removing the motor. Since the baling-wire repair job had proven so successful, I thought I’d try another shotgun method. With a hack saw I enlarged an inspection plate in the floor boards to a foot-square opening.

  Working inside the cab, feet hanging from a sky hook, I disconnected drive shafts, propeller shaft, bilge pump, and sundry other bottlenecks in the mechanical maze, and two days later I jiggled free the transmission. The damage was considerable—chips of broken gear teeth had ruined almost every moving part. And there wasn’t a replacement in Los Andes. Leaving the jeep there, we boarded a train for Santiago, fifty miles away.

  The railroad terminal in Chile’s capital was a nineteenth-century version of Grand Central. Hailing a cab, we found that Chile’s hospitality did not extend to dogs. After five taxis slowed, looked at Dinah, and sped off, we finally tricked one into stopping by hiding her behind a pushcart. And we soon learned that the hotels were just as fussy. Starting in the middle, we descended the ladder of hotel quality until, near the bottom, we finally found one that would admit Dinah—with reluctance.

  After getting comfortably—more or less—settled, we telephoned Carmen Cuevas Mackenna to thank her for her invitation. Above a background of strumming guitars an effervescent voice streamed from the receiver, and in English spiked with Spanish she charmingly but emphatically declared that she was very offended to find us in a hotel. I’ve been expecting you for weeks,” she said.

  Carmen was Chile’s foremost teacher of guitar and folk music, and her studio home was a constant happy turmoil. Even after a week of unsuccessful searching for jeep parts we couldn’t be dejected around buoyant Carmen. She always had something planned, and one Saturday afternoon, along with seventy of her students, we accompanied her to her country place near Santiago. In a setting of green hills a whole lamb roasted over glowing coals while pink-sashed huasos, Chilean cowboys with four-inch silver spurs, basted the meat with sprigs of laurel dipped in wine. Leafy salad, French bread, and several large pitchers of borgona, red wine with fresh strawberries, completed the asado, and for those few who were still hungry there were empanadas, moon-shaped turnovers of meat seasoned with raisins and olives. Later, in American hay ride fashion, about twenty of us rode through the countryside on the back of a truck. Singing spirited Chilean songs to the accompaniment of guitars, concertinas, and tambourines, we saw a Chilean motto come to life—“The house is small, but the wine jug is big.” As we stopped at each little farm along the way, the master of the house swung open the gate and welcomed us with a large chuico and as many glasses as he had. With red wine flowing, dancing followed. In pairs everyone joined in the cueca, a lively folk dance of subtle meaning in which waving handkerchiefs and raised eyebrows told the story of shy courtship.

  Santiago was a city of late hours and even later dinners, and an appointment in the afternoon could mean any time up to seven. The cocktail hour stretched till ten, the dinner until twelve or after; with dancing and more cocktails whetting the appetite again the party broke up after breakfast. We soon learned it was wise to eat something before leaving for a dinner engagement, but after one experience we abandoned that practice—eager to please us, one considerate host served dinner at eight, and we couldn’t eat a bite.

  During the day—what was left of it after recovering from these nightly sorties—we finally tracked down all the parts needed for the jeep except one. This, a simple round shaft, a machinist agreed to make for us. It would be ready in a week, he said. I should have known he meant Chilean time. I promptly returned on the seventh day to find the part made, but since his heat-treating equipment was out of commission—had been for a year—he didn’t know just when the shaft could be hardened. Exasperated at his nonchalance, I took the job to another shop, where another mañana-minded machinist procrastinated. Salvation came in the form of a taxi driver who informed me that some Nash transmission parts were similar to those of a jeep.

  There remained one detail to take care of in Santiago. We made arrangements for passage home on a Grace Line ship leaving from Valparaiso, Chile, for San Pedro, California. Then, just before leaving for Los Andes to repair La Tortuga, we said thanks and good-by to hospitable Carmen. After a smothering embrace for the three of us she winked, shook her finger in mock sternness, and affectionately said, “Hasta pronto, and remember, when you come back, no hotels.”

  In comparison with the silent glide of today’s fin-propelled automobiles La Tortuga’s was a hubbub, but to me her normal thrashing-machine medley of rattles and rumbles was like music. After so many thousands of miles I was in tune with her every sound, and as we headed south once more the characteristic gear whine from beneath the floor boards was reassuring. However, despite this comforting sound we babied her along. Ushuaia was still more than two thousand miles away, two thousand miles of rough dirt roads broken by lakes, the Strait of Magellan, and the tail end of the Andes. Some eight hundred miles south of Santiago the road in Chile ended at Puerto Montt, where, in order to continue south, we would first have to turn eastward across three Andean lakes to reach Argentina again.

  But there was another reason for driving slowly. We had taken this circuitous route especially to enjoy the gentle beauty of Chile’s lake region, and it was a restful ten days to Puerto Montt, winding through daisy-filled meadows and ferned woods, past foaming waterfalls and under overhanging willow trees, camping at night beside crystal brooks or one of the vari-colored lakes that dot the countryside.

  A fishing village of glinting corrugated iron roofs, Puerto Montt was settled by German immigrants, and blond, blue-eyed children played along the shores of the muddy bay. Beyond the haze to the south stretched fifteen hundred miles of fiords and glaciated cliffs, and to the east was Chile’s Fujiyama, Mount Osorno, at the base of which was Todos los Santos, the first l
ake we would cross to reach Argentine Patagonia.

  When we arrived at Lake Todos los Santos a light rain was stippling the surface of the gray water. Of Osorno only the black lava moraine of its lower slopes was visible beneath the ceiling of clouds. But early the next morning more fitting than Todos los Santos was the lake’s other name, Esmeralda. Mirrored in the emerald water was a second Osorno, a perfect cone with snow two thirds of the way down. In La Tortuga’s wake the reflection disappeared in a myriad of specular flashes of light. With none of the apprehension we had known off Costa Rica, none of the qualms we had felt in the storms off Panama, we traveled at an easy three knots over the placid green water, calmed by the steady throb of the motor and the heat of the sun on our backs. Each revolution of the propeller turned the kaleidoscope as peak after snowy peak came into view—Puntiagudo, a needle in a pincushion of clouds, Tronador with its three jagged crags like teeth in a broken comb. Six hours after entering the lake we pulled out at a boat landing near Peulla, where we went through Chilean customs.

  Several miles away over a narrow road lined with dense forest was the Argentine customs house at the edge of Laguna Frias, the second lake we were to cross. After waiting a day for the customs chief to make his appearance we crossed the tiny link in less than an hour, and another few miles through more dark forest brought us to the third lake. While smartly dressed Argentine tourists watched from the deck of a two-hundred-passenger steamer, La Tortuga dipped into the water for the third time in three days.

  The narrow arm of Nahuel Huapí, one of Argentina’s largest lakes, was a thirty-mile watery corridor to the road leading south through Patagonia. The one-day delay at Laguna Frias had brought the brief spell of fair weather to a close, and when a brisk breeze ruffled the Prussian blue of the water I increased our speed to four knots. Dashing against small rocky islands, the waves grew higher, and I looked for a place to get ashore, but on either side the granite walls dropped steeply into the water. With whitecaps racing by and the stern lifting with a following sea I floored the throttle. When a large tree-covered, steep-shored island loomed, Helen consulted the map.

  “I think that’s where we change course to go ashore,” she said.

  “It can’t be. We’ve been under way only two and a half hours, and it’s twenty-five miles to the island where we turn. Remember, mate, that’s a road map. It wasn’t meant to navigate by.”

  But as we breasted the island I saw the mouth of a bay. Helen was right. With a quick full rudder we headed for the gravel beach, the wind hitting us broadside and the jeep heeling heavily to port. When we landed we had covered the thirty miles in less than three hours. The wind had almost doubled our top speed. I was glad we weren’t heading the other direction, and I wondered what the stormy Strait of Magellan would be like.

  San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina’s favorite mountain and ski resort, was fifteen miles from where we came ashore. Wooded almost all the way, the road bordered the main body of Nahuel Huapí, now a deep purple with sea-sized waves. At Bariloche, a colony of luxury hotels and Swiss-style homes, we spent two days repacking the wheels and changing the lubricant in all the gear boxes after our transit of fifty miles of lakes.

  As we continued south early in the morning, clouds swept across the sky, casting soft shadows on the gravel road. Tall trees laced their branches overhead, the limbs vibrating in the wind that was to be our constant companion for the duration of the trip. Edging the shores of smaller lakes, winding through forests of oak and pine, we descended slowly and the vegetation thinned. By mid-afternoon we were rolling over the bleak grasslands of Patagonia, mile after mile of solitude with rain turning to sleet on the windshield. The wind became a physical force, the jeep swayed from side to side, but even over the scream of the gale I was conscious of a slight increase in the whine from beneath the floor boards. I tried to ignore it. It was only a little louder, I reasoned, and with La Tortuga getting older by the mile I had to expect that. Helen noticed it too as the whine became a growl, and I slowed to ten miles per hour, hoping to reach the closest town, Esquel, sixty miles to the south. But a few minutes later power fell off and a curl of acrid smoke rose from the floor boards. Quickly I pulled to the side of the road. Neither of us spoke as we waited for the floor boards to cool before trying to locate the trouble. When I found it, I was stunned. This time it was the transfer case. Located just behind the transmission, it was every bit as difficult to repair. And even if I’d had the parts, repairing it beside the road would have been like working in a wind tunnel.

  Even in Alaska I couldn’t remember being as cold as we were that night and all the next day. And it was almost midsummer in Patagonia. I would gladly have traded my poncho for a parka. Huddling in the jeep, we tried to warm the inside with the motor, but the starter jammed. I thought coffee might help, but the wind blew out our windproof stove. In twenty hours not a soul passed until late the next afternoon, when, during a lull in the wind, I heard the hum of a motor. I jumped out to flag the small truck, but it wasn’t necessary. True to the unwritten law of Patagonia, the driver was already stopping. When I told him what had happened, he spoke of an estancia a few miles down the road.

  “I’ll tow you there. Just ask for Señor Pienay.”

  In the office of the estancia a gentleman with reddish-brown hair and a neat mustache looked up from behind his desk. In my best Spanish I asked to speak to Señor Pienay. In my poncho, half frozen, I probably didn’t present a very good picture, but I didn’t think my appearance warranted a frown. It must have been my Spanish.

  “Whom did you say?” he asked.

  “Señor Pienay,” I repeated, and then explained our difficulty.

  He smiled, and then in British English with an Irish accent he said, “You mean Mr. Paine, the manager. He’s not here right now. I’m Pat Wilson, the accountant. Won’t you come in and have a spot of tea?”

  It wasn’t until then that I saw the sign on the wall—Argentine Southern Land Company, Limited. We were on one of the huge British sheep farms that spread over all of Patagonia.

  Sheltered from the wind by staggered rows of slender poplars, the staff house of Estancia Leleque was a rambling one-story brick building. Inside Mr. Wilson introduced us to the rest of the staff, a miniature United Kingdom with representatives from Ireland, Wales, Australia, and the Channel Islands of England. A roaring fire and hot tea soon had us warm again—something I didn’t think was possible—and we discussed the problem of getting parts. The consensus was not encouraging, but the friendly reception they all gave us was at least heartening. Mr. Wilson made us welcome with the guest room, and later Mr. Paine, a jaunty Englishman in polished boots, riding pants, and a soft tweed cap, offered a place to work on La Tortuga.

  “But don’t be too surprised if you don’t find the parts in Esquel,” he said. “They’ll probably have to be ordered from Buenos Aires, and you may have quite a wait.” Then Mr. Paine countered this dismal forecast with a warm invitation. “Why don’t you plan on spending the holidays here with us?”

  For a moment I couldn’t think what holidays he meant. Then I remembered. It was a week before Christmas.

  That night in the sitting room of the staff house Helen and I became acquainted with mate. Mr. Wilson, despite his Irish accent, was Argentine-born, and a connoisseur of the art of preparing this hot herb brew that was as universal in Argentina as tea in China. After spooning some of the green flakes into a small pear-shaped gourd he added boiling water, and an aroma like new-mown alfalfa rose from the mouth. Sipping the brew through a silver straw, he added more hot water, then handed the mate to Helen.

  “Gracias,” she said, reaching for it.

  With a mischievous smile he withdrew it. “To say gracias to mate means ‘No, thank you,’ not ‘Thank you.’”

  The next morning I went to work on the jeep. I was getting quite proficient—this time it took only a day to remove the unit. No gears had been damaged, and I was relieved to see that all I would need were two bronze
thrust washers, a shaft, and a couple of bearings. But after taking a bus to Esquel and scouring all the stores and garages in the little town all I came up with was the by now familiar reply, “No hay.” Packing the worn parts with a note requesting fast service, I shipped them by air to Buenos Aires and returned to Leleque.

  Our room in the staff house was a cheerful one, with bright Araucano Indian rugs on the floor and soft beds with warm guanaco fur covers, but we didn’t spend much time there. More often we were by the fire in the sitting room learning about estancia life or, when the rain stopped, playing tennis on the poplar-protected courts. And many times we took tea with the Paines.

  The British seem to take their customs with them wherever they go, and the red brick home of Mr. and Mrs. Paine, with its spacious gardens and flowered walks, looked as if it had been transplanted from an English countryside. Even after twenty-seven years in Argentina afternoon tea was a ritual with the Paines, and promptly at four the table was set with hot scones on lacy doilies, butter balls, English marmalade, and tea cakes.

  One morning at breakfast Evan Thomas, the Welsh-Argentine foreman, asked if I would like to see the sheep sheared. While Helen visited with Mrs. Paine, I went with Evan to the corral, where he pointed out my horse, a big Roman-nosed beast named Picasso. My previous experience with horses had been limited to carrousels, and I eyed the black animal with apprehension, but Evan said he was the gentlest horse on the estancia. In fact, Angela, the Paines’ lovely eighteen-year-old daughter, had learned to ride on him as a child. Reassured, I climbed aboard.

  The high sheepskin saddle was soft, and as long as Picasso stayed at a walk I had no trouble. But when he broke into a trot I bounced up and down like a yo-yo. Evan said it was just a hop, skip, and a jump to the shearing shed. I found that distance was relative—it was five miles, but then he thought in terms of hundreds of miles. Leleque covered more than four hundred thousand acres, and it took a month just to patrol the fences.