Tales of Patagonia
Cruising along Chile's wild southern coast, to the uttermost end
of the earth.
A sheet of cold rain lashed the deck of the MV Puerto
Edén, stinging my cheeks and numbing my lips. I hunched lower
over the boat’s guardrail, turning my back to the relentless
wind, seeking shelter beneath my jacket as another bank of black rain
clouds swept towards the boat. In an effort to ignore the dull throbbing
cold that was spreading slowly through my limbs, I returned my gaze
to the picturesque coastline of Chilean Patagonia, surveying its dramatic
fjords and craggy snow-covered peaks. “Maybe I should just give
up and go back inside!” I thought to myself, fondly recalling
the warmth and shelter of the lower decks.
Just then, something caught my eye. A tiny puff of white vapour appeared
suddenly on the horizon. A second later, the grey water of the Pacific
was broken by a delicate arching back, its smooth skin glinting like
polished obsidian. Before I had a chance to blink, it was joined by
another, and then another. A whole pod of whales had surfaced in the
narrow channel between two tiny, forested islands. They snorted a
few quick breaths and disappeared again, the long flukes of their
tails waving a silent farewell. A broad grin spread across my face
and all thoughts of physical discomfort faded from my mind. Once again
Patagonia had me under its spell.
I was not the first person to experience such sensations in Patagonia.
From the moment Magellan and his crew first laid eyes on the southernmost
tip of the American continent five hundred years ago, this place has
captured the imagination of the world. Those early sailors returned
with other worldly tales of strange monsters and ancient tribes. They
told of living dinosaurs, ice age beasts and giant men who could run
faster than deer and hurled boulders at passing vessels. Reading the
chronicles of early travellers is akin to leafing through the pages
of Homer’s ‘Odyssey’ or Conan-Doyle’s ‘Lost
World’.
This
colourful history was borne from the very nature of Patagonia. It
is a wilderness without equal – 900,000 square kilometres that
spans two countries and encompasses the southernmost tracts of habitable
land on earth. The western portion, located in Chile, is the domain
of enormous ice fields, labyrinthine fjords and a mosaic of uninhabited
islands. The eastern portion, located in Argentina, is an endless
expanse of bleak windswept plains. Patagonia is the epitome of desolation,
a blank canvas where the wildest dreams of humanity take life.
People come to Patagonia for many different reasons; and over the
years it has seen some famous visitors. Some, like Butch Cassidy,
came to flee their past. Others, like Charles Darwin, came in search
of inspiration. But all were touched by this remarkable place. As
Darwin was later to write; of all the places he had visited, it was
the steppes of Patagonia that haunted his memory the most.
Yet, the passing years have tamed Patagonia’s once fearsome
reputation. Travel is easier than it was for the early pioneers. Fishing
villages that used to stand on the edge of nowhere are now home to
modern hotels and restaurants. Cruise liners ferry tourists from every
nation along a coastline that once put fear into the hearts of the
most intrepid explorers.
But even with the creeping influence of civilization, my first sight
of Patagonia inspired in me the same awe and dread that I had read
of in the travellers’ chronicles of old.
Cold air shocked me awake as I emerged weary and stiff from an overnight
bus from Santiago to the town of Puerto Montt. The sky above me was
dark and menacing, skulking low over the forested hills that surrounded
the town. Wet clouds rolled angrily around the harbour, scattering
pedestrians with spiteful squalls of icy rain. Behind the town, a
maze of narrow grey streets wound their way up a windswept hillside,
disappearing among low buildings that were crowded together like animals
seeking warmth in a huddle.
Having travelled for days to get here, I was not a particularly inspired
by what I saw. It was a singularly unwelcoming place. But I was as
far south as the road could take me. The rest of my journey, to the
southern tip of Chile, would be by boat; and Puerto Montt was the
place to catch it.
My
vessel was the MV Puerto Eden, an old passenger ferry that had seen
many years of faithful service in the stormy waters that lie along
Chile’s southern coast. The boat had the look of an old sailor
– tough, determined, but not without its scars and frailties.
Its weather beaten hull bore witness to the heavy burden of its duties.
The drizzle that had greeted my arrival persisted throughout the day.
As I waited patiently to board the ship later that afternoon, it coated
me in that same layer of slimy wetness that covers everything in Patagonia,
sucking every last ounce of warmth from my core. The other passengers
– an eclectic mix of young backpackers, Gortex-clad American
retirees and weary-looking Chilean truckers – seemed anxious
to get on board, probably more from physical discomfort than excitement.
Once aboard, we found the ship to be clean and modern. The first class
cabins were spacious, but Spartan in their accommodations. Other than
the twin bunk beds, little furniture adorned the rooms. They would
have been a perfectly comfortable place to spend three days.
Unfortunately, I was holding an economy ticket in my hand. The steward
led me deep into the bowels of the ship, beyond all sight and sound
of the upper decks. My residence for the journey was to be a windowless,
metal-floored cabin that was crammed with four tiny bunks. It was
certainly a severe take on the term ‘economy’. I had seen
POW camps with more style.
Luckily, there was little need to spend much time in our cells. The
main deck was large and spacious, with plenty of comfy sofas to loaf
about on as we watched Chile’s wildest places slip by.
For three days, our boat navigated slowly through the maze of tiny
islands and narrow fjords that makes up the western coast of Patagonia.
Sheer cliffs and craggy peaks rose up from a dense carpet of lush
green forest. The wild shore never seemed to be more than half a mile
from the boat. At times, I felt that I could have reached out and
picked a pebble off one of the deserted beaches.
All traces of human development soon disappeared far behind us. Less
than one day out of port, I felt as if I had entered a land frozen
in prehistory. A canoe full of the long extinct Kawéskar Indians
could have paddled past us without looking out of place, hunting seals
with whalebone harpoons or trading otter skins with passing vessels.
The last few millennia could have been a mere figment of our collective
imagination.
Everything was at once beautiful and desolate. The ocean was as cold
and hard as steel; the climate was harsh and unforgiving. Just beyond
the deserted shore, a mess of dark branches, bearded with lichen and
hung with dreadlocks of green moss, formed a seemingly impenetrable
barrier. There were no friendly harbours or protected bays.
Patagonia’s
pioneers, when confronted with such unfettered wildness, did not like
what they saw. The map in our ship’s lounge was testament to
their psyche - Last Hope Sound, The Gulf of Sorrows, Useless Bay and
Port Famine. Each name spoke of desperation and tragedy. It was as
if nature itself had shunned their presence.
However, when viewed from the comfort of a sturdy 20th century vessel,
it became an unspoiled paradise. For those hardy souls who were willing
to brave the inclement weather and venture to the upper decks, some
wonderful sights laid in wait.
Sea lions leapt and rolled beside our boat or sat roaring at us from
the comfort of the shore. Pods of dolphins rode in our slipstream,
showing off their athletic prowess to anyone who was game enough to
dangle over the bough of the boat. Large white gulls and dark albatrosses
hovered ominously above us, reminding me of Coleridge’s dark
poem, ‘The Ancient Mariner’. We saw only one other ship
during the entire voyage. For once, nature outnumbered man.
Throughout the voyage, the weather was blustery and unpredictable.
Powerful westerly winds never paused for breath and thick banks of
cloud tumbled through the sky, frequently swooping in low to pelt
us with icy rain. Chile’s southern coast receives from 5000
to 7000 mm of rain annually; foul weather is the norm.
But during the brief periods when the sun actually broke through the
clouds, a remarkable transformation occurred. Warm pockets of light
flowed over the hills like liquid gold and rainbows sprang from the
base of dark clouds. For a second, magical colours painted a world
of grey.
The sea was calm for most of our journey. A patchwork of tiny coastal
islands shielded us from any stormy waters. There was, however, one
section of open-ocean known as the ‘Golfo de Penas’ –
‘The Gulf of Sorrows’, where we would be fully exposed
to the violent temper of the Pacific.
The crossing started badly and got steadily worse. As the sun fell
on our second night, the wind began to rise. Soon it was impossible
to venture outside for the biting salt spray that was lashing the
upper decks. As darkness encroached further upon us, the ocean began
to roar like an enraged animal.
A never-ending succession of huge, waves rolled steadily towards the
boat. Each white cap glistened in the soft moonlight. With the approach
of each one, the boat would pitch violently on its axis. The view
through the portholes alternated from a peaceful starry sky, to a
roiling wall of white water. It was a perfect juxtaposition of savagery
and serenity.
Sleep was impossible. Doors were slamming, glasses were smashing and
the relentless ‘boom-boom-boom’ of waves breaking over
our bough resounded throughout the ship. I spent most of the night
listening to my fellow passengers retching in the bathrooms while
struggling to keep myself from sliding out of my bunk and onto the
hard metal floor below. Finally, I understood why the name ‘Pacific’
is so bitterly ironic to sailors the world over. There is no stormier
a body of water on earth.
But that hellish night did prove worthwhile. On the third day of our
cruise, the magnificence of our surroundings almost defied description.
The snow-clad spires of huge coastal mountains surrounded us on all
sides, their bare granite walls coming right down to the shore. Jagged
glaciers of the deepest blue spilled down between their peaks, feeding
icy waterfalls that cascaded down into a channel so narrow that we
could almost feel their cool mist on our faces. I had hiked through
many spectacular mountain-scapes in my time, but never before had
I sailed through one.
As we neared our destination, the ship began to make ever-sharper
turns, our hull just yards from the rocky shore. I waited with dread
for the sickening screech of metal on rock, certain that we were about
to run aground.
Fortunately, that sound never came. In an amazing feat of navigation
that had every passenger gasping with fear and delight, we cruised
smoothly into the port of Puerto Natales and reluctantly disembarked.
Puerto
Natales is the gateway to the Torres del Paine National Park, Patagonia’s
scenic jewel. People come from all over the world to hike through
the park’s stunning landscape or to climb its world class peaks.
The Paine Massif is an enormous slab of granite, chiselled and sculpted
by ice and snow over of millions of years, that rises up from the
stark, windswept Patagonian steppes.
You don’t have to be a seasoned hiker to experience the park’s
best scenery. The enormous Glacier Grey and the emerald waters of
Lakes Pehoe can be seen on a short day trip. The 2800m granite towers
that give the park its name, and the spectacular mountains of the
French Valley, can be visited on an overnight hike. But for the most
complete experience of the park, there is no beating the seven-day
trail that follows the green flank of the Paine massif, through a
land of wild lakeshores, drifting clouds and wind-ruffled meadows.
Along the way, we encountered a diverse array of wildlife. Herds of
Guanacos, a wild cousin of the llama, grazed by the shores of Laguna
Amarga. Condors soared on updrafts beside craggy peaks riddled with
ice and tiny hummingbirds flitted between the last of the summer blooms.
The
culmination of the trek is the long climb to the highest pass, emerging
into a world of rock, ice and snow. After wading through a wide expanse
of muddy bogs and spending a freezing night next to an iceberg filled
lake, we found ourselves looking over an immense river of ice, blinding
white in the emerging sun, that spilled down between two chains of
black mountains. Thick clouds of snow blew fiercely around the solitary
peaks that poked up through the ice. We could have been gazing out
over Antarctica itself. This was the tip of the Great Southern Ice
Field, the largest non-polar glacier in existence today.
There could have been no image more perfectly Patagonian than this.
It was what early pioneers, like W. H. Hudson, were describing when
they spoke of Patagonia’s, “look of antiquity, of desolation,
of eternal peace, of a desert that has been a desert from of old and
will continue a desert forever.” All saw Patagonia as a place
where man had reached his limits, as a boundary beyond which he could
not progress. Atop that frozen mountain pass, I stood with those men
and shared in their vision – gazing in awe and wonder at the
uttermost end of the earth.
