La Carretera Austral
First things first: this is going to be a long post. I want to tell you about everything, about every beautiful kilometer we covered over twelve long days, but of course I can´t. Still, it´s going to be long, so make your cup of Nescafé before you keep reading, take the time to heat up the milk. When you're ready, sit down, relax, and let me tell you about paraidse.
Day 1: Santiago to Puerto Montt
The eight of us meet in the Unimark parking lot near Tobalaba in the early hours of the morning, when the light is still gray. As we pack and repack the bags into the two cars, I wonder what this trip is going to be like--we are a strange mix, two Chileans, one Brit, a Scot, and four Americans; we are a range of ages, and we don´t know each other. We all brought hiking boots and backpacks, and Carlos, who planned the entire trip, brought enough gear to see us through any kind of situation: stackable pots and pans, a tiny hiking stove, enough hiking poles for an army, an emergency flood light, a GPS tracker to record all of our hikes, a GPS for the car, a watch with a GPS function, an ipad, a headlamp, extra tents and straw matts for rolling sushi. If we can only fit everything into the cars, we will never be unprepared.
When the cars are packed we set off, driving south to Puerto Montt. We drive, and we sleep, and when we stop for lunch at a waterfall (if only we knew how unimpressive this small, crowded, beautiful waterfall would later seem) the smog of Santiago is nothing more than a memory. We drive, we sleep, and I lose an earring somewhere in the car. In Puerto Montt, we eat at a restaurant and laugh the way people who are getting to know each other laugh. I am starting to feel at home.
The first of many, many waterfalls.
Day 2: Puerto Montt to Parque Pumalin
We take three different ferries, two short ones and one long, four hour trip. The air smells of salt and the tips of the waves are white, but we are not on open ocean; instead, we sail through a passageway between dark green forrested mountains, the land climbing up steeply from the water. The clouds hang low, at times obscuring the mountain peaks, and I can´t help but wonder if those forests climb up towards the sky forever. It´s chilly in the wind from the ferry, but the sun feels good against my skin. After 100 degree weather in Mendoza and the sticky heat of the metro in Santiago, chilly feels good.
That night, we camp in Cascadas Escondidas, a campsite in the gigantic Parque Pumalin. Brandon makes chicken curry, balancing the wok on the delicate fingers of the cooking stove, while Carlos tries to shove his queen-sized inflatable mattress into his one-man tent. By the end of this trip, I am going to be a true camper! He tells us, and we laugh while he bends and folds the mattress until he somehow makes it fit, although the sides of his tent now push upwards towards the sky, begging to float away.
After dinner we open wine, a bottle and a box, and Laura and I teach the group how to play Cheers Governor, a counting and drinking game that Barbara cannot grasp, a fact that keeps the rest of us laughing and drinking and yelling at Carlos for cheating. Once!
View from the ferry
The ferry was sold out! Luckily, Carlos had bought our tickets weeks in advance.
Laura is happy to be on the ferry!
Day 3: Parque Pumalin to Quelat
In the morning we hike Cascadas Escondidas, a trail we rename Escaleras Escondidas because although the path winds around waterfalls that spill out from the rocks and into deep pools, the trail is a mesmerizing tangle of ladders and stairs, the wood moist and shining from the spray of the waterfalls. I have been on very few trails that are so well maintained--wooden bridges skirted over muddy patches or narrow drops, the ladders were sturdy and the stairs never missed a step.
Parque Pumalin is a pretty incredible place: 3,250 square kilometers (according to Wikipedia) of land, rivers and lakes and temperate rainforest, privately owned but permitting public access. The park is owned by Douglas Tompkins, an American who started and owns both The North Face and ESPIRIT. It´s strange to think that an American owns so much land so far south, so far from home, and that he has the goodwill to own it only to preserve it and keep it open to the public. It's one of those facts that gives you a nice feeling when you learn it, that makes me appreciate even more the carefully placed ladders and walkways.
After the hike we pack up camp and head to Parque Nacional Queulat, to a campground where we can see the Ventisquero Colgante, the Hanging Glacier. Carlos is ecstatic that we have arrived in time--and with the luck--to see the glaicer in the sun. And it is something to see, the glacier hanging between the peaks of two montains, shining in the last of the day´s light.
That night after dinner Barbara gets up to wash dishes and trip over the rocks of the fire pit, twisting her ankle as she falls. We don´t know it then, but it will be the last night that we are 8: later, after she sees a doctor in Coihaique and gets an x-ray in Santiago, we learn that she has fractured her ankle in four places and will have to take it easy for a long time. We miss her, and I walk more carefully for the rest of the trip, lacing my boots tightly and prodding rocks with my toes, testing their stability before I jump.
Una cascada escondida
Day Four: Queulat to Mañihuales
Ximena and Anthea take Barbara to the doctor (and later to the airport) in Coihauque, the largest town in the area, and the remaining five of us hike to a closer view of the hangining glacier. It´s beautiful, the white-blue ice melting into a waterfall and trickling down the flat face of the rock into wide, still lake with water that´s an incredible soft green.
Even better than the hike is when we walk to the lake itself and dive from the wooden dock into water that is colder and fresher and sweeter than anything I had ever felt, water that makes my breath short and shocks my skin. The water is brand new, just melted, but ancient at the same time--I can see the glacier it has melted from as I swim, the glacier where it has been waiting, frozen, for longer than I can understand. Only now is it finally free, escaping into a waterfall and then into a frantic river, flowing into this green lake where I swim and swim, where I dive under the water and kick back up to the surface, where I gasp for air and for warmth and feel so alive.
Somehow, the day continues getting better. We drive further south and hike El Bosque Encantado, the Enchanted Forest. The forest is dense, the trees covered in soft moss, and the light that filters down through their leaves is golden. It feels truly enchanted as I wind uphill, ducking under low branches and stepping over streams. I lose the group when I follow a bird that hops though the undergrowth, calling me, but I only catch a glimpse of orange before it´s gone. I find a patch of honeysuckle growing around a cluster of trees, the flowers intertwined with the moss. The petals are an unbelievable color of red, the inner bud fuscia, and it releases into my fingers easily. The honey is sweet on my tongue, the same delicate taste as the yellow honeysuckles we though were our secret, growing at the base of a palm tree on Victoria. I wonder if this forrest really is enchanted, if the ferries will hold me here forever for that stolen drop of honey. I pull another flower from the vine, just to be sure.
The path winds further upwards, the forest continues, and I start to wonder if I am lost when the trail breaks out of the trees into a valley. The mountains at the far end are covered in snow, snow that is melting into waterfalls and flying into the sun flooded valley. There are waterfalls on either side of the valley, cascading into the sunlight and gathering into the river that slides through the base of the valley, slipping around rocks and jumping from shallow patches to deep pools. The rocks are warm, baking in the sun, and I plunge into the freezing water all over again, loving the way my skin tingles. There will be no falling asleep on this adventure, I tell my stunned and shaking body, there will be no forgetting. The water feels delicious.
The hanging glacier--seen in the sun!
View of the hanging glacier from the lake we swam in. Here, the water looks milky, but there it was purely green.
Enchanted honeysuckle.
Day Five: Mañihuales to Cerro Castillo
We drive for a long time, covering fewer kilometers as the pavement falls away into dirt road. The cars leave a trail of dust floating in the air, as if to remind us of the way home, but I only want to look forward. The view out the windows is incredible, snow-capped mountains pushing up into the blue sky, wide swaths of green grass and yellow flowers, and when we roll down the windows the air is fresh, so fresh. Cerro Castillo finally comes into view, a mountain that really does resemble a castle in the way its peaks come to a point, towers trying to puncture the sky. Although we drive with it in sight for a distance, arching around it as if we are caught in its orbit, we can't find the hiking trail we are looking for, the one that is supposed to bring us closer to those towers, and it is getting late. Finally, after driving through two streams and passing a campsite with a sign demanding that we "DOES NOT INSIST" (do not insist? doesn't exist?), the drivers (and car owners) balk at a third water crossing, where the water looks deeper and the rocks bigger.
We park the cars on the side of the road and trek down a trail headed by one of the least informative maps I have ever seen, a line carved into a wooden sign, squiggling around other markings with no key. We climb upwards with Cerro Castillo in sight, but we don't get much closer. I could describe the hike to you, the view of the mountains, the shade of the forrest, the open fields of yellow flowers in the sun, but you're going to get bored of me soon. When I talk about swimming again, about the cold clear water tugging at my skin, you're going to tell me that you've heard it all before, that it sounds exactly the same. All I can tell you is that it wasn't--it was beautiful, and what we saw the days before was beautiful, too, but somehow all of it was different, incredibly distinct. I stood on the edge of the hill, taking in the view, asking myself what is this life I am living? I could see the world spread out before me, but it seemed like it couldn't be real. It does not insist.
That night we camp with a view of Cerro Castillo and the Chilean word of the day is festin, feast, because we grill an asado of meat and vegetables and potatoes and we eat it as the sun sets, as soft gray clouds fold onto the horizon. When the stars come out, their light is brighte enough to guide me back to my tent.
View near Cerro Castillo
Cerro Castillo!
Loving the freezing water (the view's not bad either).
Day Six: Cerro Castillo to Puerto Tranquilo, and a Glacial Exploration!
In the morning, I brush my teeth while a lamb sniffs my foot. I think that it's going to lick the exposed part of my foot, the pale slice of skin between my jeans and my shoes, but it doesn't. My feet, it seems, don't smell lickable.
This is the day Carlos has been waiting for, the day that we drive into the Valle Exploradores and take a guided hike onto the glacier. His excitement may be due to the fact that at the base camp they give us more gear--waterproof gaiters and spikes that will be secured to our hiking boots when we get out onto the actual glacier.
The first part of the hike is my favorite kind of hiking, where we hop and jump from rock to rock, first alongside a lagoon and then through a sea of rocks they call the morrena, rocks that become smaller and harder to walk on the further we get, until below my feet there aren't rocks anymore but pebbles encased in ice, and then we have to stop to eat our sandwiches and strap the spikes onto our boots, because the glacier has cast the rocks aside and reigns supreme, huge and white, rising in hills and falling into valleys, as though the water was frozen in an instant, frozen in waves.
Hiking on the glacier is unlike any other kind of hiking I've ever done: you have to pull your feet a little higher when you walk, free your spikes from the ice, and to climb a steep hill you kick your toes into the ice face, trusting the spikes to hold your weight, trusting the ice to support you as you pull the other foot out from the ground and kick it into the ice futher up. To descend you have to lean back, relaxing your arms and sinking almost into a sitting position, and I can't stop myself from laughing while I pound my heels into the ice.
That night estamos raja, exhausted, and we sit in the living room of the cabaña (hot showers!!!) while Carlos does magic tricks, promising to find the five of clubs that has been drawn from the deck. I'm tired but happy, and looking around me I realize that somewhere between the Unimark parking lot and here, Puerto Tranquillo, a small town on the edge of a huge lake, we've become a family. I never find out if the five of clubs is found (although I'd put money on yes) because I fall asleep right there in the living room, curled up in a chair.
The Group!
Me, Anthea, Carlos, Brandon, Laura, Ximena, Brendan
I like my red wine chilled.
Climbing down, learning how to use the spikes under my boots.
Day Seven: Puerto Tranquillo
No driving today! We are staying in the same cabaña for another night, and instead of hiking we take a boat out into the lake, Lago General Carrera, a lake so huge it extends into Argentina, changing its name as it crosses the border. The boat slices accross the water, its motor humming, until we reach the Catedrales de Marmol, the Marble Cathedral. The guide steers our boat carefully into the caves, caves carved from the huge blocks of marble that stretch alongside the water, masquerading as normal rocks. It doesn't look quite like the marble you're thinking of, the marble used for pillars in old churches and countertops in fancy kitchens, because its not polished, but the stone is still incredible--a beautiful dark gray, cut by lines of black and swaths of white. If it wasn't already beautiful enough, the stone catches the incredible blue-green color of the water, that delicate torquoise that seems to shimmer with the understanding of its own beauty. I can't decide what I want to look at, the cuve of the stone or the shine of the water.
Brendan jumps into the water and swims over to another set of caves, while Anthea and I wait for the other boats of tourists to leave, aching to do the same. When we realize that we're never really going to be alone we give up, peeling off our clothes and jumping into the cold water in our underwear. Ximena and Laura follow us, despite the fact that the tourists in the other boats are taking photos of us, but we ignore them and climb into the caves, feeling the smooth stone under our feet, the curve of the walls under our palms.
View of Lago General Carrera
Close up of the Marble
Marble Cathedral
Day Eight: Puerto Tranquillo to Cochrane
The color blue was born in Chile. I know I have written more than enough about the color of the water here, about the way it shines and sparkles, but the water in the river Cochrane must have been blue before there was such a thing as torquise, before color could be copied or mimiced. It is a blue so deep Crayola hasn't found a way to put it into a crayon, a blue so pure that the sky itself must be copying the color, sending it out to the world so that every river and lake and ocean can only dream of reaching back to this original shade.
It´s so blue that I can barely wait a mnute before diving in, even though it shocks my lungs and sends my heart racing. Anthea and Brendan and I swim to the other side of the river and lay on the large rocks there, resting until the sun begins to burn at our skin. We swim back to have an impromptu picnic in the grass outside the car, and then later, while most of the group sleeps and tries to avoid the fierce glare of the sun, Ximena and I follow the trail that climbs up the hills above the river, keeping the water in its sight until it dips down to a small dock shaded by a grove of tall trees. We swim again and then lie on the dock and listen to the wind in the leaves and watch as tiny silver fish jump up from the water only a few feet away from the dock, shining for just a moment in the sun before they splash back into the water.
We hike back in the perfect hour of the day, when the sun begins to grow tired and starts to tip towards the horizon. When the wind blows warm and the birds come out, chirping and whistling and darting in and out of sight. This is the time of day, Ximena tells me, when everything that lives and grows stops to amanecer el mundo. This is the hour to worship the world. We pull dandelions from the side of the trail and close our eyes, blowing wishes into the wind.
One lone fisherman in the middle of the river.
Day Nine: Cochrane to Caleta Tortel to Puerto Tranquillo
We don't like Caleta Tortel. The town is built where two rivers meet the ocean, and there are no cars because the streets are built of wood, perched above the water on stilts. It seems like it would be a cool place to visit, but it is a long dusty drive from Cochrane and when we finally get to Tortel there is nothing to do. We want to eat lunch, but there is no food: the kiosk that sells empanadas only has five papas rellenos left. No one else is selling empanadas (which makes me start to wonder if we are really in Chile at all), the man who hides behind the sign promising helados doesn't know if he has any ice creams left and doesn't seem to know how to check, and the only grocery store, a small shadowy market, ran out of beer on Wednesday. It was hot this week, they explain, and when I ask what kind of cheese they have the woman behind the counter looks at me as though I have asked her to name the capitals of each US state. En lamina, she tells me finally. Sliced.
There is no turkey or bread to be found (again, definitely not Chile), and so we eat cheese and crackers while we walk back to the car, wanting to get out of that strange town as soon as we can, away from the stares of the men who all wear the same black berets, from the women who seem to look right past you when you smile at them.
We stop at Cochrane only to pack up our campsite and jump once more into the water before pushing further north. It´s a hard day, a long day, and it feels like we´ve lost something as we turn back north, as the trip begins to end. We camp in Puerto Tranquillo, on the shores of Lago General Carrera.
This picture was taken before we realized that there were no empanadas, ice cream, or joy in Caleta Tortel.
Day Ten: Puerto Tranquillo to Coihaique
Coihaique is proving to be a very dangerous town: we lose Anthea to the same airport that took Barbara as she catches a plane back to Santiago so she can make a conference at the end of the week. It feels strange being only six when we set up camp near Laguna Verde, setting up only the one big tent beside Carlos' one-man tent, which is now staked on top of his queen sized mattress to save time and hassle. Camping, Carlos reminds me, is a state of mind.
Trees on the hike.
Laura and I keeping warm by the fire, listening to Brendan play the guitar.
Day Eleven: Coihaique to Termas El Amarillo
Today we drive, and drive, and drive some more. Most of the day is great: we are driving through incredible scenery, past lakes that haven't lost their sparkle and mountains that haven't shrunk just because we've seen them before, and we listen to Laura's ipod, spending at least 2 hours singing along to the best 90s playlist ever made. Ximena makes certain that we pick up only the cute hitchhikers, shooting Laura looks as we pull over to the side of the road to let a Brittish guy with an impossibly tiny backpack into the car (it turns out his stuff was stored in Puyuhuapi, where we drop him off). Later, after too many hours of dirt roads I almost kill Carlos and Brandon when they escape with the GPS and drive fifty kilometers further than planned, leaving the four of us in the second car to wonder where they are, to check to make sure our cell phones still don't have signal and listen to the empty static of the walky-talky.
We camp at the termas, the natural hot springs, but I can't bear the thought of sitting for another second and so I go for a run, following a road thick with white volcano dust. I run for an hour, listening to reggeaton and winding up through the thick woods, and only see one car. The dust from the volcano is so deep that when I turn around and run back I can follow my own footprints, the pattern on the bottom of shoes reflected down to the smallest detail. When I get back, I shower outside under the fountain that releases the water from the hot springs back into the ground. I must have stood there for half an hour, watching my skin grow red, unable to leave its warmth for the chill of the night air. I don't want this trip to end.
Field near the termas. Not sure why that airplane was there, but it looked cool.
Day Twelve: Termas el Amarillo to Puerto Varas
Somehow we are already back here, back to the day of three ferries, only now instead of taking photos from every side of the boat, instead of trying to capture the mountains and the sky and water all at once, I look at the impossible size of it all and think, hmm, that's nice. We're jaded, Laura says, we've seen too many incredible things and I have to agree with her, I'm in some ways worried that this trip has ruined me forever. That I'll find myself peering over the rim of the Grand Canyon and thinking, hmm, that's nice.
We play cards and drink rum and cokes on the long ferry, and sometime after the third hour I run up along the high walkway of the ferry barefoot, and before I can skip back down the steps the wind catches my hair and the light on the water catches my eyes and I am filled again with that sense of wonder, with that full feeling in my chest. I want to laugh and cry and sing and smile all at once, but instead I just breathe. I have forgotten what smog smells like, and that is wonderful. I am jaded, but I am not ruined.
Always time for one more photo, even if we´ve seen it before.
Day Thirteen: Puerto Varas and Lago Todos de Los Santos
When I come back from my run in the morning Brandon, Brendan, and Ximena are packing up the car, dividing up the leftover food and checking to make sure they have all of their shoes. We stand in a circle looking at each other, the six of us, talking about our favorite parts of the trip and trying not to say goodbye. I think I'm going to cry.
And then just like that they leave, driving away as if it´s just another day, and now we are three: Laura, Carlos, and I. Laura and Carlos go to do laundry and I stand alone, barefoot in the grass in the sun and I really do think I'm going to cry. I hate endings, I hate goodbyes, and what I hate most of all is when you don't know how to do them right. When you knew it was coming but you never really believed it.
But then Laura and Carlos come back, and I remeber that we still have things to see today, and that tomorrow Laura and I are going to Chiloe, and that after that I'm going all the way down to Punta Arenas to see Torres del Paine, and that really the adventure isn't ending at all, it's just picking up speed, starting up all over again.
And so we hike alongside Lago Todos Los Santos, I swim in the warmest water I´ve felt yet, and we eat seafood in Angelmo (dinner is, to use Laura's words, divine). While we eat Carlos, who introduces us to everyone as his neices and who we tell the waitress is our tio, gives us advice on life and love and white wine. I love, I love my life! he tells us, and I believe him.
