Viajar el mundo: Ice Ice.....baby!

30 de Octubre

Apparently this is earth.

Patagonia has always been the stuff of legend. Explorers and navigators throughout time have attempted to comprehend the sheer beauty of this mountainous region and her jagged, irregular coastline. Most have succeeded but few have accepted that the images they have wandered upon are real. Hikers have embraced the peaks and set off on treks of limitless time where calendars and clocks have become irrelevant. The mythical and factual attractions have drawn us to these fabled lands.

The passenger refused to get on the bus until the snow stopped

Our entry point was the port city of Puerto Montt. Puerto Montt wont be winning any tourism awards any time soon, but before my above statements of the beauty of this region are screwed up and deposited in the nearest wastebasket, remember that judging Patagonia by Puerto Montt is like judging TV shows by a Mark Philippoussis reality program. The Tidy Town committee need not visit this little fishing town. It’s a grey, dreary and drab place, which Chile has seemed to have forgotten, and sent all their prostitutes. It’s most unlike the rest of the country, for example vendors here sell their wares from ramshackle stalls, more commonly suited to other South American nations. Like many other port towns around the world, the fishermen and wharfies can be found dancing away mid morning in the local bars, straight from their morning catch or shift, where ladies of the night are up early to satisfy their needs. There isn’t much around in the way of entertainment for tourists, only a few bars, (and admittedly a giant supermarket with about forty thousand aisles), and hostels don’t really exist as such here, with budget options only to be found with local families who are eager to rent out spare rooms, providing you play with their cats. We stayed with a local lady named Perla and her three cats, in the suburbs of town, for only one night, as the next day we were departing on the Navimag ferry. That’s our excuse; honestly, as the only reason you would stay more than twenty minutes here is to await your STD results from the local Doc after a wharfie hooker visit.

Tight arse passengers would regret buying the cheaper tickets

Leonardo de Caprio would be thrown off if he ever suggested Celine Dion for the soundtrack for Titanic 2

The paper chess pieces were useless in the wind

The Navimag Company started as a long haul cargo service. It ships cars and cows, and lorry loads of goods through the fjords of Chile, linking up the country via its waterways. They weren’t making a lot of money in recent times, so they decided to open up the journey to tourists, who now pack out the boats during the summer as alternative to the long drives needed to get around the region.

The cars and cattle still make the trip, and it’s not uncommon to get a whiff of cow shit every now and then. Or that could be the French backpackers.

The journey was four days, and took us from Puerto Montt to Puerto Natales, the entry region into Southern Patagonia. Initially we were unsure of the enjoyment we would have on this journey, as many reviews and guide books suggest and prove that it’s a love or hate trip, due to the fact that bad weather or French backpackers can accompany you all the way, either one refining you to your cabin for the duration. The alternative was a 38-hour bus ride. It was an easy decision, as grey skies and squalls were much preferred over sitting like Stephen Hawking for two days.

The sloppy river saw the grave of many ships

You want this ice for your drinks? That will be $4000 thanks. Still cheaper than Perth bars though

Good news, the weather was great. No, awesome. The skies briefly opened late one night, not affecting anyone except the drinking Doctors on board who may have tripped over one of the giant chess pieces on deck and passed out outside. The sea also remained tranquil and allowed savings on the seasickness pill provisions.

For four days we meandered through the great Fjords. Previously, both Kylie and myself had been to New Zealand’s and Norway’s offerings respectively, albeit briefly, but this was something else. Day after day we were offered sights of snow-capped peaks, soaring mountains, quaint bays, rugged slopes, the odd ice floe and one unfortunate shipwreck. These landscapes were interrupted only by the unassuming and unexpected visions of Austral dolphins gliding effortlessly through the sounds. On approach to the ice fields, the ship anchored and staff alighted the vessel and took the dinghy across the semi frozen lake to gather ice, for no other reason than to re stock the bar.

Activities were limited. I guess there isn’t much you can do on board a four day cruise, unless you are lucky enough to have scored a Love Boat ticket and have dinner with Captain Stubing, or are unlucky enough to have been on a P&O cruise and been given the chance to answer police enquiries. Entertainment was a DVD during the day; choices being March of The Penguins or Ice Age, or Ice Age 2. But we made our own fun with a great bunch of people from all around the world, including France, drinking cheap red wine and Pisco, while playing endless games of cards, and the old classic get together of conversation.

The cabins were great. Small, but sizey enough to fit two bodies, providing your luggage was stored in your home country. Originally, we were booked into a four bed cabin, but the other couple (from France), decided that we were too smelly and persuaded the ship crew to give them a cabin of their own.

We were fed three very substantial meals a day of good quality. Its amazing how much you do actually eat when you spend days burning calories due to the cold.

It was cold. Just to pop out onto deck for a snapshot of the vistas required the addition of quantities of clothing, of the goose down variety. It was not warm. Unsurprisingly, shots of pisco or rum at sunset added an extra layer of ambience.

Four days later, we arrived into Puerto Natales. But for three hours all passengers were detained by bored customs officials who brought on even more apathetic dogs who like all Chilean border canines were extremely disappointed that backpackers don’t travel around with Smackos. Luckily for us, there was a stoned Spanish bloke who diverted attention and allowed us to disembark quicker than the rest.

Puerto Natales is quite a delightful little town, all tin shacks and outdoor gear shops, taking up no more than a few blocks east by west. It’s nestled at the foot of a mountain range and rarely exceeds ten degrees of warmth all year round. We found an extremely cosy hostel, in the fact that the heating was of Saharan proportions and the couple in the room next door shared all their intimate moments with us via the paper-thin walls. It’s also the gateway to the most famous park in Chile, and one of the most heavily visited in the world, Torres Del Paine National Park (TDP)

Even the leaves had abandoned the chilly forest

TDP is symbolic for its grand towers, the three towers of Paine. They sit in grandeur amongst the peaks of the Southern Andes, the highlight of this massive continental cordillera. They are arguably the highlight of South America, and no journey to this continent would be complete without the trek across the steppes through the stunning glacial lakes and pristine Andean forests towards the inviting pillars. They overlook the region, the country, and the continent. They are at the foot of the Andes as you head north to south, and for us it represented the journey we had taken, also along the Andes, all the way from Colombia to Chile, in four months.

We didn’t see them.

But it was the most memorable trip of our lives.

From Puerto Natales we travelled to the National Park, and emptied our bank accounts and re mortgaged our house in order to pay the entrance fees and bus tickets. Then we sold a kidney each to pay for the ferry ticket from the administration point to the first refuge. Chile is expensive, by our backpacking standards, but a visit to TDP is expensive by Russian Oligarch standards. Clearly, a visit to TDP is a privilege and not a right. But we had come this far, and were determined to see the highlights.

Off the ferry we walked a short distance to our refuge, the stupidly priced $50 per person per night hostel bed. But as we saw other travellers stagger through the sleet towards their tents, we knew this might well be the best fifty bucks we ever spent.

After stowing our stuff and enjoying our packed lunch to avoid the exorbitant café prices for food, we set off up the mountain and over the valley towards Grey Glacier, a huge chunk of ice in the lake, merely a 4 hour walk away. It was 2pm and with twilight arriving late and sticking around in these parts, we felt comfortable about returning in the recommended 8 hours. It was meant to be an easy walk, as long as we were rugged up for the expected Patagonian conditions, which are generally unexpected but can be expected at any time, we would be fine. And so we headed out, layered in every piece that we found in our backpacks. The record for most pairs of socks ever worn by a person was surely broken by us today.

The path was rugged. The route was scarce of anything of interest, save the cone headed birds that scamper for fire bush or calafate seeds to feed its young. The flora has given up hope of ever sustaining itself in the unforgiving winds and temperatures punishing the red end scale of a thermometer. Our cheeks, exposed under the brows of beanies and above the collared fleeces, were iced and numb within minutes of checking onto the path, all this early on this mid spring afternoon. Looking back on the warm overpriced refuge, it was tempting to fall back and sucker to a $10 hot chocolate, and make friends with a sleeping bag and her feathers. But we continued, and felt refuge further up within the odd alcove that sheltered us from the harshest of winds, punishing us directly from the Antarctic.

One hour in, and the most beautiful sight in the world developed. A cloud, teeming with potential rain, had gathered overhead. The chill in the air suggested that rain would not fall, for it was too cold. The surrounding snow capped mountains suggested that snow would merely be merely be a tease, and simply wayward drift from her incredible peaks. But within the minute of wondering, a perfect flake fell upon Kylie's blue scarf. Then another. Then another. Then many more. It was snowing, and for the first time in Kylie’s life, she had seen and felt snowfall.

I looked towards her and saw the joy streaming from her eyes, momentarily making its presence before the air claimed the tears as their own, as if borrowing to this momentous occasion, freezing them in a moment the two of us will never forget.

We have climbed to the tops of mountains. We have sailed across continents. We have shared territory with the most amazing animals. We have seen city sights and marvelled at their wonder. We have had endless conversations with strangers who will become friends. But nothing, absolutely nothing compares to the happiness of sharing one single snowflake with the one you love.

The backpackers dandruff problem was getting to be a real concern

The towers may well be behind here for all we know

The snow was getting heavier, and although romantic, was also getting pedantic. We still had a few hours to go to see this glacier, and we had to move on the double. Not just because daylight may well be shortened, but the quicker we moved, the warmer we stayed. After 4 hours, we made the glacier, took a quick photo, and then trekked the same way back to camp, in equally quick time. The weather was turning, but not before a hint of summer, all sunshine and shit, threatened to brighten our evening. By the time we got back, the sun had sunken below the horizon, and the geese on the plains were pointing at us accusingly “This is why you fuckers pluck our feathers for your jackets”.

Dinner was spent in the campers refuge, sympathising with them for having to bear the deteriorating conditions in a tent. It turned out, that next morning, many gave up their trek to advance towards TDP due to the fact that random bits of steel from nearby constructions were flying about recklessly in the fierce winds, slicing the odd tent open.

The next day we had planned a trek to view the towers, the highlight of the trip. Unfortunately, the 100km/h plus winds that brutalised the area early morning put paid to those plans. It was impossible to move, as any attempt to brave the conditions resulted in being flung back inside the refuge. Some hardy souls did try. We haven’t heard from them since.

We sat and stared. The black sky. The sleet. The howling winds. And we had no wine. It was a disaster. All we could do was wait for the ferry back to home base. Our trip was over. We did not see the towers.

The warming sight of the lodge after trekking in sub zero temperatures. Reception would not tell the guests heating was broken.

The ferry back cost us our other kidney. But we were warm, if not broke. We fared better than a couple we met later, who braved the onslaught and made it to a mountain, only to be trapped up there in their tent for two days waiting for the snow and wind to subside.

After another night in Puerto Natales with more extreme heating and too loud neighbouring couples, we took the bus back to Argentina, and El Calafate. The snow had returned with a vengeance, and blanketed the region with a heavy layer of white. We thought we would have to wait until Europe to see this, but we got our Christmas present early. Customs was easy this time; guards weren’t going to risk losing fingers by removing their gloves.

Police didn't have to look far for Ben Cousins' car.

El Calafate is purely a tourist town. The prices for anything suggest this. They are double what most of Argentina pays but it’s the gateway for the highlight of Argentinian Patagonia. The Perito Moreno Glacier.

Its ice. It’s a huge chunk of ice. And it’s so blue, and so awesome. We took off from the usual crowds and took a trek on the actual glacier itself. We donned crampons and walked across the glacier. We saw crevasses, holes, lakes, and ice. Imagine, ice. Deserts of ice, as far as the eyes can see. Mountains and valleys of white. Snow piled up and compacted to form an out of this world impressions.

And at the end of it all, there was a bar. Not quite what you expect but a makeshift stand with bottles of Jamesons, poured over ice, of who knows from what era; perhaps 350 years old they say, this is only what the scientists have predicted. Presumably while they were also downing whisky on ice. But I can vouch for it being the greatest drink we have ever had.

We had a good quiet hostel, ran by a local named after corn chips, Nacho. He had all his mates over one night for a birthday party. Upon entering the kitchen we saw a sheep all splayed out on the table, butterflied and ready to roast on the asado, the Argentinian BBQ. Sadly, we were not allowed to eat with them.

The lamb was very excited about being hung drawn and quartered

One thing about Patagonia is the colours. The ice reflects stunning shades of blue. You may also have heard of midnight blue. We didn’t really know what this meant, but now we do. On a clear moonlit night in Patagonia, or around any ice region for that matter, the moonlight reflects off the glaciers and back towards the night sky, resulting in a blue nighttime sky. It’s hard to imagine, but when you see it, you are awe struck. Stunning. The stars are brighter, the moon is more prominent, and again, the black sky is blue.

Just another chapter in this amazing world and amazing experience we are part of.