At World´s End

In the six days I´ve been off Antilco I covered some serious mileage. A bus took me along a narrow, serpentine pass through the Andes from Pucon to Bariloche, Argentina where I enjoyed two days of fine chocolate and even finer views of the stunning lake district. A day hike took me from the ski center at Cerro Catedral to a mountain top lake surrounded by austere granite towers where I warmed up in an electricity-less lodge full of mainly Argentine youth, who, but for their language, could have been any thruhiker on the Appalachian Trail. I sat reading, eating bran muffins the lodge worker had made, thinking what a beautiful example of convergent evolution it was. On opposite sides of the world trekkers and mountain lovers have built small, cozy lodges, filled them with photographs of their beloved peaks, and play chill acoustic music while hosting hikers. 

The Argentines chuckle when I speak. They are surprised a gringa speaks Spanish well, and they are shocked to hear such a strong Chilean accent. I didn´t think my speech was so colored, but the looks on dozens of Argentines faces has taught me otherwise. I returned to my linguistic comfort zone on Monday, making a dramatic, all-day crossing crossing of the border called The Cruce Andina, or The Andean Cross. In a seven stage journey, with four bus rides and three boat rides, I traveled from Bariloche, Argentina to Puerto Varas, Chile. Catamarans zipped us across emerald green lakes, so colored by the mineral sediment which runs down from neighboring glaciers, and we wound across the water in the shadow of green mountains which rise dramatically out of the water without beach or shoreline. The clear skies, forested mountains, and crystal water makes each horizon a stunning triptych of color that is not unlike the views in the Pacific Northwest. I spent the day with three young Colombian guys and together we marveled the lakes and volcanoes, and ended our night together lost and dripping, wandering the sodden streets of Puerto Varas trying to find our hostels. 

I spent the morning in Puerto Varas, a lakeside town with views of the formidable volcano Orsorno. It’s peaceful, natural beauty moved me, but more so made me appreciate Pucon, which is also a lakeside town with a view of a breathtaking volcano. Unfortunately, the towns I visit must all be compared to Pucon, and I haven´t yet found a place more "wow" provoking than my Chilean hometown. Uniformed school children crowded the central square armed with sidewalk chalk and youthful optimism to celebrate The International Day of Water. They drew pictures of responsible water use and wrote messages of varying usefulness, like "We will waste no more!," and the less practical, "I will never shower again!" 

In the afternoon, a 20 minute shuttle bus took me to the neighboring port city of Puerto Montt which sprawls northward from the Pacific Ocean. A stepped off the bus and immediately resolved to loathe the city, with its throngs and noise and pollution and traffic. Within minutes I found a quirky alley of two-story buildings which leaned in on each other. Small, repeating triangular windows lined the upper stories, while the lower levels opened into stalls where local artists sell their crafts. Unlike the ubiquitous wood, leather and wool products which are sold throughout southern Chile, theses stalls featured merchants with unique crafts and I wound through the twisting, weaving, narrow alleys looking at the crafts and talking with some of the vendors. One woman, a slipper maker, invited me in to show me her client book filled with sixteen years of individual slipper sales. “My slippers walk in many countries,” she told me proudly, showing me an ever-growing list of countries, to whose citizens she has sold her footwear. When I told her I was from the states, her eyes grew wide and she smiled, saying that the largest pair she ever made were for an American man. “He was a giant!”

          Another craftsman, a round faced, jolly man with dark hair to his shoulders and glasses that perch on the bridge of his nose, beckoned me in and within moments convinced me to sit down and watch him work. He took out a scrap piece of leather, turned on the heated metal tool he uses to draw on the leather and began to sketch. “For you: a special present!” he said. I am now the thrilled owner of a unique souvenir from Nestor in Puerto Montt who drew a sailboat on the sea under the words “Willa, Pte Montt, 2011.”
          To the west of the city center is the fish market Anglemo, which is filled with heaps of sea flesh... mussels, clams, crabs, salmon, urchins, and abalone. I ate fried hake in a small restaurant on stilts which extended over the water, and watched the simple, brightly colored wooden boats motor around the port. Although Puerto Montt is a busy, modern city, touches of its past remain in Angelmo where the boats are still small and every boat and building is slapped with a thick layer of bright paint. Primary colors are king, but orange, green and purple

In the evening I bussed to the airport and flew into Punta Arenas, where the frigid midnight wind let me know just how far south I´d come. This morning I wandered the city cemetery which is filled with anglo names and provides fascinating evidence of the city’s first pioneering inhabitants. A three hour bus ride north across wind swept pampas brought me here to Puerto Natales. The pampas were flat... flatter than anything I´ve yet seen in Chile and the change was startling. Rheas dotted the roadside, along with sheep and horses which grazed the coarse, shrubby plains.

Puerto Natales feels like a forgotten town at the end of the earth. Travellers come only to get to better places, like Torres del Paine National park, where I´m headed tomorrow for a few nights of camping. Trekkers wander the streets of tired, once brightly colored buildings with checklists in hand, and file through grocery stores, stocking up before they enter the park for extended hikes. Today the clouds hang close to the earth and all is gray and wind bitten. The mountains around Pucon give the area a great sense of ascension, but here I feel trapped between a flat sky and flatter earth. I´ll be glad to get into the park tomorrow and return to an undulating landscape and soaring towers of stone.

And so, there is a taste of my travels so far. I have glaciers and the quaint island towns on Chiloe to see before I return to Antilco, but I´ll be glad to go back when the time comes. Traveling here is thrilling, and the backpack culture of young, excited adventurous is contagious and exhilarating. But I am lonely traveling alone and look forward to being back on the ranch and eating dinner with Mathias, Karin, Remo and Mara every night.