Guanaco at Torres del Paine National Park, Chile.
Glaciers, Guanacos, and Gales Galore
Guanaco at Torres del Paine National Park, Chile.
Just outside El Calafate we stop to take a photo of the world’s most redundant highway sign, a picture of a tree half bent over, reminding us that it could be windy. As if we need reminding. The car continues to rock and shudder in the howling gale. Before getting out, we remember the stern warning from the car rental lady. “Always open the door slowly. Always firmly with both hands.”
Patagonia leaves us with rich memories of magnificent mountains, imposing glaciers, wild coastlines, green fertile valleys, and gauchos tending sheep and cattle on wide open plains. But what really sticks in our minds is the wind, not simply a weather condition in Patagonia, but an integral part of the landscape. The wide contrast in temperature from Antarctica to the south and the tropics to the north makes the latitudes between 40 and 50 degrees south some of the windiest places on Earth. Sailors dubbed it the Roaring 40s.
This is roughly where we find Patagonia, covering about the southern third of the land mass of Argentina and Chile, but with only around five per cent of their people. Patagonia is as much an idea as a place. It isn’t a country, since it straddles two nations often at odds with each other as to where the border runs. It isn’t even a distinct geographical or political division. Argentinian Patagonia is generally thought of as the land south of the Rio Negro, a river that slices through the province of Rio Negro. The northern extent of Patagonia in Chile is fairly nebulous, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the 40th parallel. Yet the mere mention of Patagonia evokes visions of what this place is, a land defined by vastness, remoteness, and wildness – the quintessential landscape of the mind.
A three-hour flight from Buenos Aires brings us to El Calafate, a rapidly growing tourist town in the southwest corner of Argentina. Its prime location makes it a popular jumping-off point to explore southern Patagonia, with less than a two-hour drive to one of the world’s most famous glaciers, and drives of less than a day, in opposite directions, to Patagonia’s two most iconic landmarks – Mount Fitzroy and Torres del Paine.
Owing entirely to luck rather than planning, we arrive in El Calafate just in time for the annual rodeo, attracting competitors from throughout southern Argentina and neighbouring parts of Chile. The main event is riding, or rather attempting to ride, bucking horses. Facilities are simple – a post in the middle of the field where reluctant horses are led then tied up. The rider saddles up, gets on, then at the signal, the horse is untied with the sudden yank of the rope. The mayhem begins as the violently bucking horse takes the rider on a gyrating roller coaster course, usually ending with the rider biting the dust. Between events a poet recites passionate lyrics on the life and struggles of the gaucho.
The event is not only about riding well, but also about looking good. While some competitors wear non-descript work clothes, many don classic gaucho garb – baggy pants tucked into high boots, wide decorated belt holding an ornate knife, a beret or a wide-brimmed, almost pancake-flat hat. Most surprising is the choice of footwear. We would expect that getting thrashed around by a horse would call for those substantial-looking high gaucho boots, but many riders wear simple pieces of leather on their feet, held by laces tied around the ankles.
Heading west of El Calafate, we follow the shore of Lago Argentino, its waters a brilliant turquoise blue from melted glacial ice. Heading into the mountains, we enter Los Glaciares National Park, recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. We know that we’re getting close to world-famous Perito Moreno Glacier, but when we round a corner and see it for the first time, it still takes us by surprise. Everything about it is on a grand scale, covering 250 square kilometres, 30 kilometres long, and with a five-kilometre-wide terminus. One of 47 major glaciers extending down from the largest ice cap in the world outside the polar regions, Perito Moreno isn’t even the biggest one. What makes it special is the unparalleled setting and easy access. We can walk almost right up to it. Paths and boardwalks provide a variety of spectacular views, but the highlight is taking a boat trip on the lake where we approach the glacier’s leading edge and stare up at the imposing 70-metre-high wall of fractured ice.
Perito Moreno is an exception to most of the world’s glaciers which are receding, many very quickly. Until the 1990s, Perito Moreno was described as one of few glaciers in the world that was still advancing. Today, it is often referred to as being “in equilibrium”; it advances about two metres per day, but loses its mass at about the same rate. We hear the expansive tongue of ice groaning and cracking as pieces of the face fall away, sending towering shafts of age-old ice crashing into Lago Argentino as the glacier “calves”. Every so often, enormous chunks break away in a thunderous roar, as icebergs collapse into the lake, creating powerful waves and sending spray skyward.
While Perito Moreno is considered southern Patagonia’s most famous “must see”, this certainly isn’t the place to get a sense of the remote and lonely Patagonia of legend. By late afternoon, the entrance gates and viewing areas become so crowded that park staff have to direct traffic in the parking lot.
Instead of following the throngs back to El Calafate at the end of the day, we take a minor road along the southern arm of Lago Argentino to Lago Roca, a remote mountain lake just back from the main lake. We settle into a campground at this quiet spot for a couple of nights. While only a short drive from Perito Moreno, and still in the midst of impressive landscapes, it seems a world away. The crowds are gone; the small number of campers are either fishing or hiking in the hills. We wander through rolling grassy hills scattered with wildflowers next to the peaceful lake where fly fishermen cast for trout. The lake is backed by magnificent mountains where lush forests give way to snow-capped peaks. Views from hilltops look over a wider country of peaks, glaciers, and turquoise waters.
It’s difficult to leave this idyllic spot, but we’re beckoned by another Patagonian icon. Heading north, we pass the eastern edge of Lago Argentino, cross wide open tablelands, then skirt the shores of Lago Viedma, its glacial waters an equally dazzling blue. The approach to El Chalten ranks among the most dramatic of any town, anywhere. The dusty tourist town lies nestled at the very foot of Mount Fitzroy, the symbol of Argentinian Patagonia. The majestic mountain complex has two peaks considered among the most difficult in the world to climb – the main Cerro Fitzroy at 3,405 metres, and Cerro Torre (the Tower) at 3,128 metres. The mountain was named for Captain Fitzroy of the HMS Beagle, the British ship that explored and mapped much of southern Patagonia in the 1830s, one of its crew being a young Charles Darwin.
El Chalten is so new that it wasn’t even founded until 1985, established primarily to preempt claims by Chile, which lies just over the mountain tops. The town may be dusty when the inevitable winds whip up dust devils and fierce gales, but what a location! Billed as the Trekking Capital of Argentina, magnificent hiking trails abound – everything from day trips to multi-day excursions lie literally out our back door.
The day we start our overnight hike to the foot of Cerro Fitzroy, something is unusual. No wind; a strange but welcome respite from the daily blast we've come to expect. We walk along hilly slopes, through forest, along mountain streams, most of the way enjoying stunning views of the peaks, which keep getting closer and closer. When we arrive at the campsite overlooking the base of the peak, several campers are already there. This is by far the most popular backcountry campsite in this region of Los Glaciares National Park, and by evening close to a hundred tents have sprung up. After a quick camp walk-through, we estimate that perhaps half the hikers are Argentinian. Judging by the mix of Spanish, Portuguese, German, French, English, Dutch and other languages we hear, the other half seems to come from all over the world.
Our hope is to photograph sunrise on the mountain peaks. But as all photographers know, changing weather can make short work of the best laid plans. It doesn't look promising due to heavy cloud cover. Then by dusk the sun breaks through just enough to light up the clouds behind the mountain peaks, making for a spectacular sunset. Next morning we rise well before daybreak to find a gloriously clear sky. As the sun begins to come up, the stark rocky spires of Fitzroy start to warm, while the surrounding landscape remains in darkness. Then over the next five minutes or so, the magical transformation takes place, as the peaks turn a brilliant, almost unreal red, as if they're on fire.
While Mount Fitzroy is the iconic symbol for Argentinian Patagonia, for Chile it is Torres del Paine, our next destination. We return to El Calafate, then head south, crossing the high plains to the border with Chile, then down the lonely road to the national park. We can see the lofty spires of Torres del Paine a long way before reaching the park, distinct and separated from the main Andes range. Although we enjoy a clear blue sky on our drive, we know things will be changing shortly when we see ominous clouds crowning the towers. It would stay this way for days, almost as if the clouds were permanently tethered to the peaks. These mountains are so huge that they create their own weather patterns.
By the time we reach the entrance to Torres del Paine National Park, a storm has developed, shrouding the landscape in low clouds, cold drizzling rain, and ferocious winds. In the distance we see what looks like an isolated rainstorm below the low clouds. But something is odd – this “rainstorm” doesn’t have a top. As we get closer and pull over beside one of the bigger lakes, it’s apparent that the water is going up, not down! Violent winds whip up waves, and gusts pick up the crests, sending spray high into the air.
We’re planning to camp, not an appealing prospect in this weather. But we’re pleasantly surprised to find that each campsite has its own compact shelter with a roof and walls on two sides to offer at least some protection from the elements. And talk about a room with a view. Sitting on the edge of Lago Pehoe, we look over an unobstructed view of the mountain, from this side dominated by the Cuernos del Paine (the Horns of Paine), massive, smooth granite cliffs that look like horns. We have visions of being able to watch the rising sun light up the mountain every morning. However, both sun and clouds prove less than cooperative. It’s not until our fourth morning at this spot that the sun finally peeks through the shroud of clouds on the towers for a few precious moments, illuminating the slopes of the horns in a golden glow. Then it's over; the crown of swirling clouds closes in again, turning the sky that familiar steely grey.
It rains a lot, with unrelenting winds. The first morning we wake up to damp sleeping bags and a wet floor in the tent. We’re surprised because this trusty tent has kept us dry in all kinds of storms. It doesn't take long to find the problem – the tent is designed to deflect rain coming from above, not from below. The sustained wind was so strong that it blew the falling rain into the small space between the fly of the tent and the ground.
It's the hiking that brings many people to Torres del Paine. In addition to the major circuit around the mountain, and the popular multi-day W-hike (so named because the route is shaped like a “W”), there are several choices in day walks. We let the weather govern how much hiking we do. One pleasant walk starts right behind the campsite, but closer to the top ridge, the fierce wind makes it almost impossible to even stand upright. We later learn that the winds we’re experiencing are worse than normal, which doesn't surprise us. Other hikers in the park at that time cancelled their hikes because of the real possibility of being blown off the cliff.
Having a car saves the day. The park has a fairly extensive road network, so even in bad weather, we are able to explore and photograph the lakes with impossibly blue glacial water, glaciers, river torrents, waterfalls, and viewpoints galore. Wildlife takes the weather in stride. Majestic Andean condors with three-metre wingspans continue to soar through the sky. The national bird of Chile, this black vulture looks as if it’s wearing a white collar. Rheas, ostrich-like flightless birds, wander open grassy areas. Though more at home on the plains than in the mountains, those we come across appear relaxed, probably knowing that they’re protected. Our biggest surprise is seeing brilliant pink flamingos wading in shallow lakes. While we usually associate them with more tropical climes, Chilean flamingos often summer in mountainous areas.
The critter that really defines Torres del Paine is the guanaco, a wild cousin of the llama and the largest wild land mammal in South America. A beautiful tan to dark cinnamon colour, they have long necks, split upper lips like camels (which they are related to), and big saucer-like eyes with showy eyelashes. They walk on padded feet with toenails rather than hooves.
Throughout our travels in southern Patagonia, we see the occasional guanaco, but nothing like here. The resurgence in their once dwindling population is one of the park’s great success stories. Now they are so common that a herd sometimes takes over the road, and we have to either wait for them to move on, or slowly inch our way through. Getting close for photos is never an issue. We stop at a hilltop overlooking Lago Nordenskjöld to take photos of the awesome setting with towering cliffs looming over the glacial lake. A guanaco wanders to the top of a ridge and looks over the edge of the lake, as if we had willed it to head to that particular spot to complete the picture. If only more wildlife would be that considerate to photographers.
While we’re this far south, we decide to drive the additional 500 kilometres or so all the way to the southern tip of the South American mainland. We arrive at Puerto Natales, a little over 100 kilometres from the park, where we have our first glimpse of the sea. The town sits on ominously named Seno Ultima Esperanza (Last Hope Sound), named by Spanish Captain Juan Ladrillero in 1557, while trying to find his way through the maze of islands and bays in the Straits of Magellan. This bay was his last hope at discovering the route, and unfortunately it wasn’t the right choice.
The town was founded as a port for the sheep industry, but now it is better known as a jumping-off point for visits to Torres del Paine. Today, its seaport serves as the southern terminus for a four-day ferry trip north to Puerto Montt. The route runs through the Chilean fjords, a complex of rugged and remote islands bordering the Pacific, known for stormy weather. We had booked passage on the ship before leaving for South America, but it was not to be. Two weeks before our departure date, the trip was cancelled because the ship had suffered severe damage in a storm and was grounded for repair.
Just outside Puerto Natales, we stop at the most unusual shrine we have come across anywhere. Right beside the highway, hundreds of plastic Coca-Cola, Fanta, and other pop bottles are neatly stacked against simple wooden shrines to Difunta Correa, a legendary though unofficial saint. A handwritten sign says “Gracias por ayudarme” – thank you for helping me. The story goes that in the 19th century, a woman was crossing the desert in Argentina with her infant baby, ran out of water, and died of thirst. Gauchos herding cattle found her body, but were astonished to discover that the baby was still alive, feeding from the mother’s breasts which were still miraculously full of milk. Though not recognized by the church, Correa is believed to perform miracles, so shrines like this have been built in various parts of southern Argentina and Chile. Leaving bottles assures that she will never be thirsty again.
We leave the mountains, and after crossing scenic rolling hills and valleys, home to sprawling sheep and cattle ranches, we get our first glance of the Straits of Magellan. Mapped by Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan in 1520, the famous navigation route between the Atlantic and Pacific takes ships through a protected course between the mainland and a hodgepodge of islands, the biggest being Tierra del Fuego.
Before continuing down the main highway along the shore of the strait, we take a detour to Otway Sound, only a few kilometres across the narrow neck of the mainland. On a barren windswept shore, we find a wildlife refuge protecting a colony of Magellanic penguins. These mid-sized penguins, little more than a half metre tall, have mostly black and white plumage, with pinkish face patches. Also called jackass penguins for their strange call that sounds like a braying donkey, they breed only in the southern part of South America and the Falkland Islands.
We follow a pathway winding through the nesting area where they dig shallow burrows into the sandy soil. They pretty much ignore us as they go about their business, occasionally peeking out to check for danger. Another path leads to the water’s edge where the penguins come ashore after feeding in the sea. We don’t stay long; the relentless wind chills us to the bone with gusts so forceful that we're sandblasted by coarse grains of sand. Several penguins take it all in stride, simply hanging out and standing around on the wind-battered shoreline. Just another day at the beach for these tough birds.
We soon arrive at Punta Arenas, the largest centre in the region, and the southernmost major city in the world. Built on sheep farming and as a means of asserting Chile’s sovereignty over the strait, Punta Arenas thrived as a supply centre for the shipping route around the bottom of South America. Its fortunes diminished considerably when the Panama Canal opened in 1914. Agriculture still remains important, along with fishing, oil and gas exploration, and a growing tourism industry.
The city centre has several reminders of the glory days, with mansions built by wool barons, and European neo-classical buildings around the centre square dominated by a statue of Ferdinand Magellan. Most intriguing is the cemetery, where treed walkways are lined with grandiose, highly ornate mausoleums for the rich and famous. We drive up to the viewpoint at Cerro de la Cruz to look over the sprawling city of 150,000 spread along the shoreline, with Tierra del Fuego far on the horizon. The city looks more colourful from up here. Most houses have metal roofs, with an array of bright green, red, blue, and bronze.
Punta Arenas is not quite at the southern end of the mainland, so we decide to see how far we can go. This last section of road that passes small fishing communities has a rich history. Fort Bulnes is a reconstructed wooden fort where Chile took possession of the Strait in 1843 and established its first Patagonian village. While the fort was well situated for defence, the inhospitable climate and lack of arable land for agriculture made it a poor choice for settlement. After years of struggle, they moved the settlement 60 kilometres farther north to Punta Arenas.
Nearby, a monument commemorates an early 16th century settlement that also resulted in failure, but with more serious consequences. In 1584, the Spanish tried to establish a colony, but almost everyone died of hunger. It became known as Puerto del Hambre, or Port Famine.
Another tragedy comes to light in the nearby English Cemetery where many Scottish settlers were buried over the years. The oldest marker takes us back to the first voyage of the HMS Beagle in 1828, and the death of its captain, Commander Pringle Stokes. The epitaph on the cross above his grave says that he died “from the effects of the anxieties and hardships while surveying the western shores of Tierra del Fuego”. What it doesn’t say is that he shot himself. It wasn’t until the second voyage of the Beagle that the survey was completed, under the command of Captain Fitzroy, accompanied by the soon-to-be famous naturalist, Charles Darwin.
At Punta Santa Ana, a sign reads “Fin Continente Americano” – the end of the American continent. Though North and South America are called separate continents, both make up one continuous chunk of land, divided only by an artificial canal in Panama. So technically it would be possible to walk all the way from our home in Canada to this point without ever leaving land, other than crossing the odd bridge. Strictly speaking, the official southernmost tip is Cabo Froward, just slightly south of Punta Santa Ana, past the end of the road. The road continues a few kilometres, then deteriorates into a minor trail following the very edge of the water. We turn around, content that we’ve come close enough to the bottom of the continent.
Strangely, Chile considers Punta Santa Ana to be the geographic centre of the country. The reasoning is that this is exactly half way between Chile’s northern border and the South Pole. Chile claims a pie-shaped piece of Antarctica, starting at the South Pole. This overlaps with claims also made by Argentina and Britain, none of which are recognized internationally.
Turning north, we follow the wide Straits of Magellan until we cross back to Argentina near the Atlantic coast. We decide to head to Monte León National Park, about 300 kilometres north, in part because guidebooks call it “little-visited”. Most of the way we follow Highway #3, the country’s main north-south link, running a bit inland from the sea, crossing broad grassland plains where we can see forever.
At the turnoff to Monte León, still about 20 kilometres away on the coast, we find the gate to the access road locked. So we go to the Guardaparque (park ranger) office to see what’s going on. It had rained hard the day before, one of the rangers explains, making the gravel and dirt road impassable. But with today's strong sunshine and ever-present howling winds, he figures that by mid-afternoon it should be dry enough to open the gate.
To pass the time, we take a short drive up the highway to Puerto Santa Cruz, near the estuary of the Santa Cruz River. Starting some 400 kilometres away at glacier-fed Lago Argentino, the mighty river flows from the edge of the Andes, through boundless Patagonian plains, and eventually to the Atlantic. When the Beagle came here in 1832, Captain Fitzroy tried to explore upriver using small boats. Much of the arduous 21-day journey was spent dragging the boats upstream. They did manage to make it close to the mountains, but were forced to turn back when the rapids became impossible to negotiate. Darwin’s journal talks about how they “viewed these grand mountains with regret.” Captain Fitzroy would never set foot on the mountain to be named after him.
The only remarkable part of Puerto Santa Cruz is the statue that greets us on the way in. Most South American towns are fond of monuments to great battles and great generals, but here we find a huge statue of Santa Claus. Instead of a sleigh and reindeer, he is riding in a chariot pulled by guanacos.
The park gate is open when we return, and we drive down the just barely dry narrow road that gets steep at the end as we descend through badland-like hills toward the weather-beaten shore. Ominous-looking storm clouds build around us; we wonder how long the roads will stay dry. No other traffic is around, then eventually a four-wheel drive truck pulls up – it’s the park ranger we had met earlier at the office. As we stop for a chat, the clouds suddenly open up in a ferocious downpour, complete with pelting hail. We look at the muddy roads and think about making it back up the hill.
“I don’t know when you will be able to get out,” he says.
We’ll worry about that later. In the meantime we can still drive the mostly level roads near the coast. The windswept shoreline is lined with cliffs, many sculpted with holes and caves from the constantly pounding surf. Some caves near shore are accessible if you time your visit carefully during low tide. These are especially high tides, about 35 feet or 10 metres, forming wide tidepools and beaches. Walking along the shore, we find numerous fossils in the rocks, especially perfectly formed sea shells. One promontory rising from the sea is the source of the park's name – Monte León, or Lion Mount. Use your imagination and squint your eyes just right, and it sorta-kinda looks like a reclining lion with its head up.
The real wildlife is more interesting. Guanacos and rheas wander the hills, sea lions frequent the shoreline rocks, and colonies of cormorants nest on rocky islands right next to the shore. A brazen Patagonian fox stays near our campsite, probably looking for a handout. It's a beautiful animal with a coat of reddish grey, about intermediate in size between a red fox and a coyote.
But what we enjoy most are the penguins – the world’s fourth largest Magellanic penguin colony, with an estimated 150,000 birds. From a clifftop viewpoint, we watch them waddle out of the water in early evening, then make the long, arduous climb uphill to their nests among low, inhospitable-looking thorny bushes. A marked walking trail winds through the nesting colony; we’re so close to the birds that they’re almost within reach. The experience is way more rewarding than seeing the penguins at Otway, and here we have them all to ourselves.
It seems that we pretty much have the whole park to ourselves. A couple other vehicles drive through during the day, but in the evening, we are alone in the campground. This little-visited park has only the most rudimentary facilities, but we certainly can’t complain – we don’t have to pay park admission fees or even camping fees.
The last major stop before heading back to El Calafate, Monte León turns out to be a fitting end to our southern Patagonia wanderings. While the mountain parks have more obvious grandeur, being alone in this wild and remote place really gives us a feel for the immensity of this special land.
As for getting back up that hill we were worried about – no problem at all. Thanks to the sun and our constant companion, the Patagonian wind.
Guanacos.
The rising sun illuminates the spires of Mount Fitzroy in Argentina.
Torres del Paine National Park, Chile.
Perito Moreno Glacier, Argentina.
Monte León National Park along the Atlantic coast of Argentina.