The other excursion was to Mt. Fitzroy, again requiring a tour. Happily, two Spaniards, Roger and Pere, arrived at the place I was staying with similar intentions. Unhappily, a one-day trip really doesn’t do it any justice. But it was that or pay twice; to be delivered, and then fetched back. So just a brief, limited stroll, impeded further by snow, and glimpses of deep-blue icefalls amongst cloud-wreathed peaks.
From Calafate I wanted to go to Puerto Natales. When it is not winter, there is a bus service along the edge of the Torres del Paine national park, as well as a chance to alight at a junction about half-way to Rio Gallegos to wait for a bus to Rio Turbio, but I had to go all the way back to Rio Gallegos. From there, the road to Rio Turbio often was close to the rail route, but no train chuffed by for me to see. From Rio Turbio there is plenty of local transport to Puerto Natales, provided that the mine is still operating.
I stayed at the Hotel Natalino, in great comfort. The roof outside my window made a good refrigerator for drinks and snacks, and I had ten days to wait until the next ferry departure. Traveller’s costs in Chile are at least a third less than in Argentina, so it is better to do any waiting in Chile. I was contemplating a visit to the Torres del Paine, but was not keen on an excursion deep into an unknown wilderness on otherwise unmarked snow-obscured tracks. Especially on my own. In the event, no other potential companions turned up.
I also missed the chance for a day tour to the edge of the park and back thanks to confused messages, but it would have been expensive, anyway, so I had to content myself with the various glimpses I’d had of them in the distance. I also didn’t bother with a tour to see the cave of the giant sloth.
Instead I just went for strolls around the local area or the town, whose wooden buildings reminded me of New Zealand’s West Coast. I remember the cheeky schoolgirls in their big greatcoats; one minx snatched at my paper cone of chips, only to retreat in giggles when I offered all some. And a dinner in the nearby Barrel of Gold restaurant on delicious food delivered by an excellent waiter. I was sitting by the window and outside, big soft snowflakes slowly drifted down.
Roger and Pere arrived: we three were the only foreigners going on the ferry. Out of winter, additional ferries run, but even so, people sleep under tables and on the deck. We had plenty of space, in good cabins. The journey is magnificent. Although there are some stretches in the open sea (that were rough), mostly we were steadily ploughing along narrow channels with the mountaintops lost in cloud. It was rather like a giant version of N.Z.’s Fjordland, and so it should seem as the geography is the same (ocean winds from the west striking a mountain range), as is the vegetation: the same species of beech trees thanks to Gondwanaland.
One pass along the way had been described as having cliffs “a stone’s throw away”, but alas, the stones I’d brought along to put this to the test fell short on both sides. I think my shoulders were too stiff thanks to too much time carrying a pack and not enough practice at throwing.
At Puerto Montt I was tempted to argue with the stationmaster, as the station bore a sign “The most southerly station in the world”. Well, Esquel is clearly further south (except perhaps to a Chilean it doesn’t exist), and New Zealand’s Invercargill station is further again. So even if the Rio Gallegos – Rio Turbio train is defunct, the claim is wrong, but I left him in peace.
Anyway, we stayed at the house of a retired bullfighter (whose name I’ve forgotten), and schemed how to get to Bariloche. There is a direct bus that takes half a day, but we wanted to go by the much more scenic lake route. Alas, this is in the control of tour operators, and public transport only reached the first lake on one day a week. But we could get to the start of the road to the lake, so off we went.
We found no passing vehicles, other than the day’s tour bus (already passed), so nothing for it but to start on the nine-mile walk, pausing at some cascades half way. This rather surprised the staff at the tourist installations, as they thought that they were done with visitors for the day. We spent the night at a home-stay by the lake, and then the next day could proceed only via the tour boat departure in the mid afternoon.
There are a few other boats, but everyone knows the tour boat price, and that there are no roads around the lake, nor much prospect of walking. Some French travellers did manage a ride on a cargo-carrying boat, but it was at the same price. So the following morning we gave up the struggle, and joined the tour group for the day’s sequence of road and boat stages. The scenery was splendid, but once we were in range of day trips from Bariloche, the numbers rather spoiled the ‘nature experience’.
On arrival in Bariloche, I calculated that our small saving was due entirely to the trivial bus fare saving obtained by our first day’s walk. It was the (unavoidable) boat fares that had hurt.
In Bariloche I learnt that the Old Patagonian Express was again running (twice a week), so soon I was off to Ingeniero Jacobacci, the turnoff from the main railway. As the train departed at 6am, I planned to get there in the evening and await the morning in the railway station, rather than waste money on a hotel room and risk sleeping in.
The only café-restaurant in town closed at midnight. The next event was the arrival of the train to Bariloche at about 3am. And yes, some fanatics did alight. During this disturbance, I noticed that around the corner from the main platform were these ‘toy-size’ train carriages, and that we could go in and sit, or rather, sprawl on the small seats. I’d chosen a first-class ticket, so I was in a carriage with slightly thicker seat padding.
It was a splendid trip, chuffing along the vast Patagonian pampas through icy air. The carriages are heated by stoves, and atop ours we boiled water and made soup, sucked mate (the favoured Argentine tisane), slurped tea or hot chocolate and generally made ourselves at home. We got to Esquel at about 10pm, but as the train’s return journey was at 10am, I still managed some good photos of the train and myself at Esquel station, with the help of other like-minded bystanders. I hope the train is still running!
From Esquel, a bus to Puerto Madryn in order to go on the excursion to the peninsula to view the whales. There are also elephant seals basking on the beaches at certain times. This pretty much involves yet another day tour, for the usual reasons. Don’t miss the film showing the waves crashing onto the beach by a seal. Suddenly, one wave turns out to be occupied by a killer whale, who flings himself up the beach, chomps onto an elephant seal and then flops back into the water where he tosses his meal into the air in order to swallow it neatly, head first. It took less time to happen than to describe it. Actually, you probably won’t miss the film, as it is shown to emphasise that visitors to the seals’ snooze area should keep well away from the water’s edge as it is also the killer whales’ snack bar. We sure did.
And then, a bus back to Buenos Aires. Two months had passed.
Read Part Two of Midwinter in Southernmost Argentina and Chile
