A visit to Seno Otway

Did you know that Magellanic penguins sound like they've swallowed a harmonica? Nor did we until we visited their nesting ground at Seno Otway.

We'd umm'd and ahh'd about whether it would be worth going, since we southern hemisphere dwellers had seen plenty of penguins already. But the decision was made fairly simply on the basis that there was little else to do in Punta Arenas.

Walking through the town that morning, we'd offered to take a photo of a guy trying to set his camera up on a park bench and struggling. Turns out he was in the Chilean navy, had just gone around Cape Horn and was more than happy to tell us the rest of his life story as well, but not before becoming facebook friends with Jeff. His logic? You can never have too many friends.

On the way to the penguins, our driver proved to have razor sharp eyes (apart from his excellent mechanical skills proven by his ability to fix our van when it broke down just after we hit the dirt road) as while dodging potholes he spotted a pair of nandu on the side of the road. And on the way back, a skunk!

It was a little early in the season, meaning that not all 5000 breeding pairs were likely to have arrived at the colony yet, so we were very excited by the first sighting.

Down by the beach, there were plenty more hanging out on the shore, watching the other penguins as they caught the waves in and then waddled up onto the sand to join the group. Occasionally a seagull that was hidding amongst them would take off and for a second, I'd get excited thinking I was watching evolution in progress.

Finally a little group decided to head back to their burrows and started waddling up the beach towards the dunes.

They passed right next to the shelter and formed a neat line as they entered the track leading amongst the grass and shrubs.

Sometimes they almost disappeared in the vegetation.

Until they each peeled off and went to their partners, where they preened.

They touched.

They waddled around some more.

And they called out.

To who we wondered.

Glaciar Albino & Lago Esmeralda

We'd mentioned that we wanted to go up to Glaciar Albino to a few people in Ushuaia in the hope of getting some information about the walk. The tourist office had sent us to the office of Club Andino, where the bored woman at the counter suggested a tourist agency to organise a guided tour, before returning as quickly as possible to updating her facebook profile.

At Antarctica Hostel, where the bubbly staff had provided us with lots of tourist information, I'd had the same conversation about five times.
Me: We'd like to walk up to Glaciar Albino and wanted to know what the conditions were up there.
Staff: No, no. You mean Glaciar Martial.
Me: No, I mean Glaciar Albino.
Staff: No, it's called Glaciar Martial.
Me: I know that, but I don't want to go to that one. I want to go to Glaciar Albino!

Glaciar Martial is the ice bucket sized glacier above town, which provides beautiful views of the Ushuaia and surrounds. But after walking up the Cerro del Media the previous day where we'd had a great view already we were after something a little different. And to be honest we really wanted to step off the beaten track and explore the wild side of this supposedly wild continent.

Unfortunately the complete lack of information was making this difficult. In fact, we'd had so much trouble already, that we'd bought Lonely Planet's 'Trekking in the Patagonian Andes' which was how we even knew about the walk. But instead of getting an impression of conditions, all we'd heard was that it was probably impossible and there was likely to be too much snow which only served to strengthen our resolve to clamber up there. As long as no one said the word 'avalanche' as they had in Bariloche, we figured everything would be sweet.

Our specially ordered bus was over half an hour late to collect us and in the meantime we'd picked up another recruit for the trek, right from our very own dorm room. Mark had ridden a motorbike from Peru to Ushuaia which immediately endeared him to us and Jeff had already spent hours discussing logistics and motorbikes. What's more he was the one going to Antarctica in just a few short days. Check out his blog 'A Motorcycle Diary'.

Despite attempting to persuade the driver to drop us off at the start of the trail where you don't need to pay, we arrived at Refugio Valle los Lobos where the woman at reception negotiated our time of pick up with the driver and gave us a mud map up to Lago Esmeralda. Mention of the glacier was met with a mumbled jumble of words that included 'snow', 'difficult' and 'impossible'. So we set off with no further instructions, no accurate map, knowing the trail was unmarked and with two hours less than we'd hoped. The driver had seemed unhappy with our initial agreed time of 7pm, so she'd negotiated our pick up for 5pm.

The lake was an easy walk of one hour through the bright green lenga forest. At the edge of the forest there was a large bog and despite instructions to follow the bank of the stream, we followed an alleged path straight through. On the other side, my socks were already damp after sinking into almost ankle deep mud and stepping on spongy mosses. Please don't even mention my guilty conscience.

After another quick climb we were on the pebbly shore of the turquoise laguna surrounded by 1000m peaks. In the valley above the tree line where we were supposed to walk, pristine snow reflected brightly in the sunlight. On the other side of the laguna was a beaver dam next to a whole forest of fallen trees, that had been efficiently cut down by the little critters. They are a pest down here and looking at the destruction it was easy to see why.

On the other side of the forest, just before leaving the tree line we came across the first patch of snow which was easily crossed. But the second one, which looked about 1m deep seemed like it would stop us in our tracks. Luckily there was a way around and up into the valley.

We were following a rough track when it emerged out of the snow. As we got higher, we'd scramble up the slippery moraine, where there was more and more snow and less rock. In some patches the snow would reach up to our knees when a boot inadvertently fell through. On the cliffs around us, there were small waterfalls from all the melting snow above that together sounded much bigger.

The guidebook helpfully advised to turn left at the grey rock before clambering up a steep section. We assumed that the grey rock must have still been buried and continued up the snow before turning towards the only rocky outcrop where we could possibly walk. By now the slope was so steep that we were using our hands to clamber up the snow. Stopping every now and then to catch my breath and admire the foot holes in the pristine snow, I was relishing the descent.

At the top of the rocky outcrop there was no glacier. Instead there was another little waterfall with its water was running directly under the snow we were walking on, before cascading off the red and orange cliff edge.

Continuing along the plateau, we were convinced the glacier was just over the next section of rock around the corner. But all we found was another crest, with more jagged peaks in the distance. Little piles of rocks were dotted here and there, but they ended abruptly and the only other indication of a path was a set of footprints in the snow on a distant section of the slope. We wanted to keep going but we simply didn't have any more time and without knowing exactly where the glacier was we could have kept going on and on. So instead we had lunch, with a spectacular view of the lake way down below, surrounded by forest and mountains.

While the ascent had made us feel like adventurous mountaineers, on the descent it was like we were little kids again. As soon as the slope was big enough we jumped onto our waterproofs jackets and plastic bags and slid down the hill on our backsides. I had a distinct feeling that as a kid I'd been told not to do this probably so I didn't end up with wet clothes and boots and snow everywhere. From the bottom we admired our slide marks in the snow that could even been seen from the far shore of the lake.

We made it back for the taxi just on time and at the hostel looked at the topographic map of the area. It looked like the glacier was exactly where we'd thought. But despite the feeling that it was still unconquered it was a brilliant day and we definitely deserved the the calafate berry flavoured ice cream that evening.

Cerro del Media & the Beagle Channel

From the top of the mountain, Ushuaia looked beautiful. Built on the hillside we'd just climbed, it's gaze seemed permanently fixed on the Beagle Channel and those travelling at the end of the world.

With just a few hours to spare before our intended boat trip – weather permitting – we'd hiked for two hours through the damp lenga forest that we'd grown used to in Patagonia. Near the top we'd slipped our way crossing a bit of snow at the edge of the tree line before reaching the lookout.

Further along there was supposed to be a lagoon so we'd followed the stone markers across the bare, rocky ground. Again, a large patch of snow covered the trail that led up the hill to the lagoon, which turned out to be less of a lagoon and more of a puddle.

After leaving big boot prints in the pristine snow on the way up, Jeff decided to create another set of marks in the snow. He slid all the way down the hill on his backside, almost hitting a rock at the bottom when his steering failed.

That afternoon the wind hadn't picked up and the port of Ushuaia was open for business. We set sail with Patagonia Adventure Explorer on the slightly crowded boat, our stern pointing towards Alicia Island.

'Island' is probably too generous a name for the hunk of rock sticking out of the middle of the channel, but it was here that an entire colony of sea lions were basking in the sun. They were a lazy bunch with not even a flipper moving to show any sign of life. As our boat neared, a few heads moved to look at us and one sea lion sat up and posed for the cameras.

Leaving the colony to their sleep we continued sailing out to Les Eclaireurs Lighthouse the little red and white lighthouse that is the symbol of Ushuaia. With it's backdrop of snow capped mountains and blue water it looked very picturesque on that perfectly clear afternoon. In fact there were so few waves, I was a little disappointed!

On Isla de los Lobos another colony of sea lions lazed in the sun, while on the other side cormorants fed their newly hatched chicks, that we could hear and see squawking in their nests.

 Spot the eggs in the nest and the couple of day old chicks.

Isla de Pajaros, another rocky island was home to a different type of cormorant which our guide was at pains to point out were not penguins. Obviously the sheer quantity of what appeared to be black and white dinner jackets fooled a lot of people, including us. The cormorants were arriving here for the summer to nest, so the colony was multiplying daily.

The final stop was on one of the Bridges islands, where we wandered windswept paths in the place where the indigenous Yamana people had once lived. Covered in low shrubs and mosses, some of which grew just a millimetre a year, the island was in the full bloom of spring.

 We took particular note of the Calafate bushes, whose berry, once eaten insures a return to Patagonia. For the moment, there were only pretty yellow flowers, but there were many options to try them in a preserved form. Our guide recommend the Calafate berry flavoured ice cream, a suggestion we took very seriously...to ensure we made it back to this beautiful part of the world of course!

At the End of the World

The next morning the sun was shining and melting the snow on the roof of the hostel. I could hear the heavy drops falling onto some sheet metal on the balcony, so I was convinced it must still be raining and therefore it wouldn't be worth getting up.

It was late by the time we set off for the glacier just above town, which was said to be no bigger than a bucket of ice. But before we'd even made it around the corner from the hostel, we'd already decided that we should investigate the options for travelling to Antarctica. One of the guys in our room had finally made up his mind to go and was buying his passage that morning.

As the little map at the port of Ushuaia shows, this is the closest place on earth to Antarctica, with just 1000km of water separating it from the frozen continent. In fact by boat it would only take around 1.5 days to cross the Drake Passage. At least that explains the cold!

Thanks to last minute specials available only in Ushuaia and a strong Australian dollar it at last seemed possible to do something I've always dreamed off but that normally is prohibitively expensive.

We wandered up and down the wharf for a while looking at the jagged peaks of the mountains now covered in a fresh layer of snow. On the other side of the Beagle Channel lay Chile, separating us from Cape Horn just a hundred or so kilometres ahead. In the harbour a National Geographic boat made us yearn for an adventure.

After an hour of wandering we did book a trip, but a significantly shorter one. We decided Antarctica would have to wait for another time.

Our boat trip that afternoon was supposed to take us to a lighthouse on a minuscule island in the middle of the Beagle Channel, as well as a sea lion colony and for a walk on one of the bigger islands. The wind had picked up in the afternoon forming very innocuous looking white caps on the little waves, which made me very happy. Just like turbulence when flying, there is nothing I enjoy more than standing at the front of a boat that's riding the waves. But apparently the port authorities of Ishuaia do not share my idea of fun and had closed the harbour cancelling our boat trip. The guide was at pains to explain to me that given the size of the waves in the harbour, they would be monstrous out in the channel. Like I needed to know the fun I would be missing out on!

The Road to Ushuaia

It seemed like a bad place to stop from the moment we woke. The bus had stopped and it was nearing morning, so Jeff went down to check if this was Sarmiento. Through the fogged up windows I could see it was still raining and so I was relieved when he reported this was just a petrol station. A minute later, the bus driver came up to inform the passengers in seats 13 and 14 that this was their stop. The passengers were us; it was 5:15 in the morning and it turned out to be snowing not raining.

We waited in the petrol station until the sun came up, before braving the cold to walk into town in search of a tourist office. It was first thing Sunday morning and there was not a soul about. And unfortunately according to the sign inside the window of the tourist office, there wouldn't be for another 5 hours.

There had been a reason for stopping in Sarmiento, other than for the sake of being sleep deprived and cold and that was to visit the petrified forest in a desert just 30km out of town. But sitting, shivering and hungry in a gazebo in the local park, our prospects of getting there that day, or wanting to go for that matter seemed bleak. With no buses that went out there, we would need to arrange a driver through the tourist office that wouldn't open for many more hours.

Eventually we gave up on the idea and walked to the bus station, hoping to catch the next bus out of town to continue our trip onwards to Ushuaia. The only problem was, that the ticket office didn't open for another two hours and once it did the lady wouldn't sell us a ticket. Jeff had started to ask what time the next bus was, but she cut him off and wrote down 1 and 7. She put a square around one and a circle around the other, before providing a lengthy explanation of what each shape meant and then writing our names and passport numbers down on a sheet of paper. Completely baffled by what she'd said, or even what times the buses were leaving, she seemed satisfied when Jeff informed her we would be waiting on the seat right in front of her office.

But for how long we wondered. Until 7pm perhaps, which would mean missing the connecting bus between Comodoro Rivadavia and Rio Gallegos and having to spend a night in Argentina's ugliest town. So I went up and asked what time the bus left. This time she at least let me get my question out before launching into the circle and square explanation. Now there are two types of people in the world; those that speak slowly and simply to foreigners who obviously don't have great command of the language; and then there are those who say the same thing again and again at an unintelligible speed obviously convinced that by the third time the stupid gringo will have learnt to speak the language.

She was of the second camp, but as I would not budge and kept repeating “Lo siento, no intiendo” and giving her a very sad expression because I really wanted to leave her god-forsaken town (I even have proof of this very fact. It was Sunday and the church was closed. Now go ahead and tell me the town was not god forsaken) she persisted even going as far as using google translate.

Finally, I knew that whether we caught the 1pm bus or not had something to do with available seats. Oddly enough, every other bus company had advanced to an electronic ticket system. So we waited until just before 1pm when she called us over, sold us tickets and we were off. By this stage, it had stopped snowing and the sun was peaking through.

The rest of the trip to the end of the world was rather less exciting. Our second overnight bus in a row took us to Rio Gallegos from where we would spend another whole day on the bus and cross backwards and forwards between Chile and Argentina. I worried the border guards wouldn't let me leave Argentina when the computer took 10 minutes to load whatever information they needed after typing in my passport details. Obviously their dial-up was just really slow.

Entering Chile we all had our luggage scanned and food had to be declared. Two Asian guys on our bus had a whole box which the customs official eyed suspiciously before asking if it was really just food. She opened the box, which was full of noodles and laughing asked them if they didn't like Argentine food, to which they sheepishly nodded a yes.

Finally, already running a couple of hours late, we left behind the barren, windy plains that we had so far seen on Isla Grande de Tierra del Fuego and started crossing the mountains that seperated us from Ushuaia. As it was getting dark, it started snowing and we could just make out the fresh snow lying on the road and dusting the trees. When we arrived to our hostel just before midnight, we were covered in white powder ourselves.

Not Hippy Enough El Bolson

According to the Bible, I mean Lonely Planet, El Bolson was supposed to be a relief from commercialised Bariloche, but hopefully not the chocolate. The description of a pretty town, with a hippy feel, good local made beer and great walks right from the centre convinced us to stop.

Unfortunately I wouldn't call El Bolson particularly pretty and the people have a whole lot more tree hugging to do before the vibe could really be described as hippy. I mean seriously, the only thing we were offered on the street was empanadas and I think they really meant empanadas and not hash.

But the “El Bolson” brand beer was decent and the “El Bolson” brand raspberry juice heavenly. After lunch we wandered up to Indian Head, which really does look like a toothless hippy.

The view from the escarpment down to the river and the surrounding mountains was lovely and we debated which property we would buy and ride horses on.

The clouds concealing the tops of the peaks were a little worrying but we decided to clamber through the forest instead of going back to town the same way. We wandered past a lovely property where little lambs were playing in the fields before finding a track to the waterfall we'd planned to go to the next day. The path led through shrubs covered in yellow and orange flowers which brightened the dull afternoon.

The next day, the grey skies opened up for the first time during our trip. We'd already checked out of our hostel and the manager didn't seem open to the idea of us hanging around until our bus in the evening, so we were homeless.

It's not often in normal life that you need to waste time, but that's exactly how we spent the wet, cold day in El Bolson. It's amazing how long it can take to eat one piece of cake when the only dry place to sit in town is at the bus stop.

To Pampa Linda on Horseback

“This is the best thing we've ever done,” I said. The contented smile hadn't left my lips for the whole time and despite only having been riding for two hours or so, I already knew it would be hard to beat the next three days. From atop Caramelo, Jeff nodded in agreement, before trotting off to catch up with our guide.

We'd arrived at Los Baqueanos camp ground on the banks of Lago Gutierrez and while waiting for the horses to be prepared, we'd skimmed stones across the still water and fallen in love with the place.

The plan was to ride from here to Pampa Linda at the base of Tronador Mountain on the Chilean-Argentine border. It would be just 5 horses, 4 people and Negrita the super dog. Our guide and his friend who was joining us on the trip, tried to persuade the 15 year old dog to stay at home this time, but Negrita wouldn't hear of it.

The first few hours were easy riding, along old gravel roads, near picturesque properties. The horses knew the road, so we could more or less relax in the saddle and enjoy the view.

We were one of the first riders on the trail for the season, so as soon as we had booked, the company had sent out two gaucho's to make sure we would be able to get through after the winter. After a bit of bush bashing through the forest we met them as they were coming back, their chainsaws strapped to a pack horse.

After a few more hours riding through the forest, we came out onto the shore of the U shaped Lago Mascardi, the lake of 7 colours. As the horses rested, we ate lunch on the pebbly beach before heading up towards the pass and our camp site on the other side. We'd left late that morning and our guide was worried we might not make it in daylight.

The trail skirted a peaceful mountain lake, before reaching the pass where there was a surprise waiting for us. Below, on the middle of Lago Mascardi was a perfect heart shaped island. In the distance, Tronador – our destination – was shrouded in cloud.

We reached the shore of the lake and set up camp just before sunset. In the twilight, a fire was started and an asado cooked using the stalks of bamboo from the forest as skewers. Jeff was so impressed, he vowed to make his own during our camping trips.

The lake of 7 colours was decidedly grey when we woke up the following morning and while the rain held off, it would stay that way for the most day.

For a while we followed the shore of the lake, admiring the different colours as they changed depending on how high up we were. Occasionally we would ride onto the beach and cool off the horses legs.

We'd already been impressed with Negrita's stamina the previous day, as she yapped impatiently for us to keep moving when we'd hung around somewhere for two long. But when we watched her wade into the fast flowing river, swim across as she was carried by the current and then clamber out the other side we were amazed.

After leaving the flat plain, most of the days riding would be through the bright green forest alongside a raging blue river, that proved useful in cooling down our drinks at lunch time.

 Higher up on the mountain, the trail grew muddy and wet and I discovered that my horse Gringa did not like getting her hooves wet. While the three horses in front clomped and slipped on the wet ground, mine preferred to jump across it if that seemed like the better alternative. After ten or so years out of the saddle, the first jump was hair raising, but apparently she seemed content enough that I would stay on and so we jumped for the rest of the afternoon.

As we neared the top of the mountain, the rush of water grew louder as we approached waterfall after waterfall cascading over the edge of the surrounding cliffs. Eventually as the ground grew steeper we got to a point where the horses couldn't continue, so we started to hike up to a mountain lake on foot.

Across the trail, an avalanche had recently come down and our guide figured our path might be blocked by the enormous amount of water and snow still around. He was right. We reached the cliffs where we needed to cross the river and we were surrounded by waterfalls. Sometimes groups camp up by the lake, but with the overcast skies that were threatening rain, or at that elevation maybe even snow, the better option was to return to the valley.

We camped on the shore of Laguna Injeniero where the horses filled their bellies on the luscious green grass, while we filled ours with salami, cheese, wine, chocolates and a delicious local dish called guiso made from lentils and chorizo.

We could see the top of Tronador on the last day. As if in answer to our prayers for good weather, the sun shone the whole day as we rode across the plains towards Pampa Linda.

Each time we emerged from between the cana colihue the mountains were larger on the horizon, until we could clearly see the walls of snow on Tronador, it's peak still happily out of the clouds.

For Negrita this was a tough day, as we needed to cross the Manso River ten times. For Jeff it was a test in navigation. The water at times was deep and his horse Caramelo seemed quite happy to walk into the deepest section - the point where Jeff's feet were in the water – and stop. However everywhere else, the horses marched on gaining speed as they knew they'd almost arrived at Pampa Linda and that meant a week of rest in the paddocks.

Seemingly without warning, we arrived at the village, as other tourists pointed at our little group and took photo's of us. And then the three wonderful days were over and we had to say goodbye to our excellent guide and his friend, our horses and Negrita. But not before a siesta.