Volcan Villarrica: Mutiny on the mountain

Neither of us were too pleased when the Wiggles enthusiastically started singing 'Wake Up Jeff' that Sunday morning. We'd been invited to dinner at our German friend's villa the previous evening and after a delicious Chilean meal, mulled wine and attempting to communicate to an Argentinian guy using a German picture book, we'd gone to bed far later than we should have.

After around 5 hours sleep, my one hope for staying in bed until a more respectable hour was cloud cover. Specifically clouds covering Volcan Villarrica. As it was technically Jeff whom the Wiggles were still singing to, he volunteered to wander into the lounge room to see if the volcano was visible. Despite having waited in anxious anticipation to climb it for 4 days, when he returned and started packing in a flurry I wasn't particularly enthusiastic.  

After a large group had gathered at head office, we parted with 35 000 pesos each, then squeezed into a mini van and set off for the volcano via the Conaf office where our national park entry fee was paid. Near the base of the chairlifts, there was already a line of mini vans whose occupants stood contemplating the mountain.

Apart from a couple of buildings near the base, the enormous side of the volcano was entirely barren. Reflecting the sunshine, the snow covered slope appeared invitingly conquerable; it even seemed closer than the 4-5 hour predicted climb.

Wandering amongst the group, while we suited up, our guide pointed out the fierce wind that was driving the smoke from the volcano sideways and whipping up the freshly fallen snow. At that moment we still had the option to turn around and try tomorrow or get a refund. 

Retreating at that moment would have meant missing out on ascending Villarrica altogether, so I confirmed with the guide that the wind wouldn't stop us from reaching the top. He grinned as he told me it probably wouldn't be very pleasant, but not impossible. Being time poor we chose to climb, together with a tall Spanish man in his 30s and a middle aged Dutch woman, while most of the group returned to the comfort of the van and the promise of tomorrow.

Keeping in a single file behind the first guide, we began the slow trudge up the mountain. And oh my was it going to be slow. By the time we reached the first stop to put our helmets on, my heart rate had barely increased and I could see why the walk was going to take so long. Admittedly not everyone agreed that the going was easy. When she caught up with us, the Dutch woman was already drenched in sweat and asked if we were finding the climbing difficult.

If the walking wasn't going to leave me breathless, the wind certainly was. Despite trying to cover every patch of bare skin, I could still feel the snow blasting against my checks. Above us the chairlifts groaned and squeaked as they swung in the wind. The long procession of climbers in front of us all had ice axes in hand, trying to steady themselves against the gusts.

Just past the snow line, in the narrow shelter of some exposed rock, the groups all began to gather. Some climbers were putting on their crampons, while others sat staring down into the valley. One guy off to the side was peeing, which given the wind was a decent challenge.

After a brief exchange with one of the men in the group, our guide informed us that Conaf had closed the mountain because of the wind. He suggested that we could still put on our crampons and head up to the top of the chairlift where we would wait it out in case the wind died down. So while all the other groups turned around, the three of us - we had lost the Dutch woman - continued on.

Five minutes after reaching the shelter at the top of the chairlift, our guide was ready to head back. The Spanish guy tried to delay our return, but the guide stood firm and we started back down the mountain to where we had put our crampons on. In the spot where 50 people had been crammed together just half an hour ago, there was no one, not even the Conaf official.

With rising frustration, we pointed out to the guide that the wind was subsiding and perhaps if we waited a little longer we might still have a chance of climbing Villarrica. But with barely a glance at the mountain he headed downhill.

Initially we had been instructed to walk close together but now our guide, with the Spaniard in hot pursuit, raced away leaving Jeff and myself at least 200m behind. It took a lot of shouting to get him to stop and wait for us to catch up.

Together with the Spaniard we begged the guide, to at least evaluate the changing situation or explain why we'd even started out. He refused. Turning away from our barrage of pleas and questions, our guide walked away leaving us to contemplate our next move.

We felt cheated and ripped off.

Back at the office, we demanded answers from the owner of the trekking company. Pleading innocence, he blamed Conaf for tricking us into paying the park entry fee when they knew the mountain was closed. While he graciously refunded half the fee we'd paid, that bitter feeling lingered.

That evening we returned to Santiago, the place where is all started two months earlier. This time around we barely noticed the broken footpaths and 70s era buildings as we wandered the streets on a hot, hazy day.

The following morning, we flew out of Chile.

Still Waiting: Magical El Cañi

The lasagne was just about to come out of the oven when there was a knock on the door. We were staying in a little two couple cabin at Hostal Emalafquen that the lovely landlady Valentina had pestered us into looking at when she'd sidled up to us at the bus station. After 2.5 months travelling it was inevitable that the functioning oven would be used. And as it turned out, we had a dinner guest that evening.

Drenched from head to toe, Sebastian stepped into our warm cabin and greeted us like an old friend. Since we'd gone our separate ways on that cold morning at the Laguna Torro camp site, he'd gone north via Chile, while we'd taken the Argentian route. He'd arrived in Pucon the day before us and on the following perfect morning had climbed Volcan Villarrica, peered into it's smokin' crater and bum slid all the way back down to the bottom. Of course he had photo's to show us too!

The weather forecast was still looking dismal, although there was hope in sight on Sunday, the last possible day we had before we needed to head back to Santiago.

Friday was miserable. When we ventured outside to look at the black volcanic beach of Lago Villarrica on the edge of town we were nearly blown away. Actually it was quite impressive! The black sand seemed really odd, like an inverse of reality, but stranger still was the group of teenage girls going swimming in the lake fully clothed in jeans.

Despite our pleading, the guides didn't agree that Saturday would be a suitable day to attempt Villarrica, so we took Sebastian's suggestion and went to El Cañi, a 400 hectare conservation park protecting an ancient araucaria forest.

As predicted, it was another overcast day and our rain jackets came out within five minutes of walking.

After an hour's slog up a muddy 4 wheel drive track we reached a lovely hiker's hut with a view to the surrounding volcanoes and solid patch of snow.

On the hillside above, we could see a patch of bizarre looking trees. While the rest of the vegetation and the same trees near them were green, this small stand was grey with mist swirling between them, almost like they were part of an enchanted forest.

Starting up the narrow snowy path past damp logs, weeping bamboo and bright spring blossoms it felt like this forest was indeed enchanted.

Our objective on this walk was to reach a lookout high up on one of the hills that would offer 360 degree views to the surrounding volcanoes. The mud map given to us at the reception also indicated that along the way there'd be two lakes, but they hadn't been mentioned in the guidebook. Isn't it funny how sometimes it's the places you least expect that are the most breathtaking?

 

A thin crust of ice had formed over Laguna Las Totoras and when snow had fallen the previous night it had dusted the surface of the lake in white. The ice had already cracked a little with long spidery lines etched in the snow.

The trees we'd seen from lower down stood around the laguna, still stiff and frosted over from the cold night.

Higher up there was even more snow, but the well marked trail was still obvious.

Laguna Negra, surrounded by snow and ice like the first, seemed more dark and brooding. Reflecting the dark clouds rolling in, the water looked almost black.

From here we were on our own trail finding wise. From the mud map, we guessed where the summit should lie and set off trying to discern a trail in the snow. Climbing the hillside, it quickly became apparent that we hadn't found it so we went straight up to the saddle.

There amongst a winter wonderland of iced over trees we found the path to the summit.

At the frozen top we got our panoramic view of frozen forests, cloudy volcanoes and the dark lakes we'd passed.

With a heightened awareness of the seismic potential all around us, we looked at each other with dread when we heard a rumble from somewhere in the distance. The dark clouds almost certainly meant the noise came from the sky rather than the earth, but even so we retreated back into the forest pretty quickly when we heard more rumbling.

We had decided to follow the trail along the ridge instead of the way we'd come up. Fifty or so metres on from where our footprints led down the hill, we heard a grunt. Stopping dead in our tracks near a rocky outcrop, the low growl came again from somewhere in the scrub nearby. There was no more sound except the pounding of our hearts, as we realised how foreign the forest was despite how used to it we'd become. We had no idea what had made that noise, but for fear of having strayed into a wild beasts territory we turned tail and ran back to the safety of our tracks, slipping and sliding down the hill to the lake.

The rumble we'd heard from the top, did prove to be bad weather, that dumped a bit of snow on us on the way down the mountain. When we told Valentina about it upon our return to Pucon, she shook her head sadly saying there shouldn't be any snow by this time of year. But at least the weather forecast wasn't all grim. That afternoon we got our equipment together in preparation for climbing Volcan Villarrica the next morning.

Los Glaciares: Laguna Torro...rained out

After so many days of sunshine the Patagonian weather gods were clearly bored. And our luck ran out.

With the sky in an obviously cantankerous mood, we walked away from El Chalten – in a different direction – for our last overnight hike with Sebastian and Hannes.

Maybe it was because we would soon be heading in different directions after two weeks of travelling together, or I was still tired from the last four days or maybe it was just the steep hill we were hiking up, but the one thing I was sure of was that I didn't want to be there.

We'd been warned that the track was boggy in places which wasn't great news for my boots that were losing their sole. Yes, that on top of worn inner padding. But in the end, it didn't really matter. We had a few good moments of bright sunshine and happiness, until we hit the boggy section and it started to rain. Hoping that things would improve we were carefully picking our way through the mud to avoid wet boots.

Then, for the first time in our hiking history, it started really bucketing down. No we're not sheltered, just really lucky. Oops, I don't think I should have written that.

Add to that gusts of wind which were almost knocking us off our feet, along with driving rain so hard it felt like needles on my cheeks, so I didn't even want to look up from under my hood. Effectively there could have been pink elephants flying through the air and we wouldn't have seen them.

By the time we reached camp after walking for 4.5 hours, our pants were soaking wet as were our boots, because at some point it had seemed useless or even impossible to avoid the bog. The camp site was empty and it was still pouring, but luckily there was a tiny shelter about 3m by 2m where we could hang up our clothes and wait out the afternoon. We crowded in and pooled all our sweets, eating them all for lack of anything better to do. With the way things had turned out, we knew that Jeff and I had missed out on seeing Laguna Torro and the last glacier.

The next morning, the rain had turned to light snow and the ground was still frosty from the cold night. As we left camp at 7am to get back to El Chalten before noon, the sun was just coming up over the mountains. With the clear skies we got to see what we'd missed the previous day.

Well except pink elephants of course.

So while the weather gods smiled once more for us, the ATM ones did not. But that's a story for another day.

Doing the W! Torres del Paine: Part Two

What's the attraction of this walk, that people who have never lugged around a backpack on a multi-day trail come here to 'do the “W”'? It seemed that everyone we met in our travels was either on their way, or had come from Torres del Paine. Even I, who has stated more times than either Jeff or I would like to remember, that 'I hate bush walking' and 'I hope to never do it again!' had put it near the top of our 'To Do' list for the trip.

But then, clearly I'm a walking contradiction given the fact that I only knew about the walk from a beautifully illustrated book called 'Top Treks of the World'. That I'd bought. And then day dreamed about when I should have been doing something more productive...

I won't lie, this isn't a get back to nature, leave behind all the crowds kind of place. Thanks to fully catered hosterias along the way, it's set up to be as convenient as possible for anyone willing to lace up a pair of hiking boots and carry a change of clothes. And yet I, like apparently every other hiker compiling a Top Ten list was totally smitten with the place and dare I say it – I loved walking the W!

Which brings me back to why? Well, standing on top of a great big boulder with the word mirador (lookout) painted on it in faded letters and looking out across the Valle Frances, it was pretty clear.

We'd walked a couple of hours initially through the lenga forest where we'd heard the thunder like rumble of ice cracking off the nearby hanging glacier.

Once again we'd sat waiting to see the calving until the fierce Patagonian wind had chilled us enough that we'd had to keep moving.

Slowly the trees grew more sparse and twisted from the effects of the wind that that day had been predicted for around 70km/hour. In some places there was no forest just a round clearing of bare rocks and we contemplated what had happened there. My guess was UFO's.

Hannes' - he who had called us pussies – favourite phrase was 'Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God' which he delivered in an unconvincing American accent, at just about everything - sometimes deservedly, but mostly not. Well at the top of the valley, I think all of us muttered some version of his phrase as we took in the 360 degree panorama of shale-capped granite walls with one of the turquoise lakes just visible in the distance.

 But it wasn't just that the Valle Frances was spectacular, it was also so different to the glacier and ice field that was just a day's walk away.

Wind, rain and...Snow?!?
On the fourth day, it was the weathers turn to play games. While marching through the grassy fields, the rain alternated with the sunshine so we'd be throwing off our packs every few minutes to take rain jackets on and off as it would alternatively get hot then cold. Not only was this a great workout for the arms, but a way to make friends with other hikers we'd be camped beside that night. As we alternated passing and being passed when adjusting our gear, we'd share a laugh and a 'See you again in a couple of minutes!' look.

 It wasn't even marked on the map, but when I saw it – or rather, felt it - I knew this was the Paso de los Vientos and it was stunning! A few years earlier my parents had walked this same section of the trail and been in awe of the gusts of wind that had nearly sent them toppling down the steep side of valley into the Ascencio River below.

From the valley we could already partially see the 'towers' that the park is famous for and after another hour of walking we reached the woody campsite that marks the final ascent to the lookout.

Of course everyone hopes for a picture perfect view of the torres, but unfortunately the unpredictable Patagonian weather usually has other ideas. So we thought we were pretty lucky that the mornings showers seemed to have cleared. After setting up camp we decided to go straight to the lookout while the sun was getting a look in, rather than trying for the stunning dawn glimpse which would have required a 4am start. The tables had turned on the pussy stakes you see and it wasn't the Aussies who were firmly committed to being in their sleeping bags at least until after the sun rose!

The hike up to the lookout involved much less actual walking and more clambering over boulders and sliding in every direction on the loose gravel of the badly eroded trail. And the higher we got on the barren hillside, the fiercer the wind became. When we finally reached the top, low lying clouds had blown in, shrouding the towers.

Covered in every warm piece of clothing we'd brought and huddled next to the boulders we waited in the hope that the sun would come out, while we debated weather we were getting a more authentic experience in Patagonia than if it had been a perfect day. While we made ourselves feel better thinking this, the weather decided to give us even more authenticity and it started to snow.

The snow came and went throughout that evening and during the night, so that when we woke the following morning, everything was covered in a light dusting of powder including the tent!

Apart from those who had actually woken before dawn and walked up to the torres to see lots of fog (and the person who took a summer tent with them and was cold during the night) everyone was delighted with the snow. So we went for an exploratory walk which started with lots of photos...

 Then turned to this....

 Some of this.....

Then this....oh yes dear husband, thanks for TAKING PHOTO'S instead of helping. Just for the record, I drew blood!!

And finally...snowmen! Really, who doesn't go a little gaga when there's fresh snow on the ground!

Battle Scars from walking the 'W' with not one, but two Swabians!
After all this play, there wasn't a lot of time to head down the mountain to get the bus back to Puerto Natales.

 But we made it with time to spare. In fact 1 hour and 20 minutes. Technically we still needed to catch a shuttle to the park entrance and the bus to Puerto Natales, which was going to cost 2000 pesos or $4 or 10 euro cents. Big deal right? Well if you're Swabian (from a part of Germany where people are considered to be rather frugal) it is. After all why catch a shuttle when you can walk the extra 7.5km, just like you walked an extra 17.5km to save catching the ferry! Can't hurt can it?!

Well, yes it can. During those last 7.5km I learnt the definition of 'blistering pace'. About half an hour in, Sebastian was joking about his red hot feet as we raced down the road.

By the time we reached the bus, with a couple of minutes to spare, I no longer thought my feet – or him – were particularly funny. For moment all that was forgotten when we got back to Kaweskar (probably the best hostel on earth) and Omar the owner greeted each of us with great big bear hugs!

And then I took off my boots. Aside from the blisters covering the back of each heel that I already knew about, each and every one of my toes, both on the top and bottom had been rubbed raw, along with the front part of the sole. They were already swollen and got bigger during that afternoon and night making it really hard to walk. The upshot was being able to scare others hikers in the hostel who were about to set off on the 'W' by showing them my wounds. Plus I had a legitimate excuse to keeping my feet up while the boys shopped and cooked. For two nights, we feasted, socialised and drank wine and cocktails - the awesome Omar mixed killer pisco sours for us. I did mention that Kaweskar is the best hostel in the world didn't I?