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.

Waiting for the sun in Pucon

The road to Pucon is well worn with little backpacker footprints. I however, would recommend catching a bus. The view is much better.

Way back in Mendoza, over pitchers of wine at Mr Hugo's we'd starting hearing about Pucon and it's volcano – Volcan Villarrica. A little further in our travels, every casual conversation that started with 'So, where have you been and where are you going next?' would lead straight to gushing over Villarrica.

In fact by the time we arrived in Pucon we had recommendations for where to stay, who to hike with, how many days to allow for weather and what to wear.

So what's all the fuss about? Well Pucon is a tourist village located 12km or so from the base of an active volcano – Volcan Villarrica – whose smokin' top you can see right from town on a good day, like the one we arrived on. But more excitingly, on a fine day like the one we arrived on you can climb Volcan Villarrica, peer inside its smokin' crater before bum sliding all the way back down to the bottom. Need I say more?

As it's an active volcano, climbing is only permitted as part of a guided group, so that very afternoon we set off to find ourselves a guide and a group. Pucon is fundamentally a tourist town, so every second shop on it's main street advertises guides for climbing, rafting, horse riding and everything in between. So finding a guide proved to be the easy bit, the weather on the other hand was intending to be less cooperative.

We'd been forewarned to allow enough time to wait out the weather. In fact some people had hung out at their hostel for 5 days straight waiting for the sun to come out. So we studied the weather forecast on 'mountain weather' with batted breathed and scuttled over to the guide's office each time it looked like the sun might possibly, maybe show itself. In other words we were down there daily.

So with the following day out for climbing we needed a plan B. It's a good thing then, that volcanic regions have something other than active volcanoes: thermal springs which happen to be one of my favourite things.

We'd often been disappointed with thermal springs that were either ugly or overcrowded or both. But Termas Los Pozones, despite being one of the most popular in the area was perfect. Set right next to an icy river, we could hear the rushing water from all of the 9 rock pools.

Between them, the neat gardens were bursting with colour and the scent of roses was in the air.

The mountains surrounding the valley were delicately enveloped by mist on what had turned out to be a rainy day.

While contemplating the fact that life wasn't so bad even though we weren't able to climb Villaricca that day, we were surprised by a chirpy 'hello' and looking up to see two familiar faces. The two German girls had drank pisco sours with us in Puerto Natales before setting off on the 'W' the day we had left for El Calafate. We figured we'd probably never see them again and yet here they were more than 2000km north of we're we'd last seen them.

Yes, the road to Pucon is well worn.

Twenty four hours in Valdivia

You know a town has a bit of a tourist retention problem when upon checking into an overpriced hostel you're offered a hefty tome outlining all the 'exciting' things to do around town. Valdivia was exactly such a place.

Punta Arenas had had it's enthusiastic tour guide who rattled off museum after museum to a newly arrived backpacker who had made the mistake of asking what there was to do around town. Granted it was me who thought it was a mistake as I tried to keep my opinions to myself and focus on putting my thoughts down in digital format.

What most of the towns of Argentina and Chile had shown us was that no matter how glowingly the guidebook describes a town, chances are we'd be disappointed. You see a 'European' feel just isn't the same as a real European town.

And yet here we were strolling around Valdivia which allegedly “just may be Chile's most attractive and enjoyable city.”

Set one at the confluence of three rivers and surrounded by wetlands the city is actually very pretty. On top of the river cruise there's forts at strategic points towards the ocean which together are the largest Spanish fortification in South America. So in our 24 hour stay we probably didn't give the town enough of a chance. But then again, that's not why we came.

Every day the city is host to the Feria Fluvial, the fish, meat and produce markets set on the bank of the river. And each day fat sea lions come out of the river and grunt begging for food. Competing with them are a stack of birds who try to grab any of the scraps the vendors throw towards them.

Arriving in the afternoon, we thought we'd have to wait until the following morning to catch the action. But as we wandered along the bank of the river we found a group of sea lions resting in the sun, probably after a long day of 'fishing'. 

Is that not the cutest face you've seen in a while?

 Of course, this is what 'fishing' looks like!

Chilling on Chiloe

"You know it rains on Chiloe 8 out of 10 days," said Sebastian, glancing up from his Chile travel guide. Busily studying my own copy which had mentioned that very same fact, although slightly more subtly, I looked up and shrugged in response. The island of Chiloe with it's myths and seafood was most definitely on the itinerary, rain or not.

It was a beautiful sunny day, the morning we crossed the channel to the island. Either the weather had missed the memo or we'd struck lucky and arrived on one of the two sunny days. From the pedestrian deck of the car ferry we watched a seal with a fish in it's mouth swimming along, while four birds hovered above it, diving for the seal's catch each time it surfaced.

On the bus from Argentina into Chile we'd already noticed how the Andes and their rain shadow drastically affect the landscape. In this area at least, Chile was bright green and fertile and Chiloe with its emerald rolling countryside was no different. Certainly there was plenty of evidence that the 8 out of 10 day statistic was pretty accurate.

Ancud
But on that sunny and dare I say warm day, it seemed like a shame to stay in doors for the night so we found a camp site with million dollar views across the bay. No wait, I'll admit it. Accommodation on the island was really expensive so we camped. Then again, with that view camping seemed like the only worthwhile option.

In the afternoon we wandered back into Ancud to check out Fuerto San Antonio – the last Spanish outpost on Chilean soil during the wars of independence.

Then we wandered the streets looking at all the pretty colourful wooden houses and the harbour.

But we were perplexed why there were fire trucks constantly whizzing past with sirens on and a gaggle of children in the front of each one.

Finally we found where all the action was happening that day. In front of the wooden cathedral the square was packed with food, markets and a stage for a national fund raiser. Together with a bunch of motorbikes, the fire trucks were taking the kids for a ride to raise money for the national Teleton. It was here that we had our first opportunity to try the local speciality curanto. We asked about the contents of the massive steaming pot, but turned down the offering when a plastic mesh bag full of shellfish was pulled out. As a result that evening our dinner comprised of freshly baked bread, locally made cheese, two sweet slices and cherries washed down with Chilean wine while watching the sun set across the bay.

Castro

The following day we moved on to one of the other large towns on the island Castro. Again the weather was perfect for our afternoon exploration of the town's wooden buildings and colourful palafitos.

At the feria artesenal, the waterfront markets there were some beautiful knitted woollen dresses and jumpers that I was aching to buy. Afterwards we stopped off at the stunning timber cathedral.

Back at our hostel, the land lady was cooking up fresh pots of marmalade and the scent was wafting through the entire building. I think I dreamt about breakfast the whole night!

Dalcahue

The joke goes: What day is it after two days of rain? Monday. Perhaps it's just an Australian joke because on Monday morning after two days of sunshine we woke to...drizzle. Eight out of ten days remember. But that didn't stop our planned day trip to Dalcahue and the nearby Isla Quinchao.

Chiloe's big draw card are the World Heritage Listed wooden churches, some of which we'd already seen in the two bigger towns. But to get a better idea of island life, we wanted to visit some of the smaller villages.

The first was Dalcahue, which after a peek inside it's church and a wander through the empty streets we were ready to move on.

Across the bay on the car ferry and a short drive through rolling pasture land we were at Achao. Nestled in between the hills, the little fishing village looked beautifully dramatic.

The only activity in town was centred on the jetty. There boats would launch off into the mist and rain which at times obscured the little islands where they were headed. Other boats sat quietly on the long stretch of grey beach.

After a trip to the church and a wander down the beach there was little else to do but find a place for lunch.

We decided this was going to be our big opportunity to try curanto which hopefully wouldn't be served in a plastic mesh bag.

We first tried a local place that had reasonable patronage and a good looking specials menu, but they didn't do curanto. They recommended trying the place across the street, which was also suggested by the guidebook. Upstairs and overlooking the jetty, the restaurant with nice white table clothes was empty. Perhaps that had something to do with the prices which were 4 times that of the local place.

So we found another restaurant - El Penguino – which was bustling with cheerful locals. Curanto wasn't on their menu either and the amused waitress recommended we try another waterfront place. Similarly catering to the tourist market with it's white table clothes and high prices, that place also offered curanto served in silence. So we went back to El Penguino and ordered the other choice of the two daily options, without any clue of what said choice actually was. Well apart from the fact that it wouldn't be beef which was option A.

The restaurant, in a old crumbly building with an unmentionable toilet, was decorated in a style that in an Australian cafe would be achingly trendy. It was obviously vintage, but probably not by choice although this just added to it's charm. We'd managed to nab a window seat and enjoyed looking at the rainy bay while waiting for our mysterious meal.

When our meal arrived it was abundantly clear we'd chosen the fish option which for an area renowned for it's seafood was perfect. And I'm pleased to say it was delicious, although I'm still not sure what the purple creatures were. We liked it so much we asked the waitress to write down the name of the meal which she happily did while accepting our compliments.

Finally the last town on the itinerary was Curaco de Velez which promised an open-air restaurant serving oysters. But in true island style, everything in town including the church was shut.