Friday, December 12, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
September 19, 2008
Rough, beaten and ragged, the mountains arrive at the sea like weary soldiers having marched the entire continent to it’s bitter end. In a last show of defiance they thrust their spears, spires and towers heavenward and then collapse in a crumbled ice torn mass.
Impossible beauty. Impossible rock shaped and forged in patterns no human sculptor could conceive. Words fail the awe of standing among these giant masiffs of rock and sky, the land of snow and ice, lakes and forests, waterfalls and lagoons of torquoise blue. A kingdom of condors and puma, the guanaco and ostrich, and flamingo and fox. Opposing extremes twisting and pulling, stretching and shaping a landscape where words are yet to be defined to describe a place of such uncomparable strength and draw.
Like Lucy coming through the cloak room into a magical world, impossible was the only word I could muster. I stared heavenward at six condors circling in the skies above, looked north to the horns and towers of Torres del Paine reflected in glacier clear waters, looked down at the straw covered grass blowing in the winds, to the south a river meandering in the plain, and behind through the scented green forests and knew this was God’s palette. Though a painter could capture one view at a time and give their best rendering of that one vista, not one could capture the all encompassing dimensions and th need to look all directions at once, the sharp clear cold air refreshing the lungs, and chilling the hand and cheek, the utter freshness of the purest breath, the sounds of water flowing, grasses blowing, and leaves rustling. These are the aspects the armchair traveler never knows, the sheer wonder and joy, and madness of such incredible fragments of being. When one stands alone in the midst of it all, in a mind stopped by the magnitude and can only form the word Impossible.
Such was my experience that first day in the Parque Nacional de Torres del Paine. I was in a group of 9. Four Germans, 3 brazilians, an Irish girl and myself. We were all in transit on the tourist trail , straight off the Navimag ferry and hitting the next must see on the list.
Rough, beaten and ragged, the mountains arrive at the sea like weary soldiers having marched the entire continent to it’s bitter end. In a last show of defiance they thrust their spears, spires and towers heavenward and then collapse in a crumbled ice torn mass.
Impossible beauty. Impossible rock shaped and forged in patterns no human sculptor could conceive. Words fail the awe of standing among these giant masiffs of rock and sky, the land of snow and ice, lakes and forests, waterfalls and lagoons of torquoise blue. A kingdom of condors and puma, the guanaco and ostrich, and flamingo and fox. Opposing extremes twisting and pulling, stretching and shaping a landscape where words are yet to be defined to describe a place of such uncomparable strength and draw.
Like Lucy coming through the cloak room into a magical world, impossible was the only word I could muster. I stared heavenward at six condors circling in the skies above, looked north to the horns and towers of Torres del Paine reflected in glacier clear waters, looked down at the straw covered grass blowing in the winds, to the south a river meandering in the plain, and behind through the scented green forests and knew this was God’s palette. Though a painter could capture one view at a time and give their best rendering of that one vista, not one could capture the all encompassing dimensions and th need to look all directions at once, the sharp clear cold air refreshing the lungs, and chilling the hand and cheek, the utter freshness of the purest breath, the sounds of water flowing, grasses blowing, and leaves rustling. These are the aspects the armchair traveler never knows, the sheer wonder and joy, and madness of such incredible fragments of being. When one stands alone in the midst of it all, in a mind stopped by the magnitude and can only form the word Impossible.
Such was my experience that first day in the Parque Nacional de Torres del Paine. I was in a group of 9. Four Germans, 3 brazilians, an Irish girl and myself. We were all in transit on the tourist trail , straight off the Navimag ferry and hitting the next must see on the list.
September 15, 2008
The cargo ship Puerto Eden has received its load and passengers. A voice announces its eminent departure,”The ship is ready to sail, will the passengers please come to the decks to observe the final maneuvers.”
The final maneuvers consisted of the ropes being thrown off, the anchor raised, and two tug boats which pushed and pulled to send the Puerto Eden on her way. As the cargo ship made it’s way down the narrow channel groups of lapwing birds flew overhead, a women hoeing on the hillside turned to look, the sky turned pink framing volcan Orsono, and we sailed off into a pink horizon.
As I looked out at the distant shore with the water lapping at the base of snowy volcanoes and the andes gently undulating away into the pink darkness, I realized this was the very Patagonia I had so long dreamed of.
The cargo ship Puerto Eden has received its load and passengers. A voice announces its eminent departure,”The ship is ready to sail, will the passengers please come to the decks to observe the final maneuvers.”
The final maneuvers consisted of the ropes being thrown off, the anchor raised, and two tug boats which pushed and pulled to send the Puerto Eden on her way. As the cargo ship made it’s way down the narrow channel groups of lapwing birds flew overhead, a women hoeing on the hillside turned to look, the sky turned pink framing volcan Orsono, and we sailed off into a pink horizon.
As I looked out at the distant shore with the water lapping at the base of snowy volcanoes and the andes gently undulating away into the pink darkness, I realized this was the very Patagonia I had so long dreamed of.
September 14, 2008
Francisco has the longest eyelashes I have ever seen framing large soulful brown eyes. When he puts on his handspun grey poncho and goat skin chaps and lightly swings onto his steed he is transformed from a skinny kid into a dashing Chilean cowboy.
This handsome gaucho is now escorting me down the gaucho trail from the mountain retreat of La Junta back to Cochamo. We left just after the sun slid into our little valley and melted the frost that crowned the valley floor. There is still some ice on the old alerce wood lining the trail and the horses slide a bit as we descend. Winding through narrow ruts worn deep into the skin of the earth from decades of use the horses heated bodies create little clouds of humidity that remain trapped in the coldness of the trenches as we pass through.
Francisco has the longest eyelashes I have ever seen framing large soulful brown eyes. When he puts on his handspun grey poncho and goat skin chaps and lightly swings onto his steed he is transformed from a skinny kid into a dashing Chilean cowboy.
This handsome gaucho is now escorting me down the gaucho trail from the mountain retreat of La Junta back to Cochamo. We left just after the sun slid into our little valley and melted the frost that crowned the valley floor. There is still some ice on the old alerce wood lining the trail and the horses slide a bit as we descend. Winding through narrow ruts worn deep into the skin of the earth from decades of use the horses heated bodies create little clouds of humidity that remain trapped in the coldness of the trenches as we pass through.
La Junta
September 13, 2008
Tatiana soft brown eyes moisten and tear as she talks about her son. Only seven years old, he has been sent away to live with a friends family to go to school.
“Es muy importante”, she says remorsefully, but she wants him with her. She wants her son to learn and kept him as long as she could, until she had taught him all that she knew. Tatiana and her husband live in La Junta, five hours by horse from the nearest town of Cochamo in the desolation of the mountains.
La junta lies at the base of a ring of snow capped granite domes of staggering beauty. Some have likened them to the grandeur of Yosemite and many climbers come as well to scale their heights. Last year an Argentine man fell thirty feet and hit his head twice. Luckily, he was wearing a helmet and survived.
To get to La Junta one must walk a muddy 15 km track or ride an arduous five hours. This mountain route was used over 100 years ago to bring fish and seafood from Chile over El Paso Frontelizo to Argentina. Meat from Argentina was sent back over the pass into Chile. The likes of Butch Cassidy and the sundance kid are even rumored to have traveled these ancient tracks.
It taqkes 2-3 days on horseback in good weather to cross from the town of Cochamo in Chile to Argentina. In the winter mud and snow and swollen rivers of glacial water descend on the trail making it impassable at times. Thousands of a type of sequoia called Alerce were cut to line the trail and raise the horses and riders above the level of the mud. Some have even quoted the figure as 8 million trees cut for this purpose. Originally laid horizontally, they now lay in haphazard confusion, and the horses slip and slide over the trunks picking their way through maze when it seems like they will break through the weathered wood at any moment.
The alerce tree is famed for its surable hard wood which resists infection. It has been recorded to live up to 4,300 years of age. The Alerce planks we crossed over en route to La Junta did not even look worn in the one hundred years they had laid there.
We made our way slowly through the frigid forests of winter to the meadow and refuge of La Junta with its peaks challenging the sky. Tatiana and Horacio are the caretakers and live in this mountain valley isolated from the rest of chile year round. In the winter when the rains and cold come and the light is only present from 11am to 1:30pm Tatiana spins and dyes her own wool and knits and weaves slippers, ponchos, blankets, and saddle bags for the horses. She has just made her son a new grey woolen poncho and is looking forward to seeing him for a few days. Horacio will leave in a couple days to collect him in town and bring him back to La Junta.
Tatiana soft brown eyes moisten and tear as she talks about her son. Only seven years old, he has been sent away to live with a friends family to go to school.
“Es muy importante”, she says remorsefully, but she wants him with her. She wants her son to learn and kept him as long as she could, until she had taught him all that she knew. Tatiana and her husband live in La Junta, five hours by horse from the nearest town of Cochamo in the desolation of the mountains.
La junta lies at the base of a ring of snow capped granite domes of staggering beauty. Some have likened them to the grandeur of Yosemite and many climbers come as well to scale their heights. Last year an Argentine man fell thirty feet and hit his head twice. Luckily, he was wearing a helmet and survived.
To get to La Junta one must walk a muddy 15 km track or ride an arduous five hours. This mountain route was used over 100 years ago to bring fish and seafood from Chile over El Paso Frontelizo to Argentina. Meat from Argentina was sent back over the pass into Chile. The likes of Butch Cassidy and the sundance kid are even rumored to have traveled these ancient tracks.
It taqkes 2-3 days on horseback in good weather to cross from the town of Cochamo in Chile to Argentina. In the winter mud and snow and swollen rivers of glacial water descend on the trail making it impassable at times. Thousands of a type of sequoia called Alerce were cut to line the trail and raise the horses and riders above the level of the mud. Some have even quoted the figure as 8 million trees cut for this purpose. Originally laid horizontally, they now lay in haphazard confusion, and the horses slip and slide over the trunks picking their way through maze when it seems like they will break through the weathered wood at any moment.
The alerce tree is famed for its surable hard wood which resists infection. It has been recorded to live up to 4,300 years of age. The Alerce planks we crossed over en route to La Junta did not even look worn in the one hundred years they had laid there.
We made our way slowly through the frigid forests of winter to the meadow and refuge of La Junta with its peaks challenging the sky. Tatiana and Horacio are the caretakers and live in this mountain valley isolated from the rest of chile year round. In the winter when the rains and cold come and the light is only present from 11am to 1:30pm Tatiana spins and dyes her own wool and knits and weaves slippers, ponchos, blankets, and saddle bags for the horses. She has just made her son a new grey woolen poncho and is looking forward to seeing him for a few days. Horacio will leave in a couple days to collect him in town and bring him back to La Junta.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Volcanos and condors
September 5, 2008
Tap, whoosh, tap, whoosh and the creaking of springs and boots, and the crunching of snow, and the whistle of the wind was all that could be heard. I had joined Laura, Luis, and Pablo on a ski trek up Volcan Lanin on a picture perfect day of cloudless blue skies and brilliant blazing sun.
Volcan Lanin is an extinct volcano that lies in the beautiful Parque Nacional Lanin not far outside the town of San Martin de Los Andes from where we had set off. Luis is the friendly guide, Laura is his exhuberant girlfriend and Pablo is a friend of both of them. We were not planning on conquering all of Lanin{s 3776 meters, but crossing the forest at the base and scaling the snowy flanks to about midway.
This was my first time on touring skis which I figured would be a snap. It seemed to be a simple combination of both cross country skiing and down hill skiing, both of which I can perform adequatly. With the touring ski we used a slimmed down version of the ski boot clipped into a moveable bracket that attached to the top of a down hill type ski. [Skins[ were stuck on to the base of the skiis with a type of glue that kept them in place but allowed the skins to be removed once you were ready to ski down. The furry grip of the skins allowed one the traction needed to [walk[ their ski{s straight up the mountain with out sliding back. Well, with only sliding back a few times. What I hadn{t counted on was the weight of this combination. Though the skiis slid well enough and the skins gripped tight to the snow, dragging two skis and boots up the side of a mountain is a bit more work than I imagined. Luckily Laura was a newbie as well and Pablo was similar, so the three of us hung together while Luis charged ahead with the food.
In the forest at the base of the volcano our tapping heels were accompanied by another rat'a'tat'tat from the tree branches above. On closer inspection we found a pair of wood peckers busy at work. The flourescent red of the male{s head flashed against the dark bark of the tree and blazed against the blue of the sky. The female was an ebony black and flitted from tree to tree tapping in unison with her mate.
After the forest we reached a wide expanse of white snow stretching around the base of the volcano and into Chile. In summer this area was devoid of snow and consisted of only black volcanic ash and rock. We had a clear path across the glistening snow before crossing an avalanche path and then climbing the flanks of the volcano.
once our grade increased we raised our heel binding to allow the boots to maintain a level stance while climbing. Then the work began and the noise of creaky skiis and crunchy snow was the only sound as we put our efforts into pushing the skiis up the volcano.
At 1987 meters we were rewarded with one of those amazing views that you can only find among mountains. We were higher than most of the ranges that surrounded us, had a view of Lake Tromen below, and could even see Volcan Villarrica in Chile which had erupted and spewed lava only one month previously.
While we pulled off the skins and clipped our boots down into the bindings to lock the heels, Luis spotted a pair of condors on the horizon. The condors had been eluding me for the past eight months, all through out Ecuador, Peru, Chile, and now Argentina I had sought these enormous birds. In Ecuador there are only about 30 breeding pairs and they are exceedingly rare and difficult to find. Though they once filled the sky as buffalo had once thundered across America, their population dwindled from the onslaught of man. Here in Argentina they were more common, but the sight of my longed for subject made the day complete. With wing spans of up to ten feet they are a fantastic bird and a beauty to behold in their graceful flight. Coming over the ridges to catch the wind currents you could actually hear them before you saw the giant bird. The wind caught the expanse of their feathers and whipped the plumage as if it were the cloth of a sail causing a snapping sound as they rode the currents and sailed over head.
After a few face plants in the tricky wind whipped snow, we scuttled back down our mountain, roared across the level snow plain, dodged the trees in the forest and were once again back at the base.
Volcan Lanin looked the same as we had encountered her, you could not see the tracks we had left behind. She stood in her white snowy robe with the sun fading and casting royal shadows across her white gown. We left and she remained.
Tap, whoosh, tap, whoosh and the creaking of springs and boots, and the crunching of snow, and the whistle of the wind was all that could be heard. I had joined Laura, Luis, and Pablo on a ski trek up Volcan Lanin on a picture perfect day of cloudless blue skies and brilliant blazing sun.
Volcan Lanin is an extinct volcano that lies in the beautiful Parque Nacional Lanin not far outside the town of San Martin de Los Andes from where we had set off. Luis is the friendly guide, Laura is his exhuberant girlfriend and Pablo is a friend of both of them. We were not planning on conquering all of Lanin{s 3776 meters, but crossing the forest at the base and scaling the snowy flanks to about midway.
This was my first time on touring skis which I figured would be a snap. It seemed to be a simple combination of both cross country skiing and down hill skiing, both of which I can perform adequatly. With the touring ski we used a slimmed down version of the ski boot clipped into a moveable bracket that attached to the top of a down hill type ski. [Skins[ were stuck on to the base of the skiis with a type of glue that kept them in place but allowed the skins to be removed once you were ready to ski down. The furry grip of the skins allowed one the traction needed to [walk[ their ski{s straight up the mountain with out sliding back. Well, with only sliding back a few times. What I hadn{t counted on was the weight of this combination. Though the skiis slid well enough and the skins gripped tight to the snow, dragging two skis and boots up the side of a mountain is a bit more work than I imagined. Luckily Laura was a newbie as well and Pablo was similar, so the three of us hung together while Luis charged ahead with the food.
In the forest at the base of the volcano our tapping heels were accompanied by another rat'a'tat'tat from the tree branches above. On closer inspection we found a pair of wood peckers busy at work. The flourescent red of the male{s head flashed against the dark bark of the tree and blazed against the blue of the sky. The female was an ebony black and flitted from tree to tree tapping in unison with her mate.
After the forest we reached a wide expanse of white snow stretching around the base of the volcano and into Chile. In summer this area was devoid of snow and consisted of only black volcanic ash and rock. We had a clear path across the glistening snow before crossing an avalanche path and then climbing the flanks of the volcano.
once our grade increased we raised our heel binding to allow the boots to maintain a level stance while climbing. Then the work began and the noise of creaky skiis and crunchy snow was the only sound as we put our efforts into pushing the skiis up the volcano.
At 1987 meters we were rewarded with one of those amazing views that you can only find among mountains. We were higher than most of the ranges that surrounded us, had a view of Lake Tromen below, and could even see Volcan Villarrica in Chile which had erupted and spewed lava only one month previously.
While we pulled off the skins and clipped our boots down into the bindings to lock the heels, Luis spotted a pair of condors on the horizon. The condors had been eluding me for the past eight months, all through out Ecuador, Peru, Chile, and now Argentina I had sought these enormous birds. In Ecuador there are only about 30 breeding pairs and they are exceedingly rare and difficult to find. Though they once filled the sky as buffalo had once thundered across America, their population dwindled from the onslaught of man. Here in Argentina they were more common, but the sight of my longed for subject made the day complete. With wing spans of up to ten feet they are a fantastic bird and a beauty to behold in their graceful flight. Coming over the ridges to catch the wind currents you could actually hear them before you saw the giant bird. The wind caught the expanse of their feathers and whipped the plumage as if it were the cloth of a sail causing a snapping sound as they rode the currents and sailed over head.
After a few face plants in the tricky wind whipped snow, we scuttled back down our mountain, roared across the level snow plain, dodged the trees in the forest and were once again back at the base.
Volcan Lanin looked the same as we had encountered her, you could not see the tracks we had left behind. She stood in her white snowy robe with the sun fading and casting royal shadows across her white gown. We left and she remained.
Bariloche, Argentina
September 2, 2008
The bus arrived with the snow in the lake district of Bariloche, Argentina. The snow falling was not the dry shrivelled kind that melts on contact, but big fat fluffy flakes that stick to your nose and eyelashes and make you dream of a cozy fire and bear rug.
My plans for hiking among the pines and vistas were derailed by this unexpected onslaught of snow. It snowed and snowed for two days straight and in the end snowed-in Bariloche. The ski resorts were shut, the cars were stuck, and the fabulous vistas of majestic mountains and crystaline lakes were shrouded and unseen behind the curtain of grey cloud that had descended on the town. The next day when I ventured to the slopes of Cathedral mountain with the rest of Bariloche to track some fresh tracks, we got stuck in hour long lift lines and heavy snow that swallowed the weak. The only thing I left with that day was a bad case of whiplash and the continued desire to see a view that eluded me.
The bus arrived with the snow in the lake district of Bariloche, Argentina. The snow falling was not the dry shrivelled kind that melts on contact, but big fat fluffy flakes that stick to your nose and eyelashes and make you dream of a cozy fire and bear rug.
My plans for hiking among the pines and vistas were derailed by this unexpected onslaught of snow. It snowed and snowed for two days straight and in the end snowed-in Bariloche. The ski resorts were shut, the cars were stuck, and the fabulous vistas of majestic mountains and crystaline lakes were shrouded and unseen behind the curtain of grey cloud that had descended on the town. The next day when I ventured to the slopes of Cathedral mountain with the rest of Bariloche to track some fresh tracks, we got stuck in hour long lift lines and heavy snow that swallowed the weak. The only thing I left with that day was a bad case of whiplash and the continued desire to see a view that eluded me.
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