Travel broadens the mind...

At some point while working my way south during the month of January I was struck by the notion to travel to the “end of the world”, Cape Horn, the southern-most point in South America (and the world, other than Antarctica?) before turning around and journeying north. This idea stuck with me and indeed the desire was stronger the further south that I traveled. And so after exiting Torres del Paine, the goal was to continue south, though as directly as possible as I had already spent more time than planned in Patagonia and would likely not be leaving in the near future. However, after talking to several people I learned that such a trip is not only a bit difficult but also can be very expensive – I could have made my way to Usuaia, Argentina or Puerto Williams, Chile and tried to find a fisherman willing to go, but as the waters are dangerous and there are many shipwrecks during the summer season the fisherman don’t like to make the trip (and charge accordingly); I could have tried to book passage/join a yacht making the trip, but again cost and the disinclination for many to travel there may have been a problem; I could have spent several hundred dollars for a flight (helicopter, according to some), but still would have had to make the trip to Ushuaia or Puerto Wiliams, which cost a decent chunk of money and would have required a good amount of time; or there are cruise options, the least expensive of which was around $2,000 USD. Most difficult of all: there were no guarantees that I would be able to find anything reasonable or that fit whatever schedule I may have had. Bottom line, I realized, I didn’t have the time or resources to make the trip to Cape Horn. I then considered Ushuaia, Argentina (the self-proclaimed southern-most city in the world/South America) or Puerto Williams (the actual southern-most city in the world/South America), but ruled both out – I would have wanted to spend more time than I had in Ushuaia (cost to and from was a factor as well) and according to many, there is nothing in Puerto Williams. Thrice foiled, it appeared.

However, talking to some of the people in my hostel I learned of another option: Cabo Froward, the tip of continental South America and where there is a massive cross built both to mark the end of the continent and also to celebrate a visit Pope John Paul II made to Chile several decades ago. The trek would take 6 days (including a night in Punta Arenas) and would include a variety of terrain and challenges from rivers to bogs, all of which was well off the “beaten path” (although there was a trail for most of the excursion) and during which it was unlikely we would see anyone else. Sign me up.

There were eleven of us in the group including our two guides (a guy who used to work at the hostel and his girlfriend), mostly Americans but also two from the UK and all hikers/outdoors people in one form or another. We set off from Punta Arenas, Chile, took a bus that literally dropped us off at the end of the road, and then set off on foot. The majority of the first day was a “walk on the beach” (really, we walked along gravel beaches for the bulk of the day) broken up by occasional shortcuts inland through the forest to save the time hassle of walking around each and every point. The scenery itself was an interesting mix of mountains, and forested hills, and wind-blown flora on the mainland, and snow-capped mountains and peaks of the islands to the south, which were shrouded in clouds most of the time. Dolphins, Magellenic Dolphins, were almost constant companions. We mainly spent the day walking, chatting, and getting to know each other, not surprisingly (even though it was early in the trip) getting into some deeper “world issues” such as the environment, politics, future generations, etc., and after a full day arrived at our first camp – the “southern-most abandoned house on the South American continent”. We spent the night by a fire, telling jokes, and even the occasional story, I think more than anything happy that it appeared we would get along well as a group over the next several days.

Day two would prove to be both the most interesting as well as the most fun. We didn’t begin hiking until around noon as we needed to wait and properly time low-tide at our first river crossing. Yes, that’s right, a river crossing – no bridge, no raft, definitely not tropically warm water. Arriving at the river, we stripped down to our skivvies (good thing we were comfortable with each other, eh?) and dove in. Luckily it had not rained (much) in the previous few days and we did in fact arrive around low tide, so the water was only about stomach deep on me – stomach deep did not make the water, which was snow run-off, any less cold, however. (I was one of the first across, so you can’t really get a sense of how deep the water was… shame)

Redressing, if only so that we could get moving and warm again (the infamous Patagonian wind, which had been with us the whole time, really kicked up here), we moved on. We wound along the coast, continuing our fairly leisurely if not quick pace. As we were following the coastline, there were times where we needed to negotiate the coastline itself, which consisted in boulder-hopping and your occasional easy climb.

All this was en route to the “highlight” of the day: the Turbal, a ninety-plus minute leg of trekking through a thick peat-moss bog filled with wet and/or muddy sink holes. Strapping on our gators (gore-tex leggings designed to keep water out), we began a steep ascent through thick trees that required a decent amount of negotiation. Arriving at “high ground” we began our trudge through the Turbal itself. While there was a trail, lack of drainage and the addition of rain that had begun shortly after entering the forest made for very wet conditions. Often we would step and find ourselves foot, ankle, even knee deep in peat-moss, a water hole, or outright mud depending on where we were. Thankfully, the gators did their job on the whole and the leg wasn’t too difficult, wet, or painful; indeed, I really enjoyed it, and not only because it was a new experience for me.

The rain continued to fall for the rest of the day, and so upon arriving in camp there was little activity – most were simply anxious to set up their tent, cook a warm meal, get out of wet clothes and be done with the day. I played cards with the guys with whom I was sharing gear and food – collectively known as “Team Meat-Stick” after one of the food items we were provided with for the hike – and then fell asleep to the soothing sounds of the rain. In spite of the rain, I had really enjoyed the day.

The plan for day three was to prepare a day pack with a lunch and any supplies (e.g. – rain gear) that may be needed and make a long day hike to the cross and the end of the continent. We woke early in an effort to hit low tide at what was to be our second river crossing, which was around 7 am. We all agreed that there wasn’t any better way than to start (and end, as we would be returning to the same camp 11 hours later) the day with a river crossing…. But while the river didn´t look terribly difficult the night and afternoon before, a night of rainfall throughout the valley and snowfall in the mountains changed the equation drastically. Instead of finding the river at a manageable waist or even chest high level, we exited camp to find a brown mass rushing with the runoff of a night’s worth of hard rain. We estimated at the deep point it was chest, maybe neck deep on me, much to high for half of the group who were shorter and likely not as able.

Having started the day in our skivvies (that is, most of us had elected to walk to the crossing in our crossing clothes – i.e. sandals and underwear) and realizing we were not going to cross at that moment, we retreated back to camp to discuss. We quickly built a fire, something that the shelter of the trees allowed, and all huddled close. It was decided that at least at that moment we would not be able to cross as a group, and unwilling to split up decided to wait and see if the water level would fall later in the afternoon.

At this point, four members of the group “volunteered” to wander upstream to see if we could find another place to cross. I think we went part for something to do, part for wanting to explore, and part for a genuine hope of finding a crossing. We fought the thick forest, wandering roughly along the river, for something like an hour. To give an idea of how thick the trees were and how much negotiation was needed, in the hour we wandered less than a half-mile from camp. While we did see some interesting terrain, we were unable to find a place that we could have all crossed. On the contrary, it appeared as though a crossing further upstream would be even more difficult due to a stronger current and what appeared to be deeper water.

Upon returning to camp, we were greeted by an interesting site: those that had stayed behind had taken advantage of the time and warmth of the fire to dry out wet clothes from the previous day. Pants, shirts, socks…. and underwear. We came back to find the group standing around the fire with underwear hanging from sticks over the fire, just as one would roast a marshmallow. Needless to say, more than a few jokes were thrown around. More importantly, as at one point we all were drying our underwear in such a manner we christened ourselves “Team Roasted Panties”.

The water level did not drop throughout the day; in fact it maintained it’s level and even rose throughout the day as the snow from the night before melted off the mountains. It soon became clear that we would not be crossing the river – doubts of whether or not we would be able to get back across to camp even if we were able to cross once were a major factor – and so we decided to make our way back to the abandoned house, hike to and camp at the bridge the next day in hopes of catching the morning (rather than the late) bus back to Punta Arenas on Friday morning. So we set out in mid-afternoon and made our way back along the beach, across the boulders, through the Turbal, through the forest and again along the beach, across the first river (which curiously enough was actually lower than the day before…), and then across a second river that was higher due to the rain. Throughout the day the wind blew, but we were moving so fast (due to our late start and wanting to get into camp before it became too dark) that we hardly noticed it. We arrived again at the abandoned house after sunset, ready to be next to a big fire.

We set out on what would be the last day of hiking after sleeping in and just hanging around camp, playing hacky-sack, taking a long breakfast, and, as much as was possible, drying out our clothing and boots. Eight hours of beach, forest, and trail hiking later we arrived at the bridge, where we were able to find a great campsite for the night. We again made a good fire, though this time we didn’t want to or didn’t need to “roast” much clothing.

We woke the next and final day to hard rain. Luckily we had only a 35 minute walk to the bridge where the bus back into town would pass, and once we arrived were able to find a relatively sheltered area to make breakfast, warm coffee, and wait out the ride back to civilization.

In all, the hike was a success even though we didn’t arrive at our goal. We had a great group that took on a unique experience and had a good time along the way in spite of wind, rain, and failure to reach the destination. I was and still am a little disappointed, not because there were some of us, myself included, that could have made it across the river and to Cabo Froward (I am quite certain there were others that felt the same way, but we weren’t about to break up the group), but because in the end I not only didn’t make it to the end of the continent, but would not make it very far south at all. Admittedly, part of my obsession for going so far south was so that I could draw the line on the map. But there is also something about “the end of the world” or “the end of the continent” that held my attention with fascination, and if nothing else the curiosity and desire will still be there. Indeed, it has not ebbed in the weeks since leaving southern Chile. But when the time came, when I returned to Punta Arenas, I knew it was time to set off north and continue with my journey.