My mother was born and grew up in Chile. It is a great excuse to visit, crossing the ever expansive and monotonous Atlantic Ocean, stretching over the cloud embraced Amazon Rainforest, scraping the summits of the snow peaked Andes and bewildering our eyes to the yellows and browns of the Atacama Desert, before finally reuniting with the earth in Santiago. Situated within a basin in the Andes, the city feels protected by mountain gods, and the lack of wind retains the clouds and smog, so that even overhead eyes cannot detect its presence. Like any city, it bustles with the sounds of cars, buses and vendors, and locals looking to get their fortunes told inside small red tents.
Venturing away from the steel giants, heading south, myself, along with family and close friends packed ourselves in a mini-van, searching for adventure. We hoped we would find that by driving along the Pan American Highway, gradually closing in on the Antarctic.
Each day, we inched further south, leaving behind wine valleys and avocado covered hills, into the milder lake district of Chile – Araucania. Here, in a land once ruled by Araucaria araucana, pinched between the Andres, scarred with active volcanoes to the west and the frigid Pacific Ocean to the east, lies a magical landscape, home of the proud native Mapuche and the descendants of Europeans settlers alike. It feels as though there is a mythical power, reeling tighter to keep you in it grasp. But the journey must go on.
Every morning is colder, and we arrive into Puerto Montt. The port city is overlooked by volcan Osorno, and is our gateway to the south. There are no roads within Chile to take us to our destination, and our hire van limits us from leaving the country by car. Our adventure takes us onto an overnight Ferry.
Waking up, we see a short wooden pier, sticking out of cloud covered banks with little sign of life, or even a road. A pinch helps to remind us we are still on this earth as we drive off the ramp onto ash covered paths. Ash. Ash and destruction is the story told within this once lively town. Now classed unliveable, the water is toxic, and half of what were once homes are sunken or dragged out onto what appears to be a beach. Later, you find the grey sand is in fact remnants of the devastation caused by volcan Chaiten. A pack of dogs comes to greet us as we explore the wooden shells, and we start to see more life. Not only dogs, but people who still call this place their home. We do not stay for long however, and our journey takes us to the top of the Carretera Austral.
The road is rough, dotted with deep water filled holes. Snow starts to appear along the sides of the roads, and the temperate rainforests thickens. The low-lying clouds transform the landscape, and it sometimes appears as though you are driving towards a vertical rock wall, leaving you wondering how you could ever keep going. We passed by a hanging glacier in Queulat National Park, which was up so high, it was covered in cloud. The waterfall from the glacier became the cloud’s tears, flowing down the rocks. Further down the road, we spot a Pudu, the smallest deer in the world. Its name derived from the Mapudungun language of the Mapuche.
Our southern trek reached down to General Carrera lake, a couple of hours south of Coyhaique. The enormity of the lakes combined with strong cold winds formed waves which rose above our tiny wooden boat, which miraculously brought us to a natural treasure – the marble caves. Layers of colour, exposed through years or erosion from the lakes water has created a unique vision of wonder.
While we could continue further, towards the Torres del Paine, we need to get back in time for Christmas.
The van carried us back up across the rocky roads, through valleys saturated with purple Lupins, scarred with the white waters of melted ice, and the rocky outcrops of the southern Andes.
The towns here are small, sparse, and far between. Typically situated along the banks of lakes that it can call its own. Some of the only meals we can find here is steak and chips, and while eating, sitting in a residents living room come café, with the wood burner giving us warmth of body and food, you wonder where these supplies come from given their desolation. And you remind yourself that it is summer and begin to imagine the harshness of winters in the villages.
Potholes become normalised after hours driving between settlements, winding thin roads with little life. It becomes little wonder that a tyre would burst – which it does. Panic doesn’t set in, as we know we have a spare tyre underneath the van, and in no time, we can continue on. My brother, being the smaller of the group lays on the ground to see the tyre as it is lowered. Seconds go by and still no sign of a tyre, and instead, all that is visible are remnants – a metal wire, clean cut. Panic grows.
We sit, waiting, for someone, anyone to drive by.
As the time passes, the cool humidity continues to blanket the rainforest, dirt track and our clothes with the droplets it carries. We decide to explore our new temporary living space. Not far off, we come across an opening in the natural bank of the road. Winding between the unkempt natural garden we found a waterfall. I feel humbled when coming to the realisation that my eyes are probably a couple among few to marvel at the hidden scene.
When we return, there are no signs of advancement for a while, until in the distance, we see something approach. The closer it gets, we realise it will not be our saviour, but instead an unexpected but still welcome surprise. A cyclist, strapped with travel bags stops to chat, and we soon realise he is English. He recalls his journey, which started in the north of Colombia, and how his 8-month journey through South America has brought him to this point in time as he makes his way to the southern most point. Our conversation continues, finding out he is from Mevagissey, a small coastal village in Cornwall, just half an hour from our own home.
As we see him cycle away, we return to our more serious predicament.
As we begin to try to contemplate our potential fate, a large lorry makes its way towards us, and kindly stops. Our group volunteers two people to leave us and hitchhike to the nearest town to try to get help. We sit and wait again.
A couple of hours pass, and a smaller pickup nears us from the returning route. What would become our saviours – park rangers – with a spare tyre that just about fits! But with a catch, they need it back after they escort us to the next village, another hour away. With the daylight slowly starting to dim, we arrive to the small settlement, nestled between tall green hills, neighbouring a large dark lake. The hunt for a replacement tyre begins.
The choice appears lacking, but a garage with a man welcomes us as we enquire after our needed item. Without much hope, he responds vaguely about one tyre he owns, old and worn, but might come in handy, with the warning that it is the only one available in the village. It is available to us at a bargain price, and we take it. It’s a match! And it carries us through the Patagonia back to the ferry, and back in time to be with the family at Christmas. A true Christmas miracle.