A Nomad in Patagonia

Mary Jean Odmark of Walnut Creek, California, USA, is a retired English and journalism teacher. She grew up in Pennsylvania and received degrees in English from Penn State and Harvard Universities. Always a curious traveler, philologist, and avid photographer, she now spends much time pursuing “off the beaten track” adventures. Her Southern Patagonia journey memoirs are here for you to enjoy.

Patagonia. One of the wildest corners of the world, where raw nature still rules supreme and the imprint of man on the environment is relatively recent and scant. An adventure with Above the Clouds to walk the glaciers and paths and to intimately encounter the forces of nature. Our Elderhostel group of seven with our guide spent 14 days up close and personally involved at the edges of civilization, climbing over rocks and ice and roots, passing hours (very) snugly in our van as we traversed the steppes from one hamlet to the next.

First a bit of history: In 1520 the Portuguese navigator and great explorer Ferdinand Magellan and his crew landed along the strait from the Atlantic to the Pacific that now bears his name, the Strait of Magellan. Here they encountered native hunters who, according to Magellan's diarist Antonio Pigafetta, “were giants so tall that the tallest of us only came up to their waist”. Magellan took a liking to these people. He named them Patagonians (Pata-gon meaning “big feet”) and the name Patagonia was eventually adopted for the land north of the strait. Magellan also named the great island south of the strait Tierra del Fuego --or “land of fire”-- after the multitude of glowing campfires he observed there during the dark and overcast nights.

Our group, to become a family before long: Gadget George: “What do you need? I've got it somewhere in my pack!” Andreas the Attentive: “How does this work”? I can figure it out.” Tall Tom: “I need a little sugar in my wine.” “ Let me sit where there is more room please.” “This will make a beautiful picture.” Punctual Pat: “I don’t drink wine.” “I've been waiting for you.” Competent Janet: “I’ll take care of that.” “Here it is, Tom.” Positive Patty Peacemaker: “How do you spell that bird’s name?” “I love these people.” “Let me help you with that.” Awesome Andreas: “Dress as usual.” “I hope you please will walk closer to the group.” “I can make a better flan.” Gentle Gustavo: “Slowly.” “This one is the lenga” Meandering MJ: “These cameras are so heavy.” “How do I turn on the wind reducer?” “Be right there. I'm just arranging my stuff and need to look at this fungus.”

We arrived in Buenos Aires Ezeiza Airport the morning of November 3, eager to move on to Rio Gallegos. But transfer was not to happen too quickly as mjo’s luggage did not arrive. After connecting with Luis, our local assistant, and negotiating in Spanish with the lost and found agent, we piled packs and duffels into our van and were off for a veneer look at B.A. Buenos Aires, the ninth largest city in the world and the largest city in Argentina, has a population of 3,000,000; and 13,000,000 people (one-third of the country's population) live in its metropolitan area. It is a large and sprawling megalopolis that stretches more than 200 sq. km (75 sq. mil) to the surrounding plains, the fertile pampas. At breakneck speed, we were able to visit briefly the pigeon crowded Plaza de Mayo (made famous for Eva Peron’s balcony), the political and cultural center and home to the presidential palace and government buildings. Here the tradition of staging celebrations and protests continues to this day; and the Madres de Plaza de Mayo, mothers of young desaparecidos, young people who disappeared during the military government’s reign from 1976 to 1983 still hold their Thursday afternoon marches. (See the film "The Official Story" for more details); Plaza Dorrego (stately old trees and chess playing pensioners); and Catedral Metropolitana (hardly looks like a Latin-American church with its neoclassical facade) where the remains of General Jose de San Martin, the Argentine Liberator are buried in a marble Mausoleum permanently guarded by soldiers of the Grenadier Regiment. Tango advertisements everywhere. Wide streets. Lots of traffic. A mix of architecture with a strong Spanish influence. Block after block of tidy high rises with 19th century buildings interrupting, smartly dressed pedestrians, hustling business persons. Energy. Warmth. Parks with bursting flowers and huge ficus trees. Cafes. That evening we were off to the BA domestic airport, Aeroparque Jorge Newbery, to fly to Rio Gallegos, 1639 miles south.

Rio Gallegos, the administrative and commercial capital of Santa Cruz Province, is perhaps the windiest town in the world. It was founded in 1885 as a port for coal shipments and now serves at the gateway city to southern Patagonia. We were met at the airport by Andres, who would be our guide, teacher, mentor, and advisor for the duration of our exploration. Hustled off quickly in another van, we settled into Hotel Santa Cruz. Rated as best available by Fodor’s, it is a modest spot --definitely no frills -- and it blares funny flowered bedspreads and tacky art. Bathrooms had bidets, and even facial tissues, big towels, shampoo and conditioner! But those views of rooftops lacked even minimal charm. En route to dinner, we stopped for a shopping experience at Tia, a busy crowded store selling everything from cookies and wine to clothing and Christmas trees and wrap. After loading up on bottled water and finding essentials for mjo (pants, shirt, underwear), we moved on to El Horreo for dinner. Complimentary Pisco sours (made from Chilean brandy whirred in a blender with lemon, egg whites, and sugar) began the repast highlighted by the first of our very large steaks and the beginning of our flan finales. We also began our exploration of Argentine wines, our favorite becoming Norton Medoc.

On to Chalten (in Province Santa Cruz with an entire population of 300,000) the next day. A daunting task. Lunch at a small country cantina in La Leona pleasantly interrupted the long seven hour drive with Anna's lemon meringue pies scoring big cheers from hungry travelers before the last leg of the journey. Endless treeless plains with thousands of sheep mesmerized, but eventually visions of the Fitz Roy range --called Chalten (Mountains of Smoke) by the Tehuelches-- and Lake Viedma opened eyes wider and soon we reached Chalten, a hiking Mecca (and Andres’ home village), at the base of Fitz Roy. Founded in 1985, this little frontier town (population 180 / no grandparents) attracts expert mountaineers from every corner of the globe to plan their ascents of Cerro Torre and Mt. Fitz Roy, most illusive peaks. Sometimes climbers wait at base camps for weeks for the wind to die down, the rain to stop, or the clouds to disperse. We settled into our three night Chalten home, La Puma, a comfortable small (we were the only guests) inn (opened 1999). Spacious rooms had modern open beamed ceilings. Sparkling clean bathrooms offered big tubs, bidets, even heated towel racks! Tasteful photos of climbers on their local ascents and native trees (lenga), plants (calafate), fauna (puma, guanaco, and huemul) hung on walls. The huge fireplace roared (wood is a treasured premium in this region of little available) in our oft enjoyed lounge and warm hospitality from hosts Alberto and Paula Marechal cosseted us during our stay. Two full days of exploring these two massifs . . . in pristine wilderness with glorious sunshine, snow, rain, grazing horses wearing bells, clouds dancing on brilliant blue heavens, up, up, up . . . about 12 miles each day occasionally above tree line. As the leaders pushed on, Patty and I took time to change lenses; look at birds (condor Andino, chingola, ratona, Magellan woodpecker, tero comun, lorca comun); chat with Gustavo; identify (and forget) flowers, trees, and shrubs; and delight in bounding hares. We were startled when we sighted two dead cows who had probably gotten themselves mired in a mud pool and were unable to extricate themselves. . . A treasure of smiles on a return trip through a school yard where the children eagerly devoured us with questions and squeals. . . Dinners of steaks and pasta at Homus Patagonicus were delivered with style, grace, and flavors finished off with yet another version of flan. . .

With this big adventure behind, we traveled in our cozy van around Lake Viedma to Estancia Helsingfors, a newly refurbished ranch on the southwest corner of Lake Viedma at the end of the road and the edge of civilization. En route, we found a petrified forest and scampered up hills amazed by the tree rocks. (Enjoyed identifying paramillo, a shrub used to make an aphrodisiac tea.) Once at Helsingfors, from its tiny spit of land next to the lake, we rode horses up the abruptly rising hills. The next day we hiked to Laguna Azul, a small lake, in the jagged mountains above the Estancia -- stunning views of Mt. Fitz Roy, Torres de Paine, and the Ice Cap. The weather gods smiled --a brisk sunny day-- we lunched by the lake and awed at the sounds and sights of an avalanche above the glacier. On the way down, Lake Viedma at our feet, we delighted in our only sighting of a guanaco, gracefully prancing along his valley, oblivious to our presence.

After two nights in this nirvana, we set off for El Calafate, another long drive and soon found the Sierra Nevada Lodge (where we were NOT the only guests). El Calafate, founded in 1927 as a frontier town, is the base for all excursions to the Parque Nacional Los Glaciares, created in 1937. Because of its location on the southern shore of Lake Argentino, the town enjoys a microclimate much milder than the rest of southern Patagonia. Avenida del Libertador is the only paved street with sidewalks; along it are shops selling meta cups, tee shirts, and camping climbing, and fishing equipment. Mi Viejo is the best bistro in town, and for two evenings we particularly applauded its salad, barbecued lamb, and yet another version of flan. The next day we drove about an hour to Perito Moreno Glacier, the only living glacier in the world still growing after 3000 years. After a boat ride across Lake Argentino (the largest body of water in Argentina), we walked toward the glacier, then strapped on simple crampons for our two hour stroll atop this moving river of ice. This glacier descends like a long white tongue for 50 miles through distant mountains, then abruptly ends in a translucent blue wall two miles wide and 165 feet high.

We did not have to wait long for nature's number one ice show -- the cracking sound and sight of tons of ice breaking away and falling with a thunderous crash into the lake. Blue pools of water interrupted the crunchy ice as we trudged with our big feet and “Spread those legs” became the mantra as gingerly stepping persons climbed.. . saluds with Crown Royal surprised us on the down climb; conversation with Bimini Bob from Florida amused. November 12, a next glorious sunny day, began with breakfast at Sierra Nevada and then a hike to the local lagoon, replete with budding wildflowers and lots of birds . . . flamingos, black necked swans, and noisy busy chingolas -- then another long drive to Rio Gallegos. . .

Back in Rio Gallegos by early evening, after Andres’ lecture on Argentine geology, it was time for souvenir shopping and dinner punctuated by the conversation of too many Spanish speaking women on holiday. We tiredly sought sleep and awakened on November 12 to snow! Lots. However, we fearlessly set off to find the penguin rookery and to visit a successfully still operating Estancia. It’s penguin nesting time so our view of penguins was largely a search for black and white bodies nestling secretly and snuggling on eggs under brush. A few waddlers battled the fierce winds with us. But most of the of those black and whites eluded our cameras. Estancia success is difficult, but La Casa Grande with its 23,000 sheep and 30 herding dogs has carried on prosperously for several generations. It is downright sterile everywhere. We awed at the sight of a total hand shearing (much preferred by wool experts) of one plump ewe in five minutes. Newly stacked bales of wool ready for market lined the barn. Lunch in the main house was sumptuous asado (lamb roasted over open coals), salads, Norton wines . . . then a tour of the homestead which is a sort of family museum. . . We were astonished to learn that the children of the family usually are sent off to boarding school in Buenos Aires at about age five . . . this had not set well with our hostess who is unsure what she will do with her own children. Back to our cozy van to the airport for the flight to Ushuaia.

Ushuaia, at 55 degrees latitude south is closer to the South Pole (2480 mi) than to Argentina's northern border with Bolivia (2540 mi), is the capital and tourist base for Tierra del Fuego, an island at the southernmost tip of Argentina. Although its physical beauty is tough to match, Tierra Del Fuego’s historical allure is based more on its mythic past than on reality. The island was inhabited for 6000 years by Yamana, Haush, Selk’nam, and Alakaluf Indians. But in the late 19th century, after vanquishing the Indians in northern Patagonia, the Argentine Republic was eager to populate Patagonia to bolster its territorial claims in the face of European and Chilean territorial ambitions. The Anglicans established missions and in 1902 Argentina moved to initiate an Ushuaian penal colony, establishing the permanent settlement of its most southern territories. At first only political prisoners were sent to Ushuaia; but later, fearful of losing Tierra del Fuego to its rivals, the Argentine state sent increased numbers of more dangerous criminals. When the prison closed in 1947, Ushuaia had a population of about 3000, mainly former inmates and prison staff. Today the 45000 residents of Ushuaia are hitching their star to tourism. Ushuaia feels a bit like a frontier boom town, with noisy, smelly (c. 1970s) cars clogging the streets, and many restaurants, shops, and hotels. Here there is also a deep water pier that welcomes cruise ships stopping for provisions on their way to the Antarctica. The town can be called picturesque at best. Parts of it resemble an oversize mining camp awaiting the next strike. Wooden shacks, precariously mounted on upright piers and ready for speedy displacement, look like entrants in a contest for most original log cabin. A chaotic and contradictory urban landscape includes a handful of luxury hotels and some of the world’s most unusual housing projects. Town planning has never been a strong point; instead, irregular rows of homes sprout with the haphazardness of mushrooms in a moist field. And yet, as one looks over the Canal del Beagle, the spirit of this far corner of the world takes hold. It’s the light and the snowcapped mountains of Chile, reflecting the setting sun back onto a stream rolling into the channel. Snow covers the peaks and sunlight and moonbeams dance across the soft waters. The Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego, 12 km. west of Ushuaia, offered a chance to wander through peat bogs, stumble on the rocky shores, trek through native canelo and beech (lenga, guindo, and nire) forests, and see profuse fungi (lots of Indian bread) and lichen (particularly Old Man’s beard). This also marks the end of the road for the Pan American Highway which originates in Alaska. After a leisurely day of hiking, we visited the Maritime Museum before having dinner “in town". . We awed at the sight of our lodging here, Hotel del Glaciar, just above the city in the Martial Mountains. Fresh and up to date, its rooms are oversized with sweeping panoramic views of the channel and mountains. . . Not advertised is that fact that a sizable native forest was razed to make room for the Glaciar and its carefully maintained lawns. An excursion by boat on the Beagle Channel . . . first a windy but calm ride with penguins and sea lions abounding. Then on to the first Estancia in Tierra del Fuego, Haberton, 50,000 acres of coastal marshland wooded hillsides. The property was a late 19th century gift from the Argentine government to Reverend Thomas Bridges, officially considered the Father of Tierra del Fuego. Today the estate seems run down; buildings do not sparkle in the sun and the sheep barn was an unsightly contrast with that at La Casa Grande. But the house, moved here intact from England over 100 years ago, reminds one of Costwold dwellings and boasts glorious gardens, at their peak of spring peonies, dahlias, and roses. . .

Our time had passed. Up early the next day for flight to Rio Gallegos. Good-byes to Andres. Connect to Buenos Aires, Hello Claudia. More BA sights. Tango in the park, refreshments at McDonald’s. Meet Luis. Mate cups for everyone. To the airport . . . full plane. . . on to Miami. On to SFO. Home just 42 hours after leaving Ushuaia. I left a bit of my heart and soul in Patagonia.

Copyright © 2001, Mary Jean Odmark.

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