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.
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