Patagonia: Departure and Arrival
**Completed in November 2019, The Torres del Paine ‘W’ hike is Sylvia and Brian’s fifth BucketList adventure completed together. It is also the furthest they have every ventured for a hike.
Finally it was here…the day when all our preparations and guesswork would be proved either wonderfully right, or horribly wrong. This was the day that we were leaving for Patagonia…as far south as one can get and still not be in Antarctica. We had trekked in South America before, but that had been in Sylvia’s home country of Peru, and all had been guided treks. This time we were much further out, and almost completely on our own.
One the things Brian had most worried over was traveling only with our backpacks. Though international trekkers routinely do this, it was a first experience for Sylvia and Brian. Only time would tell what havoc would come of carrying all our gear every step of the way…something we had never attempted before.
Before departing, we said good bye to our beloved dog Fitz Roy. He would be staying with friends and relatives the next two weeks. Though he was in good hands, we would sorely miss him.
We would be headed for the mountain that is his namesake.
From our door began almost continuous 30 hour marathon of travel by car, plane and bus that would not end until we had reached the town of Puerto Natales…more than six thousand miles away from home. There we would enjoy a much needed day of rest before continuing on to our first hiking destination — Torres del Paine National Park.
See here for more details on our travel logistics.
One thing we were apprehensive about was political unrest in Chile’s capital of Santiago. While anti-government demonstrations had been in the news lately, the violence had largely appeared to subside in the days before our trip and most travel restrictions were lifted. But there appeared to be more upheaval on the way, as rioting had broken out in neighboring Bolivia, and would soon break out in Colombia as well.
Our first leg — to Dallas — was uneventful. Brian noted his pack weight at the airline counter at 27 pounds all up…but that was with all water and electronics removed.
The second leg to Santiago was quite long (a somewhat bumpy 9+ hours) though at least we had the services of a 787 Dreamliner with fairly spacious seating, meals, drinks and even in seat entertainment (Brian amused himself for hours playing Angry Birds.)
Our first unpleasant surprise awaited us in the Santiago Airport. As we taxied up to the gate, an ominous announcement warned us that the plane had been directed to ‘fumigate’ its cargo for pests by order of the Government (invasive species are a series problem in Chile but still…) Once outside at the gate we were told that an Airline person would meet us near the baggage area.
We moved down through the mostly deserted halls of the airport (it was quite early) until we saw a man running toward us carrying a walkie-talkie and shouting, “Puerto Natales!” Sylvia flagged the man down, and he offered us the first of several explanations as to what may or may not happen next; our luggage, it seemed, would be delayed. It might be waiting for us, or it might not; or it might be there in a few hours, or it might not; or it might follow us to our destination a day or so late, or…it might not.
At the baggage area we encountered a gaggle of desperate gringos wandering about perplexed, all wondering where their luggage was, and where it would show up next and when it would show up there. Some said hours, some said days. Some had been told it would be tomorrow, other that evening. Some said it would follow to the next leg of the journey, other weren’t so sure.
It is in these situations that one really needs far more than just the typical American tourists muddle of Tarzan Spanish and slow-talk English amplified to twice the conversational level. You need someone who not only speaks the language but understands it subtleties. Fortunately Brian (and every one else there) had Sylvia, and a crowd quickly gathered around as she translated.
But we were running out of time; our connecting flight for Punta Arenas would soon be leaving. We finally were able to make the best arrangement we could — the airline would make every attempt to send the luggage after us right to our hotel the following day — si, si, this sort of thing was no problemo — and we would hope for the best. We strongly suspected it was problemo, but we had little choice. We sprinted through the airport to the small terminal from which leave the local flights (and where there is a very far flung Dunkin Donuts) and arrived just before we were set to board.
The last air leg, fortunately, went with no further hitches…we landed, approaching right over the strangely calm looking Strait of Magellan — and boarded our bus for the three hour ride to Puerto Natales. All we had with us were the clothes we were wearing, our wallets and documents, Sylvia’s purse, and a small backpack with our electronics and a few other items.
The Airport at Punta Arenas, where we “enjoyed” one of the very worst meals of this or any other trip; the food throughout was otherwise excellent
We had spent a lot of time worrying over the bus connections, of which there are no small number on this voyage. For the most part, we found them to be better than we had expected. The buses are very large, modern and comfortable Mercedez Benz or equivalent touring buses, and the roads they traveled on surprisingly good. Hour after hour the bus rolled through endless pampas with little to see, until finally we crested a rise and there, below, was Puerto Natales.
It looked bleaker than the pampas. The city — largest in the region — is located at one of of a fjord, surrounded by the snow capped mountains of Bernardo O’Higgins National Park. Fog and clouds hide most of the views most of the time, and today was no exception. We arrived at the small but quite busy bus station — whose facilities and resident stray dogs we would become quite familiar with over the ensuing days — to be greeted by a windblown, misting rain. We’d had no idea what to expect, and now that we were here, still no idea exactly where our hostel was. We only knew it was close.
After digging out the directions a short, cold walk took us there. Puerto Natales turned out to be not so forbidding, and while we had suspected the part where our hostel was located to be not the best part of town (it was not only near the bus terminal but what looked like a jail) it actually seemed fairly pleasant. It reminded me somewhat of a small, if a bit run down New England seaside town, and was not without its charms.
And our hostel — the Hostal America — was a welcome site. We’d wondered about the place as it had been a great deal, even going so far as to wonder if it was maybe TOO good a deal. We were soon re-assured this was not so. The place was small but very clean, very recently updated, and run by some of the nicest, most helpful people we would meet on the trip. it’s no exaggeration to say that without their assistance, this would have been a lesser adventure. More on this fine establishment later.
But while we had a good room for the night and a day to spare the next before heading off on our hike, we still had no luggage; and things began to look grim on that front. The next day was Sunday, and the airline told us by phone that, contrary to what we’d been told, the luggage would NOT follow us the next day — because, well, it’s Sunday.
We would have some decisions to make in the morning. But for now, it was time to get a pizza and some beers, and then some much needed rest.
Next Up: The Towers of Paine