Text and Photos by Charlie Southwick (Bowdoin College)
Once, long ago, as the heavens were forming and the continents were shifting, a hunter set out—free from the comforts of his family and tribe – to seek the prized and elusive ñandu. The task was ambitious, not only because the ostrich-like birds were capable of great speed and imperceptible camouflage, but also because of the ferocious Patagonian winds relentlessly unleashed their ire upon the barren, dry steppe. Needless to say, the hungry hunter, who had naught but the clothes on his back and the boleadora in his hand (a three-headed whip with firm balls on the end), was up against near insurmountable odds. But hunt he did, for days and nights, freezing and fighting against a land that wished not to welcome him, but send him to his grave. Eventually, during a beautiful moment when a cold rain had stopped, and clouds made way for golden rays of sunlight diffracting through the moist air, the hunter came across a ñandu. His prize was proudly and perennially perusing for plants, seemingly nonchalant, disinterested. As he came closer, the bird paused its feasting to gauge the hunter’s motives—a threat? A traveler? All of the sudden, the hunter sprang into action, sprinting with reckless abandon towards the bird that might sustain his people for a few weeks more…and the chase began. A championship race between one two-legged creature, built for agility and grace over thorny and bushy steppe, and another, designed for incredible distances, resilience and smarts. The hunter, having had the head start, felt he was near to his prey, and was readying his arm for a throw, when all of the sudden a stunning rainbow emerged from the skies. The ñandu, seeing a chance for escape, seized its opportunity and ran up the rainbow, leaping through the hole in the clouds towards the heavens. Just at this moment, the hunter heaved a mighty throw of his boleadora, hoping to clinch his victory, and it too found its way into the mighty sky. But it was too late. The hunter, defeated, began his return journey to his people. When night fell, the winds calmed, and the skies cleared, he looked up, and saw new light in the dark abyss above him. The heavens had taken the Ñandu, which left only a footprint of its trespass; the four stars of what some call the Southern Cross. And his boleadora? Three stars aligned to the north of the old Ñandu, forming what some of us call Orion’s Belt. And so it was written in the sky.
With this old Tehuelche story filling our imaginations, our team set out with newly-refilled food supplies for the Frontera (border) region at the far eastern edge of the Chacabuco Valley. Our objective? To seek the ñandu for ourselves, this time not with hopes of predation, but preservation. In truth, our group had mixed feelings heading into this journey. Though we were of course excited by the objective and the adventure, we also felt some lasting fatigue from our Lago Chico expedition, from which we had returned barely 24 hours before. Grey skies and a chilly rain furthered our apprehension, but our moods shifted as we remembered we were to again travel through the Chacabuco Valley and Parque Patagonia, and were to be met with bunks at the “military base” (sheep farm) where we were staying. We often talk of this internal conflict in our group—we admit to and feel blessed by the privilege and opportunity that has allowed us to study in Patagonia, but also marvel at the harshness and challenge of working in a place so unpredictable and dynamic. It’s difficult, but so rewarding. In any case, we began our journey feeling uncertain, and minute by minute felt this hesitancy lifted by the mountains around us, the car snacks in front of us, and the friendly Chileans that came and talked with us when a 45 minute construction delay abruptly stopped all movement on the legendary Carretera Austral. Yes, we were delayed (and trying earnestly to find some private pee spots off the road), but when a friendly couple came and introduced themselves as one of the families that would host a pair of us in ten days, we found ourselves amazed and joyful. Leave it to a Patagonian to find in a nuisance an opportunity. As is the adage, “él que se apura en la Patagonia pierde el tiempo,” or, “he who hurries in Patagonia loses time.”
Eventually, we were on our way again, and turned off the road onto the main drag through “The Chac,” as we affectionately call the Chacabuco Valley. As only The Chac can provide, our trucks were immediately met with stunning views of snow-capped mountains, abundant birds, and aloof guanaco roaming pretentiously where they please. We happily made our way along one of the only east-west valleys in Patagonia—an important connection between the wet, temperate forests of Pacific Chile, and the flat, arid steppe of Argentina. As we drove east, we passed the marshland where we had our first birding experience, the 5km stretch of road where we spotted over 380 guanaco, the Parque headquarters where we caught a glimpse of famous conservationist Kris Tompkins, the lake where we first encountered the awkward and beautiful Chilean flamingo, and the adjacent valley where we were given a free day to just hike and explore. I know I felt a great mix of nostalgia and satisfaction as we traveled the 70-odd kilometers to the “military base”—not only was I happy to be back in The Chac, I realized how far we had come and how much we had done in the first half of this program.
When we finally arrived, we hopped out of the trucks to find and shake hands with the few military officials/sheep farmers that spend their days in the borderlands, and were surprised to find a larger number of people than we were expecting. Further, we were informed that more were on their way to use the sheep farm as a three-day training camp for new cadets. As such, we were told to wait as Shay and Adam went with an official to scout out a place for us to sleep (our hopes of beds were dashed). When they returned, Shay told us we were off to the “goat shack,” where a few empty and adjacent rooms would provide adequate floor space for mattress pads and a table for dinner. As it turned out, the goat shack was in fact a sheep slaughter barn, and the rooms we were staying in were right next to the slaughter zone (for lack of a better term), where mountains of sheared wool lay in bags, sheep skins were piled in the corner, a mysterious outlet/extension cord thing hung menacingly from the ceiling, and a small rifle leaned in the corner of a wooden kill pen, where wooden beams lined the floor and allowed space for blood to drain into the ground. One might imagine our group, thrown unexpectedly and unknowingly into this bizarre situation, would feel frustrated and upset. But it was not so. Not only were we completely un-fazed, we actually felt somewhat amused. It was all just part of this grand and flexible Patagonian journey.
Sheep skins in our temporary home.
And then the army transport truck showed up, bringing with it twenty young military cadets and their six higher-ranked officiators. As it happened, they were not to stay in the bunk house, but on the slaughter floor on the other side of the wall from us (they later moved into tents). So we laughed, shook hands with the higher-ups, and drove to Chilean customs to get permission to enter Argentina two days later for some Ñandu surveys along the border fence.
Our military neighbors, plus an orphaned lamb they adopted, cared for, and took home.
Dinner, class, and a good night’s sleep later, we were up and ready for a full day of Ñandu. Our objective was to fan out in certain areas of the Predio Militar (the land owned by the military and occupied by their sheep), and walk 250 meter transects, searching for fox, dog, puma, and Ñandu scat, as well as identifying the dominant plant species and habitat type. It was my first day operating the GPS, which I learned to do as I recorded the transect data, operated a radio with Alex (who was a kilometer away on the far end of our transect line), followed a compass bearing, took field notes for my Grinnell journal, and tried to communicate over small hills to the other members of the group, who were spread out. Indeed, I was a bit stressed (this project is also Alex and my final project, thus incentivizing acquisition of good data), but little by little it came together, and we ended up with a functional transect line! We stopped for lunch on some rocks looking out over some sheep (this place had 3000 of them—they were hard to miss), and as Alex reports it was “the best lunch of the trip.” Why? Because sheep are hilarious. Not only do the mature and bulbous adult sheep look like waddling, pea-brained puffballs ready to topple at a moment’s notice, their lambs run awkwardly and adorably around in hopes of finding their mothers’ milk, which they seek so single-mindedly that they often run head-on into each other. But not only were the sheep a ready and willing source of amusement, a dead lamb in the distance brought an exquisite array of scavenger birds, including at least 3 Chamango Caracaras, 2 Southern Caracaras, several Black-chested Buzzard Eagles, and 3 of the legendary and enormous Andean Condor. As I sat and ate yet another salami and cheese sandwich, watching a caracara perch on a sheep’s back, a lamb ram its face into its mother’s underbelly so hard the sheep stumbled, and a condor with a 3 meter wingspan float only 15m above us, I felt overwhelmed with the enormity of this place. There we were, watching it all, 11 gringos on a sheep farm searching for ostrich-things somewhere near the Argentine border. It was surreal.
A nest of Upland Goose eggs found on our Ñandú scat survey. Photo by Shalynn Pack
When our lunch break ended, we made our way back out into the wide steppe for more surveys, and spent the afternoon back on the hunt. By the time we made it back to camp, we were ready for dinner (we’re pretty much always ready for dinner) and a relaxing evening spent reading and prepping for our upcoming natural history exam. Just as we were all tucking in for the night, one of the military officials, Cristoból, approached Alex and Will, and asked them to come socialize with them in the slaughterhouse, and to bring everybody. Nobody else decided to join, but I hopped in, and spent the next two hours with Alex, Will, and 4 officials, sharing maté, conversation, and culture. The language barrier was real, but we all had a wonderful time working to understand each other, screwing up, and then trying again. As far as I can tell, Chileans are some of the most kind, earnest, and open people I have ever met, and these gentlemen were no exception. By the time we said our goodbyes at 12:30 in the morning, the three of us were buzzing with joy, since we somehow finagled an invitation to an asado (barbeque) the next night…
We spent the next day on the border between Argentina and Chile, walking the fence line, yet again searching for Ñandu. We only found one pile of scat, but had a lovely afternoon walking and thinking about the arbitrary nature of borders (it’s hard to avoid when you spend 2 hours walking in a straight line carved by some wire and wood, and when things look the same on both sides of the fence…).
Shay, contemplating borders, fences, and the elusive ñandu.
In reality, though, the real focus of the day was the asado, which indeed came into fruition and was set to begin at 6pm, which to us meant, “we’re eating at 6pm,” but in reality meant “Come on, this is Chile. The sheep were slaughtered barely an hour ago. So definitely 10pm.” In an asado, the skinned and gutted animal is set on a spit and left to lean at an angle over a hot fire for four hours, rotated, and eventually coated with a chimichurri sauce. When the meat is done, it is laid out over a table– and systematically eviscerated by a server hacking off massive hunks, which are then be consumed with bare hands and washed down with abundant and delicious Chilean wine. It’s a carnivore’s paradise, and everybody leaves with bloated stomachs and flushed cheeks.
Our two-dinner sheep roasting by the fire. We ate a lot of meat.
The Round River and Ejercito de Chile asado followed the standard progression, though incorporated a wonderful Powerpoint presentation by our instructors to the military, describing our work and showing them how we go about conservation in Chile. After, the major gave a very moving speech thanking us for our “beautiful work and sacrifices” such endeavors require, and thus kicked off the feasting. Everybody mingled for several hours regardless of Spanish competency, and by midnight things were winding down… or so we thought. Turns out, that was when the dancing began. As we found out, one of the officials with us was the two-time national cueca champion (the official dance of Chile), and proceeded to teach some of the girls in our group some of the basic steps. The dance tells the story of a male rooster making moves to mate with a female hen, which resists for the majority of the dance, then eventually accepts his advances.
Claudio teaches Julia some cueca steps as we all stand by watching, clapping, and laughing.
Laughter, music, swirling bandanas, and joy filled the air, and by 2am we returned (by military transport truck—they insisted) to our little house, where we began prepping for a deep and contented sleep. The wind rattled the building, and a cool air sent me quickly on my way towards bed, yet as I made my way to my sleeping bag, I paused to notice a few of our group members and a few officials gazing up at the stars together. Beneath them, a wild and beautiful land, sustaining and supporting them. Above them, a vast and mystical sky stretched forever, full of a billion stories. One of them was a boleadora, and another, a Ñandu.
Top photo: Will, Mike, and Adam searching for scat on the vast Patagonian steppe.