By Laura Schelling of University of Vermont
Our journey began on the sunny morning of March 11, when Max, Seth, Anna, and I, along with our two instructors, Diana and Gabe, packed up from base camp and prepared to head out to the fjords of Parque Nacional Bernardo O’Higgins. We were on our way to complete our research project on the critically endangered huemul who have been pushed aside to what feels like the end of the earth. As we procrastinated saying goodbye to the rest of our team for (what we thought would be) fourteen days, we ended up leaving at a comfortable Chilean 12:30 pm (meaning 14:30). Little did we know that we would be seeing them again in only a few days, eight hours north back in Coyhaique.
We drove three hours south down the Austral Carretera dirt road until we made it to this funny little town named Tortel that lay in the start of the fjords, connected solely by boardwalk. As we walked this boardwalk for dinner later in the evening, we marveled at the houses scattered up on the hills and smiled at kids who rode their bikes on the boardwalk similar to how you or I would ride our bikes on the road. We met Raul, a guardaparque that would be accompanying us on our huemul mission, for dinner, where we ordered so much food that we thought we’d never finish. We left dinner close to 11 at night, walking back with linked arms as we admired the moonlit foggy sky and ominous lake as Max whispered stories of the Freak of the Fjords, who has five fuzzy fingers, five eyes, and feeds on crocs!
The next day began when we woke before the sun to damp tents from the very humid air. We yelled about the Freak of the Fjords who luckily did not get to our crocs. Then we all began to cook our breakfast of eggs, peppers, onions, and fresh bread by means of headlamps to show us where our whisper lights hid in our piles of gear. We romped over to the river to fill up our pots and boil the glacial water for coffee and mate. The sun greeted us with pink clouds and a soft golden glow on the glaciers and white capped mountains. We loaded all of our belongings; food, gear, and personal packs onto the dock with Fabio, who sadly had decided not to join us, to wait for Raúl and Felidor to arrive in our little blue boat, which was not much bigger than my dad’s old green pickup truck at home. They arrived at a Chilean 9am (11:30) and we loaded our fuel, gear, and packs to fill the back of the boat so there was only space in the cabin for the eight of us and maybe standing room for one of us outside if we needed air. We finally departed around 11:45, ready to begin our eight-hour journey through the fjords.
We cruised through the canal, bobbing in and out of sleep, picking up our kindles to collectively read Endurance, a story of Shackleton’s famous expedition in Antarctica, passing mate, and sharing stories between the small space the eight of us squeezed into. We took turns braving the rain that was on and off to sit or stand in the small space that was left outside to open our eyes to maybe the most spectacular sights I’ve ever seen.
Surrounding our little boat were patches of temperate forest jungle islands, free of human development for they can only be accessed by means of a boat like ours down this tricky canal. The fjord islands were sometimes directly perpendicular to the water, jutting up steeply with rocky cliffs that held waterfalls pouring high from the sky and into the water that was not so blue, but deeply green, mimicking the hues of that temperate jungle. Clouds and fog hovered mystically over the hills. Everything I looked at reminded me of a scene from Jurassic Park. To quote Seth, “I wouldn’t be surprised if a tetradactyl flew over my head,” which he mentioned at a much-needed stop at one of the strange islands to release five hours of mate built up in our bladders. As I shiver at the first sight of small ice chunks, I ponder about the humans aboard the Endurance and how they would possibly happily make it through a winter in Antarctica.
After what seemed like a never-ending boatride, my eyes set themselves on the most peculiar sight. A little sage green two-story home, perched at the end of the canal to the right, and Glacier Bernardo to its left. A house out here where it felt impossible for a shower and a wood stove to ever actually exist. We set up tents outside and then cooked a lentil potato squash soup slowly over the woodstove while Max and Raul played guitar and Charango and Seth passed Mate. We ended the night relaxing in the warm home reading, journaling, playing music, and anticipating leaving and entering the wet outside with wet tents and a wet week ahead.
March 13. The day everything changed.
The same day I fearlessly jumped into and swam in an iceberg filled lake, was the day I was told my time in Patagonia was over. I wondered how I could eat calafate pie and sing while simultaneously weep and feel profound sadness deep in my bones.
The morning started slow and sweet. I read more of Endurance and drank tea as Seth and Anna started up the wood stove and made eggs and heated up the leftover soup which tasted even better the second time. We got ready for the day and slipped on our rain boots, rain jackets, and rain pants to face this misty wet place for 10 kilometers and look for huemules. Round River has been going to Bernardo since November 2016. Our goal on these transects was to collect as much data as we could on the minimal surviving huemul populations to compare to these previous years and monitor if the populations have been increasing or decreasing and do our best to try to contribute to conserving these kind creatures of Patagonia.
The hike out was beautiful. It began with a path winding in between tall bushes of calafate and chaura with a floor of la frutilla del diablo, pretty red berries poking out from the lush greens. The calafate bushes lining our path held the juiciest and biggest berries I have eaten since being here in Patagonia. And they filled my belly enough to make me forget about lunch. We came to a lookout at the end of the shrubs which pointed to our first sight of icebergs that were in very close proximity. Trying not to roll our ankles over the rocks, Anna and I couldn’t help but scurry our way to the water and take our big first lick of an iceberg. The day from there became warm, sunny, and spectacular. The ice shined wonderfully in the sun and the mountains had a way of reflecting in the clear blue glacial water that made you not be able to peel your eyes away. I remember marveling at these sights, and I wonder if that was the happiest, I had felt since being in Patagonia.
We bushwhacked through sharp chaura that pinched my skin trying to get a better vantage point to spot huemules. Sadly, we could not find any and decided to end our transect at 3.5 km, followed by eating lunches on the beach. Max convinced Seth and me to swim after lunch, so we blindly obliged, running into the water and swimming out to an iceberg to gave it a hug, I was gasping for air as my skin tingled. We swam back laughing and screaming and my whole body shook from elation and the cold. I think we all felt profoundly alive, and none of us stopped smiling for hours. After we trudged back trying to beat the tide coming in and filled our lunch bowls with calafate berries all the way home.
We were welcomed back to our little refugio to the smell of fire and asado which led us to the bodega where Felidor and Raul were singing and playing guitar. We all laughed and shared stories and Felidor tried to teach me how to play guitar despite my basic understanding of Spanish. These humans from Chile, all that I had met, are so kind, patient, and wonderful. I feel very lucky to have had the chance to share such a space with them. We continued chatting until we decided it was time to go into the house to help with making sopaipillas for our asado and calafate crisp from the berries we collected.
We were sharing our photos from this magical day when news that brought my heart to my feet was shared. Round River was ending, and we needed to go home, along with all other study abroad programs in the country because of the increasing presence of coronavirus. Being in what felt like the most remote place in the world, we felt blindsided. We had many questions as we grappled with this new reality of leaving this place which we had determined to be our safe haven; a place of warmth, of isolation, of protection, of the best humans this world has to offer, with icebergs and jungle islands and mate and love. It was hard to understand the turn our lives were about to take and what we would need to adjust to. It was deeply unsettling, but we had each other to hold and comfort in our small refugio that now smelt like fried sopaipillas and firewood. We tried to make sense of the senselessness, of how such profound news could really mean nothing to us right then in that moment as we could do nothing but wonder, nothing besides soak up all that we can, to be there, to be present. So, we continued on with our asado. Eating lamb and sopaipillas, singing songs, laughing, and feeling deeply. We decided to all sleep in the refugio that night with our sleeping bags on the floor. We went to bed late and I stayed up with a lump in my throat, wondering what the next few days would hold.
The next day we learned we would spend one more night here in the fjords. The boat needed one day to be prepared for the journey back, so we used the time to continue with our dedication to huemul research. After a slow and unsure morning, we trekked out in the early afternoon to brave the mist of the day. It was cold, wet, and foggy, perhaps tribute to how our insides felt.
We followed the same path we did the day before, seeking vantage points to spot huemules high on the cliffs but retreating back to the beach due to spiky, impassable chaura bushes. When we spotted our first huemul, everything suddenly felt okay again. He was a big broad healthy male with a black face mask. His lady accompanied him sitting in a calafate bush, probably enjoying its sweet treats much like we did. We stopped for a while to ponder and appreciate these kind creatures of the fjords. Then we took our data; we marked our location, distance and direction from them, estimates of their age and sex, and any notes we felt important. We moved on and let them be.
The landscape changed from a rocky riverbed to bright orange, from the moss and green from the mixed scrub. We couldn’t get over how beautiful it was here despite how soaked, tired and devastated we felt. Our feet pushed forward and my eyes melted to maybe the most the most incredible sights I believe I have seen in Patagonia yet. We spotted two more huemules, another healthy male and female. The male was being funny and sitting with his antlers full of vegetation. To the right of them was the opening to a lagoon, crystal clear from the glacier it receded from. A critically endangered species next to a receding glacier on our last expedition here in Patagonia. It was emotionally taxing but also made us remember how important our work here is. We hugged and gazed at the glory in front of us as we said farewell to this world, for now at least.
After all, you know what they say. El que come calafate vuelve a la Patagonia.
