by Shayla Williams
I was huddled by the hot stove in the small Refugio kitchen, partially lingering for warmth, but equally motivated to stay by the occasional spoonfuls of cookie dough I could snag from the cooks. All of the sudden we heard a commotion from upstairs. Eli ran partially down the stairs and poked her head into the kitchen. “Paolo’s here!” she exclaimed, her face full of excitement as she announced the arrival of the Ayelen and her captain Paolo. The boat that was to ferry us back to Tortel had surprised us two days before our scheduled departure.
I sidled to the window (away from the stove, but closer to the cookie dough) and saw the beautiful Ayelen perched in the dusk, far across the gravelly sand bar. The mood quickly became celebratory; we were headed home! Though I was sad to leave the stoic, soggy, beauty of the Fjords, it was also exciting to be headed back to Tortel and, eventually Cochrane.
We ate dinner that night in merry company, still in shock at our early departure. We happily scooped piping hot crumbly handfuls of peanut butter cookie bars and, fully satisfied, retired to our tents, preparing for our pre-dawn departure on the boat.
The next day we woke up to a mercifully soft drizzle and packed up camp one last time in the Fjords. We fumbled around in the semi-darkness of the storage shed, frequently bumping into the large hunks of beef draped over beams as we boiled water for a quick breakfast of oatmeal and instant coffee.
Once all packed, we shuttled our belongings across the gravel bar. The Ayelen looked quite different from when we’d last seen her on that rare sunny day we got dropped off. She was covered in rain, her top deck full of cargo and sea kayaks. Instead of settling on the top of the deck, we all piled inside.
I hadn’t been inside the boat on our trip to the Fjords, and I was pleasantly surprised by the size when I stepped into the cabin, though it was by no means large enough to fit all twenty of us. A large table was full of mate and bread and – shockingly – fresh fruit! Two small benches lined the walls. Tucked in a corner was a large woodstove and a propane tank with a cook stove attached.
I sat for a short bit, crunched into one of the benches and sipping hot mate. But shortly after we were on our way, the late night and early morning started dragging at my eyelids. I squeezed out of the crowed kitchen and descended below deck. I was even more shocked by the space there. Our packs were heaped in a precarious pile at the base of the stairs, and surrounding them were a few chairs. On the side of the wall and tucked into a nook were a total of 5 bunks.
The motor was roaring nearby this room, and there was nowhere to sleep anyways, so I grabbed my book, my journal, and headlamp, and headed forward. Nestled into the bow of the boat was a low, dark, cave-like room, with no windows to the outside world. Four bunks were tucked along the sides of the room, and I selected the one furthest to the front of the boat.
I climbed up onto it and was immediately content. The bunk was perched between the two sloping sides of the bow, perpendicular to the motion of the boat. I could see a small sliver of light passing through a hairline crack up by where the hull met the deck. But other than that it was darkness. It was quieter in this little cave, and I could hear and feel the waves of the open water slapping against the wooden hull.
I read for a short bit, and was quickly lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking, the distant hum of the engine, and the crashing of the water.
I woke up what felt like a few minutes later and was shocked to find it already late morning. It was still overcast and drizzling outside, so the portion of the group that was awake was crammed into the kitchen, along with the other passengers on board who had awoken while I slept. The activity was a lively mix of people munching on the fresh fruit, playing cards, cooking, and a few of us doing readings for class the next day.
We passed time pleasantly inside until the afternoon. After a thick potato, cabbage, and beef stew at lunch, the sun began to peak through clouds. We slowly trickled onto the deck, settling in between the cargo and kayaks and basking in the sun. Large water birds soared by. In the distance we could see storms dumping sheets of rain and rainbows stretched out across the water.
For the whole afternoon we cruised through channels carved long ago by glaciers and since flooded by the sea. From the tops of ancient mountains the land plunged down into the salty water with steep black cliffs and dense forest. We had seen the Fjords from this perspective before, but this time they were all the more awe-inspiring because we now knew the area so intimately.
We had clambered up to the passes and swam through the dense, spiny vegetation of the jungles that cover the slopes. We had slogged through the bogs and swamps, and we’d crossed through the icy aqua rivers. We had sat and rested at the feet of the glaciers that carved this place, glaciers that are now racing away from the global surge of heat and retreating to the highest peaks. We’d watched rainbows arch across the valleys and we’d stepped on land that has likely never seen humans before.
As we drew further and further away from our journey, I was struck by the bittersweetness of the departure. On one hand, I was anxious to get back to camp, to be clean and dry and warm, to eat fresh vegetables and cook full meals, and most of all to connect with people at home. But I also knew that, upon return, I would be saying good bye to a once in a life time experience. The length of the 13 hour boat ride made me realize how very remote we were. It would be quite a feat to ever return. But even if I do make it back years from now, it will not be the same. The monumental glaciers at the head of each valley will not reach as far as they do now. Opaque lakes will be in their place, icy-cold and beautiful, but nowhere near the astounding sculptures of ice and snow and stone that the glaciers are now.
Late in the evening a few houses appeared from behind a steep slope. With them, the rest of Tortel emerged. Shortly, we were shouldering our packs one last time, walking on solid, stable boardwalks and heading to our campsite, which felt pleasantly familiar when we arrived.
We camped in small quinchos and woke to the sound of cows and donkeys the next day. Back to civilization. The next two days we spent catching up on school work: classes, readings, and documentation of what we’d seen. Work was only interrupted when one of our Chilean guardaparque guides came by the quincho and closed our books on us, demanding we go to asado where they were cooking the feral cow, playing music, singing, dancing, and celebrating.
A stunning sunset over the quincho we camped at in Tortel (Shayla Willams)
Before we knew it, we had piled into the trucks and loaded up into the buses and were headed back to Cochrane. Once back at base camp, we all slowly morphed back into semi-ordinary members of society, doing laundry, washing our hair and generally raising our hygiene standards. We unpacked and repaired our gear and saturated our diet with as much fresh fruit and vegetables as the grocery stores had. We made phone calls and checked e-mail, anxious to hear of news from home. We luxuriated in electricity and a full kitchen and a roof over our heads.
But as wonderful as it was to be back, it was hard to say good bye to the Fjords. It was like coming home from a wonderful vacation, but knowing that you’ll never go back to that place again. So the best we can do is preserve it in our memories and pictures and stories. That, and we can always look forward to our next adventure!
Home sweet home. Our basecamp back near Cochrane (Shayla Williams)