By Jessalyn Ayars of Carleton College
Hello from Chile! Due to some inclement weather, team Ñirre experienced a change of plans, and spent the weekend of Nov. 9 in the backcountry near Villa O’Higgins. The original plan was for our group to meet team Coigüe in Villa O’Higgins to do midterms and then biodiversity surveys of a nearby ranching valley. However, team Coigüe was stuck in the rainy fjords of Pascua, since the weather was unsuitable for the military boat to pick them up. So, instead, we took our midterms in Cochrane, and met Coigüe in Villa O’Higgins several days later than expected. After a much-needed celebratory asado with Coigüe’s military rescuers, Coigüe settled in to a hostel to dry their soaked belongings and take their midterms. And we headed out for a short, two-night backpacking trip in the mountains above Villa O’Higgins, with a dual purpose of research and fun. Last year, Round River had placed five camera traps in the mountains in Río Mosco Buen Nacional Protegido to research huemul presence. Huemul are an endangered species of deer endemic to Southern Chile that live in treeline forests and rarely move more than five kilometers in a day. They are short, stocky (read: look very fat), and beloved by all. Our goal was to download the camera trap pictures, change the camera batteries, and reach the Mosco glacier. On November 9, we walked from the hostel to the Río Mosco trailhead and began hiking. The trail climbed up the mountain, with stunning panoramic views of Villa O’Higgins and the valley.
After five kilometers, we arrived at the Refugio, a wooden shelter with camping nearby. After setting up camp, we went to look for the nearest camera traps. Soon after the campsite, the trail entered a gravel glacial riverbed.
The whole valley bottom was covered in a thick layer of cobbles, deposited by recent flooding. There were coigüe trees half buried in gravel, with leaves turning yellow as they died. After some scrambling up the slopes at the edge of the gravel plain, we found two out of three camera traps—with huemul pictures on them. It was already known that huemules frequent the edges of the Río Mosco valley, but these photos, of a hembra and cría (mother and baby deer), provide useful data for future conservation.
The next day, a few members of the group went to find the furthest camera traps in one of the canyons, while the rest of us went glacier hunting. Adam, who worked as a glacial ice-climbing guide this summer, was itching to see to a glacier again, and the rest of us were excited because we had never seen a glacier up close. One small problem was that we were unsure where the trail to the glacial overlook was—the recent redistribution of gravel had repaved the valley floor and erased any visible trail there. The only map we had was from the decorative wooden sign at the trailhead, which lacked topography, so we did not know if the glacier would be accessible from the overlook. We decided to walk upstream in the glacial valley, figuring that we would reach the glacier or the trail eventually. Fairly quickly, I decided to quantify our traverse of the valley in how many times I crossed the ice-cold Río Mosco. It wandered back and forth across the valley, splitting into multiple channels, and running up against sheer walls of the valley sides. Our total number of crossings was eight, by the end of the day. Ice baths are good for the ankles.
The valley became more and more narrow as we continued, scrambling through boulders and edging along scree slopes. Plants became less common, and the flaky slate scree looked completely unworn. Eventually we came to a narrow neck, with a wall on one side and a loose scree slope on the other. We crossed again, unsure what was on the other side of the neck. To my surprise, the valley opened up. There was a large waterfall on the other side, feeding a dark grey lake, opaque with glacial silt.
Figure 4: I bet Gollum would like fishing here (Photo: Grace Leslie).
The waterfall was obviously the end of our trek, so we sat on the lake shore, ate lunch, and drank silty water from the trickles running through the scree.Growing up in the United States, I have never been able to safely drink free-flowing water. Being able to drink from any river or waterfall in Patagonia is delicious to me, body and soul. Eliana and I have an agreement that we will drink from all possible waterfalls, and we counted some of the bigger trickles towards the cause. After lunch, we returned the way we came, the eerie beauty of the grey lake quieting any disappointment at the lack of visible glaciers. We stopped for siesta at a small pond at the edge of the gravel plain—it looked like a Japanese garden, still water with small bubbles rising from the silt, yellow-leaved coigüe, smooth grey rocks, and tiny bog plants softening the boulders on the other side. We napped, stacked rocks, and contemplated life.
At 2:30, sleepy and content, we decided we might as well start walking back towards camp. At 2:40, we found the trail to the glacial overlook. My mood went from naptime to gotime in less than 10 seconds, as we decided to hike until 4:00 or the top. Maybe we could get to the glacier after all!
The trail climbed up and up. There were wooden markers hanging from the trees, painted red, to designate the trail, but (understandably) no attention had been given to the actual surface of the trail. That, I would classify as Vertical Mud. If you have ever wondered if there is a grade at which wetlands can no longer exist, I would tell you that there is not. At least, not in the temperate rainforests of Patagonia. The trail often required both hands, and I put much trust in tree trunks and branches to pull myself up. When we reached the tree line, the trail continued through slushy, thigh-deep snow. We took turns breaking trail, propelled forward by the feeling of being so close, and the proximity of 4:00. At 3:54, we came to the rocky crest of the hill, and the last red marker. We cheered—we made it! Through the darkening clouds, we could see the glacier, the waterfall we stopped at for
lunch, and in the opposite direction, the entire Río Mosco Valley. The glacier was much too far for us to reach it in six minutes, but reaching the top of the trail was very satisfying.
In high spirits, we followed the red markers back down the mountain. It had been a delightful day of adventuring, and we were ready to get back to camp for dinner. Halfway down, Christof and Grace started to talk about their favorite dining hall desserts and the best restaurants in the Twin Cities. After a long day of packed sandwiches and gorp, this conversation was almost too much to handle. Adam hurried ahead, tortured by the inaccessibility of cheesy, thin-crusted pizza.
One last river crossing later, we left the gravel plain and were finally in sight of camp. Like the light at the end of the tunnel, I saw our dear botanist instructor Claudia, stirring a pot of pasta on the Whisperlight. I hurried the final steps towards her, dreams of Thai curry and double-chocolate cookies swept away by the tangible smell of food. Over dinner, we swapped stories
with the people who looked for camera traps. They did not find either of the two cameras, but enjoyed beautiful scenery along the way. It may be true that camping is the most effective seasoning, but I still swear that those tomato sauce noodles were the best I have ever had.