Monday 31st, Oct – Saturday 5th, Nov.
A book I was reading gave me the burst of energy to hitchhike back towards Cochrane to hike in the Parque National Patagonia. Jack Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums and the conversations I’d had with people who’d been to the park was enough to inspire me to take my chances and see where I could get to. It took me two rides, with no longer than an hour waiting for each, to get me back to the plaza in Cochrane by early afternoon. As I went to a shop to get some supplies I passed Patti, the owner of the campsite I had stayed at previously. She invited me to join her for lunch in the garden where her family were taking full advantage of the Monday bank-holiday. I was trying to get to the centre of the park by the afternoon, camp there that night and then begin a two day hike back towards the town. Joining a family for barbecue and red wine in the sun was a welcome delay to my plans but I didn’t give up on them entirely.
As the sun began to lower and a with head full of wine I said my goodbyes and walked north out of town hoping to catch a lift. I had to alter course soon though as it was too late in the day, even if I had got to the park entrance it would have been another 10km walk as there wouldn’t have been anyone driving further in at this time. I turned back and skirted around the north of the town, thinking I’d do the hike in the opposite direction and hitch back after the second day. I still didn’t know exactly where the trailhead was, having two conflicting sources to guide me, so I walked about kilometre east of the town and made camp down by a river, just passed an army base and well hidden from a lodge on the far side.
I was back on the road by 7am the next morning, a bus driver pointing me along the 4km road to the trailhead. I got to the ranger’s hut an hour before they opened so sat on the grass and made breakfast as the sun began to climb. When he arrived the ranger informed me that my intended route was still partly closed due to snow, still deep over the paths unseasonably late this year. Unfortunate in one way but the barbecue-altered plan that had me entering from the south meant I could still spend the day hiking a loop in the lower altitudes of the Tamango sector of the park. I left my tent and sleeping bag with the ranger and set off on a 20km loop towards Lago Cochrane, keeping my two-days worth of food in my pack. In the seven hours of dense woodland and dry rocky trail I didn’t see a single other person, even when overlooking the vast lake from the top of the climb no sign of boats or settlements, just deep blue water that that turned turquoise in the shallows.
The trail was well marked and wound through the woods with some short and steep rocky parts, sometimes aided by wooden stairs. On one section, just before the loop began it’s climb and return, the single-track traversed a sloping cliff face with enough height and exposure to make you think twice about each step. The first half in the lower parts was cool and humid under the tall trees, the second half hot and dry above much of the canopy. I ate very well with my excess food, stopping by little sandy beaches or under shady trees to make avocado and cheese sandwiches and taking big handfuls of dried fruit and nuts in between. The sun was out strong and by the afternoon the dusty ground was baking and I was grateful for the frequent streams that would fill my bottle on their rush down to the lake.
It took me until Thursday to get back to Tortel. A slow morning on the Wednesday and an unsuccessful 4-hour attempt at hitchhiking in the middle of the day resulted in an extra night in Cochrane and a bus the next morning. I lay about in the sunny garden campsite, the skies had stayed clear the entire time and would do for the rest of the week. Returning to Tortel it was like the season had changed in two days, the temperature had risen by at least 20 degrees and half of the snow on top of the overlooking mountain had melted. The carpenters were back at work repairing the walkways and building new timber-frame houses.
The Friday and Saturday I spent most of my time sat on the outside porch at the top of the sketchy wooden staircase. In the patch of sun overlooking the bay I waited; reading, writing and listening to podcasts I’d managed to download in Cochrane. I got the bike out of storage and gave it a clean on the deck outside and had to visit five different shops to get enough food together for the journey – each one barely stocked. At 9pm I carried the bike down to the coastal boardwalk and packed it there before walking through the dusk around the headland to the dock.
Before long the sky-blue car ferry had dropped one of it’s ramps on the slipway. An assortment of vehicles were aboard, arranged in three lines, chocked and strapped down to the deck having been picked up 2 hours before at a port with a road. There was only about 10 foot-passengers waiting along with myself and three other cyclists, we scrambled up the ramp and stashed our bikes in a gap between two shipping containers. We brought in our bags to the cabin area and climbed up the two floors to the viewing platform and watched as piles of lumber were brought on by a fork-lift then dumped, stacked and strapped in the remaining deck space. This went on for another hour under the spotlights as stray dogs from the port sniffed about between the vehicles. Not long before midnight we pulled away from Tortel and headed towards the layers of shadowy mountains, rising up from still black water, only made visible by a moon 3 days from full.
Austral Spring 