An Epic in Three Parts

The last two weeks or so have been an adventure of epic proportion. We assume that this story will become a part of family legend and will be recounted for many years to come. To appropraitely capture the magnitude of this we have decided to split this entry into three parts. Each part having a specific title and theme. This story is set in both of the world´s most southern cities in the world. Ushuaia, Argentina has a stronger marketing arm, and for all intents and purposes is not the southern most city in the world. Puerto Williams, Chile sits 30 kilometers across the Beagle Channel on Isla Navarino. It is a town of 2,500 and is geographically isolated from it´s own country. Puerto Williams is difficult for everyone to get to, but has the allure of a town that has not yet been overrun by the masses of tourists that flood the streets of Ushuaia. Our antagonist, Ushuaia Boating, will rear it´s face in parts 1 and 3, while part 2 will find the heros slogging through peat bogs and beaver dams towards Cabo de Hornos (Cape Horn).

1. Waiting for Navarino

An Age of Optimism drew us out of our Blue Period only to deliver us to an Age of Resignation... we became nameless fugitives at the mercy of chance. Our hopes relied on such fickle things as the Patagonian weather and the mutual contempt that Argentina and Chile have for each other. We consider writing an epic poem recounting our maladventures with Ushuaia Boating- a great tome to rival even the Odyssey itself.

After publication we shall consider more means of artisitc expression in order to more fully relay the true depths of this rollercoaster of emotion we call "Waiting for Navarino." We will explore all mediums including operas, cinematic works, musicals, orchestral pieces, and folksongs. Perhaps the royalties from these pieces will carry us home. Until the end of part 1, Nathan sought solace in 500 cc units of cerveza while Beth in her pen and cafe con crema.

3 full days of "we´re leaving in 3 hours for sure" slowly wore us down. It was sandpaper scraping away our hope of making it across the Beagle Channel in a dingy to the Dientes de Navarino, the mountains that had captured our imagination after an encounter with a few charasmatic Belgians in Puerto Natales, Chile. On the evening of the third day of waiting and being emotionally tossed around, we boarded a small blue and white dingy for our journey across the channel. Our fellow passengers were two other travelers, one from California and the other from Spain. The Beagle was angry that day. The seas were high and rough and the winds manhandled our little boat like a child and his ragdoll. We are pretty sure our dingy caught some air at least once.

We arrived at Puerto Navarino to go through customs. Chile is very serious about making sure no fresh meat, dairy or vegetables cross the border. Oddly enough, the borders are so randomly made that it is difficult to believe that it even matters. After another 2 hour wait in the customs house in Puerto Navarino, we board a 15 passenger van for the final 50 kilometer ride to the southernmost city in the world, Puerto Williams. The ride was actually comforting for us. It was a reminder of the high speed driving done on the dirt roads of West Virginia. We made it in no time. The van dropped us at Hostel Pusaki.

2. Fin del Mundo ( The End of the World)

Our actual objective was a trek called the Dientes Circuit with a side trip to a lonely refugio at the northern tip of a large lake called Lago Windhond. We spent 8 days in the wilderness of Isla Navarino and never completed the Circuit. It was pouring down rain the evening we arrived meaning snow in the mountains. We had friends who were a day ahead of us on the same itinerary. They were in the middle of that storm. We have learned that the weather can change dramatically in minutes. It can be pouring down rain and quickly change to rainbows and sun within an hour.

We ran around town early the next morning picking up the final rations for our trip. We called a taxi to take us to the trail head. As we sat in the back, we could see the snow eccentuating the topography of the mountain we were heading into. If it all went to plan, our hopes to catch up to our friends at Cabana Charles on Lago Windhond. Our first two days of trekking took us hgher into the mountains. We had to cross two passes to get to our refugio. This far south the altitude of the mountain are not very high, but at this southern latitude treeline begins at an altitude of less than 2,000 feet. The snow melted away in a matter of hours and all was well in the Dientes.

At the end of our second day, we arrived late to Cabana Charles. Cabana Charles is a shack built in the mid-sixties. It has a woodstove, a table to cook on, and a few bunks to sleep on. It was fantastic, and the best part is that hardly anyone ever goes there. Our friends had caught 10 nice looking trout and planned a fishfry. Two days from civilization, we ate trout, nipped some whiskey, and made brownies over the fire. Perfect.

We hung around the refugio for two days fishing with little luck and enjoying all the amenities the refugio had to offer. By the end of the second day at Cabana Charles, we decided to no longer complete the Dientes Circuit, but instead head off trail to the south shore of the island to Bahia Windhond. We left around 10am, following some vague directions, but keeping close our handy map and compass. Much of the hiking on the island is what we termed as "slogging." It was hours and hours of walking through the most saturated environment we had ever trekked in. Almost everthing was steeped in a dark brown tanic water. Six hours later after a lot of "slogging," a little fishing, and a waist deep river crossing, we climbed up the last rocky knoll and gazed out into Bahia Windhond. The water was crystal clear, and the beach was completely deserted. We set up camp in a small grassy area, built a fire on our own personal beach at the bottom of the world, dried our wet shoes, listened to the water filter through the perfectly smooth rocks that lined the bay, and gazed out at the Wollaston Islands, home of Cabo de Hornos.

The next morning we headed north, because we had run out of south, and only had food for three more days. We made it back to the refugio, stayed the night, and continued to "slog" through the bogs and the beaver dams to our final campsite. (Some years ago, someone thought it would be a good idea to introduce beavers to this part of the world in hopes to create a beaver fur industry. I am not sure that a beaver fur industry even exists anywhere now. The beavers have thrived, and now there is bounty of 5,000 Chilean pesos per beaver--that amounts to $8.50 US.) We arrived in our campsite, made dinner, and sat by the fire until it started to drizzle.

The drizzle turned into pouring rain, and it continued for roughly sixteen hours. The next morning, everything was wet. Normally we would have stayed in our small one and half person tent and waited it out. (Guess who the half person is?) We could see the woodstoves of Hostel Pusaki in our minds eye, so we swallowed hard and went out into the rain. We were clearly socked in by low clouds. This storm was not going anywhere. We packed and "slogged" for about three and a half hours. By the time we arrived at the warmth of Hostel Pusaki we were drenched completely. What the rain hadn´t been able to get to, the trees and bogs finished. We trudged happily back into the abode of Paty at Pusaki, she kissed us both on the cheek, cringed about how cold and wet we were, and we headed for a hot shower.

3. The Denoument

The rest of the day, we sat next to the woodstoves, ate empanadas, drank coffee and told the others of our adventures. We made contact with Ushuaia Boating for our return trip, and heard the infamous line, "tomorrow for sure." Why go with Ushuaia Boating you ask? There is no other company that goes. We were hopeful this time.

That evening, we went to the Yacht Club Bar that folks on the tourist circuit call the "Shipwreck Bar." The bar is a retired boat called the Micalvi. The boat is a popular destination for sailors all over the world. They dock their boats along side the Micalvi, crawl out onto the decaying boards of the dock and into the decaying walls of the Micalvi. Upon entering the boat, one notices that the floor of the boat slants at about a 15 degree angle. We walked up to the bar. The ceiling dripped what we hoped was water onto the bar, each time the waitress wiping the spot with her towel. She wore an embarassed smile. The leak continued, and finally she resorted to just leaving the towel under the leak. We ordered the traditional drink called the Pisco Sour, and settled into the smokey atmoshere of the "Shipwreck Bar." People from all over the world drank and talked and enjoyed the quirky surroundings, writing on walls and ordering more drinks.

The next morning we planned to catch our ride back to Ushuaia. We arrived at the Ushuaia Boating office at 9:30am. 9:30 quickly became noon, and we were on a first name basis with the rest of the people waiting. There were two more Americans, a few French folks, and some Swiss travelers. They played cards and hoped for departure. Beth and I were already bitter from waiting before (see Part 1). We didn´t help things by telling them our story. Beth became the groups chief interpreter. We found out that since the weather had not improved since we had got off the trail, all ports in the area were closed including the ones we needed.

Eventually they told us that there was no way we would leave that day, and we all headed out looking for a place to stay that night. Oddly all but a few of us ended up back at the Hostel Pusaki with Paty. The ones that didn´t asked Paty to make them dinner that night. By dinner time, her hostel was full, and we were drinking wine and having a good time. The next thing we know, Paty is rolling up the carpet and pushing the table and chairs to the sides of the room. She wanted to dance. We danced for hours. The police eventually came and asked her to turn off the music but she told them that she had lived there longer than they had and she closed the door on them. Because we were in Chile and not the States they left without a word instead of arresting her and the night began to wind down anyway. It was good fun.

The next morning the bus came to pick us up. They drove us to Puerto Navarino for the return trip. The Beagle Channel was glassy and smooth that day, and we were closing the chapter on Isla Navarino, and just trying to take it all in.