It begins with a conversation. The clocks tick to 2am at the check-in desk.
‘Your seats are in the emergency exit row. Do you have any impairments or mobility issues that would prevent you from helping the cabin crew in the case of an emergency?’
‘Well, we’re quite drunk’, I say.
'Ha, umm, no sir, that's ok'.
***
Just a quick aside. I’d like to apologise to Bruce Chatwin.
This entry is not an attempt to emulate your marvellous travelogue.
It's a working title that stuck.
I know you are dead. I know you are not reading this. I know literally no-one cares.
But I apologise.
Ushuaia is bitter and absolutely breathtaking. The southernmost city in the world is also the gateway to Antarctica; its port bustles with expedition ships and more leisurely ferries. The culinary scene features, rather understandably, mucho from la mer. We enjoy some seafood stews and the likes but don't manage to nab a full king crab. Cape Horn is the world's southernmost beer, just in case you didn't know. Tastes pretty nice, too. 'Brewed with Andean glacier water' they say. Stick that into a chatbot and see how pretentious an ad it churns out.
Mostly, our four days here comprise a heap of hiking. First is Martial Glacier, a rousing loop route on and around ski slopes, complete with glacial passes and a fat flake flurry blizzard. This is very much the ‘you’ve arrived’ moment, bringing life to our weary limbs in an environment gloriously removed from any experience thus far.
Next on the big list of quintessentials is Laguna Esmerelda, which is more of a greyish green in the absence of clear skies. From the get-go the trail is severely muddy. No shoe on earth bar a crampon is finding adequate traction on that sloppy stuff, so our tattering trail runners are actually pretty apt*. In my hyper-focus to not form a one-man human landslide, I take my eye off the ball on a seemingly safe, drier stretch, slip on a tree root, and spend slightly short of 0.5 seconds fully airborne.
* When you've got six months perusing an eclectic pick of climates, packing adequately for all of them is a genuine challenge. The Patagonian fortnight is where this becomes very apparent. Very apparent indeed. Ushuaia especially. We haven't got enough layers, basically. Or rain jackets.
What we do have is gumption. And persistence. And oodles of stupidity.
More rousing landscapes, then. That’s a theme. If I don’t mention it or I run out of superlatives or a minute of reading passes without my mentioning the sheer scale and wonder of Patagonia, from this stop all the way up, then just assume that everything unfolds with unbelievable nature in front of our eyes or to the side of us or out a window. Every single moment. No shortage of majestic wildlife either. Look at this wee pretty birdy.
After pleeenty of mileage, we take a day out from trekking. On a bustling catamaran up the Beagle Channel we see seals, the lighthouse at the end of the world, many many ominous clouds, and other bits. Mostly we huddle and seek reprieve from some more absolute sidewinds. It's several degrees below zero.
The boat drifts past Port Williams — the southernmost settlement in Chile — and squeezes very very easily through 'the narrowest point you can sail internationally' to eventually wind us up at Isla Martillo. Its chief appeal? Pingalings. Patagonian pingalings.
That's their unofficial title. To us. The true term is Magellanic penguins. We'd perhaps fallen hook line and sinker for the tourist posters about town and come to expect a silly abundance of the things — a colony akin to the most startling and heartwarming Attenborough skits. No dice. But there were about 30 of them pootling about, coming at us all curious with fins by their sides, slooshing themselves in the icy waters.
Ushuaia is the capital of Tierra del Fuego province; this translates, somewhat ironically, to 'land of fire'. We learn that its name derives from indigenous tribes lighting fires to alert neighbours to Portuguese missionaries in the Strait of Magellan. We also learn that in the summer, the sun rises on Tierra del Fuego at 3am and sticks around until 11pm. Wild that.
Here's a photograph of Georgina gorging on a genuinely gorgeous choripán — these are sausage sandwiches but they’re better, that’s not up for debate.
Packing it all in aren't we.
On our final full day in the mixer, we headed for Tierra del Fuego National Park. As far as excursions go, it's another elite one, and it's another 5+ hour jobby, this time through mesmeric forests, across crustacean dominated stone beaches, and around the grand Lapataia Bay. When it snows without vicious wind and the clouds break at the same time and the water is lapping down there on the front you feel just about as serene as ever before.
Don’t you?
Don’t you Bruce Chatwin.
We actually have a bit of a gallop through the park at one point. It's an alien sensation to embark, however briefly, on a form of exercise that isn't hiking or climbing stairs. The thrill. The steam train that leaves the city and heads to the National Park tears round a corner and startles two stallions, who take it upon themselves to also gallop. The bloody thrill.
Fear not. They're safe. They're savvy.
Our next stop is El Calafate, which looks somewhat close on a map. Don't let Patagonia fool you. The bus is only 12 hours, but it involves some silly multi-border crossing on account of how Chile and Argentina have been demarcated. Whoever is responsible for those dotted lines must've been in an awfully whimsical mood.
Anyway, we opt to fly instead. It doesn't take long. We arrive.
Our cabin is twee but cosy and we capitalise on its little kitchen in the biggest way. By which I of course mean: vegetables. Many of them. Mind you we're never short on empanadas and on our final night it’s back to the asado in a very splendid way. I had what I'm fairly sure was the best lamb of my life. It was crispy where it needed to be, tender in all the appropriate elsewheres, salty (not too much so) and slightly minty. I hope it lived a nice life. I'd be buzzing if I'd been raised amid this rugged splendour.
The clouds had followed us north, but they went on their merry way to who knows where as we spent three or so hours mooching around the flatlands next to the lake. The wind was absurd and we couldn’t cross the rushing, deceptively deep tributaries. A dog we cleverly and hilariously named Jason Birds was chasing birds — I shit you not, you are not shitted — for 45 minutes without stopping. The stamina on the boy.
What did we learn about the Perito Moreno glacier? It’s vast. 100 square miles there or thereabouts. Can you imagine? It’s actually still advancing, too, which is a welcome rarity in the current climate. Its slow, incessant march prompts booms and cracks to fill the atmosphere and then cease, ever-so-momentarily, leaving just the whoosh of wind and rushing water somewhere beneath or between the unfathomable body of ice.
Large chunks break off due to mini-ruptures, sending waves across the water. These perfectly concentric ripples continue until they’re stopped by another calved piece from a day or week or month ago, each their own impossible and dazzling blue, closer to the headland.
Solely to consolidate the sense of absolute majesty, an Andean condor or two glide over the gnarly grand fissures.
Here are two more things we learned about the Perito Moreno glacier:
It is the perfect thing to stare at and attempt to fathom over a spot of luncheon.
Mostly it is there because it wants to be pictured by tourists, and I daren’t let it down.
So yeah. Perito Moreno is extraordinary. Besides it, El Calafate offers heaps by way of hiking and exploration, but that's obviously par for the course in this extraordinary corner of the planet. As such, we actually relax a little and eat some more vegetables (gasp) before rounding Lago Argentino the next day to reach El Chaltén.
This place. This self-proclaimed 'hiking capital' of Los Glaciares National Park.
Silly.
The mountains here trump anything to date and anything to come, so it’d seem an apt time to pack the whole thing in. Alas, on we go.
We'd heard whispers that should you be so inclined, starting the hike up to Fitz Roy at 3am on a lovely clear day means the sun pokes its red, gorgeous head over the horizon and lights up the famous mountain a spectacular ruby red. So even though the forecast said 'a little bit cloudy', we were on the trail in the 3am darkness, and alas, no such colour spectacle greeted us just shy of 6. No bother.
This scenery was indescribably beautiful. From the forest we traversed meandering paths round small outcrops and drew closer to Laguna Torre, which sits at the base of this string of outstanding, commanding mountains. It was actually fully frozen over, that lake, but up a further ascent was another sheer blue body of water to marvel at. A 10 hour hike, there and back, with some time at the top largely on our tod to take in the sheer scale of the wonder.
I mean...
Given the forecast was straight sun, I decided to have another go of the first 5k the next morning. Once again some pesky, wispy clouds at the sunrise line crashed the party, but it was still a jolly good event. Look at how crispy and clear it was. Bloody well look. All with the Interstellar soundtrack blessing my ears. Can you imagine?
Sore legs and a shorter walk to follow, I’d have thought, to Chorrillo del Salto — a handsome, grand waterfall with clear water glistening at its feet. Here, we clock that people have their wedding bands on their right hand? Has this been the case in several Latin American countries? An incongruous line of thought, a welcome reprieve from admiring the natural world. Anyway, it leads us to discuss any customs that are absolutely universal. All we could come up with was:
Shitting out your ass.
Singing some variation of happy birthday whilst a foodstuff is presented to you.
So that was El Chaltén.
Our very long very shaky very arduous bus northwards through sweeping low grass and rock and distant snow peaked vistas is alongside a seemingly endless barbed wire fence, perhaps demarcating Chile from Argentina, or some mad rich landowner from another. Don't like the sorry sight of countless Vicuña sprawled on or near it, their ambitious liberation curtailed.
What else? We double book a flight which was silly. Manage to borrow someone’s phone to call Aerolíneas Argentina’s customer support line, but the woman there isn’t particularly supportive. Mostly she lists off other sources of support, and asks me repeatedly for my booking reference code via the phonetic alphabet, which I obviously flap at when put on the spot. N for Not. G for Good.
What else? I created maybe my sixth or seventh new email address. Capitalising nicely on Western Union’s ‘first transfer is free’ loophole. Love an Outlook domain now, me. Orange udders, threatening lies, or other kinks. Outlook.
What else? It’s seemingly inevitable and funny the entire world over to draw a rudimentary penis and balls on any available surface. I saw this in at least three different unexpected spots throughout Patagonia.
What else? The people who load your bags onto buses don't earn a salary, so you tip them whatever you can. Even that's not worth much here. Every uplifting scene is met with a stark reminder of the economic state of play.
We hit Trevelin for a swift 24 hours, principally for an actual cup of actual tea. Well, like 4 of them apiece actually. Big old pot of the good stuff. Welsh settlers came here in 1885; there are dragons and Welsh flags all over the gaff, the language is still spoken around town, and every sign is printed in dual Spanish and Welsh. Proper weird that isn’t it? Proper weird.
We didn’t have time to do too much else but get ourselves to a pub, pet some dogs, and mooch amongst nature. There are gorgeous yellow and orange flowers dotted about the town, as well as alongside the grubbier, rushing river. We take a few dead-end trails and admire the rustic, rural homes with horses grazing and beautiful mountainscapes beyond their verandas.
The drive into Bariloche is like the route that flanks Windermere but more beautiful. It's like a trip alongside a big, dark, cold lake in Norway but it glimmers and shines. Those yellow buds punctuate the scene and the sun breaks through clouds as we approach golden hour.
Georgie has developed quite severe stomach cramps and associated back pain, so much of Bariloche is spent riding those out. We even visit a doctor and battle a just-as-severe language barrier to try and eliminate anything especially nefarious. Few ultrasounds and whatnot later, we’re rolling outta that frenzy of sound and shuffling bodies £150 down and with nowt but a suggestion of 'painkillers and soup'. Sometimes you just have to clasp your hands together and thank your lucky stars for the NHS.
Because I am both restless and a poor boyfriend overall, I went on a few excursions. The steep ascent to Cerro Campanario yielded some exquisite, sweeping views over the Argentinian Lake District. I listened toThe Great Gig in the Sky and it was what I saw. In awe, simultaneously the promoter and artist and audience and reviewer. There must be a word for such a synergy. When you listen to music that doesn’t just enhance a scene but encapsulates it, becomes it. Germans probably have one. They’ve got a word for everything.
The raucous wind assaulted my face but I sat and drank a beer and ate an empanada and refused to head back down for a while because honestly it was such a uniquely spectacular, 360 degree vista that if a kooky passing genie offered me the opportunity to become an owl there and then I’d have done it no questions asked, drawing on that range of neck mobility to just constantly rotate and take in that frosty peak and that rush of wind on that lake’s surface and that person, that dot, waay over there sailing fast across the silky water.
The next day, after the doctors, I went on a shorter excursion to Sendero de los Arrayanes, where I finished the book Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason (fantastic, crippling, frustrating, moving, other words) and listened to tunes for a few hours as I ambled through the beautiful woods. I did send regular checks of welfare to my beloved. Do not write me off as a complete pig.
It’s an odd thing. We have spent every single glorious hour together for months and months on end, bar scattered sleeps in dorms and rare solo outings such as this. It did remind me of the comfort and strange clarity I find in my own company, the beauty of hiking solo with music between my ears and shafts of light breaking through the tall, gently swaying trees. But I also lamented not having those particular memories to share.
Patagonia has been a total dream. An elite fortnight.
Leaving Bariloche you’re looking upon a never ending traditional Vieneta. Glimpsing that swirly, frosty expanse one can’t help but wonder: how many square inches of it have never seen a human foot, boot, or disintegrating trail runner?
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