On the trail south in Patagonia

Along the mostly gravel road between Valle Cochamo' and Hornopiren, we had to stop often to drink in the scenery, or on the other end, relieve ourselves. Rest areas? Nada.

We left Valle Cochamo' on a blue-sky morning, traces of bright clouds adding exclamation points to our glee at diving deeper into Patagonia.  We were en route to Hornopiren, a small town and a ferry port, where the next morning we'd board a ferry bypassing a roadless area to arrive at Chaiten.

After futile attempts to book an Airbnb, or any other lodging in Hornopiren, we resorted to the old-fashioned method: drive around and hope.

Remember the days before cell phones and GPS when you schlepped from hotel to hotel trying to find an affordable vacancy? I think I still have marks in my palms from clenched fists.

It didn't take long, however, for Chris to notice a big old house with a spiffy paint job and a "rooms for rent" sign out front. A couple cottages were behind the house, and a two-bedroom unit with a tiny kitchen suited us. It cost about $50 a night.

A bonus was the stray German Shepard who hung out on the concrete step and guarded the place.

Unfortunately, not for us, but from us.

Lodging secured, by the dog and our payment, we headed for nearby Hornopiren National Park. It isn't like the national parks we know and love in the USA. In some respects, it's better: wild, untamed, undeveloped, pure wilderness.

The visitors' center was closed and didn't look like it had been open for ages. The park apparently has two trails, and the  one we were about to begin led to a mountaintop seven miles distant.

On the other hand,  the park's trails are not maintained and are inaccessible. We bumped along a few miles of gravel road through private property to reach a trail head, one of only two in the park of 186 square miles of rugged mountains and unspoiled rain forests.

The park includes two volcanoes, 12 square miles of glaciers, and huge stands of Alerce trees, somewhat comparable, in the Chilean world, to the redwood forests of Northern California.

Alerce trees and us. They will last longer. 

We didn't see Alerce trees on this hike, however. But we did experience ankle-deep mud and tripping tangles of tree roots. We feared for our osteoporotic limbs.

Really? It gets worse.

Let's go for a swim?

Loveliness distracted along the way. Although we saw few flowers.

We reached a stalemate. Chelsea scampered ahead, somehow weightless, gliding over the mess, while Chris hangs behind attempting to guide his hapless parents through the morass. We didn't last long after this stop. Neither did they. 

 We made it intact and still speaking. Still hugging, even.
Hanging on for dear life?

Back at our modest accommodation, Chris and Chelsea improvise dinner with plenty of wine on the side. Life is good! 

On the almost six-hour ferry ride the next day. OMG so beautiful! And more fun and challenge are coming. Some things it's better not to know in advance. 

Earlier posts about our South American travels

1. Around Cape Horn - Happy 2018!
2. Ushuaia, Patagonian peat moss, and a polar plunge
3. Patagonian Paradox - the more you see, the more you want
4. Penguin drama - #1 attraction near Punta Arenas, Chile
5. Magellan was a mean SOB
6. Millennials take the lead. Boomers traipse behind.
7. Valle Cochamo' and a cool eco lodge

Valle Cochamo' - a private park in Patagonia

South America adventures 2018 - Episode 7
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Some say that Patagonia's Cochamo' Valle park, the first major stop on our road trip, is reminiscent of Yosemite National Park. Photo credit - Chelsea Behymer

We awoke in the Puerto Varas hostel, not exactly refreshed.

The kerosene fumes that about did me in the previous day had left the building, but we'd stayed up past midnight trying to hammer out an itinerary that included making reservations. Old people like to know where they might lay their heads the next night. 

The millennial people.....not that interested. But trying hard to accommodate.

PK and I were still giddy about a couple weeks on the road in Patagonian with our son and his partner, Chelsea Behymer. (I'm restraining myself from typing a row of !!!). The serendipity involved for this to occur sounds made up, but it is a true story.

Patagonia comprises the southern-most parts of Chile and Argentina. We traveled in Chile only. The terrain, unlike most of Patagonia, was cool and damp rainforest. 

Regarding accommodations, we were looking at Airbnbs, lodges and hostels. As we began our two-week journey, we had three nights booked. That was it. And also a ferry ride or two planned, I think. At least we were set for the next couple of nights.

But first things first. Trip food.

It was rainy and cool as we stopped at a supermarket on our way out of Puerto Varas. December through February is high tourist season in Chile, like summer in the USA. Most tourist areas were crowded, and traffic and parking were ridiculous in urban areas. As were scoring restaurant seating and negotiating 20-foot long lines at the supermarket.

Never mind. Our goal was to a get outta town into the wilds of Patagonia without having to hunt and gather.

We left the market with a cardboard box stuffed with salad fixings, a little salami and prosciutto, fruit, cheese, bread, peanut butter, coffee, cream, and Chilean wine. The basics.

At this lunch stop, we were reduced to mostly peanut butter. Did you know it's good with veggies and stale chocolate chip muffins? Chelsea is helping Chris dress up a carrot.

We used that same cardboard box the entire trip, avoiding as much packaging and plastic as possible. Chile is committed to recycling and conservation in a big way. But the country is not likely as committed as our traveling companions, who never intentionally buy plastic bags or plastic almost-anything.

Reuse, buy used, waste nothing.

Traffic thinned the farther away we got from Puerto Varas, and soon we were on a gravel road carrying us into the wild Patagonia I had imagined.

En route to Cochamo' we saw two young guys hitchhiking at a sharp curve along a snaking
narrow road, no shoulders, no place to pull off to pick them up. 

And who picks up hitchhikers, anyway? Chris does.

He depended on hitchhiking when he first traveled in Chile 12 years ago and "people picked me up all the time."

He jumped out to rearrange our super-sized luggage, gear and groceries stuffed under a bluetarp in the pickup bed. Space was tight, but the hitchhikers whooped at getting a ride.

Turns out they were headed to the same place we were: Valle Cochamo'.

TRANSLATION  - PLEASE READ THIS INFORMATION AND RESPECT THE INSTRUCTIONS
The Cochamo Valley is not a park or Public Reserve. From here to the border the trail passes through private property. To be able to visit, enjoy, and maintain good relations with the landowners, it is very important to respect these rules and stay on the trail. 

Like numerous parks in Chile, Cochamo' is private. That doesn't mean it's a club with
exclusive memberships, or that it costs big bucks to visit, but that the property owner takes
care of it and wants to share its beauty.

According to an August 2013 United Nations study, an impressive 308 private parks now exist throughout Chile, covering more than 1.65 million hectares (4 million acres), with more than half in the southern regions of Los Lagos, Magallanes and Los Rios. More  striking, over 200 of the parks are led by individual owners and some 60 percent are small private parks of less than 200 hectares (50 acres). From the Patagon Journal article Private Parks on the Rise, Summer 2014 issue. 

We visited several private parks, even one with a visitors' center that charged a $10 entry fee.
Cochamo' was free to hikers, but charged $15 a night for tent camping.

We stayed two nights at Campo Aventura along the Cochamo' River not far from a trailhead leading to a hanging valley six miles uphill. Once in the valley, numerous other trails provide access for campers and climbers. The large body of water on this map is a bay. The Chocamo' River is close enough to the ocean to be affected by tides.

SSpeaking of the Cochamo' River, it was just a few steps from the sweet cabins we rented for $20 a person per night, including a homemade-everything breakfast.

Of course our companions were compelled 
to take a dip in the snowmelt stream, which 
they did most days depending upon the 
presence of cold, clear water that did not
require negotiating life-threatening access.

Chelsea gloating, following a polar dip, about her foresight to grab
 a robe from the cabin, a surprising perk for a minimalist accommodation.
And a minimalist person.
.

View looking up the Cochamo' River near Campo Aventura.

To reach the cabins at Camp Aventura, we crossed a swinging bridge
and passed through a sheep pasture.

Campo Aventura is rustic. The building on the right is a common area with a wood stove and sheepskin-covered seats for hikers to warm up. We used it to prepare and enjoy our usual dinner salad and a bit of vino. Well, quite a bit.

The next day Chris and Chelsea planned to hike to the hanging valley, six miles up, and camp for the night. However, they were advised that the camping was closed as more than 1,000 people had reserved spots. What?! A thousand? Well, in that case, who wants to camp? 

They decided to go up and back in one day.

PK and I knew we didn't want to do a 12-mile hike, but set off to walk as far as we could in a few hours on the only trail to the hanging valley. Roads do not exist in the park.

Mud was ankle deep in some spots.

Trail was a trench much of the time.

We decided that the next time we're there (and we do want to return) we'll hike and 
make reservations at the lodge up top. However, we won't be too proud to hire a horse to
pack in our stuff.

It was fun seeing horses crossing the crystalline snowmelt creeks. Hikers took the swinging bridges. Photo credit....Chelsea Behymer

One of numerous swinging bridges. Horses can't use them. 
Photo credit.....Chris Korbulic

Loved the madrone-like trees near the cabins.

Also loved....

Foxgloves and fuchsia TREES dripping with blooms,along the trail.

Horses and waterfalls along the road to the trailhead.

Playful banter between Mike Rock, the caretaker/manager at Campo Aventura, and a horse packer just returning from the mountain. In the small world department, Mike had lived in Ashland, OR, not far from our home, and had guided trips on the Rogue River. He's lived in Chile for 17 years and has no plans to return north.

This is a Chilean dish that the four of us shared at a restaurant in the town, Cochamo'. We'd seen families devouring huge plates at various locations, and decided to give it a try. Wouldn't order it again, but pichanga includes sausages, hot dogs, boiled potatoes, tomatoes, boiled eggs, avocados and mozzarella cheese. In the background, is what's left of the best crab dish any of us had ever tasted, a thick cheesy soup. 

On the right, the handwritten cheque for this meal, which included a beer and a bottle of wine. With tip included, the total is around $70 USD. 

Chile is not cheap!

 It is also not a Third World country. Chris, who has traveled around the world, including most of South America, says it's his favorite.

In a future post, I want to explore why.

And also take a quick look at other places we traveled during this trip: Argentina and Uruguay.

Coming soon... finding an accommodation the old-fashioned way, and tackling another challenging trail, this one in Parque Nacional Hornopiren.

Earlier posts about our South American travels

1. Around Cape Horn - Happy 2018!
2. Ushuaia, Patagonian peat moss, and a polar plunge
3. Patagonian Paradox - the more you see, the more you want
4. Penguin drama - #1 attraction near Punta Arenas, Chile
5. Magellan was a mean SOB
6. Millennials take the lead. Boomers traipse behind.

Boomers take Millennials' lead on Patagonia road trip

South America adventures 2018 - Episode 6

After 12 great days on a floating comfort bubble—the Celebrity Infinity cruise ship—we were back in the grimy, horn-honking, too-many-people, colorful, messy world of Latin America.

We'd left the ship two days early.

Nothing against the cruise— it was fantastic— but the four of us, Chris Korbulic and Chelsea Behymer,  PK and me, had planned a road trip into southern Patagonia. Another two days of northerly travel at sea would have meant hundreds of miles backtracking to our road-trip starting point, Puerto Montt, Chile.

(If you don't know much about Chris and/or Chelsea, check out the links above. Not ordinary people at all.)

How did we end up on a cruise with our son and his girlfriend? Did they hate us for horning in on them? Did our being with them for a month evoke pity from their peers and strangers?

We don't think so. We all had too much fun. An account of the magic leading to us joining them is included in the first post of this series: 

All of a sudden, upon leaving the cruise, we were on our own after being coddled, entertained, and blown away by stunning landscapes. The most important question?

Who will feed us in the manner to which we've become accustomed? 

We adapted by feeding ourselves, and let it be known that heaping chopped green salads seasoned with slivers of prosciutto and shaved Italian cheeses were our staple. 

But oh, it was great being unscheduled and open to whatever came next. 

Freestyle traveling anyone?

Chris and Chelsea have a greater comfort level with the freestyle approach than PK and I do,  but we're game for most anything they can throw at us, which, it turned out, was quite a lot.

Chelsea and I watched over the luggage at the terminal dock while father and son fetched a rental van we'd reserved. Instead, they roared back in a shiny black 4WD pick-up with a roomy backseat. Vrooom!

The van, it appears, had problems, and the rental outfit switched in the pick-up for no extra charge. It turned out to be perfect. Even though the truck lacked a canopy, we were able to purchase a commodious blue plastic tarp, and all our stuff fit under it. 

Chris had been in Chile "working" for a month at his demanding job as a professional kayaker traveling the world before we met up with him in Buenos Aires. After a few days walking around the city, the three of us joined Chelsea-the-rockstar-naturalist aboard the ship.

Chris carried with him his camping and kayaking gear in a bag the size of one of those tiny European cars. Small for car. Big for luggage. 

The first order of business was to drive about 12 miles from Puerto Montt to Puerto Varas, a charming city with a flair for German architecture, where Chris had reserved rooms in a hostel.

Bunk room for them, private room for us. 

Puerto Varas is a beautiful little city in the Los Lagos region of Chile.

Confession. PK and I had never stayed in a hostel.

Hostels are associated with youth. We are not youth. We are late sixties, early seventies. But hey. We had put our itinerary into our son's hands, he who has explored Chile extensively 
over the past 12 years.

We had to go with his flow. Didn't we?

Chelsea and Chris figuring out how to enter the hostel, and about
to open the door on some "issues." 

The vintage hostel had a couple problems. First it smelled like a a gas spill. And that private room Chris had rented for us? 

It did not exist. Apparently.

PK and I were shown a bunkroom with steep ladders, each of us 
imagining negotiating such in the middle of the night with full
bladders.

Ladders + bladders = trouble.

What about the choking gas fumes?

We learned from an indifferent check-in guy that the gas stench was wafting up from the ancient wooden plank floors, which had been
treated earlier in the day with kerosene. Or so he said.

This took awhile to sink in. 

Someone is treating wooden floors in a wooden house, at least 100 years old, with a petro-
leum product?

I folded my arms in a resolute stance.

Ok. Nobody light a match. Don’t even crack a joke as igniting mirth could blow the place to
smithereens.

I channeled my sister, who would never put up with toxic fumes. Well first, she wouldn't
agree to sleep in a bunkroom with strangers. I tried my best to be her.

“I’m not staying here,” I announced, which isn't like me as I am generally way too nice.

A bit of a flurry ensued. The affable hostel owner showed up, and somehow we soon had a
private room, with a shared bath, of course. 

Chris and Chelsea slept in a bunkroom, and with their young bladders, not to mention their young legs, had no problem.

On a positive note, the four of us had to ourselves a second-floor common area with a big 
coffee table upon which we devoured the heaping dinner salad we'd prepared in the hostel's well-equipped kitchen.

The windows were opened wide, of course, and the problematic 
fumes dissipated into the night. Then we fired up our computers and spent hours trying to 
plan our itinerary, and confirm our accommodation for the next next night.
After that.....who knows?

That's about right for road trips. Sketch out the route and fill in the blanks as you go. That's how PK and I plan road trips, anyway. 

The Petrohue River, not far from where we left the cruise, is a beautiful monster, and the first river we saw in Chile as independent road trippers. 

But PK and I realized that much of the advance planning was on our behalf. The need to 
know where one will lie one's head at night is, on this trip at least, a boomer thing.

Except for van breakdowns and other extenuating circumstances, they are the ultimate boondockers - people who prefer free camping in the hinterlands apart from others.

Next up: We leave Puerto Varas on a chilly wet morning and end up that night in one of the most magical places on earth: the Cochamo' Valley in Patagonia.

Earlier posts about our South American travels

1. Around Cape Horn - Happy 2018!
2. Ushuaia, Patagonian peat moss, and a polar plunge
3. Patagonian Paradox - the more you see, the more you want
4. Penguin drama - #1 attraction near Punta Arenas, Chile
5. Magellan was a mean SOB
6. 
   

Friend's poem helps release winter

Bleeding heart blooms in our yard in April and is just starting to emerge. Patience, patience. 

This is the second time I've "published" this poem by my dear friend, Michele Templer. The first time was when I was a reporter for the local newspaper (Grants Pass Daily Courier in Oregon), and wrote a weekly column called Second Thoughts. It was 1984. 

For 12 years I worked primarily from my home office, using an early modem to send my work into the paper.

  Here's what it looked like, but my phone was black and squat, not trying to be modern like the one pictured.  It was cumbersome and slow. Its dial-up connection was sketchy. 

Working at home was nice, but it didn't prevent deadline angst. On the day that Michele's poem arrived—she either delivered it in person or mailed it, because it was handwritten on a half sheet of textured duff-colored paper—I was having a horrible very bad day, as we used to say. 

It was late February, and early spring had revealed itself in little sprouts of green here and there, but the skies were still bruised, rain still fell, and cold soaked through the walls. 

I was writing about a dysfunctional city council meeting, and worrying, at the same time, about our first-born son, Quinn, whose public school education I was monitoring. Why do kids have to be labeled so young? He didn't make the "bluebirds" or whatever the best first-grade reading group was named. (He turned out fine and is now Quinn Korbulic, PhD.) I worried about "kid" stuff a lot when I was trying to write.

The house needed cleaning. Laundry needed doing. Dinner needed planning and cooking.  I had a deadline, and was awaiting a phone call from a disgruntled incoherent person whose quote I needed to complete my article.

Then I'd have to wait for the dial-up modem to work to get the stupid article in that day's paper. And I'd run out of coffee. Grrr.

I took a moment to read Michele's poem.

Ahhhhh.

My shoulders relaxed. I sighed and sank into my chair. Then I smiled in agreement with a truth she realized. Somehow, no matter what, we make it through the days, the months, the years, the seasons.

Spring will soon emerge. And it will be all better.

A little sun, longer days, warmth, and we can  bloom in unlikely places.

I've revisited Michele's poem dozens of times though the years when I forget that life is too short to get caught up in BS, and that spring, no matter how elusive, will eventually flow into the hills and valleys with warmth,color, fragrance and hope.

I'm thinking of friends and relatives in northern climates who are discouraged that winter still clings to the forests, the hills, the roads, the car windows, the driveways, the sidewalks, the heating bills, the livestock in fields, the dogs  in yards, the kids in soccer and softball practices.

Winter also grips their moods and their sometimes fragile states of mental health.

I don't know where you live, but the Southern Oregon forecast calls for chilly rain and, by this Friday, snow at lower elevations. What?!

All this cold and wet despite that today is the spring solstice. It really is.




As Michele wrote:

Yellow crocuses bloom
Outside the door.
The sullen grey sky
Hangs heavily, neither hot nor cold;
Trees bud on branches bare.
Winter would hold us,
if we’d stay,
in chilled stasis.
Spring beckons, often too softly
to be heard.
Transitions are hazardous
Still, stumbling, we somehow emerge.

                                 ~ Michele Templer 
                                               2/29/1984

A super bloom on Upper Table Rock, Rogue Valley, Oregon, April 2017.  Coming soon!