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Ice
and Jungle.
by Stephanie White and George Van Sickle
An adventure south of the Equator in Patagonia
made possible by a Sea Pearl 21.
It is late
January, the crest of summer in Patagonia.
This is the first morning of our six week,
500 mile journey through the coastal wilderness
of southern Chile in our 21 foot Sea Pearl
cat ketch, Pinguino Azul, the "blue Penguin." We
are rowing, four oars driving ahead. The water
of 30 mile long Aisen Fjord shimmers beneath
the surrounding mountains. The forested lower
slopes sweep up into gray, rocky summits where
tongues of hanging ice are shrouded in scraps
of mist. White-ribbon waterfalls thread down
from the heights, to disappear in the forest.
We are overly warm in the early sun, our drysuits
peeled down to our waists.
Patagonia, we thought,
would be cold, windy, and miserable, blasted
by squalls sweeping in off the Southern Ocean.
We brought lots of clothes, food, extra everything.
It's all in the boat. For six weeks, we will
be self-sufficient. No outside support will
be required - where we are going, none is available.
We shipped the Pinguino Azul from Seattle on
a container ship, then trailer Ed south as
far as we could. When the road ended, we took
a ferry. When the ferry landed in tiny Puerto
Aisen, our journey began.
Today is a day of squalls violently parading in from
the southwest. They bring alternate periods
of sun, rain, erratic blasts of wind. Whatever
the weather gods are about to throw at us,
we are ready for it. We are bundled up in multiple
layers of clothing topped off with drysuits.
This lesson in Patagonian weather is keeping
us watchful and busy at the sheets. The next
squall appears, a dark shroud of rain and black
water marching down the channel. The clouds
pick up speed overhead and the water astern
turns frothy, like a warm beer opened on a
summer's day.
We take up combat positions; George goes forward to
reef the mainsail. We roll a couple of reefs
into the mizzen. George possesses hands the
size of a polar bear's paws, along with strong
forearms from his ice-climbing days. This makes
him the number-one candidate to reef the sails
in high winds. We do our foredeck work on our
hands and knees; as the waves and spray crash
over Ponguino's narrow bow, they wash into
the cockpit and out to sea. This, the final
squall of the afternoon, is a real monster.
Deeply
reefed and struggling not to lose ground, we
head for shore and duck behind a bed of
kelp that provides a modicum of protection
off a gravel beach.
Anchoring is not as difficult as we thought it might
be. The methods we've developed in our years
of beach cruising work well here. We typically
set a bow anchor off the beach and secure a
stern line to a tree, or set a second anchor
high up the beach. Anchoring this way allows
us to secure the boat close to shore for loading
yet easily move it to deeper water overnight.
Sometimes
it is necessary to swim to or from the boat,
but our drysuits make this and easy chore.
In fact it is great fun to bob around in the
kelp like a sea otter, the Andes towering overhead.
It is often difficult to find a treeless spot ashore
large enough to pitch a tent. We use Ponguino's
floorboards to create a flat level place to
sleep. Giant ferns and fuchsias covered with
red flowers surround our campsite. The tree
we've anchored our tent to is and ornamental
houseplant at home in Ohio. We feel like munchkins
under the 7 foot diameter leaves of a forest
of deep green, 6 foot high pangue plants. The
vegetation is so thick that attempts at traveling
into the forest are reduced to a crawling thrash.
Birds of unusual shapes and colors are abundant
and curious. We are constantly being inspected
by caracaras, the local birds of prey, and
a host of forest birds.
Under way again, each new channel we turn down reveals
a surprise. We pass raucous sea lion rookeries
that we smell and hear long before we see.
Gangs of juveniles swim out to inspect us while
red-footed cormorants keep a watchful eye on
our progress. We are also the guests of dolphins,
occasionally a whale, and albatrosses that
glide effortlessly over the waves in the worst
of weather or rest patiently in a calm. "Hey, I just saw a penguin," George exclaims. "No way,
penguins live in Antarctica, a thousand miles from
here." But, of course, he's right. It is a Humboldt
penguin, and soon there are many flying by under water,
reminding us why we named our Sea Pearl Ponguino Azul
- Ponguino's two winglike leeboards are the underwater
wings that lift s to windward.
Heading south in Canal
Costa, the north wind, the bad-weather wind, is behinds
us, and we make good progress. We see very few boats,
speak with no one, seep father into Patagonia on the
way towards our objective, San Rafael Lagoon.
The San Rafael glacier drops 4000 feet from the Northern
Patagonia Ice cap, whose highest point, Monte San Valentin,
exceeds 13,000 feet. The glacier is amile-and-a-half
wide river of ice, draining 700 square miles of Andes
snow accumulated over the millennia. Strangely, having
carved its way down thought the strength of mountains,
this ice river crumples when it encounters the calm
water of Laguna San Rafael. Here, in a bay 6 miles
across, the 10,000 year-old ice joins the Pacific in
a punchbowl of brine and jostling icebergs.
Changing
winds and tidal currents ensure that this slushy mix
is well stirred and always in motion. Opposite the
glacier's crumpling ice face, the Rio Tempanos, the
River of Icebergs, drains the lagoon into the larger
channels. This 5 mile river of ice strewn, swirling
current floods and ebbs with the tide twice each day.
The icebergs in the river grind and slam into one another,
tear away at the banks, roll and break apart unpredictably.
The larger bergs, aground in mid-channel, become target
practice for the in-motion smaller ones. This is not
a place to navigate carelessly - especially in a small,
open boat.
The morning is calm and sunny as we enter
the Rio Tempanos under oars, our entrance timed for
slack water. We'll make what progress we can in the
still water; then, as the current increases, it will
flush us into the lagoon. At all costs, we must avoid
being in the river when the current is at its maximum
rate - up to 9 knots. We could be capsized in the swift,
turbulent water, caught in a whirlpool, or smashed
by a careening mass
of ice.
We set sail in a light breeze and make our way upriver
through a kaleidoscope of bergs, weaving and tacking
like boats in a busy harbor. Now we are nearing the
entrance to the lagoon, and the current is getting
stronger, the ice is moving faster and so are we...
right toward a house sized berg. We pull hard at the
oars to add to our sailpower; we dodge the berg, pass
through an eddy line, enter the stillness of the lagoon.
a few minutes later there is a massive crunching. Just
astern, two big bergs are colliding in the current.
We
pick our way through the floating while boulders and
islands, fending off smaller ice bits with and oar
when the going gets thick. A mile north of the glacier
we discover a small, shallow inlet on the edge f the
larger lagoon. Any ice larger than a volleyball cannot
pass through the entrance. We pick our way through
the guardian rocks and anchor in the security of Laguana
Caiquen.
For several days we explore the gravelly shore,
hike through lush forests, and climb up along the side
of the glacier. Up close, the gleaming blue-white surface
of the ice is a jumbled frozen plain of craggy towers
and deep blue crevasses. It is so broken and irregular
that, like the adjacent jungle, it is practically impenetrable.
With no warning, an improbable mass of ice topples
forward from the 200 foot high calving ice cliff. In
slow motion a great roar, a tremendous splash, and
a high rolling wave ripples out as the new berg slowly
rotates and bobs in search of an equilibrium of buoyancy
and balance. Streams of water cascade down its ragged
blue sides. Gradually, the cataclysm subsides in a
shuffle of rolling ice. The infant giant maneuvers
away from the cliff and joins the rest of the white
fleet assembled in the bay.
If the San Rafael glacier is a grand spectacle, the
120-mile-long-by-60-mile-wide Chonos Archipelago is
a journey into the sublime. We ride the ebb current
back out the Rio Tempanos and for the next three weeks
sail north through the fractured islands and channels
of the Chonos, an uninhabited and intricate network
of islands, bays, channels, and rocky reefs.
Each day
the wind, current, and landscape combine in new and
unpredictable ways. Sun and rain alternate frequently
in a continuous procession of rapidly moving weather
systems. Deserted in the middle of summer. the Chonos
becomes our private world of wind, tide, forests, and
animals.
One day we sail around a point and a singular white
beach appears, rising to a level grassy terrace between
green water and dripping forest. Mussel shells crunch
under our feet when we step ashore. We have stumbled
on an aboriginal village site. The well-drained terrace,
15 feet above the water is composed entirely of mussel-shell
fragments, discarded hundreds of years ago.
Suddenly,
February has become March, and we must go home. We
pilot our way back to Aisen Fjord. In these final days
of our sojourn, we are treated to views of the ice-shrouded
volcanoes, Melimoyu and Maca. Eight and 10,000 feet
high, respectively, these summits rise implausibly
from the seacoast jungle. As we run wing-on-wing up
Aisen Fjord, we leave behind the albatross, the penguins,
the wilderness of ice and rock and lush green channels
and islands. Our journey is over. Patagonia is already
pulling at us to return.
Marine Concepts ,
243 Anclote Road , Tarpon
Springs, FL 34689 , 800.881.1525
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