El Calafate, Argentina

Monday, March 7, 2005:

Chris and I boarded a relatively empty bus waiting outside the Hotel at 7:45 AM to find it quickly fill up to capacity with other tourists --- perhaps some 40 or more in total. Realizing that we were, more likely than not, in for a typical mass tour experience, we hoped that the site we would be visiting, the Perito Moreno Glacier in the far southwest of Argentina toward the mountainous Chilean border, would not be a ruined, over-developed sham of a once-beautiful place. As the bus pulled out of quaint but touristy El Calafate, it passed several other buses boarding their own hordes of travelers, no doubt a number of which would be joining us shortly.

We traveled along the shores of Lake Argentina, turquoise and vast. The landscape was dominated by low hills covered in yellow and dull green shrubs with only a few distant patches of pine trees poking up in the distance. After some time, we passed low mountains to our left, just off the road and across from the lake on our right. The eighty kilometer trip southwest passed quickly and quietly, but for the occassional interruption from our tour guide, a young and fairly well-spoken Argentine man who seemed accustomed to (if not bored out of his mind by) managing groups as large and unwieldy as this one. A set of two elderly French couples toward the front of the bus seemed intent on plaguing him with question after incessant question.

After 45 minutes we stopped as the bus came to the entrance of Argentina`s Glacier National Park, a wide expanse of supposedly pristine wilderness that includes not just the Perito Moreno Glacier, which is the most famous of the bunch for its relative activity, but two even larger glaciers and several smaller ones. From what I could see around me, the area seemed to be living up to its reputation, with forests of pine trees all around and snow-capped mountain peaks jutting up dramatically from the near distance. After the guide sorted our admission out with the park services, we continued on and found a large icy-blue lake on the left of the road. We passed relatively few structures, assuring me that the area really was quite undeveloped. Aside from the park facilities here and there, there was only one hotel to be seen --- a small luxury lodge looking out on the lake which, the guide told us, cost $400 to $600 per person per night. In all, the view truly was that of miles and miles of untamed, undeveloped, unspoiled wilderness and, as a generality, I thought it resembled photos and documentaries I had seen of Alaska. Thankfully the temperature was in the mid-40s and not less.

Suddenly we could see it from the left windows of the bus. Several miles out on the lake, suddenly becoming the lake, blocking it out entirely and stretching on into the distance as far as the eye could see, a massive field of towering blue-white ice rose up from the waters in an endless series of connected, condensed spires. The size and scale was difficult to comprehend at our distance, but it was clear that the structure was far taller than the trees that stood at the shores of the lake it dominated. We stopped briefly, disembarked, and snapped a few photos. Around us, in sharp contrast to the monstrosity of ice below, were forests of pines and all varieties of green plants and flowers. The mountains rising up around the lake and stretching on in the distance were green with forests at their base and midway up, gradually transitioning to red rock and soil and white, snowy summits. When the wind blew the trees bent in unison for miles around.

We drove on to reach an area much closer to the glacier. When we reached our destination, however, we could not see Perito Moreno. We disembarked from the bus and followed our guide out down a path that finally took us to the shore of the lake. A series of dirt and rock trails ran onward along the waterline. However, from where we stood, the glacier was finally evident again, though this time forming a far more spectacular sight --- and an utterly unexpected one. If one approaches the water and begins by moving their head to the right, they would look out upon a wide expanse of the lake, which was a light clear and crisp shade of blue, unobstructed and uncluttered by boats or man-made structures on its shores. Mountains rise up all around the sides and forests of pine run up along the sides of those mountains. Looking back left again and to center, this sight continues --- lake and mountains, forests and snow, unobstructed. Turning now to the left, the sight continues for the first 90 degrees or so. At this point, the lake, perhaps a half-mile across, is utterly blotted out by a 200-foot tall block of ice, the sheer ledges of which rise from the water in a series of massive, jagged stalagmites. The glacier appears white in the sunlight, but an erie and fragile translucent blue and purple where the clouds provide cover. These colors seems to glow and shimmer, particularly
in the cavities and crevices of the structure.

CRACK! At first you barely see the small chunk of ice falling from the side of the icy cliffs. Its hard to imagine how such a small piece of ice breaking off --- what looks like a glorified snowball --- can make such a sound as it snaps from the side or the top and an even louded sound, like a cannon or bullet, when it hits the water. When you realize that the glorified snowball is the size of a large refrigerator or a mini-van, however, it becomes easier to appreciate. Not incidentally, the guide pointed out, the glacier is most certainly not sitting ON the surface of the water. It extends another 400 to 450 feet down to the bottom of the lake. Thus, we are looking at a 650 foot wall of ice that is creeping forward at a rate of several feet a day, but also heating up as it advances and shedding its warmest, most-advanced wall in series of "calvings" in which small pieces and, at times, entire sheets of the surface collapse violently into the waters below.

We hiked for a time toward the glacier, climbing up and down rocks and stopping from time to time to appreciate the details we could make out as we advanced. I started talking with an Australian in his mid-20s who had been traveling around the world for over 2 1/2 years and had no intentions of returning to Oz for another 1 1/2 years. Finally a bigger slacker than I am, I thought. As we were talking a massive crashing sound resounded across the lake valley. An entire side of the glacier face, 200-feet tall and perhaps 50 feet across was collapsing. It seemed to happen in slow motion. When the last of the ice fell beneath the surface of the water, an enormous wave swelled up, swelled some more and then, when it seemed it could not continue to rise, rose some more before surging out across the lake in the shape of an enormous half-moon. Giant chunks of ice bobbed up from the water.

After an hour of walking, we stood across from the glacier, perhaps only two or three hundred feet away. We could not get closer without swimming or else wandering off the path and into pine forest. This was not recommended as people had died from getting too closer to the glacier, not because a sheet of ice fell on them (although some bonehead somewhere along the line surely did meet this fate) but because large shards of splintered ice are propelled great distances from the point of impact of the ice with the water. These can easily turn you into a pin-cushion or flatten you outright.

Once our "nature walk" was done with, we had free time to explore the other trails that had been created in the park to see the glacier. Chris and I first braved the little wooden cabin that contained the snack bar, a riotous place with 50 people waiting in line at any time in a space that barely fits 20. Nonetheless, they at least do a decent job of moving the line along and I was able to get a couple of sandwiches, which I needed as I had skipped breakfast and was starving. We ate on one of the picnic tables outside, some of which offered partial views of the glacier obstructed by trees and plants.

We then wandered down some wooden bridges/catwalks that had been constructed on the hills overlooking the glacier. From this more elevated vantage point (compared the trail we were one) we could see over the top of the glacier and glance across miles of icy spires and canyons as well as the snow-covered mountains that fed snow down into the glacier from above. As we did so we heard the occassional crash of ice and a few ominous-sounding groans from within the glacier. Certain parts of the structure looked due for imminent collapse, particularly in areas where the top of it jutted out further than the "base" (at the waterline). Nonetheless, I should mention that calving did not happen continuously ---- every 10 minutes or so something would happen, but not necessarily a very large "something." We only saw one other gigantic sheet of the surface tumble under during the 4+ hours we spent there. This is still extremely active for a glacier and we did overhear one guide telling somebody that the glacier seemed especially active on that particular day.

At about 2 PM, we boarded a boat (capacity 300 or so and practically overflowing with passengers) out toward the glacier. By this point, I was no less-impressed but, perhaps, a little glaciered-out. We had already seen Perito Moreno from a number of angles, all of them staggering, and this experience did manage to provide a few more. Nevertheless, I found myself appreciating the views the ride gave over other parts of the lake and valley more than the views it gave of the glacier. From this point on the lake, for example, I could note how the towering peak of the mountain nearest to us (just over the part of the glacier below the catwalks) tapered off at the top in the shape of a shark`s fin, its surface a deep mineral red and dusted with snow.

The boat trip lasted an hour. At 3:30 we left the park and drove back to El Calafate. I dozed off for most of the trip and woke up to find that we had arrived at the hotel. I then showered, changed and wandered off to explore more the town for a few hours. I was beginning to see El Calafate as a dolled-up, more sophisticated version of the little Alaskan town featured in the old TV sitcom "Northern Exposure." There didn`t seem to be any crazy eccentric locals, though, and I didn`t see any moose wandering through the streets. I found myself a coffee shop with thick wooden tables and a brick fireplace, settled down for a few hours and read. From inside I could watch the pine trees on the main boulevard sway back and forth in the wind, which was picking up.

At 8:00 I met Chris for dinner. We found a decent place where I was able to order King Crab. Paranoid that I would recieve something that was only a pale shadow of King Crab, I actually recieved an enormous plate of de-shelled and perfectly cooked King Crab legs in a light butter and wine sauce ($10). This was when I truly decided I liked El Calafate: I may be writing this post from one of the least populated, most remote places in the world, but the main pockets of civilization that have been built up down here do not lack their comforts. I´m certainly not suffering.