A fabulously decorated wine barrel preparing to serve as a table at a Mendoza street festival

So what DID we actually manage to do in Mendoza?

As mentioned in the previous paragraph, we drank some wine. The area around Mendoza is probably Argentina’s most famous wine-growing region, most especially for its Malbec. And we were lucky enough to be in town in the lead-up to the annual harvest festival. This meant that one of the town’s main streets had been turned into a giant wine tasting bar. Starting at 20:00 (this was Argentina, of course… everything starts late!) you could go and purchase a book of tasting tickets plus a glass for about $5, then wander up and down trying out whatever you liked from the twenty or so wineries that were present.

Yeah, it’s quite blurry, but I think it still gives a pretty good feel for the place. We tried about 10 wines in total, sharing tasting glasses. Mendozas famous malbecs did put on a strong showing, but surprisingly I also really quite liked the sparkling wines (the Argentinians call them “champagnes,” presumably not caring whether doing so annoys the French or not.)

Layout of the tasting bars at the wine tasting fair

This one’s for my mom… I’m trying a sparkling wine from one of her favourite Argentinian labels (whose poster you can see in the background.)

Unlike in Ushuaia, we managed to change money at a good rate with no trouble at all. I just wandered down to where the official exchange offices were, and was approached by the unofficial changers and the owners of the jewelery stores in the nearby shopping arcade. I was slightly wary of these guys, but the first time I changed money I accidentally gave the guy four US$100 bills instead of the three I’d meant to and he spotted my mistake and gave one back. Which was certainly the end of my worries about dealing with that guy (fortunate since I went back to him five times in total, including three on our last day in Mendoza alone as we thought, then re-thought about how many more Argentine pesos we were going to need for our stay in the country.)

We also took plenty of walks around town, both to enjoy the shady streets and pleasant public squares and also more particularly to check out the preparations for the harvest festival. The main event was a huge sound, light and stage show in the main square. We were too late for tickets (and they were pretty pricey anyway) but we did get to see the stage and some of the lights being set up, as well as a few sound tests and rehearsals for the show.

A typical Mendozan street. The trees are both a blessing (because it can be fiercely hot in Mendoza, often >40C) and something of a miracle (because it’s also very, very dry.) They thrive in the city thanks to the system of irrigation channels that run alongside virtually every street. These are usually about 60cm wide and often 1m or more deep, which, of course, means that you have to be very careful while walking in areas where they aren’t covered.

A pleasant public square.

Testing out some of the lights for the harvest festival in the main square

And while Mendoza is most famous for its wine, we also had plenty of good beer there too. A brewpub in town produced a wide array of beers at the moderate price of 30 pesos per imperial pint. But when two of the ones on offer were a barleywine and an imperial stout, and further, when the daily happy hour was on and pints were 2 for 1, they became a spectacular deal. A pint of (good, if not great) imperial stout for $2. Can’t go too wrong with that! (Except of course by trying to squeeze in any more than two in an hour, which I did once and only once.)

Sarah with pints of imperial stout and barleywine at Antares. A pint of barleywine is just ridiculous, even as a concept. This one wasn’t really true to style though. While it was certainly up near barleywine strength (10%abv) it wasn’t nearly as sweet, or as bitter as I usually expect a barleywine to be. Indeed, it was very dangerously drinkable for a beer that strength!

We cooked a lot. At virtually no cost. Mendoza is a popular base for people going hiking, most especially for those climbing Aconcagua. Which meant that all sorts of people finished their hikes/climbs and left all their leftover trail food in the hostel’s “free stuff” bin. So it was usually just a case of popping out to the little shop down the street (convenient because it often seemed to be the only shop open in the whole city!) for some vegetables or cheese or eggs to supplement the pasta, rice, flour, spices, soup mixes, lentils, etc. that we picked up from the free bins.

Indeed I think we only ate two meals in Mendoza that weren’t entirely prepared by us. The first was a wonderful asado (Argentinian barbeque.) As in Ushuaia it featured salad, bread and all the sausage, ribs and two different cuts of steak that you wanted to eat. And plenty of good Mendoza Malbec to wash it all down.

And in fact we still had a fairly significant hand in the other meal not entirely prepared by us. We did most of the labour, but received instruction from (I’m just guessing at her identity) the mother of one of the hostel staff. She very kindly came in one night to instruct us in how to make Argentinian style empanadas. I suspect we could probably even manage to do it again ourselves… 2:1 onins and meat plus cumin, thyme, salt, pepper, a bit of hard boiled egg and an olive for the filling. A simple water, salt, flower and lard/butter/oil dough. Fill, fold over, seal and pinch a smiley face into the top

I think these were Sarah’s empanadas. Pretty good looking, eh?

And of course the final thing we did in Mendoza was to leave. On a bright sunny Sunday afternoon we headed to the bus station. As usual with Argentinian buses, it was a comfortable ride, though I think given our recent experience at least, Turkish buses have taken over from Argentinian ones as the most luxurious and enjoyable (at least in the less expensive “semi-cama” class [which translates to "half-bed", and means you have seats that recline pretty far back.]) Even so, we’d taken a couple of our seasickness pills (I knew there was a reason we grabbed them!) from the Antarctica trip in the early evening and so slept pretty much all the way to our next port of call, San Miguel de Tucuman, some 1000km north of Mendoza.

Probably not of interest to anyone but my family: the apartment building we stayed in when the whole clan spent New Year’s 2007 in Mendoza

Thankfully someone was awake at the hostel when we arrived, so we actually managed to get 5 hours or so of sleep before checkout… We’d only reserved one night and the place was booked solid the next day (or maybe they were just annoyed at us waking them up at 2 on a Wednesday morning?) but thankfully another nice hostel around the corner had room (has anyone else in North America noticed the glaring lack of budget/hostel accommodation? Santiago has 20+ hostels. Wellington has at least 10. While I can think of less than five in Toronto. And Toronto’s better than most cities in NA!)

The tiredness and the change of lodgings meant that it was already comfortably into the afternoon before we got around to actually doing anything and seeing any of the city. Santiago had been well lit but slightly run down and creepy looking when we’d arrived the night before. But in the bright summer sun it was anything but.

Big Chilean flag in the sun. Well, relatively big. It’s modern democracy big, not Tajikistan or North Korea big

We took a walk down the (very) wide main boulevard and it was all action. Lots of people around, and the wide sidewalks lined with vendors selling clothes, toys, hardware goods, snacks, drinks and more.

Running off the main drag through the centre of the city, most of the east-west streets were pedestrian only, which, in conjunction with the continued lively character made for a fun afternoon’s walk. The main square was similarly lively. It was around 16:00 on a Friday, and there were a dozen or more buskers setting up or starting their acts, presumably getting ready first to catch people walking home from work and later those headed out for a night on the town. There were singers, jugglers, mimes, magicians. Indeed, pretty much the whole gamut of “standard” busker acts, and more than one of some.

Santiago’s cathedral on the main square reflected in the window of the modern building across the street

The inside of the cathedral. It’s interesting to compare this and other South American religious structures to the churches of Europe. The south Americans seem much bigger on gilding, and on very obvious and graphic representations of Christ, the saints, etc.

Aside from the pleasure of wandering around (which really was the most pleasurable thing to do in Santiago I think) we did actually have a purpose for our walk. To seek out red dresses to wear the next day. The reason for this will become clear later on, but for the moment what it meant was that we found our way past the (rapidly shutting up for the day) Mercado Central and in to the clothes district. And it was really a whole neighbourhood full of clothes shops, with everything from designer wear in fancy window displays, through brightly coloured tights on rows of mannequins, all the way down to bargain bin piles of miscellany. It was in one of these that we found our dresses. 1000 Chilean pesos, or about $1.70 per dress!

A tiny corner of the clothing district

An amusing sign posted by a shop owner in said district who was obviously tired of people peeing on the young tree outside his store (it reads “I am not a toilet.”)

Heading back home we joined the crowds of Saint Jamesians headed home for the weekend. (I don’t actually know what the proper Demonym [yay! Demonym!] for people from Santiago is, so I decided to use this opportunity to explain that the Spanish Santo Iago is the English Saint James. I didn’t know that before visiting the city, and while I assume that it’s probably one of the apostles, I STILL don’t know which of James the Greater of James the Lesser it’s named after.)

The fruit and vegetable stalls lining the street near the Mercado Central were doing a booming trade, and Sarah and I joined them to buy salad makings, and fruit for our dinner that night. That night we supplemented this some bread and (more important) and a bottle of pisco, the Chilean/Peruvian (there’s debate over who makes the REAL pisco) spirit made from grape odds and ends (rather like Italian grappa or Georgian chacha.) Sensibly we left some of the pisco in the bottle because the next day was our busiest in Santiago.

Sun setting on the cable stayed pedestrian bridge over Santiago’s central motorway

We started with a “free” walking tour of the historic district that surrounded our hostel. I say “free” in quotes not to suggest there was anything deceptive going on. They tell you right up front that you ought to tip your guide what you think the tour was worth which, in our case, was actually a fair bit. It was a very pleasant and tremendously informative walk. Most of the neighbourhood was owned by one wealthy family (whose primary business was grapes and wine.) Slowly, however, the profitability of their business slowed and the surrounding lands turned into semi-slums. The final matriarch of the clan took what remained of the family fortune and tried (fairly successfully as it turned out) to turn the neighbourhood into a paragon of architectural and artistic splendour. The neighbourhood’s fortunes have waxed and waned over the years. At times it’s been home to the country’s richest people, poorer folks who turned the grand old homes into communal dwellings, university students and middle-class gentrifiers.

Architectural details on some of the grand old homes. I especially like the second one. It reminds me of the Escher print where the tessellated lizards come to life.

Back in Chile’s economic glory days in the 1960s this square was set aside by the government to be turned into a statue garden venerating the country’s historic politicians. They commissioned a Chilean architect to design the garden, but upon visiting the site she noticed that the many children living nearby had nowhere to play and designed it as a fantastic and fantastical kids playground instead. Now that’s a monument to be proud of!

The third? fourth? fifth even? in a series of Sarah using these leg swing-y things in public exercise parks around the world

Towers of an early 19th century church. The bishop wanted a church built in this area, but didn’t have the money for it. The strongly religious, if poor, residents of the neighbourhood got together and offered their labour and trade skills at reduced rates so that the job could get done. They were thanked by symbols representing the contributions of various trades and groups who had helped out on the front doors. Which were then unceremoniously shut in their faces when it was decided that the church would be for the private use of the religious school and convent next door.

Santiago was a fabulous city for street art, both political and simply beautiful.

An absolutely fabulous barber shop that seemed to have scarcely changed in 100 years

The walking tour finished at the 1973 memorial museum which remembers the victims of the military coup of that year and the years of military dictatorship under Augusto Pinochet that followed.

Photography was not permitted inside the museum, but this wonderful architectural touch was outside. According to the stories we read inside, many of the prisoners held by the military junta were kept blindfolded almost 24 hours per day. The only time they were allowed to see was while bathing or using the toilet. The drains in the prison bathrooms featured this seahorse design which became a symbol of light and freedom to many, taking on almost mythical importance. All of the storm drains outside the museum used this design.

That would be a whole day’s ‘blog for many other days, but it was scarcely the beginning of our Santiago Saturday.

Back in July in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, our Couchsurfing host Raj took us out to our first Hash, a Hash being a run organized by the worldwide Hash House Harriers organization, which bills itself as “the drinking club with a running problem.” Claire, a friend of Sarah’s from Toronto (Sarah did actually come to live in Canada for a few months in 2007 and 2008) had recently joined up with the Santiago chapter and invited us along to their annual Red Dress Run.

The Red Dress Run is a fabulous tradition that apparently started in San Diego when a woman was invited to a Hash by a friend who didn’t adequately explain what it was. Said woman showed up wearing a red dress with no alternate outfit, but decided to do the run anyway and thereafter every year on the anniversary of that day all Hashers, men and women alike, did the day’s run wearing a red dress of their own.

It was a 40 minute walk to the meeting place. As we neared our destination we passed a wedding where two of the first three guests we saw were wearing red dresses. This might have confused us a little, but the fact that they were wearing high heels suggested they weren’t going out for a Saturday afternoon jog.

We met the other members and soon were out running around Santiago dressed to kill. Or at least dressed to be whistled, giggled, hollered, sniggered, honked, waved, laughed, etc. at. I don’t think running’s a particularly common activity in Santiago under any circumstances, but running around in a large group with all the men dressed in drag was more than the average Saint Jamesian could deal with.

Red dress runners

It was a 5 or 6km course I think and as with our last run (in Istanbul) I was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable and pleasant I felt afterwards. And that was even before the large quantities of beer and the BBQ that lasted well into the evening. The after-run “reception” was at a Hasher’s house on the top floor of a condo building with a swimming pool and a fabulous view, so we got to admire Santiago and the surrounding mountains as the day faded from late afternoon sun into night.

The view from the 20th floor. Santiago is surrounded by 5 and 6 thousand metre peaks.

Given the sort of state most people were in we did a fabulous job of cleaning up the party/pool area before taking the metro out to a karaoke bar to continue the evening’s ridiculousness. Once again Metallica’s Master of Puppets was inexplicably in the song list, so I obviously took that one on again (this has pretty much solidified into personal tradition by now.)

I’m a bit fuzzy on how we got home, but clearly we did. We woke up in the correct place the next morning (or was it afternoon?)

The Santiago metro reminded me a LOT of the Montreal metro. The rubber tired trains were almost identical, as was the way a lot of effort had been made to include varied designs and public art in the stations

Perhaps unsurprisingly the next day was a pretty relaxed one. We’d made plans to meet up with Murray and Nina (see both the Torres del Paine and Antarctica entries) while they were transiting through Santiago on their way to Easter Island, French Polynesia and, eventually, back to Murray’s original home in NZ for a visit.

We had a surprising amount of difficulty finding somewhere to eat on a Sunday early evening. Especially as Sunday dinner is the big meal of the week in Chile. I guess we were just too late for the mid-afternoon lunch and too early for dinner, which more typically starts at 21:00 to 23:00. I guess that was okay though. We got to wander around town talking about how the rest of our Torres del Paine walks went, as well as about our plans for future travels. We were actually kind of sad to say goodbye when dinner was done, but given that Murray’s a Wellingtonian I’m sure we’ll see them again soon… Once you know someone from Wellington you can’t HELP but run into them by accident, even if they do happen to live in Dusseldorf at the moment.

Me with a sandwich nearly the size of my head

Last photo with our friends!

Somewhat surprisingly, the next day was a pretty relaxed one. It was our final day in Santiago. But as we’d discovered, Santiago isn’t so much a place to go and do stuff as just a place to be. We spent virtually the whole day reading, writing and talking with others at our final, before finally going out for a little walk around 17:00. We had a sit on one of the nice public squares as late afternoon turned to early evening, then went to check out the Cerveceria Nacional.

The CN is probably Chile’s premier domestic beer bar, but somehow or other we’d managed to miss its opening hours every other day on our trip. I’m pleased we finally got to check it out because Chile probably has the strongest craft brewing culture of any nation in South America. And while we’d danced around the fringes of it previously, I was keen to dive right in.

It was a homey place with friendly staff and simple black metal and wood decor. Sadly we’d caught them the day before most of their deliveries took place so they were fresh out of several of the beers we wanted to try. We still managed a few before heading back home to the hostel. We continued our Chilean gastro/bebido-nomic evening by having our first Chilean empanadas (much bigger and rather more bready than those we’d had elsewhere. Kind of like a calzone filled with meat, egg and olives.) Back at the hostel there was still more, with the staff preparing “Terre-motos” (earthquakes) for everyone. These ridiculously sweet drinks involve grenadine syrup, ice cream and pisco all poured into a glass of sweet white whine. The only thing more terrifying than an “earthquake” is the aftershock, which is effectively the same thing, but with Fernet (a bittersweet herbal liqueur not entirely unlike Jaegermeister) added to the mix.

Rotthhammer IPA. One of the ugliest beers I’ve ever seen, but no less tasty for it. Fiercely bitter with a strong hop flavour and aroma. Not any particular hop. Just HOP with a capital H (and an O and a P apparently)

I rather sensibly (if I do say so myself) limited my consumption of these, so getting up to do our final administrative work the next day wasn’t such a problem as it had been the night after the karaoke. We were headed to Argentina next and were determined not to get caught without hard currency to convert at the real (i.e. black market) rate, so I found an ATM, withdrew a bunch of Chilean pesos, then converted them to US dollars at a currency exchange.

Then I headed to the bus station to purchase tickets for our early afternoon departure to Mendoza, Argentina, across the Paso de Los Liberatadors. I returned home, picked Sarah up, headed to the station and just had time to run out and send a postcard (I actually found a post office right near the station at which to buy a stamp, but then had to run all the way to the central square with it’s tourist shops and central post office building in order to find a card to put it on!)

The interior of the lovely Santiago main post office. Now that I know I didn’t miss the bus I’m very happy to have been forced to run and find it

Mote con Huesillo, a tasty but odd Chilean summer drink. It consists of sugar water cooked with peaches (which are also added to the cup) and a bunch of cooked husked wheat which is spooned out of the bottom and eaten as you drink

I was rather excited about the trip over the pass. I’d seen most of it on the Argentinian side six years previous and was anxious to make the beautiful passage under the shadow of Aconcagua (highest peak in the world outside of Asia) once again.

Sadly fate had other ideas. We knew that the road leading up to the pass on the Chilean side was under construction, with traffic running one direction for 12 hours a day and the other for the other 12 hours. And I’d figured that our departure time ought to get us up and over the pass with a fair bit of daylight left to admire the scenery and salute the monster peak. But unforunately the bus departure time had no bearing whatever on when we’d actually get up to the pass. We simply drove out to the point where the one-way traffic began, then parked the bus and waited for almost three hours until it opened in our direction. Why couldn’t the bus departure have simply been delayed by three hours so that we’d arrive at the one-way stretch when it had already opened? It shall be forever a mystery. And it may be a stereotype, but it served as a reminder that for all the modernity, cleanliness and organizedness of Santiago, Chile still had some chaotic Latin blood left in it.

Waiting for the road to open

A glimpse of the mountains in the last daylight as we climbed up towards the pass

We re-entered Argentina and then cruised on down the pass, arriving in Mendoza after 01:00, rather later than we’d planned. However with a bit of help from the staff at the first two (full) hostels we checked out we managed to find our way to bed with a fair bit of nap time left before sunrise.

One last look at Santiago’s lovely 19th century architecture

Our plan for tramping/hiking/trekking in Parque Nacional Torres del Paine was to take four days doing most of the famous “W” track with a small additional section at the end. The W takes you across the front of the Torres range, making three side trips up valleys into the heart of the mountains.

We spent four days hiking in the park and found Torres del Paine both disappointing and fabulous.

Disappointing because there were just so MANY people there. On the W, each of the campsites we walked past had at least 40 tents set up. PLUS there were people staying at refugios (effectively little backcountry hotels, complete with restaurants, bars and hot running water.) Also, Torres del Paine was astonishingly expensive to visit. $30 each for the return bus trip. $32 a night to rent basic camping gear. $40 each for the park entrance fee. And unless you carefully planned your trip to avoid it, it would also be necessary to pay $10-20 per night per person for campsites plus a further $20 each to get to one of the trailheads by boat. Our trip to Torres del Paine cost us over $70/day!

But despite my complaints, like so many places that have become over-run with tourists (and over-priced as a result), there’s a good reason behind it. The mountains in the national park were absolutely beautiful. Many of them were spectacular in a way entirely different than anything I’ve ever seen anywhere else in the world.

Walking along the road towards the trailhead with the Torres off in the distance

Day one started with a 90 minute bus trip from Torres del Paine out to the park itself, then a long walk along a dirt road in the shadow of the Torres del Paine range. (Interestingly, though most people assume all mountains in South America are “the Andes” the Torres are actually geologically separate, having been formed not by the plate collision responsible for the Andes, but by an igneous intrusion into the overlying sedimentary rocks of a part of (otherwise flat-ish) southern Patagonia.)

We reached the lodge at the trailhead, then started out along the feet of the mountains before turning up the valley towards the Torres themselves. This section of trail was probably the very busiest we experienced, as in addition to multi-day trampers, many people take a trip up to the Torres as a day hike (though I can’t imagine how one justifies paying the park entry fee for a single day of walking…)

It was a long climb, though not terribly difficult and soon we’d reached the first refugio, absolutely packed with people. We carried on up to the free campsite near the base of the steep trail up to the Mirador (viewpoint) des Torres. We arrived in mid-afternoon and after having the “arrival lecture” from the park ranger set up our tent.

Patagonia’s big blue sky

Crowds at the Campamento Chileno refugio and campsite

As we’d experienced in Ushuaia, Patagonia is known for tremendously powerful winds, as the twisted remains of this tree illustrate

Our plan was to climb up to the Torres the following morning at sunrise, but since we’d arrived so early, I decided to head up alone for the sneak preview. It was a steep path, first through mixed forest, but then winding its way out on to the huge scree slope/terminal moraine of the glacier that formerly filled the basin at the feet of the towers. The scree was mostly boulder sized making for fun scrambly walking.

Up at the top there were plenty of signs (pretty much universally ignored by the couple of dozen people up there) urging visitors to stay on the trail, not go past this point, etc.

I’m not going to even try to describe the sight of the 1000m+ granite pillars that make up the towers. I’ll leave that to the photos. Suffice it to say I was enraptured and excited.

I was so excited by the view from the top that I wanted to make absolutely certain Sarah made it up for a look herself, Since Sarah was a bit nervous about the trail up. I told her the trail wasn’t THAT tough, and just to prove it we set out and started up the first stretch. Which actually went okay, so we carried on. And on, and on until we were up at the summit.

It was late afternoon by this point and sunset wasn’t far off, so there weren’t many people left up at the mirador. And before Sarah and I decided to head down there were none at all, leaving us with what must be a fairly unusual experience these days, the Torres del Paine in solitude.

Sarah with a very large piece of moraine on our climb up to the mirador

Variations on a theme: three views of the Torres. From left to right, Torres Sur, Central and Norte

We arrived back at the camp just as it was getting dark. We snuggled up in the tent and waited for the morning sun for the hike back up.

However when morning came, the sun wasn’t with it. Indeed, it was raining. Having already been up to the mirador, and with a long day ahead of us we decided to head out on the trail first thing.

Probably a good idea. It cleared in the late morning, giving us fabulous views out over the pampas and glacier-fed lakes below as we headed over the “shoulder” of the mountains on the shortcut from the campsite back to the main trail headed west. Probably because we’d left so early this turned out to be the quietest (and for me, probably the most enjoyable) stretch on the W. Sunny skies with clouds floating around the summits. Green-yellow-gold hillsides dotted with thousands of red flowers. Condors circling above. Opaque pastel blue lakes below. And a nice steady downhill walk.

Mount Almirante Nieto

A small waterfall along the trail

These red flowers grew on large bushes that were scattered across the otherwise green and gold hillsides

The trail down to the lakeshore where we finally met up with the main track again

Almirante Nieto again, our constant companion on the morning’s walk

The spectacularly coloured Lago Nordernskjold

We cruised into the Los Cuernos refugio and campsite at around 15:00 and met both Neil and Emma as well as Nina and Murray, other friends of ours from the Antarctica trip. The idea of spending the night there with them was tempting. But it would have meant a monstrously long day the next day, and paying an outrageous $20 per person per night to sleep in our own tent. Instead, after a long rest and a good catchup with our friends we headed back out on the trail at around 16:00.

It was a good thing we were in midsummer in southern Patagonia, as the walk along the shore of Lago Nordenskjold took us a good part of the afternoon and by the time we climbed up to the entrance of the Valle Frances and its accompanying Campamento Italiano it was after 20:00.

One of our first views of Los Cuernos, with cloud rising dramatically up from in between them

Leaving aside the mountains in the background and the particularly striking colour, it felt like many of the lakes in Torres del Paine could have been in northern Ontario

Another look at the Cuernos, this time looking decidedly more “horn-y”

Finally leaving Nordenskjold behind, climbing up to the mouth of the valley

I have to admit that it was part of our plan that we’d arrive at the Italian Camp late. We’d been told that the campsite was officially closed, but if you arrived late enough then the rangers would allow (or perhaps more like have no choice but to allow) you to camp there anyway. We nervously approached the ranger hut, halfway expecting to be turned away, but no, our information proved correct. The ranger asked us where we’d come from today (I think the fact that we were at the end of a 25km walk helped our case), explained that the campsite was closed because the toilets were full (could this not have been anticipated and dealt with before it became a problem?) but eventually told us we could camp there, provided we were gone by 07:00 the following morning.

I felt a bit bad about taking advantage of this, but given that they’d closed the only free campsite in the area and left the most expensive one in the park as the only alternative, not THAT bad.

We slept wonderfully with wind in the trees above and the roaring river 50m or so away providing calming white noise that drowned out the 25 (! even though it was officially closed) other tentsfull of campers throughout the night. It even covered all but the loudest crashes of the calving glacier on Cerro (mount) Paine Grande higher up the valley.

The next morning we were some of the few who actually left when we’d been told to by the rangers. We packed up, but then left our packs by the ranger hut while we took a walk up the Valle Frances. Many people say that this is their favourite part of the track. As we headed up the valley the glacier started to heave, crack and boom again as the morning sun started to warm it. The mountain loomed above us for the first half of the walk until we stopped at the first mirador. From there on Sarah stayed behind and I dashed up to the top of the valley for a look.

And saying hello to Nordenskjold once again after emerging from the trees on our way up the Valle Frances. This morning it was looking more steely than opalescent

Pretty Sarah with Cerro Paine Grande. This mountain was filled with some of the loudest and most active glaciers I’ve heard anywhere

As the altitude increased the forest became thinner and thinner, finally disappearing almost entirely when the trail crossed an alluvial fan. And as if to match the vegetation it started to become cold as well, with a chilly wind blowing over the saddle from where we’d been the previous morning. I scrambled up to the top of the mirador, sticking around little more than was necessary to take a few photos of the peak-lined bowl at the head of the valle and say hi to the cute sparrow-like birds that were my only company up at the top.

On the way back down I ran most of the trail, leaping over muddy patches and and streams and dashing down steep sided gullies, slowing only when gravity forced it on the way back down. Partly this was because I didn’t want to leave Sarah sitting alone for long. But at least as much because it was just fun

A slightly distorted but still impressive panoramic view from the top of the mirador in amongst the bowl of mountains at the top of the Valle Frances

A rare photo of Sarah and I together before we headed down from the first mirador. Sarah had actually met Neil and Emma here and started up after me with them. On the way back down we also ran into Murray and Nina again. The trail just seemed full of our Antarctic companions!

Scores of backpacks around the ranger’s hut at the Campamento Italiano. If you ever wanted to start a secondhand camping equipment business, here would be a good place to start…

Back down at the start of the valley we rejoined the main trail. From there to the ferry dock was an easy 2.5 hour walk. The views of the bi-coloured “cuernos” or “horns” (probably the second most famous peaks in the park) were good. But most of the rest of the surroundings were a wasteland, burned flat by one of three large forest fires to hit the park in the past ten years (two of these burned around 10% of the vegetation in the park each so, though I had my complaints about the way the park was managed, I can certainly understand the ban on free camping and open flame of any sort.)

Successive ridges through the clouds

The burnt out but slowly recovering forest along the trail

I couldn’t decide which photo of the Cuernos I liked better, so why not include them both? The light stone underneath is the intrusive igneous rock, while the dark layer above is the overlying sedimentary

At the end of the wasteland came refugio Paine Grande. Grande indeed! Though even having already explained what the refugios are like, this still hardly seems to give the correct impression. It was really more like a resort-lodge with space for (many!) tents at the back. Most people start or finish the W (or the longer “circuit” track) here. We’d decided A. to skip the last leg of the W, as its key attraction was a glacier, which we’d seen plenty of in Antarctica and B. walk for one more day along the “tail” of the W through the pampas instead of taking the ferry back from Paine Grande.

At first this seemed to be a terrible idea. We had a loooong rest in the cafeteria at the refugio (where we ran into Paul, yet ANOTHER of our companions in Antarctica) and then set out to finish our longest day of walking. It had started drizzling while we waited and the trail began with a steep climb up a fairly slippery rock slope. Then another one down. Then back up. These were very tricky to negotiate in the rainy conditions and it began to seem like trying to tackle this section of the trail had been a mistake.

But soon enough the way flattened out, meandering along the lakeside, then after a short climb, shooting straight across the pampas. Behind us the clouds were building ominously over the mountains, but out on the flat things weren’t nearly so bad. True, it was quite windy, but the skies alternated between dramatic cloud and clear sun, which lit the already golden grass into an early evening sea of fire.

A male Magellan goose we met along the trail. At first we couldn’t understand why the fellow was so agitated and didn’t just fly away, but we eventually noticed that his family was just a few metres below us on the other side of the trail

And there was scarcely another soul to be seen. After passing two groups headed the other way fairly early on, we didn’t see another person until we arrived at the campsite that evening. And even at the Las Carretas campsite there were only two other tents (as well as, it must be said, thousands upon thousands of huge mosquitoes.) We’d arrived near sunset (which, in summer at over 50 degrees south meant that it was after 21:00… hooray for long days!) So we quickly set up the tent. Ran off to the bathroom. Treated some water, then dove into the tent to escape the bugs.

Water, clouds (which I suppose is actually just “water and water”) and the remains of the second major (but smaller) fire in the park. I don’t have a photo that really does it justice, but we spent some of the evening walking alongside the ~100m wide Rio Grey, which was the same amazing pale opaque blue colour as some of the lakes. Quite unusual for a river!

The refreshingly quiet and peaceful Las Carretas campsite

Compared to our first three days our final day of walking in Torres del Paine was easy as could be. Cruising on home in bright morning sun across the pancake flat plains, lovely views of the Cuernos and Paine Grande off in the distance. And as with the night before we didn’t see a single other person on the trail.

We arrived at the ranger station well before noon and after a nice chat with the guy at the visitor centre desk (he commented that we spoke very good Spanish… either he was being very complimentary or Torres del Paine is a short-term travellers destination for people who don’t have the time/inclination to learn any of the local language…) From the station we caught a bus back through the park to Puerto Natales. Ironically the bus trip was probably where we got the very best views of the mountains, despite having been walking in amongst them for four days…

Parallel Paths on the Pampas

The whole massif from a spot not too far from the end of the trail

Me at the end of the walk. The last day was easy, but the first three had averaged almost 23km/day with good sized climbs in all of them. Well done Sarah! You’re a tough little llama!

And speaking of little llamas… These vicunas (small llama relatives) were the first South American camelids we’d seen on our trip. (Interesting facts: vicunas can run at up to 70km/h. Pumas eat approximately half of newborn vicunas in their first year of life, but if they make it past that point their chances of survival are quite good.)

Back in Puerto Natales we found our way back to our Hospidaje. Maria had changed rooms for us and seemed frantic with worry that she’d left one of our bags in a drawer in our old room, but it was still there, no worries. A hot shower, a change of clothes and I almost felt human again. Just a couple more steps…

That evening we stuffed ourselves with great wood oven pizza and finished off with a well deserved 750ml bottle of Kross #5 oak aged strong ale (quite sweet but, like many of the south American beers we’d had, surprisingly thin in body for it) and the last of the Caol Isla scotch we’d brought down to Antarctica with us and not quite finished.

Okay beer, but certainly very nice packaging.

The next morning we caught a bus back to Punta Arenas, stopping at the airport 10km or so outside of town. Though we’d been enjoying southern Patagonia, we’d come to the conclusion that it was A. very expensive and B. a pain to manage logistically (buses often full, accommodation needing to be booked far in advance.) And since our time in South America wasn’t unlimited we decided to head north to Bolivia and Peru with haste. These places were certainly less pricey, and we’d anticipated we’d probably enjoy them even more than Patagonia.

But first we had a wee bit more time in Chile, far removed from the wilds of Patagonia, in the capital Santiago.

Me eating a sandwich outside the very modern and pleasant Punta Arenas airport

Cool whale sculpture hanging from the ceiling of the airport terminal building

Our plane getting ready to leave (not immediately of course… we had to get on first!)

So it was kind of inevitable that we took a look around, found ourselves only mildly interested, then moved on.

Even so, if for no other reason than that buses leaving town were packed full until the evening, we did actually manage to explore the town a bit.

A mural in progress in Puerto Natales, Chile. Unlike much of the rest of Argentina and Chile there seems to still be a fairly strong presence (or at least remembrance) of the indigenous peoples who originally lived in southern Patagonia

Punta Arenas is a larger city (population ~120,000) almost as far south as Ushuaia. It’s position on the Straits of Magellan means that it’s had an important position in maritime history for a long time. And although the city isn’t pretty (I wouldn’t go QUITE so far as to call it ugly) it still a fair few gems that hearken back to its glory days in both pretty and interesting ways.

Modern Punta Arenas is mostly ragged looking sheet metal and wood siding. And the port certainly isn’t what it once was (not only has the Panama Canal vastly reduced its importance in getting between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, even those ships that can’t use the canal because of their size are far to big to transit the Straits of Magellan.) But in its heyday as a wool trading and shipping centre its super-wealthy merchant princes (and princesses!) built some very impressive palaces for themselves.

An old pier that had clearly seen better days

One of the more impressive colonial era buildings in central Punta Arenas

A (mannequin? mascot? scary thing?) on the balcony of a grand old residence that had been turned into a disco.

And the early European inhabitants of Punta Arenas didn’t just build impressive places to live. They also built impressive places to DIE. Just as drizzle started falling we visited the Punta Arenas municpal cemetery. A lot of it (especially the newer parts) were standard issue South American, with banks of whitewashed sarcophagus storage racks stacked six or more high (which to North Amercian/Kiwi eyes are actually pretty interesting in their own right.) But many of the older family mausoleums were pieces of architecture almost as impressive as the mansions and social clubs in town.

Another aspect of the cemetery that we found truly fascinating was the way in which it illustrated just how multicultural Punta Arenas has been over the years. Irish, Scottish, German, Croatian, Italian and, of course, Spanish names were all over the tombstones. And not just separately, but often in combination as well (as in the Chilean independence movement politician and general, Bernardo O’Higgins.) It seemed like the whole of Europe had moved to the boom town in the 18th and 19th centuries and managed to get along just fine (certainly much better than they ever did back in Europe.)

Along with the traditional flowers, photos of the deceased and passages from religious texts, the “windows” in the cemetery also featured such oddities as troll dolls

Individual plots in the cemetery

One of the more imposing of the family mausoleums. Note that this one belongs to “Familia Kusanovic”

Being a gloomy sort of day we were also in the market for visiting a museum or two. We were sorely tempted to go out and see the James Caird, the lifeboat in which Ernest Shackleton, Frank Woresely and four others sailed the >1200km from Elephant Island to South Georiga (Sarah and I had been general Antarctic exploration and Shackleton fans even before heading south.) But it was a long way out of town and pretty expensive just to see a lifeboat, so we skipped it (a decision I already kind of regret.) Instead we had a poke inside the Punta Arenas Marine Museum, which was pretty cool in its own right. Lots of nautical paraphernalia, and a fascinating 20 minute black and white film, shot and narrated by a sailor who made a sails-only voyage the wrong way around Cape Horn in the early 20th century aboard a cargo ship.

Sarah at the wheel in the maritime musem

All of this filled in the time rather nicely until our 19:00 departure for the town of Puerto Natales, also on the Straits of Magellan, but about three hours drive north.

Wide open Patagonian pampas on the road between Punta Arenas and Puerto Natales

On arriving (after dark, even in the south-Patagonian summer) we found our way to our hostel, and very shortly had what was probably our second greatest “small world” experience of our travels. We were sitting in the lounge of the hostel when I got a rather surprising e-mail. Our friends Richard and Julia were in Puerto Natales too! And seconds after I hit “send” in my reply, there they were, walking past the front window of the hostel.

Apparently they’d met Neil and Emma, two of our fellow Antarctic passengers. As one does they got talking about where they were all from and (as seems inevitable when people from Wellington are involved) quickly established a connection. Though it was entirely by chance that they’d happened by the window that moment. So we dragged them inside and spent a good hour or so catching up. We actually had known when we departed on our trip that Richard and Julia had been planning a South American journey of there own. But it had been well over a year, and we hadn’t been planning to visit South America when we left NZ, so it had completely slipped our minds. But it was a great surprise and a delight to get to see some old friends while on the road.

Four Wellingtonians in Chile

Richard and Julia were moving on the next day to meet some friends just over the Argentine border in Calafate (two ships passing in the night…) but we still had our Antarctic friends around. All four of us were planning to go tramping/trekking in nearby Parque Nacional Torres del Paine (Puerto Natales raison d’etre as a tourist town) but as we’d arrived so late the night before, were unable to start that morning and instead spent the day researching, gearing up and planning for our hike.

One part of the planning that needed doing was finding a new place to stay. We’d pre-booked one night in Puerto Natales prior to leaving for Antarctica, but finding a place to stay the next evening was a challenge. In southern Patagonia, when it’s high season it’s HIGH season. We visited four or more hostels, both the night we arrived and the next morning, and received “sorry”s from all of them. Not a bed to be had. Eventually we managed to find space in a Hospedaje, a private home with rooms to let for tourists. Not a bad place as it turned out: pretty cheap (by Chilean standards), a comfy private room and, while the bathrooms were shared they were spotlessly clean and only had four guests to use them in any case.)

The next day was preparation day. Hiring our camping gear. Buying our bus ticket to the park. Doing our food shopping. Buying our reward beers (for when we were done the trip.)

That evening we went out for dinner with Neil and Emma to load up on awesome pizza before heading out tramping the next day. An entirely appropriate way to bid farewell (at least temporarily) to the folks we’d spent all that time eating with on the ship

Sarah and I with Neil and Emma (who, I believe, was the youngest person on our Antarctica trip at 21) at dinner

Patagonian beer! We’d had a pretty good stout in Ushuaia, and the beer scene in Chile seemed even stronger. Both of these were entirely passable (if a touch thin) and made in Puerto Natales.

Me squinting into the sun with one of Puerto Natales’ characterful rubbish bins

What is that thing on the street signs? A prehistoric giant sloth, emblem of Puerto Natales!

Interestingly, NZ isn’t the only southern hemisphere nation struggling with Didymo in its natural areas… An invasive algae also known as “rock snot” it’s both unattractive and, when it infests waters un-used to it, chokes out virtually all other life

Even so, you still began to get used to some of it. The sight of penguins. And the smell of penguins. But Antarctica still held some surprises. And back on the ship we came to know our fellow passengers and the crew better as well.

First the expedition crew. They were an interesting bunch, with widely varied, but almost universally fascinating stories (I think it’s almost a job requirement.) The “expedition leader” was Alex. At first I thought him a bit snooty “this isn’t a cruise… it’s an Expedition!” but by the end of the trip I’d grown to like him. And of course it was impossible to be unimpressed by the fact that he was running the whole show but was still 10 years younger than I.
Several others in the crew were zoologists (an ornithologist and two marine biologists, including Miko, who had been the base commander at a Polish Antarctic station for two years.) There was a photographer. A couple of kayak guides. A “generalist” who had been amongst other things, a navigator in the Canadian coast guard (about half of the expedition crew were Canadian.) And then there was Laurie.

Laurie is probably one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. A Scots born Canadian in his sixties, he’s an ultramarathon runner, an Antarctic AND Arctic explorer (as part of a joint Russian-Canadian team he was one of the first people to cross the Arctic Ocean on skis) as well as a fabulous story teller. He’s the kind of person who can say things like “overland travel in the Antarctic is much easier than in the Arctic” in casual conversation. Though he’d only ever do so in response to a direct question as, accomplished as he is, he’s also tremendously modest and down to earth.

And we can’t forget was the ship’s crew on the bridge. I didn’t get to talk to them all that often, but Sarah made even more regular trips than I did up there, and got along very well with them. They were from all over the world, Ukraine to the Philippines and just about everywhere in between. I guess it’s true what Sarah says that everyone complains about weather forecast(er)s except for the people who it actually matters to, e.g. sailors.

Finally there were our fellow passengers. Several people on the ship had been to the Antarctic before and were so entranced by it they were making a return journey. For others it was the culmination of a lifelong dream. And for still others (like us) the voyage was made almost on a whim. I reckon the average was a little older than me, though they ranged from early twenties up to late seventies. But whatever the differences, I think most Antarctic tourists are attracted by the same things, and have much in common. They tend to be adventurous, environmentally thoughtful and well travelled (as well as necessarily having a big pile of money lying around.) We found we got along wonderfully with everyone. For meals in the ship’s dining room we usually just showed up, found a table with a couple of spare seats and ate with whoever was already there and invariably had friendly and interesting conversation while we ate. This carried on to lectures in the lounge, or trips out on the zodiacs as well, and several of the people we met on the trip are ones we’d like to keep in touch and remain friends with in the future.

Captain Oleg out on the bridge arm doing some close inspection during a bit of maneuvering through a channel in tight quarters

Several of our shipmates on the rear deck during the “Antarctic BBQ” we had for dinner one night

Life on the ship in the second half of our time down south continued in a similar pattern to the first couple of days:
Early breakfast, head out for a landing or a zodiac cruise. Back aboard for lunch. Ship repositions to another excursion site. Back out on land/water with us. Return for dinner as the ship sets sail for an overnight trip to some other fascinating spot.

We left off last time with an amazing whale encounter near Cuverville island. Back on the ship, further excitement was in store in the form of the Polar Plunge. I imagine some of you are thinking “that can’t possibly mean what it sounds like.” Others of you will probably be not surprised in the least that it does.

Sarah and I joined up with about thirty other hearty souls to take a dip in the (very, very nearly) freezing waters off Cuverville. We took turns being strapped on to a harness (presumably in case the shock of the water caused fainting?) and leaping out the side gate of the ship into the 0.3C water of the Southern Ocean. There were icebergs in the water with us. And, at one point, a leopard seal, who necessitated a brief break in the proceedings and a re-positioning of the ship. (With the exception of orcas, leopard seals are the top predators of the Antarctic world. They are up to 600kg in weight and have truly spectacular sets of teeth. And, adding further weight to the argument against going swimming with them, they’re the only animal ever to have killed a human in the Antarctic.

Finally our turn came. Sarah went first, leaping in, then leaping right back out to the waiting towel and vodka shot (courtesy of Miko, the Polish marine biologist.) I went next. Though it was a shock the water really wasn’t uncomfortable. That didn’t mean that I spent any longer than necessary in it though, and I also eagerly pulled myself up and out pausing long enough to towel off and have my drink before running down to our cabin. Interestingly, although the air temperature was probably around 8 or 10C it felt much colder OUT of the water than in it. So I was very happy to get into the hot shower, which created an odd stinging sensation when it hit my skin. But I was still in no hurry to get out!

Oh no! Although the ship’s crew took photos of everyone going for their swims, I seem to be having some trouble importing them from the DVD we got at the end of the trip. I’ll do my best to add them soon!

That evening we sailed a bit further north to Paradise Bay. Not nearly as exciting wildlife-wise, but truly spectacular surroundings. A bay with a large island covering the mouth and 50-100m high glaciers reaching right down to the water on every side. We actually got out for an evening zodiac cruise as well during which we saw probably the most “ornamental” berg of our entire trip, and got a peek at a Chilean research station.

That night some of the passengers had an opportunity to camp out on a small, low, gravelly island. It actually didn’t look like that pleasant or exciting a place to sleep. But it was camping in Antarctica. So Sarah and I put our names on the waiting list to see if A. anyone would cancel and B. if we would be lucky enough to be selected by random draw. For various and complicated reasons there was a lot of drama over who actually got (randomly) selected, but in the end Sarah’s name got picked and mine didn’t. In the end we decided that Sarah wasn’t super keen on the camping, and the several hundred dollars it would’ve cost would be better spent elsewhere on our trip, so someone else got to sleep out in the cold and wind and poo in a bucket instead of her

A zodiac cruising around the glacier fringed bay with the Sea Adventurer far off in the background. Apparently a rule of thumb for running the zodiacs near (potentially) calving glaciers was to keep a minimum of twice the height of the ice away from the base.

Towering layers of ice reaching the sea. They’re dwarfed by the main bulk of the Antarctic ice sheet though, which is more than 4km(!) thick in places.

A truly baroque ‘berg. The processes that produce them are fairly simple, but erosion by waves, melting, erosion by bubbles produced by underwater off-gassing, sun-melting and flipping over multiple times can produce incredible patterns like this one.

We woke up to a grey but dramatic morning in Orne Harbour, just “up the road” from Paradise Bay. A zodiac cruise showed us some dramatic skies and landscapes. I was going to say that it was probably the least exciting of all our excursions, but that’s only partly true. There wasn’t much to see in the way of wildlife or spectacular ‘bergs or glaciers. But throughout our cruise the wind had been building and the waves picking up so that by the time we returned it was the roughest water we’d yet encountered while out in the little boats.

“Mr. Yum Yum,” the toilet used by the camping group returned from his stint ashore.

Headland and water full of brash ice at Orne Harbour.

Our afternoon stop was at Portal Point, so called because it is one of the few places on the Antarctic Peninsula where it is possible to land and then easily ascend up onto the Antarctic Ice Sheet that leads off into the interior of the continent. This is done by climbing a glacial ramp that we actually got to ascend ourselves. When we landed we were greeted by a Weddell seal lazing on the rocks nearby. A long single file line of people in yellow parkas trudged up to the high point of the walk which gave a beautiful view out over the harbour. By this point, however, beautiful views of glacier-lined, iceberg filled harbours were becoming almost commonplace. As were the hundred or so other people at every landing site with us. I was beginning to feel that, no matter how wonderful Antarctica was, I wasn’t experiencing its full splendour. There were just too many other people around and (perhaps in part because of the generally good weather we’d had) the journey didn’t feel at all challenging or adventurous. So it was with great pleasure that I started down the ramp early and just sat in the snow my myself halfway down. The crowd at the viewpoint was out of sight. And indeed, out of earshot as well. So I had a good half hour virtually all by myself, alone with the quiet continent.

Our seal-acious friend appeared quite comfortable in his rather uncomfortable looking position, wedged in between two large rocks.

Sarah at the top of our walk up towards the Antarctic ice sheet

Sailing north from Portal Point, our last of our three landings on the Antarctic continent, towards the South Shetland Islands.

As seemed to happen so often, the weather changed while we were sailing overnight and when we landed at Deception Island in the South Shetland group it was under clear skies. I would say it was “bright and sunny” but for the fact that even in the near-eternal sun of the Antarctic summer it was STILL very early when we hit the beach so the sun wasn’t even above the tight horizon formed by the ring of mountain around the inner harbour of the island (which is actually the caldera of an active volcano!)

Deception Island was very different than our previous landing sites. There wasn’t a glacier or a ‘berg in sight. And while there were animals around (a young crabeater seal sitting well camouflaged on the black sand beach as we landed) the real point of interest was the island’s human history.

It was from here that Edward Bransfield became (debatably) the first person to sight the Antarctic Continent (debatably) in 1820. (Since I haven’t mentioned it elsewhere yet, and since I’m talking about exploration in passing, I’ll repeat a fascinating fact that Sarah first pointed out to me: it was under sixty years between the first human visit to the south pole and the first visit to the MOON!)

In the centre of the bay formed by the caldera of Deception Island was the only whaling processing plant ever built in the Antarctic. Also sited on the island were British and Chilean stations, both of which exist only as ruins now as they were badly damaged and abandoned after eruptions of the volcano in 1967 and 1969.

The hot springs trickling out on to the beach cause steam to rise from the sands in the early morning

Storage tanks from the whaling station with a crabeater seal relaxing on the beach in the foreground

The remains of a fence looking out over the harbour at Deception Island, one of the safest, best protected in Antarctica

A ship’s screw buried in the black sand of the beach

Rusting boilers from the whaling station

We had our longest hike of the trip on Deception island, perhaps 4km in all, up to the highest point above our docking spot for views both in and out of the harbour, then back down again.

Despite not having had much exercise recently, I still finished the walk quite quickly. Which was a good thing as it allowed me some time to explore the ghostly ruins of the whaling station and the former British base. AND to join Sarah for another dip in Antarctic waters. This time it was a little more comfortable, at least initially, as the geothermal activity in the area warms the waters flowing down to the beach making the first metre or so off the shore actually fairly comfortable for bathing. A couple metres more, however, and it was almost as chilly as our earlier plunge, so our visit to Deception Island finished with a chilly zodiac ride back to the ship followed by another delightfully warm shower.

The view out over “Neptune’s Window” and the entrance to the caldera from near the high point of our hike

Vigorous looking lichens growing on the rocks near the summit

Fellow trekkers heading down the sand-slope

Me going for my second and final swim in Antarctic waters

Sarah getting right into it

Sailing out of the protected harbour

Our final excursion stop in Antarctica was at Half Moon Island. I may have suggested that we were getting a bit inured to penguins but Half Moon was probably the best penguin stop of them all, meaning that I still managed to get super-excited over them, and that we had a fine opportunity to say farewell to the little guys and, via them, all of Antarctica.

On Half Moon we met three different species of penguin (at one point the German biologist Wolfgang said
“here you’ll see a another penguin.” Not realizing he meant another SPECIES we thought it an example of dry Teutonic humour as we’d probably seen more than 100,000 of them (literally!) over the preceding days.) Half Moon island is home to a very large chinstrap penguin colony, and somehow or other a couple of macaroni penguins found their way onto land as well (it must be kind of confusing to be one of just two macaroni penguins in amongst tens of thousands of penguins of another species.) And there was one final gentoo penguin (the ones we saw the most of during our trip) who must’ve popped by to say so long as well.

A chinstrap penguin out for a stroll. Penguins can actually waddle surprisingly quickly on their stumpy little legs!

The fat guy with the yellow “eyebrows” laying down is the Macaroni

Penguins plus landscape!

Are they waving goodbye? Or is that just how they walk?

The sunny morning Half Moon Island also gave us our final chance to say goodbye to our marine mammal friends (a Weddell seal) who was happily lounging around on the rocks (incidentally it’s interesting that animals who are dire foes in the water seem to be entirely disinterested in one another on land. The first leopard seal that realized it could walk faster than penguins and could catch them on land too would have a field day!)

One more final goodbye, this to the amazing snow covered Antarctic marine mountains and we were back aboard the ship, making the overnight trip to King George Island and its Chilean military airfield.

Looking across the channel to the mountains of Livingston Island

A big Weddell seal (Sarah informs me his name is Russell) takes a momentary break from relaxing to look up at us and wonder what we’re doing wandering around his home

Mountains rising out of the low cloud on the horizon

Before we got there, however, there was time for one last hurrah in the passenger lounge. There had been some trouble with the parkas for the passengers who would be taking our place on the ship at King George and since everyone (113 of 116 passengers!) had volunteered to surrender theirs and have new ones posted home, expedition leader Alex shouted everyone free drinks at the ship’s bar. This led to a pretty wild night. It began with the energetic atmosphere of the souvenir charity auction (Sarah and I bid heavily on a nautical chart with our route drawn on it, but it eventually went to auctioneer Alex himself. I’m unsure if he was just trying to push up the price or if he actually wanted it, but it was already over three hundred dollars and we’d decided not to bid any further when he made his offer…)

After that it pretty much just turned into a rowdy night at sea (yaaaar matey! Yo ho ho and a barrel of rum!) which led to some passengers (Sarah included) not getting to bed until nearly 04:00!

The ship’s lounge (for those of you who are interested)

The results of two hours of free beer (especially when it’s something good like Guinness Foreign Extra Stout!)

Given that we were waking up at 06:00 the following day to start disembarkation procedures, this led to a less than fun day for said passengers. I’m unsure if the discomfort was mitigated or exacerbated by the fact that, after waking so early, we spent almost the entire day waiting for our planes to land. There was low cloud (and very minimal instrument landing systems) at the airstrip, so the incoming flights couldn’t get in, so we couldn’t get out. For me this wasn’t a big problem. I was happy to laze about on the ship getting fed (MORE food!) by the great kitchen staff, talking with people about their onward plans and having lots of naps.

Finally around 18:00 the cloud had lifted and it was time for (us lucky ones on the first plane) to make our final zodiac trip, this time to the beach on the low, rocky island. We walked about 2km up to the airstrip and saw our plane (an STOL jet) coming in to land as we did. It wasn’t the most rustic plane I’ve ever been on (indeed, it was quite comfortable, with meal service a bar and flight attendants) but it certainly was the first time I’d taken off from a gravel runway.

Disembarking for the final time

King George Island is the most densely populated place in the Antarctic, with Argentina, Brazil, Chile, China, Ecuador, South Korea, Peru, Poland, Russia, and Uruguay all having research stations on the island.

Sarah posing with the King George Island weather station

Ready for takeoff

Up, up and away. And through the clouds, meaning that we didn’t get to see the Big White Continent from the air. But I think everyone was leaving with a happy heart and very fond memories of Antarctica.

We landed at Punta Arenas, Chile three hours later. By the time we’d collected our bags and completed immigration formalities (I got to write “Antarctica” in the “previous countries visited” field! Even if it isn’t a country as such, that was very entertaining) it was almost midnight. And by the time we were checked in to our hotel it was after one. The adventure over, but a new journey was ready to begin the following morning, so we tiredly, gratefully, went straight to bed. I think I was asleep within two minutes of my head hitting the pillow. But I’m sure I dreamt of penguins.