Patagonia, Dientes de Navarino Circuit
53km (33 miles) over 3.5 days
Known to locals as the ‘Zodiac of Death’, it was with some trepidation that we dropped our packs onto the deck of the little inflatable for the international crossing of the Beagle Channel from Ushuaia, Argentina to Puerto Williams, Chile. On board with us were a handful locals and a mix of European and Israeli hikers with their colourful lightweight backpacks and walking poles jammed into every available space; making the 45 min journey across the frigid dark waters of the Beagle Channel quite warm and cozy, if not a little bumpy. By the end of our 4-day trek, we will have been sold on the advantages of light weight trekking, and retire our heavy duty Goretex and packs made tough for the Australian bush for those rare times when we are actually bashing through the tough, sharp Australian bush.
After a quick supply run through town we set off to make camp at the trailhead for an early start to hike the southernmost trek in the world, the Dientes de Navarino Circuit. Wrapping 53km around the Dientes de Navarino, the Circuit, at 55 degrees south is also one of the most remote treks around. The Dientes (teeth) rise up 4000 feet creating a stunning backdrop to the quaint little naval town of Puerto Williams, weather dependent of course, and being the launch point for many expeditions to Antarctica, Isla de Navarino certainly has some of the most changeable and violent weather fronts known to man, with many a hiker having trudged through freezing, sleet and gale force winds without ever having the Dientes reveal themselves.
Ambling along the sun-dappled back roads, listening to songbirds and with a gregarious trio of local dogs in tow we count our blessings for such an auspicious start, and as we make camp our new found friends seem content to bunk down with us and show no signs of heading home for dinner as the sun sets and we settle into our tents.
Crawling bleary-eyed into the morning light, we notice there has been changing of the guard during the night, with our grey shaggy-haired friend and co. banished, or perhaps seeking a tasty meal at home, only to be replaced by an excitable golden retriever and his more chilled white-maned shetland like female cohort, who seemed to retain a little wilderness in her windswept locks. As we set off they seem determined to follow us, and I watch amused as Jason patiently explains to them that he’s vegetariano and so we have no food to share with them along the way. Undeterred by his expositions, they happily tag along as we navigate the forest, climbing up through beautiful, deciduous, Magellanic forest, grateful for the sun filtering through the canopy holding the promise of a sun filled day.
As we emerge from the tree line we find ourselves battered down by strong gusts of ice cold winds as we put our heads down and push our way towards the giant Chilean Flag at the summit of Cerro Bandera (Flag Mountain). We don’t linger in these battering winds and make our way towards the Dientes now visible to the south, trekking along spongy tundra at around 1900 feet, constantly blown sideways by huge bursts of Antarctic winds.
The path becomes harder to navigate as it braids its way through animal trails, and then disappears all together at times, not surprising as this trail receives less than a hundred visitors in a season and careful as we are to not damage the delicate flora, clinging desperately to life in such harsh conditions we find ourselves having to cross stretches of unbroken tundra as we make our way towards the clear dark waters of Laguna del Salto, lying nestled at the base of the Dientes range. A good spot for a lunch break and our four-legged friends seem to agree as they grab a drink and stretch out in the long grass, clearly enjoying the sunshine and finally getting out of those brutal winds. The sky is a brilliant blue streaked only by a few high cirrus clouds that smear the sky reminding us of the almost continual winds that blow across this island, and which we will soon be facing again as we look towards the high pass, Paso De Los Dientes, which we need to cross in order to make our way south to our first nights camp along the shores of Laguna Escondida.
As we climb towards the pass, we start to leave all vegetation behind and find ourselves winding endlessly up loose scree, passing small snow-fed lakes which eventually give way to stretches of snow. Although the highest point we will pass is a mere 865m, looking back across the valley towards the ocean where we started this morning, it certainly feels like the top of the world as we watch the slow circling of giant condors.
We have decided to call our two companions Bochi Bochi; which is Japanese for polka dot, a nod to her dotty ears, and Teabag, for his rather conspicuous masculinity, always bouncing off ahead of us at every turn. They both seem overjoyed by the sight of snow, and the two of them jump, slide and roll through the snow with unbridled glee as we follow behind.
As soon as we reach Paso De Los Dientes the icy southern winds smack us in the face, and we catch our first glimpse of the southern beaches and the turbulent grey waters to Antarctica. We make our way down the slope and rest by the shores of Laguna del Picacho, glad again to be out of the wind and notice two brightly coloured figures making their way towards us. Recognising them as the German couple who had arrived with us on the Zodiac the previous morning, we command our loyal defenders to stand down, as they bark their warnings to the approaching strangers. They are amazed to learn of how our loyal hounds have come to join us, and also tell us an incredible story of bumping into a party of surfers hiking south to surf the southern breaks of the island.
As we have had such a perfect, cloudless day we are not at all surprised to see low hanging cloud rolling towards us as we approach Laguna del Los Dientes, where feeling so exhausted we decide to camp for the night. Finding a patch of flat, dry ground not covered by roots or rock is a little challenging, but we nestle our tent in amongst the low, wind battered and gnarled limbs of what remains of the deciduous Magellanic forests of past, before the catastrophic introduction of the beaver. Having no predators on the island, the beaver had devastated the slow growing Lenga forests and dammed the once flowing rivers and creeks into ponds, lakes and sodden, muddy marshlands. The landscape which remained, had a stark, hauntingly beautiful quality to it, and tells a story of a land ravaged, clinging desperately to life, it’s weathered, white gnarled limbs, twisting, and entwined like a final skeletal embrace beneath the razor-like teeth of the Dientes.
The next morning we awake to another unbelievable, clear blue sky, and stumbling out of the tent I’m immediately accosted by the joyful pups, who leap all over me as tho they had worried during the night that we would never emerge again from our tent. After the cold, blustery night they must have endured, we feel so neglectful that we have no food to offer them and hope that they were able to hunt during the night.
We trek up to Laguna Escondida (the hidden lake) where we had originally planned to camp, following it’s shores for a short while before making our way through an endless, boggy valley where the true damage caused by the elusive beaver became apparent. There is no trail as such to follow, and we are constantly searching for small cairns to guide us across the boggy fields, the pups often leading the way, although they would often dash off sniffing out potential prey and we were left checking our maps in order to make sure we don’t get confused by the multitude of small lakes, and ridge lines surrounding us. It is a day of continual ascending and descending, at some points scrambling up slippery, muddy embankments for hours only to have to shuffle back down through exhausting loose gravel, or teetering on football sized uneven rubble as we make our way along mountainous ridgelines. We stop regularly for food breaks to try and regain our energy in order to reach our destination for the night, Laguna Martillo, a long curved lake at the bottom of the long ascent towards Paso Virginia (829m), the final high pass before we make our way back down towards Puerto Williams.
As we round the final bend and find ourselves approaching the shores of Laguna Martillo, a strong wind picks up and we pass other campers who have set up on the southern bank of the lake. Our intention is to follow the eastern shore and set up camp near a small bluff where the lake curves where we hope we can find some shelter from the howling winds. That night the wind picks up and the icy rains start to fall, feeling sorry for our hounds, we build them a small cavern from fallen branches which of course they inspect curiously and then completely ignore, choosing instead to curl up together in the long grass.
I can barely believe the next morning when we wake to a third consecutive, clear morning and we head off early towards Paso Virginia, as I mentally prepare for the rather exposed decent. The climb up is not at exhausting as anticipated, and we are quite cheerful as we reach gravely the plateau, a desolate landscape of loose gravel, with only rocky cairns to guide us. We rest against the final large cairn, to revive before the steep, exposed descent down loose scree towards Lagunas Las Guanacos. It’s a stunning view no doubts, but with my irrational fear of heights, I focus only on the path ahead of me, reduced to crouching and sliding on the soles of my boots for some steep, loose sections. The abruptness of the decent starts to taper and soon I am able to look around me and fully appreciate the spectacular vista that surrounds us. Hours of sliding down loose scree, however, takes its toll and we perch ourselves in the sun on a flat boulder at the bottom, enjoying the view.
Following the western shore of the lake, we find a wooden viewing platform inexplicably placed in such a remote area. As we're are still feeling fairly energetic and have a bit of sunlight left, we decide to make our way down through the wooded valley, following the river towards the road so we might head back into town the next morning. Hours and hours of climbing over and under fallen logs, and twisted branches with light fading in the dense woodlands, I soon lose the will to go on throwing myself down in a dramatic heap and telling Jason to leave me and save himself. He encourages me on, showing me that according to our GPS there will be a clearing 700m away, and certainly we cannot set up a tent amongst the tangled undergrowth where I have dramatically thrown myself down. 700m doesn’t sound far and I drag myself along, awkwardly crawling under tree trunks with my large pack constantly getting caught. Hours pass with no sign of said clearing and I quickly realise that at the slow crawl we are moving at 700m as the crow flies is a bloody long way!
Perhaps I have blacked out the last of that battle through the forest, as I only remember finally arriving a small grassy clearing and quickly popping up our tent and getting dinner going. We eat the last of our rations, leaving only some breakfast and lunch for the journey into town and I am soon feeling revived. We try to work out where we are on the map as there are so many livestock trails weaving in and out, that it is easy to get lost. In fact the next morning, again miraculously clear and sunny, we find ourselves on the wrong side of the river, and wandering in and out of muddy trails trying to find the shortest route to the road. We finally emerge near some abandoned buildings, occupied by herd of flighty wild horses who dash off as we approach, and as we wander up the lovely flat, dirt road we come across an information board and the actual trail exit.
The first truck that comes along stops and offers us a ride into town which we gladly accept, Bochi Bochi happily jumps into the back of the truck but no matter what we do we can’t get Teabag in and so Jason throws his pack into the truck with me and decides to run back to town with the dogs so we can buy them a large bag of food to show our belated appreciation for their company. Unfortunately, despite our best-laid plans as soon as the dogs reach the outskirts of town they bolt off to their homes for a nice hearty dinner and to curl up by the fire after their great Dientes adventure. We discover later when talking with the local guide, that the dogs are quite well known in town, and live a comfortable even spoilt home life, although they long for adventure and will often follow travellers in the hopes that they will be able to tag along for some great outdoor escapade.