12 Osorno Volcano: a 3-day bike ride followed by a 3-day trek to Cochamo

Thursday, March 8th to Thursday, 15th March

From Puerto Montt, it's just a short bus ride to Puerto Varas, a smaller town that owes its popularity partly to its spectacular setting on a lake, with a beautifully shaped volcano just behind it, topped with snow.

Volcan Osorno

Here I found the 'Terra Outdoors' bike shop, that not only had bikes to hire, but had one with a rack, enabling me to do a 3-day ride around Lago Llanquihue  (one of the largest lakes in South America), with panniers. Having arranged to pick up the bike the following day, I made my way to a nearby hostel that allowed camping in the garden, with use of bathroom, internet and all indoor facilities: great, since the tent needed to go up to dry out, after that morning's heavy dew. This was to be my base for the next few days, since they were also happy for me to leave unwanted luggage there while I was away. It was managed by Ignacius, originally from Santiago, assisted by Marcos, who made me feel really welcome.

And so I started off on Friday, in 'ideal cycling temperature': though with today's cloud, there were no views of the volcano on the way to Ensanada (not to be confused with empanada, a deep fried savoury pastie).

From Ensanada, it was just 14 km to Lago Todos Los Santos (Emerald Lake) at Petrohue, with a ride through the Peres Rosales National Park, by the side of a beautiful green river, popular for rafting and fishing, and with some interesting rocks.

Lago Todos Los Santos

The road surface was not too great, and there was some major work being done on it, with great chunks of rock being taken out of the surrounding cliffs - but after several weeks in Patagonia, this did not come as a surprise, though riding on sand, as well as gravel, was hard going.

Road to Petrohue

Awkward when a roadworks vehicle breaks down . . .

There are bees, Janet!

The lakeside campsite would have been a nice place to stay, had I not decided to make things easy for myself but leaving the tent behind. Instead, I headed back to Ensenada, to spend the night at the friendly Escala II hospedaje, where since they were nearly full with roadmen who were working away from home, I was given a bed in the deep freeze room: comfortable enough, and the farmhouse-style kitchen-dining room was really cosy. The landlady made me coffee, and produced homemade bread rolls, cheese and local honey, after I got back from a walk to the beach, along a track where bushes were loaded with blackberries: my fruit ration for the day!

Saturday was beautiful, with Volcan Osorno gradually revealing itself as the early morning mist burnt off: a hugely enjoyable day, with stunning views of the volcano, as well as a green lagoon (another Laguna Verde), and Lake Lanquihue itself.

Laguna Verde

Today, much of the road was paved, apart from a section on the way to Las Cascadas, and a gravel road from Puerto Fonk to Puerto Octay: hard for the first few kilometers, but with rewarding views.

This road had been recommended by the guy in Terra Outdoors, the shop that had hired me the bike. As for his other recommendation: good job for him he was away on leave, prior to his wedding, when I got back! The idea of riding up to the base of  Volcan Osorno was not a good one: OK, the first couple of kilometers were rideable, but after that, the road got steeper and steeper, forcing me to push most of the way up to the first mirador, taking a couple of hours. At this point I was just about to turn back, when a middle-aged couple from Buenos Aires arrived, helped me haul the bike into the back of their pick-up truck, and took me with them to the base.

Looking down on Lake Llanquihue 

The black volcanic rock here was interesting to see, and the views down onto the lake, with cotton wool clouds below us, stunning. However, with the road being so steep that I would have had had to use the brakes for most of the ride down, I took up their offer of going down with them as well, so as still to give myself time to get to Puerto Octay.

Volcanic rock near the base of Osorno

From here, the road to Las Cascadas got interesting, and with the weather great, there were good views of the volcano for much of the afternoon.

Derrumbe area, on the way to Las Cascadas

Basaltic rock

With potholes like this, you have to keep your eye on the road

In the early evening light, I cursed myself for leaving the tent behind, as I passed an idyllic camping area at the side of the lake. Still, nothing for it: I continued to the Puerto Octay: a very small town, which now that the season had come to an end, appeared to be sleeping, with very little open.

Dinner that night was rather a bad pastie: the chicken and beef advertised on the board outside were finished, and I was too hungry to go all the way back to the other option in town: a fast food place. However, I compensated for the pastie by going to a small shop that had a small cafe section, selling some completely irresistable cakes. (I still dream about the beautiful orange fondant gateau, and since I had the first  slice out of it, that happened to be a corner piece, I had icing on two sides, as well as on the top!)

Next morning, I was to be glad after all that I hadn't brought the tent: waking to the sound of torrential rain, there seemed to be no point in hurrying to get up, so I allowed myself the luxury of reading in bed. At last the rain eased, and I set off on my way, starting on the main paved road, before taking a gravel road to Frutilla, via Los Bajos: bumpy and hilly. At Los Bajos, it started to rain again, as I headed gratefully towards a cafe: only to find that it was closed. With only a sign advertising apple vinegar for sale, and two churches, there was nothing to keep me there, so after sheltering for a while in a small bus shelter, I battled on.

Frutilla came as a surprise: just a small lakeside town, it had an extremely fancy theatre, and a music school with an excellent reputation, it seemed. I was told later that the theatre was owned by some musicians, who had started the school, and attracted some excellent teachers.  From the posters, there appeared to be just one theatre performance per month - too bad that I had just missed the March performance: had I arrived 24 hours earlier, I could have seen Mary Poppins! That was it, until April . . . .

Frutilla theatre

After the hard ride to Frutilla, I felt I deserved an ice cream, after which I continued by the lake to Llanquihue, on a much easier, paved road. From here, it was just a few kilometres back to Puerto Varas, but I was horrified to find that, since the small road around the road was closed due to more roadworks, the

sign to Puerto Varas appeared to take me straight onto the motorway, with no alternative shown. Surely this couldn't be right? I tried flagging down a couple of cars, to check that I hadn't missed another turning, but they were not stopping. Eventually, a pick-up truck stopped, and reassured me that although not signposted, there was a gravel road over the other side of the bridge. Better still, he was going to Puerto Varas himself, so once again, into the back went the bike (pick-up trucks are just great!), and 20 minutes later, I was in Puerto Varas, returning the bike.

Osorno volcano in a haze caused by volcanic ash from Puyehue, on a day when the wind is blowing the wrong way

Cochamo Trek

After a rest day, I was ready to go again: this time with tent, for a trek up the Cochamo Valley, recommended so warmly by a number of people. With the season at an end, the hostel was nearly empty, so I gratefully took up Ignacius's offer of the use of a small and otherwise empty dormitory for the reduced price of 5,000 pesos  (about 7 GBP), so that I could get my kit organised, and didn't have to pack up a wet tent before going for the 8 o'clock bus.

Away in plenty of time next morning, I was puzzled  to find that by 8 o'clock, there was still no sign of the bus - or of anyone else waiting for it. Checking with the driver of the Ensenada bus, he confirmed that I was in the right place; but then it transpired that my watch had somehow mysteriously lost exactly an hour, sometime between leaving on the 7am bus from Chiloe the previous Thursday, and now - which could account for why the evening had already seemed to be drawing in as early as '7.30' on the night I had got to Puerto Octay!

The next bus to Cochamo did not leave for another three hours, and the one for Ensenada was already full,  but the driver suggested I should get the next one for Ensenada, and try hitching from there. So that's what I did: from Ensenada it was easy, since local people were quick to stop, knowing that there are only three buses a day, and not many other vehicles either. Three rides later, I was at the trail head, having come the last few kilometers in the back of a truck, enjoying the wind and the warmth of the sunshine in my face.

Volcan Yate from Cochamo

I arrived just as Alice, a young Belgian girl, was about to set off, having booked herself into the refugio. We started off together along the muddy, wooded track, which following the previous day's rain, combined with roots, fallen trees and rivers to cross, some of them with dodgey bridges, was quite an obstacle course. An hour or so into the 5-hour walk, we came across Ernan: a 33-year-old snowboarding  instructor and climber from the north of Chile, who having lost his backpack and the kit inside it on a long-distance bus, was loaded down with some weighty kit, packed into a cheap, badly fitting rucksack. He was clearly struggling, having started out an hour earlier than us, and I was reminded of the day in Torres del Paine, when I had nearly given up on the walk up to Seron. Eventually, Alice continued on her own, while I waited for Ernan.

Ernan

At last we got to the campsite at La Junta: a different La Junta from the one on the Carretera Austral, of course! The campsite was in a sunny clearing, favoured mainly by climbers, attracted by the granite rocks that surrounded it: some had been climbing there for as long as three weeks!

Cochamo campsite

Refugio, viewed from above

Apart from the normal wooden shelter, complete with fireplace, there were no facilities other than a tap and a dry loo. (A sign read: "This toilet is for poo poo and toilet paper only. If you want a pee, go find a tree to water.")

  

Hot water and trekking information were available on the other side of the river at the refugio, built and owned by an American called Danny. Getting there was for me a highlight of this three days: you had to sit in a wooden chair, operated by two ropes and a pulley. First you used the rope to pull the chair towards you, then you got into it, and let yourself be lowered across to the other side - helped by a second person if there was anyone around to operate the rope. Otherwise, you just grabbed the higher of the two ropes as you approached the other side, crossing your hands along it, to get to the platform on the other side, which you could climb onto, using the steps to get down to the beach - that is, if you didn't want to jump. (I didn't.) Not as hard as it sounds, and all good fun! .

Technique demonstration!

With all the mud, my boots were filthy, and soaking wet - as were my feet. I had been speaking pidgin Spanish with Ernan all afternoon, but after he had eaten and rested a bit, he suddenly started speaking English. Since he had a stove with him, and following the Torres del Paine experience I had decided I could survive without one for a couple of nights, he kindly boiled some extra hot water for my instant hot soup; but I was particularly touched when later he brought me over some more warm water: for my feet, he explained. He wouldn't have liked his feet to get so muddy and cold! Somehow, my boots and feet had got even wetter and muddier than his had, and crossing the river to the refugio for hot water didn't seem such a good idea, since it would mean crossing back in the dark!

Alice had stayed at the refugio, but the next morning, the three of us set off together along what was described later by someone as 'a climber's idea of a hiking path': clear for much of the way, but it could have done with some nice helpful blobs of paint on a tree here and there.

At one point I got separated from the others, when a pack strap got tangled up on some vegetation. By the time the others stopped to wait, I found out later, they had missed the turning to the left that we had been told to take. Meanwhile, I was dismayed to find that a hard uphill path finished at a boulder, without appearing to go anywhere else. ]I went down, thinking that maybe I had lost the path, and tried a different one, but ended up at the same boulder.

Demoralised and disappointed, I decided that there was nothing else for it but to give up and go down. I'd hardly been going 10 minutes, before I met a dog. Where on earth had he come from? Round the corner then came its owner: Laura, a woman in her early 30s from Montana in the USA, who coming from an adventurous family, did lots of backpacking on her own - together with Jack, her dog. She had managed to download a walk description from somewhere, and just as we were talking, who should come round the corner, but Alice, followed not long afterwards by Ernan! I'd assumed that they were well ahead of me.

The walk description indicated a path to the side of the boulder that I'd not noticed, and the four of us went back to it (the third time for me), found the path, and then crossed the spectacular rocky (but easy) ridge, continuing eventually up to a roped section that Danny had told us about. At this stage, Laura decided that she would have to turn back, since it was too difficult for Jack.

We had started off late, and I too was unsure about continuing all the way to the top (supposedly 4 or 5 hours), and reluctant to come down the roped section on my own, should I want to turn back before the others. And so it was agreed that I would go back with Laura and Jack the dog, via some waterfalls (though not before I had been up the rope, just for the experience), and Ernan would continue for at least another hour with Alice. Getting up the rock was not a problem, and nor was getting down; the difficult part was getting onto the rope in the first place, particularly on the way down. Meanwhile, Will and his girlfriend Frances, from Maine in the USA, had arrived, together with Elaina from Washington: so now Alice had four people to go with her. (For Will's account of this trek, see http://chile2653.blogspot.com.ar/2012/03/cochamo-valley.html , and also http://chile2653.blogspot.com.ar/2012/03/original-settlers.html)

Back at the campsite, it was good just to relax in the sunshine, and chat to a few other people around.


Later, I was invited to a pasta dinner with Ryan and Jessica, a couple from California. I had only peanuts, cheese, dried soup, crackers and dried peaches to offer as a contribution, but they assured me that wasn't a problem. They were heading gradually north, they told me, where they were going to visit a village hit by a major earthquake two years ago.


At the time, they had been camping not far away, and having realised that they themselves were fine, had loaded up their van with toilet rolls, groceries and anything else they could think of, and then stayed a month in the village helping the people who had been left dazed and shocked: Ryan had come from the construction industry, so had some useful practical skills to offer. They had obviously made some good friends there, and were looking forward to seeing them again.

(Note added 26th March; it seems that there has been a further earthquake, only last night: http://ca.news.yahoo.com/strong-quake-shakes-chile-no-reports-deaths-013630684.html , not far from the original area.)

The next morning, I got up to find Ernan already on the move. He had not been sleeping well, so had got up at 5.30, and gone out to cut some bamboo canes for both of us to use as trekking poles on the way back: useful for river crossings, and testing the depth of mud!

Cochamo Valley

It was another lovely day, and the trek back through the forest was far more enjoyable than on the way up, especially since after two sunny days, it was a bit less muddy and wet. Back by the gravel road, we linked up with Alice, and the three Americans. Soon afterwards, we all piled into the back of the 'scheduled truck' that for a small price would take us back to the village of Cochamo, for the bus back to Puerto Varas. With the weather clear and sunny, and the tide in at the fjord, we got some lovely views past the old church and over the lake, of another snow-capped volcano.

Typical Patagonian village home, Cochamo

Scheduled truck. Will and his girlfriend Frances, from Maine.

Cochamo

In due course, the bus arrived (only 40 minutes later than scheduled), and slowly made its way along the gravel road to Ensenada, where Volcan Osorno could be seen in all its splendour, and onwards to Puerto Varas, where I spent one more night, prior to heading over to the university town of Valdivia for a couple of days; before completing the circuit of the Chilean lake district for further volcano views. Time to celebrate the end of the trek, with a portion of scrummy gateau, from the San Isobel supermarket!

11 Puerto Montt and Chiloe Island - fishing villages and music

March 1st - 8th: a week of fishing villages

Puerto Montt is a fairly large town: not as pretty as its smaller neighbour Puerto Varas, but nevertheless, it does have some attractions of its own, as well as being a central hub from where you can get buses to just about anywhere in the country.

This bizarre shop was run by a saxophonist, who told me he spent all day playing. "If you want to buy some ear rings or anything, just tell me," he said, before going back to his saxophone.

Typical mugs for drinking 'mate'

Highlights for me were Tengo island (just 5 minutes by boat), the fish market, where apparently sealions hang around at high tide (needless to say, I was there at low tide!), seeing small Chilean dolphins from the bus window, while riding along the coast towards Los Arenas,  a walk along the beach, from where I was

Fish market, Puerto Montt

offered (and accepted) a ride in a boat to a small rock, where lobos (sea lions) sometimes hang out (but not that day), and some excellent musicians busking in the street, on a wet afternoon.

Hitch hiking with a difference!

The coastal road was a bit hairy, and I was full of admiration for the skill of the bus drivers. At first, I´d hoped that they weren´t relying on the rosaries hanging off the windscreen washer, or the pictures of Jesus often to be seen by the driving mirror. After a while, I came to recognise that these items were more to protect them against other less careful drivers, landslides, or other 'Acts of God´ - as far as the drivers themselves were concerned, I never felt any lack of confidence.

Carretera Austral near Puerto Montt

This was the day that I first met a rather wild-looking North Chilean cyclist, on an old and very unusual bicycle: he had bought it cheaply somewhere on his travels, I learned later, having given his own away to some very poor people who had very little means of transport.

Next day, I ran into him again, this time outside the tourist office in Puerto Montt, in the rain. I noticed that he had a small stringed musical instrument on his back - one that he had bought in another part of South America - and he got it out of its case to show me.

Handlebars made out of animal horns - and a hooter, and a percussion instrument

Since I could not understand everything he was telling me, I asked him if he would come into the tourist office with me, so that the girls in there could help translate. The office was quiet, and the girls only too ready to oblige, as fascinated by his bicycle  as I was. He was 36, and had been travelling around South America on it for 10 years. His intention was to continue until he was 40, and then go back home and build a house. By 'profession', he was a magician, he said, as well as a musician.  He obliged by playing the stringed instrument and pan pipes for us: it's probably not many people who can play two instruments at once. Nevertheless, it seemed to me he could still do with a bit of practice!

I had the feeling that he wasn't used to this much attention, but he seemed to be enjoying it, and continued chatting to the girls for some time.

A few minutes after leaving the Tourist Office, I passed a group of musicians busking in the street. They were excellent, alternating between singing and playing the guitar and panpipes. Three of them were from Puerto Montt, they told me, and the fourth from Northern Chile. They got together just once a year.

Leaving some of my gear at the Casa Perla hostel in Puerto Montt, I took a bus to Chiloe Island for a few days, in the hope of seeing some wildlife from the ferry to Ancud. But after starting out on a promising morning, the rain soon started again - I would have to wait until the trip back to see one small pod of small dolphins, and some lobos (seals or sealions).

Puñihuil

The town of Ancud itself was disappointing, and everything seemed to be closed, including both tourist offices. However, a minibus was heading for Puñihuil, home of the Magellan and Humboldt penguins. Today was the village's annual feria. There was too much wind for the boats to run, but the sun had come out, the rocky coastline was beautiful, and the music provided for the village dancing was live: with (for me) the novelty of a horse skull, complete with teeth, being used for percussion.

Percussion at Feria at Puñihuil, Chiloe

Puñihuil 

 With the tide coming in, not the best place for a breakdown . . .

On to Castro, next day: a small town with colourful houses, some of them on stilts.

Castro

What exactly is this shop selling?!

Enquired about bike hire, but the season was over. Instead, took a short  bus ride to Cacao, with its lakes and National Park, on the Pacific side of the island. The Pacific waves crashing onto the distant shore were quite impressive, with the Tsunami exit signs a bit sobering. An emergency instructions leaflet suggested that in the event of a Tsunami, you should 'walk away' immediately.  "Run like hell!" would have seemed to me to be a more appropriate instruction!

Er - isn´t there something strange about this sign?

Again the weather turned a bit damp later that evening, but nevertheless, I took a walk to a nearby laguna, from where I got a lift back to the campsite from the National Park staff, in my favourite transport: the back of a pick-up truck.

Next day, the National Park trail through some trees was very short. The intention had been to head for the coast path, but getting to it involved quite a bit of road - this was on the ´Sendero de Chile' route, but not in the National Park itself. One of the National Park staff passed me and stopped to give me a lift. However, as we reached the beach, his intention appeared to be to drive into the waves. Not for me, I decided, and made a hasty exit.

Local buses not always up to the high standards elsewhere

With the path not clear and the weather damp again, I suddenly lost interest, and headed back, to take the afternoon bus back to Castro, and out to Achao: a small coastal town, on the island of Quinchao, just off the Eastern coast of Chiloe, not far from Dalcahue. recommended by a Chilean couple I had met at the campsite. Reversing the bus onto the little ferry that was to take us there, was quite an operation.

Achao was beautiful, as was the evening, with lots of fishing boats: so much so, that I decided to stay an extra day, with a relaxing afternoon at the far end of the island, at Chequian, a small community where only seven families lived. Its beautiful beach was deserted, apart from a number of birds, one ferry heading for the mainland, and an occasional motor boat, dodging between the smaller islands just off the coast.

Achao

Chequian

Next day, time to head back for Puerto Montt and Puerto Varas: time was running out, and having enjoyed the few days of colourful boats and fishing villages, I wanted to see the Chilean Lake District: with the improved weather, the  volcanoes should hopefully now be visible, even though views could be hazy on days when the wind direction was such that the ash from the still slowly erupting Volcan Puyuhue was blowing the wrong way. On a fine day, I was in luck at last. As we neared Puerto Montt, we saw a small group of small dolphins bobbing in and out of the water, as well as the long-awaited lobos.

Moonrise at Sunset: Achao