by Gastón Iovine and Silvia Espinach

Natural footbridge to Peninsula Belgrano

Following our compass south, we had traveled about 1,400 miles by car from Buenos Aires to Argentina’s Austral mountain range. Located on the west side of the province of Santa Cruz, our destination, Perito Moreno National Park, is nearly inaccessible; protected by the vastness of Patagonia, where the roads’ smallest stones are as large as a fist.

To the east lies the immense desert steppe; to the west rise the dominant Andes. The sensation of solitude is overwhelming. Looking behind, the gray ribbon of Route 40 is lost far off on the horizon. The road seems endless, and we haven’t passed another single vehicle or person all morning. The nearest bit of civilization, approximately three hours away, is a pueblito called Bajo Caracoles, with about 10 little buildings and a population of 40. But in the midst of this utter solitude, the desolate village seems like an oasis.

 The guy in charge of the Bajo Caracoles gas station turned out to be the same person running the hotel, the general store and the tire repair shop. Proudly he tells us about the long years he’s been living in this place, and the cold and isolation they suffer in the winter. He kindly suggests that we stock up on food, drinks and fuel.  For the 120 miles that remain between Bajo Caracoles and the park entrance, there will be no other chance to acquire the comforts of civilization.   And there is nothing for sale inside the park, either.  The absolute isolation of this territory is perhaps what attracted us to it.

 At 7 in the morning, the first faint rays of sunlight began to bathe the tops of the hills above Bajo Caracoles. We take Provincial Route 37, which is more a wide track than a road. It gradually transforms itself into a dry riverbed—stony, narrow and enclosed. The clouds move in quickly as we bump along.  They are almost within our reach, practically covering everything, although it is impossible to miss the brilliant pink flamingos wading in the occasional lagoon. We refuse to allow the gray day to dampen our spirits, but when we see the park ranger’s small cabin, joy overflows. We have finally arrived.

 A park ranger named Mariana welcomes us while chopping firewood with a heavy machete. A young blonde with Nordic eyes, she gives us the lowdown on the park. Perito Moreno is the highest national park in southern Patagonia at 2900 feet above sea level.  Because of the altitude, shrubs predominate, and trees such as the lenga rarely grow taller than 10 feet. The park is mostly steppe, except where stunted forests form patches on the slopes of the hills. There are eight interlinked lakes in the area, and (strangely) only one, the Burmeister, empties eventually into the Atlantic.  The rest lie on the Pacific side of the continental divide, which is an oddity for Argentine lakes. Another interesting fact is that these lakes have retained their native fish, whereas most Patagonian waters have been colonized by trout. Finally, it surprised us how few visitors come to the park each year.  Although Perito Moreno is growing in popularity, its extreme isolation has meant so far that it receives less than 500 visitors annually!

 After crossing so much desert, we are ready for a change of environment.  Without thinking twice, we head for the most densely forested area, Burmeister Lake. The road is a deep track that passes by small lagoons with every type of bird. After 10 miles, the forest wall opens its doors, revealing indescribable beauty. Woodpeckers bang on ñire, coihue and lenga trees and the constant wind rattles the treetops, making the trunks complain hoarsely. Fighting the gale, we reach the turquoise waters of Burmeister lake. We stay for two hours watching the sun set, surrounded by mountains clad in small forests and decked with glaciers on top. At 10:00p.m., it was just beginning to get dark.

 The next morning, fresh and renewed, we take our first hike up Mie Mountain by the southern slope. There is no trail. Our goal was to reach an area about half way up, where it looks as if there had been a rockslide. We walk about 30 minutes on a very steep slope through dense forest, until arriving at the bottom edge of the slide. The vegetation abruptly disappears, giving way to the chaotic rock deposit. Surprisingly, the trees had restrained boulders 30 feet in diameter. Small threads of water run between the rocks, transforming our path into a slippery skating rink. We climb between the boulders for another 1000 feet until we reach the cliff where the slide appears to have begun.

 The view from the cliff is splendid, a wide glacier valley occupied partly by waters of the lake, the forest and our base camp below. The frontal moraines of the glacier that formed this valley remain visible, unmoving witnesses of the last ice age 13,000 years ago. About 3,000 feet to the west on the same slope we spy some condor nests, easily distinguishable by the white droppings painting the rock walls. We try to approach, but the terrain is too steep, so we have to be content with admiring the birds from afar.

 The next day we drive 20 miles to the Belgrano Peninsula, which some consider to be the star attraction of the park. The peninsula is surrounded by Belgrano Lake, at the end of a short and narrow isthmus that can only be crossed on foot. We leave the car and fill our knapsacks with water and lots of food. The peninsula consists of rolling hills, and we choose a high point in the distance for reference so as not to lose our way. After walking through small valleys and hills, we arrive at the highest point, where we can observe groups of guanaco (wild llamas) and choikes, or rheas (which are like ostriches only smaller) running freely.

 We have a panoramic view of rocky crags and small barren islands emerging from the bluish waters of the lake. Compared to Burmeister, Belgrano is strikingly different in color, presumably due to the fact that the waters in one come from glacier melt and other from melting snow. We continue walking to the western edge of the peninsula, where we find a small beach ideal for camping. We had hoped to spend the night here, but on our hike in we found some puma tracks, so we decide to return to the car and spend the night locked safely inside. Since meeting Mariana when we entered the park, we have not seen another single soul. The only way to communicate from here is by radio and we do not have one.

 Early in the morning we start off for El Rincón, in the northern-most part of the park, and perhaps the most popular area for visitors. Jorge, the resident caretaker, shows us the campsite. It has showers and a water spigot, and it is much too civilized for our liking.  Missing our solitude, we quickly leave the place and head to Lake Volcán.  The path that leads to the lake is about 3 miles from El Rincón. We leave the car at the trailhead and walk along the edge of the Volcán River for about three hours in a relatively flat valley covered by small bushes. Once again we come across small groups of rheas, including some young birds. They are disturbed by our presence, as is a herd of guanacos that allow us to approach to within only a few yards before fleeing out onto the prairie. At the lake, the sky is totally clear, and the sun shines on the water, transforming it into a silver mirror. We stay put, contemplating the landscape of snow-covered mountains.  Suddenly, an animal roars.  We don’t even stick around to figure out what it was, but prudently take our leave.  We head back to the lenga forest on the shores of Lake Burmeister.  When night falls, at nearly 11:00 p.m., stars begin to blaze in their millions, and only the occasional wave breaking on the lakeshore breaks the deafening silence.