Stuck At The Bottom - Almost

I arrived in Punta Arenas, Chile toward the end of a grey winter afternoon, and immediately set out in search of a cheap bed - they had been getting rarer and rarer these days. I wasn't sure just how long I'd be sticking around - as far as I knew, there were only four ferries down to Isla Navarino per month: one each Wednesday, and here we were Monday. So if I didn't wind up hopping the next boat, I'd be sticking around for over a week, and while Punta Arenas was bigger than Puerto Navarino, I knew that having already had my dose of National Parks at Torres Del Paine, there'd only be so much to do there, especially in the heart of winter.

I found a decent little hostel to use as home base while I checked on the ferry times, and decided that boring city or not, I just wasn't ready to hop on another boat right away. It occurred to me that I had not surfed any couches in some time, and that that might be a decent option to flesh out the week until I caught my final southward ferry.

There were only a few people willing to host in Punta Arenas, but I was lucky enough to find one of them - a kindly Chilean woman (an empty-nester taken to hosting foreigners) who put me up for a few days in her quaint two-cat home. She worked days uptown, but we shared some pleasant suppers, and I learned a thing or two about Chilean language and culture that I surely would not have otherwise. She also lived plenty close to the docks too, so when the day came round to leave, I had only a short walk to the water.

This ferry was quite a bit smaller than my last, carrying only a few small vehicles, some steel storage bins and a wooden wagon or two. Apart from the crew, there were four passengers, two Chilean policemen being let off half-way, a young man from France, and myself. We were shown to our shared sleeping quarters - a slim hallway full of reclining chairs, not unlike those on a bus - told our dinner time and basically left on our own.

The weather, we were told, was not looking so friendly, but not so fierce as to hold us off departing on time. I primed myself for the worst once more, and was again pleased to find the bulk of the trip quite pleasant. Few if any waves disrupted our prompt dinners of simple food served alongside the usual quirky seaman-banter. The only down side as far as I could tell was poor visibility - despite being quite close to the shore at times, clear views of the beautiful mountains lining the Beagle Channel were rare and partial at best. After a 36-hour trip, the clouds finally broke on the morning of our arrival in Puerto Williams, considered by many to be the most southerly city in the world.

On our journey down, however, I had made a point of asking the crew about this title - surely they, who had sailed all over this region, would be the ones to ask about which place was really the furthest south. To my surprise, I was informed that some four hours onward by boat past Puerto Williams, if you hold fast to the northeast coast of the island, you will come to a little fishing port called Puerto Toro, which is apparently some 35km further south.

This little port, I was told, was the real southernmost city in the world. I had seen it on the map earlier, and wasn't sure what it represented exactly, for there are many naval ports further south than Puerto Williams, though these hardly count as cities. The cause for debate regarding which of the two cities deserves the title, the crewmen told me, hinges on the fact that while Puerto Williams is home to nearly 2400 residents, only some 50 or 60 people could be said to live in Puerto Toro - virtually all of which are fisher-people who come and go with the season - leading some to argue that it doesn't truly deserve the title of city at all.

It seemed city enough to me however, and I wanted to go there. I was frustrated by having come as far as I thought was possible, only to find some yet-further, more obscure little village at the bottom of the world. I asked the crew about options for getting down there at this time of year, and was told that only one official boat leaves for Puerto Toro per month, and that it had been the very one that I'd opted to skip out on roughly one week earlier, in Punta Arenas. So, it looked as though if I wanted to make it down to Puerto Toro, it would have to be by some unofficial means. I thanked the crew for the swift and safe journey, and wobbled out onto dry land once more.

There were a few other boats tied up to the small dock - most of them fishing vessels, full of young men unloading great baskets of glistening red spiny crabs, the majority of which were well over 18 inches across, their little claws snapping away, as they flew through the air, tossed into larger bins to be taken inland. I had read that Puerto Williams was little more than a naval base and fishing town, but I didn't know it was crab they fished here. Olivier - my french companion - and I made a mental note of this delicacy and set to wandering up the first and only road we saw, into the deserted heart of town - little more than a tiny plaza lined with a few shops all still sealed up tight. We would later come to learn that things in Puerto Williams don't really get moving until closer to 10 or 11 AM.

We managed to gain entry to one of the few hostels lining the plaza, by waking up the old Chilean fellow who ran the place. He was unphased by this intrusion and sat us down for tea and pastries. We two were hardly awake ourselves, but started to come around over the next half-hour or so as we chatted with our pleasant host. He fielded many questions for us - mostly about boats out of Puerto Williams. Olivier, like myself, was headed north to Ushuaia, Argentina, but was less interested in visiting Puerto Toro than I. We were told that there were a number of boats up to Ushuaia, at least three a week, on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, today being Friday. Olivier had a friend to meet there on Sunday and so decided he's like to leave on Saturday. I thought I'd likely do the same if I couldn't make it to Puerto Toro.

To make a long story short, many phone calls, and a several information-gathering missions around town later, the only option I had for getting to Puerto Toro within the next few days, was to charter a private boat to make the four hour journey around the bend of Isla Navarino, at a cost of US $300 - hardly a viable option for me at this point. It looked like I had little choice but to resign myself to the fact that I'd come as far as I was going to, and so I decided to enjoy my short time in Puerto Williams as best I could. I placed myself a reservation on the Saturday boat to Ushuaia as well, and our kindly host made a few calls to firm things up. That evening, Olivier and I savored a delicious crab supper at one of two open restaurants surrounding the plaza.

The following day, our boat arrived on schedule, and we two wandered down to the port captain's office, our bags packed and ready, to meet the crew and be on our way. As it happened however, the weather had fouled up some, and we were told that the port was closed until further notice. The two men who ran our boat - the captain and 1st mate, as it were - accompanied us back to our hostel - they were friends of our host, it turned out - to wait out the poor weather. We were told there was a chance it would ease up some by 6PM that evening, but come 6 the wind had only redoubled itself, chilled up significantly, and was now charged with snow - we would not be leaving that evening.

The seamen took a room across from Olivier and myself, and we all settled in for the night - surely things would be calmed down come the morning, we were told. One more night was nothing to me, these were all pleasant enough chaps besides, and we took our places around the little TV set and dozed. A few moments later, as if in response to our comfort, the power cut out. Our host assured us it was a common occurrence around here when weather was inclement, and hobbled out to the switchboard to see if he could fuse us back to normal. After a few teasing flickers of light and sound, he eventually gave up, and made for the candle drawer. At least we still had the fireplace, I thought. In truth, once we had the candles out, it wasn't so bad, really. With light enough to play cards, and/or chess, we managed to make due and have a few laughs, and before long, it was time for sleep.

Whatever hopes and dreams we had of clear weather, however, were shot through when we woke and looked out the front window at the fresh bed of snow blanketing the entire neighborhood - at least a foot on the ground already, and still coming down in earnest. This was the first snowfall of the year, we were told, and it looked to be a good one. Come to think of it, our host offered, a similar storm had hit last year around this time and not let up for a week or so. This was not encouraging news to my ears. The extra week I'd spent in Punta Arenas had meant that my schedule was now tighter than ever - simply put, I did not have a week to wait here in Puerto Williams if I was going to make it to Buenos Aires on time to catch my flight off the continent.

But nature, it seemed, didn't care much about my flight schedule, and the snow and wind kept on. It was not so bad as to keep us from leaving the house, but being that there is little if anything to do in Puerto Williams even on a fair-weather day, the five of us found ourselves clammed up for the better part of the day, still without power, crouched around the fireplace. We read mostly, leaving only for a quick walk about town to get some air, or a snack nearby in the plaza. Days are pretty slow in winter at the bottom of the world.

Conveniently, the old fellow who ran our hostel also owned the classier of the two restaurants surrounding the plaza, and so that second night, he had dinner delivered the fifty-odd steps to our door - a luxurious salmon and cheese gnocchi in cream sauce. The captain had taken the liberty of purchasing some beers which we chilled in a snowbank outside. By the time we had the table set, the beer glasses full, and the candles all lit, it seemed an embarrassingly romantic milieu for five men - basically strangers, after all - to be sharing a supper in, but we went ahead and enjoyed it nonetheless.

More cards and a few doozy chess games followed, as the snow continued to fall outside. Word had come in that the port in Ushuaia was now closed as well - a rarity according to our captain. What could we do but drink on, and hope things would clear up soon. I allowed myself to forget about my jeopardized flight schedule - the crew of our boat had already missed a flight due to the delay; that was just the way it went down here, they said - and we talked and laughed into the evening.

The following day - Monday - our luck seemed to change when news came in early that there was a break in the weather substantial enough to warrant the opening of both ports for a short period of time. So we downed a few quick cups of instant coffee, packed our things, and made for the yacht club where the boys had tethered their vessel. We'd have to act fast if we wanted to capitalize on this window of opportunity. Who knew when the next might come along?

The yacht club itself was built out of a big old old navy vessel that had been fixed in place and outfitted with office space, and a simple restaurant and bar. The whole place was still covered with snow, and the boys apparently had a bit of a time shoveling out their boat. There was a bit of a delay at the port captain's office regarding our passports however, which left us waiting for a short spell during which time the sun came out and slushed-up most of the snow crusting things over. This left us passengers - Olivier the Frenchman, myself, our kindly host, and one other local woman - some time to mill around the yacht club and snap a few photos of the lovely sunlit mountains surrounding the place.

Around 10 or 11, our issue had been cleared up, and we loosed our lines and set out toward Ushuaia. By this time, the wind was coming up once more, and the swells were rising accordingly. This little boat was equipped for the worst however, with two big Honda motors on the back, a reinforced hull, and a fully waterproof cabin outfitted with a dozen or so sturdy seats, and we sailed over those waves at upwards of twenty or thirty knots, frequently making good airtime.

It was a bumpy hour and a half, to be sure, but I was all smiles - I'd managed to escape from Isla Navarino, and would make it to Argentina with ample time to catch my flight.

I was on my way back home at long last.