Puerto Varas is situated at the southern end of the Lake District, which extends over 300 km north to Temuco. It's a region of lush farmland, dense forest, lakes and snow-capped volcanoes. Settlement - largely German, Swiss and Austrian - began in the 1880s. We see numerous "parcelas" for sale, suggesting that clearing and building are still in progress. Signs indicate Nestlé's dominance in the dairy business.
We have two days to sample this area before heading north to a national park high on Juan's wish list because of the extensive araucaria (monkey-puzzle) forests endemic to Chile (and, to a lesser extent, Argentina).
Picking Parque Nacional Vicente Pérez Rosales, by virtue of its proximity to Puerto Varas, we drive to the hamlet of Petrohué, on Lago Todos Los Santos. (From here it would be possible to take a boat across to the Argentine border. How romantic a way of entering the country would that be.) The lake is beautiful. But within minutes of strolling along the shore we are pursued by swarms of giant horse flies. The stress kills the enjoyment. At the parks office, where we pick up a trail map, vinegar is recommended. Not part of our regular walking gear, so we decide to try an inland route, walking towards Volcán Osorno. The path passes through dense scrub, the black volcanic sand mega tiring with little reward. Picky walkers that we are, we decide to head back, and then drive up the volcano road. From the cafeteria below the summit we get good views over Lago Llanquihué ("Yankee Way").
From here we try to plan a route that will allow us to see something of the many other lakes before our next stop, Pucón. But to do justice to the area would involve detouring to the lakeside villages on dirt roads. Lack of time, and adequate maps, demands expediency and we head more or less directly to Pucón, "capital of adventure tourism", and Chile's 4th tourist attraction. If you're looking for thrills and spills in a raft or kayak, this is the place for you. Or if horse riding with a Mapuche Indian to his home, having lunch with him and his wife, and learning about Mapuche culture, every tour agent lining the main drag will be happy to do business. I am tempted - until we are shown photos of tourists posing in Mapuche clothes. The friendly Brazilian sales girl has no idea what an anti-sell this is!
19 December
Juan visits the CONAF office and gets a tip for the best monkey-puzzle forest: an area of small lagoons on the Argentine border a 60 km drive from Pucón. The dirt road is in the process of being surfaced, drillers and diggers hard at work, creating huge volumes of dust and noise. There is continuous traffic as trucks transport soil away from the site. How will remote Laguna Quilleihue fair, once access is improved? Could the reduction in dust, when the road is surfaced, actually improve the environment?
At the lake a group of monkey puzzles stand majestically. The main forest is a few km away, via a track that loops around a series of lagoons. The correlation between our map and the ground is not good. But we manage to locate two of the three lagoons we hope to see. The forest - where not congested by the destructively invasive cane - is delightfully open. We see some of the orchids first viewed in Patagonia, and cross just walkers during the day.
To satisfy my curiosity we drive a handful of km to the Argentine border and have gorgeous views of xxx volcano.
20 December
As cloud thickens to rain we abandon the plan to visit Huerquehue national park. But, for me, this cloud has a silver lining. The presence of so much volcanic activity means that the second big attraction at Pucón is thermal spas. On a rainy day Juan only protests a little at spending time that way. We follow a recommendation from our hotel and drive out to a spa near Curarrehue, the road we'd used the previous day. It's a simple complex: one indoor and one outdoor pool. But we don't need more. From the outdoor pool we can even contemplate a monkey puzzle! With a short add-on massage, it's a very agreeable morning. In fact Juan is so taken with the massage that he later asks me if I'd ever considered using oil in a shiatsu session!
Pucón, with its bland architecture, wide, American-style boulevards, and noisy restaurants with identical menus (fried fish, empanadas, steak) hasn't won our hearts. So in the afternoon we hit the road, pausing only for the first good coffee we've had on the trip. The weather deteriorates further, lashings of rain and wind as we drive into Melipeuco late afternoon. We dart out of the car to grab a few victuals, remembering at the last minute that we will be self catering for 3 nights. Melipeuco is a one-horse town, but every other building seems to be supermercado selling "pan" (white rolls that seem stale, even on purchase), and a tired selection of fruit and veg. Food shopping is very hit and miss: we find a butcher's counter and ask for a chicken breast - and find we are buying just that: the best part of a kg, in one piece; what kind of oil is that, behind the counter? "Belmont" (the brand). We are none the wiser (it turns out to be soya).
We realize that we don't have clear directions to the "Vista Hermosa" cabañas other than that they are on the road to Parque Nacional Conguillío. The last 10 km, as we drive into the park and follow sporadic signs along ever hairier 4WD tracks, are not easy. But on arrival we have a warm welcome from owner Miguel, and the log-burning stove (which we will run day and night) is well stoked. The solar panels will provide electricity from 9pm to 11pm - but no internet, yippee (I get to use the iPad for writing)! We will be here for 3 nights, a welcome slow-down in our non-stop itinerary.
So far, all we can see of the "vista" is the black lava field generated by the 1956 eruption and still not revegetated beyond lichen and isolated shrubs. Beyond, stand "islands" of forest; the survivors. There are rumours of a volcano behind the clouds - if the (dire) weather forecast is wrong.
21 December
And it is. When we wake we can see the twin craters of Volcan Llaina as clouds come and go, passing showers leaving fresh deposits of snow at higher altitudes. Our cabin is at 1100 m and outside it feels like an alpine April day. Average temperatures are well below the 15 degree norm, down to minus 2 at night. Our Patagonia gear is retrieved from the bottom of our packs.
Juan is impatient to drive to the araucaria forest the other side of the park, untouched by the 1956 or, more recently, 2008 and 2009 eruptions. We drive through temporate rainforest and then into lower forest where monkey puzzles grow up to the tops of the hills, their silhouettes distinctive against the skyline. Our leaflet tells us that Coigües, Lengas and Ñirres are also represented. But we can't readily identify them.
While Juan spends the day chasing trees I catch up with blog-writing, parking the jeep so as to enjoy views of the snowy peaks beyond Lake Conguillío.
22 December
At breakfast - which we have each day at Miguel's house - I ask him where one can go horse riding in the park. When he says that his is the only place, and that he can take us out for a couple of hours - with a minimum of two people - the decision seems made. I gently twist Juan's arm and we book for 2pm.
What a treat: Gaspar (my horse) and Melanie (Juan's) are sensitive mounts; Miguel gives us leeway to ride ahead as it suits us; the landscapes are sumptuous; and Juan, at least, can learn about Miguel and the area: how he bought his land from a bank that had requisitioned it from a Spanish landowner who had felled all the big trees as fodder for Coca Cola pallets, run into debt and then done a runner to Argentina; that accommodation in Milepeuco is largely taken up by electricity dam workers (40% of all dam constructions are happening in the area around Melipeuco), hence the myriad food shops; that pumas captured in neighboring national parks are released in Conguillío, as it borders so many other wild spaces (not great for farmers - Miguel lost 12 sheep to a puma the winter before last); how Miguel is a Santiago man who set up a riding stable in the Atacama (just behind the hotel we'll be staying in - I see trouble ahead!) and worked for 10 years with horses in Patagonia before settling in Conguillío.
After initial malaise I relax into the experience and it's a wonderful two hours. Topped when Miguel asked me, towards the end, "Did you do show jumping or dressage when you rode as a child?" Who is he kidding, national show-jumping champion that he was. But I'm flattered.
As we dismount, the "blue-eyed" baby we've seen in plenty of photos hanging on the walls of the house (now aged five), wants to ride Melanie back to the stable. Juan tells me there was a tricky moment this morning, when he asked, "Your grand daughter?", and Miguel (in his 60s), replied "My daughter". Oops.
23 December
Our last day in the park is a stunner, against all prediction. And I now understand why the park is so popular. We rewalk the Sierra Nevada trail Juan took two days previously, this time in sun. Along the forest path lookouts give picture-postcard views down onto Lake Conguillío, snow-capped Llaina volcano in the background. Huge millenarian trees reach to the skies, before araucaria take over, thinning as we get to around 2000 m, the end of our walk (and the beginning of a long traverse across the Sierra Nevada glacier for those keen on camping on snow and ice).
The views of monkey puzzles, isolated and in groups, with snow behind and the lake below, forests stretching as far as the eye can see, is beyond words wonderful. And the icing on the cake, for Juan, is the sudden appearance of a mauve and white violet nestling in a sedum-like rosette, a jewel against the black volcanic gravel. For the rest of the afternoon he is in heaven.
We leave Conguillío reluctantly, but grateful for all we have seen, and that we have visited before the holiday period (January to February) makes the wilderness a little less wild.
On paper the 100 km drive to Temuco, from where we will fly to the Atacama desert, should be 1.5 hours. We roller-coaster up and down along dead-straight roads, through farmland with signs, "Vendo cerdos". Nice to think of farmers opportunistically scooping up half a dozen pigs as they ball through. Entering Temuco during the rush hour we encounter total gridlock, amid anarchic bus drivers who haven't discovered their indicators, and a one-way system that forces us to see and then drive away from the hotel. This adds an hour to the journey. I'm sorry, Temuco, but you are a hellhole of a place: chaotic and ugly. Our hotel is supposedly in the city centre but it's hard to believe it, with no sign of any shops - just a couple of university buildings and some very basic bars.
Strolling a couple of hundred metres from the hotel we hit a Christmas toy market. Amid stalls specializing in the tackiest plastic rubbish imaginable one catches my eye: a guy selling the opportunity to sit with your feet in a large fish tank where dozens of tiny fish (presumably) give you a deliciously relaxing nibble. Juan says,"No thanks" - the piranhas might peel off a bit more than he wants.
Supper in the basement cafeteria at the hotel is forgettable. This is no doubt the best lodging Temuco can offer, but very shabby. At breakfast we have a view of car tyres from the basement window, our table covered with a cheery Father Christmas cloth; the "cafe de grano" is worse than the worst Nescafé. We serve ourselves mini butter "balls" from a bowl of chilled water and watch news reports of forest fires in the Valparaiso area, where we'll be for New Year.
We need to drop off the jeep at Temuco airport, a straightforward 4 km drive on the main road south, according to our agency directions. As we exit the city there's suddenly a sign to an aerodrome, the only air field shown on our map. Juan honks us across two lanes of rush-hour traffic, and we pull off right. After 4 km we arrive at a dead end: a military aerodrome. Shit. Retracing our steps we pick up the motorway again, the kilometres clocking up. No other airport is shown on the map; and the toll post indicated by our hotel receptionist doesn't appear. There are no airport signs for 20 km and then a very ambiguous sign onto a brand new road. Dry mouthed we continue, at last reaching a passenger terminal. A plaque commentating the inauguration of the airport in February this year explains its absence on our map. Phew.
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