Two zodiac expeditions were scheduled for that first day at sea. In the morning we would sail through the huge ice floes of Ainsworth Bay and pass close by the bleak slopes of the Andes Mountains, named the Darwin Range in that region. Sailing through the Admiralty fjord, we would glimpse our first sight of the Marinelli Glacier. In mid-afternoon on another zodiac expedition we would be introduced to a huge colony of Magallanic penguins and nesting cormorants.
If you've ever ridden in a zodiac, you are aware that you must perch somewhat precariously on the rounded edge of the rubberized inflatable boat. You hold tightly to a rope secured behind you for security, for which I was grateful. But before we could embark, we had to participate in a mandatory life preserver drill. Believe me, when I saw the frigid sea covered by a blanket of ominous-appearing ice floes, I was pleased at how seriously the life preserver drill was presented, as opposed to the casual lack of concern on some expedition ships on which I've sailed.
The crew checked each one of us to assure we had donned our life jacket properly and understood how to use it in case of an accident. When I touched the water of Ainsworth Bay for the first time, I mentally applauded their serious attention to the dangers of riding a tiny inflatable rubber raft in these waters. Falling into these icy seas, a swimmer would have less than two minutes' survival time, they reminded us!
I was nervous, as usual, on my first boarding attempt, but the crew was strong and capable. Seated and gripping the rope behind me, I gazed around me in awe. The tiny zodiac was weaving through an endless field of ice floes almost filling the calm blue waters of the bay. Our guide related how huge chunks of ice break off from the face of a glacier and slide down from the face, most often in a thunderous roar. The process is called calving. From our vantage point bobbing in the tiny boat among hundreds of brilliant blue-white ice floes in a turquoise sea, we caught our first close-up glimpse of the Marinelli glacier. The massive wall of ice reached into the sky at least 120 feet above the surface of the sea.
The zodiac deposited us on a sandy beach. Walking along the shore, we found ourselves facing several elephant seals. Heavier than a fully loaded transit van, these mammoth males ranging about 13 feet in length dozed lazily in the sun. Raising their noses occasionally, they barked what seemed like a welcome greeting to probably the first humans they had encountered.
Snow-covered mountain peaks formed a brilliant backdrop. Our guide pointed out the distant Magellan forest range covered by thick patches of virgin southern beech trees called lenga and nire.
As I stood on this isolated island beach, I couldn't help reminding myself of Charles Darwin. He had visited this exact site sailing on the Beagle. Returning to England, he called the Fuegan people who inhabited the region, "among the most abject and miserable creatures I ever saw."
However, our world that day, and after, was devoid of civilization, but replete with an enormous variety of unusual plants and animals native to the wet harsh climate of Tierra del Fuego.
A hike of several hours was on the agenda that morning. Before the start of the trip, I had worried about this hike. I was nervous I wouldn't be able to keep up. Not to worry. Our guide was knowledgeable, patient and watchful. He checked frequently to make certain we could keep up the pace as we tramped over this special private preserve only our Australis ship had the right to explore.
He pointed out cormorants, albatrosses flying overhead and predatory birds called skuas which prey on baby penguins. We caught sight of the chimango caracara, the bird of prey exclusive to Tierra del Fuego. This wildlife watching was a spectacular beginning to numerous varieties of birds and animals we would spot before the trip was over.
Later on we would observe black neck swans, steamer ducks, and a flock of pink flamingoes on a lake close to Puerto Natales. We also came across the large running bird, the ostrich-like rhea, along with a red fox that stopped us on the road in the middle of the steppes and refused to move even for our van.
We learned that the introduction of rabbits brought great destruction to the ecosystem. Worst of all, beavers were introduced in 1944. Due to the lack of predators to control their population, they have become extraordinarily abundant and are turning into a plague. On our hike our guide led us to a huge beaver dam where we could see first-hand how impenetrable the beaver bridge was. It had actually diverted a large stream into a huge pond.
This day was a perfect introduction to Tierra del Fuego. The sun shone in a cloudless blue sky, a rare day where no wind disturbed the tranquility of the land. We hiked along quiet trails, across peat bogs and meadows, and along stands of native beech forests. We crossed a water soaked meadow, jumping over streams running swiftly through thick marsh grass that stood hip high.
We paused to examine many unusual plants and shrubs that grow in this cold sub Antarctic climate, such as the yellow-flowered calafate bush and its tiny blue berries. If you eat the berry, you will return to Patagonia, according to folk lore. I ate several berries.
Famous for its battering by constant unrelenting westerly winds and swiftly changing climate, the temperature in Tierra del Fuego can plummet suddenly from warm and sunny to cold and blustery with misty rain, a sudden deluge, or even a snow shower within half an hour. We were told to take these extremes of temperature seriously. That day most of us wore layers庸rom tee shirts to rain jackets and water-proof sneakers. Several even donned rubber knee boots supplied free by the ship for wet landings. However, on that sunny morning I needed only a light jacket and tee shirt, but my ever- present LL Bean blue windbreaker remained tied around my waist for any sudden downpour.
In Tierra del Fuego it is common to find yourself suddenly enveloped in a dense grey fog that descends on the water and creates an eerie sense that you are alone in a silent alien world. But that afternoon our luck continued to hold out.
Our inflatable craft cruised quietly through a labyrinth of islands and chugged across a narrow inlet in a slate grey sea. The sun emerged sporadically from an overcast sky. We drifted slowly through a sea of icebergs. Arriving close to Tucker Island, we stopped a few feet from shore to observe a rookery of Magallenic penguins comically strutting around the beach. Predatory skuas dove down from above, seeking a good meal of baby penguins. On the other side of the island a huge colony of cormorants covered the rocky island cliffs.
Earlier, we had floated in the iceberg-filled channel, watching as a family of ten female fur seals tended their babies on sunny rocks lining the shore. Ten females to one male is the norm, our guide informed us, pointing out a huge male fur seal barking to his concubines from the advantage of a rock towering above his family of females.
As we sailed through the inlet, massive slabs of submerged icebergs floating directly under the surface caused sudden unnerving bumps and scraping sounds under our feet. At one point our driver steered the rubber raft directly up onto the flat end of a giant iceberg. I happened to be seated at the front of the zodiac and watched anxiously as he headed directly for the iceberg. When he maneuvered the boat on top of the ice, I leaned over carefully. Gripping tightly to my rope anchor, I leaned down and touched the frozen surface of the giant chunk of ice. My hand almost froze to the iceberg, but it was an interesting experience.
Around us, I saw desolate hillsides covered in dense forests. Waterfalls from melting snow tumbled down into the dark sea. Snow was falling atop the glacier we were viewing, but the sun suddenly emerged from a dark sky. As the perfect moment, a brilliant rainbow filled the horizon at the far end of the channel. Whipping out my digital camera, I managed to snap a rare shot as the arc of color hovered directly above our boat driver's head. In this silent world with a sky suddenly filled with a perfect rainbow, I appreciated fully that this was an extraordinary moment in an extraordinary place.
However, a few minutes later, in a rapid turnabout of climate typical of Tierra del Fuego, a misty rain began to obscure our vision, and I could see nothing but grey mist in all directions. For a fleeting second I admit I said to myself: "What in the world am I doing here in the middle of this freezing sea? Remember the Titanic? They said nothing could happen to IT, too!"
I banished the thought immediately. You don't have for fear when you can watch the antics of penguins up close and personal. They were lined up on the shore like a ragtag marching band on St. Patrick's Day. Only they were wearing black and white, rather than green uniforms.
I learned that the bleak Chilean coast between the Strait of Magellan and the Peninsula Valdez possesses the largest concentration of marine wildlife of any continental coastline. The colony of Magallenic penguins alone is 1.6 million strong. That day we watched several hundred of them put on their best Charlie Chaplin comedy shows. Two-feet tall, with an almost complete lack of fear of humans, they ducked in and out of water next to our zodiac and waddled around on the beach, tilting their heads in curiosity at this strange group observing them. Hundreds more marched up and down the nearby hillside in unison. We could have lingered for hours but left reluctantly on our way to other wildlife sightings.
[Go to Patagonia Part Eight]
