They say when you visit a place, if you desire to return there one day, take a stone with you. I had to choose good stone that would capture the essence of this place and reflect its geography, an amulet capable of carrying in its interior the scent of humid vegetation and at the same time recall the wind and the sweet taste of these waters. A stone that transmits the sensation of purity and freedom of the elements that formed it. Barefoot, I walked the watery, sandy frontier where Todos los Santos (All Saints) Lake met the shore, until finally I found it, semi-submerged, with a small fresh water snail stuck to its rough surface. Meanwhile, my traveling companion meticulously packed the load within his kayak. In 1670, a group of Jesuit missionaries set out from the rain-drenched city of Castro in southern Chile in search of the Ciudad de los Césares (City of the Césars) and the most direct route to points east and north. The City of the Césars was a fabled, remote place of great mineral riches founded by followers of Francisco de César, a member of navigator Sebastian Cabot´s Rio de la Plata expedition of 1526. Apparently, the Jesuits believed that they would find plenty of God’s work that needed doing among a ragtag group of conquistadors´ descendants, European refugees, and natives.
The fact that there was supposed to be gold in the area only made saving
these lost souls all the More than three centuries later, a friend and I traveled the Jesuits’ route, in kayaks, to explore the fabulous emerald waters. We left from Petrohué, a small port settlement on the western shore of the lake that was established by early pioneers and is today a commercial center for the region’s dairy farmers. Starting out, we knew little of the region’s splendors and couldn’t imagine its true vastness. Located inside the 626,000-acre Vicente Pérez Rosales National Park (Chile’s first national park, established in 1926), Todos los Santos is part of a chain of lakes linked by mountain passes between Chile and the Argentine pampas. Both volcanic and glacial, it is twenty-two miles wide from Petrohué to our destination at Peulla, the easternmost point. Leaving the port behind, we follow along the shoreline, gradually growing accustomed to the weight and distribution of our equipment in the kayaks. Then, slowly, the water begins to take on a greenish tinge. We find ourselves paddling through scenery that could have been painted by Gauguin—reddish sky, green-black mountains, and emerald water. In some places the water is so clear that we can see large tree trunks far below on the rocky bottom. The effect is dizzying. We stop at several points to take in the scene before us, neither of us bothered by our slowing pace.
At dusk, near the lagoon at Cayutué (six craters), we set up our tent on a
white-sand beach Sitting on the lakeshore watching the sunset, we try to envisage those intrepid missionaries in their rustic canoes lashed together with lianas, guided through that immense space by Huilliches clad in wool ponchos. We watch them disappear into the swirling fog of night and history. Daybreak brings the first summer rains, and everything is soon drenched. We leave the tent to gaze at a great wall of vegetation before us. The high forest humidity produces large clouds that combine with rocky ravines and steep walls to give the scene a dreamlike air. We continue our paddling into the teeth of the heavy rain.
Entering the lagoon at Cayutué, we find ourselves in magical waters. The
beech forest, pines and The next day, full of birdsong and cataracts, we walk along a fantastical trail surrounded by red-barked myrtles and strewn with yellow wildflowers that appear like small spirits in the woods. We imagine the astonishment of the Jesuits as they entered these latitudes and the difficulties they must have encountered, such as the fearsome liguay, or giant leech. We come upon one curled up among some stones. The creature must be nearly twenty inches long.
We identify medicinal plants and herbs that the Huilliches used: pilpil
voqui (Boquilla trifolata),
At dawn we must paddle, literally, under water, as heavy rain continues. From time to time we leave the kayaks to rest, but this only makes the situation worse, as they continually fill with rain. Navigating in a landscape washed of color, through a world of obscure shadows and mists, we are exhausted. Before us a small port appears, and we decide to tie up in the hopes of being invited in to dry our sodden cargo.
Before we know it, we find ourselves with plates of spaghetti bathed in
spicy ají chili and freshly By the next morning the storm has blown over, and with our spirits restored, we set out paddling along the northern mouth of the Río Blanco, named for the volcanic sediments washed down from a nearby Volcán Tronador. Rising in the distance, past bends and turns, we catch a glimpse of that giant peak, at 11,350 feet the highest in the Patagonian Andes. Its harsh summit boast three colossal crests-the Argentine, the Chilean, and an international peak that splits the massif in two. A thick layer of ice easily a hundred feet deep encompasses the Alerce, Frías, Casa Pangue, Negro, Castaño, and Overo glaciers. The name Tronador, which means thunderer, is well deserved; the roar of falling ice is continuous. All at once, we encounter a curious phenomenon, the meeting place of the emerald lake and the turbid waters of the Río Blanco. Because the two do not readily mix, they form a bi-colored waterway similar to the junction of the far-off Amazon and Negro rivers. Along part of this route, gigantic elms, well over a hundred feet high, catch our attention. A profusion of immense white flowers rise majestically from the morning mist, like phantoms of the cold, evergreen forest. Suddenly we find ourselves caught in rapids and touching bottom, which we cannot see because of the turbidity. It’s time to get back on course.
In these high-altitude lakes, there is a rule of thumb that the lake has
already taught us well: The Jesuits continued to seek the mythical City of the Césars by this route for decades, but then abandoned it in the early eighteenth century when several of them were killed at the mission at Nahuel Huapi, northeast of here. Then the awe-inspiring trek through Todos los Santos was forgotten for nearly two centuries before it was rediscovered by German settlers in the late 1800s. Perhaps the Spaniards didn’t take a stone home with them.
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more attractive. This intrepid group of holy men
hiked through dense temperate rain forest and sailed in sturdy pirogues made
by their native guides, but failed in their quest for the magical City of
the Césars. What they did find, though, was an enormous blue-green glacial
lake that they named Todos los Santos.
strewn with beech trunks. Eroded by the water and incessant
wind, they have acquired a delicate velvety texture. This site, sheltered
from the wind, with space enough for camping, might well have been one of
the landing spots where the Jesuit explorers had taken refuge. Having failed
to find a way through the mountains, they were obliged to take to the water
in boats provided by the Huilliches, the “people of the south,” ancient
inhabitants who dominated the area from the west and were thoroughly versed
in its geography as a result of heavy trading with the Puelches, the “people
of the east.”
firs mixed with hundreds of elms, and the imposing
presence of the Puntiagudo and Osorno volcanoes overwhelms us. We decide to
rest at the base of the Cascada del Encanto (the Enchanted Waterfall), where
rainbow trout and perch congregate in the freshly oxygenated waters,
nibbling at seeds and fallen insects. From a nearby branch, a kingfisher
deftly snatches small fish from the water with quick thrusts of its beak and
devours them on the spot. After a light, rather damp supper, we paddle out
several hundred feet from shore to find a wider view of the mountains and a
beach suitable for our second night in the open. From the middle of the bay,
we marvel at the falls and at the ferns cascading into the lake like carpets
hung from the very top of the hills. Finally, with the approach of night, we
decide to cross the bay to a broad beach of volcanic pebbles shaped by the
waves and strewn with driftwood. Above us, centered by the constellation
Orion, the sky is already laden with stars. Bonete Peak dominates the land
below and protects us from the wind.
undoubtedly carried by natives on their journeys
for curing eye afflictions and swelling from insect bites; quilo or mollaca
(Muehlenbeckia thamnifolia), a forest creeper whose roots and leaves were
probably employed as a diuretic; and voqui colorado (Cissus striata),
another vine that grows abundantly in southern Chile and serves as an
astringent. Its flexible, resistant stalk is also used to lash together
fences and make tools. There are other uses for local wild plants, such as
the deu or matarratones (mousekiller) (Coriaria ruscifolia), which, as its
name suggests, is still used to keep rodents away, as well as to dye cloth
black. One also finds copihue (Lapageria rosea), a vine native to Chile,
with large deep red flowers and edible berries. Also tasty is the fruit of
the myrtle bush (Ugni molinae), very popular with German settlers for making
traditional confections.
We return to the beach and quickly strike camp; a strong wind is
stirring up whitecaps in the middle of the lake. With some difficulty we are
able to push off from the beach and continue paddling. However, the wind
blows steadily, and we are forced to land every so often to rest and secure
our loads. Since we cannot make much progress, we poke around near the shore
and end up spending another night on a small, well-protected beach. Before
us, a thousand-foot waterfall drops like a slender silver strand from a
large boulder.
baked bread, guests of Don Rolando Muñoz, who
lives here with his family. Muñoz is the first person we have spoken to in
days, and he is so friendly and companionable that we feel immediately at
home. That night, by candlelight, he tells us of attacks by pumas on his
animals and of his wild boar hunts, showing us photographs and the remains
of tusks as sharp as knives.
Boxed-in winds from the cordillera canyons create
heavy waves late in the day. Still, the force of this phenomenon surprises
us as we cross the Blanco to the small town of Peulla, our last stop. The
waves are so high that they completely wash over our kayaks. With our hearts
in our throats, we arrive at Peulla, exhausted. There the lake ends, lost
among the cattails bordering its banks.
