Leaving Cochamó Valley

Thursday November 12.

Nate is itching to go climbing. Surprise? Not really.

La Luna is the closest climbing wall to the refugio. We trespass onto cow pasture in search of the trail. Being us, we get lost. But only for a little while until we find the two bridges. Turn right after the second one. Walk walk walk. Mushy mud further coats our sneakers.

We find ourselves staring up at a gigantic rock wall. Nate is bug-eyed, but disappointedly points out that it’s dirty and not suitable for climbing. So we keep going.

But promptly lose the trail. The next few hours are spent hacking through trees, bushes, very prickly things, and bamboo. Emphasis on hours.

Finally we reach the dirty wall again. Only to find a few bolts on it. Bolts? This is it! It was here all the time! Ugh.



So we unpack the gear and get set up. Nate climbs. I climb. Now, it’s been quite some time since I’ve climbed. Since West Virginia, if you can remember back that far! So when I had to work through a few moves, I thought nothing of it. It must be a 5.9, I exclaim.





On the way back to the refugio, Nate remembers being told about a boulder. A climbable boulder over the rushing river water. He adorns a wet suit and with a little hesitation, he hops in the frigid water.



Climb climb climb. I don’t want to fall, I hear him yell from my dry seat on rounded white stones a good distance away. But fall he does, it’s inevitable. Soon he’s splashing furiously through the water all the way over to where I’m sitting. With dry clothes on, we make our way back to the refugio.


Where we find out that the 5.9 we had climbed was actually a 5.11b/c , which is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever climbed. Haha. Cha-chinnnng.


Another intimate dinner with the family, the neighbors, and Nate, the aspiradora.

Friday November 13.



Climbing at Pared Seca required a short hike and the construction of a small fire. It was dry (imagine that!), but not far from freezing. We tried a 10b that gave me and my frozen fingers a beating.



I spent the rest of the daylight hours reading Kerouac.

Saturday November 14.

While I was reading the day before, Nate found Daniel bolting a new route. New route? Well, clearly we have to climb it before we leave. We forfeit the 5pm bus back to Puerto Varas to sneak in a climb.

I had never been on a fresh route. So as I followed Nate’s line of cams, I hauled hunks of dirt out of potential hand holds. The last move was nearly impossible for short people like myself until I uprooted a few plants and made a new hold for myself. It was fun and included figuring out a conundrum at the anchors.


A quick lunch and a goodbye to Daniel and Silvina (Zenon was down for his nap) before beginning our hike back. The days of sun we had enjoyed during our time at the refugio had seriously dried out the path. Gone were the mushy gushy parts of the trail. Gone were the raging river and streams we had to cross… well, almost gone. Nate managed to retain dry feet throughout the walk. My right pinky toe was not so lucky. But all in all, so much better than the week prior. Plus it only took us 3.5 hours to get down this time!

But once on the road, we walked. And walked. And walked… No car in sight. Finally a nice family picks us up and carries us a few kilometros. Thank them and keep walking. And walking. When we get to the main road, we hardly have to wait before a pickup truck comes by and we plop ourselves and our bags into the back. Breeze in our hair, we whip around corners and get dropped off pretty close to Cochamó itself. We retrieve our bags from Residential Edicar, grab a bag of chips and a bar of chocolate and hit the road. It’s getting dark so we take our spot on the side of the road and wait. With every headlight we stick out a thumb, but no one stops. It gets cold and dark, so after an hour or two, we head back to Edicar for a hot shower and warm blankets.

Cochamó Valley: Trekking galore!... but why oh why do we keep getting lost?

Trees trees mountains trees hiking trees snow mountains rock smiles horses woodburning stove climbing no electricity.

That’s what I would say if someone asked about the last five days.

Here’s what I’d say if they threw up their hands and gave me a quizzical look with regards to my last statement:

Tuesday November 11.


One of the guys staying in our hospedaje gave us a lift to the fin de la carretera, some 12 km out of Cochamó town. We handed him a few thousand pesos for his trouble, shouldered our packs and turned our back on civilization.






We were free! Out in the countryside. Nothing between us and raw nature.




Except that we reached an obstacle only minutes into our trek. The trail ended. And private property began. What? Private property?!


Timidly we entered the gate with the barbed wire. Up and up we stumbled over rocks. Skipped over rushing streams. Squished through the mud. Crunched over branches. Munched our pre-made pb&j sandwiches.



Hours. And hours. And hours of trekking. Even though we had left the biggest pack in Cochamó town, our bags were certainly not a pleasure to carry up into the valley.

Suddenly the trees open up revealing a perfectly spectacular view.






With muddy sopping feet, we arrive at the sign announcing that it’s only another 15 minutes to the refugio. Hooray!





A house! We see a house! Sign of life!! But… there are padlocks on the doors and, except for a handful of horses and cows milling around, we don’t see anyone. Plus the two tilted wooden structures aren’t exactly what I expected the refugio to look like.



Tired, hungry, and con muchas ganas de encontrar el refugio, we backtracked. It has to be around here somewhere. It just has to.


But every path led to the same place.

What?! We continued on the path where I bit my lip as I forded the frigid waters of river Cochamó up to my waist. My bare feet barely hung on to the slippery rocks as the waves nearly carried me off downstream.

Nate stayed on the other bank as I explored. Didn’t bother putting my shoes back on. They would have only gotten muddy and wet. Plus, the mud felt nice squishing between my toes and soles of my feet were already numb so I didn’t feel the branches crack under my weight.

But all of that effort was in vain because the forest trails didn’t lead to a refugio. They led further than I wanted to go. I returned in defeat to the river crossing where my shrug must not have done much to lift Nate’s spirits.

With sopping wet pants I was just about to give up. We daydreamed about arriving in the refugio for a hot beverage and a soft cushion to sit on to rest our feet. The sun was setting. It was obvious that we would be spending the night on the ground in every layer we had brought.

This was not how we had planned it. It was supposed to be an awesome day. And here we were, exhausted sweaty hungry grumpy lost, without any idea of how to get to the elusive refugio. We saw a few buildings on the other side of the river, but had no idea how to get over there. There was no way for us to cross.

Before giving up all hope, we set off one more time in search of help. Anybody.

We wandered down every conceivable path. Nothing.

But we did find a curious cable running from one side of the rushing river to the other. Two cables in fact. Wonder what they were for…

But then! We heard! Could it be?! Voices?! ¡HOLA! ¡HOLA! It was Daniel! On the other side of the river. We had found the help we needed!!! With the aid of his harnesses and pulleys, we zipped across the cable (oh, that’s what it’s for!). We were so speechlessly relieved as we followed them to the refugio, a beautiful two-story wooden building with friendly occupants and a warm wooden stove. It was music to our senses.

We shamelessly scarfed down dinner and a few glasses of wine in the glow of candle light. The dinner table talk was mostly in Spanish, Chilean Spanish, which is reallyveryfast and with the endin o wor cu of. Daniel and Silvina leant us sleeping bags and we conk out.

Wednesday November 11.

There’s no electricity up in the refugio, but we hardly even miss it. All meals are freshly prepared over the wood-burning stove. I learn how to make a proper Argentinean yerba mate. Three-year-old Zenon keeps us busy with autos and libros.

Just because the 5-6 hour trek the day before wasn’t enough for us, Nate and I set off on a 6-7 hour hike up the Arco Iris trail. Take a sharp left at the three-way-fork-in-the-trail, says Daniel. So we set off looking for the said fork. We find it, we think. But it leads to us hacking through thick foliage. This way? That way? Ugh.

We give up and take what we think is the wrong route, which ends up being the right route. Confusing? It shouldn’t be, but for some reason Nate and I can’t help but get lost. Finally we’re on the right road, we think. Yes! Orange trail markers. Fantastic.

Up and up and up. The trail takes us through a dense forest. Up up up. Not a hike for the faint of heart. Up up up. Every so often we get a glimpse of the stunning mountain view. Up up up. We go the wrong way… have to backtrack back to the real path. Up up up. At a few sections Daniel has hung rope to help you haul yourself up the rock face.


Drip drip drip. The moss-adorned rock is still quite wet. Slosh slosh slosh. My poor beat up sneakers squish with every step. Up up up. The terrain changes from thick forest to pricklies, crunchy leaves, and tree roots. Horas tras horas. We reach the snow. Crunch crunch slip! Our sneakers sink into the melting snow, making walking a cold wet exhausting activity. Sticking to dry rock whenever possible, we scramble to the what we think is the top of the mountain. The view is breathtaking. Snow-covered mountains and rolling greenerthangreen hills for as far as we could see. We savor the moment.


Briefly! Then it’s back down we go. Nate takes giant wild steps to glide down the snow banks. The snow guides us back down to the tree line. We fill our water bottles with fresh snow before heading back into the vegetation. Going down is a lot easier than going up, but a new blister appears on my left heel. Hunger and fear of nightfall keeps our pace fast. It’s such a great feeling to arrive back at the refugio. We eat two dinners that night.

Cochamó. Wait... we made it?!

It was afternoon on Monday November 10 when Chains and Bandit (me and Nate, respectively) pulled into Cochamó. We set off from Seattle 134 days ago with our sights set on this Patagonian town. And we’re here!

Now I’ll catch you all up on how we got here.


Friday November 7.

Woke up in Bariloche, the Argentinean Aspen, full of trendy ski gear and chocolate shops. Our 10th floor hostel had one spectacular view over the snowy-peak-bordered lake. We decided to climb up to Cerro Otto for a 360 degree spectacular view. We were told to get an earlier start and to expect some wind and maybe some rain.


We walked the 5km along the water ooohing and ahhhhing over the mountains. We arrived at the Teleferico and kept walking. The sandy path took us up. And up. And up.


My legs weren’t working as I told them to. They quickly tired and I slowed down to a tortuga’s pace. Dogs barked from afar, but we just kept on marching along. Suddenly the view opened up. It was spectacular. We could see mountains on all sides. But we also saw the storm clouds coming towards us. We turned back to our own mountain and put one foot in front of the other.

Finally we made it to the top. The air was bitter cold and the wind was fierce. We walked around the complex, which was closed for the season and took a few photos with numb fingers. The wind almost carried me off.



I was very ready to start heading down. My fingers were just about frozen and the storm clouds looked like they would open up any second. We took the longer, but less difficult way down.

Nate found some rocks to boulder around on. I was very cold, so I started walking. The rain found its way to us. Small droplets cascaded onto our rain jackets as we broke into a jog.

At the bottom of the hill we splurged on a 2 peso (60 cent) hot chocolate. The walk back into town was uncomfortable, but it was so good to be warm again.


The rain continued for the rest of the day. Since our shoes were soaked, we had to run errands in our flip flops. Pelting rain in frigid temperatures. I don’t think my feet have ever experienced that much pain before!

Dinner was a concoction of whatever we had; it was too cold to leave the hostel.

The cab came by to pick us up at 6:45am on Saturday November 8. Our bus to Puerto Montt took us past some spectacular views and, of course, across the border into Chile.




Puerto Montt was not so nice. So we hopped a collectivo to Puerto Varas, the more touristy siblingcity.







We found our hostel after a few minutes and after a quick supermarket run, whipped up a few burgers.




We rested up and dined out that night.

Sunday November 9.

The city had no electricity. And our hostel didn’t have any room for us that night. So we set off looking for a new place. We found an awesome cute B&B (or as Nate rightly pointed out, a C&D). The family who owned the colorful creaky house were sweet and the bunkbeds came with breakfast, internet and unlimited use of the kitchen. Fantastic.

Most everything was closed for Sunday, so we took some time to walk around town. We cruised up and down the streets. Made the worst mac n cheese ever.

Monday November 10.

Ran errands and just barely made the bus to Cochamó. On the way we saw spectacular views of snow capped volcanoes, but that was just the beginning of the spectacular views that we’d be getting. Two hours later we pulled into Cochamó. It was a dusty gravel road kind of town. Nestled on the shore of a lake and surrounded by jaw-dropping mountains. Everything had a relaxed ease about it. The way the people walked arm-in-arm dropping you an “hola” as they strolled through the streets. I like it.

We got the picturesque room overlooking the lake. A scenic afternoon walk took us out of town and bordering the lake. A car pulls over. “I think I found your blog,” calls Daniel out of the driver’s window. It was his refugio that we were going to the next day. Nate was giddy as we said our ‘see you later’s. We were here! One of the many destinations of the Big Trip.

Quiet evening in the quiet little town. And a soup dinner.

Mendoza Malbec and Breathtaking Bariloche!

Yikes. I'm falling behind!

Tuesday November 4. Election day.

The big day had arrived and Nate said a little prayer for my fingernails, which were sure to endure a full day of biting. We grabbed coffee and impulsively tuned into cnn.com and nytimes.com. After a bit of perusing the relevant articles, we decided that we needed to distract ourselves or else we’d pull our hair out with election stress, a symptom that many New Yorkers I know have been afflicted with.

Distraction. Distraction. What do we do?

Mendoza is famous for wine. Very delicious quality wine. Neither Nate nor I had ever been on a wine tour, so what were we waiting for?

We set out at 2pm in a van full of tourists. First stop: A family-run, homemade chocolate/preserves/liquor shop. Upon entering the shop we got a bilingual explanation of each product in the four-person enterprise. They had everything from apple-whiskey preserves to absinthe to spicy eggplant spread. After we got the spiel, we sat down to put our tastebuds to the test. Even though we were impressed with the samples, we decided not to purchase anything.


Next stop: The Baudron winery. We tested the color, aroma and taste of a Chardonnay and a Cabernet Sauvignon. We felt so posh twirling our glasses and then holding them up to the light to inspect the hues. Mmmm… and the tasting! The best part!



We learned about the production of the red, rosé, and white wines, took some pictures, and proudly walked out with two bottles.




Next stop: An olive oil factory. Olive oil is not wine. And it’s certainly non-alcoholic. But it was interesting to learn about its production. And taste it. We bought an unfiltered bottle of olive oil, which was more flavorful and thicker than the oliveoilyoullfindinthesupermarket. Mmmm… olive oil lotion and exfoliater? Ya betcha.


Last stop: The Cavas de Don Arturo winery. This small winery named after its owner specialized in Malbec and Cabernet Sauvignon. We walked through the production rooms and tasted some fabulous wine. One bottle was surely coming home with us.

I could feel my half-Asian face flush… and it wasn’t the heat from the midday sun. My mind tuned back to politics on the drive back to the hostel. My nails got shorter.

We ran into the hostel and flipped on BBC. The Irish and English couples who where on our tour popped open their new bottles of wine and definitely did not join us on the couch with our noses inches away from the screen. Baguettes and camembert went very well with our Malbec. It was 8pm local time, 6pm on the East Coast of the US. Polls started to close.

We kept checking in with CNN and New York Times on our laptops as our eyes and ears dodged back to BBC on the TV. I kept up-to-date with my personal correspondents in New York. It was a media explosion. The results trickled in as we trickled more wine into our glasses.

We ordered pizza when we realized that it’d be a long night. When Pennsylvania and Ohio went blue, I was ecstatic, but didn’t celebrate. Anything could happen. Plus, I hadn’t been doing the calculations all along, I didn’t know that there was no turning back.


It was 1am when the West Coast states closed their polls. It was a matter of minutes until California and then Washington were called for Obama. And that was it. It was over.



Uncontrollable tears welled up in my eyes. It was over. Obama had won. Perhaps the dirtiest presidential race was now behind us. McCain had stooped to every new low turning politics into a smearing game, choosing a running mate who didn’t know Africa was a continent, abandoning the ideals that he once stood for. He chose to focus on Obama’s middle name and affiliates of Obama who were involved in activities when he was 8 years old instead of on the economy. He painted the picture of Obama as naïve and inexperienced, but his running mate (the person who would become our president if something were to happen to him) had far less experience. She flounced around the stage saying very little about the issues at hand. We don’t need a hockey mom who appeals to the Joe Sixpacks to run our country. We need an intelligent individual with the knowhow to get this country back on track. And I’m proud to say, that the American public voted for such a person.

So many emotions were running through my mind. Most of them centered around relief and joy. Nate and I were the only two people awake in the hostel when Obama took the stage for his acceptance speech at 2am local time.

First paying his respects to McCain, Obama launched into his speech. Change is not going to be easy. Bush has left a giant mess on the table and does not seem capable (or willing) of cleaning up after himself. But I have full faith that with Obama in charge, we will be seeing some great things happen. I’m so excited.

Wednesday November 5.



Check out was at 10am. Our bus to Bariloche left at 8:00pm. That’s a long time. We ran some errands, cooked food, and lounged.



Another overnight bus. Always a blast.

Thursday November 6.

Woke up. Argentinean buses are pretty luxurious. Lots of ham and cheese sandwiches… and Styrofoam.

I have mixed feelings about Argentina. The country itself is beautiful, that’s for sure. Rolling fields, rainbow hills, breathtaking snow capped mountains. It is truly a pleasure to stare out the window. And the food is good. Best wines and steaks I’ve ever had. Life is comfortable. Teenagers sporting the latest trends. Shoe stores every couple of meters. Wide sidewalks. Plazas covered in trees and flowers and couples making out. Yummy icecream. But that’s it. It’s too comfortable. It’s too much like home.

I miss the markets. The kind you find in Dhaka or Fez or Trujillo or Saida. The open air markets with colorful stalls. Where great big mountains of fresh fruit and veggies sit side-by-side with recently slautered meat and old women selling bundles of various herbs with distinct medicinal purposes. The smells, the chaos, the sounds… the taste of hand-squeezed fresh orange juice for only a few cents/pesos/lira/soles/céntimos. It’s definitely not the cleanliness or hygene that keeps drawing me back, but the ambiance and energy. You meet the people who tilled the land and sowed the seeds for your food. You know the produce is fresh and organic. All of that is lost with large supermarkets. Sure, they’re convenient and cheep, but they remove you from the origins of your food. Instead of buying directly from the farmer, you’re buying from some pimply teenager who snaps his/her gum and processes your order apathetically. Where’s the fun in that?

Arriving in Bariloche means that we’ve crossed the invisible line into Patagonia territory. And it was evident from the unreal spectacular scenery. We opted for a local city bus that took us to the corner San Martin and Pagano. The elevator transported us to the 10th floor, Hostel 1004.

A beautiful place. Plants and draped fabric. Wireless internet and a gigantic spotless guest kitchen. Whew. I’m home!

(That picture is from the living room of the hostel!)


We visited the supermarket and Nate summoned a pack of dogs that followed us. Not just down the street, but for blocks. They were right at our heals! We tried to lose them, but they were persistent… until they found another dog to bark at. We took the opportunity to make a break for it.






Lunch and dinner were both quite tasty.