"If you like to drink," said the blond woman at the table next to us at Dino's restaurant in Puerto Montt, "it's a wonderful cruise. She had overheard Bonnie and me discussing our forthcoming trip down the coast of Chile. "They serve the best. Everything is first rate."
"She doesn't drink," said Bonnie.
"Oh, well, a shame, but it is a still a wonderful trip. The best cruise we've ever been on."
Too tired to think straight, with a sleepless night on a jet from Miami to Santiago then another early-morning flight from Santiago to Puerto Montt behind us, we didn't know whether to be reassured or not.
Revived by a plate of goulash and spazel--food in keeping with the city's vaguely Alpine architecture--we took a walk around downtown Puerto Montt. The capital of Chile's region 10, the lake district, Puerto Montt sits in a beautiful spot with ocean spread out in front, mountains and the volcano Osorno behind.
Early in the century rancher Robert Leroy Parker, a.k.a. Butch Cassidy, got supplies and brought his cattle to be sold here. On hiatus as an outlaw, Parker owned 12,000 acres at Cholila in Argentina just across the Andes for five years before disappearing into legend in 1907.
We didn't see any cattle as we strolled on the quayside, but we did see piles of wood chips waiting for shipment to the east--a testament to the vast forest lying east and south of the city. A battle for the fate of thousands of acres of Chile's forest is centered here in Puerto Montt where Californian Douglas Tompkins now makes his home. Tompkins' plan to turn more than 1,000 square miles of virgin woodlands (including 78% of the country's old growth forest), mountains, and pristine rivers he has bought into a national park has met considerable resistance from Chilean conservatives.
From the cruiseline's office downtown, we're bussed past the market of Angelamo to our ship, Skorpios II. It's a family affair with Captain Constantino Kochifas at the helm, his wife Mimi beside him at dinner, and his brother as first officer.
While the ship can accommodate 160 passengers, on our trip we are an intimate 120. As we pull out of port, waiters bring out a rainbow-colored assortment of drinks to toast our departure.
First impressions are simple--mountains and sea. It's all we are going to see for the next week. In a crowded world, the southern coast of Chile is an area that seems surprisingly empty considering its beauty. Chile calls itself a remote corner on earth, and the statement is especially true for its southern regions. A third of Chile lies south of Puerto Montt, but less than five percent of its population lives there.
Patagonia starts just south of Puerto Montt. Here the Andes leave the land and their tops become thousands of islands in an archipelago leading south until they sink into the sea at Cape Horn and resurface again in the Antarctic.
Our wood-paneled cabin is more than comfortable with bunk beds, a small sitting area, television, and large bathroom. We're on a middle deck; the dining room is on the deck below, the bridge is two decks above us. Exploring the ship, we see the back door of the kitchen where supplies are stacked. We're not going hungry or thirsty. Piles of fruit, vegetables, sides of beef and lamb, crates of wine wait in place for a week of overeating.
Passengers come from 11 countries. With the exception of a large group from Brazil, most are Spanish-speaking. English speakers are put together at one table. We're a mixed bunch. Americans Ann and Jerry are retired computer experts who spend most of their time on their sailboat in the Caribbean. Billy and Alex are an Australian couple traveling with their 20-year-old daughter Michele, taking a holiday from Alex's job building a copper mine in northern Chile. Wolf, a retired American geology professor, and his wife, Lorraine, are sightseeing after visiting their astronomer son who works at one of Chile's two observatories. Louis, a Canadian travel agent, is combining business and pleasure.
After dinner, the English-speakers are given headsets to wear, and one of the ship's officers provides a English translation of the evening's announcements. When I take mine off, in a vain attempt to practice my intermediate-level Spanish, a crew member rushes up to put it back on for me.
The first night the captain's wife passes out sleeping pills amid much laughing and finger-shaking. The idea is to make sure we sleep soundly during the few hours it takes the ship to pass through the Gulf of Corcovado--the only spot on our route where the islands open up exposing the ship to the open Pacific.
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