Happy penguin feet

The shale tumbled and crunched under my walking boot as I gingerly took another part-step, part-slide down the mountain side. This steep decent from the look-out point consisted of crumbling flinty pieces of rock that made a compressible surface that you still wanted to avoid landing on with anything short of a thick-soled shoe. I was moving down carefully, with one walking pole anchored in front of me, the other behind as I maneuvered sideways down the route.

Our pace on this walk had been fast, so much so that we had caught up with a second group from the hotel that had left half an hour before us. Within this second group were a young family with two girls, aged 9 and 7. Completely unperturbed by this death-drop decline, they bounced passed me, laughing wildly.

"They have a different sense of gravity," one member of our group suggested as the two blond heads shot passed him.

"They have a different sense of mortality," corrected his wife.

The smaller of the two girls turned out her toes in a ballet-esque first position. "Happy penguin feet!" she declared.

I caught up with my Dad as they disappeared out of sight.

"You don't have happy penguin feet," he said, sounding fractionally disappointed.

If it was possible to look even more unimpressed than I had been two minutes ago, I just achieved it.

Sugar rush

It was crazy talk.

We were perched on a cluster of rocks at the end of the French Valley in Chile's Torres del Paine national park. Just behind us was a spot known as the Italian base-camp; now a free camp ground for tired hikers. Ahead of us, the path wound upwards to an area known as the plateau and, beyond that, the climb increased to reach the British base-camp. The route ended there and climbing ropes had to be employed if you wished to continue.

Judging by the names, nothing much had stopped the British and the walk to the highest base-camp was the hardest offered by the Explora hotel. The Italians, meanwhile, must have hiked the length of the valley before setting down while the French seemed to have entered the valley, viewed the peaks, declared "Mon dieu!" and cracked open the sauvignon blanc.

Personally, I felt the Italians had it about right, although there was a lot to be said for eating a picnic lying sprawled in the valley. Our group, however, seemed to feel the plateau needed to be considered. This meant I needed to eat more. I polished off my sandwich and moved onto a brownie followed by a chocolate bar. Sugar was the key.

While our previous hotel in Argentina was all about comfort, the Explora hotel in Chilean Patagonia is all about the hikes. Based in the centre of the national park, the hotel provides everything from accommodation, three meals a day, drinks, snacks and --its main feature-- daily expeditions around the park. The guides lead groups of up to eight people, providing direction, local information on geology, plant and wild life, first aid and, it transpired, extra lunch. Miraculously, a hot Thermos of soup had appeared. I downed it with my chocolate.

The seriously hefty price-tag of the hotel meant that it attracted a certain clientèle. We were currently walking with a couple who were both past the age of retirement but showed no indication of stopping working. They were in medicine, working near Atlanta, with the husband researching diabetes and the wife in clinical trials involving cancer genes. The wife also --in her free time-- played tennis three times a week and competed in Grand Prix horse competitions. The other couple with us worked for the World Bank and were currently based in DC, although the husband was Austrian and his wife British. They had lived all over the world, including Jamaica and Nigeria. It was about half-way along this route I became exceptionally glad I had a career to talk about. Fortunately, astronomy sells well to even the harshest of critics: stars, twinkle, pretty. Everyone likes it.

I swallowed my last mouthful. OK, major sugar high! Let's go! Behind me, a pow-wow was in progress which broke up to announce that the plateau was perhaps a stretch too far, since we'd end up returning late to the hotel.

Sugar sugar sugar sugar....

I hopped down the rocks and bounced around for about half an hour as we decended before the whole effect completely wore off and I had to be permanently plugged into my water bottle to make it the rest of the way back.

The plateau probably wasn't the best idea. Turns out I only have the ability to control my energy levels equal to a seven year old.

Perfect

"... and we'll take a bottle of the sauvignon blanc."

"Perfect!" The waiter at the hotel in Buenos Aires seemed ecstatic with our dinner order. Clearly, we had not only picked the absolutely best choice on the menu, but we had combined the starter, main dish and wine choice in such a way that not even the chef himself could have imagined such a fantastic combination.

We left the table with full bellies and even fuller egos. Why, all restaurants should be hiring us for their set menu design!

As we moved south to Patagonia, we discovered that not only was our dish selection second to none, but in fact all the choices we made for our trips and outings were equally 'perfect!'. Evidently, we were experts at this travel business from beginning to end! I began to be concerned that returning home might come as an unpleasant shock to the system, especially when faced with the referee report on my next paper.

At the start of our second week, we left the Argentinian side of Patagonia to cross into Chile. This was a slightly strange process since the border control posts for Argentina and Chile were separated by several kilometres. If the roaming guanacos were tempted to pick-pocket passports, you could end up trapped in a no-man's land in a cross between the TV show 'Surviver' and the movie 'The Terminal'.

Having beaten off the thieving wildlife to successfully make it to the other side, we were met by the organiser for the transport to our new hotel. She caught up with our group in the border-stop cafe just as I was using the restrooms.

"Where is Elizabeth?" she asked, having ascertained that three out of the four people she was expecting were in front of her.

"She's just using the toilet."

"Ah, perfect!"

You know ... that's maybe taking it a bit too far.

Through the valley of death

"Is everyone confident about this walk? Now is the last chance to change your mind!"

All of us shook our heads. For my part at least, this determination was less to do with confidence in my fitness ability and everything to do with refusing to get back into that van. This organised hike was part of a round trip to visit the Upsala Glacier, north of where we had walked on Perito Moreno the day before. We had taken a boat out to Estanica Cristina, a sheep ranch named after the daughter of the British family who originally owned the land in the early 20th century. She had died at only 20 years old, for reasons unspecified. Maybe it involved a van ride.

The boat had weaved through large fields of icebergs before depositing us by the Estancia where we were picked up by a four-by-four which drove us up the mountain. The van was designed like a safari vehicle with open-sides and a canvas top. We sat on two long benches and held onto ropes strung along the cloth roof for support.

That support was needed.

Taking a van to the mountain top and then hiking down through the canyon sounded like the ideal, relaxing walk. What we hadn't taken into account was exactly how rough the journey uphill would be. The steep dirt path was only just passable by the four-by-four which bumped and rocked at it climbed. The wind was also strong, whipping through the open sides as we clung to the safety rope. I pulled the hood of my waterproof over my woollen hat and tried to avoid looking at the road ahead. Or vomiting over it.

Even the hardiest people we were travelling with looked relieved when we finally tumbled out of the vehicle. No one volunteered to take the ride back down. I wondered if anyone ever did. Maybe people extremely keen on roller coasters. Ones without seatbelts.

Shortly beyond where we had been dropped was a look out point for the glacier. It spread before us like a scene from the movie, 'The day after tomorrow'. The ground we were standing on was a red rock that extended down into Fossil Canyon. Here we could see imprints of ammonites and small white fossils of sea creatures from when water had once flowed millions of years ago. The lakes that we saw were either glacier fed or from rain water. Interestingly, you could tell instantly by looking at them (although a quick paddle would also have confirmed this effectively). Rain water lakes were a dull blue-grey shade whereas glacier water had a opaque milky turquoise colour from the tiny pieces of ice suspended within it. There was also the occasional hulking big iceberg which provided another clue.

We exited the canyon via a steep drop over piles of shale to end up in the valley leading back to the boat. Our guide pointed to the distant shoreline and said this last stretch would take us about an hour. My Dad waved this away and said it didn't look more than 15 minutes walk. I remember him telling me such things during my childhood when I was tired while we were walking in the Lake District. Then, as now, it proved to be a complete lie. It was almost exactly an hour. I was glad our guide at least was not of a similar disposition to my father in such situations.

Sugar coated iceberg

Walking boots are a serious piece of equipment. Made of sturdy leather with a sole thicker than a steak sandwich, the damage they could potentially inflict makes it worth ex-boyfriends not accompanying me on hikes. Add to this a set of inch-long spikes and you had nothing but solid, vengeful, win.

The Perito Moreno Glacier is one of 48 glaciers fed by the Southern Patagonia Ice Field. The ice field is a 350 km long band of snow and ice in the Patagonian Andes and is the third biggest ice mass in the world, with Antarctica and Greenland taking the top two positions. Despite this, the glaciers stemming from it are all smaller than any of those found on Antarctica. The Perito Moreno glacier is the only one of the glaciers that is not receding. Humid air rises over the mountains from Chile and falls as snow on the peaks, creating a renewable stream of ice that pushes the glacier forward by roughly the same amount that it melts each year. On average, the glacier advances at a sizable speed of 2m a day.

Unlike European glaciers, many of the glaciers in Patagonia stretch down close to sea level, with Perito Moreno ending in Lake Argentino, the largest fresh water lake in the country. This naturally makes these sites major tourist attractions which we shamelessly supported by signing up for a 90 minute ice walk across the rough frozen surface.

The ice walk takes place at the glacier's far end, closest to the lake. Here, the ice is only moving a few inches a day, allowing the sharp peaks and troughs to be worn by weathering into a series of smoother (if granular) paths than can be more easily navigated. Nevertheless, this was not the surface to sprint along and going downhill, it was worth slamming your crampon-encased boot down with sufficient force to ensure a good grip.

I found that satisfying.

The surface of the glacier was like walking on thousands of ice cubes. Not everyone found this a comfortable experience. Some, precariously balanced on their spikes, found the deep drops that periodically appeared to our sides unnerving. These holes plummeted down into the heart of the glacier, encased in sparkling blue dripping crystal. Others were clearly ashamed of their footwear. Well, I had no evidence for this, but if I'd strapped a pair of crampons onto the light plimsolls one member of our group was wearing, I would feel daft. It was like attaching a bullet proof vest to a butterfly.

One lady (not plimsoll wearing) decided that the final uphill was more than she could manage and took advantage of our path's close passing to the bare hillside to step off the glacier and head back to the camp. This proved to be an error since the 'last great view' we were promised on this ascent turned out to be a large chest of whisky.

Why yes, I would like some 400 year old glacier ice with my drink.

400 years was our guide's estimate of how long it takes for the glacier ice to work its way down from its pressurised formation on the mountain top to the lake's edge.

The end of the glacier is a vertical 40m drop into the lake. As it melts, huge vertical pillars can break away and tumble in a crashing pile of ice dust into the water. We saw several chunks meet their doom this way, becoming icebergs that sail down stream, looking for Titanic vessels to sabotage. Even when the end sections were not falling, creaks and cracks could be heard throughout the glacier as it inched along its path.

A few days later we would see the Grey Glacier on the Chile side of the ice field, taking a boat that would weave through an entire lake of icebergs. Even though ice is lighter than water, only 5-10 % of the iceberg is visible above the surface of the lake.

As we approached some of the larger bodies, I felt someone somewhere should be rather more concerned about this.

Mate

The classic British drink is of course the 'English Breakfast' tea. Quite why it becomes associated with a morning meal once you cross the pond is a mystery. Don't you get it, America? We drink tea all the time. ALL THE TIME.

The Argentinean equivalent to this, frankly, perfect beverage is the 'mate tea'. Unlike English Breakfast, however, its preparation and consumption resembles that of an illegal drug.

Mate is a shared drink, apparently because it is universally acknowledged to be utterly undrinkable until the third or forth addition of hot water to the bitter yerba mate leaves. These leaves are in the form of a ground powder which are put in a small round pot until it is 3/4 full. There is then some complex rearranging of yerba so that the hot water can be poured down one side of the pot. The tea is then drunk through a metal straw that also acts as a strainer.

So, in the end, you have a small round pot, filled with a greenish powdery liquid being passed around a group of people who take it in turns to take a long drag from the metal straw.

See what I mean about drugs?

I was relieved the process had been demonstrated to me by the hotel staff before I saw our taxi driver drinking one the following day.

Because the first serving of the mate will be the most bitter, it is often drunk by the host. As more water is added, the taste weakens. I found the mate's taste bitter, but not unpleasant, though I couldn't honesty say I noticed any significant weakening over time. It had a smokey aftertaste that reminded me of a hot islas whisky, such as Laphroaig.

I'm not sure it'll be replacing the excellent British brew in my life quite yet (not least because I'm sure I'd be arrested if I was spotted drinking such a concoction in Canada) but it was interesting and --despite appearances-- less deadly than horse riding.

Pink feathers

"A short hike from the hotel leads down to the lagoon."

We had moved north from Ushuaia to the Argentinean Steps; a mountainous country punctuated by wide, wind swept plains and icy glacier fed lakes. This was the day before I tested an alternative career as a horse-backed gaucho and we were sitting in a wide windowed lounge, listening to a member of the hotel staff describe the area.

"You can see the flamingos on the water." The lady explaining this to us gestured out of the window towards the small patch of blue.

Flamingos?! I looked out at the wilderness around us. Small runty trees dotted the plains, their branches all stretched out to one side due to the shaping force of the harsh winds that whistled over this land. How could wild flamingos exist in a landscape where the vegetation looked like it was in front of a high speed fauna hairdryer? That didn't sound remotely likely. Flamingos should belong in hot tropical countries. The kind with wooden shacks on the beach selling cocktails in the half coconut with brightly colored drink umbrellas.

I clearly wasn't the first person to treat this pronouncement with complete disbelieve. On the table in front of me sat a pair of binoculars. I snatched them up and leveled the bins at the patch of blue. Sure enough, scattered around the lagoon edge in smudges of incongruous pink, were a flock of flamingos.

It was just ... just ... WRONG.

It had to be seen up close. In fact, I had to catch a flamingo and have my photo taken cuddling it.

The walk to the lagoon took about an hour. That was apparently long enough for each and every one of nature's barbies to move to the far side of the water. We skulked around the lake edge. For creatures that spend most of their time on one foot, it's surprising how adept flamingos are at subtly shifting beyond the reach of a really good photo. In the end, I had to settle for a lot of water and a string of pink blobs. Arty landscape shot.

We had marginally more luck with other wildlife in the area. The mountain side was stuffed with llama-like guanacos. This was hardly surprising since, as I have previously established, South America is FULL of alpacas which they use as their primary form of transport. Sometimes disguised as BMWs. Guanacos were the wild cousins of alpacas. They could probably be trained into skodas.

There were also the buff-necked ibis whose head, with its long curved beak, resembled its white American relative, but with the body of something closer to a vulture. It looked at as though someone had had far too much fun with a sewing kit and a bird encyclopedia.

Then there were the small emu-like rheas and the armadillo with its baby which resembled a mutantly sized earwig too closely to be cute. There were also hares everywhere --spawning from the introduction from Europe in 1888-- including in my dinner that night, served with chocolate sauce.

Yum.

It almost made up for the lack of hugging-a-Chilean-flamingo shot. The afore mentioned, incidentally, are more commonly found in Argentina.