tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76103270006556658872024-02-07T05:12:04.797-08:00M A G E L L A N I A N ARachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-82575707298850383022010-01-25T10:41:00.000-08:002010-01-28T10:12:12.484-08:00punta arenas<span style="font-family:courier new;">25.1.10</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">here we are again. I feel like we're at home; even the wind, gusting at 85 kilometres per hour, feels familiar and comforting. the marvel of a good night's sleep. Claudia joins us. centolla and pisco sours by Sotito; airport. tonight, Rapel.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-88730538529014392282010-01-25T10:39:00.000-08:002010-01-25T10:40:46.688-08:00strait and narrows<span style="font-family: courier new;">24.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-style: italic;">bahia azul</span> in the early evening. i'm thrilled to approach the strait from the tierra del fuego side and can barely wait to get on the ferry. the water is aquamarine blue and covered end to end in whitecaps swelling up to seven feet. the ferries are nowhere to be seen, and buses, sheep-carrying trucks, cars and people line the road leading to the beach. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">shell-seeking, we climb over massive piles of kelp, walking back to revisit our landing. terns fish at the water's edge. the currents are clearly delineated by spots of rough chop, places of calm, and color differentiations in the water. a few of our <span style="font-style: italic;">tonhina</span> friends swim by. back at the restaurant, an elderly, indigenous-looking woman sits alone in a chair pulled up against the window, hands folded calmly in her lap, gazing at the wind-tossed water. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">finally, after a couple of hours' wait, the red ferry lopes across the Strait from <span style="font-style: italic;">Punta Delgada</span>, tossing and swaying, sprayed with massive waves. it's terrifying and takes way too long. despite being loaded with ten buses, many cars and several hundred people, the boat teeters and rolls in the powerful chop. <span style="font-style: italic;">El Estrecho de Magallanes</span> is a body of water to be reckoned with. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I'm impressed by the distance that we swam last year-- probably more than four miles-- and also filled with immense respect for the Strait, having been let across. </span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-42877583527102992742010-01-25T10:38:00.000-08:002010-01-25T10:39:39.584-08:00tierra del fuego<span style="font-family: courier new;">24.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-style: italic;">tierra del fuego</span> got its name from the heavy mists that cover the island, making it look confused and ablaze. i think </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: courier new;">tierra del humo </span><span style="font-family: courier new;">might have been more apt.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">this route is endless and crosses back and forth from Argentina to Chile. how we all wish we could have flown, or gotten on the boat. my passport is riddled with stamps; I can only laugh at the absurdity of all this exchanging of information. perhaps we might exchange hats instead. or pleasantries.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">we've gone from a place so far at the end of the earth that it can only be peaceful and protected, to the commercial 'end of the earth', to the wild expanse of Tierra del Fuego, where the wind blows over 100 miles per hour. standing in the midst of it, wholly aware of spinning through space, I feel like this place, of all the southern wilderness, is the one that actually merits the name. </span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-13531269538065695032010-01-25T10:37:00.000-08:002010-01-25T10:38:29.219-08:00ushuaia<span style="font-family: courier new;">24.1.10 <br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: courier new;">goodbyes on the old <span style="font-style: italic;">Macalvi</span>-- the <span style="font-style: italic;">Club de Yates</span>, where our immigration-inspector friend joins us for a last goodbye and some more stamps in our passports. it seems, at this point, as if we know everyone in the town, both in uniform and office, and in street clothes with families. all are there to see us off, even fluffy Luli, who gets into trouble with another small dog running around the deck of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Macalvi</span>. Gaby shuts her in the van. a few minutes later, there is a persistent honking, then a long, desperate beeeeeeeeep! and we all look up to see Luli at the wheel of the white van, leaning on the wheel. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">a speedy ride in a covered zodiac, extremely choppy at first, like a mechanical bull-ride, then calmer, and progressively colder as we head west. after more than an hour, we dock incongruously next to a massive cruise ship in the port of ushuaia. I gape at the activity: shipping crates, planes, catamarans, ships of all nationalities and sizes. the clear kelpy water is glazed with oil and scum. exhaust fumes sting in my nostrils. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">refugees from the wilderness, having left the anachronism of the tiny, peaceful comun naval, we've landed up in what seems to be one of the busiest ports of international tourism. there are a striking number of people over sixty. it seems that traveling to the extreme southern hemisphere is even more of a craze than i'd envisioned. the streets teem with people, cars, flatbed trucks, antarctic tourist offices, pictures of penguins and seals, glossy shopping bags. I see a single black dog traipse across the square with a giant piece of bloody red meat swinging from its jaw. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">the distance across to Puerto Navarino is massive. Lynne Cox is a superheroine. I feel our little there-and-back shrink in comparison with her six-mile, three-hour channel charge.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-14088340899588703642010-01-25T10:36:00.000-08:002010-01-25T10:37:16.415-08:00launched from macalvi<span style="font-family: courier new;">23.1.10</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">leaving this little town in a few minutes for ushuaia. yesterday as we spoke at the threshold with a fellow hostel-guest-- in town to install a meteorological antenna-- huge horses wandered through the adjoining yards, irreverently eating tall grass over fences. the small labrador puppy cavorts, looking for our attention. it approaches a cat playfully and is sent off with a harsh hiss. <span style="font-style: italic;">Lulita</span> runs out to join the other puppies in this local gang, some of whom playfully jump up on the old sheepdog. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">looking around, dogscatshorseschickens, I'm once again floored by the intimacy and simplicity of this tiny settlement. animals and people-- many of the former abandoned by the latter-- are a tight community here. there's not much to worry about, at least in the summertime. yards are piled with quartered logs, many hairy with wintergreen lichen. in the living room of our hosts, large photographs of lichen and fungus adorn the walls. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">press calling again. <span style="font-style: italic;">El Pinguino</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">La Prensa Austral</span>. we're huge in Patagonia. tomorrow, <span style="font-style: italic;">El Mercurio</span>.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-32032824319937603592010-01-25T10:34:00.000-08:002010-02-10T17:38:28.793-08:00impressions of a swim<span style="font-family:courier new;">22.1.10</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">our plans to ride the ferry to punta arenas thwarted, we've just fixed up an alternate situation, which includes a boat to and an evening in Ushuaia. comings and goings are not easy here in Puerto Williams. high winds will prevent air traffic for the next couple of days. I'm looking forward to seeing more of Argentina than just a wild beach, although what a beach it was! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">throughout today, flashes of yesterday's swim keep going through my mind: a panorama of snowcapped mountains, wild birds above a choppy green foreground, breathing to my left en route to argentina; strange blue-brown jellyfish-like sea creatures in the emerald clear below me mid-channel on the return leg; the rocky shallows teeming with sealife on the approach to each beach; the flaming-june orange of the argentinian's oversized drysuits; olive kelp bathed in filtered sunlight. the sound of wind against my ears. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">the whole swim, windswept and sunblinded, was beautifully disorienting. without perspective to judge the distance of land, and without human landmarks, I seldom knew where I was. I sighted until my neck hurt, just to be there. it was only near the end of the swim, when I was cold and tired and my mind had checked out, that Captain Elvis and Jose another armada sailor appeared, tiny beneath the wooly cliffs. i've never been so relieved to see a sailor. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">as I started to realise how far we still had to swim, and as minor hypothermia began to cloud my awareness, I screamed a couple of times underwater, just to release the frustration of momentarily losing my humanity. it made me feel better, almost as much as the double-thumbs-up the armada men kept throwing my way, under encouraging grins. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">our stopover in Argentina at <span style="font-style: italic;">Punta McKinley</span>, where Cristian and I concurred that we felt warm, great-- dude, we're in Argentina!-- was a little too long. getting back in the water was a bit of a shock for all of us. I have a new appreciation for those who swim Channel doubles and triples. the drastic difference between the water temperature and the air causes the body to almost immediately shift gears and start re-warming. the second leg of this swim was mentally and physically tough. luckily, we were all determined, and well-trained after a number of weeks swimming the the 30s back in arctic Brooklyn.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">but today, the swimmers walk. we hike <span style="font-style: italic;">serro bandera</span> to the top, where a massive Chilean <span style="font-style: italic;">bandera</span> snaps in the wind just above the treeline. the wind fills my mouth and ears, as if I'm on a motorcycle at high speed. at the top, six hundred meters above sea level, staving off a cold wind blowing off nearby glaciers, I nearly lose my down jacket. we traipse through deciduous, strange forests, lichen-softened scree teeming with shale and sandstone chips, and bent-trunk tree groves, patti with a walking-stick taller than herself and me bounding like a mountain goat, trying not to slip in my very inappropriate shoes, practically skipping at times from happiness at being in the forest. Cristian's pace walking is exactly like his long-distance swimming pace-- steady, calm.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-1124777963916564652010-01-21T18:10:00.002-08:002010-01-21T18:32:12.055-08:00exito!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKSP8fyH5R72eC6Fh8tTdfxfm-pBD7E6vgOAik9aHxzRaLMyqFZBfIXEf3hSfvog4mfWWf-lsyAE5FUCdcTSD8Bq0YxUm1s1Da1WPH8LpzD9faNZRMPmeJ6n3JDA2oZfYDo1IAD9VkWg/s1600-h/Photo+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKSP8fyH5R72eC6Fh8tTdfxfm-pBD7E6vgOAik9aHxzRaLMyqFZBfIXEf3hSfvog4mfWWf-lsyAE5FUCdcTSD8Bq0YxUm1s1Da1WPH8LpzD9faNZRMPmeJ6n3JDA2oZfYDo1IAD9VkWg/s320/Photo+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429382906613610418" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">21.1.10 </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">once again, <a href="http://www.cibbows.org/">cibbows</a> rocks the southern wilderness. and wearing <a href="http://www.kathleencookswim.com/">kathleen cook</a> to boot.</span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">thanks again to Kathleen for sponsoring me with a fabulous bikini, even if I have been fattened up by our lovely hostess Gabriela and the <span style="font-style: italic;">pan amasado.</span></span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">this morning, at 11.20, Patti, Cristian and I walked into the rocks and kelp along the shore in Cabo de Hornos and swam to shore near Punta McKinley, Argentina. we spent a few minutes on the beach with the Argentine armada before jumping in and returning to Chile. All three of us succeeded in a double traverse of the Beagle Channel. </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">we started out in rough seas at 5 degrees celsius (41 degrees fahrenheit). after being pushed west on the way to argentina and encountering strange sealife and a flock of penguins, we fought strong currents on our return, making it a roughly 3.5-mile swim. all of us had a quick, easy recovery at the <span style="font-style: italic;">armada capitania.</span></span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">more impressions to follow.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-47840208668852598952010-01-21T17:51:00.000-08:002010-01-21T18:13:47.592-08:00el canal beagle<span style="font-family:courier new;">21.1.10<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;">we reached the <span style="font-style: italic;">armada capitania</span> this morning around eight, and our zodiac pilot was already there waiting for us. though the sun was shining, the wind whipped up the Channel into a seething, southeast-flowing whirlpool. Luis Castillo drove us out to scope out conditions at Punta McKinley, since a more detailed weather report was still forthcoming (I'm still not sure where that comes from). the drive was breathtaking. we left Puerto Williams and bumped along the narrow hills, climbing up and down rocky terrain surrounded by glacier-capped mountains, red-striped lighthouses, wild horses and the frothing cerulean waters of the Beagle, lined with shadows of purple kelp. there seem to be a number of cattle farms there, both active and abandoned. </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">suddenly, we cross a last, steep hilltop, and the water becomes distinctly less violent, though not at all calm. this is the place: Punta McKinley.</span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">we park the armada jeep on a slope and clamber over clover littered with mussel shells to get to the rocky beach. the remnants of locos, sea urchins, mussels and other shells rattle under my feet. the wind whips sun-warmth across my face and I zip my Patagonia jacket against the chill. the distance to the lighthouse looks to be at least three times what they had assured us it would be. the crossing, despite the calm in the small area, seems suddenly far more difficult than we'd all planned. our idea of a double goes out the window; because of persistent westward winds and currents, it seems that we'll have to do a single crossing, from Argentina to Chile. I try not to pout. </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">we stand and stare at the water for a few minutes, then return to the jeep. I resist the nausea building from the bumpiness of the ride. Luckily, we arrive back at the bat-cave before carsickness can get the better of me. as we consult with the meteorologists, rather at a loss about when we should decide to swim, the wind begins to die down. the whitecaps disappear from the harbour. a decision is made: the armada will take us by boat to the border of Argentine waters, where we will climb aboard our Zodiac and head for shore, and the start, in our suits. quick re-packing of shore and boat bags ensues, and we have a brief photo session with Captain Elvis, who is in charge of the port. </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">the sun is shining brilliantly. we climb aboard the small boat-- I'm never quite sure how to negotiate an offered arm when I'm climbing over the slippery side of a fishing boat-- and settle down in the hold. Ronnie, our zodiac pilot, is still putting in his boat, so we sneeze around the Puerto Williams harbour for a little while. the radio is playing fun american songs from the 80s, and soon enough Patti and I strip down to our suits-- both by Kathleen Cook Swimwear-- for a mini photo-session with the armada, who are more than happy to oblige. it passes the time, and helps stave off the unbearable thirst, the nerves, the anticipation.</span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">and then we're off, finally, thumping across steep waves. I go up and sit in the navigator's chair near the open window; I'm already a little naseous. the Channel is still super rough, and the going is slow, as the armada zodiac's motor seems to keep stalling. every once in a while, as we fly eastward, the armada guys in one boat or the other make 'whoop it up' gestures to one another. they're almost as excited as we are, if not more, though we've got pre-swim jitters to handle. </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">the motor cuts. Cristian and I peek out from the hold. it looks calm. then and there, we decide to try for a double-- one crossing seems more feasible now that the westward wind's scream has died to a harsh whisper. the return trip, as Cris puts it, will just be icing on the cake. the armada is at our service; the boat heads toward the Chilean shore, faced with rocky cliffs and yellow-lichen-covered rocks. </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">we throw our bags into the zodiac before stepping carefully on board. the shore is just a minute away, and I can see the white rocks, crabs and urchins on the seafloor below the leathery layers of kelp. soon enough, we're ready. the sun and air and light are calming-- this is as wild, wooly and beautiful of a place as I'd ever imagined. more photos, and at 11.20, we're off. </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">the first obstacle is a ten-foot-wide swath of thick, slimy kelp. we don't so much swim over it as drag ourselves across it, head-up. but I'm already over my kelp issues. the water is pure, clean, tasty and clear. I can see kelp stretched voluptuously below my hands, flagged northwest by the constant current. the waves are strong but I feel them carrying me across. I relax and swim into the waves, at a diagonal, so as to avoid being swept east beyond the end of the point by the wind and current. we all had the same idea, but it worked against us: the current carried us far further west than we intended to swim, since it changed direction, despite what the armada had advised. thus always for swims and crossings.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">to be continued...<br /><br /></span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-83861744898690519542010-01-21T17:48:00.000-08:002010-01-21T17:50:33.089-08:00la manana<span style="font-family: courier new;">21.1.10</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">it's so much quieter without our entourage. I miss Scott, and Mark and Marianne, and Claudia, and even all the reporters and funny CNN people. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and off we go, so early in the morning. there is a surprisingly bright sun this morning, but the wind is back. it's gusting down the hill that the town sits on, and oddly enough, there's a doppler effect. Cristian and Patti are relating their respective dreams of tsunamis. as for me, my anxiety dreams are still about musicians.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-83219695118136312072010-01-21T17:43:00.000-08:002010-01-21T17:48:21.627-08:00akainij<span style="font-family: courier new;">20.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">there's a sudden and violent rainstorm, which catches us by surprise out in town. there's blue sky to either side of Puerto Williams, but the black clouds overhead stream curtains of rain down, obscuring the mountains. the scent of wet grass rises and mixes with wet woodsmoke. I can only imagine how smoky the town must be in the winter. Chopping wood seems to be a full-time occupation here, at least during the warmer months. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">we wait out the storm, and soon the brilliant sun is out again, like a late summer morning. it's been a beautiful day, punctuated by rain. somehow, being surrounded by the dramatic expanse of Tierra del Fuego, the Andes, and Cabo de Hornos, the weather doesn't feel as freaky as it would in Punta Arenas, which is for all its remoteness a functional city suffering from bewildering mood-swings of light, wind and weather. as we walk down the hill against a chilly wind, the brilliant sun warms our backs. a fat quarter-rainbow reaches from somewhere inside the cloud cover down to the choppy surface of the Beagle. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">there is a pleasant noise of children playing. this place has strikingly little to worry about, which makes the obstinance of the two armadas all the more maddening. it seems so childish to draw national lines across a gleaming, wild body of water. the only things dividing the two countries, at this point, are the uniforms, and the rituals and formalities--humiliations-- of paperwork. </span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-35453298672822235802010-01-21T17:32:00.000-08:002010-01-21T17:40:47.610-08:00exito!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWrfuSu24Kpq3xhd7uoNZzE_yO4y9RUMXNsrdhxsnU8kph58Hq7Gd7831e8d9KCdEdzRyRVBwYBEUmvsYzy4lkYQRvjP0kJNXvLOlIeprMy7ky25zEpFxwyyRKGF1jVMHTpOsJiPVzv0/s1600-h/Photo+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWrfuSu24Kpq3xhd7uoNZzE_yO4y9RUMXNsrdhxsnU8kph58Hq7Gd7831e8d9KCdEdzRyRVBwYBEUmvsYzy4lkYQRvjP0kJNXvLOlIeprMy7ky25zEpFxwyyRKGF1jVMHTpOsJiPVzv0/s320/Photo+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429372122097503410" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWhC-fRuVYiPj8LayMJTX54Isunqncnw7vAfbjNVnoh5Yfsur2Xt_glrC_wxgOBofh0DD1ZVLteLKOxh9TUEdxqZhgsCXvYMx0m4XMX2vs0Po9sJkEGuNEJBcPksiGe-3_3AUm2k-rXoU/s1600-h/Photo+2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWhC-fRuVYiPj8LayMJTX54Isunqncnw7vAfbjNVnoh5Yfsur2Xt_glrC_wxgOBofh0DD1ZVLteLKOxh9TUEdxqZhgsCXvYMx0m4XMX2vs0Po9sJkEGuNEJBcPksiGe-3_3AUm2k-rXoU/s320/Photo+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429372119152784882" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">21.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">once again, cibbows rocks the southern wilderness. </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">this morning, at 11.20, Patti, Cristian and I walked into the rocks and kelp along the shore of Cabo de Hornos and swam to shore near Punta McKinley, Argentina. we spent a few minutes on the beach with the Argentine armada before jumping in and returning to Chile. All three of us succeeded in a double traverse of the Beagle Channel. </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">we started out in rough seas at 5 degrees celsius (41 degrees fahrenheit). after being pushed west on the way to argentina and encountering strange sealife and a flock of penguins, we fought strong currents on our return, making it a roughly 3.5-mile swim. all of us had a quick, easy recovery at the armada capitania.</span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">more impressions to follow.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-10755977152971058832010-01-21T12:52:00.002-08:002010-01-21T13:12:04.822-08:00wild bureaucracy<span style="font-family: courier new;">20.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">after lunch we head back to the armada offices to meet with Captain Elvis. there is some tense discussion and it comes across that the swim was almost quashed for lack of permission from a certain office in Santiago; luckily the <span style="font-style: italic;">armada</span> is on our side this time. any future attempts will certainly suffer labyrinthine bureaucracy. the Argentinians, who have arrived via zodiac in rather comically oversized drysuits, enter the map room, Javier presents a set of pens and we sign a number of documents-- releases, immigration declarations, and contracts. the local inspector arrives and clears the Argentine pair through customs; they've brought filled-out forms, but the papers-- like airport immigration forms-- are invalid because they are from Argentina and not from Chile. much stamping and signing ensues, followed by xeroxing and lamination of the documents returning to Ushuaia. the drysuits exit, both carrying incongruous briefcases. and then the next news: the Chilenos will <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> cross into Argentina's waters-- the Channel is divided in half-- and the Argentinians will <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> escort us across the other half. I can't help but sigh impatiently. and now, on top of everything else, we have to hire a zodiac and a pilot to take us across. <span style="font-style: italic;">ahora</span>. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">we head over to the <span style="font-style: italic;">Club de Yates</span> to see if we can recruit some amateur sailors to pilot the swim. and there, across the inlet, next to the abandoned lodge, are the horses. the large brown stallion is fervently humping the pregnant black mare. it's hard to pay attention to the lovely Italian couple on deck, who remind me of my parents somewhat as they tell us about their week-long sailboat trip around the area, sea-lions, glaciers and whales. Cristian's phone never seems to stop ringing. this time, it's good news. just as we're about to recruit the Italians or the Swiss guy--who has just come back from the <span style="font-style: italic;">almacen</span> with a bag of chips and is tucked into the hatch of his weather-beaten boat, writing in a meticulously clean orange leather diary-- Cristian holds the phone away from his ear. <span style="font-style: italic;">we have a boat!</span> relief. he even managed to bargain down the price. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">we're set. we meet at the <span style="font-style: italic;">armada</span> office tomorrow morning at eight. now for small errands: I'm set on a package of plain lemon cookies that I saw yesterday in the <span style="font-style: italic;">almacen</span>. I recall the package of oatmeal cookies that I devoured before the swim last year, and feel a need to have something around, just in case. these are no times to resist emotional snacking. </span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-90010603300745049282010-01-21T12:52:00.000-08:002010-01-21T13:05:33.836-08:00wild bureaucracy<span style="font-family: courier new;">20.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">after lunch we head back to the armada offices to meet with Captain Elvis. there is some tense discussion and it comes across that the swim was almost quashed for lack of permission from a certain office in Santiago; luckily the <span style="font-style: italic;">armada</span> is on our side this time. any future attempts will certainly suffer labyrinthine bureaucracy. the Argentinians, who have arrived via zodiac in rather comically oversized drysuits, enter the map room, Javier presents a set of pens and we sign a number of documents-- releases, immigration declarations, and contracts. the local inspector arrives and clears the Argentine pair through customs; they've brought filled-out forms, but the papers-- like airport immigration forms-- are invalid because they are from Argentina and not from Chile. much stamping and signing ensues, followed by xeroxing and lamination of the documents returning to Ushuaia. the drysuits exit, both carrying incongruous briefcases. and then the next news: the Chilenos will <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> cross into Argentina's waters-- the Channel is divided in half-- and the Argentinians will <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> escort us across the other half. I can't help but sigh impatiently. and now, on top of everything else, we have to hire a zodiac and a pilot to take us across. <span style="font-style: italic;">ahora</span>. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">we head over to the <span style="font-style: italic;">Club de Yates</span> to see if we can recruit some amateur sailors to pilot the swim. and there, across the inlet, next to the abandoned lodge, are the horses. the large brown stallion is fervently humping the pregnant black mare. it's hard to pay attention to the lovely Italian couple on deck, who remind me of my parents somewhat as they tell us about their week-long sailboat trip around the area, sea-lions, glaciers and whales. Cristian's phone never seems to stop ringing. this time, it's good news. just as we're about to recruit the Italians or the Swiss guy--who has just come back from the <span style="font-style: italic;">almacen</span> with a bag of chips and is tucked into the hatch of his weather-beaten boat, writing in a meticulously clean orange leather diary-- Cristian holds the phone away from his ear. <span style="font-style: italic;">we have a boat!</span> relief. he even managed to bargain down the price. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">we're set. we meet at the <span style="font-style: italic;">armada</span> office tomorrow morning at eight. now for small errands: I'm set on a package of plain lemon cookies that I saw yesterday in the <span style="font-style: italic;">almacen</span>. I recall the package of oatmeal cookies that I devoured before the swim last year, and feel a need to have something around, just in case. these are no times to resist emotional snacking. </span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-57954243827650728102010-01-21T12:44:00.000-08:002010-01-21T13:02:35.696-08:00second beagle: just two wags<span style="font-family:courier new;">20.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">our swim was not as long as we'd expected, cut short by the unavailability of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Club de Yates</span> and its wood-burning stove. we used the old rowboat as a clubhouse instead. this time, getting in was easy. it's amazing how just one day of training can change psychological comfort with a place. we swam out past the metal buoy, heading east with the current. there is kelp everywhere, so I make a concerted effort to get used to it. every time I see something up ahead, my heart skips a beat. it's a matter not of training my body not to react, but of understanding that the scariest factor in the equation is my psyche as it startles. nevertheless, I'm a wuss. I swim behind Cristian. I'll deal with it all tomorrow-- I suspect that the clarity of the water and the presence of kelp won't be any less where we swim, near Punta McKinley. like Antarctica, this area is really the province of international explorers, and now tourists, trekkers, and especially sailors. It always has been. as we get out of the water, the blonde, sunwashed Swiss man--around my age-- yells out to me from his terrifyingly worn sailboat. <span style="font-style: italic;">I have a wetsuit, if you want one!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">No thanks</span>, I shout back. <span style="font-style: italic;">This one looks better</span>. I gesture to my bikini. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">on the way back, we finally see the source of the manure in the streets: a pack of horses, including a pregnant mare and a small colt. they are grazing up on a hill, not far from our hostel. </span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-49790951215239071452010-01-20T07:55:00.000-08:002010-01-20T07:56:32.871-08:00expectations<span style="font-family: courier new;">20.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">in the morning rain, <span style="font-style: italic;">el Canal Beagle</span> looks more like a lake than a channel, though there are whitecaps out beyond the sandbar that protects the <span style="font-style: italic;">armada</span> harbor.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I'm glad that our swim will be miles east of here, where there are no passable roads. even though our Magellan crossing took place in a remote station- Punta Delgada, at the first narrows-- it was accessible by road and ferry, a small hub of people, motorcycles and sheep-carriers. Looking at the satellite photo of the Strait now, I see the color difference between the water near Punta Arenas-- pacific clear-- and the murky aquamarine of the chilly Atlantic on the Eastern mouth. it was practically ten degrees colder than our training-beach where we actually crossed. we may have a similar experience with the water here. there is no way of knowing, since most of the <span style="font-style: italic;">armada</span> sailors have only jumped in long enough to hyperventilate. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">on tv, the same footage plays over and over- government officials who lost bets over Pinera's election performing ridiculous acts: one is a waiter for fellow officers and must pay their tab; another dives into a fountain in a town square; in Punta Arenas, one dunks in the Strait of Magellan for a few seconds, looking shocked and frozen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I don't have the nerves I did before the Magellan crossing, nor the fear of imminent death, but I also am aware of the possibility that the water East of Puerto Williams will be colder, murkier, choppier-- there are so many possibilities. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">at the very least, I am confident that it will be wild and wooly. we'll swim long today, and then rest before tomorrow morning.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-19220598565865004452010-01-20T07:48:00.000-08:002010-01-20T07:54:46.958-08:00stormclouds<span style="font-family: courier new;">20.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">finally, a really good night's sleep...thanks to some black storm clouds that rolled through yesterday evening. it's raining hard this morning. Luli is hyper and keeps jumping up onto our laps. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">back to yesterday: Cristian and I go for a walk while the sun is still shining-- that is, around 10.30 at night-- and our sheepdog friend once again accompanies us to the boundaries of his kingdom.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">down the hill, children are running and biking around the thistled lush green. the sound of a weed-whacker reverberates between the orange-trimmed houses at the end of the street. as we walk past, I catch a glimpse of the face of the whacker-- it's another one of our friends from the armada (we'd run into another captain and his <span style="font-style: italic;">novia</span> in the market earlier). we stop and chat and I catch a fair amount: <span style="font-style: italic;">los dientes del navarino- </span>the teeth of <span style="font-style: italic;">la Isla Navarino</span>-- are the young mountains, plate-uplifted, off in the distance; if we hike up the small mountain behind the town, we'll be able to see West to Ushuaia and East to the place we'll be swimming. had we swum earlier? apparently they'd come out in a zodiac looking for us, which explains the unseen boat that had startled me. he is jovial and a little round; his small son pulls mischievously on the weeder's start cord.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">the breeze here comes in clean, with the airy silence of wilderness. </span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-64596255284606916682010-01-19T14:33:00.000-08:002010-01-19T14:34:21.968-08:00dog days of summer<span style="font-family: courier new;">19.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">lulita is a tiny, terribly affectionate bichon. the old sheepdog has a limp in his back left leg. both of our hosts' canine friends-- other pets include a grey kitty, a cantankerous green parrot who I am determined to befriend, a stuffed blonde ex-ferret baring formerly fierce teeth, and a beaver who lives in the backyard with the chickens-- insist on following us each time we leave the house. the sheepdog grunts and warbles and frequently bumps into our legs as we walk. this time, as we head down the hill, he makes a point of sticking his head into a yard where a large brown-and-black pug-dog is napping, then flagrantly peeing on the gatepost. as we walk away, the pug gets up and sniffs the post, then walks a few steps after us, looking mildly indignant. earlier we were accosted by a rowdy litter of unrelated puppies, the most aggressive dragging a broken chain around his neck. the dog-gangs of Puerto Williams are extremely mild-mannered and the most visible social scene on the streets, from what I can tell. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and as you can tell, there is absolutely nothing to do here. just swim, eat, rest, wait. tomorrow we'll swim more, and then meet with the Argentinians who will be our crew for Thursday. it's the end of the world, so sparsely populated that there's really not much to worry about. I suspect that the caprices of the weather make the light that does get through far more rewarding, and the liminal space of a naval base halfway to Antarctica is very different from the weather-beaten city of Punta Arenas.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Patricia is uploading some photos! you can see them at <a href="http://www.cibbows.blogspot.com">www.cibbows.blogspot.com </a></span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-46484258387849605232010-01-19T14:31:00.000-08:002010-01-20T07:59:09.676-08:00first jaunt in the Beagle<span style="font-family:courier new;">19.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">first swim in the Beagle Channel!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">the rain has let up. we climb down to the little beach and set our towels and shoes inside a small rowboat laid on its side in the black-purple mixture of gravel and mussel shells.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">a schooner-houseboat is moored mid-channel, sprouting electrical connections to shore. there is a grill on deck and a motor appears to be running in the hold below. someone climbs from the deck and starts a worn white zodiac, which rears up-- a sort of water wheelie-- and starts toward the boat-dock. the driver wears shades and a red parka. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">on the road above, against a slope dotted with thistles and blindingly yellow buttercups, a ruddy man comes along with a bag of <span style="font-style: italic;">pan amasado</span>. he looks incredulous. <span style="font-style: italic;"> van a nadar?! si</span>, Cristian grins. we straighten up and look tough. he raises his brows. <span style="font-style: italic;">hay tiburones!</span> we laugh. Patti doesn't hear, and we don't clarify. he clambers down to the beach and we quickly realise that the zodiac is there to pick him up-- he lives on the schooner. they shake their head one more time at the three <span style="font-style: italic;">gringos</span> in bathing suits and the boat speeds off, leaving behind a haze of fumes and a surprisingly thick streak of rainbow-slick oil. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">I'm rather dismayed at the pollution from a 600-yard zodiac trip, and the green algae beneath the water repels me. <span style="font-style: italic;">the water looks filthy</span>, I tell myself. I know it's a closed bay, and a hotbed of naval and aeronautic activity, but there are few relatively clean places to get in and I can barely bring myself to dive under the slick. luckily, Cristian is still in getitdone mode. he dives in and I wade behind his wake. there's a wide swath of clean water where he entered and I dive deep-- the shoreline is deceptively shallow-- and swim hard with my eyes closed, not wanting to deal with seeing massive kelp forests on top of everything else. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">I promise myself twenty strokes, but after ten I have to peek. there is a tree-like plant to my right. i startle, blink, then realise that the water is a deep, deep aquamarine green, similar to puget sound, but with more of a glacial-pastel shade, and clear, clear, clear. my hands look like cut-outs. the underwater light and colour is so engrossing that I quickly begin to enjoy the swim. I've been holding my breath, comically puffing out my cheeks underwater-- I hate to knowingly swim through an oil slick since I swim with my mouth open-- and now I relax my face and taste the clear green, which is deeply salty in a thick, viscous blend very unlike the Atantic. it tastes of the Pacific, but also of something deeper. it's almost like a salted lake. perhaps there are minerals in the sediment. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">the water is, of course, freezing cold. after Coney Island at 33 degrees fahrenheit, this water is balmy. the cold takes a few minutes to sink in, or perhaps I've tricked myself by transferring the initial shock to my deep fears of the underwater. the wind has momentarily died down, though it is still raining lightly. I stop for a second to see where Cristian is heading and find him treading water just ahead. he is bright red, which makes me realise just how cold the water is, even though we barely feel it after so much rest and eating this past week. Patti catches up-- we won't try to get out on the far shore, where it is steep, rocky, and fenced by a thick line of sticky kelp. having flown over these clear waters just the day before, it's easy to see just how much of the purplish-greenish mess there is, not just in the shallows, but in giant patches throughout both the Strait of Magellan and the Beagle Channel. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">as we head back to shore, the schooner revs off into the East, its residents waving and cheering from the deck. I end up swimming in Cristian's draft-- we all look fantastically surreal under the water, and it's fun to watch the others swim-- and his kick gives off perfect circles of bubbles, like smoke-rings. the water is incredibly calm, though I've already seen that it can become whitecap-torrential within minutes, whipped by winds from all directions.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">the beach has a surprisingly steep drop-off and is far less intimidating on approach. this time, I keep my eyes open. in the mirrored periphery of my goggles I see the bullet-grey hull of the ship tapering underwater. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">as I stand, I pluck an eye-catching shell from the bottom, checking first to make sure it's been vacated. the mollusks here are many and colourful. these shells for me, which I often give to friends, are like notches in a wall-- reminders of every time I've gone in against my instincts and come out on top. this one glowers, algal green against my flame-red palm.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-37195308875017784242010-01-19T14:30:00.000-08:002010-01-19T14:31:24.880-08:00saludos, Scott!<span style="font-family: courier new;">19.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">sadly, Scott Lautman won't be joining us for this swim. he's come down with a mean cold at just the wrong time. we miss him!</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-42040477760391364162010-01-19T14:29:00.000-08:002010-01-19T14:30:44.247-08:00a clubhouse for cibbows<span style="font-family: courier new;">19.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">after much scouting and scrambling up and down hills, avoiding cow-pies among the tiny yellow flowers-- manure is ubiquitous, but oddly so, since I've only spotted three cows grazing near the airstrip yesterday and have yet to see more-- on our quest for a decent place to swim, we finally find a clear, deep spot near the Yacht club. the rocky beach is on a small inlet behind the airstrip. it meets all of our requirements: the kelp is not too thick, there are no pink-and-teal oil slicks on the surface, less metal debris in the shallows, and there is a wood-burning stove inside the club-- actually a retired German ship from 1925-- where we can sit and warm up after our swim. the rusty, grey hull of the ship looks a little scary, but it is surrounded by well-worn sailboats, most in transit and occupied by Europeans here to sail the Drake Passage and <span style="font-style: italic;">Cabo de Hornos</span>. I suspect many may have come north because of tsunami warnings, after the earthquake in the Drake earlier this week. there are five boats: some french people, three women and a man; the two Hollanders we met yesterday; and several sun-worn <span style="font-style: italic;">Chilenos</span>. we stoop to cross the threshold. inside, it smells of stale cigars. dusty national ships' flags hang over bad plaid couches and sharpie-signed photographs of travels to <span style="font-style: italic;">el territorio Antartico</span>. the bar is dark.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">on our way back to the hostel, it begins to pour, and the unpaved road-- our boots are already white with dust, dog-licked-- swells muddy, marking the terrain with a maze of what look like tiny glacial-sediment lakes.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-45056858489088331752010-01-19T14:28:00.000-08:002010-01-19T14:36:31.403-08:00they're great at paperwork, but can they swim?<span style="font-family:courier new;">19.1.10 </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">it's raining in Puerto Williams. the sun yesterday must have been a fluke. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">finally, after a day and a half of logistic gymnastics, we have a date! we swim Thursday morning-- by chance, on the 21st of January, exactly one year after our surreal Strait of Magellan crossing. Both <span style="font-style: italic;">Armadas</span> are on board, thanks to our miraculous delivery of notarised papers and the good humour and co-operation of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Chilenos</span>. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">We all had some great laughs last night, like when I had to ask why the clock marked 'Ushuaia', next to the 'Local', was twelve minutes ahead. I thought it was some sort of crack about Argentina. I think the real joke is that they have that clock there at all-- Ushuaia is just a few miles away, across the Beagle. we've agreed to call before we jump in for a swim, and once we get out, and of course if we get into any trouble-- for instance, if my bikini falls off. I'll spare my reader the details of the many other bikini jokes that have already been thrown around the <span style="font-style: italic;">Armada</span> offices. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">now for more important tasks, like finding a place to swim....</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-57171368842084579072010-01-18T14:05:00.000-08:002010-01-18T14:19:22.451-08:00make that a double<span style="font-family: courier new;">the communications rodeo continues. Cristian is in full force on this trip-- it's not often that we see him in <span style="font-style: italic;">get it done</span> mode. thick wet rain outside our cafe-office; the tall sea-green church against the calliope-striped mountains in my view.<br /><br />we've just heard from Ushuaia that the Argentinian <span style="font-style: italic;">Armada</span> won't be willing to have a second boat meet us, so we now have to convince the Chileans to take the boats all the way across the border.<br /><br />the distance they'd have us swim, frankly, is so small that it looks like we'll be able to do a double-crossing, and just leave the boats in the middle. <br /><br />the small caveat: we'll have to clear immigration on the Argentinian shore. Seriously. <br /><br />sigh, all those jokes about carrying our passports under our caps...<br /></span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-31617301052208704852010-01-18T13:46:00.000-08:002010-01-18T14:04:59.863-08:00armed with two armadas<span style="font-family: courier new;">18.1.10</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">you might suspect that the <span style="font-style: italic;">Armada</span> in Puerto Williams doesn't have much to do; the population here hovers around 2500, and most people are either related to Naval personnel or just passing through. But our appointment this afternoon proves otherwise: a Dutch couple with matching trekker-outfits, who have made their way from Holland over the past two years in their 13-meter boat and are planning to sail around the Cape; a small family of Britons whose small girl is mistranslating an admiral's instructions for obtaining visas for Antarctica; three wacky swimmers; and assorted others demanding attention for diverse needs. we finally make it into the map room with a small crew of willing sailors.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">the Beagle, despite logistical<span style="font-family: courier new;"> issues<span style="font-family: courier new;"> for which we came entirely unprepared-- the Chilean <span style="font-style: italic;">Armada</span> will support us<span style="font-family: courier new;">, but only as far as the Argentinian border, which means that we have to prove our credentials not only to the Chileans, but also to the Argentinians who are in Ushuaia, many miles away on the other side of the Beagle-- seems eminently swimmable. the water is slightly warmer than the Strait of Magellan, surprisingly, and the place the <span style="font-style: italic;">Armada </span>will have us swim is a much shorter distance than the 6k we ended up covering last January. On the flip side, we won't have showers or anywhere to warm up<span style="font-family: courier new;"> after the swim, so we'll have to come prepared to shiver violently in whatever warm items we have.<br /><br />Once again, we're all amazed at the logistical genius of Lynne Cox, who went this far with absolutely no precedent.<br /></span></span></span></span></span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-79721367573306231302010-01-18T13:38:00.000-08:002010-01-18T13:45:53.963-08:00muchos castores<span style="font-family:courier new;">18.1.10</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">short, brilliant hop from punta arenas to puerto williams, flying safely in the hands of a retired air force general on a tiny DAP plane with eight other passengers. giant seapurple kelp beds spot the Strait of Magellan--grand; whitecap-dotted; cerulean blue. the mountains emerge before the Beagle, spotted with pristine white glaciers. it's like flying over the remnants of the Ice Age. the land from the air-- I can't help but think of Audubon drawings-- seems wild, populated only with invisible beavers, who I assume have left behind the large clearings in the forests dotted with broken piles of trees, spilled out like toothpicks. I vaguely recall reading something about beavers having been introduced to Patagonia, sometime in recent decades, to try and spark some fur trade here- resulting, of course, in overpopulation-- 50 animals rapidly became 50,000. when someone in Punta Arenas mentioned that people in Puerto Williams eat <span style="font-style: italic;">muchos castores</span>, I thought they were just making a bad joke. when we do get some internet access, which is of course scant despite Cristian's valiant but somewhat futile communications operation, I'll look it up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">we land at the Puerto Williams 'airport' -- really a long runway and a small waiting room, with a chainsaw casually resting on a counter in the ladies' room. sure enough, the only sound that cuts through the fresh, crisp air is the sound of falling wood on a not-too-distant mountain slope. it's beyond alpine here, all tiny whiteyellowviolet flowers and moo-cows, whitesnow-spotted blackbrown even-peaked mountain ranges lining the sparkling Beagle Channel. I've spotted at least ten kinds of ducks in the few hours we've been here. the town is compact, a woodsmoke-scented Armada base with a few alpinist-type shops and bright colored houses seated on the slope, as if watching the circus-tent merriment of the stripedmountain-lined Channel. the quiet is friendly-- perhaps the water cuts not just the landscape, but the sound quality of its wild ambience.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7610327000655665887.post-67746229085361651632010-01-18T13:31:00.000-08:002010-01-18T13:41:01.406-08:00cultural sweep<span style="font-family:courier new;">18.1.10</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">in the morning, Jose Miguel drove us to the airport, stopping off at the beach for a photo session at the Strait-- perhaps we'll make <span style="font-style: italic;">El Mercurio</span> again. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">waiting for the others to wake, I read in <span style="font-style: italic;">El Pinguino</span> about the 'Patagonia Expedition Challenge', a growing race that combines trekking, bicycling and kayaking through both the Strait of Magellan and <span style="font-style: italic;">El Canal Beagle</span>. despite my (obvious?) ability to relate to the impulse behind extreme individual athleticism in remote, beautiful places, I puzzle over the mental image of sixty triathletes bringing intense competition with them to one of the most remote-yet-populated places on the planet. I'm not even here to compete with the Natural World, though at times, of course, I do feel that I pit myself against the elements in order to see what I'm made of. I'm here to commune with nature, one of the best rewards of just a few years of hard, consistent training. the growing number of tourists to Antarctica; the single travelers we've encountered making their way around the south over months of travel; the cultural creep of American individualism-- I haven't totally made sense of what this means to me yet. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">we are juggling logistics of all sorts, without private space-- I'm holding four conversations as I write this. our Beagle swim, thus far, presents myriad challenges.</span>Rachel Golub.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14102087980092111560noreply@blogger.com0