SAILING TO CLIMB WEST COAST OF CHILE
PELAGIC/SKIP NOVAK

The rugged, largely fjorded west coast of Chile south of Puerto Montt stretches for 1000 lonely miles before ending abruptly at Cape Horn. Largely unpopulated save for a few fishing and timber settlements and the sad remnants of what were the indigenous "canoe Indians " who once navigated the intricate channels, this region can best be described as "beyond the frontier." It is too wet to graze stock, too steep to grow crops and its reputation for miserable weather with an incessant wind, snow storms in summer, and a rainfall measured in several meters - paradoxically portend its bright future in that inspite of himself, man will hopefully choose to leave it alone.

With these attractions in store, "Base Camp" PELAGIC pointed her bow south from wintering quarters in Valdivia. Our crew of five were a combined team of mountain climbers and sailors on a seven week delivery with the express purpose of climbing virgin summits along the way which are otherwise inaccessible to those without sea transport. We had also agreed to provide logistic support to a three man Swiss Italian team who were setting out on an ambitious north/south traverse of the Patagonian Icecap.

We were already late by our October 11 departure. We were after all in South America, so lateness must be expected in all things, but normally Chileans "rise early" so it was even more annoying when a sea freight shipment from England with vital equipment and spare parts failed to arrive and arrangements had to be made for transhipment further south. "Vital equipment" must be qualified, as meaning most responsible yachtsmen wouldn't have set sail without them: VHF radio, HF radio tuner and depth sounder , all of which had been under repair, a new liferaft, a new staysail and boxes of other less essentials. But we had to go and make believe. As Dr. Jonson so often loved to say, "Conveniences are never missed where they were never enjoyed." In fact, we did have hand held VHF's, we could do without the BBC Worldservice just this once, and our leadline combined with a lifting keel serves as a complimentary depth sounder, as good as any when operating in uncharted waters which we would be. The liferaft was a sore point, (like a fool I had prematurely sold the old one to a member of the Valdivia Yacht Club) but then again we had two inflatables dinghys.

The Chilean Navy who administer these waters take themselves very seriously and it is their habit of coming on heavy to let you know this fact, after which they become as courteous as a London Bobby. I was reasonably certain, however, that if they discovered we had no liferaft (in one of their impromptu inspections which were not uncommon) we would not be allowed to sail. But it was not the liferaft that almost did us in, but the absence of a red flag when fueling just prior to departure. (I had sold the signal flags ages ago). Peter, a quick thinker, met the request by taking off his red sweater and hoisting it aloft without delay. . The Navy was not amused and charged the offending article like a raging bull. After alot of footstomping and angry exchanges it then transpired that the officer was upset not by the sweater, but by the fact that we had first lowered the Chilean courtesty flag, something he said we should never do.

We were given our clearance soon after and paid for our sins by having to beat offshore against a southerly down to Canal Chacao which leads to the inshore waters. Northerly winds predominate all year along this coast, but iunfortunately there is a southerly component in September and October which found us. Luckily this petered out as we motored down the coast of Chiloe Island (postulated by some as being the home port of the potato) having to miss the scenic town of Castro this trip as were were just on time to pick up the Swiss in Puerto Chaca Buco 200 miles south.

It was a crystal clear day, with distances typically deceptive and naturally all talk optimistically centered around mountains to climb. Late that afternoon we were abeam of a majestically snow clad volcano called the "Corcovado" which towers above the beech forest to 7,500 feet only 4 miles from the mainland shore. It required only logic to realize that we had no time for a "quick ascent." There is nothing worse for a climber than looking at a mountain and knowing he is passing up a stellar opportunity. Like the frustrated Ishmael in the opening page of Moby Dick, we, as well, felt like "knocking peoples hats off." Instead, our taxi to adventures further south carried on and we were content to vent frustrations by chinning ourselves in the rigging.

By early the next morning the wind had changed back into the north and blew hard with rain and sleet while we careened along through the narrow channels under triple reefed mainand poled out jib. It was a cold spring day and as is the case, there was less gesticulating and more quiet speculation about conditions up high while we huddled in the doghouse. We pulled up alongside a floating pontoon at 1500 that afternoon and the Swiss, on time as expected, arrived by minibus from the airport at Coihaique with a mountain of equipment. Puerto Chaca Buco is nothing more than a port which has superceded Puerto Aisen a few miles up what is now a largely unnavigable river. More significantly it is the last terminus with road links to the north of Chile and a deep water facility.

The young naval rating on duty at the Port Captains office was befuddled with the paperwork required for "yates," so much so that off duty officers had to be consulted which resulted in much headshaking and buckpassing. This was understandable when I was told that we were only the second "yate" to have stopped here since last January. Romulo, the Swiss leader of the ice cap contingent made matters worse when he told them their party of three would not be continuing with the boat after the drop-off in Laguna San Rafael. More obscure documentation for this special scenario had to be unearthed and by the next morning all permissions were in order. We sailed immediately for the furthest southern tourist attraction for cruise ships based from the north which is a large lagoon at the end of a 100 mile system of canals and fjords. Here the San Rafael glacier discharges icebergs into the sea from the 'Helio Norte' or northern icecap and is a natural wonder in any man's language.

On the way down the weather was relentless with visibility down to a mile and the mountains from tops to shoreline shrouded in thick cloud. Although we were in sheltered waters, the Swiss were cowering in the doghouse with looks of deep concern on their faces and we thought that the savage weather in general was giving them second thoughts about their project. But when one, then two of them embraced the deck buckets like a mother embraces a child, we could understand what was the real problem. "If there is one thing in the world," said Mark Twain, "that will make a man peculiarly and insufferably self-conceited, it is to have his stomach behave itself the first day at sea, when all his comrades are seasick." Professional climbers are stoic by nature and used to levels of discomfort many serious yachtsmen would find unbearable if not unbeleivable. We were not self-conceited, but admit to being amused about how easily these "hard men of the mountains" (which they certainly were) were subjugated by sensations heretofore unknown to them. Consider you, as a sailor never having been in the high mountains and you were immediately left dangling from a ropes end over a bottomless crevass - therein lies the empathy.

Early the following morning we disembarked the three who quickly came to life. Hamish commented that he had seen the look on their faces before - when all contingencies of failed transport, lost shipments and a general dependence on others was at an end. They had their equipment in tact at the beginning of what was to become an extraordinary expedition. Our first committment was over. We then had agreed to meet them 22 days later on the southern edge of the icecap above Seno Steffen near the mouth of the Rio Baker, having hopefully reconnoitred the route off the icecap and down the valley, which had never been negotiated sight unseen from the north.

In the mean time we had to sail the 100 miles back to the north, out around Peninsula Taitao and across the Golfo de Penas to Seno Steffen. Peninsula Taitao is a natural barrier discouraging light craft from the north venturing into the southern channels. With prevailing northerly winds, contrary currents and squally conditions year round, its the return trip that has made the Gulf of Sorrow a navigators legend.

The next evening we had dropped anchor in Caleta Lobato just before the offshore passage around Taitao. The uncharacteristically beautiful weather that broke that morning tempted us into staying the following day to climb a granite rock wall above the cove. Part of the fun is finding your way to these climbs which could involve bushwacking through thick scrub of flowering barberry alive with hummingbirds before tunneling through a dark, dripping wet beech forest, where in some parts you unknowingly can find yourself balancing precariously on rotten logs 20 feet above the forest floor. By the end of a long day on the granite Pelagic had been reduced to a toy boat afloat in a long green bathtup.

When we reached Seno Steffen two days later we immediately sounded a shallow cove at the end of the fjord which would be Pelagics base with Hamish and Jan standing by perfecting the king crab trap and other activities while Frank, Peter and I tried to get up onto the ice cap. The first day Hamish and I made a recce with the dinghy and found the river navigable up to the snout of the glacier 4 miles from the fjord. The following day the three of us were off with full equipment and provisions for ten days. A freak accident in the river rapids resulting in the swamping of the dinghy forced a return to Pelagic for repairs (broken transom), a dry out and a hasty repacking session as our time (we had hoped to get a climb in before the Swiss popped out) was running short. After a days struggle we managed to get the load up to the snout where we made camp in a most dramatic setting in that the cracked tongue of the glacier which began miles away up on the icecap was resting on the placid surface of a mirror lake.

We had high hopes when we set off heavily laden the following morning, but the good weather meant the Swiss would have been seriously on the move and the chance of their early arrival was likely. Sure enough, later that day, just as we were getting close to gaining the ice, Romulo and company stumbled out of the calafate bushes right in our path. They were bronzed and eroded like walnuts, wore nunted expressions, but otherwise were in good shape and very glad to see us! Their big concern was the exit down into Seno Steffen and for the first time in 12 days they could relax. Romulo admitted to me he had felt more vulnerable on this traverse than at any other time during his extensive thirty years of climbing. Without the exceptionally good weather it could have been so very different.

I was reminded what the climber turned sailor Bill Tilman had said, "The perils of the sea are les apparent than the perils of climbing and have to be carefully assessed. In climbing the penalty for a mistake is obvious and is sometimes exacted instantaneously, so that on the whole there are far feweer foolish climbers than foolish amatuer sailors."

The next two days we ferried all the loads back to Pelagic and made immediately for the timber port of Tortel on the mouth of the mighty Rio Baker. Here the Swiss would reprovision from supplies left on Pelagic, rest up, communicate back home and then set off again on the other side of the river to attempt the Helio Sur, or southern icecap.

Tortel has a population of 300 and is obviously heavily supported as an outpost by the government. The chief industry is a loading point for cypress logs which are cut by "madereros" (woodcutters) who work mainly alone, by felling and shaping the trees in the bush. They then drag the baulks of timber to a river by horse, build a raft of say 200 logs, then float the raft downstream to be eventually towed by a fishing boat to Tortel. When asked how long it took to build his raft which made my back ache just being next to it, the wiry "maderero" named Louis claimed the incredible time of only two weeks.

With one general store and several kiosks, a school, gymnasium (we were challenged to a game of basketball by the locals) and little else, Tortel is tranquility epitomized. They have few outside vistors inspite of a small airstrip astride the river. I was fascinated by the construction of a hospital that is high up on a hill overlooking the bay. I didn't count the steps to get there, but it was an arduos ascent and I can't imagine the theory of its location other than the principle of Catch 22: If you're fit enough to get there you shouldn't be there in the first place.

After another bout of bureaucracy with the friendly Port Captan and a new set of papers we sailed the 15 miles south to the snout of the Jorge Montt Glacier. There was a family living near by that the three Swiss would stay with for a few days to prepare themselves for their journey south. Possibly this stretch could take them 50 days, and if successful they would hae linked up the two traverses for the first time which would indeed be a major feat of mountaineering.

There was no anchorage near by and at once a fresh northerly with snow showers descended on us all and an angry chop was setting us, along with several large bergy bits onto the lee shore beach. It was no place to linger. Without ceremony we offloaded their gear onto the fishing boat that had come out to meet us and had a quick, but emotional farewell. We had mountans to climb - and they had to get on with their business. We made plans to meet in Europe in the spring. Those unforgettable faces of adventure, people who do things for the doing, were lost all too quickly in shrouds of blown snow.