The irst major stop on the Route is Pumalín Douglas
Tompkins National Park, named in honour both of its
founder and the big cats that roam these forests. I see
it irst in glimpses from the water, 100 miles and three
ferries south of Puerto Montt: steep mountain slopes
squeeze the ocean on both sides. Black summits dusted
in white snow poke through the mist.
This was the irst parcel of land the Tompkins
purchased, back in 1991, and it’s among the more
accessible areas. I hiked to rushing waterfalls, climbed
rocky viewpoints along the coast and walked on the
slopes of the Chaitén volcano, whose summit crater
has been steaming since it erupted in 2008, sending a
plume of ash 10 miles into the atmosphere. The highlight,
though, was the alerces. These enormous trees, southern
relatives of the giant sequoia, are among the longest-
living organisms on earth. The tiny hamlet of Caleta
Gonzalo is the gateway to the park — seven hobbit-sized
cabanas, a restaurant, campground and visitor centre on
the water’s edge. Nearby, I found a grove of hundreds of
3,000-year-old trees, draped in moss, soaring hundreds
of feet to the sky. A thousand years before the irst stones
of London were laid, these trees had their roots in the
ground. They predate the Roman Empire, Buddha and
Jesus Christ. I hiked deep into the forest and found an old
giant. Touching its bark was like reaching back in time.From there, I followed the road south for a week, my
car climbing from thick jungle steam to serrated towers.
I hiked to the Hanging Glacier of Queulat National
Park, a spectacular river of ice, gaping over a 200t-high
clif, like a frozen tongue. I saw the sunset over Cerro
Castillo National Reserve, a perfect rooster’s comb of
rocky peaks, completely devoid of crowds. I found a
cave containing 7,000-year-old hand prints, let by the
Tehuelches, the original inhabitants of Patagonia, and
watched the conluence of two rivers, the bright blue
Baker and silty grey Nef, combine, like a magician’s trick,
into the brightest turquoise I’ve ever seen.
For brief sections there was tarmac, but mostly the road
was bumpy, muddy and wild. From the small frontier
town of Chile Chico to the lakeside village of Puerto
Guadal it was borderline suicidal. Picture a muddy road,
barely wide enough to it a car, hewn from enormous sea
clifs, crumbling on the edges like a frayed shirt. Picture
no barriers on the sides — or worse, the occasional
section with a car-shaped hole punched through it,
signposting the spot where a hapless motorist had
plummeted hundreds of feet down the sheer clif face.
Now picture me, sweating profusely, white-knuckling the
wheel around a narrow bend, when a truck appears. Going
in the opposite direction. If driving forwards was bad,
reversing along the outer edge to let him pass — half my
tyre balanced on nothing more than optimism and thin
air — was motoring Russian roulette.
But that’s part of the adventure. You don’t drive the
Route of Parks for a smooth ride, you drive it because
almost no one does, because coach loads of tourists
can’t and, hopefully, never will. You drive it because, like
climbing mountains to see the summit view, the best
adventures are always hard-earned.Reversing to let him pass — half my tyre
balanced on nothing more than optimism and
thin air — was motoring Russian roulette
FROM TOP: Torres del
Paine National Park;
austral blackbird,
Pumalín Douglas
Tompkins National ParkIMAGES: GETTY; MICHAEL BAYNES
October 2019 105CHILE