IMAGES:
JAMIE
LAFFE
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look around and pull over for photos as I choose.
Pastoral lands are plucked by black-faced ibis
and belligerent southern lapwings, while the
roadside is patrolled by idiotic chickens and
lethargic dogs. Beyond them, poplar trees
yellow in the autumnal sun; eventually, they’re
joined by araucaria — known by the less
elegant moniker ‘monkey puzzle trees’ in
English — which are stubbornly remaining
the hue of wilted spinach. The air is almost
frightfully pure, the only variance coming
when the sun warms the pine trees, perfuming
the road. By the time I reach a viewpoint on
the southern shore of Lake Ranco, the sky is
cycling through a display of kaleidoscopic
colours. All seems right with the world.
Waking up in Futangue Park the next
morning, I realise I should have known better.
A private park with an on-site hotel, it receives
almost 13ft of rainfall a year, almost four
times that of my native Glasgow, a city not
exactly known as arid. Back in my waterproof
clothing, I’m taken into the park by Tomas
Rodriguez, a guide who’s nearing the end of a
damp first few months working here.
Along the way, he points to evidence of
the relentless competition for daylight in the
forest — vines entwine with trombones of
damp fungus that have hitched a ride on
trees that have bested their neighbours.It’s a Black Friday stampede in slow motion.
We’re mostly admiring the flora, but Tomas
explains that there’s some rare fauna here,
too, including the kodkod, or güiña, a tiny
wildcat that’s as cute as a baby’s toes, although
essentially invisible.
We’ve almost no hope of seeing one of
them, but we are going to attempt to find
another rare animal, the critically endangered
Darwin’s frog. Tomas explains the technique
for finding it — instructions I can just about
hear as raindrops machine gun against my
hood. “They’re almost impossible to see,” says
my guide, “so we need to get a stick and run it
across the ground. Hopefully it’ll make them
jump. Oh, and please do not step on any frogs.
They’re already in trouble.”
I wonder if this is a good time of year to
be looking for these rare amphibians. “Not
really,” says Tomas with incongruous cheer.
“The breeding season has finished, and
they’ve mostly gone away.”
I follow the guide along the mulchy path,
stroking the ground with my now-damp
stick, trying to provoke nonexistent frogs into
jumping. For a second, I’m sure I’ve found one,
before I realise a fat raindrop has hit a fallen
leaf so hard it’s flipped it over.
Non-intrepid travellers have no need
to worry, there’s comfort to be had in this
part of Chile — lavish hotels have been
built to cater to every level of budget.
Squelching through puddles, my enthusiasm
lower than a slug’s belly, I begin to again
question my own curiosity. Should I really be
thinking about warm showers, comfortable
beds and pisco sours at a time like this?
Shouldn’t I be more focused on trying to find
this brown frog?
“Here we are,” says Tomas after about
20 minutes. Darwin’s frog is so imperilled
that he dons a pair of blue surgical glovesI follow the guide
along the mulchy
path, stroking the
ground with my
now-damp stick,
trying to provoke
nonexistent frogs
into jumping
From left: Monkey puzzle trees are
abundant through the Araucanía
region of central Chile; a distant view of
the active Villarrica volcano