Postcards from Kevin: Breathtaking Avalanches

Cruising in Patagonia makes the Caribbean look cheap

By Kevin Raub
Published: Dec 01, 2007

Admittedly, having just recently been through two earthquake-sized after shocks in Lima, Peru, I'm a little on edge, even from this sequestered location in the heart of breathtaking Chilean Patagonia. It was the sound that startled me. As I sit here struggling to master the subtle art of fly-fishing along one of the most beautiful mountain streams I have ever seen — I really couldn't care less about fly-fishing, by the way — I hear an apocalyptic rumble in the distance. It's a loud crack, followed by a locomotive-esque wave of roar that seems far enough away to not overtake me at any moment, but close enough to stop me in my tracks and leave me scanning the horizon for this muffled source of awful.

Then I see it, high up on a mountain that is currently looming in the distance, only a few miles away. An indescribable mass of snow and rock — who knows maybe a skier or two — is tumbling down the mountain with atomic force, surely annihilating anything in its path. It is not unlike images of the Twin Towers falling on Sept. 11. For a moment, time freezes as I stare in awe as the avalanche thins out and slowly dissipates into a serene patch of powder.

At first I feel divinely privileged to be here, like I just saw something that I definitely shouldn't have seen. I'm hundreds of miles south of the Southern Chilean port of Puerto Montt, the nearest city in Chile's Lake District, and the situation turns into one of those, "If a trees falls in the woods and nobody is around, does it make a sound?" situations (I can quite confidently report that it indeed does make a sound, a harrowing one). But then as I gawk in disbelief at the five more that follow over the course of the next two hours, I just feel privileged to have lived to tell about it all. This Patagonia, it's amazing.
nomad of the seas
I've wound up here after a trip on the region's newest luxury experience, Nomads of the Seas, a state-of-the-art adventure cruise that is the first to tackle one of the world's most beautifully feral regions, Patagonia, by land, water, and air (this ain't no Caribbean cruise, honey). It is a remarkably ambitious project and budget-blowingly expensive (rates start at $10,115/week for non-fishing guests, double occupancy), but can you really put a price on eyewitnessing five avalanches?

Or, the profound joy and inherent sorrow one feels when watching a Flightless Steamer Duck try and try again to get airborne, only to fail every time? This is day two. We have shot out from the Mothership, called the Atmosphere, on one of the most incredible vehicles I have ever had the privilege to ride in. It is a $350,000 Navy Seal-issued Zodiac Hurricane 920, the only one of its kind in South America. In layman's terms (though not that layman), it is a Rigid Inflatable Boat (RIB). What that means to you and me is that it tears across the rough Patagonian seas at speeds reaching 50 knots (58mph) but with the tenderness of a kayak gliding across a glistening, glass-like lake. It's pretty much the greatest amusement park ride I have ever been on, backdropped by beautiful, seemingly unexplored high seas.

In these parts, even the Magellanic Penguins are saying, "¿Que pasa?" They are popping up left and right around the boat, checking out what man-made disturbance could possible have made its way this far south. But it's the poor Flightless Steamer Ducks that garner the most awe and sympathy. As their name suggests, these cute little buggers can't fly, but nobody has yet informed them of this evolutionary oversight. As the Zodiac sails past, they wildly flap their wings attempting to take off, only to simply pitter-pat across the water like a stalled airplane. They go nowhere, yet they try again. Fantastic!

The appeal of the Atmosphere is two-fold. Naturalists will relish in the sheer magnificence of the incomparable virgin landscapes (it is heaven for photographers), while serious fly-fishing enthusiasts — a remarkably high-brow sport. Who knew? — will get off on the abundance of untapped rivers in the area. From my experience, it seems the husbands go on the daily fishing excursions (remote areas are reached by the Atmosphere's Bell 407 helicopter, piloted by ex-Chilean military pilots with a penchant for U2) while wives sip on Chilean reds and lounge on the boat's Mid Century Modern furniture, so comfortable it could immediately render an insomniac comatose. Everybody wins.

On my last day, I take a helicopter tour of the area. The yellow patches of Scot's Broom dot the landscape — the whole thing looks more or less like a French Impressionist painting of the world's most stunning valley. While I have been busy looking down, the snow-covered peak of Osorno Volcano has been busy sneaking up on me from above. We circle the summit at 8,730-feet. I look down at two or three dots on the side of the mountain and realize they are moving. People are actually climbing this thing. Lord, spare us any more avalanches.

Kevin Raub is a freelance travel and entertainment writer who contributes regularly to Travel+Leisure, Town & Country, American Way, and Organic Spa, among others. He often finds himself in precarious parts of the world, doing things his mother wholly advises against.

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