Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had it easy.
When they drove their fat cattle to market a century ago, over these trails cut deep into the alerce forests of southern Chile, the outlaws may have kept an eye out for the Pinkertons but they surely did not have to contend with El Nino.
This Southern Hemisphere summer, the dreaded Pacific weather system has turned sections of these 300-year-old Patagonian trails to slop. Condors may soar overhead, and trees older than California’s redwoods tower on all sides, but our eyes are firmly on the vilest mud we’ve ever seen, great seething trenches of mud, mud just waiting to suck your shoes off.
Our 10-day “Butch and Sundance Trail” horseback tour, which traces the famed fugitives’ route over the Andes Mountains, was never supposed to be easy. The trip “has nothing in common with a Sunday stroll in the park,” our outfitter noted right up front.
But the ride, despite its hardships and largely because of them, is also one of the best thrills in South America, a chance not just to see mountain scenery far removed from the well-trampled tourist track and romp through a bit of history but also to ride back to an earlier age, a time of hand-hewn log cabins and crystal streams and partnership with a horse to whom you trust your life.
As a quick shapeup program, the rigorous ride also wins high marks, as long as you don’t mind baths in cold mountain lakes and a diet centered on roast goat.
The tour, which runs once a month during Chile’s summer–November to March–starts from Campo Aventura, a ranch just outside the Pacific coastal fishing village of Cochamo, once a major meat-packing center for much of the southern Andean region of Chile and Argentina.
At the turn of the century, when Butch, Sundance and Sundance’s wife, Etta Place, managed a ranch in Argentina’s Cholila Valley, coastal Cochamo was where their cattle met their end, after an arduous drive over the Andes.
Today the trail, which the American fugitives knew as the Cochamo Road, remains much as it was a century ago. In the dark rain forest hung with brilliant purple and red fuchsia it is a deep trench cut into the forest floor by generations of cloven hooves. The trail scrambles over boulder fields, beneath stunning granite peaks and the snow-capped Andes, climbing wind-robbing passes and then plunging down again across clear rivers and green alpine valleys.
We set out to traverse it the same way the outlaws did–on sturdy criollo mountain horses. These are animals that, we quickly find out, think nothing of plunging 15 feet off a ravine ledge, hauling a rider and 40 pounds of gear up a near-vertical trail or tiptoeing over a skinny pair of shaking logs to cross a roaring stream.
“Organic tanks,” admiringly observes Jeb Barton, a longtime rider from Bend, Ore., and one of the five paying members of our outfit, quickly dubbed “The Hole in the Sky Gang” in honor of Butch, Sundance and the ozone hole looming over much of Patagonia.
Then again, as Jeb observes later, maybe our steeds are just crosses–between goats and 19-hand warmblood sport horses. Another participant, Barbara Banks, calls them, simply, “mythical creatures.”
At any rate we’re deeply impressed, particularly after we find out no one has suffered any kind of major injury in the five years the ride has operated, thanks largely to the careful work of the guides. That’s good news because Clark Stede, the German owner of Campo Aventura and Outsider travel agency, which organizes the trips, helpfully notes that there are only two points on the entire trail where we might be rescued by helicopter if something went wrong.
He’s exaggerating. Still, the ride is more than adventure enough for four wandering gringos and our Swiss sidekick. And that’s even before we got to the mud.
Day 1: Campo Aventura to La Junta
We’ve been warned in advance to pack light but just how light we learn only as we begin to stuff our paltry gear into our even more paltry red waterproof saddle rolls.
After jamming in our tents, cold-weather sleeping bags, insulation mats, flashlights, camp mugs, soap, toothbrushes, bandages, towels, sunscreen, camp sandals, waterproof pants, lightweight ponchos and long underwear for sleeping we discover we have room left for exactly one change of underwear.
Actually we all manage to fit in one spare pair of pants and a shirt as well, not a lot for a 10-day ride–but if it doesn’t fit it’s not going. Fortunately we’ve already discovered that the huge orange-and-black horseflies buzzing in clouds around the camp–January-only visitors, we’re told–prefer dark-colored and plush fabrics, so half our clothing has already been chucked. Even so there’s a lot of groaning and huffing and sitting on bags before they’ll close.
Soon, however, we’re mounted up and on oury way out of camp, trailing Ernesto, our young Chilean gaucho guide, and with Manuela, Stede’s quietly competent head hand from Vienna, riding sweep.
We ride beside the crystal Cochamo River toward the Andes, passing stands of blooming pink foxglove and fuchsia shrubs covered in red and purple droplets that Ernesto pops into his mouth from time to time. Manuela warns us not to try similar orange ones, used as a hallucinogen by the Mapuche Indians who once roamed the area.
We clamber over boulders, across rivers, through a magnificent temperate rain forest thick with green moss and tiny ferns, and onto remnants of what once was a log road, built in the 1800s to keep the cattle out of the worst of the mud. Unfortunately, Chile’s government quickly realized the paved trail also provided an ideal invasion route for nearby Argentina’s army, and so destroyed much of it.
At times the trail, cut into the soft soil, becomes a trench as deep as a mounted rider, and we peer eye-level at the forest floor.
Before nightfall, after passing the remnants of an old Butch and Sundance cabin set in a sunny field of purple yarrow and daisies, we cross the Rio Cochamo and climb to La Junta, Campo Aventura’s mountain camp, set beneath a granite face nearly identical to Yosemite’s Half Dome. We’re tired but revived by a dinner of roast lamb, cooked on a spit around a pit fire, and the prospect of a bunk in the camp’s charming guest house.
Day 2: La Junta to El Arco
After a breakfast of fried sopapillas smothered in blackberry jam, we load our own horses for the first time–and consequently spend much of the morning stopping to reposition our listing gear.
Eliane Kunzle, who teaches riding to the handicapped in Switzerland, quietly opts to put her foam sleeping mat under the seat of her Chilean saddle, a deep-seated contraption topped with a sheepskin-padded seat and leather overgirths. She is, of course, teased for being, well, not exactly a tenderfoot.
Soon the grunting horses are plunging over drops in the trail. A hearty “Oh my God!” wafts back from time to time.
Barbara, in imperfect Spanish, tells Ernesto she’s a little worried about her horse’s left hind avocado (palta) rather than foot (pata). Ernesto smiles.
We dismount to let the horses scramble through huge boulder rockfalls and trenches of hock-deep mud. We climb over the mud, our feet firmly braced on either side of the trench, a comical display of half-splits in mid-air. Barbara, an experienced trekker from Berkeley-based Wilderness Travel, assures us this is an accepted hiking technique. We look doubtful.
As we climb higher, back in the saddle once again, we spot a condor circling overhead. The trees turn slowly to alerces, ancient cousins of the redwoods and a species that has nearly vanished in most of Chile. Here there are dozens, some more than 2,000 years old.
We camp at El Arco, a stone arch vaulted over a waterfall. In the distance high granite walls rise on all sides, the snow-capped Andes towering beyond.
Day 3: The mud
In the advance literature, Clark Stede had noted that “Chilean summer weather is on the average dry.” However, “should it rain, it rains heavily.”
Overnight it rains. Heavily. We emerge from our tents in ponchos, down our morning bread, cheese and sausage in silence under a rough shelter of thick alerce planks, shove our soggy tents into our formerly dry packs and prepare to ride.
We don’t ride far. Old Rainrot, as we’ve christened Barbara’s horse, a grouchy dark bay officially known as Flashlight, whacks his hoof on a protruding tree root and goes hopping along three-legged for a few strides.
I wince but breathe a sigh of relief. Surely we’ll now camp an extra day here and wait for the horse to feel better and for the trails ahead to dry out. No such luck. Old Rainrot, as it turns out, quickly gets over it. Soon we’re on the move again.
And soon we dismount. The mud’s too deep for the horses to carry us, Manuela says, so we’ll walk a little.
We do walk–for nearly the rest of the seven-hour day, through some of the muddiest hellholes from your worst nightmares–great sucking, seething vats of mud.
We sit down to lunch in the steady rain, a cheerless meal improved only by the timely emergence from Manuela’s saddlebag of a warming bottle of pisco sour, Chile’s national cocktail. Even Jeb, generally a teetotaler, silently accepts a sip–and then a slug.
With the bottle nearly gone we’re on our way again, slipping and sliding, our sadly lightweight ponchos shredded–until we reach the point where the trail divides into two horrifying choices: a steep climb through a thick forest of bamboo or a slog through a long vat of mud plunging away out of sight.
I’m exhausted, and on a happy pisco glow. As my teammates sigh and turn to climb, I give up. I plunge in and become One With the Mud.
As it turns out, the mud is far faster and lots more fun. I slide along on the stuff, occasionally falling into the glop. I relive my childhood.
Finally, just a half-hour from our destination, we mount our soggy horses again, ride out of the mud onto flat farmland at the edge of stunning Lake Vidal, pitch our tents in the rain, throw our clothes into an agreeable farmer’s smokehouse to dry and collapse.
Day 4: Lake Vidal
Fortunately, today has been scheduled as a rest day. My knees feel as if they will never bend again. An even more pressing problem, however, is the general odor in the tent. I emerge early in the morning in nothing but my bikini and Tevas and soap myself by the farmer’s water barrel, tossing mugfuls of freezing water over my body as the steam from my breath rises in the misty air.
The chickens watch in amazement.
After a rejuvenating breakfast of eggs, fresh milk and the absolutely delectable local honey we’ve come to adore, we watch a wild-eyed black goat being dragged past our now-sunny camp. Soon a goat carcass is hanging from a pole nearby and for dinner we have fresh goat soup, served on the family’s dinner table in their snugly warm house.
Day 5: Lake Vidal
Still stiff, horses and riders alike, we head off this morning along windswept Lake Vidal, riding through a heavy mist that lifts as the day passes. For a brief three hours we follow a trail that climbs and plunges over hills edging the 11-mile-long lake, then pull in at a farm at the other end, one of just three settlements along the huge brilliant blue lake.
We pitch our tents in a sunny meadow spilling away to the water, enjoy a swim and a deep drink of the clear water and relax.
The farm is home to our guide Ernesto’s mother-in-law and where his wife, Blanca, grew up, so for dinner we have a treat with our goat dinner: fresh lettuce and a homemade cherry cake, baked in the wood stove with the family’s tiny stock of sugar and white flour, brought on packhorse from a trading post several days’ ride away. In this world far beyond the reach of electricity, running water and 24-hour corner markets, the warmth of the hospitality is as moving as the scenery.
After dinner, we toss bits of goat fat to the family’s chickens and soon are treated to a race: “There’s the white chicken in the lead,” Jeb calls it, “and the speckled chicken coming up fast on the outside. . . .”
Soon small pigs are galloping behind the chickens, who burst into short flights when the pigs get too close. The family’s small children fall in behind the pigs, and soon we’re all laughing too hard to breathe.
As we stroll to our tents, the sky is a blaze of stars scattered across a rich Milky Way, the Southern Cross blazing just above the horizon.
Day 6: Leaving Lake Vidal
This morning we heft our packs onto the horses only to find our hosts doing the same–they’re headed to Bariloche, the Vail of Argentina, for a shopping trip that will take a week or so.
We nibble on tiny blue berries ripe on a low-lying shrub along the trail, then follow the path as it dives steeply to the rushing Manso River.
Here we leave our hosts, who follow the trail to Bariloche, while we take the even older cattle trail through the Rio Manso Valley, a World Heritage site designated for its remote beauty.
The near-vertical trail climbs the side of the Andean valley, affording stunning views of the river pounding through the narrow canyon below. The horses climb with hardly a pause to pant along a narrow trail edged with yellow lilies and pink foxglove.
By late afternoon the rain has started again. We ride over the last steep hills to a ramshackle farmhouse, where we race to get our tents up in a field overlooking the roaring river far below.
I crawl into my sleeping bag, worried that the sole of my boot will not survive another day of rain. Karla, who had made a sitting dismount from her horse, Dakota, on one part of the steep trail, also had managed to step in a hole and thrown her back out slightly. Eliane’s sleeping bag stinks so badly she can hardly bear it. Jeb has repaired his ripped rain poncho with the last of Barbara’s tent repair tape.
I look at my tattered poncho and will the rain to stop by morning.
Day 7: Manso River Valley
Of course it doesn’t. Using green mint dental floss I sew up the front of my poncho, put a plastic bag over my foot and trudge up the hill on a boot now held together by a shoelace and two bits of rubber tubing.
The rain falls on and off all day, but thankfully the brutally steep trail is rocky rather than muddy.
In the afternoon, we ride into a broad valley and come across a small country store. Sure enough, among the bags of rice and bars of soap, there’s a pair of black rubber farm boots, miraculously in just my size. The bill is $15. We all down sodas and chocolate bars in celebration and buy a four-pack of toilet paper.
Before dusk, our ponchos gathered about us in a cold rain, we arrive at a ranch sprawled along a rocky stretch of the Manso River under the snow-capped Andes looming overhead. Barbara and I decide to sleep in the farmer’s toasty smokehouse on a pile of old sheepskins rather than brave the soggy tent. Instead we’re invited into the family’s house and shown to beds with thick wool mattresses topped with foot-thick, fluffed-down comforters. We look at each other in guilty delight and dive in, blowing out our candle as the rain pours down outside.
Day 8: Lake Tagua-Tagua
This morning, a new adventure–a ferry ride across Lake Tagua-Tagua on a wooden barge towed with a pair of ski ropes by an Evinrude-powered speedboat.
The horses balk, and I’m a little suspicious myself. Soon, however, we’ve all been dragged onboard and are chugging down the lake, past rushing waterfalls.
We camp at the far side of the lake on a black-sand beach near a grove of trees. The lake is an inviting Caribbean blue-green and I go in for a swim, emerging fresh and hypothermic.
Day 9: Manso River Valley
We wake to sunshine and the bellowing of cows echoing off the walls of the lake canyon. Hefting our red saddle rolls one last time, we mount up and ride off along the edge of the lake and the Puelo River below.
We pass a little church, its tin roof and cemetery crosses painted baby blue, and a series of waterfalls. The road turns to gravel.
Soon we’re on a final modern ferry across the river, our arms around our horses’ necks, shocked at the prospect of leaving them. We’re even more shocked when just up the road in Puelo–the end of our trail–we unsaddle and walk for lunch into a guest house complete with running water, toilets, electricity and even a phone. We eat silently, our clothes still smelling of smokehouses and another age.
Day 10: Campo Aventura
In the morning, we return with our horses by car and truck to Cochamo and Campo Aventura. There, as we load our luggage into Clark’s pickup for the trip to Puerto Montt, we watch as our horses are trotted out for a new set of clients. We stand protectively beside them, a hand on their solid necks. How can anyone else ride these partners of ours who have become friends?
Moments later, though, they’ve disappeared down the trail, and we’re hurtling back to the 20th Century.
That night we celebrate with a dinner of southern Chile’s famed seafood. Then, as the Hole in the Sky Gang–all dressed in gaucho jackets, broad bolero hats and other Chilean cowboy gear from the Angelmo market in Puerto Montt–strolls down the sidewalk together for the last time, the locals step aside and smile.
“Bonanza!” says one, with a grin.
Butch and Sundance would have been proud.
DETAILS ON TRAIL TREKS
Getting there: The best connections to Puerto Montt, Chile, are through Santiago; Puerto Varas is just a short drive from Puerto Montt. United Airlines (with its partners) has a round-trip fare of $1,358 between Chicago and Puerto Montt, though bargain fares as low as $800 are available much of the year.
Booking the adventure: Campo Aventura, based at the Outsider travel agency in Puerto Varas, Chile, runs five or six 10-day Butch and Sundance Trail horse treks each year, November through March. The ride, part of a 14-day package that also features a day of whitewater rafting on the Petrohue River, an overnight at the agency’s charming posada in Puerto Varas and all transfers, costs $1,980, excluding air fare. A $1,000 deposit must be made at the time of booking with the remainder due a month before arrival.
Shorter two-day rides, with an overnight at the La Junta camp, also are available for around $225.
Trips can be booked by contacting Outsider Outdoor and Adventure Travel at San Bernardo 318, Puerto Varas, X Region, Chile; phone or fax 011-56-65-232910; e-mail: OUTSIDER@TELSUR.CL. Agents speak English and Spanish.
What to bring: Riders on the trail–also called the Gaucho Trail–spend most nights in comfortable tents, provided by the outfitter. All meals are included. Guides speak English, Spanish and German–be sure to insist on one that speaks your language.
Riders must bring their own sleeping bags. Clark Stede, the outfitter, suggests a 32-degree-Fahrenheit-rated bag, but most of the riders on our trip brought zero-degree bags and were glad they did. Temperatures in sunny weather vary from about 77 to 50 degrees during the day, but nighttime temperatures and those in rainy periods can be cooler. Invest in a compression sack for the sleeping bag as well, the better to leave room in your pack for your toothbrush.
Riders must also bring their own 40- to 60-liter waterproof snap-shut duffels, sold under brand names of Ortlieb, Cascade or Sealine. Also recommended are an inflatable sleeping bag mat, small flashlight, long underwear for sleeping, a pair of camp sandals such as Tevas, a cowboy hat or other broad-brimmed hat to keep out rain and sun, two pairs of lightweight riding pants (jeans are simply too heavy), hiking boots with gaiters or half-chaps to keep out mud and water, two light-colored long-sleeved shirts–white, pink or beige–to reflect the hot Patagonian sun and deflect the horseflies, sunglasses, a pair of waterproof pants (my Dutch Harbor lightweight overalls worked spectacularly), a heavy-duty poncho or riding slicker (don’t bring the throwaway ponchos mentioned in the gear list) and a lightweight plastic coffee mug, water bottle and silverware.
You may also want to throw in a small supply of duct tape, spare shoelaces, zip-lock bags, rubber bands and, of course, ever-useful dental floss. According to the outfitters it rained more on our trip than ever in the history of the ride, creating unusually muddy conditions. But it’s better to be prepared!
The comfortable Chilean saddles provided (a more padded variation on an Australian saddle) make riding with either a backpack or jammed fanny pack difficult because of their high backs and fronts. You may want to experiment with some type of chest strap for a large camera or simply tuck a small camera into a small waistpack that can be worn over one hip.
Luggage storage is available at Campo Aventura, though it is not secure for anything of value beyond clothes and basic gear, the outfitter warns.
Be prepared: The trip, as Campo owner Clark Stede explains in his literature, “has a true adventure character. Previous horse riding experience is necessary. A good average level of fitness is desirable as well as keen motivation to enjoy the great outdoors in a small team atmosphere.”
