News from Rolex Award Winners

In November 2009, we will cross Drake’s Sea aboard of the expeditionary ship Antarctic Dream, to tackle a self-sufficient voyage for the Antarctic Peninsula.

We will seek to complete an itinerary of 1600 kilometers, following a maritime and terrestrial route never tried before, that will take them for the coast and the highest summits of the Mountain chain of the Antarctic Andes.

It will be the voyage of more extensive human traction realized by in the Antarctic Peninsula, and the first one at world level in using kayaks to accede to maritime and terrestrial spaces in this continent, using them as craft and pulkas.

The main goal of this expedition will be to alert the public about the effects of global warming on the Antarctic coast. In order to achieve it we will make a photographic and audiovisual register of landscapes and wildlife of this Antarctic region, from the deep and non-disturbing perspective of a kayak expedition.

This material will be destined to the creation of a documentary film, book, articles and a web site that will inform of the consequences of global warming on the wildlife and sceneries of the Antarctic Peninsula.

The Antarctic Peninsula is warming five times faster than the average rate of Earth’s overall warming. Many species that had evolved the capacity to live in these cold, icy and harsh conditions, are now losing their only home. 

More information: www.andesantarticos.com

Famous shipwreck fragments

We were getting ready for our fifth trip to the archipelago of Guayaneco, to search for the exact site where the British frigate HMS Wager shipwrecked in 1741. This misfortune gave birth to one of the most astonishing sagas in the history of navigation. Its survivors included John Byron, a 19-year-old midshipman that would soon become commander of the 15th circumnavigation of the planet and grandfather of the famous poet, Lord Byron.

In 2006 we had already dived to the last corner of the breakers of the northeast of Wager Island, one of the largest islands of the archipelago, finding no sign of the ship. This submarine exploration ended dramatically with a furious storm that seized one of our kayaks with everything in it, including our camp and a valuable metal detector. However, new clues from files in Seville, Madrid and London, and a conversation with some locals from Puerto Edén (who spoke about two cannons that they had seen while canoeing in the area of the wreck more than half a century previously), drove us to search those desolate coasts of West Patagonia again.

From Santiago, Chile, we travelled with Juan Pablo Ortega more than 2500 km (1553 miles) down to the mouth of the Baker River. It reaches the ocean by opening its path between the two largest continental ice fields in Patagonia, surpassed in size only by those in Antarctica and Greenland.. Travelling on a dangerous highway of rubble and mud that winds its way between wild and hazy mountains, we finally arrived at the Baker’s delta where Caleta Tortel is located. This village of 400 inhabitants, impregnated with the fragrance of cypresses, hangs from a crag where there is no room for roads but only pedestrian crossways.

That is where our journey would begin. But first, we would have to spend some days dealing with the naval bureaucracy that did not want to authorize us to travel in our kayaks and navigate independently. Having taken care of this first obstacle (which at times was more troublesome than the worst storm), we anxiously paddled with all our strength in search of the oceanic breakers where the Wager had succumbed.

Our course to the ocean was an extensive and narrow passage of labyrinthine channels with powerful tidal currents within a grand setting of daring precipices full of waterfalls and forested slopes. The Messier channel was located midway: a great abyss that runs from north to south, dividing these archipelagos into two sections with very diverse climates (more hostile towards the west).

The sea of freshwater which we were navigating, dyed turquoise from the two rivers with the largest average discharge in Chile (the Baker and Pascua), diluted as we approached the brackish and abysmal waters of the Messier. The furious appearance of the north entrance of this channel, which on other occasions had forced us to wait several days to cross it, now presented itself suspiciously kind.

Distrusting, we entered without losing any time, thinking of the drastic changes that had previously surprised us on other extensive crossings and of the vertical kilometre that separated us from the sea bed and its mysterious predators. Just as we had feared, towards the end of the crossing rose a powerful front wind, forcing us to paddle vigorously to advance metre by metre.

Leaving the Messier behind, we entered a narrow passageway where we raised our sails and went half-surfing half-flying over the waves at an impressive speed. We struck upon the tens of ghostly islets that announced the entrance to the Fallos channel, our gate to the Pacific Ocean. Towards the end of the day, we stayed on a beach of white sands on Alacrán Island. The man who would later become the last leader of the ancestral inhabitants of these regions, a group of canoeist nomads that were once considered to be the most primitive humans on the planet, died here half a century ago.

We finally got out to the Pacific past a narrowing between two islands, crossing long and mountainous waves that hid the horizon. This experience was quite intimidating and made us feel like a pair of arrogant dots as we peaked on their backs. At dawn, as we were disembarking, a wave caught us in its eddy and pushed us out of its domain. We were over the southeast isthmus of Byron Island. There, we established our base camp and rushed through the jungle and mud to cross the island to its opposite end, in front of Medora Island. Canoeists had frequently visited this site during past millennia in search of pyrite to start their fires, stroked against the quartz so abundant in all the channels of Patagonia. This was the mythical island of fire, a tiny crag severely sloped and located in one of the most extreme and exposed zones of the archipelagos. In front of Medora, at the end of the beach, was the location of the cannons we had been led to by the people of Puerto Edén. The story went that time had merged the cannons to the rocks and that they were only visible during low tide. After a brief search, we returned unsuccessful to our camp. On our way, we found a lone leopard seal who showed us how far it could swim from its Antarctic home. One of the most ferocious predators of the sea, they possess an excellent set of teeth..

We set sail from that beach the next day, cutting through the waves that followed and elevated us over their walls of water. Back at the labyrinth, we decided to explore the east coast of Byron Island in search of clues of past canoeists such as those who rescued Byron and took him to the island of Chiloé (southernmost of European colonies during the 18th century).

Towards the afternoon, we came across a surprising find. Next to the mouth of a river, on top of a beach of peat, we found the ruins of a stone corral that had probably been built by the same rescuers of the Wager’s castaways. John Byron himself had given us some clues about their use this.. He wrote that one of the methods employed by past canoeists to catch fish consisted of having their dogs hem in the fish at the corner of a pond or lagoon, where the savages would then remove them easily. This archaeological find, unprecedented in this zone of archipelagos, was met by huge interest in the scientific community. Shortly after communicating it in our online journal (Page of Pursuit), a scientific mission was organized to study it in detail.

From that ancient construction, and perhaps in the same way as the Patagonian tribe who rescued Byron centuries ago, we crossed to the south of Wager Island. We coasted to the north under the wing of its overflowing jungle, in search of the remains of the hull of a wooden ship found a few months previously by the Scientific Exploration Society from Dover. The fragment was located in the basin of a small river, some 30 m (98 feet) from the shore. Part of the ribs and the skin of a wooden ship were evident. Even although a posterior sample analysis had concluded that they were built with evergreen oak, an endemic species of the north of Europe that dated back to the 18th century, its identification as the HMS Wager was not conclusive given the numerous shipwrecks at that time in those stormy waters. Our goal, therefore, was to find the cannons and the iron ballast, irrefutable proof of the identity of the ruins, and the exact site where the shipwreck occurred. To find them, we dived in the coast immediately next to the find, carefully sweeping the seabed. However, the long exploration that left us cold and exhausted was not successful. We had better luck on the coast where we found other ribs, an old wooden pulley, forged iron nails and a carved and buried cypress rod. We believe the latter could have been part of the cross raised in 1766 by the Jesuit José García, during the first official mass given in these latitudes.

Ending this search (with the intention of returning to it in the future), we paddled south to finish the circumnavigation of Wager Island. We returned to our rhythm of long-distance navigation, with a very different exploratory objective. 

Lake disappearance  

From the violent oceanic coast of Guayaneco, we took the east side of the Messier Channel. Our destination was the home of the largest colony of huemul (Hippocamelus bisulus) that has been discovered. The huemul is a deer endemic to the south cone of South America and has been declared an endangered species.  The continental valleys to the east of these southern archipelagos are one of its last shelters. However, it was a different property of the area which had our interest. A great lake had suddenly disappeared some months before, drawing the attention of the press worldwide. We wanted to explore the area north of this empty basin that, until then, had only been observed from the air.

Following a complex network of channels where we had some serious problems setting up our camps, we finally reached the overwhelming front of glacier Bernardo, one of the sixteen that we would visit during the expedition. Even before reaching the bottom the Bernardo fjord, we saw some beige dots moving along the coast. As we approached them we began to see clearly that they were huemul, and in large numbers. After disembarking, we realized something else: they were not afraid of us. On the contrary, we were able to get almost close enough to touch them. Being amongst these beautiful animals, docile and wild, in a setting of snowy mountains coloured red by the last light of dusk, was a sublime experience. We thought of the last fragment of a perfect world which was being irreversibly extinguished.

Farther from the glacier was the lake that had disappeared. After a brief inspection of the area we saw that it was easier to access it through another fjord, the Témpano, located more to the south. Two days of navigation through a furious gale, with snowfalls, hail and a short bow wave which made advancing slow and exhausting, followed. At the end of the second day, after a long nocturnal navigation and fifteen hours of non-stop paddling, we made it to the front of the Témpano glacier.

From there, we began an exploration that took us through forests, swamps and mountains where we sighted numerous huemul. Towards the end, we climbed up a moraine and suddenly stumbled upon an immense empty basin with enormous ice floes spread out like stranded ships. Its alien appearance left us appalled. Through the cliffs that flanked the gigantic ice container, we found a very fast route that took us to the north side of the extinct lake, an area never visited before. There, we found a large valley that connected with the Bernardo fjord, implying the possibility that the communities of huemul in Témpano and Bernardo were actually one large community. Leaving the lost lake and the Témpano fjord behind, we went south on the Messier channel. With the help of our sails and a powerful north wind that soon turned into a terrible storm, we reached the tiny village of Puerto Edén where the descendents of the last canoeists of West Patagonia live.. Mario Sepúlveda, who took us on an expedition to the Patagonian ice peaks, was waiting for us there. In 23 days we covered more than 600 km, which was just the beginning. 

Unexplored world

Lake Greve and its surroundings remained one of the last great unexplored areas of South America. Contained within a walled granite basin, it was bordered by a cool jungle on occasions denser than the densest area in the Amazons and by seven glacial tongues, which form the largest glacier in South America. Lake Greve therefore appeared quite inaccessible. Our expedition aimed not only to reach its virgin waters, but to cross more than 50 km ( 31 miles ) to its opposite side. Many thought this would be an impossible challenge due to its dense layer of icebergs which formed a well-consolidated pack-ice, the frozen intermediate waters or the drive from the wind. The infamous climatic adversity of the region must be added to these difficulties.

Our intention was to carry out the traverse in a completely self-sufficient manner, without any previous deposits of food or gear or the support of an external vessel. The essential objective was not to interfere with the landscape by e.g. abandoning equipment or leaving any trace.

We set sail from Puerto Edén with Mario Sepúlveda. After navigating almost 110 km (68 miles) on the border of the Exmouth promontory (where we were stuck many days waiting for the end of a storm), we travelled to the Caupolicán or Capitán Plateau in Campos de Hielo Sur (South Ice Fields). The Caupolicán Plateau is an enormous cold plain at an elevation of over 1400 m (4593 feet) above sea level, located in the interior of the Exmouth fjord. This was the main hurdle we had to cross in order to reach Lake Greve.

To reach the plateau, we had to travel across marshy jungles and, with the help of ropes and anchorages, lift our kayaks up a very steep slope of peat and staggered walls – always under the ferocious scourge of the rain or the wind. During one particular day, we advanced nearly 40 km (25 miles) to the north over the ice plateau. Crossing an area dangerous for hidden crevices, a powerful blizzard from the northeast meant our kayaks were dragged behind us like sledges. We moved through a very dense mist which blended with the snow, giving the impressions of some abstract place without time or space. It was difficult to maintain our direction walking inside that ping-pong ball. Guided by our GPS we were able to get to the end of the plateau where the imposing chain of mountains separating us from Lake Greve, previously unexplored, began.

We entered the mountains onto a plateau between two peaks with a visibility of less than 20 m (66 feet). Crossing a ridge and having made the first ascent of a mountain with no name, we dropped down a wall of snow-covered granite which was very exposed to avalanches. On the descent, we built a series of terraces with our shovels where we would secure ourselves and then the kayaks. On the last stretch, night fell upon us. The operation, which did not allow for any mistakes, became particularly difficult.

On the base of the wall we were 500 m (1640 feet) over Lake Greve in the cold jungle, on the border of a semi-frozen lagoon, where the ice layer was not thick enough for walking on nor thin enough to navigate. Crossing the bank of that 700 m (2296 feet) long lagoon with its large rocks and chaos of branches took us almost eight hours of hard work that included various involuntary dives, none of which were pleasant. The last stretch to reach the lake consisted of a staggered slope of granite walls, covered in a very compact jungle, on which we had to drop down. We passed the kayaks between gigantic oaks that were attached to the vertical granite, their tangled roots forming a solid network that held them all in place.

Passing on the side of one of the arms of the Brüggen Glacier, we finally returned to kayaking, but this time sinking our paddles in completely virgin waters. In a spontaneous gesture of victory, we raised our paddles to the sky. We were the first humans to reach this hidden world in the Patagonian Andes. We began paddling on Greve’s icy waters, pushing ourselves to cross the 50 km (31 feet) that separated us from the impressive waterfalls that drain it. Luck provided two days with practically no wind, which made paddling much easier. However, in some areas we occasionally had to mount the icebergs. During this navigation, we contemplated the seven glaciers that empty out over this immense 240 squared kilometres (149 squared miles) ice deposit, observing some colossal icebergs unusual for Patagonia. We also found semi-submerged forests and an unknown population of huemul. These features combined to create one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.

But the hard work was not over. On the contrary, we had the most difficult part ahead, which was to cross the Kawashkar valley up to the birth of the river on which we would return to the ocean. That crossing would leave us very clear why the Greve had remained unexplored. An extremely hard portage through the valleys and neighbouring mountains followed, under tireless rain. We advanced on average less than 1 km each day, moving through a dense and tangled vegetation which was sometimes so dense that it would block our way. The ground was covered in a chaos of fallen logs disguised by moss and ferns that made the holes between them invisible. We also had to travel through swamps and down very slippery granite walls with deadly pools below. Having overcome this formidable barrier, we reached a lagoon that the retreat of the Guacolda Glacier had recently formed. The lagoon was fed by the waters of Lake Greve that reached here from an underground river. After sailing its labyrinth of icebergs we rushed to the Témpano Fjord on the Kawashkar River, carefully following its hidden rapids. Once in the ocean, we sailed through the Angostura Inglesa (English Narrows) against the wind and tide, to return to the tiny wooden dock in Puerto Edén from where we had set sail 43 days earlier. 

To the centre of the marble glaciers

After quickly recovering some of our lost bodyweight, we were loading the kayaks with the necessary gear for the next challenge. We set sail from Puerto Edén heading to the southern archipelagos, this time in the company of the Catalonian speleologist Roger Rovira. After our incursion in Guayaneco (that now seemed so distant), we would again reach the oceanic coast. This time, however, we would travel to one of the stormiest places in the planet. The west coast of the island of Madre de Dios is located at 50˚ south, where nautical slang refers to the powerful winds (often over 90 knots) as the “wailing 50s”.

Our first goal was to reach the mouth of the entrance of the Barros Luco fjord, which opens from the inside of the island of Madre de Dios to the ocean. We knew this would be no easy task. A couple of years previously, the Centre-Terre had made seven unsuccessful attempts to enter that fjord from the ocean, using large pneumatic boats with powerful outboard motors. Our strategy would be to reach that fjord following a route which we think may have been used by previous canoeists. Interest in the canoeists’ route to the coast had been instigated by a French expedition, when they discovered cave paintings on the cape of Madre de Dios facing the Pacific. This begs the question: how could that site have been reached by such a fragile craft as the kawashkar canoe?

We also intended to explore the karst located immediately to the north of the Barros Luco fjord, in a previously unexplored region. We hoped to discover caves, photograph them and survey stalagmites to further the study of climate history in Patagonia.

From Puerto Edén we passed progressively from secure channels to more open and exposed waters. The infamous Trinidad Channel, which we thought would be our greatest difficulty, is located towards the end. We would have to wait until our return journey to discover its true fury, however. We followed the south coast and, near the Lamero Fjord, we began to penetrate the marble domain of the heart of Madre de Dios. We crossed a complex labyrinth of fjords, so narrow on occasions that they formed tidal currents impossible to paddle which forced us to disembark and drag the kayaks along the shore. At the end of that passage of very narrow channels and fjords we found a small waterfall. A lake not included in the nautical charts or topographies was also found, having been misinterpreted by cartographers as the continuation of the fjord.

Towards the end of the lake, after dragging our kayaks along a 200 m stretch, we reached the depths of Barros Luco. This confirmed our theory about the feasibility of the route to reach that area. The following day, we crossed the formidable marble portico formed by the peaks April and Vertical, victoriously reaching the west coast of Madre de Dios.

On our return to the inside of the fjord, we initiated a difficult ascent to the top of the karst. Our character was again put to the test by compact jungle, where low and protected, and the strong wind with rain or hail on high and open ground. Having ascended the first peak, we descended through peat and forests down to the virgin karst where we set up our high camp. From there, we explored various areas inland. On two trips from the low camp, we carried all the necessary gear such as ropes, spits and equipment for cave mapping.

During the following days, our intense exploration yielded results. We first found a sump lost in a chaos of blocks in the depths of a giant dome. We then came across a magnificent depression in the shape of a funnel, a chasm or vertical cavern with a great waterfall which we descended using our ropes. It couldn’t be completely explored however as we did not have the necessary equipment. Back at our camp we bumped into a coipo (Myocastor coypus, a rodent similar in appearance to a beaver), which we followed to its burrow but could not photograph. The path was a very dense forest, full of marble wells hidden by the vegetation. The stones that we threw into them never seemed to reach the bottom. The walls and precipices appeared suddenly, and the gigantic oaks hid the horizon meaning we could only see a few metres ahead.

We were very close to returning to the sea, satisfied with our findings, when we noticed a small stream that passed near our tent and disappeared between the vegetation. We had gone right past it many times without noticing it. At first, we thought it irrelevant because it came down to a small entrance, like others that we had seen before, and ended a few steps inside. We proceeded a few metres into its interior to a point where it seemed to end. Our curiosity led us to look again at the bottom, finding a crack through which it was almost impossible to pass due to its narrowness. Since we could not distinguish the bottom clearly, we crept through while holding our heads at an angle. Descending with some difficulty, we reached a gallery from which we could advance only by crawling. To our surprise, as we got further inside, the cavern grew larger to the point of reaching 20 m (66 feet) of height and 20 m (66 feet) wide. We finally went 700 m (2296 feet) inside. The cavern ended in a siphon, being one of the most extensive ever to be discovered in Patagonia. In it we also found stalagmites, one of them ideal for the reconstruction of the climate history of the region due to its size and regularity of formation. This formidable find delayed our departure from Madre de Dios.

Our departure was a true evacuation. A terrible storm came in and seriously hindered our kayaking on the Barros Luco fjord, exposed to extremely vertical waves which we had to surf. A particularly difficult moment came as we crossed the Trinidad Channel; finding ourselves in the middle of the crossing we were surprised by a violent rainstorm that came from the west and forced us to battle with all our strength. During the following days we were forced to paddle for long hours to the limit of our strength, due to a relentless north wind. Stuck on the sloping coast, we tried to use any ledge, cape or rock to protect ourselves from the gusts of wind that stopped us, or worse, dragged us back if we slackened our pace. On one occasion it became impossible to overcome a cape at Paso del Abismo (Pass of the Abyss), where the wind closed in making progress impossible and causing us to stop until the following day. We finally reached the village of Puerto Edén six days after leaving the Barros Luco fjord I had spent more than three months on an uninterrupted journey and had covered more than 1700 km. I would now rest for a month before completing the final stage of the expedition, where many of the most astonishing discoveries would be made. 

The darkness of the Gulf of Penas

Cupquelán was the native name given to the fjord where we organised the final details before setting sail. Like all other indigenous names in the toponymy of this region, no one knows what it means. The Chonos, primitive inhabitants of these regions, disappeared more than two centuries ago, and with them their tongue. A month had passed since we had finished the second part of the expedition, and we returned to Patagonia after spending the end of the year holidays with our loved ones. We arrived here from Puerto Aysén, embarking on a boat that left us at the dock of one of the many salmon fisheries of the region, highlighting the contradiction of the Chilean Government in promoting the development of tourism in that same area.

From Cupquelán we left with my old expedition partner Juan Pablo Ortega, with whom I had travelled to Wager Island some months earlier, and with the bold Ana Bartley, a slight but powerful explorer trained in the faraway lands of Alaska. With a high pressure that freed us from the usually gruelling Patagonian climate, we paddled to the San Rafael Lagoon. The eastern margin of this lagoon touches the glacier nearest to the equator which manages to reach sea level.

From the lagoon, we crossed by land to Río Negro (Black River), following an old native path in which it is still possible to find parallel cypress logs positioned to drag canoes and boats. Navigating the rivers Negro and San Tadeo down to their mouths of dead semi-submerged forests, and crossing the great bay of San Quintín, we reached an isthmus more than 100 m (328 feet) wide where we set up our base camp. From there, we undertook our explorations to the north area of the Gulf of Penas (Gulf of Sorrows).

To the north of that isthmus were the calm waters through which we had travelled from San Rafael. To the south, descending a sloped coast, the violent and challenging breakers of Caleta Sonora broke in like a military attack. After many attempts, with our bows penetrating those walls of water like spears, we finally reached the domains of the open sea. This took us to the caves that are hidden in the cliffs of the Forelius peninsula. These caves have been waiting to be explored for more than 50 years since the French archaeologist, Joseph Emperarire, suggested that traces of the past canoeists could be found there. Getting out and entering the sea mounted on the breakers, we examined the caves of Forelius one by one. No sign of previous inhabitants was found, however.

Having completed this search, we set our bows south towards the island of Purcell and its tiny satellite islands. From far away, it seemed like a solitary fortress over the immensity of the north margin of the Gulf of Penas.. Crossing the open sea, we arrived at its coast flanked by a swarm of foamy breakers and twister-like currents.

Entering the islets of Redondo and Purcell, we went under one of the largest colonies of Imperial Cormorants that we had ever seen, gathered over some inaccessible abysses. Later, passing a colony of sea lions, the island of Surania appeared. As various penguins jumped passed, we headed to a rocky headland that we boarded quickly. Raising ourselves onto it like mounted horsemen, we quickly disembarked before a second wave swallowed us back.

Once at the top of the headland, while portaging the kayaks to a safe place, we saw a group of penguins disappearing among the thickness of the Surania forest. With their heads bent down and with remarkable skill, they quickly hid themselves between the trunks and branches. Prepared with a film and photo camera, we silently entered the mysterious forest. Moving with difficulty between a thicket of mossy logs, we suddenly found ourselves under the curious gaze of some of the penguins, barely peeping their heads out from their tiny caves carved between the roots. The scene looked like something from a story of fairies and enchanted forests. We moved slowly, trying not to disturb them. Once they had become used to our presence, we were able to film and photograph them up close. Deeper in the forest we were able to see more individuals grouped in larger numbers. Our fascination and desire to continue exploring increased as we penetrated the island, but it was getting late and it was crucial that we returned to our camp in Forelius. We took one last picture and went back to the rocks to where we had disembarked.

If setting sail had been challenging previously, an increase in the violence of the breaker and the formation of a terrible hole during the backwash made our return to the sea from the same place absolutely impossible. We had to take our kayaks and portage them on the island to the opposite coast, somewhat more protected. Throwing ourselves to the sea lying on top of our decks surfer-style, we left the bluff and the breaker as quickly as possible. From there we paddled with all our strength back to Forelius Peninsula. The untimely arrival of a powerful leeward wind that threw us away from the coast towards which we were headed added to our delay. There was not enough light to disembark safely between the dangerous rocks, breakers and cliffs of the coast where our base camp was. While we tried to find a way out, darkness fell.

Evaluating the dangers of different strategies to reach the coast in the dark, we finally decided to remain in the sea until dawn. Putting our kayaks together with a carabiner and with our forearms leaned firmly on the paddles crossed over the decks, we made quite a rigid structure. Our ‘catamaran’ kept us afloat over an ocean of waves crossed with a small vertical wave that came from the north and another very long, between 5–10 m high, from the west.

To fight the cold, wet and immobile as we were, we wrapped ourselves with the roof of our tent. Since the wind blew us away from the coast, to keep our position we had to separate the kayaks and paddle north every now and then.

Not being able to see further than 5 m (16 feet), we kept blowing our whistles and paddled very closely behind each other. It was necessary to keep our stability blindly, since we could not see the waves that attacked us which put all our skills to the test. For orientation we would glance at the profile of the highest mountains of Forelius. As unbelievable as it may seem, there were moments in which we fell asleep. Confusing dreams with reality, darkness began to dissipate and that long night began to reach its end. Only then were we able to ponder upon the magnitude of the immense waves that we were riding. The largest we had ever navigated, they burst with an implacable fury on the beach of Caleta Sonora near where Ana was still placidly sleeping. By getting behind an islet that cut the waves, overcoming a powerful twister that formed behind it and surfing over the remaining wave, we finally set foot on land. We were exhausted, but unharmed and with all of our gear unscathed. A few hours later, we were lying down warm and dry in our comfortable sleeping bags from which we would not come out until the next day. 

Nomads of the sea

Our next objective involved reaching the lake Presidente Ríos where, according to the historian Ricardo Vásquez, one of the last tribes with no communication with the rest of the world lived. In 1945, the flight Trimetrogón discovered the existence of this great space inside the Taitao Peninsula. That same year, and commissioned by the Chilean government, the German explorer Augusto Grosse made the first official survey of the lake, but was not able to go further from its draining arm. Four decades later, that same sector would be visited by the documentary filmmaker Francisco Gedda. These documented incursions of Presidente Ríos left some of the lake unexplored. A much older area apparently existed, used by the ancestral canoeists of Patagonia. This belief is due to the journey made by the famous John Byron when he was rescued by a group of canoeists and taken from Wager Island to the island of Chiloé. In his description of the route, he implies that those nomads of the sea transited between the Gulf of Penas and the Archipelago of the Chonos through the inner lands of the Taitao Peninsula. The route from the south involved travelling up a river, transporting the canoes by land to a lake, crossing it and finally descending the river of drainage down to the sea, therefore avoiding the dangers of circumnavigating the enormous peninsula. We planned to travel that same route in our kayaks, to prove that it was at least possible.

We returned from Caleta Sonora through the protected waters of the San Quintín bay to the Expedition pass, and from there we mounted the Mañiguales River, reaching its high course without much difficulty. From there we assessed the route of access to the lake, realizing that it was much easier than our most favourable estimations had been. While portaging the last of the gear, we could feel regularly arranged logs buried in the mud beneath our feet. We immediately thought that it might have been set to drag canoes. We began to excavate the logs one after another, seeing each time with more clarity what we had suspected. We had discovered a path of logs cut down by man, set parallel at a distance 2–3 metres (7–10 feet) apart, with the unquestionable purpose of helping drag small embarkations to and from the lake of Presidente Ríos. We had definitely discovered the lost route of the nomads of the sea, the same one that the young John Byron had walked on more than two centuries ago with those extinct canoeists.

After communicating this formidable finding on our Page of Pursuit online, we continued on that path. We crossed the lake and the river of the same name of Presidente Ríos until reaching the island of Nalcayec, the southernmost of the Chonos archipelago.

The next day we returned to Cupquelán and its pitiful tons of dead and rotten salmon. We saw it as the limit of the penetration of the demolishing civilization from where we had come from. This advancing ‘civilization’ believes that the Earth is an inexhaustible platform, unaware that it is really a finite blue sphere floating like a miracle in the universe.