Patagonia. Santiago to Ushuaia — the southernmost city on earth. Picking up from Puerto Varas and Frutillar Bajo: Lake District Life in Southern Chile. The series starts here: Patagonia: Santiago to Ushuaia — South to the End of the World.
After 1,914km in seven days, the little car had done its job. Time to trade up.
The replacement was a proper pickup truck — a ute, in New Zealand parlance — built for what was coming. Sadly, not the red one. It was not, as it turned out, as comfortable as what we’d left behind. The road sign on the way out of Puerto Varas confirmed the situation simply and without apology: Patagonia.
The first car ferry of the trip came as a pleasant surprise — loading the ute onto the boat at Caleta La Arena and crossing the channel, seabirds scattering off the bow, fjords closing in on both sides. We were heading to Hornopiren — a small town at the end of the road, the last stop before the all-day ferry south into the Los Lagos region of Northern Patagonia.
Buzz had an early morning flight over Hornopiren before we left — a compact fishing town squeezed between the fjord and the mountains, the river delta spreading out behind it in the early light. On the waterfront, working boats sat hauled up on the stones — weathered, patched, and well-used. This is a town that earns its living from the water, not from tourists. It felt real in a way that larger towns don’t.
The ferry out of Hornopiren was a proper commitment — six hours through the fjords of Northern Patagonia, car deck loaded with utes, trucks and adventure motorcycles all heading south together. The scenery made every minute worth it. Snow-capped peaks rising from the water, islands covered in dense forest, the channel narrowing and widening as we pushed deeper into the wilderness. Janine’s Sea-Legs did their job. The crossing was smooth throughout.
Lodge Caleta Gonzalo sits tucked into the trees right at the ferry ramp — a handful of weathered timber cabins at the edge of the wilderness. From the drone above, it barely registers against the forest. On the ground, it felt exactly right.
We wrapped up, poured the wine, and sat watching the fjord settle into evening. Buzz came out briefly. A park ranger appeared at considerable pace. Drones, it turned out, are banned in the national park.
Buzz went back in her box. The wine remained.
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