Patagonia. Santiago to Ushuaia — the southernmost city on earth. Picking up from Puerto Natales and the Strait of Magellan: The Road to Tierra del Fuego. The series starts here: Patagonia: Santiago to Ushuaia — South to the End of the World.
The island roads were a mix of gravel and pavement, with guanacos appearing in far greater numbers than on the mainland. We finally learned how they move between road and paddock — they jump the fences with ease, the whole herd clearing the wire in one fluid motion. We also heard their call for the first time: a surprisingly high-pitched squeal, nothing like you’d expect.
The road passed old estancias with their long red-roofed woolsheds, a rusting gold dredge abandoned on the open steppe — a reminder that people once came here chasing fortunes — and roadside carvings of the Kawésqar, the original people of these waters, depicted in their canoe as they would have navigated these channels for thousands of years.
We stayed at Las Lengas Hosteria on the shore of Lago Blanco — ten kilometres of driveway to get there. The property had the feel of a hunting and fishing lodge, with not much English spoken. It had the look of a place COVID had hit hard. But the lake didn’t care either way.
The first stop the next morning was the police checkpoint — conveniently located at the end of the 10km driveway. Leaving Chile proved the most entertaining border crossing yet. The immigration officer launched into Spanish, received two blank kiwi faces in return, and responded — “Chile — What, no Español?” — before switching to perfect English. Two shocked kiwis. Both professional and thoroughly enjoyable.
The Argentinians appeared to have been woken early. Passport control, car control, then an army presence as well. Triple checked.
So easy to travel on a NZ passport.
The roads were gravel, empty, and entirely without mobile coverage — from above, Buzz captured what it felt like: a thin line threading through vast brown steppe, a small stream winding alongside, the ute alone on the road to the horizon. Waze was useless. HERE WeGo, running on downloaded maps, saved the day.
At one point a guanaco had claimed the bridge. Daryl drove the river bed. The guanaco watched, unmoved.
A detour through Río Grande delivered a quiet milestone — the Atlantic Ocean, seen together for the first time. Calm and surprisingly blue.
Then everything changed. The mountains rose sharply, the road narrowed and clung to cliff faces above deep blue lakes — beech forest dropping steeply to the water below, snow pushing down from the peaks above. Buzz captured the switchbacks from above — the road a thin ribbon threading through impossible green, the lake stretching away toward the Beagle Channel. Two tiny figures stood beside the ute at a viewpoint, entirely dwarfed by what surrounded them.
We arrived via a back-street shortcut and drove straight through the half of Ushuaia the tourists never see. A fitting way to arrive at the end of the road.
The ornate wooden sign on the waterfront says it all — Ushuaia, fin del mundo. End of the world. The harbour sits below snow-capped peaks, Antarctic expedition ships loading at the dock alongside tourist vessels. The World Explorer was departing for Antarctica that night. A cabin check was conducted by Janine. Daryl has to get back to work.
Ushuaia earns its reputation. Shopping was done. Daryl made some new friends in the souvenir shop. The Pisco Sour, naturally, made an appearance.
Out on the Beagle Channel the next morning — named for HMS Beagle, the ship that carried a young Charles Darwin on his voyage of discovery. The channel connects the Pacific and Atlantic, one of only three navigable passages around South America alongside the Strait of Magellan and the Drake Passage.
The red-and-white striped Les Eclaireurs Lighthouse stood alone on its rock, snow-capped mountains behind it. Seals lazed on and around the rocks. An elephant seal surfaced briefly, regarded us, and submerged.
Then the condors appeared, circling low over the stern — enormous, unhurried, magnificent. They mate for life and nest on these rocks. Worth the whole voyage for that alone.
Travelling down the channel we passed Puerto Williams, Chile’s remote southern outpost. The Magellanic penguins were still further down, dotting the shingle — early in the season, numbers modest.
The end of the world. Properly visited.
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