Seno Union to Puerto Natales, Magallanes, Chile
Silver water, black rocks and white mountain peaks: it is first light in the Chilean fjords as we push deeper into the watery wilderness of the west coast. The only other vessel we have seen since we left Puerto Montt six days ago was an Ecuadorean 3-masted barque last night, and they, like us, are a long way from home. The water this morning is so still that every tiny ripple betrays life: a swirl from a feeding sea lion, a cluster of feeding penguins, the goose-like silhouette of a becalmed albatross and pattering ripples from a tiny diving-petrel. Three of these tough but minute relatives of the albatross had landed on the ship during the night, dazzled by our deck lights. After giving us a lecture on the birds of southern Chile, Richard took them out to the pool deck to release them, and though lively enough to climb onto his head for a better look at their appreciative audience, they were reluctant to display their diving talents and nose-dive 30 feet into the icy fjord.
We had a chance to release them later as we turned north along the spectacular Estero de las Montañas and took to the Zodiacs to explore the wilderness. Threading our way through a boulder-strewn entrance, we made our way into a narrow ice-filled canyon between soaring, triangular peaks. Strings of blue-eyed shags flew up the inlet to their mud-pie nests on precarious cliffs. The polished rock walls were garlanded with braided waterfalls, cascading down into the pale jade waters of the fjord. Out at the mouth of the inlet, skirling terns swept past in tight flocks, kelp and ashy-headed geese craned necks to gaze at us and rufous-chested dotterel probed for titbits on the mud-flats. It is spring and there was a sense of suppressed excitement in us landlubbers and locals alike.
In defiance of all odds, the sun burst out again as we approached the White Narrows, a deadly dogleg between unforgiving rock bluffs. We were watched with professional interest by at least three perched Andean condors, dressed with impeccable funereal taste in jet black and white, from the crags above. How many maladroit mariners have misjudged the tide rip, their craft smashed to matchwood in the maw of this tight passage? I imagine the elder condors entertaining generations of chicks with lurid tales of free banquets after capsized canoes, caravels and careless coasters.
Silver water, black rocks and white mountain peaks: it is first light in the Chilean fjords as we push deeper into the watery wilderness of the west coast. The only other vessel we have seen since we left Puerto Montt six days ago was an Ecuadorean 3-masted barque last night, and they, like us, are a long way from home. The water this morning is so still that every tiny ripple betrays life: a swirl from a feeding sea lion, a cluster of feeding penguins, the goose-like silhouette of a becalmed albatross and pattering ripples from a tiny diving-petrel. Three of these tough but minute relatives of the albatross had landed on the ship during the night, dazzled by our deck lights. After giving us a lecture on the birds of southern Chile, Richard took them out to the pool deck to release them, and though lively enough to climb onto his head for a better look at their appreciative audience, they were reluctant to display their diving talents and nose-dive 30 feet into the icy fjord.
We had a chance to release them later as we turned north along the spectacular Estero de las Montañas and took to the Zodiacs to explore the wilderness. Threading our way through a boulder-strewn entrance, we made our way into a narrow ice-filled canyon between soaring, triangular peaks. Strings of blue-eyed shags flew up the inlet to their mud-pie nests on precarious cliffs. The polished rock walls were garlanded with braided waterfalls, cascading down into the pale jade waters of the fjord. Out at the mouth of the inlet, skirling terns swept past in tight flocks, kelp and ashy-headed geese craned necks to gaze at us and rufous-chested dotterel probed for titbits on the mud-flats. It is spring and there was a sense of suppressed excitement in us landlubbers and locals alike.
In defiance of all odds, the sun burst out again as we approached the White Narrows, a deadly dogleg between unforgiving rock bluffs. We were watched with professional interest by at least three perched Andean condors, dressed with impeccable funereal taste in jet black and white, from the crags above. How many maladroit mariners have misjudged the tide rip, their craft smashed to matchwood in the maw of this tight passage? I imagine the elder condors entertaining generations of chicks with lurid tales of free banquets after capsized canoes, caravels and careless coasters.
