Ice, Ice, Maybe: A Grey Glacier Diary
by Becky Clark
March 2024
Wet feet, pisco sours, and the wonders of nature in the Southern Patagonian Ice Field.
I am being driven to the national park for a glacial lake boat tour by a guide, Juanita, whose driving style consists of swerving potholes at top speed whilst muttering “madre de dios”. Her English is only marginally better than my Spanish, rendering our communication largely gesture-based, although I also pride myself on my ability to point at things whilst naming them. She likes my name and keeps saying it even when she has no comment to make, rolling the R back and forth, smoothing it over before pronouncing the rest in a satisfied manner: R-r-r-r-r-ebecca.
My appreciation of her appreciation might be greater if Pedro the Hotel Barman—he's from Valparaíso, well, near Valparaíso, a village I won't have heard of—hadn't insisted on making me his version of a pisco sour last night. As this variation largely seemed to consist of making it double the usual size and garnishing it with discs of burnt sugar on slices of lemon, I raised no demur at the time. It's even possible I was encouraging. I have a memory of enthusiastically describing the sugar and lemon as being like vegan creme brulé, a fact that would make me want to bash my own head with a rock if it didn't already feel like someone has done so. Breakfast this morning consisted of coffee and regret, not something anyone in their 40s wants to experience. I drink my water like a good human, and wince at the bumps like a bad one.
The minibus climbs steadily. At one point the temperature drops sharply, and I assume we've breached some climactic limit. But no, it turns out that during the last pothole swerve Juanita's knee knocked the heater switch off. She repairs the damage and I sheepishly put my fleece and gloves back in my bag.
The drive is festooned with rainbows, appearing and fading on all sides like excessively slow disco lights. My bus companions exclaim in delight and I get to add a new word—arcoíris—to Clark’s Patented Noun Only Language Learning Programme. They then exclaim less delightedly when we leave the bus and it is raining, but them’s the breaks.
On arrival at the park entrance I hand my phone to Juanita so she can show the electronic ticket to the gate attendants. She comes back and gives me a darkling look before telling me “I made it ok.” I know what this is about: the ticket I gave her was for yesterday, when I came on a separate tour, and although technically valid for three days, I suspect is not meant to be used to come in then out then in again, as I have, but for those going on virtuous treks. I decided least said was soonest mended, and so it seems. I continue my facade of foreign ignorance with a wide-eyed smile that I hope makes me look like Pollyanna's spinster aunt but fear has more resemblance to Gollum. Either way, Juanita returns my phone, retreats to the driver's seat, and we are in.
In the spirit of the age I point at some guanaco by the side of the road. “Guanaco,” I say, helpfully. I am told there are “más, más” and basically I've just really embarrassed myself by being excited. As per. Silence falls until we arrive at the check in point for the boat ride, where Juanita parks in the centre of a puddle so large and teaming with potential natural resources (mud) that it will soon be ‘discovered’ by some Europeans. Namely me, as I try not to fall into it, having been nominated by my busmates to be the one to position the laughable excuse for a stepping stool kept in the bus, I gather, for exactly such team bonding opportunities as this. I suspect my selection is not unrelated to the earlier ticket issue. Somehow I manage to position the stool, although once everyone is off it appears it is also my job to somehow get the stool back in the bus and close the sliding door, something akin to a circus trick. I've spent all my life preparing for such a moment and promptly soak both feet up to the ankles, to rapturous applause.
Some repair having been effected at a hand dryer, we set off to walk to the boat. A pair of sisters (hermanas—imagine me pointing at them if that helps you to remember) travelling together bought me a mini Toblerone at the snack bar whilst I was drying off. They also have them, and we munch in chocolatey solidarity for a while.
Reaching the boat requires navigating a 2.5km hike across a beach and shingle spit, with baby icebergs floating just offshore. The beach itself, grey and pebbly, hard to walk on, is one of the least inspiring landscapes I've ever seen, and I've been to the Conservative Party Conference. We trudge along, chocolate finished, taking pictures of the extraordinary blue of the ice.
Eventually the boat is reached. Proving that Britishness is a way of life, I stand in a queuing attitude next to the gangplank and, lo, a queue forms behind me. Two Chileans push in front but it turns out they don't have tickets and must stand aside. Karma is my boyfriend.
This cruise advertises itself as both visiting a rapidly shrinking glacier and including a cocktail “chilled with ancient ice”. A quick survey of my friends on the ethics of this dubious juxtaposition before I made the booking resolved that by using the ice in drinks we will be preventing sea level rise, which seems legit, so I go for it. I will not deny that sailing along whilst drinking a more moderate version of Pedro's favourite cocktail is extremely pleasant.
The boat bartender comes over to me. He looks so serious that I immediately assume he's coming to announce that the US government has reviewed my visa declaration from years ago and decided I might be lying about never having been a member of the Nazi government of Germany. We are very close to the Argentinian border, after all. He leans in and says in a low voice, “You cannot drink glacier water everyday.” After a suitably dramatic pause I reply, “The eagle flies at midnight.” He looks me in the eye, more serious than ever. “Where is the eagle now?” Before I can carry this on to its inevitable end—amateurish but eventually successful involvement in the foiling of an international guanaco-smuggling ring—one of the bus sisters appears to tell me that they are going outside and I should come too.
(Later, I ask him what he actually meant. Disappointingly, it was only that glacier melt contains very high mineral levels and so is good in small doses and bad in large ones, like jazz.)
Going outside requires preparation, including the donning of a life jacket and the unearthing of the giant camera I take to places where I want to be unpopular. The camera gets me disgruntled looks for taking up so much space on the observation deck, but as always proves its worth by taking some great shots and getting me more male attention than I ever desire, all of it luckily focused on zoom length and resolution. Given that I bought the camera and lens second hand, and only discovered by accident that it was possible to turn the flash off, I can rise above such nonsense. I also try taking some selfies on my phone, adding to my already replete empirical database proving I cannot do this. A lot of chilly admiration of the wonders of nature and some rather melancholy reflection on what is signified—scientifically and philosophically—by the accelerated melting of so much ice, and we turn for home as the weather turns once more to rain.
We're all tired on the journey back, and some of us are still mildly damp. Juanita has spent the day location unknown but seems much more relaxed than this morning and parks to let us in the bus somewhere without an advancing tide or gaping chasm. The two hour journey is as bumpy as before but with the added advantage that it's mainly downhill, allowing Juanita to give full reign to her minibus rally driving ambitions. She sings along to a Shakira album whilst swaying gently. I find myself swaying along in time.
I’m dropped back at my hotel nine hours after leaving it, the first to depart the bus, with cries of hasta luego following me in. My phone, consigned all day to being only a camera, connects to WiFi and springs back into full life. Just right now I’m not sure I have the energy. I wonder if Pedro can make me a drink chilled with ancient ice? I’ve decided it tastes better that way.
