The Hornopirén ferry glided across the waters as the Chilean mainland disappeared into the mist.
Further on was the small town of Caleta Gonzalo and the true start of the Carretera Austral, Chile’s legendary Ruta 7.
Built by the Chilean military in the 1970s, this partially paved road stretches 1,240 kilometers from Puerto Montt to Villa O’Higgins and connects once-isolated Patagonian communities in some of the most inhospitable terrain on the planet.
The route is so unusual that traveling it gives the feeling of a journey to the edge of civilization.
Rocks, lakes and forests
Building the road required decades of digging through massive granite, crossing raging streams and carving a path where there should be none.
Even today, some sections remain unpaved.
My little rental truck often felt like it was worn down to the last screw.
The scenery, however, made up for it all: ancient larch forests, spectacular Chilean fjords, snow-capped Andes, and turquoise glacier-fed lakes.
I had planned to cover the 630 kilometers between Chaitén and Bahía Murta, my next stop, in a single day, due to lack of time.
Either way, it would be a long journey, but on the loneliest road in Patagonia, it quickly became a challenge.
At a small roadside cafe where I stopped to eat asado (a type of barbecue), I chatted with local truck drivers. As soon as they discovered my ambitions in Bahía Murta, the pilots couldn’t hide the smile of someone who knew something I didn’t.
I quickly understood why the locals were so attached to their sturdy 4×4 vehicles. Climbing the loose gravel curves that snaked through the mountain required all my concentration and skill. I held on to the steering wheel, praying that the ABS braking system would work.
Passing through Puyuhuapi, known for its natural hot springs, the road levels out with a few sections of asphalt as it approaches Coyhaique, the last major town on the route.
After that, what would appear were small towns with small grocery stores that doubled as post offices, coffee shops, gas stations, and fishing stores, all at the same time.
The road expanded briefly before diving back into gravel paths that wound through dark, ancient forests and along the banks of white-water rivers with the towering peaks of the Andes on either side.
When I arrived in Bahía Murta at midnight, I understood the smile of the truck drivers.
Murta Bay
Bahía Murta is located about halfway along the Carretera Austral, where the highway runs along the shores of Lake General Carrera, the second largest lake in South America.
From there I headed to Puerto Sánchez and the stunning Marble Caves, a natural wonder whose full potential has only recently been revealed by climate change.
There I met Valeria Leiva, a local resident whose family history is intrinsically linked to the recent rise of the caves as a tourist destination.
“My grandfather, Cirilo Herrera Aguilera, arrived here in 1948, when he was only eight years old,” she told me as we prepared for a boat ride on the impossibly blue waters.
“He was one of the first to settle in this area.”
What Dom Cirilo couldn’t have predicted was that his decision to purchase an archipelago of 14 islands for sheep farming would end up becoming home to one of the world’s most incredible natural wonders.
“Everything changed when the lake level started to drop,” says Leiva.
“Due to global warming, glaciers are retreating and there is less snow, which is why marble caves have started to appear in the last 40 years.”
The caves themselves have an ethereal appearance: natural rock formations with curved walls covered in undulating mineral patterns, awash in turquoise waters that bathe the caves in blue light.
Formed between 10,000 and 15,000 years ago when lake water slowly dissolved the minerals in the rocks, they embody both natural beauty and the effects of climate change.
I enjoyed the silence and solitude of the gentle undulations of the unimaginable blue of General Carrera Lake and the warmth of the small community of Puerto Sánchez.
Suddenly, I found myself disconnecting, disconnecting from everything else and immersing myself in nature. At the same time, the road called to me.
Land of gauchos
Back on Route 7, the road found its own rhythm. I finally accepted that my meticulously planned schedule had no place here in Patagonia, where a change in weather, a landslide, or a ferry delay could mean a break for an entire day or two.
I slowed down to watch two gauchos on horseback driving cattle along the road and turned off the engine: both to show respect and not frighten the horses, and because Chilean cowboys are truly admirable.
Clad in sturdy leather pants, woolen sweaters and the iconic berets, brandishing long whips and masterfully guiding their horses, the gauchos led a herd of at least 20 head of cattle down the road in a thundering chaos of hooves, horns and dust.
Then, as suddenly as they appeared, they disappeared.
I restarted the engine, driving slowly and admiring the landscape of granite walls, glacier-covered Andes, and lush vegetation tinged purple, pink, and yellow by wildflowers in full bloom.
The final stretch, from Cochrane to Villa O’Higgins, is the most difficult and spectacular.
At the edge of civilization
The road narrowed to a single lane carved into cliffs with intimidating precipices, but by then I had learned that slow and steady wins the race.
Villa O’Higgins itself seemed to be an outpost on the edge of civilization.
This small border town of less than 500 inhabitants is located in a valley surrounded by glacial peaks, where the road literally ends.
Beyond lies the Southern Patagonian Icefield, the third largest icefield in the world, after Antarctica and Greenland.
The town’s only main street was lined with weathered wooden buildings. There, residents greeted every passing vehicle.
One morning I woke up to an old red pickup truck announcing over the loudspeaker that fresh cherries and blueberries were for sale in the back.
Tempted, I waved the farmer over and bought the sweetest cherries I had ever tasted.
The road ends at Villa O’Higgins, not because the engineers are out of breath, but because the land itself is too wild to tame from there.
From there, travelers can take boat trips to the glaciers or embark on multi-day hikes, but for me, it was time to head north.
Arriving at the end of the Carretera Austral is bittersweet.
The road represents something increasingly rare: a journey where the destination matters less than the road itself.
It’s a road that takes away the comforts of modern travel and forces you to connect with the landscape, the weather and your own limitations.
Read the original version of this report on the BBC News Brasil website.
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