The Route of the Andean Lakes — Part II

When our catamaran pulled in at Peulla, we were slightly less than halfway across the Route of the Andean Lakes.

Peulla:

View from our picnic spot

A tiny port at the eastern edge of Lago Todos los Santos, Peulla is little more than a dock, a few outbuildings, and two hotels at the marshy confluence of the Negro and Peulla rivers flowing into the lake. Here we had a couple of hours to relax. Astrid and I spread out a lunch of apples, smoked salmon, leftover empanadas (stuffed pastry) and mashed potato salad. Sitting on rocks in the face of deep-green mountains, we soaked up the afternoon sun. Those without a picnic lunch (virtually everyone else) ate at the hotel dining room or a small eatery nearby.

The two hotels in Peulla presented a mystery. The tour operators guided us past the first one to the Natura Patagonia, which, though newer, has a rundown feel to it. The first hotel, the one we passed, is stately in a yesteryear sort of way, but it seems abandoned, like a spooky set for The Shining, as Astrid observed. What happened to the first hotel? Why is the Natura not better maintained? As of this writing, I have no answers.

Across the pass:

Astrid viewing Cerro Tronador

Hustled into a smaller, four-wheel-drive bus, we headed up the mountains along a private road used by CruceAndino. For a while, we followed the swift, shallow waters of the Río Peulla, past sheep farms squeezed between massive peaks. The road wound beneath the peaks, but, at 3,000 feet, the pass never rose above the tree line, and dense forest shielded us from precipitous views. At one stop, we looked out on the spectacular Cerro Tronador, named by the locals for the thundering noise made by its avalanches. Over 11,000 feet, it is the highest mountain in the region, an ancient volcano harboring several glaciers. It straddles two national parks and the border between Chile and Argentina.

Argentinian lakes:

At this point in our journey, we began to feel a bit like cattle, being herded from bus to boat and back again, with frustrating waits along the way.

Lago Frias

After going through customs at Puerto Frías, a docking facility next to the lake of the same name (where Che Quevara stopped on the trip recreated in The Motorcycle Diaries), we traversed Lago Frías, the smallest (a mere 15-minute boat ride) and highest (at 2,300 feet) of our lakes. Adjacent cliffs partially covered in vegetation give the glacier-green water the appearance of a fjord. Beyond, a short drive on land took us to Puerto Blest, a small port on a western branch of Lago Nahuel Huapi. Cloaked in lush Valdivian rain forest, this is one of the wettest places in Argentina. A small hotel here sits on a short, nicely landscaped peninsula between the lake and Río Frías.

After a stop at the hotel, we stepped onto our final boat of the day. As the sun lowered in the sky, we skimmed along the quiet waters of Nahuel Huapi, the Amerindian name for the lake’s largest island, ‘island of the jaguar.’ Shadows lengthened along the water: surrounded by lower, drier mountains, it reminded me of Lake Chelan in central Washington. As the last bits of light left the sky, we docked at Puerto Pañuelo, and, on our final bus ride, followed the flickering lights from lovely lakeside homes as we approached San Carlos de Bariloche and our hotel.

Photography note: Some of the photos used in my journeys with Astrid were taken by her. Thank you, Astrid!

Lago Nahuel Huapi