When we finally arrived at the door of our accommodation with our belongings and travel-worn faces, a kind lady—the owner—opened the door. “Holaaaa,” my friend Sam and I shouted, using our only Spanish word (besides “vino tinto,” which we had picked up on the plane, but that would’ve been a bit much as a greeting). English isn’t doing too great on that side of the bog—so the good old body language went into play. I still remember how the lady kept repeating “lavar la ropa,” and we stared back at her with completely blank moon-faces. But then she motioned us to follow, we climbed the stairs, and she pointed at the washing machine. All clear.
By the way, flying to Patagonia in March meant going straight back into autumn. First, I enjoyed the full length of Estonia’s dark autumn. Then the full force of winter. Early spring too… and just when things were starting to get a little brighter, I took off for a continent where autumn was beginning all over again. Great planning, Madle (pats herself on the shoulder like someone who just scored an own goal in football).
Anyway, we had booked the previously mentioned guesthouse in advance—something I usually don’t do too far ahead because, well, it’s normal for me not to know what my plans are even for tomorrow. But the defining factor this time was the price because, as befits the end of the world, things are expensive. It’s a bit of a mood-killer, of course, but you know what you don’t spend money on there? Transportation and hiking—because you can literally pull your boots on at home and start climbing. No silly buses or logistics, the mountains are right behind the house. Okay, sometimes we used Uber, but otherwise—go, climb, and suffer for your health! And unlike in many other places where being in a national park costs money, around Ushuaia it doesn’t, and there are many trails to explore. Some are so popular it feels like walking to a song festival, but luckily most require enough effort that not too many people end up there—and besides, most tourists head the other way, to Antarctica, not into the mountains. Often I didn’t meet a single person while climbing, or just a couple. And horses.
On one of those hikes I got my first “travel friends” (no, not talking about diarrhea and sunstroke—not yet). First people you meet always stick in memory more sharply, but to be fair, they also did their best to make that happen. One day Sam and I decided to hike the Laguna del Caminante trail, which takes you mercilessly up the mountain, and if you’re diligent, you’ll be back in about ten hours (including breaks to admire the blue lagoons). Once we were up, we ran into a German hiker who had started the trail from the other side, and as is usual on hiking paths, even an Estonian will open their mouth to say hello. We exchanged some trail info and assumed we’d meet again soon near the lagoon at the end of the side trail. When Sam and I got there, we lay down, stared at the mirror-still water, thought about how we’d never eat cookies again (the only snack we had with us), and waited for the German hiker. As you can guess, this story needs a twist—and you’re right. He didn’t come. Oh well, he probably decided to head back down early. We stood up as well, since we still had four hours of descent ahead.
A few hundred meters later, we saw our familiar trail companion in the distance, standing with another guy who was helping him tie his arm to his neck with a scarf. Seeing us, he said: “Do you have any painkillers?” I calculated and fed F as much as seemed safe. He had tried to catch up with us, taken a shortcut, tripped, and his shoulder dislocated. Since the nearest phone reception was a couple of hours away, he had no choice but to start walking back slowly through the pain, because none of us dared try to pop the shoulder back in using “intuition.” Honestly, it was painful even to look at him. “Do you want to focus on the trail, or should I distract you by talking?” I asked. F groaned for a bit and said we should try talking. So I fired question after question—silly and not so silly—anything to keep his mind elsewhere. At one point I ran out of questions and decided it was a good time to start teaching him Estonian. I will never forget how a German man, through pain and tears, descended a mountain in the Patagonian forest yelling: “ÜKS! KAKS! KOLM! NELI!..” If it hadn’t been so painful for him, it would’ve been an incredibly funny sight. Sam and Oli (the other German helping him) smirked, and the four of us kept hiking until we reached a clearing. I adjusted F’s scarf and we cleaned his other wounds, and as we continued walking, his shoulder somehow slid back into place enough that the excruciating pain eased. We reached the bottom together in the dusk, sent F to the hospital just in case, and met the next day for a short hike and dinner. So for anyone who doesn’t know how to make friends while traveling—this is one option.
More about Ushuaia
About 80,000 people live in this mainly tourism-driven town. It’s often advertised as the southernmost city in the world (a blatant lie if you ask me—which you definitely are), and it is the gateway to Antarctica. About 90% of expeditions depart from Ushuaia’s windy harbor. Surrounding the town are mountains, glaciers, fjords, penguins, sea lions, and other polar nature. It resembles Southern Norway a bit, or even Estonia—if we had mountains, fjords, sea lions, and… Anyway, on my first hike I thought, “Oooo, cranberries?” and at the same time, “But also not really.” Labrador tea? Kind of… but also not. A strange déjà vu hit me, which took full shape when I—of course—tasted them. Yes, I’m that idiot who eats things when I’m 70% sure they won’t kill me. Please do not try this at home. Or if you do, don’t write to me. The berries tasted a little bland and cranberry-like indeed. Still alive—so all good.
Locals in Ushuaia say having four seasons in one day is normal. One moment you’re sunbathing, the next it’s snowing. Summer temperatures, for those who don’t feel like searching, are on average +10 to +15°C. In winter –2 to +2°C. In autumn, as mentioned, expect anything. So: put your jacket on. Don’t. Do. Don’t. Eh, figure it out—you’ll regret it anyway.
It was late March at the time, and I managed to catch (illustratively speaking) the last penguins. Most had already headed somewhere with fewer tourists. We saw dolphins, whales, and sea lions too.
And most importantly—we ate our way into the local food culture. Into pizza. Millions of Italians who once moved to Argentina brought their cuisine with them, which the locals happily adopted and then… adjusted to their own liking. Pizza here has a thicker crust and often more cheese than all the other components (including the crust) combined. And they eat endless amounts of meat. Luckily, calories burn quickly in the mountains, so you can keep eating cheese (sorry, pizza).
From History—From My Hypothetical Third-Grade Textbook
Ushuaia lies on the shore of the small Beagle Channel near the meeting point of the Atlantic, Pacific, and Southern Oceans, and is the closest city (again, a blatant lie) to the famous Drake Passage between Antarctica and South America—considered the stormiest and most dangerous sea route in the world. As the crow flies, Ushuaia is over 15,000 km from Estonia. It’s almost as far as one can physically go, though the farthest possible point from Tartu is actually in the Pacific Ocean—20,000 km away. I didn’t go there—even I don’t accidentally plan myself into the middle of the ocean. Only into endless autumn. Though, honestly, I probably could’ve.
The first European to systematically map the region was Charles Darwin in the 19th century, aboard HMS Beagle. The Beagle Channel is named after his expedition. One of the world’s southernmost indigenous peoples, the Yaghan, had lived in Patagonia for at least 6,000 years before any European set foot there. As a “gift,” Europeans brought the classic trio of colonialism: diseases, alcohol, and violent “civilizing attempts,” which led to the rapid decline of the Yaghan population. Europeans named the region Tierra del Fuego (“Land of Fire”) when they saw hundreds of fires along the coast—fires the Yaghan kept constantly burning for warmth and cooking. They were hunters and gatherers, skilled at navigating and hunting from their boats. The name “Ushuaia” comes from their language and means “deep bay in the west.”
The first small settlement was founded by British missionaries in the 1870s. The tiny and fragile outpost in the middle of wild nature included a church, a school, and a harbor. A few years later Argentina established a military and naval base there, laying the foundation for modern Ushuaia—built largely by convicts. The famous Tierra del Fuego prison operated there in the early 1900s, housing Argentina’s most dangerous criminals. Because if anything motivates people to avoid crime, it’s the knowledge that the next stop is the end of the world.
The Yaghan told stories of a being called Lakuma, who had a human body but the face and tail of a fox, and could transform into both animal and human. He lured hunters deep into the forest, from where many never returned. I’m glad I limited myself to only eating cranberries there. The tiny foxes living near Ushuaia today are considered remnants of that legend. Also living with the foxes is the mountain spirit Hachai, who controls the remote that operates snowfalls, fog, and other sudden weather changes. Judging by experience, those remote buttons are pressed rather randomly.
According to legend, the spirits of dead sailors also fly around the area—those who tried to sail around Tierra del Fuego but died. The wind whistling irregularly between the mountains is said to be their “call home.” There is also talk of pirate Captain Kidd Jr.’s ship, which sank in the Drake Passage. On stormy nights, people claim to see a lit mast, a ghostly silhouette, and to hear metal clanking. Fishermen call it el barco de las almas—the ship of souls. So—no risk of getting bored. These legends likely do not increase local real estate value…
Film recommendation: Project Ice Man (they departed from Ushuaia as well).