Hunting seaweeds, dodging polar bears

I just came off the boat Ortelius, having spent an amazing ten days sailing around the South point of Spitsbergen to remote Edgeøya and Barentsøya, the Eastern islands of Svalbard. I had come on the SEES expedition as a seaweed scientist, which is a bit of an exaggeration. My scientific focus is more faunal than floral and in preparation for this trip, I dusted off seven-year-old memories of quadrat sampling and basic seaweed taxonomy. Besides getting to revisit a foggy but fascinating topic, I was also excited to experience the polar region after having been away for ten years since studying Arctic lakes and streams in Alaska. I didn’t know what to expect, but I hoped to see some beautiful nature, meet some interesting people, and collect some cold-water seaweeds, all of which I did!

What is so interesting about seaweeds in Svalbard you may ask? Seaweeds have to be tough in general to survive life in the intertidal, but especially in polar regions with rough seas, chilly temperatures, and a night that’s four months long. When researching a potential topic to propose for this expedition, I learned that sea ice is very important for determining seaweed presence in the Arctic intertidal, because winter sea ice can scrape seaweed away from the rocks. Kelps like Laminaria are safe from sea ice because they live deep underwater where ice doesn’t reach, but Fucus, which grows in the rocky intertidal, is at the mercy of ice scraping them off the beach. With rapid climate warming and less sea ice, we can expect more seaweeds in the Arctic. And so, in Spitsbergen, where it is relatively warm, I would expect to see a lot more older and less damaged seaweeds than in Edgeoya where it is colder and sea ice is more prevalent. Thus my mission for the expedition was born: collect seaweed seaweeds in both locations to see if I could find a difference in their cover and morphology.

I thought collecting seaweeds sounded easy, but it was easier said than done. Most of the scientists, including myself, had to land on the island of Edgeøya to do their research. However, there were around 110 expedition participants, half scientists and half tourists and the large group needed to be managed carefully. The biggest reason of canceling our landings was polar bears. People can be polar bear food, and so, in order to make a landing, the expedition staff needed to make sure that there were no polar bears nearby. This meant that before we landed the staff scouted the site from the boat and then on land for polar bears. And, even if we did make a landing, one needed to be near a rifle-carrying staff member at all times, and we could be evacuated if a bear was sighted. This was important for everyone’s safety, bears included— afterall, no one actually wanted to shoot a bear!— but it made for difficult fieldwork conditions because time could be cut short and rifle-carriers were in short supply for such a diverse group of researchers. A scientist collecting seaweed needs to collect them in a very different place than a scientist collecting moss. But with a lot of coordination and patience, we managed.

I’m collecting filamentous green algae off of a rock in Rosenbergdalen in Edgeøya. See how the sea ice and waves have scraped these rocks bare; I had to work hard to find any seaweed at all! Jan watched to make sure no polar bears came by while I was hunting for seaweeds.

Fog and polar bears made the first days of the expedition challenging. On, the first day of the trip, a landing at Stellingsfjellet to see a colony of guillemots was planned and canceled because of the thick white fog. The second day was full of scrapped plans. The first planned landing at Kapp Lee was canceled due to large wave swells on the beach, then we sailed to a second nearby site, Rosenbergdalen, where the landing was also canceled due to a nearby bear. Another bear was sighted shortly after we reached the third alternative, Sundneset on Barentsøya, and so we couldn’t land there either. Having fog as a reason to cancel a landing is something that I expected, but the number of bears thwarting our plans was unexpected for everyone. Polar bears prefer to hunt seals from sea ice, but the sea ice had melted very quickly this year, leaving many bears stranded on Edgeøya. While the bears at our hoped for landing sites afforded me the possibility to see a polar bear for the first time, it was frustrating for the scientists who were foaming at the mouth to collect their samples, and also for the tourists who wanted to land and stretch their legs.

But it was not for nothing that we were cautious. On the third day we made our first expedition landing at Rosenbergdalen, where a bear was roaming the previous day. Though we landed and I was able to gather some sparse samples of seaweed for the first time, our visit was cut short when we had to evacuate because a polar bear was spotted nearby and heading our way. As I was in the coastal group and nearby the inflatable boats, I was one of the first people to be evacuated and so it was not a harrowing experience for me. But a few days later at Russabukta, I was happily loaded with samples of baby Fucus distichus and walking from the beach to join other scientists at a small patch of lakes, when Hans, the guide and rifle-carrier for our group, said he spotted a bear. I looked through my binoculars and could see a white dot as well. I would never have noticed the white dot on my own, but Hans, a much more experienced bear dot spotter, said the bear was sleeping. Sleeping bears are of course harder to spot because they don’t move and can easily be confused with ice or rocks, especially for a newbie bear-spotter like myself, but when I looked, the white dot was moving. Martine, another scientist, confirmed my conclusion: “That bear’s on the move.” And when it disappeared from view behind a small hillock in the rocky terrain, a frisson of fear went up my spine. Is the bear coming towards us?

Two days earlier, the bear that had chased us off Rosenbergdalen was seen from the boat sniffing around the spot where the vegetation scientists were collecting plants. The bear must have been disappointed that lunch escaped to sail another day.

A lot of seaweed in Hornsund, Southwest Spitsbergen

When we couldn’t go on land, the beautiful seascapes were plenty to occupy the eyes

An overly curious attitude toward Bolivia’s high altitude

My lovely parents and sister came to visit for a whirlwind trip through Chile, Bolivia, and Peru. I had hoped to revisit the Salares of Uyuni with them but unfortunately, there was no way to squeeze both Uyuni and Machu Picchu into our super packed two week trip. To make the most of it, we were flying straight from Santiago to La Paz— the loftiest big city in South America, and dare I say it, the world. According to the internet, flying into La Paz was one of the least advisable things you could do if you wanted to avoid altitude sickness. The thing is, I do remember feeling the effects of the altitude in San Pedro de Atacama and Uyuni, six years ago. I distinctly remember needing to use an outhouse that was a hefty two hundred meters away and I remember huffing and puffing throughout every one of those two hundred meters, and then needing to rest and catch my breath once I made it. But besides that, I don’t remember feeling sick or really very uncomfortable.

So when my mom came armed with two bottles of altitude sickness medicine, I thought that was all well and good, but I wanted to feel what altitude sickness was like. I remembered that huffy feeling from all those years ago, the shortness of breath, and I was curious, would it happen again with the pills? I might as well see what it was like without them. I wasn’t worried, I had gone through it once before after all. I completely ignored the fact that I had had several days to acclimatize to Uyuni. So my parents who were wise individuals did what the doctors recommended and popped their pills the day before flying to La Paz, whereas as me and Saskia, who also had the foolhardy curiosity to wonder what altitude sickness was like, did not take any pills. Pills be damned! We’d take them later. Besides, how bad could it be?

I can’t really say that I felt any effect immediately. When we landed I did not feel anything that was much different from the effect of dehydration that usually comes with plane flying. A little bit of pressure on the skull. Dryness of the throat and skin. Nothing too unusual. We got through customs without any incident, mom was able to pay for her visa without any hassle and everyone was courteous. We got a taxi to the airbnb. Everything was fine. I don’t remember feeling any different, I was too busy being in awe of the huge hill that was one neighborhood of La Paz. And the airbnb was on a street where a market sprawled on both sides of the road. It was incredibly lively and I couldn’t wait to explore. We ventured out a little ways and the street was lined with women sitting on the ground in a poof of colorful skirts and petticoats. They all had two long braids with tassels at the end, and wore hats that looks like miniature bowler hats. Baskets and fruits and vegetables and potatoes and chuno were arrayed before them. It was entrancing. We stopped at streetfood stand and bought fried empanadas that were amazing, so much tastier than the Chilean counterpart. We stopped at another streetfood stand and bought a ball of fried mashed potato that was stuffed with some meat. But the street was sloping slightly upwards and we were tired and went back to the apartment. A little bit later we went out again for more food, but this time, we did not get so far. Saskia was not feeling well and we had to go back where she lied on the bed. I was still feeling fine at this point. I did have a little headache, but nothing alarming. So I ventured out again with Dad and we walked quite far through the market and were rewarded with a marvelous view of a parade of people playing music and dressed in local extremely colorful costumes. Apparently, such parades are a regular occurrence in La Paz. I loved it. It was fun to watch even though a granny sitting behind poked me in the back with a broomstick handle because I was blocking her view. Oops.

The colorful market at our doorstep on our first day in La Paz

We had walked farther than I had before and the uphill section was hard. By the time we got back I was tired and started to feel very sick sick. I layed down but I did not feel better. It felt like an iron band was pressing on my skull, like a bad hangover, or like seasickness. I thought there was no way I could go to sleep. I thought if this really was going to go on for three days, there’s no way I could do anything at all. I felt so poorly that I threw up several times. And so finally, I desisted from the foolishness and took the altitude medicine. Though it did end up working, Saskia and I stayed were in bed out of commission for the rest of the day why my parents were prancing around like spry gazelles. So, I guess we got our wish, we knew what altitude sickness felt like. Was it a worthwhile experience? Eh. At least we knew that the pills worked. And at least I won’t feel the urge to test them again.

In the end, I need not have worried about missing out on experiencing the effects of high altitude. Even with the altitude medication, on Isla del Sol, an island in lake Titicaca which was covered with steep stairs, I had to take a break to catch my breath every few steps. My heart beat wildly and I gasped for air as though I had sprinted for the bus. And while we caught our breath on the stone stairs, little old ladies with colorful skirts, carrying bundles on their backs, passed right on by. I tried to stand up straight and not huff so loudly. At least all the pausing gave us the extra opportunity to enjoy the beautiful views.

Couldn’t resist ending with a lovable llama 🙂

Eclipse time!

The day had finally arrived, the event for which the whole trip to the Elqui Valley was an excuse. Colin and I had come to Pisco to see a total eclipse of the sun, which neither of us had seen before. There was a lot of excitement about the eclipse, even in Concepción where it would only be partly visible. I was nervous about obtaining eclipse glasses, which are really the only equipment an eclipse viewing requires. Luckily, I received a hot tip that the Astronomy department at the Universidad de Concepción was distributing a limited number of eclipse glasses and I managed to snag two pairs. I needn’t have worried. By the time eclipse day had arrived, we had two more pairs foisted upon us by our hostel host. He had handed two to us upon walking in and then slipped another two under the door to our room, just in case.

The eclipse was going to be visible in a narrow band in the Coquimbo region, and we would be almost at the center of totality. It would start at 15:22 and totally would happen for a 2 minutes and 36 seconds starting at 16:39. Our plan was to climb out of the valley to get high to see the eclipse, as well as have a beautiful backdrop for the spectacle.

Unlike the trail from the previous day, this trail started was accessible by walking out of the village. The street Baquedano leaves the village and then makes three hairpin turns, the last of which we were instructed to leave for a dirt trail. Seemed simple enough. The day was hot and the hairpin turns were very steep. As we stopped at one of the switchbacks for water, a dog paused with us. There had been several street dogs that had accompanied us on the way out of the village. When we turned off the road onto the trail, the dog stayed with us. She decided to adopt us and would trot in from of us and turn back to make sure we were following. It was nice to have a dog guide as the trail splintered off like a river with many tributaries. Luckily, we our goal to get up to the ridge was quite straightforward, and once we got to the ridge, the only way was up.

We had gotten a late start and I was concerned about finding a good spot to watch the eclipse that wasn’t more than an hour and a half from the bottom of the ridge. I did want to get stuck in the dark. I of course brought my headlamp, but still, the sun sets swiftly in the valley. Colin really wanted to make it to the top of the mountain. Though I was reticent because I wanted to be in a good spot to watch the eclipse, we hurried to the summit. By the time we left the summit it was almost 1:30. In the end we stopped at a spot that was almost an hour further away from the bottom than I would have wanted. But, it was also a lot higher up, which turned out to be crucial.

I thought we could watch the eclipse from here.
I’m glad we didn’t.

Totality was scheduled to happen at 16:39. I remember looking at the sun’s position at 15:20 and noting that the sun would be setting behind the mountains. It looked close to them, but not nearly close enough so we set our things down on an excellent spot where the ridge formed a shelf. We sifted through the many pairs of eclipse glasses that we had accumulated and selected a pair. The dog did not care for them. Colin and I lay down to watch the show.

The show was very slow. The eclipsed glasses obscured everything except for the sun, which looked like a tiny yellow disk. The moon ate through the yellow disk very slowly, so slowly that it was difficult to notice any effect of the sun’s disappearance until finally, totality was almost upon us. We couldn’t sense a difference in the air. Perhaps it felt a bit like twilight, but perhaps we were imagining it. Only a tiny sliver of the sun was left in the glasses until suddenly, the glasses went dark. I took my glasses off. The mountains were shadowy. Then I looked up. Colin said, “The sun set!”

It was a clumsy struggle to stand up after sitting still for so long, but we looked back up the ridge and indeed the shadow of the mountain was visible a few meters ahead of us. So we sprinted up the ridge to beat the sunset. When totality did happen a few minutes later, it was not the calm and mystical experience we had planned for. Instead we were panting on a mountain side, walking backwards every few steps to make sure we could still see the sun. Luckily, there was divot in one of the mountain tops, probably a volcanic crater, that the sun perfectly fit into. It looked like it was sitting in a bowl. So, because of this crater and because we had sat much further up than we had initially planned, we did not miss the solar eclipse. It was not exactly a calm experience, I was too sweaty and out of breath from the uphill sprint to notice the change of temperature that supposedly accompanies a total eclipse, but I was struck by how crisp and black the sun disk was, and how far the white flame of the corona shot out into the sky. Then before I was able to catch my breath, it was over.

We eventually viewed the eclipse totality through the crater on the left.

We hurried down, not bothering to watch the second half of the eclipse. The sun was setting fast. We met the first people we had seen all day at a spot about an hour and a half down where I had thought we could watch the eclipse. Definitely nowhere near high enough. By the time we reached the turning off point of the ridge, I took out my headlamp. Our intrepid canine guide was still with us. She was a lot more helpful than my headlamp for navigating in the dark.

The eclipse was an amazing experience. Especially after talking to the other people at the hostel who had gone to official viewing points with hundreds of people with very badly organized infrastructure, I was very happy about our decision to hike up the valley and sit all alone with a dog for company. Even though we almost missed it. Especially since we almost missed it.

Hiking in Valle de Elqui, or a typical story of trivial Chilean bureaucracy

Everyone in Chile seems to be involved in one tramite (application) or another. Tramite is a word that can be applied to many aspects of Chilean bureaucracy, it means both the act of supplying paperwork and the painful agonizing process of waiting for anything to go through, and then having to comply with the inevitable demand for more paperwork. I have heard horror stories, but luckily my experiences with navigating Chilean bureaucracy have fallen between very and mildly annoying. For example, I had to go to the notary to get my rental contract notarized (apparently this is standard procedure) not once, but twice. The first time I went I didn’t have enough cash with me to cover the full security month, so I had to go sign an agreement promising I would return to the notary the next day to sign the actual rental agreement. Another example was that I was refused an internet contract despite the fact that I presented my shiny new carnet (Chilean ID card) with my shiny new RUT (Chilean ID number) stamped across the front. The RUT is an ID number that is asked for everywhere: from classroom sign-in sheets to the supermarket check-out line, so once I had it, I assumed I was golden. But the woman who was trying to process my application informed me that my RUT wasn’t good enough. Because I did not have a permanent residency visa, I needed to present a Chilean work contract that mentioned my RUT in order to get an internet subscription. Le sigh. Así es Chile. In the end, I asked my landlord to apply for an internet contract under his name.

This was not supposed to be a rant against Chilean beaurocracy, in fact, I wanted to regale a very small episode in the beaurocratic machine that I found quite amusing.

My wonderful boyfriend had made the long trek from Madrid to Concepcion and I wanted to wow him for his first time in Chile and South America. I planned a trip to Pisco, a small touristy village in the Valle de Elqui. The Elqui Valley is in the North of Chile (North being a relative word in Chile, it’s still over a third-ways down from the top-most tip) and is a place made famous for its natural beauty, pisco distilleries, and stargazing. It was North enough that it ignored the chilly rain of wintery Concepcion, and furthermore, on the 2^nd of July 2019 the Elqui Valley would be at the center of totality for a solar eclipse. As neither Colin nor I had ever seen a solar eclipse, I thought this would be the perfect trip for us to experience something new together. The allure of the mountains and pisco didn’t hurt either.

We had two full days in Pisco, the second one being the day of the eclipse. Pisco is a charming, picturesque town with three main streets and a Plaza de Armas, or village square, whose charm was undeminished by the mobs of eclipse viewing tourists. The owner of our hostel had recommended one hike up the left valley and I thought I would reserve that for the day of the eclipse. We wanted to do another hike, and I have detailed in previous posts how difficult it is to find information about hikes in Chile. I did some internet research on my phone and found some geolocated routes. There was one hike that looked doable and would go up the right side of the valley. I showed it to the hostel owner and indeed, he said we could do the hike, but the path started at a campground and we would have to pay to enter. Unfortunately it did not seem like there was any other option to get to the trailhead.

View of the mountains from a rooftop cafe in Pisco

We decided we should give it a try. After a terrible cappuccino, Colin and I followed my phone to the campgrounds on the edge of town. We followed the road until it was blocked by a large, semi-grilled gate. After ringing the bell several times, a rather grumpy looking man came to the gate. At first I didn’t think he understood my accent when I explained to him that we were interested in the hike, but then I realized that he understood but was simply dismayed. He said that many hikers have had accidents while attempting the hike and that it would be better if we did the other hike (that our hostel friend had recommended). I said we were definitely going to do the other hike, but tomorrow. We wanted to do this one today.

He said, “Ah. To enter the campground it’s three thousand pesos. Each. Also, you need to get permission from the carabineros.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Excuse me?” “

Yes. You need to go to the carabineros (police) and fill out a form. You then need to bring a copy of the form back.”

“Ah.” I thanked the campground man and on our way back I explained the situation to Colin. We vacillated back and forth and in the end decided that the hike was worth the quest. And so, we went forth to find the police station.

It should not have been so hard. But google maps failed me. I looked up where the police station was and it indicated another town. Luckily there was an increased number of carabineros in the village due to the overflow of tourists, and so I found a carabinero to question in the Plaza de Armas. I asked them where the police station was because I needed to register for a hike. They probably had no idea what I was talking about and suggested that I ask some people at the tourist information booths in the Plaza de Armas. So I followed their advice. The second person I asked did not know what I was talking about either, but Chileans are always very eager to help and so she showed me back to the carabinero I had already talked to. Luckily, I think that I was better able to explain what I wanted the second time and the carabinero told me I should go to the police station. So, we finally got directions to where it was and Colin and I were merrily on our way.

Once we had made it to the police station we needed to acquire the form. The door was open and it was a small building but the lobby was completely empty. We milled around for a bit and attracted the attention from the one remaining carabinero in the building. I explained to him that we needed to register for a hike. Again, luck was on our side: he understood what I was referring to. He handed me a two long sheets of paper and indicated that I had to fill them out. At this Colin was a flabbergasted. We had to fill out a three page form? To go on a hike? But as I had extensive experience filling out long forms in Chile I forged on ahead. After filling them out I asked if I could have a copy for the campgrounds guy and the carabinero shrugged and said I should just take a picture. Which I did. Considering my past experience, I hope that the picture would be sufficient proof for campground man. I told myself that I refused to make a third trip to the campground. The hill to get to the campground was very steep.

We returned to the campground gate. “We’re back,” I said cheerily. Campground man observed us through the grille.

“Yeah?”

“We still want to go on the hike. We went to the carabineros.”

I was expecting him to ask about the form, but my word was good enough for campground man. I was a little miffed that he did not even ask to see proof that we had registered (then why did we bother?), but I suppose that he must have assumed that if we left and returned it would only be because we were serious about doing the hike and thus had actually had gone to the carabineros. Again, the hill.

The campground man left us at the trailhead and warned us to stay on the path. The trail was indeed precarious. It stayed horizontal for a time before turning sharply upwards. Once we went up we quickly realized that staying on the path would be a bit of a challenge as the trail splintered and crisscrossed every couple meters as people had tried to find the best way to go up. We followed what we thought was the path and after an hour and a half we made it to the top of the first peak for a gorgeous view of the valley. I was worried about finding the path again on the way down, but we made it back all in one piece. It was a lovely hike.

After leaving the campground, we still had one final task. We had to returned to the police station to sing the form, indicating that we had made it back alive. And so once again, we found ourselves at the deserted police station. After a moment, we saw the one lone carabinero from earlier in the day. He was sweeping the terrace and it took us a while to discreetly distract him from his task. He dusted his hands and opened one of the bottomless drawers that our form had disappeared into. After we both signed, the carabinero asked us if we enjoyed our hike. It was a pleasure to say that we had, and he seemed genuinely pleased by our answer. Once the form was signed, the carabinero popped it back into the drawer, never to be seen again. Maybe it’s still there.

If only all bureaucracy could be quite so painless.

Climbing the infinity cone: Volcán Antuco

The stars were aligned. Not only was it a long weekend, it was the last projected sunny weekend before the rain set in. Pax was still reeling from our failure to summit Cerro Quinquilil a few weeks ago. This time, we had set our sights on a more iconic and perhaps more ambitious summit: the Volcán Antuco.

Antuco is in the Parque de la Laguna del Laja, a national park containing a large lake next to the Argentinian border. It’s about three hours away as the car drives, but double that by public transit. Pax has wanted to climb this mountain with a while, she attempted it a few months ago but because of a combination of weather conditions and the abilities of her hiking buddies, she didn’t make it. I definitely did not have my friend’s starry eyed-fervor when I invoked the name of Antuco, by gosh darn it, I was going to do it. I just wanted to enjoy the last chance to sleep outside before the sheets of rain slanted in. Why not climb a volcano and go out in style?

There is mismatch between Chile’s bounty of nature and Chileans’ enthusiasm for enjoying it. Around 20% of Chile’s area is national park, and yet the culture of camping and hiking, and the infrastructure to support these, is not so well developed. Besides touristy hubs like Pucon or Puerto Natales, it is difficult to find information about hikes online or even at the local mountaineering store. But it’s the attitude that really surprises me. In Seattle, hiking and camping was what people did on the weekends. When I said I was going camping that weekend at the end of May, my Chilean friends all looked at me like I was crazy and said, “You know it’s going to be really cold right? Like freezing.”

We left for Antuco early Saturday morning by way of two buses, and then hitchhiked to get into the park. We were very lucky as the first car that drove by stopped for us. A little aside about the man who picked us up: he was photographer from Santiago who was working on a book about the area and was currently very interested in taking pictures of the road signs leading up to the park. He stopped intermittently with his monster camera taking pictures of road signs that he found baffling (“It says ‘peligro’, but what kind peligro? Rock falls? Flash floods? So imprecise”). Our ride took us all the way into the park and left us right in front of the ski center where Antuco loomed large and white. We were planning on climbing Antuco the next day and so turned away… for now.

We first did a hike through a stunning bowl of lava field that culminated into a lovely soggy marsh. We had planned to hike to some alpine lakes but by the time we crossed the marsh we were very wet (especially me) and tired. Couple that with meeting some snow-covered hikers returning from the lakes and we decided that we did not want to go the lakes so badly. But our hike was not in vain, for not only did we seem some beautiful sights, but we also used the most charming outhouse I have ever encountered. It was made of wood, had a real toilet seat and even had a window and towel pegs. Delightful.

The marsh was horrible to walk through, but unbelievably photogenic

One of the hikers asked us where we were going to spend the night. While he was very condescending (Of course we brought a tent with us, you nitwit!), he recommended that we go lower because of the cold. We ended up camping on the trail. It was cold, but Pax had the excellent idea to fill our water bottles with boiled water and stuff those into our sleeping bags. Genius! Wake up was at 4AM. I was not looking forward to it.

After a difficult wake up and camp clean-up we were on the road by 5:30 AM. The moon was full, making flashlights unnecessary. Antuco was far enough that it looked big, but not intimidating. At least not too intimidating by the light of the moon. It took us an hour to walk to the ski center at the base of Antuco. It was strange to walk through the ski center in the dark. The cabins had an empty, abandoned feel, and we passed through a gate where the ski lift poles lines up and marched up. We marched alongside, on the coarse lava gravel. Antuco rose up impossibly high in front of us, almost into a perfect cone. We were told that climbing it would take six hours. We abandoned our packs to the side of the ski lift poles, and by the time we made it to the snowline, it felt like we had already climbed a mountain. It was incredibly steep and the lava gravel was not fun to walk on as it slipped out from beneath our feet. The snow made a walking a lot easier. By the time we cleared the ski lift, the dark was turning grey and pink and the sun touched some of the lower areas below with gold. The views of the Lago de le Laja and Sierra Velluda were spectacular. We enjoyed the rest of the sunrise, and greatly heartened, we forged ahead.

I had no prior experience of hiking in the snow and completely relied on Pax to lead the way. She squinted at the summit. By now we were close enough that the pointed cone looked less steep than before, except that we needed to crane our necks far back to be able to look at it at all. She pointed to a slight bulge on the left and said we would have to avoid, and then pointed to a ridge (I had to take her word it was a ridge) and said we would follow it. Almost like we magic, we soon found another set of footprints that had been made by hikers the previous day. The footprints seemed to follow the path that Pax had layed out for us. It was 8 AM and we were optimistic. The point was pointy but it no longer seemed like an inaccessible ethereal chunk of rock, we were on a path and on our way. We were cheery and said, “Four more hours? We’ll make it in two.” We were wrong.

We set out on the ridge and soon the path became steep but not unpleasantly so. In spots with greater snow drifts the footprints were carved out in stair-like steps by the previous hikers. Pax said we were lucky, because if the steps were not there, we would have had to carve them out ourselves. As we went further, parts of the path were wiped clean from people sliding down the mountain. Pax made steps by kicking her toe directly into the snow. I followed, kicking as well to deepen the step. This was where ice crampons would have come in handy. The mountain still loomed large, but we felt like we were making good progress, and at 9AM I had the gall to to say we should wait on stopping for a snack since we would be at the top by 10AM. Unfortunately, our progress was hampered by patches of bare volcanic skree. As we scrambled through, sending streams of loose gravel down the mountain, it was clear that without the snow, we would never have been able to make it up the mountain. By 10:30, we finally made it to the top, only to find that the summit still loomed ahead. We had only made it to the false summit. Swallowing our disappointment, we pushed on. Sometimes, Pax would turn and look down and exclaim about how far up we had gone. I turned around once and saw the sky fell away into the Laguna de la Laja far, far below. My head spun and I turned back quickly, digging my hands into the snow to stop myself from feeling like I was going to tumble off the mountain.

We pushed on. I felt out of breath. Maybe the altitude was getting to me, or maybe it was that I was cranky from getting tricked by the mountain into thinking I was at the top. But finally, at noon, we had reached the craggly point. It required a lot of scrambling and climbing up rocks. Pax got there first and looked back to me and said I was not going to be happy. I hoisted myself up the last bit and saw it for myself. Another false summit.

Nope. That was it. I was done. The last part was a very steep pile of gravel. Pax was adamant that she was going. I would have been happy to stay right there. The view was awesome, did I really need to scramble my way up another pile of rocks just to say I climbed Antuco? Did I? It took me a false start and then four minutes of brooding by myself before I realized that yes, yes I did. And so, I walked back out into the wind and to the cone, determined to make it to the actual summit. It was not pretty. I was about as graceful as a newborn giraffe on roller skates. But. I made it to the top. And yes, I ate my own words, because it was totally worth it.

The crater was a snow filled bowl. Piping hot steam came out from the rocks which was quite a lovely reward. Pax and I ate our PB&J sandwiches and I felt very accomplished and slightly embarrassed that I almost did not push myself to follow through to the end. The view was amazing, it felt like we were looking down from an airplane. The weather was also perfect, so clear. After enjoying the summit for a half hour, we started our way back down. Because of the last piece of cone was so steep and uncovered skree, it took us forty minutes to go down which was twice as long as it had taken me to climb up.

Once off of the cone of doom, and safely back onto the snow, Pax suggested that we slide down when able. Up until now, I associated sliding with those n’er do wells who had ruined the steps in our path up the mountain. I was slightly bemused, but game to try. We sat in the snow and I naturally dug my heels in to stop from slipping. But Pax said the trick was to keep the legs as extended as possible as you brake by by bending them. I gave it a try and oh my gosh, it was so much so much fun. For those few seconds where the mountain wooshed away beneath us, it made going up feel totally worth it. The sliding exacerbated some minor wardrobe failure: I was wearing two pairs of tights and scrambling down the lava cone meant going down on butt most of the time, which tore holes in both pairs. After sliding down, snow accumulated and settled around my ankles my pants. But I didn’t care. I was having such a great time! By the time we made it down to ridge, both pairs of leggings had been shredded and my underwear was full of so much ice that it looked like I had grown an extra bottom. We slid down the mountain as much as we could, until we were forced by the rocks to go by foot. Twelve hours after we had started hiking, we were at the bottom of the mountain.

This was great last hike to do before winter rain set in. Not only did I learn how to climb in snow, and slide down a mountain, I also stood at the summit of an active volcano. I think that was an experience worth sacrificing two pairs of leggings for.

Cruising for langostinos

I had the awesome opportunity to participate in a research cruise for three days. The aim of our mission was to examine the distribution of langostino at all life stages: larvae, wayward teenager, adult. The langostino is a tasty crustacean, one you may have remembered from my adulations over seafood empanadas a few weeks ago.

It has been a while since I’ve spent a night on a boat. My main concern was getting seasick as I had been taking medicine for an irritated stomach. I had a sneaking suspicion that my doctor might not recommend copious vomiting as a weekend activity. But, armed with two different kinds of anti-nausea meds and a large supply of galletas de agua (saltines), I felt well-prepared for the eventuality. I wasn’t reassured by the small size of the boat, nor the way that it rocked in the super calm harbor. But, the weather gods were smiling, and we left the Dichato with glassy seas and one meter swells.

We went out on the Kay Kay II, the UdeC’s research vessel. There were two scientific teams onboard as well as a crew of six to do all the necessary sailing and machine wrangling. I was on a team of three from the LOPEL (Laboratorio de Oceanografía Pesquera y Ecología Larval) lab and our mission was to track the langostino’s baby phase. We would trawl the waters for zooplankton all night long. Why all night? Because during daylight hours, zooplankton, which are small marine animals that measure micrometers to millimeters, swim deep down in the water column to avoid visual predators and then swim back up to the surface at night to feed on yummy diatoms (algae) and rogue organic particles. At every station, we deployed the CTD; an instrument which is the oceanographic equivalent to an expensive and finicky swiss army knife. Using a winch attached to a cable, the CTD is sent down to a few hundred meters and measures the water’s physical characteristics (conductivity, temperature, and density) along the way. Next, we deployed the Tucker trawl, which is a series of nets that can be opened and closed at different depths so different points in the water column are sampled for zooplankton. After dragging them behind the boat for a few minutes, we pulled them back on, drained them, and added formalin to preserve them for later identification. Hopefully we would find some baby langostinos lurking in the mix.

When you’re working on a boat, time is a measured and dolloped entity. There were six stations to do and each station took us about an hour. When you add travel (around an hour between stations), the sampling, which we started at a crepuscular 18:00, took all night. With the help of the crew, Edu, Carlos, and I would deploy the CTD and the nets, then take a nap for an hour, and repeat. I never really fell into a deep sleep, just cherished the sensation of the boat speeding through the cresting waves, as this meant I could stay lying down. But then, the captain would hit the brakes and I could feel the boat slow against the swell, signaling that it was time to roll out of the bunk and start sampling again. I got to sleep for maybe two hours the next morning before I needed to get up again to run our stations backwards with the CTD.

Luckily, at this point it was the other team’s turn to trawl. But besides sending the CTD down, the LOPEL team was also in charge of collecting water samples at each station to measure oxygen and nutrients/organic matter content. For this, we used a handy bottle with an opening on both sides called a Niskin bottle. I’ve always thought that whoever invented the Niskin bottle was someone with a genius for beauty in simplicity. The Niskin bottle is used to sample water at whatever depth you want. It is a cylindrical tube with two stoppers connected to each other by an elastic running through the center of the tube. The stoppers are pulled back and snapped to the center of the bottle so the elastic connecting the two ends is under tension. The bottle is attached to the same cable that was used to lower the CTD. When the bottle is at the right depth, we attach a weight to the cable and send it shooting down the line. It hits the catch and releases the tension in the elastic, snapping the stoppers into place. Et voila! You have the a bottle of water from any depth strata desired.

I’m carefully filling glass bottles with water *sampled at a specific depth stratum* by the Niskin. After I’m done filling the bottle, I will add chemicals to the water that will react with oxygen and precipitate. *Depending on the amount of oxygen*, the water will turn a shade of milky white to dark yellow. It is easy to see the oxygen gradient when comparing the colors of water from different depths!

Meanwhile, the other team was deploying the bottom trawl to capture the langostino on the sea floor where it had matured from its larval free-swimming form to its bottom dwelling juvenile stage. The other team had the interesting problem to contend with that the cable on the bottom trawl was too short to reach the sea floor. Their solution was to attach a long length of line to the trawl. This maneuver included dragging the net in the water from the aft deck (ship’s butt) to the foredeck (ship’s front) to deploy it. They were not able to reach the bottom the first time, but they did the next times as we sailed over shallower ground. It was interesting to see the mix of species within the trawl as well as the mix of year classes. One of the hauls had both crabs and adult langostinos, while another one heaped out juveniles. Most of the time sampling in the ocean feels like groping blind, but it’s always exciting because you’re never entirely sure what you’re going to get.

The cruise was short but packed. It was fun to reacquaint myself with a lot of ocean sampling equipment and learn about a new sea critter. Even though the seas were glassy, caution and experience did not allow me to try laying off the seasickness meds until we were well into the third day. But it was not until we were pulling into port that I realized that I had been on a boat overnight without throwing up once. A first! Hopefully not the last.

And I couldn’t resist adding a couple of seascapes.

From Penquista to Pucón: Climbing Cerro Quinquilil

For the semana santa (Easter long weekend) I went camping in Pucón with Pax, an American undergrad in the oceanography department. I had not gone hiking in a while and was really excited to go to Pucón, which is a town near the Argitinean border, about six hours away from Concepción at the foothills of the Andes and the photogenic Volcan Villarica. Pucon caters to outdoor activities and has multitudes of “adventure agencies” to facilitate whatever hiking, climbing, mountaineering, or rafting activity strikes your fancy. Pax is from Alaska and is a highly experienced outdoorswoman and mountaineer. Her goal was to summit the volcano Quinquilil without fail. My goal was to breathe mountain air without embarrassing myself with my rusty camping skills.

We left for Pucón Thursday afternoon and stayed the night in a hostel. This was my first time staying in a hostel since traveling in Chile six years ago, and I had a strange deja vu experience of the curtained bunk beds, mismatched dishes, and threadbare couches draped in scruffy travelers eagerly planning their next activity.

Pax and I left the next day around 8 AM. We took a local bus to Currarrehue and from there, shouldered our packs and set out to the edge of the town to hitch a ride 20km to the trailhead. I have not hitchhiked in a very long time, but it is considered to be quite safe in Chile. Indeed, the person at the tourist office had recommended that we get to the trailhead that way. It took us three cars to make it all the way, but the last car was driven by experienced hikers and they helped us find the trailhead. And so, by 1 o clock we were off.

The sun was shining and it did not feel like fall, except the leaves were starting to change to red, so the trees were that gorgeous motley of red and green. The landscape reminded me a lot of the Cascades in Washington state, which makes sense as its on of the same coast and at a similar latitude, but on the opposite hemisphere. What I found very striking about the Pucón area were the many volcanoes, and while Volcán Villarica is the most famous one, we had our eye on Volcán Lanín for much of the hike. It’s been over a year since I’ve hiked with a pack, but I was gratified that I could keep up with Pax (my pack was lighter, but still counts!). We arrived at a good campsite at around 5 pm, set up camp, and decided to climb a nearby knoll to watch the sunset. This was my first real test of grit. As I said, Pax is from Alaska and so climbing up a rocky knoll is a cakewalk for her, whereas I associate rock climbing with the time in middle school when I made it halfway up a rock face and then refused to peel away from my perch after peeking down. But, I was not about to lose face and so I carefully picked my way up the rocks behind Pax. Our way also involved a scramble through the underbrush that my hair did not enjoy. But it was very much worth it. We got a beautiful view of the pinkening volcano in the sunset.

The next day, we broke up camp and continued along the trail for an hour until we made it to the end. But Pax wanted to continue the climb up to the top of the cerro Quiquilil. Cerro Quinquilil is an extinct volcano. It is not a beautifully regular cone like Lanín or Villarica, but has a stubbier shape with a large pointy cinder cone of igneous rubble at the top. And that’s what Pax wanted to climb. She began to say that it looked too difficult for us (i.e. me), but we would give it a try. We first had to get to the base though, and this involved crossing a trail-less valley and my first foray into mountaineering.

I have to now explain what it means to be “cliffed out”. It means being unable to continue walking because the ground’s edge falls away into a cliff. The only way to deal with this (especially when you’re a beginner like me) is to turn around and try to go lower or higher. This kept on happening with our attempts to cross the valley. It did not concern me too much as I was merely following Pax. She taught me some principles of climbing, such as needing to have three points of contact to the mountain at all times and how to kick the ground to make sure one’s foothold is firm. It was challenging and I enjoyed it. At one point, we had to climb down a tricky bit of rockface and Pax had to direct me to place my hands and feet. The rock was akin to basalt, igneous and very good to grip, but also very loose in places and the ground was covered in skree (large pebbles that can be nudged into a minor landslide by a misplaced cough) that made walking difficult. We eventually made it to the other side and walked along a flat expanse of lava sand. This was my favorite part of the hike as as it felt like walking on a elevated moonscape. We made it to the base of the top, but unfortunately, that’s where we had to stop.

One of the properties of cinder cones is that they are extremely steep, and this one looked like it was made almost entirely of skree (didn’t I mention the consequences of nudging skree?). By the time we had crossed the valley it was already early afternoon. We could have attempted it, but we watched two condors loop over head instead. It was a bit of a disappointment for Pax, but I was very pleased to have made it this far. I see the appeal of making one’s own trail, there is definitely a thrill to feel like you’re walking where no one else has gone. And beyond our mountain was a whole other landscape to explore. I guess I’ll just have to come back.

A story of (street) dogs and (sea) lions

I remembered there being a lot more street dogs in Chile. I have only seen a handful of strays in Concepción, sunning themselves on the university lawns or trotting up the sidewalk. I asked a friend and he gave me a long look and said, yes, there used to be a lot more, but the government has gotten rid of them through neutering campaigns or even euthanization. And so, I thought I would only encounter the huge packs that I saw roaming around Punta Arenas six years ago in my memory. That is, until I went to Talcahuano.

Talcahuano is a port town 30 minutes from Concepción by bus, or “micro”. I had to go there to take a boat safety and survival course, the story of which I have regaled to you in my previous blog post. Talcahuano is a port town, destroyed in the 2010 tsunami and rebuilt. I find it grittier than Concepción, and the dogs are gutsier. I walked down the marina with some new friends from the course during lunch time and we were accosted by several dogs who wanted food though we clearly had none. These dogs were more pushy than I had grown accustomed to and followed us. Yes they were cute, but I was also a bit wary. You never know when a stray dog might bite.

At some point, when we were walking along the marina, my new friends gestured at me and pointed down over the rail. There on jetty lolled two sea lions. Maybe I’m jaded, or maybe my work with the National Marine Fisheries Service has indoctrinated me into thinking sea lions are no good endangered salmon vacuum cleaners; but whatever the cause, the cuteness of sea lions has mostly worn off me. I saw two bloated smelly blubber sacks lolling about. And I was acutely aware that if one of them sat on me, I’d be done for. Then Alondra pointed outward and I watched, eyes widening, a sea lion climb into a skiff that was moored in the bay. I was floored. I kept pointing back at that sea lion that was lolling half out the boat because it was so big, and said, “No puedo creerlo, hay un lobo en el bote!!! Que???”. My friends nodded and smiled as though to say, “Yes, we see it, we pointed it out to you.” But I could not get over it, there was a fracking sea lion in that skiff! I tried to imagine what it would be like to go out to your boat one morning, coffee cup in hand, and then find a sea lion lazing about in your boat! How do you get it out? The surprise would probably be enough to make me lose the coffee cup to the sea, maybe breakfast as well. I expressed my astonishment to a labmate later and he told me not to worry, the sea lions don’t get into boats when there are people in them. I don’t think I conveyed the root cause of my astonishment very well.

And so, later that day, we were gathered at the marina for the practical part of the boat safety and survival class where we would jump off the boat in nought but our clothes and a lifejacket and swim through the freezing Pacific water to a life raft. Dogs milled about the marina as the instructor reminded us of what we were supposed to do. We inflated the life raft on the asphalt and one dog nearly got crushed by the rapidly expanding orange rubber. I was surprised that the dogs were so easily tolerated at the launch of what seemed to be a boating club, but Chileans do have such a lax attitude about their street dogs. Still. Their presence irritated me. Or maybe it was the prospect of jumping into the freezing water. Who knows.

Another thing that got me nervous was that the dock was completely covered in sea lions. If there were so many sea lions on the dock, who knew how many there could be lurking in the water, waiting to nab an unsuspecting pretend naufragée. Then a boat approached the dock and all of a sudden, something amazing happened.

All the dogs that had been happily milling about the courtyard sprung into action and converged onto the dock, barking at the sea lions. The sea lions slipped off the dock like jelly marbles as the dogs advanced, barking, until only one or two remained, including a large alpha sea lion that alternated sticking its nose up in the air and barking back at the dogs. Still, I was astonished at how these huge animals that must have weighed at least four times as much as a dog yielded so easily to their onslaught. Maybe it was that there were so many of them. Maybe they just couldn’t be bothered. But it was not a hazard-free job. One of the dogs that attacked the sea lions only had three legs because the fourth had been bitten off by a sea lion. Despite the danger, in a couple of seconds la lancha was almost completely cleared of sea lions and the boat could dock safely. The sailor tying the line to the dock peg took it all in stride as though it was a regular occurrence. And I realized that it was. These people had trained the street dogs to attack the sea lions so that they could dock the boats. Absolutely incredible.

I think what I love about this is the idea of using resources that one has at one’s disposal to tackle this particular problem. There are sea lions lying around, but so are the dogs! And this way, everyone is happy, the dogs are fed, the sea lions are kept away when necessary, and the world is in harmony. Except, I’m still not clear on what you do when you have a sea lion in your boat…

Only 2% of you would survive

As part of the requirements to step foot on a commercial or research vessel in Chile, I needed to take a boat safety and survival course. The course would last three days and at some point, we would have to jump off a boat in our clothes and swim to a life raft. I was not looking forward to that part.

The first day, I just concentrated on trying to understand what the instructors were mumbling in rapid Spanish. In the morning, two instructors went over the parts of a boat and first aid principles. I expected it would be even more difficult to concentrate in the midst of my post-lunch slump, but when the third instructor started speaking all eight of sat up straight. He had small deep-set eyes and spoke softly with little inflection, saying that the biggest enemy to overcome during a catastrophe is fear. Because one of the symptoms of fear is acting without thinking. He then relayed a story of how he was on a boat that had run aground and one of the sailors who had been consumed by fear ran up the deck shouting that they were sinking. He jumped over the rail on to the rocks below and broke both his legs. “And then we had to get him out,” said the instructor. “That took a while.”

He then proceeded to bombard the class with potential scenarios and gauge people’s survival instincts. He pointed at me. “What do you do if there are twenty-five of you trying to fit on a twenty person life boat?” I did not think that he would take “Risk it?” as an adequate answer so I just shook my head. The next person said, “Take turns hanging off the edge into the water.”

“Correct.”

Damn. Why didn’t I think of that? My odds of surviving a shipwreck were shrinking.

So it was with the mentality that fear is the enemy that I woke up on Wednesday morning with the knowledge that I would jumping in freezing cold water in the afternoon. I had taken one look at the harbor the day before and had decided to wear as little clothes as possible so as not to contaminate them. I regretted it once I arrived in Talcahuano. Everyone else was wearing two long sleeved shirts and sweaters. I was wearing a T-shirt and leggings. I had hoped the afternoon would disperse the gray and windy morning, but the clouds remained. After peeling off my sweater and donning the life jacket in the cold wind, I began to really think that saving my clothes from the foul harbor water had been decidedly the wrong impulse.

Once on the boat, the captain drove for about five minutes away from the dock to a large red buoy. The boat dragged the inflated life raft behind us. We moored to the buoy and our instructors reminded us of the exercise. We would jump one by one into the water, form a train where each person would hook their legs around the waist of the person in front of them (we had practiced inside the classroom) and swim on our backs while stroking our arms in unison. Then we would swim around the boat and buoy to the life raft and climb in.

My turn to jump in came up rather quickly. I remembered that I needed to pause to think before jumping so as to demonstrate how advanced I was in not letting fear overcome me. The water was very cold. Someone had trouble with heights and took a very long time to get in the water, so we just got colder. Finally, everyone was in and we formed our train. Unfortunately, we were facing the wrong way and had to turn which was a very laborious process. Luckily, our caboose was an older man going for his captain’s license with plenty of at-sea experience, and he was comfortable directing our train. Once turned, we were finally on our way, chanting “Uno, dos, tres!” to keep the beat of our strokes. However, we moved very very slowly. We were sheltered by the harbor, but the waves were large and sent us sputtering. Maneuvering the turn around the buoy should have required a team of coxswains. The distance we had to cover was maybe 50 meters, but it took us about 20 minutes to make it to the life raft. I cannot imagine have to swim 200 meters, or even two kilometers to the life raft. After what seemed like for too long, we made it to the orange floating island. It took a bit longer to get, but finally the last person slid across the seawater slick rubber and we cheered our victory. The ride back was freezing. Our instructor said he had once been in the water for seven hours waiting for a rescue. I couldn’t imagine being in there for seven more minutes. A day or two later, I came down with a bad cold.

According to our intrepid instructor, one of the most important strategies for surviving a shipwreck is to stay in a group. And I feel like this exercise, short as it was, did demonstrate this principle. Our train formation not only made me feel warmer, it also made me feel less anxious. In addition, different members of our group had different skills. Our older, more experienced caboose, really helped us get oriented the right way and reach the life raft. But once he was there, he needed the help of younger, stronger people (such as yours truly) to get into the life raft. While even a fake “abandon ship!” was quite enough excitement for me, it was a very interesting exercise, and I learned a lot. And even though only 2% of us would survive a real shipwreck, I am proud to say that 100% of us survived this accreditation exercise, with only mild hypothermia. Huzzah!

Food stories, Part 1

I’m calling this “Part 1” because I anticipate that there will be many more food stories to come.

Food in Chile is really hit or miss. In my first week in Concepcion I went out to lunch with a colleague and I ordered “casuela”, an apparently quintessential chilean dish which boils down to soup, in this case, chicken noodle soup without the noodles. But it was very bland and I had trouble finishing it. And this is a country where people take long lunch breaks, actually lunch is supposedly the most important meal of the day.

A lot of the local more traditional eateries I’ve been to have a three course meal menu with a salad, main course, and a dessert. But I am so far underwhelmed by these. And this may also be because eateries around universities do cater to a younger student crowd, but I have noticed a fondness for mayonnaise (without fries) and sweet drinks that I find baffling. The saddest lunch I had was when I went to a Japanese fast food place and thought I was ordering something that I thought was a poke bowl, but instead turned out to be rice with some fake crab and a huge amount of two different flavored mayonnaise. Extremely upsetting. Not any less baffling was the time I went out to lunch with another colleague and she took me to a more healthy place that offered menus of salads, quesadillas, and wraps. I got the quesadilla, and it was indeed chicken and cheese and veggies in a tortilla shell, but to my infinite disappointment … but it was stone cold. I felt completely betrayed by my food. How is this a quesadilla????

Despite the lack of food consciousness, Chilean cuisine has one redeeming feature: seafood. I had tried amazing seafood on my previous trip to Chile, including curanto and ceviches, but my first week here I had a revelation that rivals either of those: the seafood empenada.

It happened like this. During my first week in Concepción, I accompanied Pamela and Eduardo, the two head technicians of my lab to the University marine station at Dichato to renew the lab’s seawater reserves. The marine station was a newish looking building with a hatchery for dogfish and sea urchins on the ground floor, and scientists dutifully sorting through samples on the in the upper floor. Across the street was another building that was just bare bones. I was told that the lab was destroyed in the 2010 tsunami that hit the Chilean coast. It swept away the building and all the expensive scientific equipment. Luckily, no lives were lost at the lab, but they are still in the process of rebuilding and don’t have even a quarter of the scientific equipment that they used to have. They say that people want to move the location of the lab to safer place, but having a lab right at the ocean really allows you to do things you can’t do if you’re far away, such as pumping seawater directly from the source into your aquaria. It was a bit of a sobering moment, but at the same time, really fascinating to see how Chileans deal with the constant threat of disaster at any moment.

After visiting the station Pamela and Eduardo suggested stopping off at the market to get snacks. The market was mostly seafood, and they pointed out the local fish for sale: merluza, conglio, reineta; all the while Pamela steered us to a staircase in the back of one shop. We went up three flight of rickety stairs to a table that was right next to the kitchen. I was excited about the idea of seafood empanadas. Pamela said I could have several different kinds: marisco (seafood), macha (a kind of razor clam) queso, langostina (squat lobster) queso, carapacho (crab) queso, and probably several others. I elected for the classic “marisco”. Pamela and Eduardo also each ordered one. Pamela asked me if I had brought lunch to the lab, because if I hadn’t I could get another one. And I looked at Pamela, thinking out loud, “Another one. Yes… And maybe another one after that?” I asked it like a question and I was hoping that she wouldn’t judge me for my gluttony. But the look she gave me said, of course get two more if you want two more. So she amended our order for another langostino queso and macha queso empanada.

And they came out of the kitchen in steaming bags ready for us to go. but I couldn’t wait that long and attacked the bag. Pamela and Eduardo shrugged and followed suit. Oh my, I did not expect it to be so delicious. Up until this point (second week in Chile) I had only had baked empanadas which tend to be bigger than fried empanadas and have a thicker crust. I am going to go out on a limb and say that the fried empanadas unequivocally taste much better. The marisco empanada was delicious, the pastry was flaky and thin and golden and the filling was a minced lemony shellfish explosion. It was really hot but I didn’t care, I just shoved it into my mouth as fast as possible. Unfortunately it wasn’t fast enough. Eduardo pointed at my shirt which was covered in shellfish juice because apparently there was a “sopita” in the marisco empanada that I had missed out on! And as I had only recently met these people I thought that spilling the food on myself was probably a good enough show… no need to suck the sopita out of my shirt. Though I was sorely tempted. Luckily I still had two more empanadas left to go. I had planned to take them back, but considering the other two were only in the middle of their single empanadas I tore into the second one. Macha Queso. Maybe my favorite. Macha is this huge razor clam and I did not expect this shellfish to go well with cheese. I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t. But oh my gosh it was amazing. Pamela and Eduardo were impressed. “Te gusta?” Emphatic nods ensue. Yes, I really liked it!!

Baked empanada de pino, the traditional empanada filling of ground beef, onion, olive, and hard-boiled egg

And back in the lab Eduardo made a great imitation of my eyes going big and rubbing my hands together like a Bond villain while saying “Que rico!” (how yummy!). People really appreciated it. And that led to Pedro offering to take me out that weekend to eat at his sister-in-law’s restaurant in Lirquen to try mariscal frio which is a cold seafood soup. And it was incredible. Such huge shellfish! And I tried fiure which is a red tunicate that I’ve never had before. The fiure had a bitter metallic taste that I wasn’t partial to, but I was glad to have tried it. We ended up ordering a second platter of the cold shellfish soup because it tasted so good.

And so, Chile is a country of culinary contradictions, where casuelo sits aside a macha queso empanada. But knowing that one exists really makes you value having the other.