Volcan Villarica

Many people (6) I met along the way of my backpacking went to a little town in Chile called Pucón, a place where it is possible to climb the active volcano–Volcán Villarica. I left Bariloche at 7:30 off to Pucón via Osorno. At the border crossing, I remember to claim my pasta and well, other foreigners didn’t claim all of their belongings and they got in trouble. Not me!! People tried bringing in little orchards with them. After an hour and a half of customs, we got back on the bus en route to Osorno. On the bus, the little boy next me tried talking to me talking about himself I am pretty sure and asking me questions, but I could not really understand him for the life of me.

We arrived in Osorno, me being starving. I went on a hunt to find food, considering I had four hours to kill until the bus to Pucón. I found a vegetable sandwich (albeit with heaps of mayo) and chowed down (after scraping off the mayo I could). The town was really terrible. There was nothing. No charm. It took me 45 minutes to find a decent looking sandwich shop. It reminded me of a bad part of San José or Montevideo and maybe Detroit but I have never been there. The town was so smoggy and really, when I say terrible, I mean BAD. I stopped at a grocery store to get some oranges, bananas, and cookies. While in the grocery store, I discovered that there is dulce de leche, just under a pseudonym of “manjar.” YES! I purchased some Manjar Oreos (instead of white cream, there was manjar-ish cream…they were not as good as excepted and had the potential to be much better). I went back to wait at the bus station, when these two Israeli guys recognized me from Bariloche. I talked to one of them who asked me what I thought of Osorno.

“A shithole.”

“A what?”

“A shit,” I paused, “hole.”

“Ah, I will have to remember that word!” he replied. Great. I am teaching foreigners truck driver vocabulary. “I must ask you, why doesn’t Obama like Israel? He will not let us build skyscrapers” HA! I haven’t a clue.

“I do not know. Dulce de leche oreo?”

“No thanks, we smuggled in fruit at the border.” WHAT!?

“How?”

“I am a smart man.”

“Oh?”

“I have pockets in my clothing. I put an orange here,” he pointed to a pocket on his pants, “and then a banana in here,” he said showing me the inside of his jacket. He is a smart man. Why don’t I think of these things? I have pockets inside of my jacket too!

We arrived to Pucón at 20:30, in time for me to get to my hostel (a place of so-so management and a dirty kitchen but a clean dog and fire place) and book a tour to the volcano. The next day I woke at 6:15 to have time to eat breakfast and get ready. It was still dark out, and the volcano (visible from the town) was glowing red at the top–an amazing sight. I saw the Israelis from the bus the day before, and then two new rather flashy Israelis. There was also a Frenchman (who brought sparkling water), a Dutch guy (who joked that we will get to the top only to see a road and a tour bus full of Japanese tourists), an Australian (who I met at my hostel in Bariloche, mistaked for being a New Zealander (like called an American Canadian), and now was staying at my hostel in Pucón), a Brazilian couple (who ended up turning back half way up, and according to the guides, this is because Brazilians have too many beaches and relaxation and do not know how to trek), and a Chilean-German couple (who lagged behind with their own guide). We were super blessed with weather, as there had been horror stories of groups having to turn back halfway up and not get a refund.

Little did I know that this hike up to the top to see lava was more of an intense trek–the fact that you are required to have a guide to go up should have been enough to warn me. It was miserable–but I am beyond proud of myself that I stuck it out and made it to the top. Climbing up was terrible, but at least we could see the top for the majority of the climb (unlike many summits). I did not have my own proper hiking shoes (I only have trainers, black flats, strappy sandals, and flip flops with me) I had to borrow these huge clunky boots where I basically had to march in. My feet were dying. Since the windproof gear (water/wind proof pants and jacket) we were given was green and black, I too decided also to wear green and black. Because the first 2.5 hours were in gravel, I would keep slipping backwards because the gravel wouldn’t allow me to keep a stable foot. It was hard work, to say the least. We got to the snow covered part of the volcano, and that was bad. It was snowy enough that technically we did not need crampons, but icy enough that at least I would have felt safer with them on. I ended up holding the guide’s hand as we zigzagged up to the top for the next 2.5 plus hours. It was terrifying when the volcano got steeper. I tried not to look down (I would have freaked) or cry (then I would not be able to see in front of me). I, being the only girl with 7 guys, felt very much like a stereotypical girl being whiny and getting scared of falling. Like I said, I was holding the guide’s hand for goodness sake. I barely ate anything I was so nauseous and scared. The guide, Alejandro (I informed him Lady Gaga’s song Alejandro but he had never heard it), kept telling that we were going to break in 10 minutes every 10 minutes, which was aggravating.

Finally, after about 5 hours and 15 minutes, we reached the top. A rush of heat came over the group and you could hear the “whoosh” of lava. The air was also filled with sulfur, making it nearly impossible to breath. I had to take of my glove and put it over my nose and mouth, and even then it was bad. The wind was so fierce–beating us–and literally, moving me. I was too scared to go to the edge of the volcano for fear of, well, falling over (although it would make a cool obituary…”Carolyn Balk, after scaling the 2847 meter high Volcán Villarica, was sucked into the volcano’s crater by violent wind and un human conditions. An untimely death”…). I didn’t even get the picture of lava that I wanted, although, by the end, I could care less. Though I had sunglasses on, the wind was so strong that small particles of gravel were flying into my eyes and pretty much everywhere.  After twenty minutes, we left the top because the wind and sulfur was too strong. We put on our “ass protectors” as Alejandro called them and started sliding down the mountain in the snow part. The steep parts were scary I thought, although these two crazy Israeli guys had no issue and even went further with the sliding than they were supposed to. Finally, after about 2 hours, we reached the bottom, and looking up, I was amazed. I DID IT! Also, at the bottom, taking of the gear, the Aussie even noticed that I was totally color coordinated–excellent! That evening, I fell right asleep (no ipod necessary) on my 10.5-hour bus ride to Santiago–the two crazy Israelis (with their beards, flamboyantly blinged out yamakas, and Hollister shirts) in the seats behind me.

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