The Aysén Region of Chile is a Picture

Aysén, however, is located inside it; here is a region so isolated and unexplored that tourists from all over the world are just now beginning to appreciate it. 

Ascending a rough mountain route on three tandem bicycles were six individuals, comprising two parents and four children. We glanced at the family and briefly considered if our mode of transportation was the cowardly way to get around as my girlfriend Charlie and I careered past. We were protected from the harsh road conditions, the breathtaking scenery, and the sun's rays bouncing off the glaciers above us in our robust, air-conditioned 4 × 4. However, our certainty in our choice grew as we ascended. Whether we were on two wheels or four, we knew this was going to be an adventure as the gravel turned into giant stones and we navigated the switchbacks, accelerating the engine up the steep slopes and bouncing over the rocks. 

The start of a two-week journey down the Carretera Austral, a route that winds its way for about 800 kilometers in southern Chile, was signaled that morning. The Carretera connects Puerto Montt and Villa O'Higgins and passes through Aysén, a relatively undiscovered part of Patagonia situated between two major destinations: the Lake District up high and Torres del Paine National Park down low. Pablo Neruda must have imagined the shattered vistas of Aysén—over 41,000 square miles of mountains, lakes, glaciers, fjords, and archipelagos—when he wrote, "at the end of Chile the planet breaks." 

There was no road that went here until the 1970s. From the Pacific, the only way in or out was by boat, going through a maze of rivers interior. That started to change when General Augusto Pinochet chose to construct the Carretera. He was afraid that Argentina would claim the region, which was so isolated and only partially integrated into Chile, for itself. The majority of the route is still unpaved, but the highway, which was finished in 2003, is the sole route through the region. All of this contributes to the understanding of why Aysén is currently Chile's most sparsely populated region. Nearly as sparsely populated as Mongolia, with just 2.5 people per square mile. 

It clarifies why hardly many people visit this place as well. But lately, even the characteristics that make Aysén so challenging—the topography, the inaccessibility of cell service—have begun to draw tourists. Wealthy Chileans are constructing vacation homes, and tourists from all over the world are flocking to them. The American North Face creator Douglas Tompkins and his wife Kristine, a former Patagonia CEO, get a lot of the credit for this. Following Douglas's passing in 2015, they bequeathed almost seven million acres of Aysén wilderness to Chile in the form of a network of national parks. The majority of our guests have been hardy explorers, much like the bicyclists we passed trudging up and down the mountainside while carrying their tents. Those of us who like the amenities of well-appointed hotels can also find what we're looking for in Aysén. 

Charlie and I took a March morning flight from Santiago to Balmaceda, a little town with an airstrip in the center of a dry grass steppe dotted with short, wind-beaten trees. We drove north after taking up our vehicle. The roads surrounding Coyhaique, the provincial capital, are pleasant and easy to drive on. 

Banks of fuchsia, with their elegantly flared flowers hanging like little pink dresses from the branches, and gigantic leaves of nalca, or Chilean rhubarb, shaded the roadsides like umbrellas as we climbed a mountain pass. We were now in the temperate rain forest of Queulat National Park, one of Aysén's several microclimates. 

We were unable to pause and appreciate the park's beauty. We boarded a boat at a wharf in the Puyuhuapi fjord and were whisked away to the remote Puyuhuapi Lodge & Spa, a hotel that can only be reached by water. Christine Kossmann Perl is the proud owner of the land. Her father, who escaped communist East Germany in 1962, immigrated to Chile and established a shipbuilding company in Valdivia, a town north of the Lake District. Sailing down to Aysén was a summer tradition for the family. In 1986, they made their maiden voyage to Puyuhuapi in search of a cluster of natural hot springs heated by three dormant volcanoes. After falling in love with it, the Kossmanns purchased the property where the springs are located and constructed a couple of cabins. The cabins have transformed into a magnificent complex of bay-side wooden chalets over the last three decades, and it is now considered one of the top hotels in all of southern Chile. 

With a whiteboard listing the day's events, the lodge gives off the vibe of an adult summer camp. Out in front, the family yacht is still anchored. From the tasteful moss, stone, and fern arrangements to the waist-high wooden penguin sculptures that adorn the sofas in the lounge, the place has a natural vibe. After four shivering hours on the road, Charlie and I needed to relax. Consequently, we walked a little distance into the forest to reach the hot springs. Charlie looked out over the fjord for the resident dolphins as we lounged in a steaming pool. Although she was disappointed to hear that she failed to see any, we later learned that they had been spotted that day outside the hotel. 

We woke up bright and early the next day and made our way to the park. In addition to its secluded location, the Hanging Glacier—a highland glacier that drops sharply from a height of almost 2,000 feet—is the main attraction. We continued along a wooded trail after crossing a swinging wooden footbridge over the Ventisquero River. There was an unusual abundance of tufts and fronds among the plants, and a strong minty aroma was coming from somewhere in the bush. "It's just like Vicks VapoRub!" Angry at me, Charlie yelled back. As we hopped through the underbrush, we could make out the call of the chucao tapaculo, a red-breasted bird that looked like a steroidal robin. The sole sound we could hear was the squelching of the mud beneath our feet.

We came face to face with the glacier at last; it was an oddly wintery sight set against a background of nearly tropical fertility. A lagoon the color of mineral-green surgical scrubs was fed by meltwater that cascaded down the cliff face. A large chunk of glacier, about the size of a car, broke off and plummeted down the cliff after we occasionally heard what sounded like a strong storm. It was our initial direct experience with the glacier that had molded this extraordinary terrain. 

We returned south to Coyhaique and visited the new Museo Regional de Aysén, where we learned about the geological history of Aysén. A lovely clapboard structure with a zigzag roof, typical of a rural warehouse, houses this museum. I have a friend in Santiago named Andrea Muller who is in charge of the exhibition program for all of Chile's national museums, including the Museo Regional de Aysén. She went on to say that as Aysén's fame has grown in recent years, the previously marginalized inhabitants have wanted their narrative told. 

An installation depicting the last ice age's ice cap and how it shaped the landscape is the first part of the exhibition. Next, it showcases the accoutrements of life on the frontier, including canoes, boots, knives, radios, and a recreated puesto, or tent. The state chose to settle Aysén in 1937. Anyone willing to work the land may get it for free from the government. People flocked to this seemingly bargain price from all over the world, including Chile, Germany, Belgium, the UK, and even the Middle East (where, to this day, the small village of Chile Chico serves delicious hummus and baba ghanoush). However, clearing the ground for farming required the settlers to set fire to the trees that had previously grown there. More than 7 million acres of natural woodland were burned to the ground by the fires they started. We could see the end result—vast, desolate plains—as we peered out the museum windows. 

Naturally, they weren't the original inhabitants of the space. In the shadow of Cerro Castillo, a towering peak with a sharp edge resembling an unusually brutal weapon of war, we ascended to a low overhang along the base of a cliff two hours south of Coyhaique. Handprints in green and orange pigment, belonging to both adults and children, cover the rock here. Charlie and I were the only ones there that morning, and we couldn't help but compare our hands to one of these old imprints, being careful not to touch the marks that another young couple may have made millennia before. Francisco Mena, an archeologist from Coyhaique whose grandfather established the world-class Santiago Museum of Pre-Columbian Art, was contacted later on by me. According to him, the inscriptions could be up to six thousand years old. We don't know anything about the individuals who departed, the reasons behind their departure, or how they vanished from the region. Mena claimed to have seen the markings of young rivalry in the hands perched on the cliff face's highest point. It was possible that this was a playground. 

There is no way for an Aysén tourist to miss Lake General Carrera. With an area of about 700 square miles, it completely blocks the path south and makes you take an alternate route around its edges. This is a lovely quirk of nature: the glacier water in the lake is the most surreal shade of blue, reminiscent of a child's crayon picture, and majestic mountains frame the view. The first snowfall of the season had fallen on their summits the night before we arrived at the lake. 

The Mallín Colorado Ecolodge, perched on a hilltop above the water, was our lodging. Similarly to the Kossmanns in Puyuhuapi, Paula Christensen's family spent summers here while she was a kid in Santiago, and they later decided to construct a hotel here. The lodge has six rooms and a lengthy veranda, and there are now other cottages with picture windows that go all the way to the ceiling and look out over the lake. Wall hangings woven by Christensen's sister and furnishings crafted by her brother adorn the rooms. Charlie and I went for a drive to Puerto Río Tranquilo one afternoon; it's a village on General Carrera's shore. We signed up for a kayaking trip that was organized by one of the adventure businesses that set up shop in waterfront huts. During the last ice age, massive glaciers carved out the lake, leaving behind a collection of little marble islands. 

Charlie and I were paddling in a tandem kayak toward this remarkable natural phenomena. These islands look like Gothic mansions because rain and waves have carved out chambers and tunnels over the centuries. After making a full circuit of the caverns, we entered. We learned the meaning of the chapel and cathedral nicknames as we floated through these openings with their vaulted ceilings and curving pillars. Our guide, Emilio Poblete, informed us that the Catholic church had formally dedicated the chapel. 

We finally laid eyes on the ancient ice cap's final vestiges the following day. The Exploradores Glacier, located on the edge of one of two ice fields in Aysén that have remained since the ice age, is a half-hour drive from Puerto Río Tranquilo. Our guide Poblete led us through the forest to the moraine that lies to the left of the glacier's head. Here, we found a jumble of rocks that ranged in size from fists to houses, all of which had been ground and gnawed by the glacier's relentless advance. 

We hiked onto the glacier, its surface undulating like a frozen sea, as the ice grew whiter and the boulders got finer. We wore crampons. Along the way, we saw emerald pools and cracks in the glacier that dropped over 300 feet to the base. In order to hear the "devil's whip," the deafening crack that sounds whenever a fragment of it snaps, we crammed into crevices and tunnels created by the pouring meltwater over the years. We could make out little air bubbles from the distant past when we peered into the ice. 

At this point, we were drawing near the southernmost parts of Aysén, where the road follows the Baker River's path. Here, the mountains are parched and covered with scrub, and the river winds its way through them like a stunning cobalt ribbon. We zoomed by gauchos on horseback, their customary berets casting a shadow over their leathery, sun-kissed cheeks. This is gaucho country. Here and there, we'd see a horse or cow nibbling on rose hips from a nearby shrub. 

The distinctive style of life in Tortel is shaped by their affinity with the water. The original inhabitants of the delta attempted to raise cattle there, but the swampy soil was too unstable for their animals. In its place, they planted cypress trees and turned its wood into pylons and fence posts. A navy boat would then haul these goods to Punta Arenas, on the southern tip of Chile, for sale. The settlement sprang up around this makeshift harbor, and the far-flung residents built wooden walkways to connect their homes and avoid crossing the bay by boat. The community is now a veritable cat's cradle of stilted boardwalks that wind their way up and down the hills. 

The Entre Hielos Lodge, a stylish little establishment managed by María Paz Hargreaves, is situated atop a steep set of mossy stairs. She had never seen anything like Tortel before her first tourist visit as an architectural student in Santiago. She lived here after writing a thesis on the village's distinctive network of boardwalks before graduating, captivated by the mystique of this quaint, unassuming place. "I felt this was my place," she informed me. 

She purchased a hilltop structure in 2008, gutted it, and transformed it into a boutique hotel while it was still under the tree canopy. Drawing design cues from Tortel's logging heritage, the interior features a lengthy communal eating table resembling a boardwalk and an overall atmosphere reminiscent of a tree house—complete with Eames rocking chairs—in every room. 

An introverted man called Rubén Flores accompanied us on a boat ride once; his wife, Valeria Landeros, runs a bed and breakfast in the town and is known for her mouth-watering calzones rotos, a type of Chilean doughnut. Along a verdant waterway bordered by swaying trees, we chugged along, dodging patches of marsh grass where pelicans probed for food. La Isla de los Muertos, literally "the island of the dead," was our destination. There was a cluster of graves marked by wooden crosses covered in lichen on this plot of forest that was found a few decades ago. The mayor of Tortel enlisted the help of archaeologist Mena in his quest to uncover their enigmatic beginnings. Mena started to look into the 33 wooden coffins and find out who was buried inside. Before Aysén had been officially populated, the cemetery dated back to 1906, it turned revealed. The bodies laid here belonged to a crew of loggers who had come all the way from Chiloé Island to cut down trees. The only way they could communicate with the outside world was through a food boat that would come twice a year. The ship probably went down on one of its voyages to Tortel. The employees probably died of starvation. 

Tortel has blossomed from its rocky origins into a picturesque setting straight out of a fairy tale. Walking along the bay was something Charlie and I did first thing the following morning. A haze hung over the lake, and smoke billowed out of the chimneys. As we strode along the boardwalks, a canine companion kept an eye out for any suspicious activity, while two early birds hauled lumber from boats tied to the jetties. 

Leaning against the railing, we paused and watched as the settlement scrambled up the hills. Tortel may still be altered by the entrance of the Carretera Austral, but that morning, as the sun broke through the haze, it was tranquil, quiet, and eternal.