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Published: January 4th 2008
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Our third Ushuaia day was spent on another excursion, covering part mainland, some more boating on the Channel and another island; this one, an avian treasure.
The morning began with one of those magical vignettes of spontaneous conversation with people from around the world. This one transpired over our B&B breakfast table for eight, a few of us standing around, some of us sitting, others walking around, all eight engaging as the spirit moved: a rangy, informative Berliner, bound for Antarctica; a stocky, Toronto-based movie stuntman, on respite from a Buenos Aires gig, where he was last “beat-up”; a charming, young Israeli couple, she of pretty name and face, now living out of New York and considering residency; a laconic man of reserved disposition and his quietly observant spouse, both from Ireland; Penny and Vernon, Montreal-Toronto.
We chatted amiably of world history and its many lessons, which our specie seems insistent on ignoring, willy nilly, to our pain, again and again; of the frustrating persistence of borders, in the security over rights sandwich that smothers us; of wistfulness that an era of bottom-up sense and influence, from common folk, can rise up, en-wisening those who purport to
lead; inspirational fantasy, this; but why so? Through out this heart to heart chat of eight, chocolate, coffee, tea, juices, jellied croissants and flaky puff pastries of varying shapes, kept mysteriously appearing. Then, conversation expired and problems of the world unsolved, breakfast was done and we parted for each of our expeditions. Penny and I taxied to the harbour and climbed aboard a mini-bus for our trip to an isle of penguins.
The drive underway, we glided through a resort colony for well funded visitors, living in a low-slung cluster of well appointed suites, enjoying eye pleasing views of the Channel, with its snorkelling treasures readily accessible, Chilean mountains, wind swept, snow clad, imposing and present, not too distant; hiking trails, up hill, out back. Indoor, discrete wooden coves serve as entrances to quiet restaurants of understated elegance, satisfying all gourmand requirements. And in the midst of these comforting delights, clients are pampered with a full scale, all-trimmings spa, offering sauna, Turkish, pools, sun rooms, masseurs, personal trainers, white robes, cloth slippers, towels and all. As we drive by now, I remind myself that Penny and I, as interlopers for a half-day, had soaked up all of this
yesterday morning, by dint of executive discretion and profound resident unknowing. Alas, we did not, either yesterday or today, get into the other residences. These were the comfortable bungalows of the more or less semi permanent dwellers, snuggled, contentedly, into the serene, surrounding hillsides.
Today’s trip showcased the inimitable Canadian beaver at its industrious worst. The story, unbelievable as it might sound, is that sixty years ago, fifty Canadian beaver couples were imported into the area, by an erstwhile entrepreneur, who dreamt of harvesting their fur for the international fashion market. But with breeding in full fertility, the fur was found not to be of desired texture, just as the bottom fell out of the fur fashion market. Furthermore, as is natural, breeding continued, unabated, up to a current beaver population of 50,000. Today, there are acres and acres of devastated landscape, scarred by thousands of fallen, bark eaten trees that form hundreds of monstrous dams, hither and yon. Alas and too late, there is a bounty of a dime on the head and tail of every Canadian beaver. Pondered deeply enough, an art of silent starkness emerges from these scenes of grinding destruction. Our fellow travellers held
us accountable for the work of these Canadian beavers. We felt we should meekly accept our lot.
Twenty miles on, up hill and down dale, through full growth forests of lenga, beechwood and canelo, with dainty wild cherries spotted around, we take a sharp turn left and down, and Puerto Williams comes into view, a Chilean village of several dozen people, including the last Yamana person alive. Slightly downstream, across the ever present, sparkling, sun -on -water channel, this village vies for and is accepted as the settlement furthest south. Beavers are damming up the channel where we stand, rendering sport fishing ineffectual, but Penny and I focus instead on a picturesque and canvas of native trees, adorning the hills and valleys before us, gently but firmly bent in obedience to the prevailing wind, which is exerting its soothing, swaying influence on the trees and on us. Penny almost gets left as the bus moves on. She was up hill, engrossed by the scene, and our fellow travellers had to yell to the driver that we were Penny-short. To no avail, I allowed, as how this may not have been a half bad idea, for a few minutes
and a mile or so. But, they reverse, call her down and over; and we are off to a museum of sea creatures, an historic sheep farm and an island of penguins.
Vernon
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