Day 502 - Cerro Castillo, Chile
Wandering Cerro Castillo
We ate our breakfast of cornflakes, fruit, deli-sliced ham and provolone cheese and prepared to take our rattle-trap Renault Symbol along the southern route to Torres del Paine Nacional Parque. I had wandered Cerró Castillo the evening before, but Cyn had not yet visited the village and was curious. So before leaving, we braved the chill winds to view the tiny church, utterly empty streets and white corrugated homes with their red tin roofs. The village exists mainly as a border crossing to Argentina that will take drivers to the high mountains and Glaciar Perito Moreno near Calafate, Argentina. Chile's leaders apparently see great things for Cerró Castillo because, though it is small, two new highways merge here and two other large roundabouts have been created with a beautiful sculpture of a horse prominently displayed where the roads meet.
The town HAS long been famous for its bronco busting horse festivals (you can see an example of the bronco busting in video provided by our Navigmag friends John and Andrea Fedele). They shared it when we ran into them in Puerto Natales after debarking in Puerto Natales.
Before heading the Torres del Paine, Cyn wanted to get a gander of the rebuilt sheep shearing facility at the end of town. The original one had burned down in the mid-1900s and it was a real disaster for the area, and the sheep — thousands died in the fire.
Back at the car, the wind nearly whipped my door off before I got in to start it up. We bounced on the rutted road into the parking area. There wasn’t much to see, a big rambling cement hanger with its red tin roof where sheep were sheared and the wool prepped and shipped into bales to make gloves, sweaters, shirts, and caps for the rest of the world.
Just then a man with the head the size of a tyrannosaur and a face blackened with a day’s growth of beard pulled up in front of us in a big white pick-up and skidded to a stop. I tried not to be alarmed and waved, “Hola.” He gave us a curt wave back and then said in broken English, “No smoking!” Cyn nodded and I gave him a thumbs up. This seemed to suit him and off the pick-up roared, spitting gravel. He couldn’t have been around when the infamous fire started, but the memory had clearly stuck with the town.
The Riverline was a warm little place, built close to the earth, and with its red tin roof and sturdy clapboard siding looked like it could withstand, and had withstood, just about anything. As evening approached, even though it was the dead of the Austral summer, a fine fire roared in the enclosed Pyrex and tile fireplace. It would’ve done any Nordic winter proud. Outside, flocks of clouds clustered ominously threatening more rain high above the mountains.