A Garden of Miracles

Our plan for South America was intentionally undefined. Go. Experience. Repeat. Crossing the border from Argentina to Chile, we decided this would be our turnaround point. We had hoped to include Ushuaia at the southern tip of the continent, visiting the numerous routes and airports created by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, and the long trek up the western seaboard back to the U.S. 

It was not atypical caution that provoked a lesser result. Money and the border hassles played about equal roles in the decision. Our voyage had no sponsorships nor remote facilitators. When we read of teenagers or eccentric old men circling the globe, we might assume there was quite a cast working out front, arranging entry permissions and avoiding revolutions. You can do South America on your own, if you plan a little and bring patience. And some money.

So, we entered Chile with our eyes pointed upward and outward.

It required three and a half hours to clear the paperwork at the El Tepual International Airport (SCTE) in Chile. Most of it was routine for a private plane entering a new country at a small airport that wanted to be seen as big and important. After a two-hour wait, the Chief of Insects arrived, and split us between two separate rooms. 

I could only imagine the tortures they were planning, but the Chief of Insects was a short fellow about 30, channeling John Belushi’s samurai sushi character. He threatened me with a $200,000 fine for not having the correct form proving my plane had been de-insected before our departure from Bariloche, 90 miles to the east. 

I rolled over in a belly laugh. It was so over-the-top operatic, I couldn’t help myself. I assured him we were poor Americans just flying around on a holiday so, after well over an hour of trying on one pompous threat after another, he gave up. 

After walking out to our plane and seeing the lack of space for hauling insects, he shrugged and walked away with his two henchmen. 

I later had several local pilots in the countries we visited confirm that this approach was best. The bureaucrats really have no power, just a dead-end job, so play along and give them an opening to decide it’s a waste of their time as well as yours.

We found the meteorology room and were assured of VFR for our coming 7-mile flight to the small Puerto Montt aerodrome and aero club. The view out its window was more on the order of 700 and 2 ½, but OK. The commercial El Tepual airport was up an incline from the large bay bordering the city, with the GA aerodrome much closer to the cold Pacific waters. Ocean fog was playing along the shoreline, creeping inland between boulders and buildings.

Our quick flight had its moments. At about 500 feet agl, we motored down the gentle slope, dodging fog banks and watching for towers. In a clumsy moment, I turned the wrong knob and shut down the GTN navigator. With only 1 or 2 miles of visibility, 20 seconds is forever. I created our own low-VFR approach and tracked it down final from fog bank to touchdown.

Marcel Marchant Airport (SCPF) is the home of the Puerto Montt Aero Club. We had communicated in advance, so the club was expecting us, with smiling hugs and handshakes. Millaray Rubilar Elgueta, the aero club director, took us under her wing and introduced us to the group and its operations. 

Our intended mission was to tour as far south along the Reloncavi Sound and Gulf of Ancud as conditions would allow. This long north-south gulf totals about 300 nm, with mountains, fiords, and volcanoes lining the eastern shore, and islands of all sizes providing interruptions and detours to the Pacific Ocean on our right. We regrettably declined to fly the additional 600 nm to Ushuaia. In a future life, perhaps.

Having fought two border wars in one day to get here, we took a couple of days to study the weather and strategize. It was mid-April, so the shift from fall to winter was whispering near.

We made a one-night stop at Castro, a small pueblo on Isla Grande de Chiloe. My wife Maria’s translation duties were employed once again as a noninternational controller felt the need to tell us something. We had been warned about the difficult approach to the grass runway, describing a steep hill on the approach. I just skipped the final and made a tight 180 between the hill and the runway, in a steep slip, plopping down where the numbers might have been, had there been numbers. 

The group of mechanics were all grinning as we climbed out, exclaiming it had never seen anyone do it that way. Hmm. I wasn’t showing off—it was just easier.

After a lovely and tranquil night in Castro, we continued to Puerto Aisen a little more than two hours farther south. We might have arrived overhead and spiraled down but chose the vastly more scenic approach up a narrow and winding fiord, opening into a lush valley.

There were several highlights found in Puerto Aisen: seafood so fresh it still looked surprised, a large dog stepping out in front instructing us to follow along on his 2-mile hike, a bus ride to visit the small but active port, a sign offering the possibility of a tsunami, and a large, derelict freighter pulled up on the shore. Trails and waterfalls, plus energetic and friendly locals. The area is known for wilderness hiking and camping. If only the approaching blast of a South Pacific winter was not expected soon.

This phase of our adventure is best told in pictures.

Our return to Puerto Montt was another three hours of driving beside and around volcanos and fiords. At least two pods of whales were spotted below, with small houses or other structures sitting in unreachable places and on top of tiny specks of islands. Untold stories everywhere.

Once back at the aero club, we found that the customs officers could be persuaded to come to us, rather than us making a second visit to the Emperor of Insects at the big airport. Less than an hour later, we headed back to Bariloche, where we met with the chief of police about the unskilled extortionist working on his ramp. Another two days in Villa la Angostura, and we made a nonstop run to La Plata, just south of Buenos Aires.

Aside from border crossings, flying in South America is, if anything, less difficult than the U.S. Much less complicated airspace, and most of the terrain is flat, except for the parts that are among the highest in the world. With largely flat land, weather systems arrive, blow through, and are soon replaced with happy flying. The controllers mostly speak English of a sort, and if they don’t, just keep being the PIC.

Your return to the U.S. offers choices. We flew nonstop from Bariloche to La Plata (SADL) just southeast of Buenos Aires. Quiet, friendly, low-stress GA airport. Look for Jenny Dillon—an aerobatic buddy—and she might give you pointers and a parking spot. From here, it’s an easy train ride into Buenos Aires, one of my favorite cities.

To continue north and east, you’ll either need to navigate the lion’s lair of Buenos Aires to San Fernando (SADF) or go a long way around BAIRES airspace to an airport of entry farther north, such as Gualeguaychú (SAAG) or Paso De Los Libres (SARL). 

Customs and immigration at SADF aren’t expensive, just time consuming. The smaller airports of entry tend to be much less demanding. Similarly, you can choose Foz do Iguacu (SBFI) for entry to Brazil, or one or the other smaller airports farther inland. Your choice may be based upon your range or interest in revisiting the famous Cataracts. SBFI is expensive, but it is genuinely friendly and helpful. Sometimes, that’s worth the price.

An alternative: We chose to spend about three months flying from the U.S. to Uruguay, where we based our plane for a few months at Ricardo Detomasi Airport (SUME) and Ángel S. Adami Airport (SUAA) in Montevideo. Both are hospitable, but overall Adami is a better solution. Then, we returned home for a few months awaiting better seasons, returned to Uruguay, and continued our trip.

Three-month trips are sustainable, if you’re energetic. Six-month trips demand a lot of a 70-plus year old geezer. I recommend spending at least two weeks in Buenos Aires, but we like dancing the tango, so stayed a month. If your husband doesn’t like dancing the tango, keep the plane and get a new husband.