A Year in the Lake Districts of Chile and Argentina: Arrival and Puerto Octay

The LAN plane arrives in Temuco, left. Bruce and Jane, with Sarah, on arrival, right.

Our adventure started in Temuco at an Argentine Parrilla (think grilled meats) down the street from our house. The steak was excellent but they did not have any Argentine wine. So we had beers and Chilean wine along with cuts of meat that were top shelf. Beef ribs, rump steak, pork tenderloin and a filet mignon. We then dropped Bruce and Jane off at their hotel for their inaugural siesta.

That night we had a small Christmas celebration meal with a Spinach salad, roasted asparagus and sautéed shrimp. We had a Rose Malbec wine from Argentina (leftover from our Bariloche trip) and a Palo Alto blend of Cabernet, Carmenere and Syrah. After dinner we played some bridge and then called it a night.

On our drive to Puerto Octay, we went through Villarrica, Pucón, Lican Ray, and Panguipulli. We took some back roads and the national highway. The sun was out in its full glory, the windows were down as we drove through towns and we saw pasture after pasture of rolling hills, tall eucalyptus trees and roaming cattle. We delighted in the fact that it was Christmas Eve and we were in shorts.

Bruce had organized for us to stay just outside Puerto Octay for Christmas Eve and Christmas before heading down to Tierra del Fuego and Torres del Paine. His decision was a smart one as the Hotel Centinela had an old world feel to it. Originally built as a summer home for 3 families from Santiago, it sits on a peninsula in Lago Llanquihue. Back in the day, the families had to take a lake steamer to get to the house. Nowadays there is a gravel road a little over 3 kilometers long that takes you from the main road to the hotel’s doorstep. The old house has been completely refurbished maintaining all the wood floors and ceilings, and the owners have added on clusters of cabanas.

The manager in charge on Christmas Eve was a fellow from Belgium who was our host, chef and story teller for the night. If you asked him a question in Spanish, he replied in Spanish. If you asked him a question in English, he replied in perfect English. There was a family of Germans whose stay coincided with ours, and we noticed that he spoke perfect German with them. At the end of dinner, he asked all of us to join him for a drink in the main room replete with old, soft leather sofas and a timber framed ceiling. Most all of us had Cognac while we welcomed in Christmas. During our conversation we asked the manager how many languages he spoke. He replied that he spoke 6: French, Dutch, Spanish, English, German and Catalan. (This last one, for those of you who may be asking, is the language of the people of Barcelona. The fact that this Belgian man could speak it fluently would make our Barcelonian friend Oriol proud!) At 12 midnight, the manager’s wife came out of the back room carrying baby Jesus. She placed him in the crèche scene’s manger and we all wished one another a Merry Christmas, finished our cognacs and went to our beds.

The meals at the hotel were nothing short of wonderful as the dining room looked out over Lago Llanquihue. Each time we took a forkful of meat, potatoes, or salad, we could look out and see the morning or evening light embrace the volcanoes and mountains on the Eastern shore. While we didn’t have the time to swim in the lake or the hotel’s pool, we did take time on Christmas day to explore the local area. Driving the back roads along the lake we came across tucked away bed and breakfasts, old ranches and wood framed churches.

We took a short hike to see some waterfalls and passed a few families. The waterfall was maybe 6 stories high and created its own micro climate. On the way back down to the car, Bruce told each family that we passed to “Beware the crocodiles near the waterfall!” Upon hearing this, the faces of a few of the kids and a couple of the moms grew long with worry until Bruce laughed and wished them a Merry Christmas. Later that day we had Christmas Pisco Sours in Frutillar as we sat gazing at Volcán Osorno.