Day 19: Caleta Tortel

Monday, February 9, 2026. El Risquero Camping to Caleta Tortel. 32 miles.

Today dawned cold and windy with the sky threatening to rain. In fact, by the time we were to reach our destination, we would be in a full-out downpour! Our wonderful camp host, Florinda, made us a hearty breakfast of sopapillas (a type of homemade Chilean fry bread) and scrambled eggs before sending us on our way.

The road conditions didn’t improve, but at least we were on the valley floor, navigating only rolling hills. We were back in the temperate rainforest, cycling past cypress trees, Patagonian rhubarb, giant ferns, and Patagonian fuchsias. Eventually, the hills gave way to flat, open expanses of peat bogs. In fact, we noticed several places where locals had been harvesting sphagnum moss (peat moss) used for horticultural plantings and flower baskets.

We passed the intersection where we would return in a day or two to embark on our final leg south to Villa O'Higgins, but for now, we were headed to the coast and the unique UNESCO World Heritage Site of Caleta Tortel. There are no streets in Tortel (the term "Caleta" simply means 'cove')—the entire town is built on wooden walkways and stairs that cling to the hillside. It is very remote but still attracts visitors from all over the world. The town sits at the end of one the hundreds of saltwater passageways around the myriads of islands that make up the western edge of Patagonia. Here, the Baker River, now a greyish-green color, mixes with the seawater, and gives the cove it's unique color.

Getting a place to stay in Tortel was nothing short of miraculous and the sheet tenacity of my husband. Every place in town was full. Through a stroke of luck and a lot of calling around, we found a tiny room in a house at the end of the walkway down by the cove. By this time, we were pretty throughly soaked from rain (it began about 10 miles back) and we had to take our loaded bikes down a crooked narrow flight of stairs from the road to the base by the water. So we slowly thunk-thunk-thunk our way down the steps, trying not to run into the tourist that were huddled in the rain and pausing in their breathless climb up. We found our place at the end of the cove, so happy to have a roof over our head! The tiny place was packed with other guests avoiding the rain, all around the central table and the only source of warmth: a little portable heater.

That night, we slept huddled under a pile of wool blankets with sheep-skin backing and listened to the rain beat relentlessly in a lashing Antarctica-driven storm.