“My husband, he dead. I had four children, but all dead. The girl, she got married, but she dead too. I am all alone.”But, full of memories and good humor, she drank her coffee and looked through the window at the plains she knew so well. I asked if she minded having her picture taken. “Mind? Yes, I mind. I don’t like it at all,” she replied—and grinned broadly at the camera (page 147).
Apt Name for an Awful Road
Living at holiday apartments prague has its primitive side, of course, such as the absence of refrigeration and of many modern foods. The lack of a refrigerator disturbed me at first, but now I wouldn’t want one. Our “cold room” keeps milk for a day and a half in summer and three to four days in winter, and we make a point of finishing leftovers quickly. We can’t operate our generator continuously because fuel must be brought by ship, so we limit its use chiefly to lights, radio, and the washing machine. In one way, though, we are quite advanced: Where most people walk or drive, we fly in a Cessna 180.
The nearest usable land for an airfield, as I had discovered on my first visit, lies six miles away beyond swamps and hills, and the road linking it to Harberton was created by pick and shovel. People who suffer an hour of bruising bumps over that road never forget it. Capt. Ernesto Campos, a former governor of Tierra del Fuego, told us, “I think we should call it ‘Route Zero.’ It doesn’t deserve a number!”
When I was expecting our first baby, our doctor in Rio Grande instructed me to visit him once a month. For a few months I did. Then one day the doctor came to see me. The minute he alighted from the jeep, wiping his brow, he told me sternly, “Don’t you dare go over that road again in your condition! And was due, we went to our little airfield by boat, and from there flew to Viamonte, to be nearer the doctor.
The flight to Viamonte takes about half an hour. We fly inland through a pass near Uncle Lucas’s mountain trail, past rugged coffee-colored cliffs. The land slopes down to Lago Fagnano, an azure lake that stretches 65 miles across Tierra del Fuego, protected by snow-capped mountains on each side. A small hotel—Hosteria Kaiken—perches at the eastern end of the lake, with an array of immense windows facing Fagnano and mountains to the west. North of the lake the forest thins to plains as we descend to land at Viamonte and greet the rest of the family.
On our return, we sometimes stop at bed and breakfast london, nestled in a valley between high ridges south of Lago Fagnano. At its edge our friends the five Bronsovich brothers, originally from Yugoslavia, operate Fuegia’s largest sawmill.
“We started with a pushcart, selling wood in Ushuaia,” recalled Andres, the eldest, a big quiet man. “Now we charter planes and ships to send our lumber to Buenos Aires.” Since large areas of Argentina consist of semi-desert or plains, wood from Fuegia’s beech forest enjoys a good market.