As we pull out of Pucón for the last time, we say goodbye to Volcan Villarrica, the volcano that has kept watch over us for the past four months. Its massive, broad slopes have lost much of their snow since we arrived in November, but the plume of white smoke drifting up from the cone has continued nearly nonstop. On clear nights, we could see glowing red spurts of lava bursting up; with a few clouds, the glow spread like a sunset-colored halo. During our last week in Pucón, we hiked down from above the trees on the volcano in the twilight. We kept looking over our shoulders as the peak transitioned from golden sunset to indigo night, as the sparkling Southern Cross and Milky Way sharpened in the blackening sky, backdrop to red-orange geysers of lava.

The volcano is the first thing visitors notice in Pucón, and we were no different. Awed by its dominant presence throughout our stay, we came to think of it as “our” volcano, a beacon of home. Wherever we went, it seemed, the volcano would appear suddenly as we rounded a bend, or in the distance when we thought we were far away, pointing us back to where we were living. When we began our stay up in the hills about 20 minutes outside of Pucón, we could see a different far-off volcano from our deck. A short walk around the bend on our gravel road would reveal the “real” volcano—the one we were at the feet of—looming up and letting us know who’s the boss in Pucón.

When we moved into town in January, again it took only a short walk to reveal the volcano. The nearby pier, a popular spot for selfies and buskers, seemed to have been designed with volcano views in mind, and an enterprising local rented close-ups through his telescope. I don’t know how successful he was; it already seemed like we were living in a close-up of the volcano.

The volcano was one of the few constants during our time in Pucón. For three rainy weeks in November, we only left the house in the hills to buy groceries once a week, constantly chopping wood and stoking the stove to keep the cold at bay. Then the non-stop rains of November finally gave way to sun in December and we experienced the full burst of spring in southern Chile. Still in the hills, we smelled the apple and lilac blossoms. We heard chucau birds in the trees during the day and crystal silence at night. We warmed our faces and hands in the strengthening sun and felt the fecund earth as we turned it over for planting. We harvested the first raspberries and lettuces, tasting their tart, juicy freshness next to our blander, store-bought produce. 

In January, we moved from the house in the hills to a tidy apartment overlooking the lake in town, where it was full-on summer and the tide of traffic in and out of town was rising. Here the noises were different. Revving cars, reveling partiers, and yapping dogs left outside all night became the new soundscape. The natural sounds too were different. Green and red Andean parrots flocked to the trees around us in the morning, squawking chaotically when they flew away en masse. Squabbling cara-caras—a cross between a hawk and a pigeon—raised a racket when spooked anytime of day. Squat, busy bandurrias poked their long, skinny beaks into the lawn outside our building and screeched angrily during their turf battles over grubs.

But the biggest changes were social. After feeling somewhat isolated up in the hills, suddenly we were surrounded by people, activity, and conveniences. We could walk to get groceries, visit a fruit-and-vegetable stand, or sample some locally made chocolate treats called—you guessed it—volcanos. We could spontaneously stroll around in the evening to see what new performance—dance, music, a unicycle-riding juggler—might pop up in the town square. Or stop at a brew pub to see a live music act. Or just walk along the lake to take in the sunset. More often than not, these spontaneous excursions would result in a serendipitous encounter with someone we had met previously or stumbling upon some colorful celebration we would have never known about. We had missed that spontaneity when we lived in the hills when every trip into town was planned, purposeful, and before dark. 

I am an introvert by nature, but even I noticed that our splendid isolation in the hills did not lend itself to learning about a new culture, meeting new people, or experiencing a new place. We had quietly settled in, making the most of the location, but we rarely chatted with anyone else. Despite the early flurry of meeting people at the local Thanksgiving celebration and a handful of folks who came to the house occasionally on business for the owner (some of whom would become great friends and resources), as December wore on, our social circle shrank rather than grew. The drive up that long, tricky gravel road eliminated spontaneous outings and connections.  

Once we settled in Pucón, Rachel helped launch an “intercambio” like the one she had participated in when we lived in Spain—a “language exchange” between English- and Spanish-speakers. Both social and practical, every Tuesday afternoon, the intercambio allowed us to meet some wonderful people, practice Spanish, and learn about the area from locals. We met at coffee shops, drank fresh-squeezed limeade with ginger, chatted about our lives, and laughed over language games like Two Truths and a Lie and Twenty Questions. Being in town meant we could leave our apartment and walk for just a few minutes to join this group.

We were also able to use Pucón as a hub for exploring the area in a way that was more difficult up in the hills. Pucón is known as the adventure capital of Chile. To us, that sounded like a challenge. Now that we’re leaving, we know there was plenty we didn’t do, but feel sated with the adventures we did sample. We spring-skied and snowshoed on the volcano, hiked in three different parks to see native arucania trees and glacial lakes, and heard local folk music at a rustic club set in a garden outside of town. We took road trips to renowned scenic wilderness areas, and got out onto Pucón’s famous river rapids three times—once splashing through a class 3+ churner. River kayakers come from all over the world to run the rapids in Chile, but we found that a raft with an experienced guide would spike our adrenalin plenty, thanks. 

So we found our share of of adventure in Pucón, and always the volcano guided us back. Now, we leave our hulking, ever-present friend and the town that had become home, because Chile is just too long and offers too much for us to stay in one place the whole time we are here. As I write this, we are on a boat for what was supposed to be a four-day passage through the fjords of southern Chile to get to the heart of Patagonia. The weather can be fierce here, and the captain’s prerogative can change the itinerary at a moment’s notice. Our departure date had already changed five times by the time we embarked, and now we are anchored in the lee of several islands, waiting for the weather to settle before we head out into the Pacific for 12 hours of waves and wind. When we will actually arrive is anyone’s guess.

Hardly a luxury cruise, the ship transports cargo and a couple of hundred adventurous travelers once a week during the summer—this trip, at the start of fall, is its last for the season, and a hardy band of 80 passengers patiently awaits word that we will lift anchor and be on our way. Without internet or cell connections, people read, play games, nap, and get to know one another. We sleep in bunk rooms and eat cafeteria-style. Most of us are dressed in hiking pants, all-weather shoes, puffy jackets, and wool caps. There are no families with children this time of year, but otherwise there’s a wide range of ages on board and the jumble of languages we hear indicates an equally wide range of nationalities.

Yet there’s also homogeneity. These are outdoorsy people. They understand that nature rules, and humans need to roll with it. Seeing the Patagonia fjords from the water is of course the big attraction to take this boat despite its eccentricities; spotting whales, dolphins, and sea lions is an added bonus. But the boat is also a means to an end—it is transportation, albeit somewhat unreliable transportation. It’s an unusual way to get to Patagonia. If Pucón is the adventure center of Chile, Patagonia is the adventure Mecca—a place that requires a pilgrimage if you are an adventurous type in Chile. The three spiked towers of Torres del Paine National Park are the symbol of Chile’s natural wonders, and I’ll wager that nearly everyone on board is aiming to get out onto the trails to see them one way or another.

We are among them—we may have left our volcano behind, but our adventures in Chile are just beginning.