The Train in Portillo
The disembarking passengers looked contented- perhaps even a little nonchalant considering that they had just savored a long stretch of one of the most spectacular railway journeys in the world. After their stay in Portillo, high in the Chilean Andes, the train would take them on to Mendoza in Argentina. 1949. Almost 50 years ago.
What a magnificent spectacle this railway is. The scenery in many parts makes one blink and blink again at the scale, geometry and color of the formations. Most impressive though is that this railway line breathes the dogged determination and engineering cunning of its latterday construction team as it forges its way for 250 miles up and then down opposing glacial valleys of the Chilean and Argentinian Andes, topping 11,000ft at the border crossing, its track hewed out of rock at almost impossible gradients, zigzagging across countless surging rivers and taking occasional respite in the few accessible stretches of flat valley floor.
The construction challenge which faced the builders in each of these glacial valleys was very similar given that in most parts each consists of precipitous and flaky mountain sides and a river in turmoil. The geography of both valleys has many contrasts however. The Chilean side rises slowly from Los Andes through a tight river valley, the mountains on either side hard, cold and sheer. The river, at the time of my passing in January, was a gushing torrent, still swollen with winter thaw. It was lined in parts by lush foliage and pampa grass which gave the false impression that man had taken a thoughtful part in the riverbank's design. The final section of the climb up to Portillo and on to the border tunnel is very steep and culminates in a wild flurry of bends up the front wall of the corrie which guards the glacial tarn at the top. Hotel Portillo sits proudly at the end of the lake, across from the majestic peaks of Los Tres Hermanos (The Three Brothers). And in a bygone era, denying gravity and the harsh landscape, the small-guage railway made its patient way up as well, often taking a different route to the road but depositing its passengers all the same at the hotel gates.
Passing through the tunnel into Argentina the passenger could be forgiven for assuming himself to be 1000 miles from the scenes left behind minutes earlier in Chile. The mountains appear chalky, even powdery and are multicolored with vivid reds, browns and oranges. The valley is wider and the views broader. The river here is as brown and gushing as its Chilean cousin but follows a much flatter valley floor. There are no lush grasses or pampa shrubs. The scenery is all the more spectacular however, given the majestic expansiveness of the terrain. And the railway pylons in their relentless march on to Mendoza, some skewed at an angle, are made to resemble matchsticks placed in an untidy row by a youngster, lost in his game of make-believe trains.
A short stretch of road affords the passenger a brief glimpse of Acongagua, fairly unimpressive as a mountain from this angle but captivating nonetheless given its stature as the highest mountain in the Western Hemisphere. I stared at it for several minutes, caught out by Man's fascination for extremes- the hottest, widest, deepest, heaviest and in this case....the highest.
After another hour a remarkable feature develops in the river valley- a separate smaller valley develops within- its walls deep and sheer as if created by a gigantic plough through a frozen sea of chocolate cheesecake. Possibly the result of grind at the base of a glacier millions of years ago. This feature continues for many miles and at least provides temporary respite for the railway track. Eventually the two valleys give way once again to a single one and another treat is immediately in store- Uspallata. An oasis in this vast desert of multicolored hills and mountain peaks. Swaying groves of eucalyptus and clear water springs- and then the pampa grass again. Here the train must take a few extra puffs in readiness for the two hour descent into Mendoza.
The adjectives in this short account fall way short of providing adequate description of the journey from Los Andes to Mendoza or of bringing back to life the drive and dexterity of the team that carved an almost impossible railway track through these two valleys. 1949. The date was etched into the bottom corner of the photograph. Hotel Portillo was silent in its off season- open for tea and coffee only.
What I would give to be on that platform in Portillo now, ready for the journey on to Mendoza. Time nudges everything along including the way in which we perceive scientific, engineering or moral progress. Awards will no doubt be granted this year to Santiago's elite engineers and architects who have designed and built some of the world's most advanced office buildings. The awards will be richly deserved in today's context. But I would encourage the winners to take a short trip up part of this railway track and confirm the immense engineering feat it represents. And when one considers the most redeeming feature of this railway we may then have another perspective on progress. It is that the track has long since become derelict- its bridges mostly breached, its tracks rusted and warped and in parts crumpled and tossed disrespectfully aside. Many of its neat pylons lie crumpled to one side like the valiant footsoldiers of a defeated yet proud army. I daydream about one day taking that train ride but the first sound of a jet or the sight of an air-conditioned bus brings me back to earth. Progress, after all, has moved us all along.
What a magnificent spectacle this railway is. The scenery in many parts makes one blink and blink again at the scale, geometry and color of the formations. Most impressive though is that this railway line breathes the dogged determination and engineering cunning of its latterday construction team as it forges its way for 250 miles up and then down opposing glacial valleys of the Chilean and Argentinian Andes, topping 11,000ft at the border crossing, its track hewed out of rock at almost impossible gradients, zigzagging across countless surging rivers and taking occasional respite in the few accessible stretches of flat valley floor.
The construction challenge which faced the builders in each of these glacial valleys was very similar given that in most parts each consists of precipitous and flaky mountain sides and a river in turmoil. The geography of both valleys has many contrasts however. The Chilean side rises slowly from Los Andes through a tight river valley, the mountains on either side hard, cold and sheer. The river, at the time of my passing in January, was a gushing torrent, still swollen with winter thaw. It was lined in parts by lush foliage and pampa grass which gave the false impression that man had taken a thoughtful part in the riverbank's design. The final section of the climb up to Portillo and on to the border tunnel is very steep and culminates in a wild flurry of bends up the front wall of the corrie which guards the glacial tarn at the top. Hotel Portillo sits proudly at the end of the lake, across from the majestic peaks of Los Tres Hermanos (The Three Brothers). And in a bygone era, denying gravity and the harsh landscape, the small-guage railway made its patient way up as well, often taking a different route to the road but depositing its passengers all the same at the hotel gates.
Passing through the tunnel into Argentina the passenger could be forgiven for assuming himself to be 1000 miles from the scenes left behind minutes earlier in Chile. The mountains appear chalky, even powdery and are multicolored with vivid reds, browns and oranges. The valley is wider and the views broader. The river here is as brown and gushing as its Chilean cousin but follows a much flatter valley floor. There are no lush grasses or pampa shrubs. The scenery is all the more spectacular however, given the majestic expansiveness of the terrain. And the railway pylons in their relentless march on to Mendoza, some skewed at an angle, are made to resemble matchsticks placed in an untidy row by a youngster, lost in his game of make-believe trains.
A short stretch of road affords the passenger a brief glimpse of Acongagua, fairly unimpressive as a mountain from this angle but captivating nonetheless given its stature as the highest mountain in the Western Hemisphere. I stared at it for several minutes, caught out by Man's fascination for extremes- the hottest, widest, deepest, heaviest and in this case....the highest.
After another hour a remarkable feature develops in the river valley- a separate smaller valley develops within- its walls deep and sheer as if created by a gigantic plough through a frozen sea of chocolate cheesecake. Possibly the result of grind at the base of a glacier millions of years ago. This feature continues for many miles and at least provides temporary respite for the railway track. Eventually the two valleys give way once again to a single one and another treat is immediately in store- Uspallata. An oasis in this vast desert of multicolored hills and mountain peaks. Swaying groves of eucalyptus and clear water springs- and then the pampa grass again. Here the train must take a few extra puffs in readiness for the two hour descent into Mendoza.
The adjectives in this short account fall way short of providing adequate description of the journey from Los Andes to Mendoza or of bringing back to life the drive and dexterity of the team that carved an almost impossible railway track through these two valleys. 1949. The date was etched into the bottom corner of the photograph. Hotel Portillo was silent in its off season- open for tea and coffee only.
What I would give to be on that platform in Portillo now, ready for the journey on to Mendoza. Time nudges everything along including the way in which we perceive scientific, engineering or moral progress. Awards will no doubt be granted this year to Santiago's elite engineers and architects who have designed and built some of the world's most advanced office buildings. The awards will be richly deserved in today's context. But I would encourage the winners to take a short trip up part of this railway track and confirm the immense engineering feat it represents. And when one considers the most redeeming feature of this railway we may then have another perspective on progress. It is that the track has long since become derelict- its bridges mostly breached, its tracks rusted and warped and in parts crumpled and tossed disrespectfully aside. Many of its neat pylons lie crumpled to one side like the valiant footsoldiers of a defeated yet proud army. I daydream about one day taking that train ride but the first sound of a jet or the sight of an air-conditioned bus brings me back to earth. Progress, after all, has moved us all along.
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