DAY 1
Somewhere South of Villa Puerto Edén, Southern Patagonia.

The seaplane feels like a tiny metal coffin as it lurches and rumbles in the mist. Through every window you see nothing but an opaque grey-white fog, with the occasional flash of static lightning.

Joaquin, the pilot, is still, hands tightly gripping the controls of the plane. He somehow navigates the plane with absolutely zero visibility, and your brain conjures nauseating mental images of the walls of immovable mountain you know surround you.

You are suddenly thrown violently upward as the plane loses lift and enters into a few seconds of freefall. The moment seems to last an eternity, and unsecured debris clatter across the cabin. The seatbelt strains to hold you in your seat and your guts twist inside you as your sense of balance is disrupted. Outside, a dark shape takes form as the watery floor materializes through the mist, barely fifty feet beneath you.

With a sickening sound of creaking metal, you are pushed back into your seat once again as the plane catches lift and begins to rise. Your heart hammers back to life, and the river disappears into the fog as you regain altitude.

The vehicle continues to work its way through the turbulence, and you hear nothing but the rumble of the propeller and the squealing of straining metal. The wings flex uncomfortably outside the windows and you can barely see the ends of them through the thick fog.

Another unsettling lurch.

A large face of rock appears through the mist, far too close for comfort, before disappearing once more. You are suddenly thrown into your seat as the plane lifts upward quickly and unnaturally. Loose items clatter around the compartment wildly as the pilot struggles to bring the aircraft back under control.

Finally, as you catch your breath, so too does the seaplane, and the jittering and rumbling gradually levels out to relatively smooth flying once again. Outside, the wing is clearly visible and intact.

Joaquin pitches the plane into a controlled descent and the mist begins to thin, taking on a more luminous white than the foreboding gray before.

At last, as though pushing through a screen, the aircraft emerges out of the fog. The sight outside the window is one to behold. You emerge as if falling from the heavens, through a misty dome roof that engulfs the land around you.

As far as the eye can see, the mist blocks out the sky. It diffuses the sunlight and bathes everything below in a soft, morning light. It stretches above and across the sky like a giant umbrella, until it meets the rocky mountain wall surrounding the region.

Beneath, the river has opened out, widening into a larger body of water – not quite yet a lake, but just a touch too large to still be a river. The steep banks rise into mountains and within their rocky walls, you get your first glimpse of Isla de Niebla.

Two mountains rise upward before you, one larger than the other. They dominate the basin and their snow-tipped peaks very nearly scrape its misty ceiling. Formed around their base, the “Island of Mist” spills out toward you in a pincer-like shape.

The river below diverges into three paths – two channels surround the outside of the pincer, and the middle widens out to form a large bay inside of the island’s claw.

As your vessel begins its slow descent toward the island, Joaquin’s head pops around from behind his seat. He grins awkwardly and gestures to you.

“Alright back there? Got a bit hairy, sorry about tha-”

Static crescendos and his voice is drowned out. You manage a weak thumbs up, to which he nods and turns his attention back to the controls.

The mist continues to clear and the island grows larger around you. At the farthest edge of the bay, amongst the folds of cliffs and foothills of the larger mountain, you make out the unmistakable shimmer of civilization – a small smattering of buildings that form a town in the heart of the island.

Beyond the village, the bay narrows out into a slow river that cuts the island in two, carving a deep valley between the two mountains through the crotch of the claw. It splits each mountain into their own landmass, proportionate to their varying sizes. A burst of static fills your headset.

“We’ll be splashing down in Puerta Bay in just a bit.”

He pauses, but keeps the line open. The headset is silent but for a thin, hollow crackle for a few seconds.

“I won’t be joining you landside… would’ve liked to get a beer with you but Bill… well… some poor fool needs to be medevacked out.”

The words come at a slower pace than you’d previously been used to. There is another long pause.

“Welp. Not long now… sit tight and keep yer belt on. We’ll be in Puerta del Terria in a jiffy.”

Static crescendos once more as the line is cut, and you are left to finish your journey in relative silence. Turning your attention outside, you begin to notice something you had not realized before – whilst the fjords before were rocky faces with a smattering of temperate grasses and shrubs, the island before you is covered in vast swaths of lush pastures. Dense forests of evergreen trees shroud the landscape, and fields of colorful flora fill the clearings.

The vessel continues its descent as the pincers’ ends disappear behind you and out of sight; beyond the limited viewing angle of your window. The deep blue waters of Puerta Bay rise up to meet you as the town approaches, and the drone of the Kodiak’s propeller begins to wind down. You glide above the water briefly before the plane’s floats make contact with its surface.

It bounces awkwardly once, before settling back onto the water with a loud splash. Clear streaks of bay water pepper your viewport and you lurch forward in your seat as the plane decelerates, sinking in as the reduced speed robs its wings of lift.

The propeller hums in a low drone that resonates deep within your chest and you watch as the town approaches.

To say Puerta del Terria was a small town would be an overstatement. Up close and on the ground, you can count four… perhaps five buildings. A handful more peek out from behind those by the coast, but the sight would’ve betrayed you if there were more than a dozen structures to the village.

The current in the bay continues to pull you toward the docks. Three buildings are gathered around a small plaza in the immediate vicinity, and a narrow bell tower cranes over their blue-tiled roofs. You make out the frame of a small man in red waving a signal wand haphazardly.

As the plane approaches, two other figures become clear – one hunched over another, who lay on their back, unmoving. You watch on as the attendant slowly stands, before throwing a dark-colored sheet over the body on the ground. You watch the attendant’s feminine figure move calmly toward the man in red before placing a hand on his shoulder. Unheard words are spoken and he drops the signal wand, collapsing into her weak embrace.

The propeller sputters to a stop and the Kodiak drifts quickly toward the dock. Craning your neck, you watch Joaquin unhook himself from his seat and clamber outside of the aircraft. As the distance closes, he hops across to the dock and grasps firmly onto a strut supporting the wing, slowing the aircraft to a halt. He quickly secures the floats before popping his head back into the craft and beckoning you out.

You unbuckle your seatbelt and pull on your coat, tossing your headset onto the seat as you shuffle out into the aisle. You heft your backpack on and buckle the sternum and waist straps before climbing out of the floatplane.

“God damn it, Bill, couldn’t you wait another day for me?”

Joaquin hurriedly approaches the body with the man in red as you clamber onto the docks.

The air outside is warm. It still feels like a cold autumn day, but it was warm relative to the frigid air back at Villa Puerto Edén.

“Hello there.”

Your attention is turned as the attendant calls out to you. Her voice is firm, and she speaks with a slight accent that strikes you as almost British.

“I must apologize… it’s not the best timing but… welcome. Welcome to our island.”

The woman is tall, with a tired face. Her brown eyes are hidden behind rectangular, black-rimmed glasses that rest on her prominent cheekbones. Over a loose-fitting shirt and khakis, she wears a white coat with a loosely sewn patch over her left breast. On the right, the coat bears an embroidered name: “Dr. Isla Thorpe”. She extends a spindly hand toward you.

“I’m Dr. Thorpe… and you must be Helena.”

Behind her, Joaquin and the man in red begin to carry Bill off toward the floatplane. Isla does not seem to heed them.

“I run a small medical practice in the town. I’m headed back there now… I could show you around on the way, if you’d like?”


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