Ancud
19-21 December. Chiloé lies off Chile’s southern coast, where the mainland begins to unravel into fjords, islands, and open sea. Separated by a narrow channel, it marks a quiet threshold between the more ordered landscapes of the north and the wilder, rain-soaked south. The island sits low and green in the Pacific, shaped by wind, weather, and tides, and carries a strong sense of place that feels both grounded and enduring.
It was late in the day when we decided to cross over. There was no need for a reservation; we simply rolled up and rolled on. For $25 and thirty-five minutes later, we were on the island—no passenger tickets required. A bridge is under construction, which, once finished, will link Chiloé to the mainland permanently.
We made our way toward the small town of Ancud. Along the island’s narrow rural roads, I felt an unexpected sense of familiarity. The landscape was greener, softer, and wilder, increasingly reminiscent of New Zealand. Flax bushes lined the verges, cabbage trees dotted the paddocks, and sheep grazed behind simple wire fences. If it weren’t for the Spanish road signs, I could almost have been home.
Our first night was spent parked up at a lookout above the town, the island’s northern gateway. From there we had wide views over the water, locals are passing by, some with loud speakers but they don’t stay long. The next morning, Tim and I wandered the town while the kids finished off schoolwork in the truck. Ancud has a quiet, working-town feel, practical — fishing, farming, without care for anything fussy.
Humboldt and Magellanic Penguins
From Ancud we drove across the island on narrow, winding roads flanked by sheep farms, open fields, and twisted old pine trees that looked to me like macrocarpa. The sense of home grew stronger, even though the houses themselves couldn’t be more different from those in New Zealand. Weathered timber, once-bright paint fading under constant rain, buildings worn down by decades of damp air and salty winds.
We arrived in Punihuil mid-afternoon, a small coastal settlement best known for its penguins. We were welcomed without hesitation to camp in the carpark behind the boat tour office — no charge, clean toilets, and perfect for the night. Walking down to the beach, we hoped to spot penguins from shore, but they were just out of comfortable sight.
Jaxon, who has now become an even bigger bird nerd than Charley, insisted on getting a closer look. So he and I hopped on a boat for a short 30–35 minute tour (CLP 15,000), heading out to see them properly — and to get some better photos. The penguins are endlessly endearing, waddling awkwardly across steep terrain on feet and legs far better suited to the water than to land.
Chiloé is the only place in the world where Humboldt and Magellanic penguins nest together in the same colonies. Thanks to cold, nutrient-rich waters and protected islets, the two species breed side by side — sometimes only a metre apart — making this a globally important and truly special place for penguin conservation. Up close, the birds were beautiful and busy, completely unfazed by our presence. Along the way we also spotted red-legged cormorants, black oystercatchers, a kelp goose family, and even a sea otter bobbing through the kelp. It was a short trip, but very worth it.
Castro
Back over to the other side of the island to Castro, the island’s largest town. Being Christmas week, the place was heaving. Streets were crowded, shops buzzing, and finding a parking spot big enough for Bruce meant driving well out of the centre of town. Castro is nothing like New Zealand — and not just because of the chaos. The people seem unconcerned with style or appearances; practicality reigns. Many houses look rundown, likely victims of the relentless damp climate, and the shops are simple and functional. We wandered for an hour to stretch our legs, explored the markets, bought fresh salmon, market vegetables, and local honey, before heading back to the truck with hot empanadas.
Old Wood Churches
One of Chiloé’s most striking and enduring features is its wooden churches. Scattered across the archipelago are more than 150 of them, built between the 17th and 19th centuries using native timber and traditional shipbuilding techniques. Created through a blend of European missionary design and local craftsmanship, they reflect the island’s deep connection to the sea and to community life. In 2000, sixteen of these churches were recognized as UNESCO World Heritage Sites, and many remain active as gathering places today. We visited a few along the way, some open, others with locked doors — quiet, beautifully proportioned structures, beautifully restored, weathered but dignified, smelling faintly of old wood and history. Churches aren’t the kids most favourite place to visit, but it means they can sit down and have a quiet moment to themselves.
Last Night on Chiloé
From Castro we followed the rolling coastal road through farmland to a small village, home to yet another wooden church. We camped nearby that night, tucked in close to the ocean. Dinner was roast lamb chops, bought earlier that day, with potatoes, vegetables, and gravy — all cooked in the Omnia oven — and it couldn’t have felt more fitting (though the lamb still wasn’t nearly as good as New Zealand’s). Outside, dolphins and seals swam past, just metres offshore.
It rained all night. I love being tucked up in bed, listening to the rain. By morning, we drove through giant muddy puddles as we passed back through the village — past a crocheted Christmas tree and houses full of decorations. We were eager to be rolling again. It was time to return to the mainland. Boarding the ferry once more, we left Chiloe behind.
Back in Puerto Montt, we restocked the pantry and fridge, filled the gas tanks, and enjoyed a hot shower before heading onward — south, down the famed Carretera Austral.