T A B L E_T A L K What shouldn't you miss when visiting the Big Apple? Get the lowdown on New York City in Table Talk's Wanderlust area R E C E N T L Y Mondo Weirdo Hooked on Thaipusam: An astonishing religious rite in Malaysia (06/26/98) Mondo Weirdo Going natural Wanderlust asks: What's your favorite nude beach? (06/26/98) Wide-eyed in Galápagos By Barry Lopez An award-winning writer explores the mind-stretching wonders and gut-wrenching terrors of an extraordinary land (06/25/98) USA vs. Iran (vs. Iran) By Ethan Zindler At this World Cup match, the action is in the stands (06/24/98) Embraced in Spain By Barry Yeoman A gay traveler confronts his demons in Cádiz (06/23/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		AN UNEXPECTED IDYLL TURNS BITTERSWEET IN THE WILDS OF CHILE. BY MARK SCHATZKER | Erik and I were lost and had been for about three hours. When we began, the road was paved. It was now a gravel-covered streak of potholes barely filling even the loosest definition of the word "road," slowly taking us deeper into nowhere. We were looking for Lago Misterioso, a lake existing somewhere behind the Patagonian Andes and supposedly just a couple of hours from Coyhaique, where we had landed that morning. But we couldn't find it. Local shepherds passed by on horseback, clad in woolen ponchos, with faces carved by the wind and sun. We asked them for directions and each one told us, in a barely intelligible Spanish, that we were generally going in the wrong direction and that the now appropriately named Lago Misterioso was just over those hills or through that valley, and it never was. We had forgotten our map. Then we came upon the leather-booted man. We caught him in the middle of an afternoon nap inside a wood-chopping cabin on the side of a large hill. He didn't know about Lago Misterioso. He mentioned something about Scottish people living in the next valley and then went back to bed. Scottish people in the middle of Patagonia. It seemed absurd. This was a fishing trip. A reunion. Erik, my brother, had been living in Santiago for three years and I had barely seen him during that time. We were about to write the next chapter in a book that began when we were children looking over the gunwales of a boat watching perch and rock bass take passes at worms. We had arrived that morning in Chilean Patagonia, a three-hour flight south from Santiago, rented a truck, packed our cooler full of groceries and beer and set off in search of adventure in this land of mountains, sea-bound rivers and sprawling grassland. The volcanic riverbeds were rich, the growing season long and the trout as numerous as they were large. They would soon be ours. This was Patagonia! But we were lost. We pointed our 4-by-4 toward the next valley thinking that any road must be better than the one we had just taken. At the bottom of the first hill stood a sleepy little cabin warming itself in the afternoon sun. We approached it, expecting another cryptic message about Lago Misterioso. We knocked. A middle-aged couple appeared. "I'm Donald McDonald," came an Aberdeen greeting. "And I'm Martha Crawford." In an hour we were all more or less drunk, sitting at their table enjoying the fruits of their pantry and our coolers, frying sausages, eating leftover stew and drinking beer. They had not spoken English with anyone other than themselves in quite some time and the newly found company sent them off on enthusiastic narrative tangents that would dissolve into questions about ourselves and what we did and what we were doing in Patagonia. Martha and Donald were living under the roof of an old and honest cabin to escape the ravages of the European Union, which had made farming in Scotland impossible. They had sold everything back home and bought a number of farms in Patagonia, where they were now raising sheep, geese, reindeer, turkeys and chickens, and were awaiting a planeload of Jersey Cream cattle from New Zealand. One of their farms, they told us, was on the Nirehuao, a river where the fish reportedly jumped out onto the bank to eat large grasshoppers. They told us exactly where it was and insisted that we stay in an old farmhouse on the property. "Just tell us what you catch" was the only condition. We spent the night bewildered at the curious place to which fate had brought us, and the next morning, after tea and toast, we were sent off with farm-fresh eggs, homemade bread and a new set of directions. By 3 o'clock, our red Suzuki 4-by-4 had pulled onto the rolling, grassy fields of Martha and Donald's other farm. It sat in a high valley between tree-covered mountainsides. The fields were dotted with bamboo shrubs and the occasional bush. Down the road ran the cold, clear Nirehuao. N E X T+P A G E | The exotic newcomers