Visiting Estancia Harberton, Part 3

My last day at the family farm (now tourist destination) at the heart of the Bridges' story and my novel

[Click here for Part 1 of this series, which explains the importance of Estancia Harberton to my novel and describes my adventure getting there amidst rain and clouds. Click here for Part 2, which shares some gorgeous photos of walking around the property and more about the history of the place.]

On my third day at Estancia Harberton, I felt like I knew more of what I was doing. It was another gorgeous day, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity to talk to the family members, if at all possible. I’d come all this way, and I really wanted to ask more questions, to get beyond the brief tour version of the history.

I resolved not to let my timidity about being a nuisance or distracting them from their work get in the way of this goal.

So after a walk around—marveling at the dramatic shadows cast by the angle of the sun—I went to see who I could talk to.

This photo was taken a few minutes after ten in the morning. Because Tierra del Fuego is so far south, the sun is never directly overhead (even at noon), especially in winter.

The three family members who were in residence at Harberton that weekend were Tommy Goodall (Thomas Bridges’ great-grandson), Abby Goodall (Tommy’s daughter), and Thomas Lynch (Abby’s oldest son).

Tommy lives at Harberton year-round (or he did when I visited), and he managed the farm for many years. He was born in 1933, so he was well into his retirement years, though still active. Pretty much everyone described him as shy and reserved. My Ushuaia host family, who knew the Goodalls as employers and friends, had told me not to expect much conversation from Tommy. He usually wasn’t much of a talker, they said, though he could also get going about machines and markets and farming when he wanted to.

Abby and her husband Ricardo are the ones who currently manage the tourist operation, mostly from their home in Río Grande, about a three-hours’ drive away. Abby was the person I’d corresponded with to arrange my stay, and I figured she would be my best chance to hear more family stories.

The problem was that she was busy closing up the property for the season. The weekend I was there was the last weekend it was open to tourists, and Sunday was officially closing day. Most of the seasonal staff, too, was preparing to leave.

The main farm buildings at Estancia Harberton, framed by lupines. Compare this with the photos I took on the first day—the sunshine makes a BIG difference in how inviting things look!

Eventually, Abby was able to sit down with me for a few minutes in the tea room. Though friendly, she also seemed reserved, and I was wary of coming across as prying. So I explained my intentions for the novel, which was still in the beginning stages of taking shape in my head, and I mentioned some of what most interested me about what I’d found so far. She told me a few anecdotes I’d read in Lucas’s book or heard on the tour, and she pointed out some objects in the room that had belonged to various family members, like snow shoes and a steamer trunk.

We found common ground talking about the women of the family—how much harder things must have been for them, as the men traveled around and they stayed behind. I told her I was particularly curious to explore their side of the story, and she seemed excited about that idea, since most people who’ve written about the family focus on Thomas Bridges or his son Lucas.

I guess a part of me had hoped she would pull out of a drawer a secret cache of Mary Ann Bridges’ letters or a revealing diary no one else knew about, but that wasn’t the case. Abby didn’t know of any writing left behind by Mary Ann Bridges or the other women of the family. (Later, during my biggest adventure of the trip, I would find a letter by Mary Ann Bridges published in a mission magazine—but that’s a story for another time.)