I wake up, crawl out of the tent, and head in the direction where the ocean was yesterday. A thick fog muffles the sound of the surf, turning it into a formless white noise. Or is it pink? Or blue? Just a minute ago, half-asleep, I was listening to a lecture about how different colors are assigned to different types of noise based on their frequencies and their analogies to light waves. But now, I'm suspended in the timelessness of a fallen cloud, and only the cool sand beneath my bare feet reminds me that the physical world still exists.
One step, then another—and I realize I’m not alone. A long strand of seaweed twitches and inches along, pulled by some creature that’s busy devouring it. From the fog emerges the silhouette of an ordinary reddish-white cow, calmly grazing along the surf line of the Pacific Ocean. Or is this the ocean on a cow-inhabited planet in a distant corner of the galaxy? Or am I still dreaming?
One step, then another—and I realize I’m not alone. A long strand of seaweed twitches and inches along, pulled by some creature that’s busy devouring it. From the fog emerges the silhouette of an ordinary reddish-white cow, calmly grazing along the surf line of the Pacific Ocean. Or is this the ocean on a cow-inhabited planet in a distant corner of the galaxy? Or am I still dreaming?
That faint sense of surrealism and uncertainty—about what planet you’re on, or at the very least what century—feels perfectly natural when walking along Playa Colún. This Chilean beach, stretching ten kilometers along the edge of the Valdivian rainforest, is the very definition of Chile’s beach experience: the raw power of the open ocean, a complete absence of people, a hint of mystery, and a whole lot of romance.
In acoustics, “white noise” refers to a random signal with equal power across all linear frequency bands—its “color” akin to white light, which contains all wavelengths. But the analogy with light waves goes further: when the spectrum tilts, we get so-called “colored” noise. If the power decreases by about 3 dB per octave, it’s called pink noise (or 1/f noise); at 6 dB per octave, it becomes brown (or red) noise. If the power increases instead, we get blue or violet noise.
Interestingly, the average spectral profile of ocean surf on a beach corresponds almost perfectly to pink noise: each octave carries roughly the same energy, making the sound feel smooth and balanced—neither too deep nor too sharp. That distinctive “breathing” pattern of the surf—the gentle rise and fall in volume every few seconds—is just amplitude modulation of pink noise, caused by the incoming and receding waves. It doesn’t change the color of the sound itself.
How to Get to Playa Colun
I stumbled upon this place while browsing Google Maps. I realized I hadn’t been to the ocean in a while and decided to explore the coastline on the map between Puerto Montt and Valdivia. The idea was to find a spot along Chile’s endless shore where you could still feel like an explorer—and it paid off. I dropped a pin and waited for the right moment and the right company to go scout it out.
That moment came on my birthday in January. And the adventure began with the journey itself. I had deliberately picked a beach with no road access. To reach the ocean, you need to hike for about half an hour through the forest. But even getting to the start of that trail is a quest of its own. There are two main routes: one through Valdivia that involves a ferry crossing, and another that skirts south of Valdivia along a gravel road beside a national park. The best option depends on whether you’re coming from the north or south—and how tolerant you are of winding roads and bumpy rides.
We made a loop, trying both routes. Each one is scenic in its own right, so if you have the time and a love for road trips, taking one way there and a different one back is a great idea.
That moment came on my birthday in January. And the adventure began with the journey itself. I had deliberately picked a beach with no road access. To reach the ocean, you need to hike for about half an hour through the forest. But even getting to the start of that trail is a quest of its own. There are two main routes: one through Valdivia that involves a ferry crossing, and another that skirts south of Valdivia along a gravel road beside a national park. The best option depends on whether you’re coming from the north or south—and how tolerant you are of winding roads and bumpy rides.
We made a loop, trying both routes. Each one is scenic in its own right, so if you have the time and a love for road trips, taking one way there and a different one back is a great idea.
The southern route, which doesn’t require a ferry, runs along the edge of Alerce Costero National Park. It emerges from the forest at the shore of what might be a river or maybe a bay—on the far side of which sits the city of Valdivia—and then continues past the small town of Corral, hugging the coastline. The views are absolutely stunning. The road alternates between asphalt and gravel, but there’s a lot of construction underway, so there’s hope that it’ll be fully paved in the near future.
Corral: Ceviche and a Fort on the Way to the Beach
In little oceanfront towns like this, you can always count on finding the freshest, most flavorful fish—and ceviche that puts anything served in Santiago’s fanciest restaurants to shame. After wandering through the narrow streets of Corral, we end up at the local “food court”—a lively fair mixing fast food classics like completo hot dogs with paper sausages and brilliantly fresh salmon ceviche.
At first glance, the plastic chairs and worn-out tablecloths might trigger some doubt. But one look at the seafood, and all skepticism vanishes. It’s often the case in coastal areas: the best food hides behind the humble façade of everyday fishing life.
We go for the ceviche—just five dollars a portion—plus a plate of mini empanadas stuffed with shrimp and cheese. Fully satisfied, we’re ready to continue the hunt for our hidden beach.
At first glance, the plastic chairs and worn-out tablecloths might trigger some doubt. But one look at the seafood, and all skepticism vanishes. It’s often the case in coastal areas: the best food hides behind the humble façade of everyday fishing life.
We go for the ceviche—just five dollars a portion—plus a plate of mini empanadas stuffed with shrimp and cheese. Fully satisfied, we’re ready to continue the hunt for our hidden beach.
Ceviche is a traditional dish from the coasts of Latin America—most famously, Peru. Fresh fish or seafood is cut into small pieces and marinated in lime or lemon juice; the acidity “cooks” the proteins, turning the flesh firm and opaque without the need for heat. For flavor, it’s typically mixed with red onion, cilantro, chili, and sometimes corn or sweet potato, creating a vibrant contrast of tangy, spicy, and sweet. Ceviche is served immediately after marinating to preserve the fish’s natural texture and the bright citrus flavor.
This little town also has a man-made attraction—a fort. While these mid-17th-century structures may not impress with grand architecture, they were once among the most advanced fortifications in the Americas.
Valdivia itself has a fascinating history. The Spanish conquistadors arrived first and founded the city. A few decades later, the Mapuche drove them out, pushing the frontier of the Spanish Empire far to the north. The ruins, nestled in a sheltered bay, then caught the attention of the Dutch—only to meet the same fate at the hands of the Mapuche.
In the mid-1600s, the Spanish returned and built a much stronger, more permanent fortress. During Chile’s war for independence, this was one of the last strongholds where Spanish imperial forces held their ground.
Valdivia itself has a fascinating history. The Spanish conquistadors arrived first and founded the city. A few decades later, the Mapuche drove them out, pushing the frontier of the Spanish Empire far to the north. The ruins, nestled in a sheltered bay, then caught the attention of the Dutch—only to meet the same fate at the hands of the Mapuche.
In the mid-1600s, the Spanish returned and built a much stronger, more permanent fortress. During Chile’s war for independence, this was one of the last strongholds where Spanish imperial forces held their ground.
Playa Colún: A Night on the Beach
You can begin your Playa Colún adventure from either the northern or southern end. The northern side feels wilder and is closer to the road, so we chose to camp there for the night and save the southern stretch—with its dunes and lakes—for a morning walk along the beach.
Car drop-off point: Google Maps
After a 20–30 minute walk through a forest trail, we emerge onto the beach—and right in front of us is the perfect spot to spend the night. A small freshwater stream cuts a canyon through the coastal cliffs and flows into the ocean, while just above the sandy shore, there’s a flat grassy clearing with a fire ring. It’s an ideal place to stretch out on the grass with a glass of wine and watch the golden hour slowly unfold over nature.
Turn your head toward the cliffs, and you’ll see green waterfalls of vegetation cascading down the low but steep rock faces. Look back at the ocean, and you can almost grasp how this vast body of water stretches across half the planet.
Turn your head toward the cliffs, and you’ll see green waterfalls of vegetation cascading down the low but steep rock faces. Look back at the ocean, and you can almost grasp how this vast body of water stretches across half the planet.
Location of the northern beach entrance: Google Maps
A Walk to the Dunes and Lakes
In the morning, I throw on nothing but a swimsuit, a shirt, and a layer of sunscreen. Our entire hike follows the sandy line of the surf, so this minimalist approach feels just right.
With each wave, tiny crabs are tossed ashore, only to be snatched up moments later by sharp-beaked gulls. A couple of times we pass groups of the beach’s true residents—relatives of the cow I met at sunrise. These ladies gather in loose clusters of five to seven, spaced out every few kilometers along the shore.
With each wave, tiny crabs are tossed ashore, only to be snatched up moments later by sharp-beaked gulls. A couple of times we pass groups of the beach’s true residents—relatives of the cow I met at sunrise. These ladies gather in loose clusters of five to seven, spaced out every few kilometers along the shore.
Beyond the wide stretch of sand, the cliffs rise, lush with greenery—occasionally sliced by slender waterfalls tumbling down the rock. This is the edge of the Costera Valdiviana park. We walk for eight kilometers without seeing another soul. The southern end of the beach is finally in sight, and it’s time to search for the dunes and lakes that first caught my eye in the Google Maps photos.
Our first climb up a sand hill reveals only a forest of dried-out trees scattered among the dunes. On the second try—checking the map more carefully—we finally find the lakes. The sight is striking: shimmering bodies of water cradled between white sand dunes and the jungle of Valdivia. It’s enough to make us scramble faster up the hot sand, driven by excitement. One of the dune slopes drops steeply right into the lake, and we take a running start—then plunge headfirst into the cool, clear water.
Our first climb up a sand hill reveals only a forest of dried-out trees scattered among the dunes. On the second try—checking the map more carefully—we finally find the lakes. The sight is striking: shimmering bodies of water cradled between white sand dunes and the jungle of Valdivia. It’s enough to make us scramble faster up the hot sand, driven by excitement. One of the dune slopes drops steeply right into the lake, and we take a running start—then plunge headfirst into the cool, clear water.
Here, we finally ran into other people—a family with golden retrievers. The dogs were frolicking in the lake and rolling in the sand with just as much joy as we were. It’s hard to imagine a better swimming spot: crystal-clear water, a perfect temperature, and untouched nature all around. I honestly can’t think of another place so pristine, so lightly visited, and yet so easy to reach.
Location of the dunes and lakes (Laguna Gemela): Google Maps
After splashing around to our heart’s content, we headed back along the beach. The eight-kilometer return gave me enough time to start missing the mountains—turns out I’m more of a hiking-through-peaks person after all. But just as the end of the beach came into view, and only a strip of sand stood between us and our campsite, we realized our fatal mistake: we had set off without shoes.
By midday, the sand had turned blisteringly hot, and the wide beach had become a giant frying pan. Laughing and wincing in pain, we resorted to sprinting in short bursts. Our makeshift technique? Hop a few steps, toss a shirt ahead of you, stand on it while catching your breath and laughing at your friend, then repeat.
Let’s just say—take my advice and don’t skip the shoes, even if you, like me, love walking barefoot along the surf.
By midday, the sand had turned blisteringly hot, and the wide beach had become a giant frying pan. Laughing and wincing in pain, we resorted to sprinting in short bursts. Our makeshift technique? Hop a few steps, toss a shirt ahead of you, stand on it while catching your breath and laughing at your friend, then repeat.
Let’s just say—take my advice and don’t skip the shoes, even if you, like me, love walking barefoot along the surf.
The Road Home
We head back via the ferry from Corral to Valdivia. With just enough time before departure, we dash back to the same ceviche stand—and end up savoring our final bites as the boat crosses the strait.
Subscribe to the Crossing Borders channel on Telegram to read more stories from Chile—and beyond.