Finding La Garganta

I eat breakfast and drop off the laundry, and send the mail and the postman is surprised when I tell him "Estados Unidos." Melissa emerges after 11 hours of sleep. She goes to eat breakfast and to buy provisions for the day and we’re off to search for Garganta once again. And it’s a beautiful, crystal day and I make the correct turn this time after passing the water treatment plant with resident sheep grazing on the grounds. We walk up a trail across a barren hillside strewn with rocks, manure and saguaro cactus, but not much else.

Melissa is not yet acclimated and rests and drinks water frequently. We reach an arrow pointing to the Garganta. We follow a trail steeply descending to a small dam and hydroelectric plant. The water channels into a small cement canal, and after descending a ladder, I follow it into what looks like a tiny railroad tunnel. A small pool of water lay just above the canal and Melissa takes the opportunity to strip into a bikini and wade into the pool and I applaud her for it.

There are no other signs or evidence of a trail so we assume the Garganta is the deep black rock ravine following the dam. Somewhat disappointed we search for some small cataratas upstream to have a picnic next to. Melissa hesitates as she skips the rocks crossing the stream, apparently never gaining a facility for these things growing up in Montreal.

We eat some incredibly succulent roast beef sandwiches. Melissa scouts for a place to nap and I investigate further upstream for bigger and better cataratas, and it doesn’t take long. A spectacular one cascading off a cliff in long beaded threads pounds onto the canyon floor into a very small lagoon. Long grass bows off the rock face on the opposite side where the prevailing wind blows the mist from the falls. On the near side the rock is barren.

I drag Melissa up from her nap and pull her up the rocks. "You’ll curse me along the way," I apologize, "but thank me when we get there." And she does. I reassure Melissa on the way back that I do know the way. A panorama of mountains and canyons lay ahead of us and its all downhill after emerging from the ravine.

In town, Melissa takes me for my first submarino at the café. We sit on tiny chairs on the lone outside table and the poor befuddled waitress snaps our pictures. We drop squares of chocolate into a tall glass of hot milk and the whole concoction is stirred with a long spoon. Specks of soft chocolate float within never quite melting completely. The sun descends over the mountain casting a subtle orange glow over the domes of the chapel which peaks over a shingled roof adjacent to the café.

We rest up for dinner at the hostel. One of my hostel mates shows me how to operate the calefaccion and I feel profoundly indebted to her. I take a wonderfully scalding shower for the first time since Iguazu and I reach a nirvana of sorts.

The hostel mate joins us for dinner that night. She is Melissa’s traveling mate. They chat in Spanish and I am mostly uncomprehending. The gimpy pooch does an elaborate pirouette before curling up in the corner of the restaurant and we all order the lomo and papitas, which are laced with oregano. For me and my $5, the dining experience is dreamy. Melissa, as usual, is very drowsy while the hostel mate and I pick at a side order of papitas. After wrapping herself in a yellow shawl, Melissa leaves. Christina and I briefly argue who will pay more of the bill, each of us insists on it, and then we return to the hostel. I find out that Christina lived for a time in Queens, NY, not far from where I once lived, but Buenos Aires is her home in more ways than one.