Recovery

Today I chill out and do laundry and take a much needed rest after one of the most strenuous weeks of my life. I find a nice, if gringo oriented, café and eat a cheese and avocado sandwich on artisan bread and sip a doble in a narrow yellow ceramic cup. I browse an English rock magazine highlighting the comeback of the NY Dolls and Bjork plays on the sound system. I spend the afternoon reading and watching movies like American History X and Twelve Monkeys. Its time for bed and El Calafate tomorrow and the end of my Odyssey through Patagonia is within sight.

The sun appears as I leave

I heat up cup after cup of Milo and soup. I compact my food and throw away, trying to make it an easy hike out this morning. I dry all my things in the sun that finally emerges this morning. In combination with the wind, this doesn’t take long and I feel revived even if my feet feel iredeemably soggy and cold.

The Torres make one last appearance, and it isn’t from the perspective that I had hoped, but I felt blessed all the same. I start down the road towards the Lago Amarga station where I began. I spot large cat prints in the sand and follow with caution.

A wilderness guide from Minnesota who I greeted briefly at Perros is also waiting for the bus at Amarga. Soon a middle aged German with an earring who gave in after a day, joins us. Despite his lack of tenacity this time, he has been trekking and bike touring worldwide. It feels good to be on the bus, though it takes a while for the engine to turn over. We pass untold numbers of rhea and guanaco on the way through the pampa. I return to Omar’s hostel and take a long and lovely shower and go out to eat a full meal and some fruit salad. I drink a beer. I return to the hostel and drink more beer while I watch Return to Neverland with female Finlandian hostelmates and then The Big Lebowski with a group of American and Canadian guys who also completed the circuit that day, starting, untypically, at Lago Pehoe via ferry shuttle.

Hobbling in Rain and Gales

The light, but persistent, rain this morning makes it difficult to get up and start the day. My plans to go to Camp Chileano to the base of the Torres will be waylaid by the afternoon. The wind seems to have abated compared to the day before, but as I approach the next refugio, this proves to be a false assumption. The trail passes a lake with colors one rarely sees away from tropical lagoons, but this was anything but. The ferocity of the wind compares to that of a bonified hurricane. I crouch to wait out the onslaught, but once or twice the gusts catch me off guard and I am knocked down into the bushes. While walking up a hill the wind lifts me up a steep embankment. I am close to flying.

The cold rain fallls harder and I duck into a refugio for the first time on the circuit with the pretense of buying camera batteries. I bask in the warmth and marvel at working toilets before moving on. I don’t want to be spoiled by comfort. After laying dormant for several weeks, my injury sustained in Mendoza resurfaces. Its what I feared most the whole journey, but at least I am only a couple hours this time from completing the circuit and being safe. I can barely walk on it, though. I sit and stretch it out as well as I can and not wishing to be stranded, I limp on. A group of Israeli students ask me how far it is to the next refugio oblivious to my predicament.

My knee loosens to some degree, then came back in full force along with the rain and the cold. A young American guy sees my limp and asks "estas bien" and offers to carry some of my load. It is only one hour to camp and I estimate that I will make it there. I pass by the crossroads, with the alternate trail leading to Chileano and the base of the Torres, but the weather and my condition make the choice a no-brainer.

I pass the immense hosteleria and I’m tempted for a few moments, to check in, even as I look like a wet rat, but I know how expensive it probably is and hobble on. I walk to a campsite full of exuberant high school kids gathered around a big pot of food. They have a big fire stoked and I want to be a part of it. I start setting up the tent. A high school girl gives me a sweet hola, and I ignore the warning signal. One of the leaders, I presume, warily asks me "Necesitas ayudar?" Oblivious, I reply "no, gracias" and continue setting up until my weather and fatigue addled brain comprehends that I don’t belong here. I check the signs to confirm this and stuff my dripping tent back into the bag while a gracious student offers me food, and its tempting.

Everything is wet as I set up camp in earnest. I flop myself inside the tent and light up my stove going through the arduous and ultimately futile task of drying out. The camp host comes by to collect fees and she notices that my fly is being held to the ground tenuously by rocks. In the hasty process of setting up, I bent my stakes trying to penetrate the hard ground and she comes by with her own stakes and puts me back in business while her little boy directs her where to place them. Even in sogginess and disappointment, I sleep very well that night.

Pulling my tent out of the sky

The Americans take off earlier than I do, but I get the feeling I’ll see them again that day. The pack feels good today after two days of lightening the food weight, not to mention a full day’s rest.

Its a lot of up and down once again, but nothing to compare with the previous leg. This is the start of the shorter, and much more popular, W route and backpackers and daytrippers are around every turn with metal hiking poles clacking and taking up the entire trail. They don’t yield, and after a few incidents I barrel straight towards them.

The wind kicks up in a big way. In exposed areas I’m fighting to stay on the trail and I often don’t, pivoting my foot off of rocks and banks to recenter myself on the trail. My American cohorts come wandering back onto the trail after straying onto a side trail and we’re together again.

As I go down the valley towards Lago Pehoe, the wind is especially persistent. The lake looks like a sort of turquoise jewel in the distance. It burgeons into a full blown lake, a large ranger station and a luxury hotel on the shore. A crowd of backpackers queue up in the bluster by a fairy stop. I get temporary respite from the wind behind the ranger station and eat another cookie lunch. The Americans join me not long after and the pilot calls me a show off. He estimates the wind at 50 knots and asks noone in particular if anyone has ever seen water picked up off a lake like that.

I leave them and continue on to Italiano through occasional showers and the imposing and truly majestic backdrop of peaks. The hiking goes quickly and I cross a bridge over a turbulent mountain river carrying glacier water from the famously scenic French Valley and I walk into Italiano.

Now that I’m no longer burning calories at tremendous rates, I feel the cold aided by the howling winds. I get the poles into my tent in a wrestling match of sorts and I weigh it down by placing stones inside the tent. Regardless it takes off like a kite and I catch it before it enters the tree branches. With the aid of much heavier rocks, I erect the tent and hunch down inside and cook my dinner there forced out only when I run out of water and need to piss.

Ice Trekking

I wake up to showers. My sole intent, today, is to trek the glacier, no matter the 70,000 Chilean pesos it may cost. The ranger from the day before hikes by wearing purple gaters and a backpack. He has to hike to Grey for his days off to catch the boat across the lake and out of the park. I walk up to the cabana aside the tents that sell the tours. A college aged guide is doing chores and he tells me that the next tour is full. I give my story, that I arrived the day before and they promised me a space, so he assures me he’ll ask.

He comes by my tent in a little while and tells me I’m on. I go back to the cabana to chat with him and get out of the damp, chilly conditions for the rest of the morning, and part of the afternoon, and drink mate. It feels good to be next to the fire on such a day. I read comments in ten different languages from the guest book, only comprehending the English and Spanish, about how this was the highlight of their Patagonia trip, if not their life. The guide cooks dinner and listens to the Pixies.

A large group of mostly English and a couple of middle aged American tag alongs enter the cabana while a guide barks out instructions. One of the Americans is a Dallas, Texas pilot and he asks who the other American is, and I volunteer. Juan, the guide, overhears me talking about doing the circuit and says that I’m lucky I’m not doing the pass today. The clouds lift enough to reveal the fresh snow on the mountains. Juan guided a group in the middle of winter, in July, when it was possible to jump down the trail leading steeply from the pass. The snow was almost hip high.

We gather on the zodiac on a cold ride with pelting rain across the lake and around dark blue icebergs. Its an odd contrast to my rainy but tropical power raft ride through Iguazu almost a month ago. Juan notes how far the glacier has receded in just over a decade, hundreds of meters at least.

We climb out onto a rock and gear up. We slip on crampons, the complex strapping we leave to the guides, and pick up an ice axe and step into harnesses. After a few quick lessons on the correct technique of walking on different grades of ice, we walk up what has the appearance of fused ice cubes, intermingled with stone along the first stretch. We pass deep crevasses and small streams running through tunnels in the glacier and end at a waterfall and pull out cups to take a drink. In just days, due to the motion of the ice, all this terrain will be vastly different.

We backtrack to a wall with ropes set up. The ice climbing feels a little unwieldy at first, but once I trust the ice will hold me, I’m able to climb without much trouble, though I never get my legs wide enough for stability.

The sun makes a brief appearance, illuminates the glacier and forms a weak rainbow over the lake. The rain begins anew once we cross the lake in the puttering zodiac towards camp. Back at my tent, I cook more pasta and exchange pleasantries with the Americans. We’re all headed for Camp Italiano in the morning. I gather my cooking utensils and hunker down in my tent for another rainy night.

Over the Pass

Its getting cloudy today, but its pleasant enough. I make tea and cereal from the vestibule of my tent and pack quickly, eager to hit what appears to be my most difficult day as early as possible. Everyone else seems to have the same idea, but I get out before the rest and I feel strong once again. The way is steep, extremely marshy with mud that sucks my boots to the ankles. Woods and marsh give way, at last, to the tree line and I continue on dry land, rock and talus. I rest spotting a group of ten not far behind, and then dig my boots into the footprints up the steep snow fields and get surprisingly good traction.

I hike over the pass and on the other side is a spectacular panorama of Glacier Grey, spanning for miles from the mountains, larger than what I imagined and seeming to engulf whole mountains. I’m in awe once again. I descend quickly into the woods. The trail winds steeply and relentlessly down and I’m grateful for the ropes tied on the trees along the way. My left hip is stiff and in pain but not injured. It’s a muscle that is not accustomed to the stress and weight of a full backpack. Every once in a while I hear the thunderous report of glacial calving.

I arrive at a ranger station where the young ranger asks me in for tea. He asks about any hot girls at a previous camp. All old German women I tell him. He says that it isn’t often that someone arrives here from Perros so early. I ask him why the trail was marked closed a few days ago. He tells me a landslide hit one of the canyons, but if I move through the area quickly, I should be fine. Soon the German tour group arrives, so I eat my lunch of bran cookies and move on, merely a few hours from Camp Grey.

And if I was expecting the going to be easy after the pass, I’d be wrong. Narrow, cliffside trails rise and descend over loose dirt and stone. Tall, wooden ladders are rigged to descend and ascend the landslides. It feels precarious with my heavy pack that weighs about half of me, especially on a ladder that is tilted to the side against the rock. The pack wants to pull me flat and twist me off the ladder. I walk past a "peligro, no entrance" sign and down the final hill towards Grey where the glacier flows into a large lake with scattered icebergs.

I arrive in Grey close to 4pm, a hard, long but very satisfying day. I set up camp with the crowd and eat another big pot of pasta, drink some warm Milo and fall asleep with the sunset.

Un perro, los perros

It’s a beautiful day. I sleep in for as long as I can, but how long that is I can’t say. I eat, pack and still embark before almost everyone else in camp. This morning a group gathers around, with cameras in hand, a wild canine of sorts that has wandered into camp for some easy vittles, no doubt. I climb a hill to some more amazing vistas to the mountains and walk towards my first large glacier of note. A Brit and his guide pass on horseback going the opposite direction and I ascend some rocks to a small glacial lake and the rumbling of some snow and ice eroding off the glacier, Los Perros, hanging on the cliff.

I slip and fall down a silty path, but brush myself off with no injury. I walk by some amber colored ponds and into the woods where I see the next camp, also called Los Perros. Its early, and I contemplate, just for a moment, making a push towards the pass while the weather is good and I’m feeling strong. But, no, I reason, better to go off in the morning when I feel my best. I cook a big pot of pasta and sleep very well, very long.

Overstaying breakfast, Trail Kinks

I wake up at 6. I sit at the breakfast table at 6:30 to find a French couple, who want to speed through the Circuit in five days, diligently shoveling Muesli. Bleary eyed, I pour cereal and reach for the milk and the French girl says politely in Spanish that it is their milk and that’s when I notice "Greg" written on the carton in big letters. Regardless I get the urge to choke them with their Muesli for being so petty. Omar arrives and makes a plain omelet for me. The table gradually fills with other trekkers and as I reach for another tea bag, Omar says something about other people. I assume that he means that the tea is running low so I put it back. He grabs my plates from me and tells me, sorry, he must wash them, others must eat. I shrug and leave the table and he rolls his eyes like I’m an idiot, and he complains, in Spanish, about how long I’ve been at the table.

The bus arrives at 8 and we ride down another dirt road toward the park. We soon approach the jutting towers on the horizon. They are clearly magnificent. We stop at the admission gate to buy our tickets and I realize that I am at my stop. According to a sign in the office, The Circuit is closed, but I decide almost immediately to disregard this. I shoulder my pack and walk down the road with the Torres looming on my left. My pack already is weighing me down and its so cumbersome, I have an ominous feeling about the next week.

For the first few hours I think I am alone on this stretch of trail, but I take a break and another couple passes me. I walk through a cow pasture and around cattle into muddy fields, and this trail is not feeling very wild. After a mere 18 km I’m doubled over with fatigue on a flat, smooth stretch of trail. I pale to think how I will make it up passes and over rough terrain. I eat my lunch at Camp Seron, a small horse ranch, and think about it. I start fiddling with the straps on my backpack trying to get a better fit. I see what I imagine to be an American redneck and his son smoking and taking a break. As they pass me its clear that they’re two young Norwegians finishing up The Circuit in the opposite direction.

The adjustments make a big difference and I get a renewed burst of energy and confidence for the next stretch of trail. And just at the right time, since my first test is ahead of me, a steep hill crosses a very windy saddle. When I cross I see a dramatic bird’s eye view of mountains and Lago Paine. In the mood for celebration, I shout down at the lake. The way down is rolling and I eventually hit woods and water again and I’m getting very tired again. The last 5km to camp drags and I overtake small hill upon small hill expecting Lago Dickson to be visible from the crest. I consider, as the light fades, making an illegal camp on the spot and risking expulsion from the park, but saving my tail. The trail broadens and turns sharply uphill. I have a very good feeling this time, and there it is like a beacon, horses grazing, a group of tents and a refugio cabin, Camp Dickson.

I nearly slide down the loose rock into the valley. When I arrive, the young caretaker asks, "Como estas? Cansado?" Si! I set up camp and quickly boil two packets of ramen before darkness sets in completely.

Canon de las Ovejas

The bus to Pto Natales leaves on Wednesday. Today’s Monday so I decide to explore the last of the trails that originate in Ushuaia. I weave my way through the omnipresent schoolchildren who just completed the trail. The way goes along a stripped railbed which transitions into a muddy pasture road. This leads to a waterfall. I cross a beautiful, marshy, sloping horse pasture with bogs and stands on dead trees and fallen logs against a backdrop of craggy peaks.

This is the start, a sign indicates, canon de las ovejas, so intrigued I follow the pasture road into a valley surrounded by tall peaks and towards a snowy range in the distance at the end of a stream. I climb a ladder over the pasture fence and find markers for a trail. It gently slopes up into the forest paralleling the stream through more swampy terrain. The way turns sharply downhill and then out of the woods for good and onto a sizeable scree slope. The trail then follows narrow banks in the scree undulating up the slope until it finally continues up the valley again, where I want to go.

The yellow markers guide me across the exposed slope intermittently through bushes across more scree and over steep slopes of lingering snow. I dig my boots into the snow hoping I don’t slide into oblivion. My boots, after drying in the past day, are soaked once again.

I reach the range with small glaciers clinging to the rockface and narrowing to thin waterfalls cascading down the cliffs into the canyon. One large scoop of snow has fallen off one of the glaciers causing a big scar in the glacier. The trail winds up to a pass and I cross some snow to the top.

It was getting late, 7pm, as I retrace my steps through the horse pasture. The horse eyes stare at me either out of curiosity or malice, but not wishing to test the correct interpretation I step gingerly past them. I make it back to Cruz del Sur at 9, dinner is in full swing, but I manage to cook and eat a decent meal for once.

No Direction

I eat a long breakfast, chat a bit with Mia, then I take off down the road in search of Valle de las Ovejas. As I go down the highway I come to another town, this one more intensely industrial than Ushuaia with cargo crates piled along the shore, more barges and less frills. I cross a bridge over a river and check my map and turn around and pick up the road I missed. I walk by cabanas and homes, horsefarms and a nursery with greenhouses. Roads with no names, no signs spur out everywhere and my map fails to give specifics so I continue on faith, which isn’t often reliable. The road narrows and becomes deeply rutted. I pass a perro cuidado sign and the dogs in question track me down. A sheep dog shoots me a wary look and his cohort slinks underneath a gate and they cut me off and start growling. This convinces me I’m going the wrong way.


The next way I try seems wrong as well, so I acknowledge defeat and turn around. I settle in at the hostel finding lunch and starting Moby Dick. Mia comes back, not to thrilled with TDF, or Ushuaia, a cynic if there ever was one. She' s disappointed in the lack of beavers, of all things. I let her read my journal, as I promised the day before, and I continue reading. She leaves to fly back to the north of Argentina and suddenly I’ve lost my entertainment in Ushuaia.

Two Paths

I head towards the top of town not quite sure where I’m going but I manage to guess my way there and I find the Glaciar Martial trailhead, and I have another muddy, boggy yet beautiful trail to myself. I cross a road and see the chairlift to the top. But chairlifts are for skiing. The way gets steeper and muddier and then emerges from the woods, crosses a stream and leads past a refugio based at the top of the chairlift.

I skip across logs and rocks to cross a bog. A young American couple complain, "Why did we come this way? Because we’re stupid, that’s why." The crowded snout of the glacier is populated with everyone from old Argentinian couples to European backpackers and American tourists. I walk across the well trodden glacier and continue up a steep trail with loose stone. And the way becomes noticeably chilly and windy.

After a long slog, I cross a couple more rocky hills and some snowfields to face a bowl of craggy mountains. A girl gazing off one of the hilltops turns around and motions to me. She’s used up her batteries, she explains to me in Spanish, and she wants to borrow mine. She snaps a few pictures and tells me MUCHisimo gracias and offers me her trail mix. I lunch on the vista before turning back toward warmer climes. On the way back the trail I encounter a Norwegian couple I noticed on the bus to Ushuaia. She gives me a cute smile while her boyfriend grunts out a hello.

There’s a lot of daylight remaining when I reach the road so I walk towards another trail further east. I pass through meadows and enter the woods once again, climbing and feeling the fatigue starting to settle in. But I press on compelled by the curiosity of where the trail will end.

I surpass the treeline and cross some deep snow. I’m chilled and rain showers start falling. I set a deadline for 6:30 and keep moving finally spotting a sign for a laguna. I lose the trail so I point myself towards a saddle and cross the mossy talus.

The laguna is slushy and nearly frozen over even as it approaches summer. I turn around and follow the stream back down, having lost the trail hopelessly this time. As I hop dead trees and push through vines and bogs, I’m still not sure, so following the stream is still my surest bet. Once the way becomes too treacherous, I climb up the ravine and search for the trail in earnest, and I find it fairly easily.

I make it back, a 26 km day, and eat whatever’s left in my pack for dinner. In my dorm an Israeli girl, Mia, comes in and immediately talks about her adventure around South America. She makes me laugh so I’m happy to listen.

A ride home

I decide to hike to Tierra del Fuego 20 km away. Its spitting rain and I layer clothing, this time, pull on gloves and a hat not wanting to get caught off guard by the weather. A group of backpackers in front of me try to hitch their way to the park, unsuccessful the whole time they’re in my sight. Beautiful snow covered crags and horse farms line the muddy dirt road along the way. I pass by the Tren fin del Mundo, that looks like an amusement park ride, that shuttles back and forth to the park.

I sidetrack onto a trail and down a mossy, muddy, ferny, boggy hill full of roots and clover, a nice switch after a month or so of desert environment. I walk to the lake and down a muddy path and I have the place nearly to myself passing a tour group on occasion, or a backpacker couple. The drizzle continues, but I’m walking briskly and I keep warm. At the end of the lake trail I pick up a road to a campsite and look for batteries for my exhausted camera at the confiteria, to no avail. I eat my lunch at a picnic table.

Now 27 km into my day, I continue down another trail and climb a mountain stepping up slippery footholds and muddy slopes that slide beneath my soles. My feet sink into bogs and saturated moss. The four kilometer trail seems much further. I finally cross a mud pit alongside a small stream to another mossy bog. Snow and crags are all that’s ahead of me. I can’t resist climbing, but its getting late, even for me, and my day is eclipsing 30 km. The summit appears elusive so I turn around knowing I’m setting myself up for a dark walk home, but at least not in the wilderness.

At km 35 a young man in a transporte van asks me "a Ushuaia?" He insists, "suba." and I get in. He asks others, along the way, the same question, so I assume he’s collecting fares. He sings along to the latin faux Brittany on the radio and shows me points of interest along the way. We dodge a swooping hawk in pursuit of a rat or a rabbit, he says.

He lets me off in front of my hostel, my small noisy hostel, and when I ask him the fare, he plainly states "nada." I thank him profusely. This leaves me time to drop off laundry.

Trouble on Cerro Catedral

I’m up too early. I’m up before the hostel lobby is open. But the clock finally strikes eight and I have three cups of peach yogurt and head out the door on another showery day in search of a bus to Cerro Catedral. I wait in the chilly breezes for what seems like hours at the bus stop. Several groups of people are picked up and more take their place. I’m about to start walking when I see a sign that tells me for sure that the bus will stop here eventually. It finally does.


I start climbing Cerro Catedral. The rest of the bus scouts for lift tickets. I’m in my windbreaker and I pull on a llama hat. This feels like plenty as I generate heat plodding up the mountain. I jump a stream and lumber straight up the slope of a steep hillside. I reach patches of snow which soon coalesce into a full mantle of grainy slush and ice. I see patches of pure white scattered here and there, fresh snowfall.


I dig my boots into the sloping snow until I pick up a snowcat trail which leads to a lodge halfway up the mountain. I catch up with the snowcat digging a road through the snow which is still layered several feet thick at this altitude.


The wind accelerates as I go higher and it starts to snow. I follow slalom poles to the top. When I get there I’m buffeted by the stiffest wind gust I ever felt in my life. A several story tall cabin, lodge and refugio stands at the top with a long menu of hot food and drinks and a sign, abierto. But its most definitely cerrado. There are picnic tables on the deck if it wasn’t for the howling winds and snow squalls. Snow is piled six feet high on the side of the cabin. Even in this weather I go in search of a back trail down the mountain.


But I never find it. Instead the snow sandblasts my face from the wind that nearly knocks me off my feet. I follow the rocks that jut from the mountain crest and try to keep in constant motion so the cold doesn’t overwhelm me. I reach an impasse, a very steep slope of snow which may be possible to pass, but the consequences of slipping or the snow breaking away look dire. If I break a bone or even twist an ankle, death is a possible outcome.


After scouting the area, I scramble down a rock outcropping towards a lodge a quarter mile away but hundreds of feet lower. I cross a small slope to another outcropping, but it soon becomes clear that the slope is still perilous. The choices are narrowed down to one, I’m turning back. The cold aided by the wind is penetrating by now. I repeat a mantra of reassurance that all will be well and that I can do this. I retrace my footprints and the way back goes by surprisingly quickly. I lope downhill as quickly as I can manage. I’m soon on a muddy, snowless road with a light mix of rain and snow falling on my head. I tell an instructor of some sort how far the snowline begins so he can bring his class there, and then I pass the group themselves noisily negotiating the hill.


I end up back at the bus stop feeding on cookies as I wait. I doze on the bus and nearly miss my stop. I go in the hostel bathroon and peel off my mud stained pants and soaking socks and change into clothing of questionable cleanliness, head out the door to catch my next long bus ride with a half hour to spare.

Taking my new, shoddy camera to Cerro Catedral

I tromp, gingerly, down steep Cerro Otto, not accosted by any dogs this time. I make the 5km lakeside walk back into Barlioche passing the chalet style cabanas in construction on every spare bit of land. I go into one of the famous chocolate shops. One of the clerks donning a red scarf on her head asks if I need help, but I don’t know where to begin, so I feign miscomprehension, though I briefly stare down some tiramisu and shaved chocolate. The day before, I had discovered a jammed lens on my camera so I take it today to one of the many shops. Repair is futile so, after a few moments, I pick out the cheapest Kodak digicam, which is still no bargain, and half heartedly pack it away feeling the sting of 500 pesos.


Half the day is already past. I eat a brief lunch and trek away from town borrowing my Irish roommate’s map, but not sure of my destination. Before too long, many lakeside cabanas later, I spot a sign for Cerro Catedral and this looks intriguing. I turn down the road leading eleven km further to the ski resort not sure how I’ll get back before dark.


I follow the road and look for a trail and I find a jeep road and try that instead. This leads to a cluster of multi story chalets at the base of the ski resort, Cerro Catedral. I dunk my head underneath a roadside spring to take the edge off the heat. The resort is mostly deserted with several ground attendants working and tourists milling about and riding the ski lift. A lovely, modern gondola station lay
idle for the season.


I find a maintenance road on the ski hill and take the twisting and steep way to the top, my knee barely holding on. I cross remnants of snow fields and a way station below the summit. If I turn back now I will make it back, but the last kilometers will be in the dark. I hobble back down the hill with my gimpy knee and spot a public bus stop in the parking lot. I hobble even faster hoping to get a ride into town. I make it in plenty of time. I am about to board when the driver mumbles "alli" and gestures towards the kiosk packed with people. I board with the rest finding the last seat in the back of the bus.

Bariloche

And we arrive, as advertised, in the Alp-like resort of Bariloche, also a former Nazi hideout. Christmas trees and snow capped peaks abound, but they're not nearly as high as those to the north. Most top out at about 2000 meters, slightly below my home of Flagstaff.

I start my slog form the bus station and as the kilometers pass, I realize the center of town is much further away than I thought when I looked at the LP map. Four kilometers further, balancing two backpacks and my LP, I find my way to the Bariloche Center and up a cargo elevator ten floors to the penthouse hostel, 1004. I want to go to their sister hostel La Morada, isolated on the slopes of Cerro Otto, and I’m only here to wait for a ride. I’m instructed to buy groceries and come back in two hours.

After wandering the town, I lug my groceries up to the tenth floor and wait. I’m piled into the back of a jeep with a bunch of bricks while my new Irish cohort scores the front seat. We switchback up and increasingly steep and rutted jeep road as I wait for the pile of bricks to tumble down and crush me. Instead, my eggs fall on the floor, but I lose only one.

We are here at La Morada and the view is amazing like a Lake Tahoe vista. I eat and take a late afternoon hike up Cerro Otto following a trail that leads straight up following the gondola lines that go to the top. I walk a road for the last short leg and walk past a refugio, a revolving restaurant and a kiosco all closed for the season. I stop at a mirardor and follow the raptor like journey of some paragliders first being uplifted above the summit by updrafts and then slowly swooping into town far below and landing in a soccer field.

I try to find a more gradual trail back down that won’t aggravate my sore and possibly injured knee. I finally find one that starts to descend at a slight slope past a refugio cabin, but quickly turns impossibly steep and I begin to notice a pattern. I’m impeded by a fence blocking the trail and as I try to find a detour I’m met by a woman speaking rapid Spanish which soon transitions into perfect English once she realizes who she’s dealing with. She’s a middle aged missionary, I assume, originally from Poughkeepsie, NY, now living in Bariloche after spending some time in Chile. She leads me down the mountains past innumerable dogs and I thank her and am silently glad she didn’t try to minister to me. I find the cerro trail back up once again and push my diminished legs towards the hostel, dinner and sleep.

Aconcagua

I do force myself up, somehow, at 5 and I’m out the door walking briskly across the deserted city except for a popcorn stand that for whatever reason remained open throughout the night. I get there early. We pile on the bus, a few tourists, but mostly locals. One of the river guides from my raft trip takes this bus to work.



The barren foothills gradually transition into towering Andean peaks over 4k meters. We pass a small ski resort and then stop at even smaller Puente del Inca with a small Quechan souvenir market with llama wares and a few crystals thrown in.



I walk to the orange creamsicle mineral formation this site is renowned for. There are barriers blocking entrance to the site and with the gaping holes on the boardwalk leading there, it becomes apparent why. I walk back and find a small market selling provisions and purchase fruit juice, bananas, tangerines and a salami and take off for another unknown destination. Another group of travelers stop me and ask if I speak English. When they ask if I know what I’m doing, I shrug.



I meet what turns out to be a group of four Israelis on the road again. They found out about a small lagoon on the way to Aconcagua, so I join them. They’ve been to most of the places I’ve been so far, but stopping at Cachi and Calfayate as well. The tall one hands me a brochure for bikes and wines, an organized bodega tour, but I’ve had my fill of bodegas and bikes for now.


A valley opens up to give a clear view of Aconcagua, caked in an impermeable layer of ice and snow. It’s a month and a half until trekking season which doesn’t seem like enough time to melt much more of the snowpack. Footpaths weave up the valley, so it appears reasonable to follow and assume they lead someplace and they do. We take a break and the Israelis share a roll filled with dulce de leche with me. They urge me to see Puerto Madryn and the whales since the mating season is winding down within a month.



The sign I spot for the ranger station makes it official, we are on the right path. A large St Bernard belonging, aparrently, to noone in particular follows us, comically walking in and out of my path and body checking me. The red headed girl asks me if I ever saw a dog with such a big head before and I shake my head incredulously.





We reach a snowfield and the Israelis start snapping pictures. The tall one tells me there is a single mountain in Israel that gets sufficient snow to support a ski area. The St Bernard, meanwhile, is having a blast. First he eats the snow, then he rolls and writhes on it. He runs full tilt around the snowfield looking as if he was about to plow down one of the Israelis.

At the ranger station, a young female ranger emerges and hands us maps for the kilometer trail around the mountain lagoons. The wind funnels through a gap in the mountains with such intensity that it is hard to walk at times. It picks up bits of gravel and dust that blasts our faces. We reach an Aconcagua lookout and the St Bernard poses with some schoolchildren and then abandons us for a younger crowd.



We explore up the trail further and a German couple directs us to a large snowfield one kilometer more. The tall Israeli hopes this is a good place to take pictures. And they do take picture upon picture, at one point trying to take one of the reflection of Aconcagua in a pair of sunglasses. I feel compelled to head up the mountain further, as far as I can in the time that’s left, but I quell that impulse and practice being satisfied with the moment.



Back down at the ranger station, a new ranger explains why the way to an intermediate peak is closed. Originally, the Israelis were going to trek and camp here, but the season for doing so is almost two weeks from starting. The search and rescue is not fully staffed and only they have access to emergency equipment. The ranger himself has summited Aconcagua many times, the first time when he was 16.



I go out ahead of the group somewhat anxious I won’t make it back in time to purchase a return ticket. But I get to the ticket kiosco, that doubles as a souvenir stand, in plenty of time. I linger on a bench waiting for the bus and watch groups of retirees and schoolchildren in turn walking to the puente and through the souvenir market pawing the crystals and crafts and returning to the tour buses. Clouds gather and the wind picks up again and I put on every piece of clothing I brought that day. The Israelis sit in the snack bar, but I feel a little alienated at this point.

Backwater Barreal

And exactly what kind of place Barreal is, I’m not sure. But its all up and becomes increasingly beautiful. The snow covered Andes emerge above the foothills. I am the only Gringo, or tourist for that matter, on the bus. I bring warm clothing with me and contemplate finding a cabana for the night, but decide not to. The Andes come into clear view and everyone on the bus has a specific place to go but I. I’m told I’m in Central Bareal, to my surprise, so I get off and cross the length of town. All the shops are closed for siesta at one pm except for one kiosco. I buy an ice cream and a liter and a half of water and I walk towards the mountains.


I pass farms and cabanas advertising expediciones. Motorbikes and rickety bikes go by along with the usual packs of dogs. I weave past farms with horses, chickens and roosters towards the mountains. I hit a crossroads. Mary is there, enclosed in glass. I follow the road through an impromptu junk yard to an impasse, a rushing river fed by snowmelt. It is frigid, wide, fast flowing and insane if not impossible to cross by foot. I follow upriver hoping to find a bridge or a narrow crossing.


Nothing exists. I leap across several tributaries and wade across a wider crossing nearly rendering my feet numb. I find a place to lay down in the grey sand amongst the rocks and take a short nap. I return in the darkness. My timing is perfect for 9pm dinner. I gnaw on tough lomo topped with cheese and ham and drink a liter of Quilmes dark, to pass the time. At nearly 11, I can dawdle here no longer and I go out in the chill air to take a walk. I’m tired to the point of exhaustion and not sure how I will while away the next four hours. I hit a crossroads and afraid of getting lost, turn back. I take a nap in the park until I’m awakened by a brisk wind and the cold. I huddle behind a wall in the central square and hug in my knees to try to keep warm.



Time passes slowly as I check it on my camera every few minutes. Chilled to the bone, I finally notice 3am pass. Several people gather on the streets waiting for the same bus. Mercifully, my seat is on the back of the bus where I can spread out and sleep for most of my journey back to San Juan.

A Long Walk

Today I hike to a reservoir, Dullum, which sounds attractive in my LP. I go through a long stretch of suburban neighborhoods all lined by yellow tiled sidewalks, past parillas and kioscos until I reach the countryside and army training facilities. I walk between some barren hills until I reach the river and walk up towards what looks like a miniature Hoover Dam, given the geography. On the near end of the dam is a snack bar and motocross course going through the sandy mounds and small hills. On the far side are some scattered waterfront clubs, but no public beaches, and not much activity on the water, from the few glimpses I get from between the hills. There is an abundance of motocross and mountain biking, and guys taking their girlfriends for a ride on their motorbikes for the afternoon.


I turn down a road for a club, bypassing the admission sign, and catch a water view or two. My 40 km hike ends back in town where a fair is taking place. The market in the fair stays open past midnight on a Sunday night and there is a bandstand with singing. I sit down in a pizza parlor and eat a doble mozzarella that’s a rare disappointment. I try to get a good night’s rest before my bus into the Andean town of Bareal the next morning.

Wind at my back, dust in my eye

I entrain myself in the easy rhythm and way of life in Tilcara. I like how at ease I feel and I’m making quick friends of Melissa. I don’t want to leave. But that feeling also tells me its time to leave. I’ve just about exhausted how much I can grow here, and I want to grow along this journey, as much as I want to bask in carefree feelings.

Melissa settles into a chair in the hostel yard to read Gabriel Garcia Marquez all day. I decide to take a hike above the canyon to see how far I can climb into the distant red striated mountains. I meet few other people on this incredibly clear desert day. I follow a dirt road that climbs gradually and passes above the Garganta of the previous day. The catarata looks diminutive from above. I want to climb down to it but I’m bound by private property. I forge ahead.

I finally find a way into the canyon and I lunch here. A lone, native, hiker rushes past with a jacket covering her head for shade and grunts a reluctant "Hola." I’m wary of any more farm dog encounters and I give wide berth to any farms I see. I climb atop some foothills. Snail shells are scattered on the ground. I cannot see a way up to the summit and regardless it is getting late. I turn back to the valley with a brisk wind at my back.

Soon Melissa emerges and we sit in the kitchen and she opens a pack of coca leaves she bought at the market. We sit down and have a long and satisfying conversation. Tea slips into dinner and we find a restaurant with seven peso estafado. My eye, blasted by windblown dust all day, puffs into an itchy ball. Melissa can’t stand to look at me any longer and rushes through dinner.

An older man with a pot belly and long hair is chatting with the proprietor at the hostel and I excuse myself to extract my contacts. The man offers me some eye drops and I hope the sting means its working. The man is in my room, unfortunately, and releases loud farts and snores guturally throughout the night. I go out in the middle of the night and make a packet of soup I find on top of the freezer, and then some coffee.

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.