Thursday, March 14, 2013

Bittersweet (Agridulce) con’t

You can see a long way in the desert.

My last post painted a picture that was more bitter than sweet – more agri than dulce. While I found the wind a challenge for the six days it took us to get from Esquel to Beto’s home, and it made me sad that we were heading north, we also travelled through some tremendous landscapes. The desert is harsh and unrelenting, largely foreign to me. At times, the trail before us stretched out seemingly forever without relief, and stark evidence of just how tough life is here stared up at us from the empty eye sockets of the many horse, sheep and cattle skeletons we rode by. Our route also passed through remarkable canyons with hoodoos and great scarps of coloured rocks, and when we arrived at rivers, shaded as they are in Patagonia by graceful weeping willows known locally as sauces, the green softness welcomed us with the allure of a favourite blanket.

The latter half of our final day in the saddle was particularly sweet. And not only because I was savouring the experience knowing it would soon be over. In the mid-afternoon on what was another cool, overcast, blustery day, we began climbing out of the desert into the Andes’s foothills. Rocky sand and uniformly grey or brown dry thorny vegetation gave way to a rich purplish brown soil that looked volcanic. The plants, many of them still thorny, had more colour; they were green rather than grey; a few had small flowers. One particularly beautiful bush was an intense purple. There was no continuous grass as might be found on the range or on the pampa, but the problem was moisture not nutrients. Given the chance, this soil would produce unimaginable bounty. Making our way through this vegetation became a game of a sort. The horses had to step around, bending to make their way between the plants. They were adept at knowing which ones had thorns and had to be avoided, and those they could brush through. It was akin to following stepping stones across a river, though in reverse since the horses had to avoid stepping on the plants. Anticipating whether Judy would go to the right or left of a particular bush and not be slowed down by her deft moves engaged me for an hour or more.

Caught in the canyon.
At one point, we followed a small, mostly dry creek in a shallow canyon that serpentined its way up a valley. The 10-metre-high canyon walls were carved out of dense black sand. I missed Beto and Alex exiting the canyon, and Alex had to come back to find me. He wandered along the top of the vertical canyon walls calling out until I finally heard him and found a spot where Judy was able to climb up a break in the steep cliff wall.

All day, we moved slowly closer to a high ridge of rounded foothills. Alex pointed to a particular hill far in the distance and assured me that Beto’s place lay just beyond. It seemed impossible that we would travel that far and I wondered how he could possibly know that that was Beto’s hill when layer upon layer of rising crests lay before us.

On we travelled ever upwards and always, as Alex promised, toward Beto’s hill. Our last ascent, completed in failing light, took us across a broad slope interrupted with now dry, parallel crevasses formed by years of spring runoff. We would come to the lip of one of these splits in the land and the horses would sit on their haunches and slide down in the loose soil into the crevasses that were twice again as deep as a horse and rider were tall. Sometimes we would have to follow the crevasse for a time before we could find a way out the other side. The horses would then scramble up onto the flat land. Beto had charged ahead as usual and we had trouble keeping track of him since when we were up on the plain, he would often have dropped out of sight into a crevasse. But somehow Alex managed to follow him in what felt like a game of hide and seek. It became easier when Beto finally reached the top of the ridge, the one behind which Alex promised we would find his home. Beto sat up there, a silhouette against a darkening sky with the wind whipping at his poncho and tucking his horse’s tail between its hind legs.

Too soon, we also arrived at the top of the ridge. We stopped beside Beto and an enormous green valley spread out before us. It had the moisture that was lacking in the land we’d just crossed. In the distance, high-peaked mountains backstopped rows of hills. A single distant light marked Beto’s neighbour, the same neighbour where we’d stopped weeks ago and I’d purchased my poncho. With the same poncho currently protecting me from the raw wind, it was hard to imagine how hot it had been that day and how foolish it had seemed to be purchasing such a heavy duty covering. But thankfully I had.

I looked down the steep slope and tucked in at the foot of the hill were a few tall slender Alamo trees, a dry arroyo, a simple wooden barn and a modest house – nothing more than a shack by Canadian standards. “That’s not Beto’s place is it?” I asked Alex. He nodded that indeed it was, deservedly pleased with his navigating skills. Incredulous and having not yet absorbed that this was indeed it – the end of our journey – I watched as Beto charged down the steep slope, clearly anxious to get home. Alex and I stalled at the ridge top partially to buy ourselves more time, but to also take in the wonder of the landscape. Although we had stayed at Beto’s early on in our trip, the view from above gave us new appreciation for his land. Rather than dull our wonder at the Patagonian landscape, our long days travelling at horse-pace had heightened our awe at the immensity and variety of the vistas we’d been lucky enough to enjoy. In the days to come, I wouldn’t just miss being in the saddle; I would long for the open wilderness, the quiet broken only by screeching chomangos (small hawks), lowing cattle, rushing water or winds that rustled the occasional tree.

The last leg.
 With Alex clicking photos from behind, I encouraged Judy to make her way down the hill. Once again, she sat back into the slope and partially slid downhill as we completed the last 250 metres of our seven-week journey. Beto’s other horse had caught wind of us. Whinnying his greeting, he galloped over to say hello as Beto opened the gate that lead to his house, the last tranquero we would pass through.

We removed the tack and pilcheros from our horses, letting them go in the green pasture. In turn, they all lay down and rolled over to scratch their tired backs before disappearing in the dim light. We celebrated by roasting the lamb we’d purchased that morning in Cushamen – eight long hours ago – frying some potatoes and opening a bottle of red wine. It was a tasty and celebratory meal cooked in Beto’s wood-burning oven in his sparse kitchen. A single light bulb powered by a small generator that burned his last litre of fuel brightened the simple room. We recounted the best of the trip ignoring what we knew to be true: this was it – the end. Trip done.

At midnight, Alex and I climbed into our sleeping bags for the last time. Overnight, a fierce wind pulled at our tent waking us, but hardly disturbing our sleep. We had both slept like babies throughout the journey and this night was no exception. Our dreams, like our memories, were sweet.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Bittersweet (Agridulce)


It seemed impossible when we set out on January 23, that we would make it no further south than Esquel, a town only 163 kilometers away if you travelled by Ruta 40. But with the days becoming shorter as Patagonia slipped into autumn, we decided to turn north and finish our adventure at Beto’s home, which is close to where our circuitous journey began. On March 5, on a brilliantly sunny day that promised to have us shedding our sweaters for the first time in a week or so, we exited Esquel. After an hour spent threading our way between parked cars, and putting up with barking dogs intent on our not invading their homes, we passed through this chaotic town making quite a sight with our five horses, two of them carrying packs. We made our way to Ruta 40. Unfortunately, we would have to follow the highway for a time before we would exit onto a smaller road en route to our first night’s stop at La Cancha.

We travelled north with the bittersweet emotions of sadness that we were starting the last leg of a trip we’d anticipated for year or more, and excitement that we were heading “home” to El Bolson. We would be returning to friends we’d developed over the past three years, hot showers and a warm bed. Despite the morning’s promising sunshine, however, we soon donned our jackets as clouds pushed the blue skies further and further away from us and a cold south wind caught us between our shoulder blades. By the time we turned off Ruta 40 on to a secondary highway, it was almost 5pm. We were chilled, and spattering rain made us feel more bitter than sweet. Adding to our growing blues, Beto announced that we were another three hours away from our planned stop for the night. Once again he’d miscalculated the distance. By 8pm it would be almost dark, so we would have to look for someplace else to spend the night. 

Unfortunately, our route had taken us into rolling desert. We’d crossed a few almost dry streams or arroyos along Ruta 40, but for as far as we could see in the distance there was no evidence of water or of any sort of habitation. This was tough land where a single cow would need dozens of hectares of the sparsely vegetated sandy soil to survive. Hard as we tried to see sentinel Alamo trees or weeping willows, both of which mark oases, none were evident. We soldiered on trying to keep our spirits up. This was not how we imagined our return trip. We’d actually elected to follow this desert route rather than travel through the spectacular Los Alerces National Park with its series of large mountain lakes, in what was feeling like an increasingly elusive search for warmer, drier weather.


Nicola and Judy in the desert.
We plodded along the roadside with our backs buffeted by wind and rain as the overcast skies closed in on us, ever hopeful that we’d find a haven for the night. After travelling for another hour, we came over a rise, anticipating that on the far side we would see a house or some trees or something that would give us a feeling of comfort. But the narrow road stretched into the far distance eventually disappearing over another rolling hill. The desert sand supported nothing but thorny, vicious plants. It wasn’t until we climbed the far rise that we finally saw what promised to be a valley where, we hoped, there might be a river or at least a few trees to protect us for the night and provide a bit of wood for a warming fire.

Just before 8pm, we began dropping into the valley and we arrived at La Cancha, Beto’s planned stop for the night. We’d covered close to 40 kilometres and had been on the road for over eight hours. La Cancha was a water stop for La Trochita, the narrow-gauge steam train that carries tourists between Esquel and El Maiten. Although it was located on land owned by the dreaded, gate-locking Benettons, we were able to gain access through an opening beside the train tracks. Our water supply was the tank that sat on stilts so that the train passed below it and could be filled from above. There were a few poplar trees that would block the wind and plenty of firewood, and we discovered good pasture for the horses. The rain let up as we quickly set up camp, got the fire going and prepared and then gobbled down a spaghetti dinner. We’d eaten nothing since breakfast, and the hardy meal hit the spot.

Golden grass in La Cancha.
The next morning, we awoke to broken clouds. As the sun climbed over the low-slung hills, its oblique rays hit the golden tufted grass that dominated the expanse around us. These beautiful plants glowed in the hard autumn light seemingly illuminated from within. So taken were we by this grass that it was some time before we looked at the distant mountains we’d left behind. They were blanketed in fresh white snow. Any second thoughts we had about choosing this route over the one that passed through the national park disintegrated. Had we travelled that way, it would have been a nasty freezing cold night and a snowy morning. We set off in higher spirits with Beto promising us that we would be at our next stop by mid-afternoon. Though we doubted it would be, we were hopeful that as he moved closer to his territory, his guiding skills would improve.

Sudelia in her adobe home.
As we travelled homeward, the grip of autumn held. The wind changed and rather than a cold gale at our backs, we had a less cold one slamming into our faces. Sunshine came and went. Each day, the wind blew harder until we also had to battle the dust and sand it picked up in the desert. It filled our ears and eyes and got inside our shirts. We spat grit. Fortunately, we had some relief when we spent the night with yet another of Beto’s cousins. This time, we found ourselves cooking up a dinner of butternut squash, onion, garlic and chorizo over Sudelia’s wood-burning cook stove. Seventy-four years old, she lives on her own in a small adobe house set in what appeared to be an arena of pure grey crusted sand. Strong and healthy, she’d given up her enormous vegetable garden when cataracts, since removed, had made it hard to cope. When we asked her if she was averse to our having a small whiskey with dinner, she assured us that when she couldn’t drink wine, whiskey would do. We were sad to leave Sudelia the next morning after sharing mate and leftovers for breakfast in her warm kitchen.

We passed through the government town of Gauljaina, where we took a break from our tent and stayed in a small hosteleria, ate dinner in a restaurant and were delighted by a breakfast of hot milky coffee and a mountain of home-baked goods, some of which we carried in our packs to eat later in the day.

Beto continued to push us northward. He was keen to get home, and given the weather was not conducive to taking a day off, we didn’t resist. We put in back-to-back, eight-hour days. We knew we were pushing the horses hard, but they would soon have the entire winter to recuperate so we journeyed on. Mosquito had actually twisted his hock when he’d jumped the fence at Sudelia. It was swollen and obviously sore, but Alex figured that he’d successfully worked off his hurt knee by keeping moving so Mosquito could too. (Amazingly, after several, eight-hour days, Mosquito’s hock had mostly healed.)

After five hard days, we arrived in the small desert town of Cushamen, best known for producing great tasting goats and fine angora wool. We made the mistake in Cushamen of electing to stay in the town’s only accommodations rather than spend another bath-less night in our tent. Antonio, the brother of our friends in El Bolson, lived in Cushamen. He gave us a corral for the horses for the night and a few bales of leafy green alfalfa hay that our increasingly tired four-footed friends tucked into as if it were it were food from the gods. Antonio invited us to have dinner with he and his wife Mabel before dropping us off in front of a clothing store that had a few rooms for rent. We were shown into a mostly clean but dowdy cell with three single beds, two of them bunk beds. Paint peeled from the walls and we never considered removing our dusty boots as the owner ushered us inside. She made up two beds with – fortunately – crisp clean sheets and then gave the bathroom a bit of wipe before giving us fresh towels and accepting the $24 it cost us to stay the night.

Amazingly, we had hot showers, albeit under a shower head set in the middle of the bathroom ceiling so that the water fell on the toilet and sink too. After an enjoyable meal with Antonio and Mabel, we slept soundly in the little beds and woke the next morning seemingly unharmed. It wasn’t until Alex, who was suffering from a mildly upset stomach, used the bathroom that the true horror of the place hit us. That morning – our last on horseback – he made the unfortunate error of shifting his weight slightly while sitting on the toilet. This action dislodged the pipe that joined the toilet bowl to the water tank that was attached to the ceiling. (The toilet was one of those with a chain to flush.) The metal pipe came crashing down onto the hard tiled floor making me wonder what Alex was up to. Thankful that the contents of the tank hadn’t been released, Alex repaired the damage as best he could before finishing his business and pulling the chain to flush. The unfortunate result of his handy work was that the contents of the rather full toilet gushed out from beneath the bowl spreading over the bathroom floor. Alex had to do a bit of a dance to avoid the mess. Fortunately, the bathroom, which you’ll recall doubled as a shower, had a floor drain into which everything flowed, and Alex managed to escape the disaster unscathed. On re-entering our bedroom, he announced to me that I might not want to use the bathroom. As he explained to me what had just happened, we both doubled over in laughter at the absurdity of this horrible place. How had we come to this? What were we doing here? What possessed the owner of this dump (no pun intended) to have allowed it to become so depressingly awful?

We pulled the bathroom door firmly shut, quickly packed up our things and exited Cushamen’s hellhole, glad to be out in the fresh air and warm sunshine.


Tuesday, February 26, 2013

As You Might Expect?


Before I started this excursion, I wasn't exactly sure how we were going to make this trip work. How, I wondered, do you ride into a place where you have never been before with four or five horses and manage to find a place for them and us to stay?

Well, let me explain.

We rode into Cholila yesterday and though we've been there quite a few times, we've never arrived with our horses. As we neared town, a young man on a bicycle stopped to volunteer his assistance. We explained that we needed a place for our five horses for the night. He directed us to a woman who rented cabanas, saying she might rent us a field for the night. A little further down the road, we came upon an older gaucho astride a beautiful big horse. (He turned out to be 72.) We stopped him and asked him the same question. He agreed with the cyclist. So we rode to the cabanas, but no one was home. Seeing we were having no success, the gaucho returned to help us out. When we inquired of him if he knew a blacksmith, he took us to what turned out to be the local blacksmith's brother's house. We learned that the blacksmith, Rodrigo, would come later and shoe four of our horses who were much in need of a trim.

We tied up the horses in the empty lot next to the brother's house and before I knew it, Alex was shooting Ramiro's air gun at a target and Beto was in his element since Ramiro and his twin brother Rodrigo, the blacksmith, were accomplished jockeys and great horse lovers.

I managed to pull Alex away from his fun because we had arranged to meet Inez, a fine woman who managed the Lago Cholila Lodge, at 4pm. She had kindly offered us the use of her house for the night since she would be staying at the Lodge that night. She gave us a quick tour of her darling little place (It had lights and hot water.) before agreeing to meet us for dinner at 9pm at her uncle's parrilla, a barbecue restaurant.

We then headed back to the horses to learn that they could remain tied up in the empty lot for the night.

That evening, we had a fabulous meal with Inez while Beto stayed with the twins. Last we saw them, they were sitting around an open fire drinking mate. We consumed way too much red wine and I soon found another restaurant guest, Antonio, seated at our table trading stories with Inez and me, while Alex had retired to the kitchen and was entertaining Inez's uncle and his son, the chef, with his stories described in his most bizarre mix of English and Spanish. Antonio told me he lived alone on a small acreage near Lago Cholila that was owned by a wealthy singer from France. At 42, he said he had no use for a wife, hated TV and spent his evenings playing his guitar and singing milongas, soulful songs that are made up as the singer goes along. They describe the day's events and are sort of stories told in verse. Every week or two he came into Cholila to pick up supplies and enjoy a meal and some good wine.

When Alex returned to the table, he had two new best friends. Inez's uncle then disappeared, returning shortly with a very fancy silver focon or gaucho knife. It was practically brand new and had belonged to a friend of his who had died and left it to him. He then presented it to Alex as a gift. At 1am, we returned to Inez's house for the night.

The next morning dawned with crystal blue skies and a fresh coolness in the sparklingly clear air. We found Judy tethered virtually on the sidewalk and worried we were turning our horses into street urchins, but she seemed nonplussed as she lay down and stretched out in the warm rays of the sun. Passers by virtually tripped over her head.

The blacksmith came back to finish the last two horses. While we waited, his brother showed us his collection of photographs of his success as a jockey and a rodeo rider. Across the street people gathered in front of the hospital. I thought I heard women weeping, only to discovered that the night before an older man had taken his own life and these were his family and friends.

As the morning gave way to the afternoon heat, Rodrigo finally finished the first of the two horses he had to shoe for us. During a break between horses, a man walked by selling large paper bags filled with still-warm sugar donuts. I bought a bag for 15 pesos ($3) and we shared the treats as Rodrigo gave me the Spanish -- Argentinian really -- words for all the tools of his trade.

We decided to stay another night since the shoeing (150 pesos or $30 per horse) wouldn't be done until mid afternoon. Alex and I retired to the Petrominera station to use the Internet. While there, who pulled in but Julio Campo Crispo who had put us up for two nights a week or so earlier at his lovely place on Lago Lezama. He agreed to join us for a pasta dinner at Inez's uncle's restaurant at 9pm, and so the day proceeded --  exactly as one wouldn't expect.

Monday, February 25, 2013

Tigre Glacier Beckons


I once cycled in Tuscany, Italy. Days in advance of our arrival in the fortified city of Volterra, people on the roadside and in the towns along the way would ask us, "Are you climbing the Volterra hill?" By the time we reached the Volterra hill (It was a good climb.), we were pretty freaked out. But climbing the hill had also become our goal, our objective. Our success in making it to the top would prove our cycling prowess.

On this trip, making it to the Tigre Glacier -- the Tigre -- became the same sort of test. Not only would it be a long climb up, figuring out how to get there was a major challenge as well. We were told by many people that it was a great trip, but no one seemed to have actually done it themselves. For weeks we had been asking people about it. Is there a trail? Can we take a packhorse? Is there food for the horses along the route? And so on.

Finally, on February 18, we left in pursuit of the Tigre Glacier. We had provisions for six days or more. Beto had discovered what he could about the route and we'd studied our topo map. We also had a hand-drawn map courtesy of Julio. We had been assured that there would be plenty of food for the horses and we would be crossing three major rivers so water wasn't likely to be a problem.

We were also well rested. We'd been "holed up" for four days at the lovely Lago Cholila Lodge where we'd been treated to hot showers, soft beds with fresh linens, dinners beside a roaring fire, rich coffee, a good selection of wine and an excellent library. At 400 pesos ($80) per person per night it wasn't cheap but it sure was fun. They also pastured our five horses at no cost, which was pretty cool.

My bee stings (5 of them) had cooled down after a few days and some antihistimine, but they were still really itchy. Judy had about twice as many stings as I had, but without Alex there reminding her to not scratch, she'd rubbed them raw. So she was looking a bit beaten up. Otherwise, the horses were fat and sassy after a few days off.

We headed up the back side of Lago Cholila. A glacier-fed lake, it is aquamarine blue, crystal clear and not as cold as you might expect -- not that I would swim in it. We followed a small road that would occasionally disappear into the lake. At times, the water was almost up to Judy's belly.  We'd had some pretty good rain while we were at the Lodge and the water level was high. To start, we travelled through some flat green pasture where a few cattle and an occasion horse grazed. Most cattle were up in the high mountains for the summer. The fields gave way to forest consisting of ratamo, dwarf lenga (a type of beech), a leafy tree called Laura and cana. From time to time we passed through some reforested pine and spruce that was being logged for building materials. The forest, we'd discovered, was surprisingly lacking in diversity. It was scrubby and looked as if it would stand up to some harsh conditions. The bird-life, however, was rich and birds chirped and squawked and sang us along our way. The medium-sized green parrots that appeared from time to time never ceased to amaze me. What were parrots doing in a temperate climate?

After riding for about an hour and a half, we crossed the Rio Turco and climbed up higher into the mountains. When we came across a lookout, we could see back over Lago Cholila and the rolling hills beyond the town of Cholila. When we looked forward we saw craggy snow-topped mountains stacked one on top of the other. We had never heard of the Tigre Valley before we'd arrived in Cholila, but we would end up staying in some part of it for almost two weeks. With few people, glorious peaks, roaring rivers, the    spectacular Lago Cholila and productive farmland, it caught our fancy.

After riding for about six hours, we arrived at an old broken down log house. It was deserted and we decided to set up camp nearby. With the warm sun still high in the late afternoon sky, we remained warm on what had been a clear but cool and breezy day. It was a great relief from the heat we'd experienced earlier. Furthermore, the recent rain meant there was no dust. Despite a pretty long day in the saddle were didn't feel exhausted. I hadn't realized how much the heat had zapped us.

The log house looked like it belonged on the set of a spaghetti western. Sheets of plastic that were no longer providing any protection from the elements flapped in the wind. The logs sagged and it had been some time since the windows had had any glass in them. Skins of a couple of cows, a goat and a wild boar (jabali) hung from large lenga trees that cast deep shadows on one side of the cabin. The Jabari skull with its enormous flesh-ripping incisors sat on a shelf beside the cabin. I couldn't help but worry that a wild-eyed Charles Manson would appear in the middle of the night.

We checked our  topo map and realized that what we thought had been the Tigre Glacier was not. In fact, the object of our adventure was a valley deeper into the high mountains. We wouldn't be getting there in a hurry.
 
The next morning we set off to see where we could get to. We crossed the Rio Villages and serval other streams finally arriving at the Rio Tigre - and what a river it was. Big and fast-flowing with the aquamarine blue colour of Lago Cholila. If we made it no further, finding this river was well worth the trip. As we followed the small road along the riverbank, we spied 18-inch long trout idly floating in eddies. Alex, the fly fisherman, licked his chops.

Not long after finding the river, we followed the road as it left the riverbank. After passing through several closed but unlocked gates, we arrived at a big wooden one with an enormous padlock that barred our passage. Alex went on a reconnaissance trip and thought we might be able to pass with the horses over a spot where the wire fence was weakened. Beto, however, was unwilling to do this. Instead, he and I set out on foot hopeful that we might find a house up ahead and could gain access the legal way.

We were encouraged when we soon came across tire tracks that had to be fresh that morning, but eventually the trail went cold. It seemed we were no "Mantracker." After walking for over an hour and fording a river, we returned hot and discouraged to where Alex waited by the locked gate. We were not much more that day into our adventure; could it be over so soon?

We decided to find a camping spot for the night beside the river. With visions of his fly rod bent double as he hauled in an enormous trout, Alex's spirits rose. It was a spectacular afternoon, so we all just put thoughts of that big padlock aside. Alex failed to bring home dinner despite having fun trying, but we did enjoy a tasty chicken that we roasted over an open fire. It was delicious.

As we turned In later in the evening, a truck came down the road headed back to Cholila. It was the source of the tracks Beto and I had seen earlier. Unfortunately for us, although the young men in it had keys to the gate, they would be gone for four or five days. They told us that the locked gate and fence were new. You used to be able to pass through unimpeded by these blasted locks. It was a mystery to us why Argentinians felt the need to bar access. Beto assured us that they were to discourage cattle and horse rustlers, but we were unconvinced. A pair of bolt cutters would make short work of these locks and of the wire fences, so why bother. But padlocked gates would continue to plague our progress.

The next morning we rose and agreed that we would alter our plans. Beto, who needed to get back to Maiten for a day to pick up some medication, would head back on his own. Alex and I would stay for a few days near the Tigre River and enjoy the backcountry. We thought we might also try to find our way up the Rio Turco valley before returning to camp next door to Lago Cholila Lodge in three or four days. To make up for our disappointment, we focused on the fact that we would finally be travelling on our own. We'd learned a lot from Beto and were excited to be self-sufficient. We also looked forward to a break from Beto. Travelling with a guide, we were discovering, had its challenges. Lovely as Beto was, we needed some time to ourselves. Our Volterra hill, it seemed, would have to wait for another day.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Travelling Without a Guidebook


It's often occurred to me that an interesting premise for a travel article would be to visit a place and explore it without the help of a Lonely Planet Guide or a Fordors. Don't get me wrong; these are fabulously useful tools and I have a shelf full of them at home, but they have their downfalls. For instance, you tend to stay pretty close to the beaten track when using one since if a hotel or restaurant or excursion wasn't popular before it was in a guidebook, it likely will be afterwards. As a result, you tend to see the already discovered.

In order to enjoy the path less taken and to discover the inside of a place, you have to talk to the locals. This can be hard when you don't speak the language, but even when you do, or when you speak it haltingly as I do, there is a tendency, given that we have guide books, to not put in the effort it takes to find locals who know their place and will share their secrets with you. I know, for instance, that when people come to me in Caledon, where I've lived for most of my life, I can give them great hiking or cycling routes, ones that no guide would have and ones they would be unlikely to put together themselves even with good maps.

Our  journey has been mostly one of talking to and, importantly, listening to, locals and then following up on their suggestions. Our last week of travel has been getting us to tomorrow when we will start our ascent to the Tigre Glacier. We'll follow a route that goes alongside Lago Cholila, on whose shores we are now staying, up the Tigre River to the glacier high up in the Andes.

We first heard about this climb from Mauro. On our way to the fiesta in Cholila, he excitedly described the landscape as we drove along the twisting road that drops down from the dessert into the small town of Epuyen. Mauro was born in El Maiten, but lived away, as they say in Newfoundland, for many years. He eventually returned to the place where he said, "my heart lies." He pointed out an icy white glacier that stood out clearly though it was a long way up. In passing, he mentioned that you could ride up to it. I pounced on this idea and quizzed him on what he knew about the journey. When I mentioned the idea to Alex, he picked up on it too. It soon became our next destination. Completely unplanned, not coming from a guidebook. Just a goal with a rough description from someone who knew someone who knew someone who said they knew someone who'd done it.

Similarly, we decided to check out having "Te Gales" or Welsh tea at Casa Piedras after the owners of the Paralelo 42 Restaurant in El Maiten raved about it. We were not disappointed when we sat down on the verandah of the elegant stone home (circa 1926) owned by "Tolly" and her 92-year-old husband Miguel. The couple, both fit and active, had lived all of their lives in the region. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were neighbours to Tolly's grandparents. As we drank copious amounts of excellent tea in china cups, much to the delight of Alex who grew up in England, and enjoyed so many homemade cakes, bread, scones, butter and preserves that I almost couldn't climb back aboard Judy when we left almost four hours later, Tolly told us about growing up in this remote part of Argentina. She explained that all of her recipes (She makes all of the cakes, bread and preserves herself.) were handed down to her by either her mother or grandmother or Miguel's. She was especially proud of her mixed blood - some Mapuche, some Spanish, some Italian and some Welsh. "I'm tutti frutti," she said with a smile and a twinkle in her eye that only an attractive eighty-year-old woman can pull off. Alex was entranced.

While we gorged ourselves, two cars pulled in. Julio, an charismatic 64-year-old Argentinian was obviously a friend. He was accompanied by an attractive couple and their two preschool-aged children who turned out to be Julio's cousins visiting from Plata del Mar near Buenos Aires. We joined into the conversation and before we knew it, Julio had invited us to visit him at his place on Lago Lezama. It was up in the hills about an hour's drive away by car. Rather than let the offer pass us by as these sorts of invitations often are, I asked him if he was serious because if he was, we would love to drop by.

So the following day, the hottest yet, we bid our farewells to Sr. Fuentes who had so generously allowed us to camp on his land for three days. Before letting us go, he invited us in for fresh empanadas, introducing us to his friend Sr. Avila, a old time gaucho who lived, coincidentally, along the small dirt road that lead to Don Julio's. Two hours later, we arrived at Sr. Avila's humble house set in a valley where his only neighbours were the prolific mosqueta bushes, a small but roaring arroyo (steam), a handful of cows and horses, and soaring white-topped mountains. Sr. Avila had already returned and had his horse all saddled up so that he could show us the shortcut to Don Julio's. He mounted his very handsome Criolla horse and, decked out in his gorra, bombatchas, and shash - his everyday work clothes - and wielding a large machete, he cut a very handsome figure.

With four dogs in tow, we set off along a wooded trail. I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz skipping down the Yellow Brick Road. Our group kept growing as people were caught up in the romance of our adventure. I remarked to Alex, "This is how I dreamed things would go, but figured they never would."

Under brilliantly blue skies, we climbed straight up the steep slope of the Andean foothills, our horses huffing and puffing in the intense heat. An hour later, we arrived at a gate that marked the end of Sr. Avila's assistance. Hot and tired, we finally arrived at "The Lodge."  It turned out that Don Julio owned a small lodge - or an enormous house - depending on how you looked at it - that sits right on the shore of the huge, crystal clear and delightfully warm Lago Lezama.

He treated us to a comfortable bed, hot showers and delicious cafe con leche in the mornings. I am a dedicated coffee drinker, but had given up my java for the easier and more traditional Yerba mate that is so much a part of Argentinean (and Uruguayan) culture. Though less to my liking, its bitter taste and high caffeine content satisfied my cravings. So after almost three weeks on the trail, Don Julio's offerings were divine.

By the end of our two-night stay, the normally reserved Don Julio had also bought into our journey, telling us his own story as well. Now 64, he purchased 4000 hectares of land about 10 years ago that he had since registered as a nature reserve. His rambling estancia house, filled with lovely gaucho gear as well as beautiful carpets and other things he brought back from Africa, had actually been mistakenly built as a stable.  After transporting the wood and other construction materials he required for his house by a wooden "Contiki" raft that he paddled across the lake, he returned to discover that his builders had used it to build a barn rather than his home. As result, our bedroom door and the three others on both sides of a broad hallway, had half doors because they were built as horse stalls. He slept upstairs in what was supposed to have been the hay mow. But all in all, the structure made a very fine home and a great story.

After a long goodbye and his promise to visit us in Canada (His daughter lives in the US.), we left with a hand-drawn map that showed us a back country route between his land and Lago Cholila. It also included the names of all the estancia owners along the way, the names of two lodges on the lake where we might like to stay for a night or two, and contact information for some old timers who could help with the route up to Tigre Glacier. We spent the next night still on his land, camped beside the Pedrigoso River as it emerged from a deep canyon into a long flat valley that we would follow to Lago Cholila. That night we slept under an increasingly threatening sky feasting on rainbow trout that Alex caught with his fly rod.

We woke to rain, but decided to saddle up three horses and climb up into mountains to look for a pair of lagunas that we could see on our map. The horses still fresh from their time off at Don Julio's quickly scrambled up the first 1000 metres or so. What would have been a very tough mountain bike ride or a grinding hike was over in no time. Soon, however, the path we'd been following disappeared. We found ourselves bucking our way through dense underbrush that refused to give way. After literally bashing through, I began dropping my stirrups and riding with my feet level with Judy's ears. It was the only way to protect myself, and even then I could feel the bruises rising on my knees and shins.

We soon arrived at a lookout with a tremendous view that allowed us to see the mountains near El Maiten. So much had happened to us since we'd stayed there that it seemed like a lifetime ago that we'd camped by the Rio Chubut. The lagunas we were after turned out, or so we deduced, to be one valley over, but a different lake spread out far below us and we could see the tip of Lago Lezuma. The sky was alive with enormous clouds that were filling in. It was a foreboding vista so different than the clear blue of the last three weeks. The wind was picking up as it often does at higher altitudes and squalls were turning into constant rain. I was glad to be wearing the heavy raw wool poncho I'd bought from one of Beto's neighbours on a hot day several weeks ago.

I'd brought along some hot tea, cheese and bread, but we elected to save lunch until we were back in our camp with a hot fire. Although our route up had taken us behind the ridge where we now stood, Beto lead us down the front of the mountain. He explained that he was looking for a shortcut that would connect with the trail we'd followed on our way up. Again we bashed our way through unforgiving bushes, as we climbed down an ever-steeper slope. Occasionally, we had to pass though dense stands of dwarf lengas, a type of beech tree. It was really hard going and not to my liking at all. My already black and blue shins were taking more beating, and I'd been speared in the stomach. The horses were starting to complain too. Rather than pass willingly through the undergrowth, they would balk and only go forward with the encouragement of a revelenke. After 30 minutes of this insanity, we arrived at a sheer cliff and had to turn back. Obviously this was not the route Beto sought.

As we made our way back up the slope, I was following close on Alex's heels. Mosquito stepped high up over a big fallen log which Judy tripped over. She then threw her head up and began dancing, shaking her head and neighing wildly. I tried to settle her before realizing that she was being attacked by swarming bees. She'd stepped on a nest. I yelled at Alex, "Bees, bees, we're being attacked by bees. Get going." Finally it registered and as the bees began to swarm around me too, stinging me in the neck, the back, my ear and leg, Alex moved on. But we were in thick bush. Progress was slow and the angry bees kept swarming all around Judy and me. They got inside my heavy poncho and down my neck. I was trying to shoo them away, get rid of my poncho and urge Judy through the shin-breaking bushes all at the same time. It seemed an eternity until we were far enough away that the bees decided to leave us alone. "Are you alright?" asked Alex. He knew that whereas, I have a very strong stomach and seldom am bothered by intestinal bigs, I often react badly to insect bites.

I assessed the situation and realized that although there had been a lot of bees, they weren't very aggressive nor did they pack much of a punch. I was, or so I hoped, very lucky. I only had about half a dozen stings and they didn't hurt much. My only concern was the one on my ear. I could feel that it was already swelling. Judy began munching on mosqueta (how they can each such prickly things I'll never understand) and seemed unperturbed now that the marauders had disappeared.

I was more anxious than ever to get back to camp, but we would have two more false attempts at finding the path before we suggested to Beto that we would be better to retrace our morning's route. It might be longer, but we would have a better chance of finding our way. Beto wasn't happy with this idea, but we set off anyway. Soon we were surrounded by impenetrable lenga and had to retreat. How, we wondered had we ever made it to this place?

Alex, who was wearing merino long underwear but who didn't have a warm poncho, was getting really cold. We decided to regroup and have some hot tea, cheese and bread. While we ate, Beto, stubborn as he can be at times, left to once again look for a direct route. He came back claiming to have found it so we mounted and followed him down again. It was obvious that he hadn't found the path he sought so we let him ride on. After waiting for him for 20 minutes or more, we decided that he must have taken off. With new resolve, we decided to retrace our route from the morning. Somehow we would find a way through the lenga.

It was a horrible hour as we forced our increasingly unwilling horses to smash through thickets of dense bush that would get caught between their legs tripping them. At one point, Mosquito reared up unseating Alex who slid slowly from his saddle landing on a thorny bush. Occasionally, we would get off and lead them up or down steep slopes ever fearful that they would trample us if they stumbled. We weren't panicky, but we were more than a bit concerned. Alex was cold and it was 5pm. We'd been out for a long time, long enough that we were starting to decide what plan B might be.

We battered on until Alex called with a cheer that he'd found our tracks from the morning. We were indeed on the right route. Nonetheless, it was impossible to keep following the hoof prints, though I felt as if I were the cowboy on the Canadian television show Mantracker, which gave me some relief from the abuse my shins were taking.

Finally, we arrived at an outcropping of rocks behind and below which we were pretty sure we'd find the trail. As we stopped to regroup, Beto also arrived. He was clearly relieved to have found us, and excited to say that he had finally found the path down. Reunited, we descended rapidly. An hour later, we arrived back at our camp. After looking after the horses, we got the fire roaring and changed out of our wet things. We were soaked though. The rain let up and between the fire and the breeze our clothing and tack began to dry as we tucked into the cheese and bread and made a hearty pasta dinner.

Making Progress


We've been out on the trail for over two weeks and we are finally very near, if not exactly in, Cholila. As we expected, we've developed a rhythm. We ride for two or three days. They are usually long and dusty, and amazingly hard work. People say that riding a horse is harder than you might expect. I didn't think about that much in my teenage-riding days, but "they" are right. It's not as physically demanding as riding a bicycle - something I've done a lot of for quite long distances, but there is the added element of the horses. You can't just put them away at night like a bicycle or a pair of hiking boots for that matter. You have to feed them; find a place to keep them; make sure they have water and are out of harm's way. The mental stress involved takes an extra toll that is partly physical. I suppose it's a form of stress. The outcome, at any rate, is that I've been losing weight - which is a good thing. But Alex has been losing weight too, which is not such a good thing.

When we ride, we seem to end up covering 30 kilometres or more, which is about the maximum we've been told we should ride per day. Any more and the horses will start to break down. But, of course, we don't really ride day after day. We stay put for a number of days between journeys. If we have access to the Internet, I write my blog and complete my notes, while Alex does some Lodge work. I catch up with emails as well, which seems a bit out of place, but is fun to do. We've also done a bit of the touristy things too.

We spent two days (February 1st and 2nd) at La Fiesta del Asado del Cholila. It's hard for Canadians, even Albertans, to imagine an asado (barbecue) of this magnitude. I lived in Calgary for 16 years, so am quite familiar with the barbecue tradition associated with the "Greatest Rodeo on Earth." But nothing prepares you for this amount of beef and lamb. Entire carcasses are attached to iron crosses that lean over the fires. Smoke  bellows from the infernos making it appear as if it is some devilish crucifixion. For 80 pesos, about $16, you receive an enormous portion of meat and some white bread. The tradition is that you bring your own utensils and, for a lot of Argentineans, your own small round wooden platters as well. Salads are extra and so is the beer and excellent wine, which can only be purchased by the bottle.

During our first day at the fiesta, we were shown around by Mauro, the manager of the Club Hipo outside of El Maiten, where we had set up camp for a few days. He gave Alex, Beto and me a lift, something we ended up paying 500 pesos ($100) for. But it was okay and otherwise he was very generous and helpful, driving us around, storing our gear for us, allowing us to camp and selling us alfalfa for the horses. While at the fiesta, Alex bought another pair of bombatchas, the sturdy, baggy riding pants favoured by gauchos. He also picked up one of the "gorra de Vasco" hats that are similar to French berets - his is even black, the favoured colour of the gauchos, but by no means the only colour. They come in different fabrics and sizes, some are woven in a combination of coloured wool. The nattiest gauchos seem to like bright red Gorras de Vascos. Alex bought a pair of alfagatas too. These are the canvas rope-soled slippers worn when boots are not needed. Alex's however, are made of soft suede. He'd also purchased a pair of the fine leather gaucho riding boots in El Maiten since the cowboy-style ones he picked up in Buenos Aires had disintegrated. Needless today, he looks very much the part of a gaucho, really more of a "Don," as in Don Strachan, with his patrician features. But when wearing his black beret and with his ever-present camera in tow, he can also pass himself off as a handsome French film director.

There was also a large "jineada" or gaucho rodeo at the Fiesta. It made me better understand why Roberto hadn't seemed too concerned by Judy's upset a few days earlier. The first two classes, the only ones I watched, were the equivalent of our bronco riding, the first event involved staying aboard a bucking horse with a saddle consisting of little more than a hand hold. The second was more difficult because they rode bareback. They don't use a bucking strap as is the practice in our rodeos. The horses, instead, are pretty wild. Rather than set them up in a shoot, they tie them to a post and the gaucho climbs aboard. Once the horse is released from the post, the gaucho uses his revelenke, or whip, and great long spurs to get the biggest buck out of his eight-second ride.

What upset me the most was that the horses when tied to the post would often rear over backwards or sideways, so great was their fear. If the gaucho happened to be on board at the time and could stay with the horse, he would encourage his mount to get up onto all fours so the show could go on.

It was while watching this display and feeling sick at the brutality of it that I better understood how they treat their horses and what they expect of them. What had seemed a horrendous accident to us when Judy and Mosquito both went down in a great melee of horse flesh was nothing outside of the norm for gauchos like Roberto. Clearly, the horse whisperer has not arrived in Patagonia.

While I couldn't watch much of the jineada, I was all eyes for the gauchos, young and old. They paraded around the jineada grounds, decked out in their finest. Some displayed their names in silver lettering across the back of their hand-tooled leather belts that were worn over colourful sashes that always featured a "focon," a large knife, slipped inside. They wore small scarves around their necks, the ends often passing through silver or rawhide rings. I couldn't get enough of their outfits. Interestingly, I saw only one "gaucha," or woman decked out, though they did sell clothing for women and it wasn't uncommon for women to wear one of the beret-like caps.

It was great fun following the tourist track although we were almost the only non-Argentinean tourists at the show. The other regional tourist attraction that we did not take advantage of was the little narrow-gauge steam training that goes for a short trip starting in El Maiten. But we'll have another chance to ride on the train made famous many years ago by travel-writer Paul Theroux in his book "The Old Patagonian Express" when we arrive in Esquel.

Back on the trail after our adventures at the fiesta in Cholila, we received permission to cross the land of "La Compania," otherwise known as the Bennetton brothers. These Italian owners of the Colours of Bennetton clothing stores, have bought a huge amount of property along the Chubut River. They are not particularly well liked in the region as they have cut off many historic transportation routes forcing gauchos to ride along the highways rather than through the campo following what were often shorter routes. Our trip between El Maiten would have been several hours longer and far less picturesque had we not received permission. All gates leading into and out of the Bennettons' land are padlocked. The gauchos who work for la compania carry dozens of keys, a new addition to their traditional clothing.

It was tricky getting permission. We first approached Johnny, a very tough young, red-headed man who told us we would have to speak to his boss, Vivian Huis. Johnny was of Welsh extraction as are many people in the area because of the Welsh who populated Patagonia when no one else would. Sr. Huis  could see us been 6:30 and 7:00 any morning because that was when he was around. Locals spoke in awe of this man, but we never met him since at the jineada, Beto found the guy who really could, and did, grant us permission.

Though not well loved, the Bennettons or, more correctly, one of their employees, did go to a lot of effort for us. He sent out a gaucho to meet us and unlock a gate that allowed us entry. And the next day, a different guide showed us the route out, which was exceedingly generous. They have also planted great swaths of pine trees and have kept the land in good working condition. Nonetheless, they failed the neighbourliness test in my books, and were reportedly tougher to work for than the British from whom they bought much of their land.

We stayed overnight at the Estancia Burrada, a large place managed by Sr. Toledo who lived there part time and cared for several thousand sheep with the assistance of one part time gaucho. Not long ago their were over 20 gauchos, but with the demand for beef in the cellar due to government policies (The price of beef elsewhere in the world is at at an all time high.) work has dropped off. Toledo seemed to be cut from the same gruff cloth. We could camp for the the night and use one of the bunkhouses to cook in, but that was it. We asked to buy some meat for dinner but he said he had none. He avoided us as best he could, leaving the next morning without a parting word.

The best part of our stay was that we pitched our tent next door to a family of green parrots. They chatted away and seemed quite unperturbed by their new neighbours. But whereas these birds lived with their families, the Bennetton's barred women from the estancias in what felt like a throwback to older times.

The parrots were great, but made us realize that except for the occasional European hare, we'd seen precious little wildlife except for birds - of which there were lots. Huge comanchas, a carrion-eating eagle, would fly by very close to the ground in pairs and sometimes even in small flocks. There were plenty of chamangos, small, seemingly ever-present hawks. There were doves, Argentinean flickers, chucows, which make a loud and wonderful noise, delicate quails as well as raucous teros. But by this point at least, we've not seen any armadillos or warthogs or dreaded pumas - though we'd be unlikely to come across one of these stealthy killers. The young gaucho at the Burrada Estancia told us they lost over 1000 sheep (of 18,000) per year to pumas.

Leaving the estancia on yet another cloudless morning, we followed a once-popular trail that was seriously overgrown with invasive mosqueta (huge rose hips) and other prickly bushes. But the route offered us wonderful scenery. We came ever closer to the Andes. But after two and a half hours, we were back on the road again, the Bennetton lands left behind since they go no further south. Moreover, we hoped to be less than 20 kilometres from Cholila when we hit the highway. Instead, we were over 30 kilometres or more than six hours from our planned destination.

At 2pm, hot and getting cranky, we stopped for a light lunch and a siesta under some dry pine trees. It was hotter than ever and we all - horses and riders - needed a break even if it was getting late. We drank what little water we had. By 5pm, we were back in our saddles. As we descended gradually into a flat valley, the mountains came closer as the sun began to drop lower in the horizon. Hot and tired as we were, and despite having no idea where would find water for ourselves and the horses who had had almost nothing to drink all day, we couldn't help but be excited by the newer greener and more mountainous area we were entering.

At about 6:30pm, we came to a dirt road that veered off the highway toward a river. We followed it, spying as we did so, a hand-painted sign by a locked gate that read "Butch Cassidy." Unknown to most of us because it was left out of the movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, the duo , came to Argentina before going to Bolivia. Though versions of the story abound, they apparently purchased some 2,000 hectares in about 1903 and lived in a lovely spot by the Rio Blanco in a log house for about three years. As the story goes, there was a bank robbery in the area and the "pistoleros," as they are referred to in Argentina, were immediately suspected and run out of town. It was only then that they fled to Bolivia and were killed by the Pinkertons.

By a bridge over the small, but fast-flowing and sparkling Rio Blanco, we watered ourselves and the horses. We walked further down the road passing by a sign for "Te Gales" or Welsh tea at the Casa Piedras, something not to be missed according to some people we met in El Maiten. Two kilometres later, we arrived at a small barrio on the outskirts of Cholila. Stopping in at a modest farmhouse on the river side of the quiet dirt road, we asked the owner if by chance he had a spot where we could pasture the horses and camp for the night. As you can imagine, asking someone to accommodate five horses and three people is not always straight forward. But Sr. Fuentes was pleased to oblige. He pointed us toward an embankment behind his barn - held up or so it seemed, only by the bales of hay inside. Camp below the barn he said. There is plenty of green grass for your horses. If you need anything else, please ask.

And so we ended up staying for three nights in this fantastic setting on the shores of the beautiful and warm river in a peaceful spot except for a pack of marauding dogs and a herd of galloping horses that visited us each night.