Life As Canvas

30+ hours in a bus proves to be a bit much but Bariloche, in the northern part of Patagonia, is as beautiful as everyone says. I’d like to know what winter snow does to the aligator-back mountains and the many deep turquoise lakes surrounded by pine trees and Alpine-style cottages.

There’s not much to do in town besides eat chocolate (and you know I’d do that all day if I could) so we decided to go on one of the treks around the Andes and do some camping while we were at it. We consulted a woman in the Andes mountaniering club (Club Andino) and she pointed out a three day trek, raving about the glacial views and telling us it was “muy, muy lindo.” First we’d take a bus to the base, then we’d hike for three days, then we’d take a tourist boat back to town. Simple! Unfortunately, she left out a few things…

Here are my personal journal entries from our trek:

Day 1: Since his 30th birthday two weeks ago, Cyril’s been on an exercise kick and pulling me along in his wake. I hurt. Sometimes when he’s clocking my progress in elevation meters/minute up the side of a mountain, telling me “Keep going, you’re half way there!” I want to vomit at his feet just to prove a point. Other times, I’m happy for the little push, knowing I’ll be proud of myself in the end and of my muscular hiker’s thighs.

Today we hiked up to a refuge which was about 1,200 meters elevation gain with our packs of food and camping gear on our backs. The dirt trail zig-zags at about a 45 degree angle (sometimes steeper) up through trees, exposing roots in every which way but since I was with Cyril and since there’s a “shortcut” that climbs straight up slippery loose dirt slopes, we quite predictably forged up the steepest chutes.

Sweat fell in big juicy drops from my forehead as my throat tightened. Every step was a temptation to stop. But in time trees gave way to light and the clay earth I’d been pawing at in front of me turned to a lip above us, onto which we stepped while I took a moment to catch my breath. Sweet agony!

The trail turned rocky but somewhat flat and we wobbled along to the refuge that sits between two glaciers. From the outside it’s a tiny cube of corrugated metal and wood.

I expected to see metal bunks and climbing gear strung across the worn wood floor. Instead, it opened up into a restaurant/bar, a fire blazing in the corner of the room, a big picture window looing up at the summit of the mountain above which in turn was reflected in the laquered tables, about five of them in the room. Cooking steaks and other tempting smells dragged us in and hot chocolates sipped to light music (Sting) in the background kept us a while.

We slept in the tent and before turning in, stopped to stare at a marmalade moon hiding between black streaks of cloud. Cyril glanced at his altimeter. “Weather’s going to turn bad.” He said. Now it’s time for bed.

Day 2: Today I feel like an old lady. After hanging around the refuge talking to some friendly Californians we realized we were off to a late start. Everything was envelopped in thick white cloud. The map stated 8-10 hours of walking time between the refuge and our campsite and we hit the rocky trail at about 12:15, plunging down into the fog, slipping over loose dirt and scree. To get up to our next camp site, first we had to go back down to the base where we had started.

Cyril, pressed for time, began running down the trail. He gave me his hiking poles and I used them to catapult myself along behind, my pack making for a bulky mass and throwing off my balance. Jumping over roots and rocks, we made it down to the flats and hauled across the fields, stopping to eat by a picturesque brook by 3:00.

We took off again and suddenly masses of bamboo lined the trail. I wonder if it’s native to Argentina? Sometimes we lost ourselves in patches of it as it pulled at our packs and tugged my hair. All alone in this section of the trail, we found we had to squish through mucky swamp mud. I like the sound it makes. I don’t like the water creeping into my shoes. Ours were the only footprints we saw all day, which seemed strange after the popular refuge.

By 5:00 our campsite was still hours away, according to the map, and we began to climb. Our deceptive map told us 300 meters of elevation gain were ahead of us, but the trail forced us up about 700, still surrounded by bamboo, then we slid down the other side of the mountain where it began to rain lightly.

By 7:30, with shaking limbs, we crossed a river, reached the campsite and set up the tent. I about died of relief. There is still absolutely no one around and I look forward to eating some camp spaghetti and falling into a deep sleep to the sounds of rushing water and crumbling glaciers thundering down from the cliffs above.

Day 3: All was well last night at bed time. My throbbing feet happily took their repose in the soft down of my sleeping bag. They were nice and comfy on top of my raincoat, serving as an extension of my short therma-rest. Pasta warm in my belly, Cyril already sleeping soundly, I closed my eyes and barely heard the first raindrops hit the tent.

By 4am the clouds began to wring themselves out, dumping masses of water over the valley and pelting us in the kind of downpour one only wishes to experience from the inside of a solid structure, hot chocolate in hand. I rolled over and tried to dream of that hot chocolate.

By 5am we woke up in a puddle of water an inch thick. Everything was blackness and water. Touching the tent floor yielded little waves and wet fingers. Freaking out, I imagined our trail washed away in the deluge, leaving us stranded in the middle of the soggy forest.

My bag, having spent the night on the dirt under the rain fly, was dripping by morning, as were all of my clothes. We had nothing to do but walk to keep warm and to finish our trail where we hoped to catch the boat.

Today I missed home for the first time. It came and went, just a pang, while water dripped down my arms and legs. We had to scramble over piles of fallen trees, slipping in the relentless rain only to carry on through running water and mud, to sink into puddles and lose our footing on slopes. There were no views but thick chutes of bamboo, making for a sort of hallway with dripping leaves hanging over our heads and hitting our faces.

Raincoat, rain pants, hiking boots, rain cover on the backpack, all of these things began the day soggy and reached full saturation about halfway along the obstacle-course of a trail. I thought of home, of my friends, of my family, of dry socks and chai…

And we forged ahead, not caring anymore whether we walked in puddles or slipped in the mud. Three hours later, a village appeared through the trees and our pace dropped. Oh I wish I had a photo of the looks on the tourists’ faces when we walked into the boat waiting room. They were all dry and well-dressed, some speaking German, others Spanish or English. We must have looked like beggars emerging out of the forest fog, dripping and tired, half-way limping with blistered feet.

Now we’re waiting for the second tourist boat, drying off in a fancy hotel, thinking about our trip to Bolivia. You know you’re making steps in travel when you don’t mind drying your undies under the had dryer in the ladies’ room of a 4 star hotel.

Tags: bariloche, Patagonia, Travel

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 14th, 2007 at 8:46 am and is filed under Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.