Southbound

After a month or so on the ranch I went south. First to San Martin de Los Andes, a touristy village in stark contrast to where I had been. I meet some friends from earlier in my travels for a day of rafting. Then, a few days later, I kept going south.

I made it to El Chaltén, 49 degrees S, 73 degrees W. It's an amazing little, chilled town surrounded up close by mountains and glaciers. You can see Mount Fitz Roy from town, and almost touch it. Even though January Is the height of the tourist season it doesn't feel half as crowded as any beach or ski town - partially because of the gauntlet to get here. There are two options, plane or bus.

I took the bus - a 28 hour experience through some of the remotest country I've ever seen. Patagonia is a desolate place. The Andes are on the west, and the ocean is on the east, in the middle is a dry, empty, flat, wind torn, sun scorched swath of land with bare horizons on either side. But it was beautiful in its own right - I saw many llamas and ostriches along the way.

I saw very few cars though. The roads were dirt, sometimes only appearing half constructed, leaving our bus to travel at a crawl for parts. It turned out to be a bone yard, both for literal bones (which litter Patagonia), and for cars. We passed fewer than ten cars outside the few small towns early on, but we did come across two broken down further on which we stopped, got out and offered assistance for. The first car had apparently rolled (the two occupants were fine), and we helped change two tires and push it back on the road. The second was a car with its front axle broken. We moved the car to the side of the road and shuttled the stranded folks further along.

Needless to say, when we finally turned west and the Andes began to appear, it was a blessing. The mountains appeared suddenly, big black rock with clear, crisp white snow on their upper flanks, glaciers filling valleys and bowls. The tops of the peaks were hidden beneath mist and clouds. But then for the next few days, everything shinned magnificently.

I enjoyed the weather, and spent some time hiking and camping.

A final ranch post

The gaucho culture is a dying thing. Just as there aren't anymore cowboys, the modern world spreads, blends, and mars cultures like this. It doesn't happen completely against their will either. No one wants to be a museum piece. I was able to see what must be near to the last remnants of this culture, drinking maté with old timers who spend eight months a year by themselves with no communication to the outside world. Some even avoid gringos like me, and I don't blame them. Yet people like me come. The world is closing in, and they themselves build more and more fences, the single thing which directly makes their work expendable, along with the lifestyle that revolved around their work. Hats off to these guys though, the ones who still carry on the old ways.

Gaucho can

This is world class trout country - the estancia overlooks what has been rated one of the top 5 trout fishing rivers in the world. Luckily there was a fly fishing client who provided many beautiful rainbow trout dinners for us all.
The authentic, gaucho fishing method, however, uses an unsophisticated Gaucho Can instead of a pole and reel. It's simply a metal can with a wooden stick nailed in for a handle, with fishing line wrapped around the can, and just a lure on the end. Your thumb holds the line from unraveling.
On the mountain trip three guys, one being a gaucho, went fishing, all using cans. They caught 28 trout. The gaucho, however, caught 20 of those.

Pictures: the gaucho can; fresh rainbow trout; me in front of the mountain I was climbing when I missed the fishing -although I had a go at it later.

Estancia 2

Where I was staying were only satellites off the main estancia. After that first period I transferred to the main estancia for a short bit, which had less ranch and gaucho culture and a more remote Patagonia vacation getaway vibe - tourists stayed there at ridiculous rates to ride and fish. But it was still a good five hours to the nearest town. In addition to horse related work, I began a carpentry apprenticeship. There were many great volunteers here as well and a good time was had.

I'm posting this entry using an awful app which won't let me order pictures or insert them in the text, so I'll just dump a bunch at the bottom.

In whatever order you'll see the sawmill we used to get lumber for the house we were building; me getting a goat for Christmas dinner which I picked up from a gaucho an hours ride away and brought back on my lap; the Christmas dinner asado; plus a few pictures from a three day mountain trip I got to accompany some clients on, where we caught and ate trout from a lake and I took a horse swimming.

Estancia

After a couple days in Buenos Aires I took an overnight bus south, into the northern fringe of Patagonia. From getting off the first bus, I switched to a bus beefed up enough to handle three hours north on a road that would have destroyed my Civic. I got off in a tiny town at a one room, stone wall tin roof bus station. I was picked up there, and continued on horseback for an evening and morning until I arrived at the estancia. I spent the next couple weeks immersed with gauchos, eating goat and onions, managing horses, herding cattle, and drinking their only drinks, mate and boxed wine. I dug right in.

Making bread from stratch.

Herding horses.

Camping under the southern stars.

Surviving the Andes.