Down South

Patagonia is where the wind strips you raw and lonliness is the only thing worth thinking about.  Away from the picturesque Fitz Roy and the glacier it is still a vast uninhabitale stretch of bare tundra.  Copella is the native plant and it grows everywhere.  Even when the wind takes an occasional pause to draw more breath they remain bent over as if trying to protect themselves.  Frozen in fear and wonder from a power for which they have little defense.  But yet they prosper.  That is obvious by the fact that they cover thousands of square kilometers where other flora has failed.

     I am finding that this corner of the earth to be my favorite so far in my travels.  It is calm in its hostility.  You know what to expect here in the south.  Wind and cold.  Clouds tumble by overhead, migrating to warmer weather.  I think often they get caught in the Andes and stay for generations.  Not to unlike the Germans and Welsh that have been here for years.  They have acclimated both to the climate and culture.  Many Welsh residents only know their homeland through pictures on the internet.  This is their home.  Next to their traditional foods sit empanadas and chorizo.  They are wonderful to talk to.

       Put Patagonia today is much changed from from when Bruce Chatin first wrote about it in the 1970`s.  His book In Patagonia would change the way the world say this place.  Not that people really even thought of Patagonia before that; not on a global scale anyway.  Today the Gaucho Trail is a well worn path that is not easy to get off of.  Hostels, restaurants and tour guides have sprung up everywhere grabbing for the pesos brought by tourism.

       I am sitting at a wine and cheese bar in El Chaten.  It is called Rincon del Sur.  Fifty years ago El Chaten didn`t exist but today it hosts a the Los Glaciares National Park with over ten buses arriving daily.  It is the smallest town I have been in and I cringe to think what it will look like in five years.  It is fast becoming a haven for rock and ice climbing, trekking and glacier viewing.  Cerro Solo, Egger Torre, Poincenot and Fitz Roy peaks all keep El Chaten safely nestled under a blanket of shadow and mystisism but still the buses come.  In any other setting the Techado Negro peak would be a main attraction but next to Fitz Roy it plays a faint and distant fiddle.  Beautiful nonetheless.

      

       To my point.  I am at Rincon del Sur sipping on a Malbec and eating olives.  I`ve asked the owner, Sebastian De Angelis if could sell me a wine opener as I lost mine in Bariloche.  He has none for sale but has many he can give me.  This sparks a heated argument between him and his wife, Marcela, all in Spanish.  She is unhappy with his gesture.  She knows I would have paid at least 30 pesos for it; it was a quality opener.  But he will have nothing to do with that and hands it to be with a warm smile.  Their daughter, an eight year old girl named Florencia has attached herself to my leg.  I pick her up and set her on the counter to play with her.  I am happy to have a new friend and happy for the gift.  I am especially happy for the olives which are salty and taste great after a days hiking.

     In total I will have spent six days in El Chaten.  Fellow travellors tell me I am crazy and will get bored but a strange thing has occured.  My hostel is completely filled with Israelis.  In a broad Picaso stroke I will paint them as a people who keep to themselves.  They are not unfriendly although I think many westerners would disagree.  They simply don`t mingle with other trekkers unless they are from their own country.  In this setting I have found myself most alone.  More prone to drink and dwell on the properties of lonliness (which are dangerously close to insecurity).  But I have not become lonely.  I have not succumed to drinking as in other towns.  The solidarity I feel is making me more resourceful and my inner thoughts are taking on a new interest for my mind.  Someone once told me that solitude is a powerful thing to overcome but if accomplished opens windows to the world that are unparalled.

     After my bus ride I checked into my hostel.  It was getting late but al Chorrillo del Salto offered a perfect two hike where I could unwind and listen to the waterfall.  The rain and wind didn`t bother me but made it impossible to light my smoke.

     The next morning I saw a break in the weather that I was told hadn`t happened in the last eight days.  I had already packed a lunch of apples, bananas, chocolate and a sandwich consisting of salami, cheese and avocado.  I quietly left the Israelis sleeping and and headed off towards Laguna de los Tres on a 13 mile hike in the hope of seeing Fitz Roy and Poincenot peaks up close and without cloud cover.  The prize is a frozen lagoon that hides deep down at the base of these stark and naked spires.  It is in the picture above. But the weather is fickle and keeps me guessing.  The trek is steep and considered the hardest day hike in the park.  Its slopes are akwardly rough at times but in reality it is the constant change in body temperature that people battle.  Within minutes I had sweat through my long underwear and had to disrobe in a fire cold wind so I could tie it to the outside of my pack to dry.  This left me pretty cold and susceptable to the thirty degree temperature and snow blowing in from the north.  I had also sweat through my Alpaca hat but dared not take it off.  Sometime after about two hours my body settled into a grumpy state of complacency and found comfort where there was none.  I was happy not to be miserable.  I passed Lago Capri and at higher altitudes saw Lago Madre and Hija with great clarity.

     On this day Fitz Roy would not give.  I sat just above the base of Lago de los Tres and waited for that perfect picture.  The wind and cold, like termites, silently ate away at my core until I sucumbed to fear and slowly made my way back down to the valley.  My long underwear had long since dried but the effort of putting it back on seemd futile.  I would not see Fitz Roy in absolute clarity and who knows if I will ever be back.  That is the magic of its allure.  A light snowfall on my back knudged me down the trail and the wind laughed in my ears.  I never heard Fitz Roy say a word.

     The next day would prove equally as long but much easier.  The trail to Laguna Torre promises breathtaking views of the Torre Peaks but they are often covered in clouds.  Today it will not bend to my will.  Six hours of trekking through the back country proved only to be a peaceful walk.  I learned something here.  Somewhere between the 4th and 5th hour I settled into the realization that it is not about the picture I wanted to get but more about the struggle and enjoyment of the journey.  This may seem a basic and much written on topic but I`m telling you, go out and try to find yourself.  You may discover it is more difficult than you think.  I returned to my hostel, bought two empenadas and fell asleep.  When I awoke I found that the Israelis had stolen my Q-Tips.

     Get here quick.  Travellors before me are laughing at my late timing in their memoirs.  Get here quick.  Tourism is a deadly pen in Patagonia that I fear will have a sad story to tell in a few years.  Come and see for yourself before the locals all speak English and the peso is prettier than the peaks.  Better yet, come in the winter.  You will be more brave than I.