Trails & Techno_text_december 14

x D 1 8 15 22 29

L 2 9 16 23 30

M 3 10 17 24 31

M 4 11 18 25

J 5 12 19 26

V 6 13 20 27

S 7 14 21 28

sábado 14 de diciembre

Destino: El Calafate

x

Modo: Pies y ómnibus Distancia: 420 kilómetros

Parque Nacional Los Glaciares a El Calafate, Argentina

We woke early Saturday at 7:30 to the Not your average KOA sound of wild horses running around our campsite. Four horses sprinted down a hillside near our tent and just kind of hung out in the base camp for five minutes. While the horses grazed and wandered, Andy and I Señor Ed checks us out lounged until close to 8:30 when we were finally motivated to make breakfast. The biggest pot of oats, Cream of Wheat and brown sugar this campsite has ever seen gave us the necessary fuel for packing up. By 10:00, we were trekking southeast again toward the Fitz Roy Inn on this, the final leg of our Los Glaciares trek. The first fifteen minutes were slow going, as I boldly led us down the wrong path. Our second obstacle came in the form of an eight-foot wide stream that mocked the two gringos with a combined forty-five pounds of gear on their backs. Fortunately, I avoided the agua and Andy, with his Gore-tex kicks, only got one foot wet. Evidently, we fared much better than the two German couples trekking behind us. A few minutes after our clearing, we heard the screams of one of the women who evidently didn’t make it across with dry unterwäsche. Two hours further down the trail, we arrived at Lago Capri which was pleasant but nothing out of the ordinary. Back on the trail, the final leg gave us a good view of the town of El Chaltén before our descent, which was a very rocky and steep affair. Finally at 13:00, three hours ahead of schedule, we were back at the Fitz Roy Inn where we would catch the bus back to El Calafate. We entered the Inn’s restaurant/lobby and found the place practically empty. Either the local lunch crowd had already gone a casa or Saturdays just weren’t very exciting in El Chaltén. We 79

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chose to pass the time reading and making trips to the local proveedería for homemade alfajores. Around 15:00, the owner of the inn and his six year-old daughter returned and began decorating their restaurant for Christmas. Andy and I watched in amusement as the daughter wrestled with a roll of tape and a FELIZ NAVIDAD banner that was at least fifteen-feet long. We both offered to help, but she told us that she wanted to finish the job herself and make her papá proud. Watching her and seeing how happy she F E L I Z N AVI D A D was really put us back in the Christmas spirit. (Now, if we could only get our manos on some Maker’s Mark and egg nog.) Promptly at 16:00, the Cal-Tur bus cranked up and we were ready to roll. The Fitz Roy Inn’s café negro proved to be quite strong, as I read over one-hundred pages on the way back to El Calafate. We stopped again at La Leona, the same roadside restaurant three hours outside of Fitz Roy. Inside the joint I ran into Elizabeth Jones, a cute girl from the University of Georgia that I had met during the semester in Buenos Aires. She was also coming back from a group trek around Mount Fitz Roy. We decided to possibly meet up later that night back in El Calafate. I say “possibly,” because our pact was made with about as much confidence as a Middle East peace accord. Since none of us outof-towners have reliable phone access, just telling someone “Hey, we’ll catch up with you later,” is truly the best that you can do. And nine times out of ten, things work out as planned. We left La Leona for the second time in four days and got back on board the forty-passenger Cal-Tur express. Our driver, Eduardo, told us that he was anxious to get back to his family in El Calafate, so he floored it for the final leg and got us home in under four hours. By 20:00, we were back in El Calafate. Andy and I trekked down from the bus station to the Hospedaje del Norte where we had a plush, eight-peso habitación waiting for us downstairs. The owner even let us wash a load of dirty Fitz-Roy garments in her lavaropas across the street. 80

The little cinder block garage that housed the washer was a multipurpose facility: garage for the bus that had brought us home, laundry room for the señora and occasional gringo guests, and rehearsal room for the son’s band. This, of course, was the same band that had kept us up late only four nights earlier. Long, hot showers were in order for both of us as well as a box of vino tinto from the autoservicio down the street. Before leaving for dinner, I went across the street and grabbed our fine washables. For a “dryer,” we strung nylon trail ropes between the two twin beds and hung our wet clothes on them to dry. This experiment would fail miserably. We strolled down Main Street at 22:00 lookin’ for lomo in all the wrong places. “Weird menu,” “No beer,” and “Too expensive” were our reactions to the first three spots that we checked out. Fortunately, we found the Casablanca, a small cornerside restaurant with great music and framed posters from the Bogart/Bergman classic. Bife de chorizo con papas fritas and a frosty Quilmes only set us back ten pesos apiece. Over a second cold Quilmes, we laughed about the few stressful moments of the past ten days that now seemed downright hilarious on reflection. The first night’s quest for lodging in Rio Gallegos, the thunderstorm greeting in Torres del Paine, the Love Bus, the Ricardo paranoia and the ongoing uncertainty over how we should proceed up the Chilean coast given our shortage of both time and money. If we had learned anything since leaving Buenos Aires, it was that traveling sin planos was the only way to fly. More importantly, we had both learned some invaluable lessons in teamwork, culture and communication never before acquired in the classroom or the cubicle. In search of a nightcap, we ambled down Avenida Libertador where habitación: room we found the rumored hot lavaropas: washing machine. Very easy to find in spot of El Calafate, Don South American laundromats known as lavanderías. Dryers, or secadoras, are less common. Diego de la Noche. autoservicio: Self-service gas station or market. Unfortunately for us, ol’ hostel: Most accommodations for trekkers in the Patagonia bear the name hostel, hostal, hostería, Diego must have turned in albergue transitório or just albergue. early. The live band, the lomo: beef tenderloin sin planos: without plans young bartender told us, had bife de chorizo: New York-style strip steak. A less packed up promptly at expensive but equally delicious alternative to the lomo. Don: Mister. Doña = Mrs. Señor and Señora are 23:00. more commonly used as spoken titles. 81

Undeterred, we bellied up to the bar. How about a cold Quilmes? Hey, we don’t have to get up until 6:30. The atmosphere and decor were both pretty inviting. A little, wooden pub with a small bar and at least a dozen tables full of smiling patrons. Do you want another round? Those last two went pretty fast. The bartender was friendly and had a good selection of rock and blues CDs. We asked to hear some Stevie Ray Vaughn, and he punched up a live version of “Tightrope.” Okay, just one more round. Relax, I think I read somewhere that you can’t get a hangover from South American beer. It has something to do with the water. Finally around midnight, Don Patrick and Don Andy were tired and walked back to habitación numero siete at the Hospedaje del Norte where our clothes had not dried a lick in over two hours. In fact, the gentle breeze wafting in through yon window had given our jeans a lovely hard shell finish. Content to “deal with it” in the morning, we had lights out, a selfimposed drying out of sorts, at 1:00.

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