At the End of the World

The next morning the sun was shining and melting the snow on the roof of the hostel. I could hear the heavy drops falling onto some sheet metal on the balcony, so I was convinced it must still be raining and therefore it wouldn't be worth getting up.

It was late by the time we set off for the glacier just above town, which was said to be no bigger than a bucket of ice. But before we'd even made it around the corner from the hostel, we'd already decided that we should investigate the options for travelling to Antarctica. One of the guys in our room had finally made up his mind to go and was buying his passage that morning.

As the little map at the port of Ushuaia shows, this is the closest place on earth to Antarctica, with just 1000km of water separating it from the frozen continent. In fact by boat it would only take around 1.5 days to cross the Drake Passage. At least that explains the cold!

Thanks to last minute specials available only in Ushuaia and a strong Australian dollar it at last seemed possible to do something I've always dreamed off but that normally is prohibitively expensive.

We wandered up and down the wharf for a while looking at the jagged peaks of the mountains now covered in a fresh layer of snow. On the other side of the Beagle Channel lay Chile, separating us from Cape Horn just a hundred or so kilometres ahead. In the harbour a National Geographic boat made us yearn for an adventure.

After an hour of wandering we did book a trip, but a significantly shorter one. We decided Antarctica would have to wait for another time.

Our boat trip that afternoon was supposed to take us to a lighthouse on a minuscule island in the middle of the Beagle Channel, as well as a sea lion colony and for a walk on one of the bigger islands. The wind had picked up in the afternoon forming very innocuous looking white caps on the little waves, which made me very happy. Just like turbulence when flying, there is nothing I enjoy more than standing at the front of a boat that's riding the waves. But apparently the port authorities of Ishuaia do not share my idea of fun and had closed the harbour cancelling our boat trip. The guide was at pains to explain to me that given the size of the waves in the harbour, they would be monstrous out in the channel. Like I needed to know the fun I would be missing out on!

The Road to Ushuaia

It seemed like a bad place to stop from the moment we woke. The bus had stopped and it was nearing morning, so Jeff went down to check if this was Sarmiento. Through the fogged up windows I could see it was still raining and so I was relieved when he reported this was just a petrol station. A minute later, the bus driver came up to inform the passengers in seats 13 and 14 that this was their stop. The passengers were us; it was 5:15 in the morning and it turned out to be snowing not raining.

We waited in the petrol station until the sun came up, before braving the cold to walk into town in search of a tourist office. It was first thing Sunday morning and there was not a soul about. And unfortunately according to the sign inside the window of the tourist office, there wouldn't be for another 5 hours.

There had been a reason for stopping in Sarmiento, other than for the sake of being sleep deprived and cold and that was to visit the petrified forest in a desert just 30km out of town. But sitting, shivering and hungry in a gazebo in the local park, our prospects of getting there that day, or wanting to go for that matter seemed bleak. With no buses that went out there, we would need to arrange a driver through the tourist office that wouldn't open for many more hours.

Eventually we gave up on the idea and walked to the bus station, hoping to catch the next bus out of town to continue our trip onwards to Ushuaia. The only problem was, that the ticket office didn't open for another two hours and once it did the lady wouldn't sell us a ticket. Jeff had started to ask what time the next bus was, but she cut him off and wrote down 1 and 7. She put a square around one and a circle around the other, before providing a lengthy explanation of what each shape meant and then writing our names and passport numbers down on a sheet of paper. Completely baffled by what she'd said, or even what times the buses were leaving, she seemed satisfied when Jeff informed her we would be waiting on the seat right in front of her office.

But for how long we wondered. Until 7pm perhaps, which would mean missing the connecting bus between Comodoro Rivadavia and Rio Gallegos and having to spend a night in Argentina's ugliest town. So I went up and asked what time the bus left. This time she at least let me get my question out before launching into the circle and square explanation. Now there are two types of people in the world; those that speak slowly and simply to foreigners who obviously don't have great command of the language; and then there are those who say the same thing again and again at an unintelligible speed obviously convinced that by the third time the stupid gringo will have learnt to speak the language.

She was of the second camp, but as I would not budge and kept repeating “Lo siento, no intiendo” and giving her a very sad expression because I really wanted to leave her god-forsaken town (I even have proof of this very fact. It was Sunday and the church was closed. Now go ahead and tell me the town was not god forsaken) she persisted even going as far as using google translate.

Finally, I knew that whether we caught the 1pm bus or not had something to do with available seats. Oddly enough, every other bus company had advanced to an electronic ticket system. So we waited until just before 1pm when she called us over, sold us tickets and we were off. By this stage, it had stopped snowing and the sun was peaking through.

The rest of the trip to the end of the world was rather less exciting. Our second overnight bus in a row took us to Rio Gallegos from where we would spend another whole day on the bus and cross backwards and forwards between Chile and Argentina. I worried the border guards wouldn't let me leave Argentina when the computer took 10 minutes to load whatever information they needed after typing in my passport details. Obviously their dial-up was just really slow.

Entering Chile we all had our luggage scanned and food had to be declared. Two Asian guys on our bus had a whole box which the customs official eyed suspiciously before asking if it was really just food. She opened the box, which was full of noodles and laughing asked them if they didn't like Argentine food, to which they sheepishly nodded a yes.

Finally, already running a couple of hours late, we left behind the barren, windy plains that we had so far seen on Isla Grande de Tierra del Fuego and started crossing the mountains that seperated us from Ushuaia. As it was getting dark, it started snowing and we could just make out the fresh snow lying on the road and dusting the trees. When we arrived to our hostel just before midnight, we were covered in white powder ourselves.

Not Hippy Enough El Bolson

According to the Bible, I mean Lonely Planet, El Bolson was supposed to be a relief from commercialised Bariloche, but hopefully not the chocolate. The description of a pretty town, with a hippy feel, good local made beer and great walks right from the centre convinced us to stop.

Unfortunately I wouldn't call El Bolson particularly pretty and the people have a whole lot more tree hugging to do before the vibe could really be described as hippy. I mean seriously, the only thing we were offered on the street was empanadas and I think they really meant empanadas and not hash.

But the “El Bolson” brand beer was decent and the “El Bolson” brand raspberry juice heavenly. After lunch we wandered up to Indian Head, which really does look like a toothless hippy.

The view from the escarpment down to the river and the surrounding mountains was lovely and we debated which property we would buy and ride horses on.

The clouds concealing the tops of the peaks were a little worrying but we decided to clamber through the forest instead of going back to town the same way. We wandered past a lovely property where little lambs were playing in the fields before finding a track to the waterfall we'd planned to go to the next day. The path led through shrubs covered in yellow and orange flowers which brightened the dull afternoon.

The next day, the grey skies opened up for the first time during our trip. We'd already checked out of our hostel and the manager didn't seem open to the idea of us hanging around until our bus in the evening, so we were homeless.

It's not often in normal life that you need to waste time, but that's exactly how we spent the wet, cold day in El Bolson. It's amazing how long it can take to eat one piece of cake when the only dry place to sit in town is at the bus stop.

To Pampa Linda on Horseback

“This is the best thing we've ever done,” I said. The contented smile hadn't left my lips for the whole time and despite only having been riding for two hours or so, I already knew it would be hard to beat the next three days. From atop Caramelo, Jeff nodded in agreement, before trotting off to catch up with our guide.

We'd arrived at Los Baqueanos camp ground on the banks of Lago Gutierrez and while waiting for the horses to be prepared, we'd skimmed stones across the still water and fallen in love with the place.

The plan was to ride from here to Pampa Linda at the base of Tronador Mountain on the Chilean-Argentine border. It would be just 5 horses, 4 people and Negrita the super dog. Our guide and his friend who was joining us on the trip, tried to persuade the 15 year old dog to stay at home this time, but Negrita wouldn't hear of it.

The first few hours were easy riding, along old gravel roads, near picturesque properties. The horses knew the road, so we could more or less relax in the saddle and enjoy the view.

We were one of the first riders on the trail for the season, so as soon as we had booked, the company had sent out two gaucho's to make sure we would be able to get through after the winter. After a bit of bush bashing through the forest we met them as they were coming back, their chainsaws strapped to a pack horse.

After a few more hours riding through the forest, we came out onto the shore of the U shaped Lago Mascardi, the lake of 7 colours. As the horses rested, we ate lunch on the pebbly beach before heading up towards the pass and our camp site on the other side. We'd left late that morning and our guide was worried we might not make it in daylight.

The trail skirted a peaceful mountain lake, before reaching the pass where there was a surprise waiting for us. Below, on the middle of Lago Mascardi was a perfect heart shaped island. In the distance, Tronador – our destination – was shrouded in cloud.

We reached the shore of the lake and set up camp just before sunset. In the twilight, a fire was started and an asado cooked using the stalks of bamboo from the forest as skewers. Jeff was so impressed, he vowed to make his own during our camping trips.

The lake of 7 colours was decidedly grey when we woke up the following morning and while the rain held off, it would stay that way for the most day.

For a while we followed the shore of the lake, admiring the different colours as they changed depending on how high up we were. Occasionally we would ride onto the beach and cool off the horses legs.

We'd already been impressed with Negrita's stamina the previous day, as she yapped impatiently for us to keep moving when we'd hung around somewhere for two long. But when we watched her wade into the fast flowing river, swim across as she was carried by the current and then clamber out the other side we were amazed.

After leaving the flat plain, most of the days riding would be through the bright green forest alongside a raging blue river, that proved useful in cooling down our drinks at lunch time.

 Higher up on the mountain, the trail grew muddy and wet and I discovered that my horse Gringa did not like getting her hooves wet. While the three horses in front clomped and slipped on the wet ground, mine preferred to jump across it if that seemed like the better alternative. After ten or so years out of the saddle, the first jump was hair raising, but apparently she seemed content enough that I would stay on and so we jumped for the rest of the afternoon.

As we neared the top of the mountain, the rush of water grew louder as we approached waterfall after waterfall cascading over the edge of the surrounding cliffs. Eventually as the ground grew steeper we got to a point where the horses couldn't continue, so we started to hike up to a mountain lake on foot.

Across the trail, an avalanche had recently come down and our guide figured our path might be blocked by the enormous amount of water and snow still around. He was right. We reached the cliffs where we needed to cross the river and we were surrounded by waterfalls. Sometimes groups camp up by the lake, but with the overcast skies that were threatening rain, or at that elevation maybe even snow, the better option was to return to the valley.

We camped on the shore of Laguna Injeniero where the horses filled their bellies on the luscious green grass, while we filled ours with salami, cheese, wine, chocolates and a delicious local dish called guiso made from lentils and chorizo.

We could see the top of Tronador on the last day. As if in answer to our prayers for good weather, the sun shone the whole day as we rode across the plains towards Pampa Linda.

Each time we emerged from between the cana colihue the mountains were larger on the horizon, until we could clearly see the walls of snow on Tronador, it's peak still happily out of the clouds.

For Negrita this was a tough day, as we needed to cross the Manso River ten times. For Jeff it was a test in navigation. The water at times was deep and his horse Caramelo seemed quite happy to walk into the deepest section - the point where Jeff's feet were in the water – and stop. However everywhere else, the horses marched on gaining speed as they knew they'd almost arrived at Pampa Linda and that meant a week of rest in the paddocks.

Seemingly without warning, we arrived at the village, as other tourists pointed at our little group and took photo's of us. And then the three wonderful days were over and we had to say goodbye to our excellent guide and his friend, our horses and Negrita. But not before a siesta.

San Carlos de Bariloche

If the 23 hour trip from Buenos Aires hadn't been so comfortable, we could have been fooled into believing we'd arrived in Europe. The temperature – freezing cold – was about right, along with the idyllic looking alpine village set on the edge of a lake surrounded by snow capped mountains.

After our grand tour of the ice cream shops of Buenos Aires and the delicious daily desserts made at home, we could probably stand to lose a few kilo's. But if we had hoped that our stay in Bariloche would do the trick, we were sadly wrong.

Every second shop in Bariloche sells gourmet chocolate and as we organised our tours for the coming days, we couldn't resist them. Del Turista was the first stop, where the chocolates were mouthwatering and hot chocolate the best this side of Provincia in Krakow. And that is saying a lot!

Before we'd arrived it had been raining for several days, but we seemed to have struck lucky with the weather. It was sunny and warm, so the following day we escaped the lure of chocolate and went walking in Llao Llao Regional Park.

The forest there was apparently the inspiration for Bambi, thanks to some unique trees that are found only there and in Japan. As if to complete the Asian theme, a type of bamboo also grows there that hung so low over the path at times that we had to duck.

But as we emerged out of the enchanted forest onto the shore of one of the lakes, I was struck by the similarity of the view to those that I had seen in Canada. It had been almost twenty years and yet I was convinced that this view was just like the one I remembered from a family canoe trip.

And at each view point along the trail, of the different lakes I had the same feeling. Jeff thought this was one of the most beautiful places he'd ever seen.

A highlight was the climb up Llao Llao hill, where at each point we had a different view of the lakes and inlets.

The following day we set our sights on getting to some of the snow we could see on the tops of all those mountains. From the ski resort at Catedral Mountain, 25km out of Bariloche we started the alternative route via Arroyo Van Titter hoping to reach the Refugio Frey. The tourist office had directed us to the wrong bus stop where we'd waited for a long time, before finally finding the right spot, so it was already late when we started.

The trail headed up through low scrub around the mountain and along a lake. Delighted about finding “the wild Patagonia” we had to cross several streams, via a single log that spanned from bank to bank.

After and hour or so, we entered the forest where in the cool shade of the trees, patches of snow still lay on the ground. Jeff jumped up and down on them just to say he'd walked through the snow. To our left a river flowed through the valley, the sound of the rushing water echoing off the stone walls that grew narrows.

Further up in the valley after crossing the river on a rickety bridge we spotted a wood pecker, followed by another and another. At first we weren't sure what they were, but just to confirm our suspicions they pecked at the wood and then flew to the next tree. With camera's in hand we followed in hot pursuit, but they seemed to be enjoying the game of follow the woodpecker and kept on moving.

Soon we reached the tree line and at last saw the colourful peaks of the valley we'd been walking through. The warm afternoon sun made the mountains glow and helped melt the snow that still lay everywhere. At last we reached a decent patch where we threw snow balls at each other and took too many photo's before having to turn around without having reached Refugio Frey. But we'd already decided that we would definitely return to Bariloche.

Greater Buenos Aires

Of course, Buenos Aires isn't all just hustle and bustle if you know where to look. And if you have a local (and most excellent) guide like we did, you know where to go.

A fact I didn't know about Buenos Aires until the words 'Capital Federal' were thrown at me is that the city itself has very defined limits, beyond which are other towns. Once upon a time, these were actually towns with their own cathedrals and squares, but these days it's all just sprawl so it's hard to know where one ends and the other begins. Unless of course you have someone to point out when you leave 'Capital Federal' – Buenos Aires proper – and enter the next district.

When we left Buenos Aires and headed north along the slower road we passed through a few of the towns, but it was already dark. A few days later we returned to San Isidro and wandered its pretty cobblestone streets, while dreaming about buying one of the mansions and doing it up.

Another beautiful town of Greater Buenos Aires is Tigre, set on the Parana Delta. Apart from coming here to get delicious ice cream from Via Toscana (Bariloche Dulce de Leche flavour is amazing) sunny weekends see crowds wandering along the river.

Leaving from the Puerto de Frutos, we went for a sail through the Parana Delta. The whole area reminded me of the canals in Holland. There were brightly coloured weekenders surrounded by a perfect green lawn and large shady trees that looked like an ideal place to spend a lazy afternoon. Other buildings along the river were more upscale, including a golf club, restaurants and lodges.

Several times we were passed by the supermarket boats that deliver food to the houses along the delta.

Then, as we rounded a bend in the river, we saw Buenos Aires far in the distance.

Asado!

All the inhabitants of the house had had a late night, so by the time we tip toed out to the asado around 10:30am there was already smoke wafting from the chimneys of some of the neighbours. Because that's what you do on Sundays! You make asado which is the famous Argentine slow cooked barbecue.

We'd already had a few roast chickens during our travels and on the day of our arrival, we'd been treated to an asado at Siga la Vaca (follow the cow) which is said to be one of the best in Buenos Aires. And while it was delicious – especially the salads! - we'd been promised by the family that Sunday would be even better.

We'd been to the butcher the previous day and bought more meat than I could imagine. But to be fair this would be a feast. There would be new family members to meet as well as our friends M and his wife who took us to the polo and L and her husband who we were looking forward to meeting.

So the ritual started with Jeff chopping firewood and me running around with a notebook and camera, asking loads of questions and taking photos of the asadors working. Once the coals were at the perfect temperature the giant slabs of meat were placed on the grill and acoustically monitored for the volume of their sizzling.

For editorial accuracy I wrote down each of the cuts of meat we were eating but things got tricky when we got to the offal. In order to explain exactly which part these pale coloured, worm looking things came from, P pulled out a human anatomy book. He pointed out that we would be eating riňon (kidneys), chinchulines (small intestine) and mollejas (sweetbread – thyroid) and joked that next week it would be our insides on the grill. 

  

The one tradition that must be universal while preparing a BBQ is the men standing around, drinking beer while the meat is cooking. Of course our pair of asadors had hefty glasses, peanuts and cheese to snack on while watching the meat cook for two our so hours.

Just as the meat was almost cooked everyone arrived and all 15 or so of us crowded onto a long table on the patio. Each cut of meat was served individually and passed around the table before the next one came along. And as promised, the home made asado was better than the one we'd had at the restaurant.

In case you're wondering, we both tried the offal, which I'm sure were delicious, but these more unusual meats just didn't quite appeal to our palates. Apart from the mojella that is, along with every other delicious thing on the table including the salads. For a job well done, the asadors received a rowdy round of applause for the fantastic lunch.