Riding vacation in Patagonia

TANGO was the word for the night. Tango is to Argentina as Grand Prix Dressage is to Germany... it just doesn't get any better than there. Steve , a serious dancer, and Carolee, a serious party animal, were nearly carried away enough to join the sinuous performers on stage.

The next morning we were lucky enough to hook up with our flight to San Marin de los Andes. I say "lucky", because the in-country airline changes it's schedule at whim. Our intercontinental flights had been booked months before, but we didn't know until we arrived how many nights we would actually spend in Buenos Aires before being flown out to the western edge of Argentina.

Jane Williams, owner/manager of Estancia Huechahue (pronounced phonetically, she said), met us at the airport. After last winter's trek in the heat waves of Australia, we were all prepared with plenty of sun screen; because we'd read a river ran through the Estancia, we were ready to swim. However, we landed in a cold wind threatening rain, and began making deals to borrow or loan appropriate long sleeved gear. We soon settled into lodging in the original ranch house and a newly completed guest cottage in the middle of the 15,000 acre estancia, and headed down to the horse corral. Our criollo mix steeds (the "ll" pronounced like a 'j") were typical ranch stock, ranging from 14.2-15.3hh, excellent bone, sensible looking faces, tough and fit. The string of about 60 horses works cattle when not packing tourists. They are usually shod only in front, and although in good condition, are definitely not pampered.

I love the traveler's credo "How do you know you are on vacation?....Because they don't do things like they do at home." The tack proved we weren't in Kansas anymore. All leather was rawhide. Use and a bit of sheep lanolin made most of it soft, but the look and texture was far removed from tanned. All the horses had snaffle bits, some hung extremely low, some much tighter than seemed comfortable. The traditional gaucho halter with fancy patterns across the horse's brow , often with three strips of leather down the front of the face, usually hung loose low on the muzzle. No breastplates were used. The saddle rig was a three stage affair. First came an Indian woven wool blanket, followed with one or more thick felt pads. Then a hard tree, similar to a McClellan, was cinched down very tight. The rigging was 5/8 and the cinches were soft woven wool, which worked well; we saw absolutely no evidence of girth or saddle sores. Last, a double thickness untanned sheepskin was thrown over the tree, held down with another "overcinch". Placement of this second rawhide cinch was crucial to the comfort of the rider, as the two latigo knots could rub a rider raw within a few miles if placed underneath a calf. Also, the strap over the seat could feel like sitting on a 1'x3' if it hit you wrong. However, we all soon found out how to adjust our individual saddles for our own anatomy, and found the "cush" quite comfortable. We had to get used to a 'feet on the dashboard' style of riding, as the stirrups are hung at the far front of the saddle tree. And since the double thick sheepskin made the horses' already ample barrels two to three inches wider, we all had "wishbone" legs at days end.

Since our January date was mid summer, we had sunshine well until 9 PM and usually rode until dusk. Our first two days of riding was through spectacular open landscapes through basalt canyons and up over the Chenque Hills.. We rode past strange rock formations, "pancake rocks" that reminded me of Bryce and Zion Canyons in Utah. We led our horses down a 70 degree slope that left a few sweaty palms. The horses never flinched. Throughout , we never saw another a human being, but rode with the vastness of the Andes behind us and the Patagonias stretching out before us. In the distance, we glimpsed the snow shrouded heights of Lanin Volcano; situated on the border of Chili, at 12,474 feet, it soars above the surrounding peaks. We rode through orchards of ripe cherries and apricots, stopping to gorge on the succulent fruit, riding away with drooling juicy grins. To quote Steve..."How sweet it was!"

Dinner at the Estancia was a formal affair at the grand table, all ingredients grown or grazed fresh on the farm. The menu was superb, rich and varied, complete with excellent lagers and wine. Meat and dairy products were lavish at every meal, complemented with homegrown fruits and vegetables. The desserts rivaled those found in 4 -star restaurants. Not that anyone was complaining, but I'll bet I wasn't the only one to begin a fast when I returned home!

This whole operation is owned and managed by Jane Williams, a British expatriate who joined her now deceased husband on the Estancia 13 years ago. She is ably assisted by a crew of men and women, many native Indians, some of whom live on the ranch. They raise alfalfa, muster 700 head of cattle, tend and preserve the bountiful harvest from extensive orchards and gardens, and cater to the whims of both trout fishing and horseback riding guests. Although the surrounding terrain is seasonally dry, the landscaping and lawns around the lodges are watered 24 hours a day, assuring a verdant setting .

Our real high adventure started the third day, when we met our horses and guides 80 miles north of the estancia, at the entrance of Lanin National Park. Some things are universal, and I have to admit I felt right at home when I heard that the truck towing the horse trailer had broken down enroute, causing minor damage to the trailer and two horses. The show must go on...and our gauchos had worked all night hiring another truck, fixing the trailer, getting replacement horses, and organizing supplies for the five day camp-out section of our trek. Needless to say, our ride started a few hours late.

Luckily, everyone in our group was an accomplished traveler; no one would have won Ruth Waltenspeil's "spitting and moaning "award. And, as is usual, every happening that seemed to be a glitch ultimately ended up allowing us unplanned excitement and pleasures.

Our first interaction with a Lanin park official was quite congenial. A uniformed ranger welcomed us, explaining that we would be riding in a designated World Heritage Wilderness area, which will be preserved in perpetuity. The Nature Conservancy has been instrumental in purchasing threatened lands, and holding them until local governments can arrange for their preservation. We mounted up, and rode along the shore of Lake Lolog, encountering for the first time the mysterious Monkey Puzzle Trees.

Araucaria Araucana, or Monkey Puzzle trees are indigenous to this region, often reaching well over 100 feet tall, the bases of centuries old trees measuring up to ten feet in diameter. They are a prehistoric plant, having been around for millions of years, with upturned branch tips reminding some of a monkey's tail. (Why, is a puzzle to me!)

At lakeside, we stopped for our first "asado" lunch. "Asado" basically means "bar-b-que", but the emphasis is definitely on meat. For appetizers, we were served blood sausage, chorizo sausage, small intestine of lamb, (the correct name for which I missed), and regular old pork sausage. Cheese, bread, and wine helped wash it down. Then came the main entrée...charbroiled beef with cabbage slaw. and green salad. Although I'm a vegetarian by choice at home, when in Rome.......

Our first night of camping was also the first night for some in our party in making up what we call in the West a "cowboy bedroll", but which in Patagonia is, of course, the "gaucho bed". Here's where we were eternally thankful for the thick felt saddle pads and sheepskin saddle covers, which made a practical and comfortable 3' by 6' bed, with saddle frame and Indian wool rug for pillow if you wished, and sleeping bag topping it all off for all the comforts of home. The downside of this arrangement is that everybody smells like a horse the next day.

As we rode the Huanquihue Ridge, we entered a dense bamboo forest, surprising those in the group who were not expecting bamboo in Patagonia. The forest was amazingly thick, with overlapping canopy hiding the sky at times. Trails had been cleared by machete; the resulting sharp stakes pointing upward would have impaled anyone unfortunate enough to fall off a horse. Twigs of new growth were impossible to snap off, as many folks experienced riding behind fellow travelers with branch snapping habits. Ouch.... I now have a lot more sympathy for that kid who was "caned" last year!

Our trail was steep and winding through the bamboo forest, with patches of monkey trees suddenly opening up into silent glades of wild flower dotted meadows, then closing into thick forest again. These variations would repeat throughout our entire trip. As we climbed ever higher, we arrived at the most amazing landscape any of us had ever seen.

Just above the tree line, with Mt. Lanin towering on one side and a dense green forest below us, we broke through onto a sweeping lunar valley of volcanic black sand. Away flew Alice and Bette, galloping for miles towards the solid granite and lava walls at the far end. Gigantic swells of volcanic ash met at intriguing angles to form a scene right from the "Dune" trilogy. The colors were black, gold, metallic green and silver. A raging waterfall cut through the strange rock formations forming the side wall. When we all caught up with our wild doctor/lawyer duo, we exhausted what should have been a day's worth of film at that one site.

After overnight camping by aptly named Laguna Verde, we were scheduled to have a treat the next day. We were to head back to civilization, have lunch by a hot springs and take a hot mineral bath ! After two nights of camping and sleeping on horse blankets, hot mineral baths sounded too good to be true . The plan was to ride into Chile in late afternoon/early evening.

We rode through the intoxicating aroma of yerba buena, fragrant wild mint, as we approached our supply truck with crew already preparing the fire for lunch. The baths were in an old wooden building, with individual cast iron tubs in separate rooms. Windy did sneak in to take a blackmail quality photo of Harvey and me.

After a leisurely lunch, we started in the late afternoon towards the Chilean part of the park. Passing without incident through the official guard station, we anticipated no trouble. But a half hour later, we heard galloping horse hoofs behind us, and soon were joined by a young mounted park warden. He vehemently informed us that the region we were heading towards was an ecologically protected area, and entry was prohibited. Jane kept her cool, talked, joked , and finagled with him, insisting quite rightly that we had permission which she had obtained months previously from the park service. As a matter of fact, she had taken the time to drive out to this very warden's house to tell him that months before, and his dog had bitten her....surely he remembered? He doubted that we would be able to get through on the trail anyway, because it had not been maintained since its closure. After much argument, Jane told him we were in fact going to ride foreword, but that we would change our itinerary to camp at the homestead of an old friend of hers, Don Domingo, who had a freeholding in the middle of the park.

And so began the highlight of our trek to Argentina. The ranger was not completely wrong, as there were parts of the trail we literally had to machete our way through. The sun was beginning to set, and we were beginning to feel some apprehension as to where and when we would rest our weary heads, when we rode out into a perfect rolling green meadow, dotted with red and pink flowering rock roses and our old friends, the Monkey Puzzle trees. The imposing snowcapped Mt. Lanin Peak stared right in our face. This was a setting more beautiful than I can describe, but we rode on to one even more spectacular.

At sunset, we reached our destination. Don Ailla Domingo and his two sisters, all in their eighties, live in a forest clearing on the side of a mountain overlooking an alpine lake, facing the bulk of Lanin Volcano. We were in absolute awe. The beauty was magnified as the volcano took on the iridescent golden hues of the setting sun, just as the moon, as full as it can be, rose over the snowcapped peak.

Don Domingo graciously invited us to be his guests, grazing our horses on the end of long rawhide tethers, making our beds in the waist high grass overlooking the lake. By dinner time it was midnight, but the night seemed young as we huddled around the campfire to share our meal as the weathered old man told us the story of his life. Fifteen year old William, Jane's friend's son, was an inspired translator. Don Domingo and his sisters had been living there since 1920. Years ago, they had lovely homes. However, the government tried to force them out, and burned their houses down. In spite of the hardships of living 40 miles from the nearest town, with no roads, the three siblings stayed on, living in their sheep shearing sheds . They are now finally protected by (and from ) the government with a lifelong tenancy. They raise cattle, sheep and fruit, and subsist mainly on their products, with rice from town.

Looking across the lake to the snowy peak, the bright moonlight washed down on my head and shoulders. The melodic tones of the 80+ year man speaking in a language I do not comprehend sang of a life I felt privileged to share for one short night. We had been thwarted in our plan to ride to Chili, but ended up in Shangri-La.

By breakfast campfire, I remembered we were supposed to be going on some kind of ferry ride that day.. In my mind, I had the vision of us tying our horses in stalls , paying a few pesos, then going on a

relaxing ferry ride around the lake, snapping photos. Reading my mind, Jane gave a wicked smile and said, "it won't be what you expect".

Old man Domingo offered to ride down with us to the river. When we were all packed up and ready

to go, we watched an amazing transformation. Don Domingo looked his age. He walked slowly, hunched over, with a walking stick. But once he swung on his black horse, he simply metamorphasized into someone ageless. He was totally at ease and in command as we trot down the trail to our next stop.. The Gaucho Legend is alive and well in the heart of Patagonia.

Within a few miles, we were off the mountain and approaching a 300 yard wide river. A 12'x16' raft of logs was being pulled across by a barefoot boy struggling with a metal cable running from shore to shore. We were going to eat first, and then begin the "ferry". Steve surveyed the situation briefly, and said to no one in particular, "If we have not had "fun" yet, we surely will after lunch...."

During our picnic, Jane told us the game plan. It will take a number of trips to get everybody across, as the raft can only take 6-7 people at most, because it sinks too much with additional weight. Our tack, clothes, and provisions would be hung on the wooden side rails. Two or three people would have to stay on board to pull the raft back to the first side, to pick up more folks. And, uhhh....the horses, Jane?

We will tie a couple horses' head ropes to the raft and drag them in until they start swimming. Meanwhile, we will herd the other horses down to the river and "chauce" them on, hoping they follow the two tied to the raft, and also swim across the river We on the near bank will run madly back and forth chasing any horse who try to escape by turning back from the water. We recruit a few vacationers who happen to be at rivers edge. Jane did mention it usually takes a few trips to get all the horse through. No kidding!

Let's just say that pandemonium reigned. The fourteen loose horses were like 52 card shuffle. Some actually swam to the other side. Most charged the banks, scattering us Stateside gauchos like so many bowling balls. Some swam part way across before deciding they didn't want to miss all the fun back on our side. We needed a hero, and one emerged.

Our most senior rider, after Don Domingo, was Lucian Vandegrift, who took up endurance and chariot racing after retiring from the bench,. Quickly shucking off his shoes and shirt, Lucian grabbed the nearest caballo, swung on bareback, and headed him for the far shore. They made it amidst cheers and yells from our admiring hordes. Not to be outdone, Doug, a heart surgeon in real life, leaped on another outlaw. Before he could begin, however, a cry from the other side told us to wait...Lucian was swimming back to help again. I resolutely volunteered to man the raft, and we only lost one bottle of wine in our many crossings. Eventually, the rest of the horses followed the two new ones we tied to the raft on each journey, and the job was complete. The only real injuries were split sides from laughing so hard!

We capped this memorable affair by crowning Lucian and Doug the "Aqua Cowboys"...whose names shall live in infamy as the bravest (or maybe most macho) of them all. Our campfire by the river that night was our best songfest, as Norte and Sur Americanos took turns singing our national treasures. Unfortunately, we all suffered intermittently from the international malady of nobody knowing more than the first verse of any song.

At one point, our head gaucho , Manuel, recited a poem with mucho gusto. Upon translation, the poem was a tribute to the forgotten horses that served brilliantly and gave their lives in a famous battle. A moving end to a most unique journey.

After returning from the four night pack trip, we based again at the Estancia. Each day was different from the one before. Once, we rock climbed to the top of a 300 foot waterfall. Another, we saw herds of huge red deer and small wild guanaco, the native llama. Riding past a pasture housing a black Thoroughbred stallion and a bay mare, William suggested a horse race. Yes, inside the pasture....just out around that big tree and back to the gate It was quite a surprise when our Southern gentleman, George from Virginia, threw his laid-back manner and all courtesy to the wind , and won pulling away. An early evening ride took us to the cliffs of a condor rookery, where we watched eight of the gigantic birds fly about feeding their young. We rode through Indian reservation land, stopping for a "mate" tea ceremony with the grandmother of the owner's family. Our horses traversed cliff faces with the agility of mountain goats. We rode to ancient Indian burial caves, leaving the horses tied while we crawled into the belly of the mountain to admire colorful pictographs. Paul, the tallest of us, must have used stomach and elbows instead of hands and knees getting out.

One whole day, we floated lazily down the Alumine river in three rafts rowed by personable, strong young men . We fished, swam, and generally enjoyed our time off from riding. An Indian trading post at a neighboring estancia was interesting, in that all items were priced in terms of bags of flour., each bag worth US $20. The goods were costly, none so more than the rawhide halter/bridle set, on sale for half the usual price of 40 bags . Still, at US 0, there were no takers.

Farewell is always the hard part of these treks, which are in reality a retreat that brings the participants together in ways that will remain dear for years to come. Our good-bye asada at Estancia Huechahue, with all the staff joining us for a feast under the stars, cemented the bonding which had occurred. We toasted Jane, a most assiduous, gracious, dedicated and witty lady. We toasted the gauchos of all ages and nationalities who had seen to our comfort and well-being for two weeks. We toasted our horses, who steadfastly packed us all safely through many miles of tortuous footing.

And then we hopped a plane north to Iguazu Falls, on the shared boarder of Paraguay, Brazil, and Argentina. Our tradition is to sojourn somewhere a little different for R&R before heading back to our work-a-day worlds. These Falls were different! They dwarf Niagara, and are surrounded by jungle. We hiked under, around, and through them on both the Argentinean and Brazilian sides, lodging at the luxurious International Hotel at river's edge. This was hot, humid country , a climate we had not experienced in Patagonia. Exotic as it was, we couldn't wait to return to Buenos Aires for the six hours between airplanes, because Jane had told us exactly where to shop for the authentic bombachas, mate gourds, wool serapes, and leather goods we had admired at her place. I guess it's no big surprise....she travels to the big city for the best prices. Caravanning in three overloaded taxi cabs, we hit all of Jane's favorite outfitters. We Norte Americanos are good riders, but we're great shoppers!