Our last day to go hiking for the trip. Our plan is to walk up to the refugio at Cajon Azul, on the northern end of the Rio Azul valley. We take the late morning bus to “Wharton”, which is about as far into the valley as we can get on public transportation. From there we head downhill to the actual river, after signing in with the Club Andino—a local hiking club that keeps track of who’s in the mountains, and whether they return. At the bottom of the valley we reach a small campground which lies at the confluence of the Rio Azul and the smaller Rio Blanco. We cross each river on precarious wooden suspension bridges and then head up the mountain, planning to walk til we find a nice place to have a picnic, and enough time to be back for the last bus back to El Bolson.
Despite information to the contrary, the trail is almost entirely uphill, and due to the latish hour is now very hot and extremely dusty. Eventually we reach shadier stretches, and the going is easier. The vegetation changes and the forest grows thicker. Only one actual river crosses our path, and it lies in an idyllic clearing. Another 45 minutes trekking uphill and we reach “La Playita” (the little beach), which turns out to have its own refugio. They make their own bread—a bowl of covered dough is rising on the roof—and they also brew their own beer(?), which is being kept cold in the bend of the Rio Azul, which rushes by in a wide curve.
We forego moving onto Cajon Azul and spend our time on the gorgeous flat rocks at the side of the river, trailing our feet in the cool rushing water, while enjoying brilliant sunshine. A memorable afternoon.
Luckily the worst of the heat is off the path as we return. Sadly, we discover that our final destination—a major narrowing of the river’s canyon—the Cajon Azul, was a mere 20 minutes further up the path, not the 2+ hours the map led us to believe, but we’ve enjoyed the quiet beauty of this place, and plan to someday return to hike the many other walks in the mountains here.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
El Bolson and Lago Puelo
Last official stop in Patagonia, and honestly, it’s difficult to believe that a couple of months have gone by. Although our trip up from Trevelin/Esquel on yet another leg of the Ruta 40 was under deep blue skies, we arrived in El Bolson in torrential rain. Fortunately the cloudburst ended shortly after we stepped off the bus.
Our tiny hotel, La Posada de Hamelin, is a fairy tale house, covered in vines of creeping ivy, and surrounded with beautiful flowers. The owners are inviting and have created a warm and welcoming place, and we’re glad to be able to call this home for the last days of our trip. And….the breakfast is simply stellar. Everything is homemade by the owners. They refer to it as un desayuno para golosos….breakfast for gluttons…. sadly, it’s true! We eat enough to last til dinner!
Andres’ cousin has moved to El Bolson from Buenos Aires, and has now been living in town for a handful of years and part of our time in town was dedicated to seeing him, his lovely home on a staggeringly large 6 acre lot, complete with hen house, apple orchard, and small vegetable garden. The dogs and cats roam around freely, playing and resting in the huge area. The views are stunning: from the back up to the stone sculpted slopes of the Piltriquitron range, and from the spacious front porch over the valley of the Rio Azul and the Andes beyond. He is still in the middle of a large undertaking, that of constructing a theatre/cinema complex complete with a café and a permanent home for the radio station that is already up and running. The project also includes a recently inaugurated outdoor cinema/stage where he screens movies nightly, after about 10 pm. (It's not dark enough before that). An ambitious undertaking which he hopes to finish in the next 6-9 months. A nice cultural addition for the town. Check it out on Facebook at GOGA Bolson.
The town is a mishmash of unbridled growth, lots of traffic, and shops which all seem to crowd around and near the main square, Plaza Pagano, which is where most of the action in town takes place. There are impromptu music acts, an extensive craft fair 4 days per week, and it is definitely the hangout place for many of the young backpacker types passing through town. While the town isn’t particularly interesting, the surrounding area offers a wealth of places to visit. Lago Puelo is about 10km south of town, in yet another national park, and easily reached by public bus. The Rio Azul valley offers a slew of refugios (mountain huts), and if one has the time, there is well over a week of hikes that connect about 10 of them. There is lots of camping available, and despite the short distance, these spots are worlds away from the hustle and bustle of the town.
We spent two separate days at Lago Puelo. The first day we hiked up to the viewpoint from which one can see a good portion of the lake, the crescent of beach, and as far as Chile and the Andes. We continued the path which leads through forest, open country, and finally along a path of green grass bordered on both sides with huge tangled bushes of slowly ripening blackberries—which we spent a fair amount of time sampling! We also went around a smaller loop which is home to a grove of pitra trees--a relative to the arrayan-- which is indigenous to the area and thrives on Lake Puelo's regular flooding. The sky was clear, blue, and immensely wide and by afternoon very hot. We hopped on the bus to the friendly “downtown” of Lago Puelo town, which lies about 4 km outside the park entrance, in the hopes of finding a place to just sit and sip something and enjoy the afternoon, but everything was tightly shut until much later in the afternoon, so we got back on the bus and returned to El Bolson.
The following day we decided to head to the “beach” at Lago Puelo, finding ourselves too lazy to make the 7-8 hour hike we had originally planned. As we arrived at the beach, the distant mountains appeared to be shrouded in a fog, which continued to descend until there was a veritable curtain of “fog” over the lake. Turns out that this was volcanic ash, which the particular wind direction of the day had swept into place. A most curious phenomenon, as it eventually made a low-lying dome over the area—covering even most of El Bolson—and literally making one’s eyes gritty and irritated, and increasing the feeling of the heat, by containing it. We’d never seen anything like it, but it’s a phenomenon that the area—particularly a little further north, nearer to Bariloche—has been experiencing due to continued fallout from a volcanic eruption, which even now continues to spew smoke and ash from time to time.
Day 2 at the lake: volcanic ash fills the skies at Lago Puelo.
Our tiny hotel, La Posada de Hamelin, is a fairy tale house, covered in vines of creeping ivy, and surrounded with beautiful flowers. The owners are inviting and have created a warm and welcoming place, and we’re glad to be able to call this home for the last days of our trip. And….the breakfast is simply stellar. Everything is homemade by the owners. They refer to it as un desayuno para golosos….breakfast for gluttons…. sadly, it’s true! We eat enough to last til dinner!
Andres’ cousin has moved to El Bolson from Buenos Aires, and has now been living in town for a handful of years and part of our time in town was dedicated to seeing him, his lovely home on a staggeringly large 6 acre lot, complete with hen house, apple orchard, and small vegetable garden. The dogs and cats roam around freely, playing and resting in the huge area. The views are stunning: from the back up to the stone sculpted slopes of the Piltriquitron range, and from the spacious front porch over the valley of the Rio Azul and the Andes beyond. He is still in the middle of a large undertaking, that of constructing a theatre/cinema complex complete with a café and a permanent home for the radio station that is already up and running. The project also includes a recently inaugurated outdoor cinema/stage where he screens movies nightly, after about 10 pm. (It's not dark enough before that). An ambitious undertaking which he hopes to finish in the next 6-9 months. A nice cultural addition for the town. Check it out on Facebook at GOGA Bolson.
The town is a mishmash of unbridled growth, lots of traffic, and shops which all seem to crowd around and near the main square, Plaza Pagano, which is where most of the action in town takes place. There are impromptu music acts, an extensive craft fair 4 days per week, and it is definitely the hangout place for many of the young backpacker types passing through town. While the town isn’t particularly interesting, the surrounding area offers a wealth of places to visit. Lago Puelo is about 10km south of town, in yet another national park, and easily reached by public bus. The Rio Azul valley offers a slew of refugios (mountain huts), and if one has the time, there is well over a week of hikes that connect about 10 of them. There is lots of camping available, and despite the short distance, these spots are worlds away from the hustle and bustle of the town.
We spent two separate days at Lago Puelo. The first day we hiked up to the viewpoint from which one can see a good portion of the lake, the crescent of beach, and as far as Chile and the Andes. We continued the path which leads through forest, open country, and finally along a path of green grass bordered on both sides with huge tangled bushes of slowly ripening blackberries—which we spent a fair amount of time sampling! We also went around a smaller loop which is home to a grove of pitra trees--a relative to the arrayan-- which is indigenous to the area and thrives on Lake Puelo's regular flooding. The sky was clear, blue, and immensely wide and by afternoon very hot. We hopped on the bus to the friendly “downtown” of Lago Puelo town, which lies about 4 km outside the park entrance, in the hopes of finding a place to just sit and sip something and enjoy the afternoon, but everything was tightly shut until much later in the afternoon, so we got back on the bus and returned to El Bolson.
The following day we decided to head to the “beach” at Lago Puelo, finding ourselves too lazy to make the 7-8 hour hike we had originally planned. As we arrived at the beach, the distant mountains appeared to be shrouded in a fog, which continued to descend until there was a veritable curtain of “fog” over the lake. Turns out that this was volcanic ash, which the particular wind direction of the day had swept into place. A most curious phenomenon, as it eventually made a low-lying dome over the area—covering even most of El Bolson—and literally making one’s eyes gritty and irritated, and increasing the feeling of the heat, by containing it. We’d never seen anything like it, but it’s a phenomenon that the area—particularly a little further north, nearer to Bariloche—has been experiencing due to continued fallout from a volcanic eruption, which even now continues to spew smoke and ash from time to time.
Day 2 at the lake: volcanic ash fills the skies at Lago Puelo.
Monday, January 23, 2012
A quiet week in Trevelin
Touted as one of the Welsh outposts in Argentine Patagonia, Trevelin is given a lot of press. It lies a mere 30 or so km from Esquel, and is definitely off the beaten track, although still a tour stop for its famous “Welsh tea”, known as te gales, which is the whole show of tea with cakes and sandwiches.
It was originally a town where flour was milled, and Trevelin means town of the mill in Welsh. The town radiates from its main square, which is still the center of much of what happens in town. Its tall shade trees, grassy areas and ample play areas come alive in the early evening, when people magically appear laden with their mate gear, chairs, folding tables, and park themselves all over the square to relax slowly into the evening. It is light until about 9:45 at this time of summer, and only a handful of people are thinking about dinner before 10ish. Kids are all over the playgrounds, and at some point the pop-corn cart appears and sets up in the middle of the square near the statue of a General Fontana, for whom the square is named. He led one of the original scouting parties into the area before it was settled by the Welsh. Surrounding the square are a smattering of kiosks, a small cultural center, the heavily visited ice-cream place, and on the square itself is the eternally open Tourist Info office.
Our week sported incredible weather, our hotel a pleasant quiet, other than the seriously confused rooster next door—crowing pretty much at will—and the troupe of neighborhood dogs, whose main conversation reigned during nighttime. Our days took on a slow and easy routine. Breakfast, hiking around the countryside across the nearby Percy River looking for quiet, off-road places to walk, swinging by one of several fruit/vegetable shops back in town to fill up on apples, bananas, peaches, and plums for lunch, a final stop at the gas station for the yogurt that they carried(generally unavailable in town), and then back to the hotel for a mid afternoon “lunch” of fruits. Weather permitting, which it mostly was, a couple of hours at the small round pool that sits near the back of the property, reading, or if it was too hot, simply wading in the water, followed by a bit of hand washing laundry, and eventually, showers and off to the square to just hang out. Upon discovering a place where we could buy nice vegetable tartas (pies), we’d head down to the Imperial, purveyor of such goods, and load up for dinner. Other than salad, we haven’t been getting enough in the veggie department, and finding this place was a plus for Trevelin on our personal list. Evenings were spent watching the often spectacular sunset/cloud colorings and slowly calling it a day.
We did take an hour one afternoon to visit the local history museum—presently being remodeled with an ambitious amount of money in the town's original flour mill—where the caretaker gave us a personal little tour of the selection of items that had been moved to the transitional space. She gave us the lowdown on everything from the mustache cup to musings (per her grandmother’s stories) about Butch Cassidy and Sundance, who settled about 80 km north near Cholila, and were regular visitors in town until one of the two(can’t remember who) shot one of the Welsh bigwigs, after which they allegedly fled to Bolivia before being apprehended. She was thrilled to tell us that she recalls her grandmother sharing a room with Ethel Place, on one of the threesome’s visits, and how she marveled at her high lace-up boots.
We also reserved a late afternoon to partake in the te gales (Welsh tea), which is served in one of two traditional tea “houses”. We went to the one which has now been run by the great granddaughter of one of the original settlers, who along with her mother and brother make all the traditional cream and fruit cakes, along with the bread for the sandwiches and the fruit preserves. It’s a table with more food than either of us can handle, but which we fortunately could share, along with a very large pot of delicious tea. It actually served as our dinner for that day…albeit a bit early by Argentine standards. The tea room is decorated with newspaper clippings and old photos that add to the charm of the place, and help the history stay alive despite the distraction of the sweets.
All in all, a restful and recuperative week.
It was originally a town where flour was milled, and Trevelin means town of the mill in Welsh. The town radiates from its main square, which is still the center of much of what happens in town. Its tall shade trees, grassy areas and ample play areas come alive in the early evening, when people magically appear laden with their mate gear, chairs, folding tables, and park themselves all over the square to relax slowly into the evening. It is light until about 9:45 at this time of summer, and only a handful of people are thinking about dinner before 10ish. Kids are all over the playgrounds, and at some point the pop-corn cart appears and sets up in the middle of the square near the statue of a General Fontana, for whom the square is named. He led one of the original scouting parties into the area before it was settled by the Welsh. Surrounding the square are a smattering of kiosks, a small cultural center, the heavily visited ice-cream place, and on the square itself is the eternally open Tourist Info office.
Our week sported incredible weather, our hotel a pleasant quiet, other than the seriously confused rooster next door—crowing pretty much at will—and the troupe of neighborhood dogs, whose main conversation reigned during nighttime. Our days took on a slow and easy routine. Breakfast, hiking around the countryside across the nearby Percy River looking for quiet, off-road places to walk, swinging by one of several fruit/vegetable shops back in town to fill up on apples, bananas, peaches, and plums for lunch, a final stop at the gas station for the yogurt that they carried(generally unavailable in town), and then back to the hotel for a mid afternoon “lunch” of fruits. Weather permitting, which it mostly was, a couple of hours at the small round pool that sits near the back of the property, reading, or if it was too hot, simply wading in the water, followed by a bit of hand washing laundry, and eventually, showers and off to the square to just hang out. Upon discovering a place where we could buy nice vegetable tartas (pies), we’d head down to the Imperial, purveyor of such goods, and load up for dinner. Other than salad, we haven’t been getting enough in the veggie department, and finding this place was a plus for Trevelin on our personal list. Evenings were spent watching the often spectacular sunset/cloud colorings and slowly calling it a day.
We did take an hour one afternoon to visit the local history museum—presently being remodeled with an ambitious amount of money in the town's original flour mill—where the caretaker gave us a personal little tour of the selection of items that had been moved to the transitional space. She gave us the lowdown on everything from the mustache cup to musings (per her grandmother’s stories) about Butch Cassidy and Sundance, who settled about 80 km north near Cholila, and were regular visitors in town until one of the two(can’t remember who) shot one of the Welsh bigwigs, after which they allegedly fled to Bolivia before being apprehended. She was thrilled to tell us that she recalls her grandmother sharing a room with Ethel Place, on one of the threesome’s visits, and how she marveled at her high lace-up boots.
We also reserved a late afternoon to partake in the te gales (Welsh tea), which is served in one of two traditional tea “houses”. We went to the one which has now been run by the great granddaughter of one of the original settlers, who along with her mother and brother make all the traditional cream and fruit cakes, along with the bread for the sandwiches and the fruit preserves. It’s a table with more food than either of us can handle, but which we fortunately could share, along with a very large pot of delicious tea. It actually served as our dinner for that day…albeit a bit early by Argentine standards. The tea room is decorated with newspaper clippings and old photos that add to the charm of the place, and help the history stay alive despite the distraction of the sweets.
All in all, a restful and recuperative week.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Overnight at Parque Nacional Los Alerces
We left Esquel and hopped on the local bus to move about 30 km down the road to Trevelin, a small town originally settled by the Welsh a mite over a century ago. Found very pleasant accommodations at La Estancia, on the northern edge of town, and settled in for the first day, wandering about the quiet of Sunday, until the late afternoon craft fair began on the main square(actually an octogon…)
On the Monday, after a capital breakfast with homemade goods from Sofi, we walked down to the town gym to catch the early morning bus to the national park. This route is a backroad which passes through bucolic albeit dusty countryside until it meets the road from Esquel, which then follows the familiar route into the park. As we were the sole passengers, the driver was kind enough to leave us right at the entrance to the campground, Los Maitenes, which lies closest to the micro-village of Futalaufquen. Got ourselves set up in the lovely campground, very green, complete with tables and benches, fire pits and a generous amount of space between campers. The grounds seem to be very inviting to several species of birds, one of which looks like the Patagonian equivalent of a kiwi.
As we knew we’d be taking the boat trip on the Tuesday, an all-day affair, but that it leaves from a small port about 5 km up the road and that we could only get there by walking, we took the trail up to see how long we’d need. The trail is very up and down, and choking with trees roots, has a few rough-hewn wooden bridges crossing small creeks, and also access to a few small lakeside beaches. We arrived in the port in a little over an hour, and were glad to find that there is a small shop there. We went in for a look, but were rather immediately seduced by the beautiful home-made fruit pies on display. Shared a piece of mixed berries pie on the small pier, walked further down the road to check out the views, and then returned for a second piece(the last one available…) on our return. Took the road rather than the trail back to compare the trips. The road is faster although very dusty.
For the rest of that hot day, we hung around the campground, later heading to the pebbly beach about a 5 minute walk from the tent. In the evening, went to check the grocery store—a sad selection of vittles—and bought up the remaining edible apples. Forced down some “pizza” at the camp restaurant, reminding us once again why we eat it so seldom, and then bought some home-made bread and sliced cheese for our exciting boat meal at the camp-shop, prepared our sandwiches, and went to sleep.
The tent and sleeping bags we bought for the trip have been simply terrific, and this time, with warmer temps my bag was almost too warm. We were up by 6, and had decided to take everything down, rather than stay a second night(our original plan), packed up the tent etc, and after a bite to eat—the ubiquitous cheese sandwich—began making our way to Puerto Limonao, from which the boat tour leaves, with plenty of time to spare.
This boat tour heads up Lago Futalaufquen, then up the Arrayanes River, which connects it to Lago Verde. There everyone has to walk across the peninsula to the second port, Puerto Chucao, and the boat then heads another couple of hours up Lago Menendez until it reaches the dock near the several thousand year old alerce (larch) tree. Taking the boat trip is the only way to access this very beautiful part of the park.
The trip itself is smooth, despite the relatively small boat. The views of the heavily forested mountainsides, glacier(Torrecillos) on Lake Menendez, the twisted many-trunked flowering arrayan trees in the river of the same name, are all most worthwhile. The downside was the rather pompous and frustrated comedian, Juan Carlos, who served as “tour guide”. I won’t bore you with the details, but he was one aspect of the trip we could have dropped overboard.
The tourists were 99% died-in-the-wool argentinos, lots of them on holiday from Buenos Aires, all mightily equipped with enough food for an army, bags loaded with 2 liter bottles of soft drinks and of course thermoses of hot water for the various mate sessions. Mind you, I do love mate, and enjoy watching the ritual of making and sharing the tea, all over the country. Along with the died-in-the-wool nature there is also a liberal dose of complaining—in this case about the walks—first from port to port, and then the 2 hour circuit around to see the ancient trees. People come poorly prepared to do walking of any sort and so the litany of complaints is constant.
We found our way into a second tour guide’s group for the walk, and he was a refreshing change. Federico was a wealth of knowledge about the flora, and considerate enough to take the time to explain everything in English to a threesome of British ladies who joined us at the second port. Initially the forest consists of bamboo grasses and coihue trees, Later there are varieties of cypress and then this mix loses the bamboo, and the alerces (larches) become more common. Apparently it is the huge amount of rainfall that makes it possible for larches, in particular, to thrive in this area. The pass over to Chile is relatively low(for the Andes) and so the rains easily cross over the mountains and consequently almost three times as much rainfall in this area of the park as in the area where we were camping. The main attraction is the abuelo (grandfather) tree, which is calculated to be about 2600 years old. Astounding that a tree which grows an average of a millimeter per year lasts that long. Reputedly, in the same area, but across the border in Chile, there are several trees that are over 3000 years old. A very worthwhile excursion.
The return trip was more relaxed, and a good deal quieter as well due to en masse napping! Our only serious disappointment was not getting Andres' walking stick back at the first point, where we'd both been asked to leave our sticks behind. Mind you, we've been carting them with us--quite lovingly--since El Chalten, where we picked them up within the first few days. Adding insult to injury, however, was that while my stick had not been touched, Andres' was switched. Juan Carlos wasn't sympathetic in the slightest.
By sheer willpower we managed to hightail the 5 km back to the bus stop from the final port in 35 minutes, while being regularly bathed in a film of grit as car after car drove by us. Not even a single offer of a ride…. Made our bus, though, and via Esquel(no bus directly to Trevelin on this particular day), made our way back to tranquil Trevelin. In sum, a beautiful area, but most easily explored by car.
On the Monday, after a capital breakfast with homemade goods from Sofi, we walked down to the town gym to catch the early morning bus to the national park. This route is a backroad which passes through bucolic albeit dusty countryside until it meets the road from Esquel, which then follows the familiar route into the park. As we were the sole passengers, the driver was kind enough to leave us right at the entrance to the campground, Los Maitenes, which lies closest to the micro-village of Futalaufquen. Got ourselves set up in the lovely campground, very green, complete with tables and benches, fire pits and a generous amount of space between campers. The grounds seem to be very inviting to several species of birds, one of which looks like the Patagonian equivalent of a kiwi.
As we knew we’d be taking the boat trip on the Tuesday, an all-day affair, but that it leaves from a small port about 5 km up the road and that we could only get there by walking, we took the trail up to see how long we’d need. The trail is very up and down, and choking with trees roots, has a few rough-hewn wooden bridges crossing small creeks, and also access to a few small lakeside beaches. We arrived in the port in a little over an hour, and were glad to find that there is a small shop there. We went in for a look, but were rather immediately seduced by the beautiful home-made fruit pies on display. Shared a piece of mixed berries pie on the small pier, walked further down the road to check out the views, and then returned for a second piece(the last one available…) on our return. Took the road rather than the trail back to compare the trips. The road is faster although very dusty.
For the rest of that hot day, we hung around the campground, later heading to the pebbly beach about a 5 minute walk from the tent. In the evening, went to check the grocery store—a sad selection of vittles—and bought up the remaining edible apples. Forced down some “pizza” at the camp restaurant, reminding us once again why we eat it so seldom, and then bought some home-made bread and sliced cheese for our exciting boat meal at the camp-shop, prepared our sandwiches, and went to sleep.
The tent and sleeping bags we bought for the trip have been simply terrific, and this time, with warmer temps my bag was almost too warm. We were up by 6, and had decided to take everything down, rather than stay a second night(our original plan), packed up the tent etc, and after a bite to eat—the ubiquitous cheese sandwich—began making our way to Puerto Limonao, from which the boat tour leaves, with plenty of time to spare.
This boat tour heads up Lago Futalaufquen, then up the Arrayanes River, which connects it to Lago Verde. There everyone has to walk across the peninsula to the second port, Puerto Chucao, and the boat then heads another couple of hours up Lago Menendez until it reaches the dock near the several thousand year old alerce (larch) tree. Taking the boat trip is the only way to access this very beautiful part of the park.
The trip itself is smooth, despite the relatively small boat. The views of the heavily forested mountainsides, glacier(Torrecillos) on Lake Menendez, the twisted many-trunked flowering arrayan trees in the river of the same name, are all most worthwhile. The downside was the rather pompous and frustrated comedian, Juan Carlos, who served as “tour guide”. I won’t bore you with the details, but he was one aspect of the trip we could have dropped overboard.
The tourists were 99% died-in-the-wool argentinos, lots of them on holiday from Buenos Aires, all mightily equipped with enough food for an army, bags loaded with 2 liter bottles of soft drinks and of course thermoses of hot water for the various mate sessions. Mind you, I do love mate, and enjoy watching the ritual of making and sharing the tea, all over the country. Along with the died-in-the-wool nature there is also a liberal dose of complaining—in this case about the walks—first from port to port, and then the 2 hour circuit around to see the ancient trees. People come poorly prepared to do walking of any sort and so the litany of complaints is constant.
We found our way into a second tour guide’s group for the walk, and he was a refreshing change. Federico was a wealth of knowledge about the flora, and considerate enough to take the time to explain everything in English to a threesome of British ladies who joined us at the second port. Initially the forest consists of bamboo grasses and coihue trees, Later there are varieties of cypress and then this mix loses the bamboo, and the alerces (larches) become more common. Apparently it is the huge amount of rainfall that makes it possible for larches, in particular, to thrive in this area. The pass over to Chile is relatively low(for the Andes) and so the rains easily cross over the mountains and consequently almost three times as much rainfall in this area of the park as in the area where we were camping. The main attraction is the abuelo (grandfather) tree, which is calculated to be about 2600 years old. Astounding that a tree which grows an average of a millimeter per year lasts that long. Reputedly, in the same area, but across the border in Chile, there are several trees that are over 3000 years old. A very worthwhile excursion.
The return trip was more relaxed, and a good deal quieter as well due to en masse napping! Our only serious disappointment was not getting Andres' walking stick back at the first point, where we'd both been asked to leave our sticks behind. Mind you, we've been carting them with us--quite lovingly--since El Chalten, where we picked them up within the first few days. Adding insult to injury, however, was that while my stick had not been touched, Andres' was switched. Juan Carlos wasn't sympathetic in the slightest.
By sheer willpower we managed to hightail the 5 km back to the bus stop from the final port in 35 minutes, while being regularly bathed in a film of grit as car after car drove by us. Not even a single offer of a ride…. Made our bus, though, and via Esquel(no bus directly to Trevelin on this particular day), made our way back to tranquil Trevelin. In sum, a beautiful area, but most easily explored by car.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Exploring around Esquel by car
Picked up a rental car so that we can get around the area a little more easily, and perhaps also preview some spots in the area. It’s clear that there are some bus possibilities, but they will have to be carefully orchestrated. We head south towards Trevelin, where we will be moving in a couple of days, and from there onto the very bad gravel road that heads about 50 km to the Chilean border at Futaleufu. Along the way there are several suggested stops, the first of which is Nant y Fall waterfalls. One turns off the main gravel road heading uphill along a wide canyon for about 4 km, and arrives at a short trail that accompanies the course of the river with various lookout points for different waterfalls.
From this small park we make our bumpy way to the next stop, which is meant to be a small museum with a replica of the original flour mill in Trevelin, but which is very tightly shut, despite signage to the contrary. The third stop is a fish hatchery which really doesn’t kindle any interest in either of us and the fourth and final stop is a small so-called town called Los Cipreces, which we leave the road to see, but which consists of a handful of houses, lots a chickens, and luckily for us, a kiosk of sorts where we hope to get our hands on something cold to drink. All this despite the fact that the lady selling said drinks is heavily preoccupied with handing off her hen’s eggs. She has so many eggs, she says, she is just basically giving them away.
Having made it this far we decide to head to the Chilean border through the ever prettier countryside. It continues to be dry and rough terrain with granite peaks of tremendous presence, but finally the beautiful Rio Futaleufu appears as a thundering turquoise belt under a bridge which lies a mere kilometer or two from the border guard station. Our car didn’t come with a permit to cross into Chile, so we turn back and revisit the route from the opposite direction.
On our second day of car, we head more west than south and into another national park, Los Alerces. Alerces are a kind of tree (larches), although only the far northwestern section is wet enough for them to grow. The road from Esquel heads out of town and fairly soon begins winding up through a river valley. At the top of the valley, the road heads north along a wide pasture of a plateau dotted with livestock, and complete with a mirror-like lake. Once one enters the actual park, there are about 10 km before reaching the miniscule village of Futaleufquen, where the park information center is headquartered. We are interested in finding hiking opportunities, but these are far and few between, the main ones being overnight treks through the mountains to backcountry lakes.
We also find our way to the exclusive lodge that manages the boat excursion to see the thousand plus year old alerce forest, several lakes away, and only accessible with this boat tour. Then we check out some of the dozens of campgrounds, and the bus connections to Esquel and Trevelin. All sounds mundane, but the information is so convoluted and getting around the park without a car is nearly impossible without lots of time on your hands, so we want to make sure we are getting the most info possible. Outside the park no-one appears to have much beyond general information.
Having determined that this will be our only realistic opportunity to see more of the park(read: we have a car right now), we head north along the dastardly gravel/dirt road to Lago Verde and Rio de los Arrayanes, which is where the boat purportedly makes the stop where one has to walk from lake A to lake B to catch to second boat. Along the way we pick up two young hitchhikers, sisters from Bs.As. enjoying a couple of weeks away from the hellish heat and congestion of the big city. We chat most of the way to Lago Verde, —one is a teacher for the disabled, the other a computer programmer—. At Lago Verde we are floored to discover we’ll have to pay to park, and then walk downhill to the pedestrian suspension bridge that crosses the emerald green Rio de los Arrayanes. Here a short guided trail has been put together explaining the flora and the river in the area. Even after reaching its end point, we keep going to a small pebbly beach with a stunning view of the distant Torrecillos glacier, and then back around this point, completing a nice loop. We enjoy some time looking over Lago Verde, hanging out on a small beach along the Rio Arrayanes again, dipping our feet in the cold water, and finally, drag ourselves back onto the dusty road back to park headquarters, which easily takes an hour and a half due to the atrocious road conditions. Do a final check on food possibilities and camping availability, and head back to another late afternoon cup of tea at Fidelina in Esquel, where we cross paths again with our Spanish taxi-sharer, and man-about-town, Don Alberto, who occupies his daily table there, dispensing his wisdom and greeting virtually every soul who wanders by.
These flowers are those of the arrayan (myrtle) tree, which has just come into its blooming period. The arrayan itself has an unusual bark of cinnamon and white colored patches which you can see in one of the other photos.
From this small park we make our bumpy way to the next stop, which is meant to be a small museum with a replica of the original flour mill in Trevelin, but which is very tightly shut, despite signage to the contrary. The third stop is a fish hatchery which really doesn’t kindle any interest in either of us and the fourth and final stop is a small so-called town called Los Cipreces, which we leave the road to see, but which consists of a handful of houses, lots a chickens, and luckily for us, a kiosk of sorts where we hope to get our hands on something cold to drink. All this despite the fact that the lady selling said drinks is heavily preoccupied with handing off her hen’s eggs. She has so many eggs, she says, she is just basically giving them away.
Having made it this far we decide to head to the Chilean border through the ever prettier countryside. It continues to be dry and rough terrain with granite peaks of tremendous presence, but finally the beautiful Rio Futaleufu appears as a thundering turquoise belt under a bridge which lies a mere kilometer or two from the border guard station. Our car didn’t come with a permit to cross into Chile, so we turn back and revisit the route from the opposite direction.
On our second day of car, we head more west than south and into another national park, Los Alerces. Alerces are a kind of tree (larches), although only the far northwestern section is wet enough for them to grow. The road from Esquel heads out of town and fairly soon begins winding up through a river valley. At the top of the valley, the road heads north along a wide pasture of a plateau dotted with livestock, and complete with a mirror-like lake. Once one enters the actual park, there are about 10 km before reaching the miniscule village of Futaleufquen, where the park information center is headquartered. We are interested in finding hiking opportunities, but these are far and few between, the main ones being overnight treks through the mountains to backcountry lakes.
We also find our way to the exclusive lodge that manages the boat excursion to see the thousand plus year old alerce forest, several lakes away, and only accessible with this boat tour. Then we check out some of the dozens of campgrounds, and the bus connections to Esquel and Trevelin. All sounds mundane, but the information is so convoluted and getting around the park without a car is nearly impossible without lots of time on your hands, so we want to make sure we are getting the most info possible. Outside the park no-one appears to have much beyond general information.
Having determined that this will be our only realistic opportunity to see more of the park(read: we have a car right now), we head north along the dastardly gravel/dirt road to Lago Verde and Rio de los Arrayanes, which is where the boat purportedly makes the stop where one has to walk from lake A to lake B to catch to second boat. Along the way we pick up two young hitchhikers, sisters from Bs.As. enjoying a couple of weeks away from the hellish heat and congestion of the big city. We chat most of the way to Lago Verde, —one is a teacher for the disabled, the other a computer programmer—. At Lago Verde we are floored to discover we’ll have to pay to park, and then walk downhill to the pedestrian suspension bridge that crosses the emerald green Rio de los Arrayanes. Here a short guided trail has been put together explaining the flora and the river in the area. Even after reaching its end point, we keep going to a small pebbly beach with a stunning view of the distant Torrecillos glacier, and then back around this point, completing a nice loop. We enjoy some time looking over Lago Verde, hanging out on a small beach along the Rio Arrayanes again, dipping our feet in the cold water, and finally, drag ourselves back onto the dusty road back to park headquarters, which easily takes an hour and a half due to the atrocious road conditions. Do a final check on food possibilities and camping availability, and head back to another late afternoon cup of tea at Fidelina in Esquel, where we cross paths again with our Spanish taxi-sharer, and man-about-town, Don Alberto, who occupies his daily table there, dispensing his wisdom and greeting virtually every soul who wanders by.
These flowers are those of the arrayan (myrtle) tree, which has just come into its blooming period. The arrayan itself has an unusual bark of cinnamon and white colored patches which you can see in one of the other photos.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Ruta 40–Los Antiguos to Esquel
Despite the early start, we were quite happy to hit the road north to Esquel. The good news was that this leg of the trip was mostly paved, and a good 4 hours shorter. The sun was rising steadily ahead of us as we barreled east back to Perito Moreno to pick up the bulk of the passengers heading north to Esquel and then Bariloche.
Pickup completed, we enjoyed a bit of asphalt—making for nice dozing—and then hit the only hour of dirt road. This leg seems luxurious—there is a bathroom on board the bus, for starters—and the scheduled stops all include bona fide bathrooms. It also comes with a “guide”, in our case the rather entertaining Fabian, whose job appeared to be encouraging passengers to stay in “his” hostel or hotel in Bariloche. A good sort. While he rambled in Spanish and then in elementary English, I entertained myself taking pictures of the route, trying to capture the shadow of the bus on the dusty road….
First stop is Rio Mayo, a forlorn little town in the middle of nowhere, known around Argentina as the hub of sheep-shearing. We missed that particular festival(National Sheep Shearing) by a couple of days(but later caught snippets of it on TV). Just a very rural, quiet town, with the random gaucho sauntering by. Not a sheep to be seen, mind you. The street signs had the only sheep we saw. Nevertheless, a small oasis in the middle of Patagonian nothingness.
Onwards for a number of hours, having passed the requisite guanacos and a handful of bright pink flamingoes, until we arrived at Gobernador Costa, another dusty oasis to break the endless disappearing road carved into the dry Patagonian steppes. We stop at an eating establishment where we park ourselves at tables and inhale our various lunches. A few people order the dubious looking “pizza”, while the drivers are served the standard meat, potatoes and salad by the owner. This meal is not on offer for the mere bus passenger. We wander the streets for another 30 minutes, walking the shady side of the streets in this sun-baked town. Nothing of real note to register here.
Back through the parched and scrubby plains with about two and a half hours til we reach Esquel, or more properly, some sort of roundabout lying about 10 km outside town. Fabian assures the 12 or so of us who get off here that he has called a first taxi to meet us, and that it should be arriving soon. With that he hops back on the departing bus, and we are left waiting, pretty much in the middle of nowhere, although we know the town is close. It’s blazing hot and no shade to be had anywhere. To our collective relief the first cab turns up and three of us hop in and head to town, asking the driver for a recommendation on a place to stay.
We end up at the simple but impeccably clean Hosteria Tulipanes, at the edge of the center of town, and leave our Spanish co-passenger to find his lodging. He had booked something but couldn’t remember the name…
We’ll be continuing north on Ruta 40 later in the trip, but these last two legs are amongst the more notorious ones. Nice to have left them behind in their collective dust.
Pickup completed, we enjoyed a bit of asphalt—making for nice dozing—and then hit the only hour of dirt road. This leg seems luxurious—there is a bathroom on board the bus, for starters—and the scheduled stops all include bona fide bathrooms. It also comes with a “guide”, in our case the rather entertaining Fabian, whose job appeared to be encouraging passengers to stay in “his” hostel or hotel in Bariloche. A good sort. While he rambled in Spanish and then in elementary English, I entertained myself taking pictures of the route, trying to capture the shadow of the bus on the dusty road….
First stop is Rio Mayo, a forlorn little town in the middle of nowhere, known around Argentina as the hub of sheep-shearing. We missed that particular festival(National Sheep Shearing) by a couple of days(but later caught snippets of it on TV). Just a very rural, quiet town, with the random gaucho sauntering by. Not a sheep to be seen, mind you. The street signs had the only sheep we saw. Nevertheless, a small oasis in the middle of Patagonian nothingness.
Onwards for a number of hours, having passed the requisite guanacos and a handful of bright pink flamingoes, until we arrived at Gobernador Costa, another dusty oasis to break the endless disappearing road carved into the dry Patagonian steppes. We stop at an eating establishment where we park ourselves at tables and inhale our various lunches. A few people order the dubious looking “pizza”, while the drivers are served the standard meat, potatoes and salad by the owner. This meal is not on offer for the mere bus passenger. We wander the streets for another 30 minutes, walking the shady side of the streets in this sun-baked town. Nothing of real note to register here.
Back through the parched and scrubby plains with about two and a half hours til we reach Esquel, or more properly, some sort of roundabout lying about 10 km outside town. Fabian assures the 12 or so of us who get off here that he has called a first taxi to meet us, and that it should be arriving soon. With that he hops back on the departing bus, and we are left waiting, pretty much in the middle of nowhere, although we know the town is close. It’s blazing hot and no shade to be had anywhere. To our collective relief the first cab turns up and three of us hop in and head to town, asking the driver for a recommendation on a place to stay.
We end up at the simple but impeccably clean Hosteria Tulipanes, at the edge of the center of town, and leave our Spanish co-passenger to find his lodging. He had booked something but couldn’t remember the name…
We’ll be continuing north on Ruta 40 later in the trip, but these last two legs are amongst the more notorious ones. Nice to have left them behind in their collective dust.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Stopover in Los Antiguos
Well, we’re in Los Antiguos, a main street type town about 5 km from the Chilean border on the preposterously windy Lake Buenos Aires, which lies partly in Argentina and partly in Chile—where it has been given a different name. Our hotel is small, but full, and there appear to be about zero other “tourists” in town. Los Antiguos’ main claim to fame is that due to the gift of volcanic ash from a Chilean eruption in the early 90’s, the soil has become much more fertile, and the small cherry farms that already existed have become far more productive.
After a meager breakfast we head down the main drag to the tourist information office to get the lay of the land. Amazingly they are open from early morning til midnight! There is clearly NOT a great deal happening in town, but we attempt to get some info on the area called Monte Zeballos, a rocky mountain area about 70 km to the south, on, you guessed it, a dirt road. The only trips the office pushes are to Cueva de las Manos—which we’ve decided to skip. This is a cave with handprints that are reputedly about 7000 years old, but we’ve heard differing accounts of how much you are actually given access to, and considering the distance(and the dirt roads!) we forego that one. The other big push is to cross the border to Chile Chico—a small border town—and from what we can gather, it is pretty much like where we are.
Summing up, we decide to take the next bus out, which is two days away. We make our way to the bus station—which is huge albeit empty—and get our tickets for the bus, which will leave at 6:30 am, and is about a 2 km walk from the hotel. No matter.
Highlights: the cherries are indeed delicious. We buy them from a little old man at his roadside home/hut/farm, where he shovels generous amounts into bags and calls it a kilo. On the second day we revisit him, take his picture, and then he beckons us inside and shows us his portrait in a book about people in Patagonia. He’s beaming as he tells us that we can probably find the book on the….internet.
We find one place to have a cup of tea—no make that two—although the second takes us most of our visit to find. We insist on trying to find the “lakeshore”, but after repeated wandering down dead end dirt roads devoid of any sign of humanity, find the “costanera”, which is the “coastal road”. There are actually a handful of souls fishing on the shores of the vast wind-blasted lake, and there is a very nice sort of boulevard—perhaps people hang out here during the annual cherry festival which just took place over the past weekend—although it’s difficult to tell, and there is no-one to ask! As we walk to the end there is a huge hosteria which purports to have a café. We hightail in and enjoy something to drink, although we are the only customers in this vast place.
We also have to mention that despite our lack of finding pretty much anything to do in town, the mountains we want to visit can only be reached by private car—which we don’t have—or with a tour guide, who never gets back to us, and is not ever in his office. Oh well. We were also planning to walk across the border to Chile Chico, but got such a variety of distance estimates, that we finally threw in the towel. Instead we criss-cross the town, investigating every conceivable little market and shop—most of which were shut tight most of the time.
Ah yes, we also make a visit the local clinic/hospital. Andres chipped a tooth on a cherry pit, so we made our way into the dentist’s office there. No appointment necessary for us. A couple of tourists with a tooth issue. The lady dentist sat him down, fixed the tooth provisionally right then and there, and sent us on our way—with a reminder that cherries have pits! No cost whatsoever. We were quite frankly stunned at the level of service available in this backwater. Looking forward to moving on though, in all honesty.
After a meager breakfast we head down the main drag to the tourist information office to get the lay of the land. Amazingly they are open from early morning til midnight! There is clearly NOT a great deal happening in town, but we attempt to get some info on the area called Monte Zeballos, a rocky mountain area about 70 km to the south, on, you guessed it, a dirt road. The only trips the office pushes are to Cueva de las Manos—which we’ve decided to skip. This is a cave with handprints that are reputedly about 7000 years old, but we’ve heard differing accounts of how much you are actually given access to, and considering the distance(and the dirt roads!) we forego that one. The other big push is to cross the border to Chile Chico—a small border town—and from what we can gather, it is pretty much like where we are.
Summing up, we decide to take the next bus out, which is two days away. We make our way to the bus station—which is huge albeit empty—and get our tickets for the bus, which will leave at 6:30 am, and is about a 2 km walk from the hotel. No matter.
Highlights: the cherries are indeed delicious. We buy them from a little old man at his roadside home/hut/farm, where he shovels generous amounts into bags and calls it a kilo. On the second day we revisit him, take his picture, and then he beckons us inside and shows us his portrait in a book about people in Patagonia. He’s beaming as he tells us that we can probably find the book on the….internet.
We find one place to have a cup of tea—no make that two—although the second takes us most of our visit to find. We insist on trying to find the “lakeshore”, but after repeated wandering down dead end dirt roads devoid of any sign of humanity, find the “costanera”, which is the “coastal road”. There are actually a handful of souls fishing on the shores of the vast wind-blasted lake, and there is a very nice sort of boulevard—perhaps people hang out here during the annual cherry festival which just took place over the past weekend—although it’s difficult to tell, and there is no-one to ask! As we walk to the end there is a huge hosteria which purports to have a café. We hightail in and enjoy something to drink, although we are the only customers in this vast place.
We also have to mention that despite our lack of finding pretty much anything to do in town, the mountains we want to visit can only be reached by private car—which we don’t have—or with a tour guide, who never gets back to us, and is not ever in his office. Oh well. We were also planning to walk across the border to Chile Chico, but got such a variety of distance estimates, that we finally threw in the towel. Instead we criss-cross the town, investigating every conceivable little market and shop—most of which were shut tight most of the time.
Ah yes, we also make a visit the local clinic/hospital. Andres chipped a tooth on a cherry pit, so we made our way into the dentist’s office there. No appointment necessary for us. A couple of tourists with a tooth issue. The lady dentist sat him down, fixed the tooth provisionally right then and there, and sent us on our way—with a reminder that cherries have pits! No cost whatsoever. We were quite frankly stunned at the level of service available in this backwater. Looking forward to moving on though, in all honesty.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
La Ruta 40: El Chalten north to Los Antiguos
Time to finally hit the road after a month in El Calafate and El Chalten. Have to admit that we leave El Chalten with heavy hearts. Beyond the natural beauty of the place, we have enjoyed its easy pace, the hosts we’ve had, and the joy of being outside for weeks on end—even with the ever-present Patagonian wind and the pesky flies on the trails.
Time now to see the classic Patagonia as we ride 13 hours north on the dusty gravel road that crosses a stretch of truly emptiness. It’s considered an epic ride…
The bus leaves punctually at 9am, stops where it meets the actual ruta 40. (El Chalten lies about an hour off this main artery). The two drivers who work this stretch announce that there will be only a few stops, the first of which features an actual bathroom. There is no toilet on the bus, so to take this into account…. There is no real food until the third stop at about 6:30 in the evening, when we stop at a small roadside hotel. The El Calafate passengers pile onto the bus and we’re off—although this first hour is on asphalt—a luxury that soon becomes a dream—.
Stop one is Tres Lagos. Hmm. Not a lago(lake) to be seen, and in fact, beyond the gas station and small kiosk cum café, it seems an ominous beginning. Several of us note that the drivers are messing with some gizmo checking(?) the tire pressure, while about 10 steps away, a mechanic is lying under a car hammering and tinkering. All this with the gasoline issues, namely there is none to be had, and so drivers are ending up stranded, waiting for new fuel deliveries—apparently a union/contract negotiation issue that regularly recurs during the height of Argentina’s summer holiday season. The drivers assure us this won’t be an issue for us.
Everybody back onto the bus and we’re off onto the incredibly dusty dirt road north. It’s hot, but windows are impossible to open, basically crusted shut with dust, so until the top hatch is finally opened for a brief respite, most people are dozing. A few are nibbling on crackers or cookies. Occasionally we see guanacos which are like llamas, but slighter and a brownish coloring. This is the Patagonia one visualizes: endless vistas of scrub and rough growth, rocks, sandy soil, and immensely blue open skies. A dirt track leading nowhere. It’s starkly beautiful in places, but almost inconceivably empty.
A woman approaches the bus driver and manages to convey her need for a bathroom stop, for which he kindly pulls over. Several others bound off the bus after her, relieved to have a pit stop behind some scraggly bush. Later we pass a huge nameless (for me) turquoise lake, edged on the far side by craggy rock hills. People are now digging into their various “meals”—mostly sandwiches-- as the bus bounces on. Mists of clouds descend on us periodically, drizzling and streaking the already filthy windows, and blow further south.
Another scheduled bathroom stop comes near a river. This one is clearly a necessity for all! The women rushed down from the roadside to a grove of squat willow-like trees, and honestly the scene was out of a film… In every hidden nook women were making use of the natural bathroom facilities, while on the other side of the road, men were doing the same. No time to think of anything or anyone, just to relieve yourself! Five more minutes to stretch legs, and off again.
Late in the afternoon a large rhea(an ostrich-like bird) came charging across the road—rather a treat. We pulled into Bajo Caracoles, which pretends to be a town, with a hotel—and purportedly REAL bathrooms—but, alas, they weren’t in working order. So another quick dive behind a bush or a wall, staring out at the unending landscape.
On to the final stop for most people, the small town of Perito Moreno. Here most people got off the bus, staying at the Hotel Belgrano, which doubles as the bus station, as tomorrow most will continue the road trip for the second long leg up to Bariloche—another 12 hours or so—luckily mostly on asphalt. We pull into a local gas station after this drop-off, now to fill-up the bus for the return journey it will make the next day.
We continue due west with the sun slowly setting over the mountains behind the immense Lago Buenos Aires, pulling into the small town of Los Antiguos at just about 10:30pm. With the help of the drivers we found the small hotel where we had managed to make a reservation with a great deal of difficulty, and headed straight to bed.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
An El Chalten scrapbook
Although undoubtedly less meaningful for the rest of you, I wanted to take the time to record –with photos—the places that were part of the daily fabric of our short sojourn in El Chalten. At any rate, it gives you a glimpse of the small town that we so enjoyed.
The town is working hard to educate both locals and visitors about being more conscious of garbage. In addition to recycling tumblers, and large cans labeled for organic and inorganic waste, there were these:
El Chalten has a surprising amount and variety of eating establishments. Despite our long stay we didn’t try them all, but revisited several favorites. We felt really indebted to the kind (and honest!) people at Ahonikenk, where we absentmindedly left our bag with virtually all our cash on the first day(and yes, we found every penny waiting for us), and returned there for several very pleasant meals with the friendly and most entertaining staff. Our favorite meals were those exquisitely prepared by the chef and owner at La Tapera, who clearly loved his work, and handled his place with incredible gusto, energy and passion. Check out the picture of the only dessert we had in town—on our last night there—the flan at El Tapero. Delicious—and beautiful, too.
Returning from long hikes we’d frequently stop off for a cup of tea at La Chocolateria, run by Anabel, who has been scraping together a remarkable living in El Chalten since 1990. Her little cabin was built with trees that were cut down to clear passage for the road north to Lago del Desierto, and she boasts that not a single nail was used. All the beams and logs are bound with leather strips. She makes cakes and other sweets but her real love is making chocolate, which she does remarkably well in her crowded and order/chaos kitchen at the back of the café. She regaled us with all sorts of stories of the “old times” in El Chalten, her continued opposition to paving any of the streets, mountaineers, some local politics, the beginning of some basic services like television and phones. One of our favorites was her recollection of her neighbor, who moved to town and brought a TV along. By then there was electricity in the evenings. They would get together on a weekly basis to watch a late-night movie together, but never managed to catch the end, as power was always cut about 15 minutes prior to the end of the film. She’s a wealth of knowledge about things El Chalten, and still a real pioneer at heart.
Prior to visiting the Chocolateria, we stumbled upon Chaura, a baker living with a mountain guide, who also produced all sorts of lovely goodies—the best of which was her apple pie. We would stop by and pick up a couple of slices, but as opportunely as we had found her, she disappeared—on holiday, one presumes.
Home sweet home….
Not to be forgotten… the little markets that made our picnics possible on hikes, the sweet pharmacist we met whose little canary –her friend and companion hopping about the shop—died while we were in town…. and the most forgettable laundry establishment, which wrecked and stained a bunch of our clothes. A story/fight of its own….
The town is working hard to educate both locals and visitors about being more conscious of garbage. In addition to recycling tumblers, and large cans labeled for organic and inorganic waste, there were these:
El Chalten has a surprising amount and variety of eating establishments. Despite our long stay we didn’t try them all, but revisited several favorites. We felt really indebted to the kind (and honest!) people at Ahonikenk, where we absentmindedly left our bag with virtually all our cash on the first day(and yes, we found every penny waiting for us), and returned there for several very pleasant meals with the friendly and most entertaining staff. Our favorite meals were those exquisitely prepared by the chef and owner at La Tapera, who clearly loved his work, and handled his place with incredible gusto, energy and passion. Check out the picture of the only dessert we had in town—on our last night there—the flan at El Tapero. Delicious—and beautiful, too.
Returning from long hikes we’d frequently stop off for a cup of tea at La Chocolateria, run by Anabel, who has been scraping together a remarkable living in El Chalten since 1990. Her little cabin was built with trees that were cut down to clear passage for the road north to Lago del Desierto, and she boasts that not a single nail was used. All the beams and logs are bound with leather strips. She makes cakes and other sweets but her real love is making chocolate, which she does remarkably well in her crowded and order/chaos kitchen at the back of the café. She regaled us with all sorts of stories of the “old times” in El Chalten, her continued opposition to paving any of the streets, mountaineers, some local politics, the beginning of some basic services like television and phones. One of our favorites was her recollection of her neighbor, who moved to town and brought a TV along. By then there was electricity in the evenings. They would get together on a weekly basis to watch a late-night movie together, but never managed to catch the end, as power was always cut about 15 minutes prior to the end of the film. She’s a wealth of knowledge about things El Chalten, and still a real pioneer at heart.
Prior to visiting the Chocolateria, we stumbled upon Chaura, a baker living with a mountain guide, who also produced all sorts of lovely goodies—the best of which was her apple pie. We would stop by and pick up a couple of slices, but as opportunely as we had found her, she disappeared—on holiday, one presumes.
Home sweet home….
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