After intensive studies on Windguru (our weather forecast friend) decided to make the trip north through the valley for overnight camping in Lago del Desierto, the only major excursion we hadn’t yet made. The day was clear and the sky a scintillating blue as we bumped our way north through the valley, recognizing the standard stops until we crossed the Rio Electrico. The Rio de las Vueltas is our constant companion on the right hand side, while the mountains slowly change. On the far side of the river the peaks are dry and deeply grooved rocky buttes, growing from a dark sandy moraine, while on the left are the mostly snowcapped Andes. We stopped at Lago Condor, which is actually just a widening of the river, to see if we could spot the flamingoes that sometimes spend time there.
We had a more animated and friendly crowd on the bus, headed by a feisty Spanish woman who talked a mile a minute, and had some serious energy to burn. She gave us some wonderful tips on hiking in the Spanish Pyrenees, which we’ve stored for the future. Another passenger turned out to be the boat-trip photographer, a young thing with a soundly positive outlook on life and who kindly shared her mate (as in hierba mate) with me and the bus driver. A nice little lift before getting off the bus.
Most people go to Lago del Desierto for a couple of hours and have to choose whether they’ll climb up to the glacier Huemul, or take the boat trip to the north point of the lake, before turning around and heading back to “town”. Since we really didn’t want to exercise either option, we camped at the very green and pleasant campground which is about 100 meters from the boat launch, and yet wonderfully protected from the major winds on the lake. We checked in with Carlos—the gaucho who runs the campground--, who then took us and suggested a good campsite. He was quite a character, we discovered later in the afternoon.
Set up the tent, organized our stuff, and headed up to the glacier Huemul along with our standard picnic lunch. The trail is mostly uphill, although only seriously so for the final 10 minutes or so. It passes along the river that races downhill from the glacial lake at the base of the glacier, pounding over boulders and carving its way into mossy flanks. The forest, too, is carpeted with a variety of mossy surfaces. We were told it rains torrentially and frequently in the area, quite unlike in the close-by El Chalten. At the top of the trail the sky opens up and the view south shows the jutting north face of Fitzroy, as well as the rest of the valley we’re now used to seeing. Towards the north lies the deep blue-green Lago del Desierto, which is thickly forested on both sides. Enjoyed a peaceful and relatively fly-free lunch, and then headed slowly down the mountain back to the camping area. Checked out the boat launch area, walking by the fly fishermen who come to learn/practice in the first few bends of the river as it exits the lake.
The lake was extremely choppy with whitecaps, whipped by a strong wind. We found a wooden suspension bridge which we were told would lead to the trail that heads to the north point of the lake. We began that walk, intending to hike a few hours north and then simply returning. Despite our best efforts, the going was almost immediately rough. Lots of huge fallen trees and a surprisingly steep as well as definitely unclear path quickly put a damper on our efforts. We perched on a dry log and watched the impending arrival of the trusty tour boat, and then headed back to the campground area, still considering revisiting the trail in the morning.
Carlos and his wife(referred to as La Patrona—the Boss) are a couple who must be close to 70. They have a small shop with some odds and ends in the comestibles department, and also sell tea and coffee and the ubiquitous choripan (bread with a sausage), made on the grill that Carlos has going most of the day. We sat on the makeshift benches outside their hut, along with a handful of other stragglers, most of whom were waiting for various vans/busses back to El Chalten. Carlos spent his time regaling us with stories. He’d grown up in a rural area, on a farm, loved horses, had worked in radio, lived in Buenos Aires with La Patrona, who was originally portena, and told us of how he’d visited the campground some years ago and then and there decided he wanted to make it “his'” someday. This was his first season running the campground, where he lives for about 6 months, spending the rest of the year in El Chalten, where he has a small home, for a handful of years now.
Any food/drink requests were passed on to La Patrona, an unassumingly little grandma type who blithely tolerated her husband's quips, was in charge of the kettle and writing down all the expenses in the big notebook. The money all lived in a huge billfold kept in a tin on the ancient table. The fridge—looking like a large freezer case—ran on something like propane gas, a huge yellow container of which sat next to the fridge. A very rudimentary operation, all hanging together with Carlos’ non-stop commentary on everything from the adorable baby a young woman had in her arms while requesting hot water for mate, to his assurance that he’d be taking his wife out to dinner that night—out like outside, he said, while gesturing to the makeshift table and bench outside the door by the grill. Raucous laughter from all.
While sipping my tea, we listened to the comings and goings, Carlos’ take on a huge group of 15 that turned up to camp for the night. He assured us as they sauntered up the grass to the hut that they looked to be more trouble than they were worth. He pretty much read them the riot act before anything else happened—no loud noise, keep your music down, no smoking….you’re not the only ones here, etc. Break the rules and you can count on me running you right out of here. All without a hint of raised voice or malice. All very matter-of-fact. (Turned out he was right: those kids were up til dawn, singing and carrying on throughout the night….fortunately at the riverside, far from the rest of us).
Carlos also told us about being the sole owner of a satellite phone in the area. According to him, even the border patrol people didn’t have one—which seemed a stretch to us, but, who knows. As an area that was the center of some serious dispute qua national boundaries between Argentina and Chile, even in the 1980’s, that seemed unlikely, but we couldn’t confirm his story…. Later on a car with a dapperly dressed young man appeared. “Ah, the international chef,” explained Carlos. Apparently some wealthy Dane has built a very exclusive hotel about half-way between the north and south points of the lake. He takes guests fishing on the lake, and caters to people with serious money. As such, he also can afford a fancy chef, who was showing up at this moment. Said chef strode up to the hut, popping in to say hello to the Patrona, flattering her by saying –que bella pinta tenes hoy, te fuiste a la peluqueria? (Hey good-looking, have you been to the hairdresser’s today?) And on and on. In all honesty, a great deal lost in translation.
We returned to the tent and later exited through the back gate of the campground and headed down the main road to El Chalten for a good hour and a half walk. Glorious light, and close-up views of the river, alternately fast-flowing and raging white, littered with waterfalls of various sizes. A peaceful wandering through the valley surrounded by mountains of all sorts, as the light very slowly began to dissipate.
Woke to the thickest and lowest clouds we’ve seen, not a mountain peak to be seen. Luckily we were able to change our return to town, and wiled away the remaining hours of the afternoon, content with this “furthest”” excursion.
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