Rogue Uploader Caught...

Ok, to say I've been a little bad on updating the photo gallery is like saying our country swings a little to the right these days, but being stuck down at the "End of the World" with naught to do for a week, affords me to the opportunity to do some much needed uploading. So I've spent a good number of hours in front of the computer and uploaded some 100 new pics. Sadly, I'm not even out of November yet, but I optimistically hope to be caught up in the next couple of weeks. So if you're one of the souls who has been clammoring for pics, this update is for you. Go and feast your eyes on the sights of South America.

Anyway, I just got kicked out of this cafe because I am hogging all their bandwidth. I guess uploading isn't exactly allowed. I'll tell you a little secret though, I already knew that. I just wanted to see how long I could get away with it because most of the people uploading have to plug in their cameras, which as you can imagine is a tad bit conspicuous. I, on the other hand, upload pictures from CD. So I watch in a weird sense of amusement as they patrol up and down the aisles of computers hunting in desperation for the rogue uploader, namely moi. But alas, the jig is up. Till next time... Also look forward to updates on Torres del Paine and Tierra del Fuego National Parks, where I try and somewhat succeed to convince myself that I am a trekker.

El Calafate to El Chalten and Back Again…

I am continually humbled by life. No matter how much we plan and scheme, it seems so easy for all our machinations to be undone or develop in ways unexpected, both good and bad. Through the course of my travels, I have tried to take these moments in stride. Some would say when one door closes another opens, but if you are stuck staring at the closed door, you might not ever notice the open one.

I have often become stuck in places I had originally just planned to pass through, but each time, my extended stay opened possibilities to meet people or see sights I would have otherwise missed. I didn’t plan to stay in El Chalten for over a week but it happened. And though ultimately I was more than ready to leave at the end of my stay, I don’t begrudge the eight days I spent there.

The bus ride to El Calafate to El Chalten is only four hours, but it is over an unpaved section of Route 40. The constant bumps and shaking of the bus jars the body and makes sleep next to impossible (which is the preferable way to pass any bus ride of length in South America) unless of course you just spent the whole night huddled outside a bus terminal in the freezing cold waiting to catch the morning bus.

It was from this state that I was awoken when the bus came to a sudden stop. I cough and rubbed the dust from my eyes. Of all the bus drivers in Latin America, I had to get stuck with the one who insists on playing the dual role of tour guide. I discovered the reason for the stop was for everyone to get out and take a few snap shots of Fitz Roy, the most prominent mountain in the area. So I extract my camera from my bag and head towards the exit. Half asleep and fumbling with the options in my camera, I failed to gauge to distance correctly from the last step of the bus to the ground and twisted my ankle hard, landing heavily in the dirt.

Pain shot up through my foot, and at that moment I was too hurt to be embarrassed, laying there in the dirt at the foot of the steps, blocking everyone else from disembarking. I had to be helped to my feet and my first attempt to put weight on my injured appendage was enough for me to know that my glorious plans to do four or five days of trekking were quickly evaporating. I spent the first three days in El Chalten trying my best to staying off my foot and praying that I would recover sufficiently in time to do at least a few days in the mountains.

Luckily it turned out to just be a minor twist and not a major sprain. After a few days of recuperation, I strapped on my backpack and headed into the hills. For some reason, which I am still ignorant of, we encountered next to no one on our sojourn out to the first lagoon and were in fact, the only at the southern campsite. It was almost tranquil except for the continually wailing wind, the way trekking should be. The solitude is a nice break from the crowded hostels and streets of the cities in Patagonia saturated with people flocking here for the summer high season from all over the world.

The return journey turned out to be a grueling hour of uphill in the heat, and with my friend’s knee threatening to give out any second, we waived the standard break after hour and made it back in record time. The consequence of our blatant disregard for hiking basics meant by the time we got back to our hostel, my ankle was once again throbbing. It was a clear reminder that I wasn’t at 100%. It was a state I would have endure and cope with the rest of my time in Patagonia.

We decided to forego a full trek up to Fitz Roy and instead strapped on our day packs. The plan was to shoot up the mountain, take a few pictures, and then race down in order to catch the 6PM bus. Once again, it didn’t work out exactly as planned. We managed to lose each other on a crazy set of switchbacks that I’m certain climbed vertically up the mountain. My friend raced up while I struggled with each step carrying only about five pounds. Worse yet, the sun beat down on me and I had, in my usual manner, forgotten my sunblock. I felt the burning and tautness of my skin as it reeled under the fiery light, but there was nothing I could do, and so I struggled on.

After three and half hours, I finally managed to crest the ridge and was well rewarded for my efforts. Before me spread out a pale blue lagoon, stretching from one end of the small vale to the other. Above it sat a glacier, marooned on the side of the mountain from some earlier Ice Age and above that, the Fitz Roy with its crown lost in the clouds and looking like a stone tooth of some prehistoric predator. I sat, pulled out my Ipod, scrolled through to one of my favorite playlists and had a sandwich while listening to melodic trance and soaking the view from the top of the world. All in all, not a bad day.

Eventually I realized that if I didn’t turn around and head down, I would miss my bus. So I packed up and flew down the mountain in just over two hours. It would turn out that my frantic pace was not necessary because our bus was having mechanical trouble and wouldn’t leave for another hour. I sat down, took the load off my eternally grateful feet, and got comfortable for the bumpy and dusty ride back to El Calafate.

A Week in Bariloche...

I have no concept of time here. It’s 8PM but the sky reminds me of the way the sunrise comes over the hills of San Diego on an autumn morning. Maybe it’s because I’m on the Atlantic now, where the sun rises over the ocean and sets over the mountains. Or maybe it’s the much more plausible reason, that I’m sleep deprived after spending 26 hours on a bus and waiting for another bus in some small Argentine town no one back home has probably heard of.

So I ended up spending a week in Bariloche. I seem to be doing that a lot in Argentina. Staying some where longer than I initially intended. I hope it doesn’t become a trend. I checked into the 41 Below Hostel and was never gladder for having made a reservation in advance as I saw backpacker after backpacker turned away, often in the rain, because it seemed that every hostel in town was full. The Argentinians describe Bariloche as their very own Switzerland, and at first glance, it's easy to see how they can make the claim. During the winter, this small town become a bustling ski resort. But now it's summer, which means it's overrun by high school students roming the streets in bands of twenty or more, and of course, backpackers.

It is becoming a familiar pattern: check in, find the people I naturally gravitate to, and strike up a conversation. First the basics – Where are you from? Where are you going? How long have you been traveling for? It’s almost a rote; a dance travelers do over and over again. It’s easy, and expected, and I begin to hate it. But I feel guilty about this view because I fall into it so easily. I guess that’s the appeal.

So I found my New Years Eve festivities in Bariloche, though even before leaving the hostel, I had my reservations. The thing about New Years Eve is it is almost always, at least for me, anticlimactic. It can never live up to the hype. But despite this, I still chose to venture forth in to the drizzling night in search of some vague description of a party we may or may not receive admission to. It was on what supposedly a military base where they were turning people away in droves. Our chances looked bleak but in cases like these, it always helps to have a connected local, someone one in the know.

So Miguel spoke to the gate attendant for a few minutes and just like that, we were in. The party itself was like so many parties I’d been to. The music was loud and non-distinct. The venue was crowded almost to bursting the confines of the small building which enclosed it. And the alcohol was overpriced. We arrive around 4AM and had had enough by 6:30. By the time we made it back to the hostel, the sun was up and it was raining. Not the best New Years, but not the worse one by a long shot.

The rest of my time in Bariloche was spent mainly in the company of four British guys, on holiday before they entered the workforce, and a Californian named Tony. One day, purely on a whim, the British guys decided that they’d bike the 60 km route around the lake and in the briefest moment of insanity I decided that I’d tag along. By kilometer 8, I was dying. I don’t know how I managed to make it the whole way around, but I was rewarded with some spectacular views and a sense of accomplishment for my efforts.

That’s one thing Patagonia has no shortage of, spectacular views. Over every mountain is some crystal clear lake. Around each bend is some snow-capped, jagged peak jutting skyward toward heaven. And each sunset is an explosion of color no artist has been genius or insane enough to paint. If that were all there was here, it still might be enough to venture this far away from home.