We woke up late.
Not late for anything, just late in relative terms of mornings. It was good.
In my drowsy state I laboured over boiling water for our porridge and coffee, and had to re-learn the knacks for a quick boil on the hobo-stove.
We were on the trail by midday, and joked about our dedication and fastidiousness. The trail became more wooded, but stayed low at the foot of the valley, and took us past lots of wild bulls grazing in the meadowy forest, which were surprisingly calm and docile.
Soon enough two dogs appeared - one a very dark chocolate labradore, and the other a dappled white... dog (breeds are not my forte, and this dog was comprised of many).
They didn't go in for the usual canine "Me first!" routine, and were perfectly happy walking either side of us on the trail, or more usually one in front and one behind.
When we stopped for a snack "Here we go!" I said, waiting for the inevitable tongue out, and puppy-dog eyes I expected to see trying to tear us from our limited food supplies. It turned out they just wanted a good walk, and neither one begged for food, or attention even a little bit - which was useful and endearing.
After a few more hours walking with our new friends we both became inexplicably tired, and after a slice of my own home-baked bread with Lago Peulean honey we dozed off next to a stream on the track.
When I woke up, Kevin was talking to someone. As I was dozing I supposed it was the dogs, but there were definitely spanish replies, and I realised we were not alone.
There was a small Chileno, with only a five litre backpack on, it turned out he was leading a group of ten, mainly Chilean tourists who were "walking to Cochamo".
This was disheartening, not only were we doing something which wasn't unique and special, but there were paid-for hikers to bump into. We knew we had to decide whether we wanted to try to stay ahead or behind them - they were cramping our style.
Kevin had a nearly twenty kilogram load, thanks to his camera equipment and laptop - which meant I was carrying all our water and nearly all the food. We were both using school-bag type rucksacks, without any structural rigidity, or waist straps.
From what we had seen the group mostly had no packs, a few had very small day bags, presumably with snacks and a drink in.
We decided to stay ahead of them.
As we forged on a small sense of pride pervaded the initial dismay when the dogs followed us - all logic suggested the holiday-makers would be a much better source of snacks and petting, but these dogs were vagabond travellers and sensed our kindred spirits.
Then the comforting thought appeared that we may have rained on the groups parade too - their grand paid-for adventure was being taken on by a couple of smelly gringos, carrying all their own gear without even a pair of proper rucksacks to rub together.
In some meadows along the river later on the track petered out, and we passed a small track which seemingly only lead to a small farmhouse. We stayed next to the river on the previous heading of the trail.
A couple of kilometers later we were stuck, hemmed in by a sizeable stream which lead back to the farmhouse.
As we got back to the house we could see the group, on the correct side of the stream and passing the house. So we stayed behind and the dogs chased rabbits through the long-grassed meadow.
It was nice to get our boots off and relax with our new furry friends, but soon enough a motley crew of three mongrels sauntered over from the farmhouse in a wave of barks and growls.
Our peace was well and truly shattered, but we'd seen Falluch (the dog from Lago Puelo) in enough fights on this continent to know that most end before lasting injuries, so tried to keep cool. The dark one managed to keep his honour without any more than a lot of growling and a few warning snaps, but the white(ish) one had a couple of nasty tussles with a young but burly opponent.
Our packs' pride was left intact though, and we'd earnt our right to this patch of grass, and, hopefully passage through their farm too. We waded across the stream and waved to the farmhouse family as they tried in vain to call back their dogs. It was probably for the best we hadn't come straight through the correct way as the defending pack may not have backed down.
The trail began snaking up the forested slope of the valley, and at our next break we decided our friends deserved names. "Blackey" and "Whitey" were Kev's suggestions, but were clearly not Hispanic enough so we ended up with "Negro" and "Blanco".
Their personalities were becoming apparent - before sitting down Blanco would select the best spot and spend a minute carefully pawing away any debris before taking a seat. Negro on the other hand would fall lazily onto his left side in the middle of the trail at the first scent of a break.
Blanco enjoyed taking the lead, getting dirty and chasing birds - where Negro was more sedate, he's a bit podgy with a small limp on his right leg and is most happy plodding behind keeping an eye on everyone.
We'd seen that we'd be cutting a bend in the river by crossing a low protrusion of the mountain north of us. As we were looking for the track at the foot of the forested incline Kev saw an apple tree, and we each had a free snack off nature.
Our bodies rejoiced, this felt like just what we were missing in our carb-heavy trail diet and was a huge lift to my spirits. It's strange how a simple apple becomes a big deal, but this was really beautiful moment in my mind - good spot Kev! I shook a dozen off the laden branches and bagged them for lunches to come.
We tracked through the steep forest, Blanco and Negro in tow and before we knew it stumbled across the bridge over the river back to the dirt road on the south side of our Rio Manso. We'd made the twenty or so kilometers we'd wanted that day even with a very late start and a wrong turn.
It was after 8 p.m. so while Kevin scouted a camp I went over the bridge to see what was available at the campsite which was marked on the map. I mainly wanted to know if there was a Gendarmerie post for us to officially stamp out of Argentina in the Nahuel Huapi National Park on the north side of the river - different maps I had seen hadn't agreed on the point.
But I was distracted - they had a great selection of local dried meats and home-made jams. Eventually I selected two huge salamis and a quince jam, knowing that the non-labelled, non-factory-sealed fruits and meats were entirely illegal to take over the border which we'd reach the next day.
I got more than I bargained for though, and the campsite owner wasn't relieved at all that I wasn't alone, but had a smelly Irish friend and two dogs with me. He wouldn't answer my question (about the Gendarmerie) though, and was far more interested in making sure I knew it was totally prohibited to make any fire on the other side of the river in the National Park.
I was careful to be honest, so only assured him in my best Spanish that I knew and understood - not that I wouldn't.
He was sure that we'd never be able to navigate the myriad of unused tracks and river crossings without a guide, and was convinced we'd be back here tomorrow night after a long day getting lost if we tried.
Kevin, Negro and Blanco were waiting for me back on the north side of Rio Manso and had found a great little beach for the night. We talked the next day over while cooking on our naughty fire and reasoned that as we still didn't know if we could be stamped out legally from this side, and wanted to beat the group to the border formalities that we should stick to the dirt-road side, it was only ten kilometers after all.
Blanco and Negro sat patiently while we got naked, washed and swam in the river, and once we bedded down Blanco laid at Kev's feet while Negro slept by my head.
The Milky Way was yet more vivid, the Magellanic Clouds were thick and distinct, and the tiny glow of an orbiting satellite had me thinking about human nature and the desire to explore.
View A Walk to Chile in a larger map
Not late for anything, just late in relative terms of mornings. It was good.
In my drowsy state I laboured over boiling water for our porridge and coffee, and had to re-learn the knacks for a quick boil on the hobo-stove.
We were on the trail by midday, and joked about our dedication and fastidiousness. The trail became more wooded, but stayed low at the foot of the valley, and took us past lots of wild bulls grazing in the meadowy forest, which were surprisingly calm and docile.
Soon enough two dogs appeared - one a very dark chocolate labradore, and the other a dappled white... dog (breeds are not my forte, and this dog was comprised of many).
They didn't go in for the usual canine "Me first!" routine, and were perfectly happy walking either side of us on the trail, or more usually one in front and one behind.
When we stopped for a snack "Here we go!" I said, waiting for the inevitable tongue out, and puppy-dog eyes I expected to see trying to tear us from our limited food supplies. It turned out they just wanted a good walk, and neither one begged for food, or attention even a little bit - which was useful and endearing.
After a few more hours walking with our new friends we both became inexplicably tired, and after a slice of my own home-baked bread with Lago Peulean honey we dozed off next to a stream on the track.
When I woke up, Kevin was talking to someone. As I was dozing I supposed it was the dogs, but there were definitely spanish replies, and I realised we were not alone.
There was a small Chileno, with only a five litre backpack on, it turned out he was leading a group of ten, mainly Chilean tourists who were "walking to Cochamo".
This was disheartening, not only were we doing something which wasn't unique and special, but there were paid-for hikers to bump into. We knew we had to decide whether we wanted to try to stay ahead or behind them - they were cramping our style.
Kevin had a nearly twenty kilogram load, thanks to his camera equipment and laptop - which meant I was carrying all our water and nearly all the food. We were both using school-bag type rucksacks, without any structural rigidity, or waist straps.
From what we had seen the group mostly had no packs, a few had very small day bags, presumably with snacks and a drink in.
We decided to stay ahead of them.
As we forged on a small sense of pride pervaded the initial dismay when the dogs followed us - all logic suggested the holiday-makers would be a much better source of snacks and petting, but these dogs were vagabond travellers and sensed our kindred spirits.
Then the comforting thought appeared that we may have rained on the groups parade too - their grand paid-for adventure was being taken on by a couple of smelly gringos, carrying all their own gear without even a pair of proper rucksacks to rub together.
In some meadows along the river later on the track petered out, and we passed a small track which seemingly only lead to a small farmhouse. We stayed next to the river on the previous heading of the trail.
A couple of kilometers later we were stuck, hemmed in by a sizeable stream which lead back to the farmhouse.
As we got back to the house we could see the group, on the correct side of the stream and passing the house. So we stayed behind and the dogs chased rabbits through the long-grassed meadow.
It was nice to get our boots off and relax with our new furry friends, but soon enough a motley crew of three mongrels sauntered over from the farmhouse in a wave of barks and growls.
Our peace was well and truly shattered, but we'd seen Falluch (the dog from Lago Puelo) in enough fights on this continent to know that most end before lasting injuries, so tried to keep cool. The dark one managed to keep his honour without any more than a lot of growling and a few warning snaps, but the white(ish) one had a couple of nasty tussles with a young but burly opponent.
Our packs' pride was left intact though, and we'd earnt our right to this patch of grass, and, hopefully passage through their farm too. We waded across the stream and waved to the farmhouse family as they tried in vain to call back their dogs. It was probably for the best we hadn't come straight through the correct way as the defending pack may not have backed down.
The trail began snaking up the forested slope of the valley, and at our next break we decided our friends deserved names. "Blackey" and "Whitey" were Kev's suggestions, but were clearly not Hispanic enough so we ended up with "Negro" and "Blanco".
Their personalities were becoming apparent - before sitting down Blanco would select the best spot and spend a minute carefully pawing away any debris before taking a seat. Negro on the other hand would fall lazily onto his left side in the middle of the trail at the first scent of a break.
Blanco enjoyed taking the lead, getting dirty and chasing birds - where Negro was more sedate, he's a bit podgy with a small limp on his right leg and is most happy plodding behind keeping an eye on everyone.
We'd seen that we'd be cutting a bend in the river by crossing a low protrusion of the mountain north of us. As we were looking for the track at the foot of the forested incline Kev saw an apple tree, and we each had a free snack off nature.
Our bodies rejoiced, this felt like just what we were missing in our carb-heavy trail diet and was a huge lift to my spirits. It's strange how a simple apple becomes a big deal, but this was really beautiful moment in my mind - good spot Kev! I shook a dozen off the laden branches and bagged them for lunches to come.
We tracked through the steep forest, Blanco and Negro in tow and before we knew it stumbled across the bridge over the river back to the dirt road on the south side of our Rio Manso. We'd made the twenty or so kilometers we'd wanted that day even with a very late start and a wrong turn.
It was after 8 p.m. so while Kevin scouted a camp I went over the bridge to see what was available at the campsite which was marked on the map. I mainly wanted to know if there was a Gendarmerie post for us to officially stamp out of Argentina in the Nahuel Huapi National Park on the north side of the river - different maps I had seen hadn't agreed on the point.
But I was distracted - they had a great selection of local dried meats and home-made jams. Eventually I selected two huge salamis and a quince jam, knowing that the non-labelled, non-factory-sealed fruits and meats were entirely illegal to take over the border which we'd reach the next day.
I got more than I bargained for though, and the campsite owner wasn't relieved at all that I wasn't alone, but had a smelly Irish friend and two dogs with me. He wouldn't answer my question (about the Gendarmerie) though, and was far more interested in making sure I knew it was totally prohibited to make any fire on the other side of the river in the National Park.
I was careful to be honest, so only assured him in my best Spanish that I knew and understood - not that I wouldn't.
He was sure that we'd never be able to navigate the myriad of unused tracks and river crossings without a guide, and was convinced we'd be back here tomorrow night after a long day getting lost if we tried.
Kevin, Negro and Blanco were waiting for me back on the north side of Rio Manso and had found a great little beach for the night. We talked the next day over while cooking on our naughty fire and reasoned that as we still didn't know if we could be stamped out legally from this side, and wanted to beat the group to the border formalities that we should stick to the dirt-road side, it was only ten kilometers after all.
Blanco and Negro sat patiently while we got naked, washed and swam in the river, and once we bedded down Blanco laid at Kev's feet while Negro slept by my head.
The Milky Way was yet more vivid, the Magellanic Clouds were thick and distinct, and the tiny glow of an orbiting satellite had me thinking about human nature and the desire to explore.
View A Walk to Chile in a larger map
No comments:
Post a Comment