Bariloche, Argentina; marooned without a credit or debit card I had the better part of the week to wait for money from my credit union in Michigan. I decided to take a boat tour on Lake Nahuel Huapi. So late in the season, the tour company had marked the tickets down. That morning I finished my Spanish lesson with time to spare. The boat could handle maybe 40 passengers but we would be lucky to fill half the seats. It was a rainy gray day, cold with the wind out of the south. Everything in Spanish, I wouldn’t be getting any help.
The ride was choppy but I like even bumpy rides. The program began with some geology, how the lake was formed, the mountains. I was picking up words on a subject I already knew. Lake Nahuel Huapi has 5 or 6 arms reaching out in all directions, never far from one shoreline or another. I brought a sandwich and a banana; good thinking. They did have a toilet and drinking water on board but not much else in the way of meeting passenger needs. We went ashore for a short nature hike so I was surprised when we stopped again later. This time we took a steep trail up the mountain side. Our guide was taking us to an old growth grove of Lenga trees. I knew about the Lenga. One of my room mates was Swiss, an engineer who had come through Punta Arenas, Chile where Lenga grow on the slopes above the Straights of Magellan. They were told that there are Lengas up there that looked down on Magellan when he made his first passage through the straights in the early 1500’s. Bariloche is farther north, more temperate than Punta Arenas but factor in the altitude and you get big, old trees, we would be seeing 500 + years Lenga. They are deciduous trees with a short growing season, losing their leaves in the fall. The more harsh the climate, the more they thrive.
I didn’t have to be told we were coming into the old growth trees. They were huge; 100 ft. tall, trunks with 5 ft. diameter. Like everywhere else in the world, great trees were harvested to keep up with the demands of civilization. But getting to the trees and getting them down to a saw mill was not cost effective around Lake Nahuel Huapi so the old growth has not been disturbed there. They are now protected in both Chile and Argentina. They made me think of the tree giants in the movie Lord Of The Rings. Leaves on the ground were ordinary yellow and gold, no clue to their pedigree except look up. The way back down was both steep and slippery, hand rails few and far between but the view over the cove was awesome. You could see the 2 or 3 miles across the lake to the far shore with white caps on the water and low clouds racing north. I was careful but kept taking in the scene thinking; ‘You can’t do this watching a travelogue.’
Back at TangoInn I wrote in my journal and talked with Herman, working behind the counter. I asked him about the dogs. There is a vestibule or alcove you have to pass through as you enter the building with just enough space for doors to open and close, for a potted plant and a rack full of tour brochures. In the morning and at night there were two dogs sleeping on a small rug in that alcove. Both medium size world-dogs; mongrels. One, a long hair black while the other with short hair, black speckles on white. They managed to keep out from under-foot and responded to a kind word and a pat on the head. During the day they went somewhere else. Herman said they were citizens. They didn’t belong to any one, they just slept at TangoInn. I asked about feeding them. He said that they didn’t but sometimes travelers give them treats. “If you want to feed them it’s between you and the dog.”
Before the trip I bought a leather bomber jacket for the South American winter but the lining was thin and I was cold on the boat that afternoon. I would need something more suitable as I went farther south with winter setting in. Herman suggested I could sell my leather jacket there at the hostel; “People sell stuff here all the time.” It was a good idea, packing useless stuff is no way to travel. But I would need a new coat and I was still waiting on money from home.
There was a big football game on TV that night. Liverpool against the Italians for a championship; the bars downtown would have a Super Bowl atmosphere and I could follow the action in spite of the high speed commentary. I had a grilled cheese sandwich, some chips and nursed a beer for several hours watching the game go on and on and on. The rest of the crowd was really into it, yelling, pounding on table tops, beer after beer to the owner’s delight. The game was a delayed broadcast as it had been played hours earlier in Europe but nobody knew or cared. I think bars are bars around the world. If you keep food prices low the crowd eats more and drinks more. A young man asked if he could share the booth and the good line of sight to the big screen. His only interest was the big screen and the beer in his hand. All I learned about him was he didn’t like the British and he drank cerveza Crystal. The crowd was mostly for Italy and the Brits were ahead. It was well after dark, not much time left on the clock and it seemed likely Liverpool would hang onto their 2 goal lead. I headed back toward TangoInn.
The bar was down near the lake shore. I could go back the way I came or take the long walk by the boats tied up in their slips, around the hill, a little farther but no uphill. Street lights were no more than small bulbs on a pole or on the side of a building. I felt like a sailor in the dark, plotting course from one star to the next. My street, between the lake and the hillside was too narrow for cars to pass. The side streets running up the hill were dark and steep, every business closed for the night. I heard something, looked over my shoulder and saw a pack of dogs behind me, across the street next to the retaining wall. They had a leader, walking with a purpose, some place to go. At the next up street the front dog turned up the hill with 5 or 6 others right behind. But one dog didn’t go up the hill, it kept on in the same direction I was going. The narrow cobblestone street narrowed and became a pedestrian walkway that put the dog walking just off my hip. It was speckled like the dog at TangoInn. Under a light I spoke and it looked up at me. All speckled with one black ear; it was the dog from TangoInn.
Anthropomorphize, all you have to do is assign human attributes to things not human. I don’t think a dog can feel sorry for you or be thankful but dogs can and do have large vocabularies. They understand and remember what certain words mean. When you say, “Go for a walk.” some know they are going for some exercise. “Cookie or Treat” mean something good to eat. I knew that and I knew the speckled dog didn’t speak English so did my best in his language. ?Te vas a casa? I asked. No response, just straight ahead walking. It was obvious, the dog was keeping pace with me. I sped up and so did the dog. Back at TangoInn I noticed the black dog was already curled up on the rug. I opened the door and speckled dog slipped in ahead of me, turned a circle and laid down. I reached down, registered several pats on the head that seemed to be appreciated. Inside, Meg (short for Magdalena) was the only one at the desk. I asked her about the dogs again. She said they come home at night and wait for someone to let them in. The leave in the morning when someone opens the door. So I’ve lived with the question for all these years. Did Speckles recognize me in town that night and know I would open the door or was it just an anthropomorphic anomaly? It really doesn’t matter because it’s a great story either way.
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