When I first started thinking about a South American adventure, Bolivia and Peru were on the list but everything just kept pointing farther south. Santiago, Chile became the target but I never thought much about where I would go from there. On the map, it looked so far south initially that I thought I might stay put more and travel less. First Nation people consider that wherever you are, wherever you happen to be, that is the center of the universe. That idea can spin off in other directions and you can ruminate on them as much as you like. I like the thought of being centered. No matter where you are, if you want to go somewhere you have to begin where you happen to be. North of the equator, the reach to Terra del Fuego was so far; too far for me to imagine myself. But in Puerto Madryn, I was only 1200 miles from The Land of Fire. In Ushuaia they refer to it as ‘El Fin de Mundo’, The End of The Earth. I had gone from the Pacific coast, over the Andes, all the way to the Atlantic. If I wanted to see something new I would have to choose between north and south and that was no choice at all, Buenos Aires or the Pampas. There would be lots of new things to see and do, new friends to make. Even if I never made it to El Fin de Mundo, it would be an adventure. I bought a bus ticket south.
By now I knew what to expect on the bus. In line early, on board early I got a front seat with clear view through the second story windshield. Three bottles of water, maps, camera and a combination journal/sketch pad and I was ready as could be for the next 24 hours. Rio Gallegos is on the coast, all the way down to where the network of islands make up the southern tip of the continent. Highway 3 runs full length through treeless plains, pampas country. All my effort to get a good view was rewarded with a redundant landscape. Occasionally we saw a northbound truck or bus, likewise we were passed by pilgrims on motorcycles but on that stretch of endless highway you have to be your own stimulation. There were small towns, off the highway on bumpy roads; pit stops and passenger exchanges at unnamed intersections. I don’t think I slept at all but there were some cat naps and dozing.
Once, in the wee hours, I realized the motor was running, heater was on but we were at a standstill. There was the gray/pink light that beckons the sun but it was still dark inside the bus. Looking closely out the window it was easy to miss the sheep. Winter coming, stockmen were moving herds up the highway. Thousands of sheep surrounded the idle bus, moving up stream at a sheep’s pace. As light allowed, I saw men on 4-wheel ATV’s but dogs were doing all the work. One of the attendants came up the stairwell with a towel covered, wicker basket. I took 3 or 4 empanadas but I still had water and passed on the fruit juice. After what seemed like hours, the sun had risen, the bus motor changed pitch and my seat felt like a subtle tuning fork as the clutch disengaged. I felt gears change and we were rolling again.
It was lunch time in Rio Gallegos. They were remodeling the bus station. Most of the walls were plastic sheeting stretched over 2x4 frames with bare bulbs hanging overhead on extension cords. Even with the dust and wind whipping through the make shift shelter it felt good having my back pack and guitar in my own keeping. I had a two hour layover before my next bus. All I saw of the town was that it was low, no 4 story sky scrapers. But the city had a strong military presence. It was the marshaling area and jump off point during the Malvinas/Falkland Islands War. Twenty years later, feelings in the south of Argentina were still frayed over that defeat. Ultimately it led to an overthrow of the military regime and a new, elected government which was considered a great improvement but a culture of corruption was still prevalent.
Just a layover, my destination was El Calafate. Our bus was scaled down in size, comfort and attention to detail. Maybe an 18 passenger van with no attendant to stow baggage or serve empanadas; it reminded me of transportation for senior retirees back in the USA. If your bags fit in the overhead they went there, if not, you made space. It was still pampas but the countryside started changing. The road curved occasionally, a few trees here and there and bridges over streams broke up the doldrum. Calafate reminded me of El Bolson except the mountains were farther away. My hostel reservation had been upgraded from the men’s dorm to a private room. Two nights in El Calafate with my own bedside lamp and alarm clock; I felt special. Some stores were closed for the season but they were stocked for high dollar, big spenders and I was a trinket type. I was able to find a good meal and practiced a little Español with the waiter.
At this point, 52 degrees latitude is as far south as Labrador and Newfoundland are north. South America is tapered from north to south like a big carrot. From the coast line of the Chilean archipelago in the west to Argentina’s Atlantic shore, it was only about 300 miles. The end of May, early June; winter was at hand but still, the weather was fair. Such a small land mass surrounded by so much ocean, it acted like a big hot tub, staying off the bitter cold, if just a few degrees, for just a little while.
El Calafate is where you stay the night before you go to see Perito Moreno Glacier. Argentina’s most famous, most accessible glacier is up the road several hours at the end of the blacktop. Ascending first through uplands and foothills, finally to the outwash basin with its melt water lake, small ice bergs and Moreno’s toe. Several other tourists were onboard; our tour guide picked us up in the dark, under a street light at the Plaza De Armas. The drive was long enough we had to make take a necessary break at a road side park; a gravel turn out with port-a-johns. Another hour and a half up the road, with low angle morning sun behind us we came out of the forest to a stunning view. The trees opened up to frame an imposing wall of ice over a blue water pool. Above and beyond the toe, the glacier was pocked with crevices and dark lateral moraines. The whole thing was flowing ever so slowly, down through a low hanging valley into the outwash plain.
The road ended in the parking lot of a visitor’s center and restaurant. Complimentary coffee and a scone made me feel better even if the coffee was instant, from a cellophane sleeve and tasted like dirty hot water. The scone made up for it. Our guide would lead us on a 2 mile hike along the shore line and up the slope where we could look down on the ice. Then we would board the tour boat for a closer look at the ice wall. After that would be free time to explore the many trails, different views of the glacier and its outwash. It’s a rule; cold air wants to sink. On a mountain side, that means a cold wind knifing its way down through unobstructed corridors. The glacier was a virtual cold air duct and its wind had a serious edge. It was the first of many times I felt smug about my new coat.
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