Perito Moreno Glacier was my first glacier, up close or other wise. My tour group hiked along the shore line for a while then up a path into the woods. How could one not be impressed with all that ice, the fact that it was skidding down hill under the burden of its own weight. Beyond that I was attracted to parallel groves and scratch marks in the rock outcroppings. I thought, ‘Must be black granite with flecks of pink feldspar,’ but my best guess was still a guess. The groves all pointed up or down stream, depending on your orientation, that was a fact. But the scratch marks were perfectly parallel, every one. Imagine a cat at the top of a greased flagpole. Claws digging in against the metal but the cat can’t keep from sliding, slowly down the pole. Later, when you investigate, the grease has weathered away and all you can find are parallel scratch marks, up and down the pole. The cat ran off and the ice melted but the scratches tell the same story. Gravity works.
On the ride up, I met another American. Ann LaBianco was a marketing exec. for a news paper in Hollywood, Florida. In her mid 20’s, she seemed a little out of place but it isn’t unusual for young women to travel in 2’s or 3’s. She was killing a couple of days before she met a friend. I didn’t need to know any more and we got along like thieves. I was told later by an older woman that traveling alone, they felt safer in the company of an older man. I took that to mean my little old grandfather appearance had a function I hadn’t considered. I was a harmless companion and by association, a deterrent to unwanted advances.
The boat tour was great. From a distance our boat seemed great compared to the ice low against the water. But the closer we got the feeling reversed. It felt like we were under its shadow, even at a safe distance. Calving ice from the terminal wall could disable or destroy any boat that ventured too close. The top of the wall rose 100 feet or more above the water. Seeing ice fall meant you had to be looking directly at that spot when it broke loose. Otherwise, when you heard people react and turned to see, all you got was splash and the wave it made. I did see an ice fall but it was small and far down the face. We were all hoping for a big wave to rock the boat but no such luck. Our second wish was to stay warm and dry, and we got that. Returning to the visitor center, the last two hours of the tour was free time to hike and explore as you wish.
With a high sun the glacier took on the classic, blue glow. Cracks and fissures in particular, they radiated a vibrant blue that had nothing to do with reflections from the water. It’s good science, all about glacial ice, absorption and refraction. I explained it to Ms LaBianco but I don’t want to take the space here. They had ordered box lunches for us and the troop set off to explore on their own. The two of us wanted a meal rather than a box lunch and were ready to sit for a while. She didn’t speak any Spanish save for “sí” and “que pasa”. It made my contribution seem more savvy that it was. After all, I had mastered “por qué” and “de nada”. So we checked out with the leader and went into the dining room. Our choice was either beef or fish. We both went with the fish and vegetables, bread and butter, it wasn’t fancy but we got linen table cloth and napkins, real silverware and crystal. A bottle of Riesling and a second loaf of bread sealed the deal, we agreed that life is pretty good. She was north bound in the morning and I was headed west across the border, back into Chile.
Chile’s National Park, Torres Del Paine is their Yellowstone-Grand Canyon-Yosemite all in one. Being this close, I thought I’d better see it while I had the chance. At 2:00 a.m. I waited under the same street light at the Plaza de Armas in Calafate. Our transportation was yet another downgrade, to an old, white, 9 passenger van; not a box van with head room but a soccer mom’s van. One head light was dim, tilted down at an unauthorized angle and the exhaust rattled from a broken hanger mount. A young couple was already in the back seat. We secured my big bag to the roof rack and I settled with my guitar case propped up between my legs on the passenger side behind the shotgun seat. At the edge of town we picked up another man who had no luggage.
We took the same route as the morning before, toward Perito Moreno. All trucks and busses, most cars in Argentina are diesel powered, they get great mileage and run forever. But they make noise, the older ones especially. Our engine rattled and clattered, you could hear every valve open and close as it went cha-pak-a-ta-pak-a-ta up the road. At the Moreno Glacier split, we took the other fork and immediately began to climb. I dropped off to sleep. It was intermittent but sleep never the less. I realized I was awake by the shifting-leaning, right to left and left to right; we were turning some sharp corners. The sounds also spoke to a lower gear, slower speed and we had graduated from black top to gravel. Out the windshield, all I could see with one good headlight was mountain side on the left, steep climb ahead, a turn coming up and nothing but darkness on the right. I closed my eyes and slept again but not as well. The next time I opened my eyes I could see the pale sky, no sign of a guard rail and a virtual drop off on my side of the road that dissolved in darkness below. It was the first time on my trip that I thought about mortality.
First light overtook us. We passed through a steel farm gate and then another; I could see trees. Then there were fences and pens with mostly sheep and a few cows. We passed a low roof, lodge pole cabin with a lantern glowing in the window and smoke curling up from the stove pipe chimney, then another, and another. Deja vu! This was high pasture, summer camp - a border collie for every man. We stopped at a gate, a vaquero rode up on horseback and the lone man passenger got out. The driver knew them, they talked a bit and we drove on. Shortly we came into a grove of trees, maybe the edge of a forest. The road turned into a dirt two-track with big humps and deep swales. We had to creep along to keep from getting high centered. About a mile into the woods, the driver told us, “This is where you clear customs.” We needed to unload our baggage and have our passports ready.
The building was gray and green, a single story outpost with no signs of life. We waited at the door while the driver entered a code on the key board at the service window. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later the door opened and we went inside, into a dimly lit processing room. The only light was from a skylight in the ceiling. The border guard, the building, the whole thing reeked of a Quentin Tarantino movie. He was tall, awkward, unkept and sullen. Probably in his 50’s, it looked like he slept in his uniform. With disheveled hair and no hat, his shirt tail hung out where he couldn’t get it tucked inside his pants. His gruff mumbling was incomprehensible. He held his flashlight in his mouth as he checked the couple’s passports and rummaged through their belongings. My turn; OMG he was ugly. Seeing I was a gringo, he spoke with more precision. He asked what was in my bag; I answered, “Ropas, libros, regalos,” - clothes, books, gifts. He wanted to know if I had any alcohol. I said no and he asked again. I told him again, “No, no alcohol.” You play the guitar? he asked. I said, “Sí, lo toco.” yes, I play it. He opened my bag and reached in but didn’t pull anything out. Flashlight back in his mouth he looked through my passport, stamped it and walked away, through the door and that was it. Our driver told us, “De vuelta en el bús.” Back on the bus.
The two track went on for a few hundred meters. In a clearing was a brightly lit, modern stone building with big windows and a steeply pitched roof. It sat in the middle of a well maintained, crushed gravel road. Where the two track ended and the gravel began we stopped short. Our driver said. “You must carry your baggage from here.” We off loaded, he turned around and left us there, 20 meters short of the border.
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