Settling in Argentina came with the promise of travel to its wild hinterlands and beyond. In addition, we have an entire new continent to discover with places of indescribable beauty of which we have seen but pictures. To date we have not gotten much farther then the local tourist attraction, the Cañon Atuel, on a crowded day. Recently we made it a point to go exploring.

From our property in wintertime, when the poplars at its perimeter have shed all their leaves, we see the dimpled top of a wide-based, cone-shaped mountain singularly placed in the landscape. I have looked at this mountain many times without knowing its name; it has the appearance of a volcano that has blown its top not too long ago.

Locals tell me it is the Cerro Nevada and yes, it is a volcano. Extinct? One is not sure. I hear from someone that a soil sample taken from her land revealed a white layer of volcanic ash not so deep below the surface. In my research before departing I placed all seismic and volcanic activity at a convenient distance from our place, but I was sorely mistaken. One Saturday morning when I visit the local grocer I am greeted by the excited owner whether I felt it? Felt what? Did I not feel the shaking and the trembling of the earth? Did I not hear the sound of the land? No, I heard or felt nothing. He pushes a salami hanging above the counter into a wide swing to indicate its sway during the time of the tremor. That is a pretty good swing I remark; yes 4.9 on the Richter scale. I think he is joking but later his tale is confirmed. When I inquire I learn that a small village located only 15 km from our house disappeared in its entirety during an earthquake mid-twentieth century. It has been rebuilt but that is none too reassuring!

One Sunday morning we pack a lunch, grab our raingear and hiking boots, several bottles of drinking water and set out to explore the Cerro Nevada. The map indicates a secondary road leading to a small settlement, Punta del Agua, located at the foot of the volcano. To find this road we drive along a gravel thoroughfare, through sleepy towns where only chickens and pigs are busy in the streets; we move along adobe settlements which become poorer as we head into drier land; we finally reach a sign on which we make out the name of Punta del Agua. We are on the right trek.

The road is initially hard-packed dirt, bordered by low rounded shrubbery, on their branches brown-papery leaves covered with a thick layer of dust.  Thorny bushes and an occasional spindly tree fill out the landscape, dry riverbeds intersect the land. No footpaths or animal trails. There is wildlife though, but of the dead kind. Soon into our journey I notice a skeleton, bones bleached white, of a rather large animal, a cow or a horse. We see many more bones along the way. At one point a maroon-colored hide forms a tent over the skeletal remains of a cow. Black vultures circle the sky. It is a forbidding land, hardly any water, little food. It places the tale of our manager in proper perspective. He is a descendent of a group of Welsh immigrants  who almost all perished  of thirst during their first winter in Argentina. They settled along the coast and despite the ample presence of sea water, the desert just beyond the ocean did not yield a drop to drink that winter.

We cross over many washes where water has not passed for a very long time; dirt has become fine sand in which it is easy to get stuck. Arn negotiates these washes expertly, but not without trepidation. He has been stuck in the soft sand of a neighboring farm, unable to dig out without the help of an available tractor. No tractor in sight in this forsaken land. We have driven for more than two hours without seeing a soul. We step out of the car, sniff the air for water, scan the horizon for signs of life, strain our ears but only hear the wind, no other sounds, not even a bird just the soaring vultures. Back in the truck I steal a glance at the gas gauge, still a half full tank.  I am increasingly anxious, no longer enjoying the day or the clear blue sky. 

We see the Cerro Nevada looming ever closer, a dusting of snow covering its flanks. The road starts climbing; large blocks of black basalt are now strewn along the land, fewer trees dot the landscape. The land is stark and dark in every shade of grey and black. It reminds me of the land of doom pictured in the Lord of the Ring. When we barely make it out of the bottom of a drywash I scream out loud. I want to turn back; rather know what we are in for however long it takes than continue on an increasingly nerve-wrecking path. Arn agrees, but proposes to hold out a little longer, the map indicates a settlement nearby, if we donot get there within half an hour we will turn around.

We move on, winding along a narrow path until, around a bend in the road, we see a truck, heavily loaded with firewood, slowly making its way towards us. The truck creaks to a halt when we flag it down; three men on the front-seat, all heads turned our way, not saying a word. We show the map to inquire but receive just a blank stare; then I mention the name of the nearest settlement and ask how far. Still one hour. Road passable? A nod and a toothless smile. We may as well go on.

It is late afternoon, we have not hiked one step, so, when we are back to the familiar landscape of bushes and low brush we stop to stretch our legs. I look for a trail where we might walk, hike about 100 meters along an open stretch of land and am stopped by a sharp stab in my foot. An incredibly long thick thorn has pierced the sole of my hiking boot and the skin of my foot. When I look closer at the surrounding vegetation I notice enormously long thorns (2-3 inches/6-7cm) jutting from the branches in an amazing multitude. It makes the desert impenetrable and our hiking endeavor impossible. Moreover, I have lost my desire to hike; this adventure is way beyond my liking.   

We happen upon the settlement indicated on the map; we find it along an intersection of two dirt roads, a few tents and trailers sit alongside large earth moving equipment. Apparently this is a road construction site. We see few people; it is Sunday, a day of rest. We decide to move on, but not before, just out of town, being stopped by a car sitting sideways across the road, blocking our way. The driver eyes us, then our vehicle and asks whether we have tires for sale. We are taken aback by this question, and a little leery; after all we are many miles from civilization. No need, this man who owns a sizable plot of land, is a rancher, he has a herd of free-roaming cattle, doesn’t get to town much and is always in need of tires. We only have the tires under our vehicle and need those to get back home; with a handshake we part ways.   

Another hour to Punta del Agua and since it is our only way out of the desert we continue on. We arrive early evening; the town is an unexpectedly delightful little place, an oasis of flowers and greenery in the middle of a vast stretch of desert shrub. The town’s water supply is run-off snowmelt from the volcano. Creeks are gurgling alongside the dirt roads, people are hanging out in their gardens or amble on the main plaza. It is late though, we have little time to linger; we make a swing through town before heading back to the main highway, which takes us to our home in less than two hours. We should have taken this road to begin with! So much for heeding our desire for exploring and adventure! Next time we will ask before setting out.

Only a few days later we meet Jorge, a mountain climber, camper, hiking guide and rafting specialist. He tells us of the beauty of the land, of the mountains and the wide open spaces where he disappears for days on end; he listens to our tale of disappointment then laughs and tells us we have gone the wrong direction; next time take the opposite way west and north and we will find what we are looking for. Our next journey is planned!