helenargentina (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} helenargentina) wrote,@ 2006-11-20 14:09:00 |
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MOUNTAIN TRAVEL
In late spring, after the land is readied and nature does the remaining work without our intervention, we take another trip. This time we head to the south-western part of the Mendoza province, the state where we live. It is the land of massive mountains, snow-capped peaks and narrow passes; it is also the land where the two rivers that flood the narrow strip of fertile land around San Rafael originate. We have done our homework; we have read the tourist guides, informed ourselves online and gathered advice from friends who headed the same direction. Thus prepared we set off.
Each time we leave the boundaries of the oasis of vineyards and orchards between the rivers Atuel and Diamante, I am aghast. The change from fruit-producing greenery to barren land devoid of obvious signs of life is so sudden that it is a shock to the system. I have not gotten used to this desert-scape despite the frequent remarks that the desert has its own beauty. My mind’s eye pictures the saguaros studded Arizona deserts, the golden hills of the Colorado sand dunes and the canyon-lands of Southern Utah, but this dusty land does not compare.
We drive for many miles through endless wasteland, only an occasional ramshackle dwelling dots the land. We pass a drying lakebed; its intense white reflection captures our attention from afar. Getting closer we notice a small settlement and a sign indicating that salt is mined; even here, in these harsh conditions, people live and work. I cannot imagine. The landscape changes drastically as we get closer to Malargüe, the mountain town where we plan to stay. Life sustaining water runs through the irrigation ditches and tall poplars and birdlife appear. Beyond the borderline of trees we see fields of wheat. Malargüe was once a wheat producing community, but since the land was covered by 30 centimeters of volcanic ashes in the early 20th century, it abandoned farming, instead its focus became tourism. An old dilapidated flourmill at the outskirts of town is being restored to serve this purpose. We have come here as tourists as well.
The town itself has not much to offer, its main charm is its unspoiled simplicity. We are here to see the sights of the surroundings: the majestic mountains; a flamingo packed lake; and, a witches’ cave. We head straight for the tourist office, we have learnt by now that beauty is only revealed when one knows where to look. We request a guide to show us around. An older gentleman shows up, every bit the mountain man: tall, muscular, leathery tanned with piercing blue eyes and a long white beard. He speaks perfect English with an old-fashioned British accent. We are utterly surprised until I see his name, which I mistake for Dutch, but no, he is of Danish descent, born in Argentina as a second generation immigrant to a Danish father and a British mother. He learnt British English at home from his mother.
We set off to the Laguna de LLancanelo, a shallow lake where Chilean flamingos breed. The lake is located in a vast expanse of dry desert shrub surrounded by cone-shaped hills of reddish and gray colored rock. It is the land of 800-volcanoes, among which the snow-capped top of the Cerro Nevado. Our guide takes us first to one of the volcanoes and we climb to its rim along a rocky path of sharp-edged lava stones. On top we have a view of the lake which is much larger than I expect. We are here to spot flamingos. At first I see nothing but then when my eyes are adjusted to the glare of the sun on the water I start making out small islands of coral pink. These are flamingos tightly huddled together to withstand the midday heat; they appear as a circle of color in a glass-colored lake. The circles will break apart in late afternoon when the individual birds disperse to feed. We select three large groups of flamingos, then head down the mountain to find a site for closer viewing. The walk down is precarious, the lava rock sits atop sand and does not allow for a foothold; it is easy to slide and roll down. Moreover, the desert bushes are not the plants one wants to grab onto in case of a slip. The guide shows us how to descend and also which bushes are without thorns, just in case. He himself is 83 years old and he tells us he needs to take his time and deliberately chose each step. He used to run up these hills but no longer. We take our time.
By late afternoon we arrive at a viewing site along the lake; we have hiked about a mile along its muddy shore to get closer to one of the flamingo groups we spotted from up high. The birds are already feeding and unfortunately have moved much farther into the lake; even through my binoculars I get but a distant view. I am sorely disappointed; I apparently expect a zoo where animals are on display for the spectator’s pleasure. Just as I ponder the ridiculousness of my reactions I spot an undulating banner of pink somewhere in the distance; a formation of about twelve birds is flying low over the water, necks curved, feet outstretched, wings reddish pink with a flutter of black. They are heading straight for us. We could not have been better positioned to take in this splendid view; the sun is behind us and a wall of dark maroon mountains functions as a color-coordinated backdrop. It is a marvelous spectacle of color and grace. We follow the waving ribbon until it disappears out of sight. I feel blessed to have been here at the right time and in the right place. We head back for town and a late evening meal.
The following day we are on our own. We decide to explore the area by car and by afternoon we will visit the witches’ cave, La Caverna de las Brujas in the nearby mountains. The track through the mountains is more of an adventure than we expect; the land is hilly, the road, a main thoroughfare to the east coast, is in dire need of maintenance. We bounce around potholes and over slabs of stone, scamper over gravel and slither through mud. We notice many herds of long-haired goats along narrow trails in the steep hills; scraggly sheep with their young dart about. It is spring all right! Around midday sheepherders come down the mountain for lunch; some are on horseback, many on foot. At one time I see a shepherd on horseback in full gaucho attire: leather saddle and stirrups, a poncho and the military green flaring pants, a sombrero to cap of his looks. He is a handsome man. I realize that nothing here is done simply for looks though; this is still their way of life. We notice the shelters where animals are rounded up for the night; large corrals securely enclosed with a wide, sturdy fence of tightly woven branches, tumbleweeds and thorny bushes. Refuge against the harsh elements and wild animals; pumas still roam this land. We venture deeper into the hills until we arrive at our turn-off for the caves.
The landscape changes completely; we enter a mountainous track and find ourselves encircled by splendid white peaks against the backdrop of a blue sky. It is rocky as always but here evergreen bushes give some color to the land; the bushes are heavy with buds which carry the promise of red blooms. Behind small rocky outcroppings a minuscule plant flowers in pink. It is here that the caves are located. When we step out of the car we have to hold on for dear life; the wind howls so fierce that we can barely stand straight. A guide coming out of a stone building to greet us, tells us, that this wind is nothing, it always blows like this; wait till the snow comes and the below zero temperatures hit, then life is almost impossible for humans. At such times they have to remain indoors with all shutters securely closed and everything bolted down until the storm passes. We are near Patagonia.
We enter the caves with one other family and a guide, each a hardhat with miners lamp on our heads. It is no sight and I suspect it is not for function but rather to add to the general experience of caving. I am sorely mistaken, never in my life have I been on such a climb-over, drag-through, crawl-under, get-wet kind of outing. I bump my head repeatedly against the very hard rocks and I am exceedingly glad that the small torch on my hat illuminates my path without the use of my hands. At one point the soundness of the minimum admission age of nine is demonstrated clearly; the arms of the youngest member of our group are too short to easily reach the ladder on the opposing wall over an immensely deep abyss. She is very scared, fear written all over her face and I am glad that her father is in the position to reach out and lift her over. The guide entertains us with ghoulish and scary stories and I realize it is the 31 of October, Halloween in the States. The caves are the perfect setting for this day. When we enter daylight the weather is changing, the sun still shines but dark clouds gather and the temperature has dropped a good 10 degrees Celcius. We hurry back to town before the snow hits.
We spent our last vacation day in the mountains visiting Las Leñas, a ski resort considered the Argentinean equivalent of Aspen in Colorado. It is here that the South American jet-set gathers in winter. The setting is spectacular, although the ski-town leaves much to be desired. We visit La Laguna de la Niña Encantada, a high mirror-like mountain lake that has become a place of pilgrimage. A grotto of the Virgin Mary is set under the natural overhang of a towering rock; folded pieces of paper and colorful cloths, each representing a promise to go with a supplication, are tucked into natural crevices or tied to a branch. Photos are stuck behind riverstones and candles are lit in front of a blue draped statue of the virgin. Beliefs are strong and Catholicism is alive and well. It is a peaceful setting until two busloads of schoolchildren are dropped off for a short recess. Tranquility is replaced by exited screams and loud chatter produced by jubilant kids on a school-outing. Time for us to hit the trail home.
We return to the heat of the plains and find our finca well on its way to our second harvest season.
In late spring, after the land is readied and nature does the remaining work without our intervention, we take another trip. This time we head to the south-western part of the Mendoza province, the state where we live. It is the land of massive mountains, snow-capped peaks and narrow passes; it is also the land where the two rivers that flood the narrow strip of fertile land around San Rafael originate. We have done our homework; we have read the tourist guides, informed ourselves online and gathered advice from friends who headed the same direction. Thus prepared we set off.
Each time we leave the boundaries of the oasis of vineyards and orchards between the rivers Atuel and Diamante, I am aghast. The change from fruit-producing greenery to barren land devoid of obvious signs of life is so sudden that it is a shock to the system. I have not gotten used to this desert-scape despite the frequent remarks that the desert has its own beauty. My mind’s eye pictures the saguaros studded Arizona deserts, the golden hills of the Colorado sand dunes and the canyon-lands of Southern Utah, but this dusty land does not compare.
We drive for many miles through endless wasteland, only an occasional ramshackle dwelling dots the land. We pass a drying lakebed; its intense white reflection captures our attention from afar. Getting closer we notice a small settlement and a sign indicating that salt is mined; even here, in these harsh conditions, people live and work. I cannot imagine. The landscape changes drastically as we get closer to Malargüe, the mountain town where we plan to stay. Life sustaining water runs through the irrigation ditches and tall poplars and birdlife appear. Beyond the borderline of trees we see fields of wheat. Malargüe was once a wheat producing community, but since the land was covered by 30 centimeters of volcanic ashes in the early 20th century, it abandoned farming, instead its focus became tourism. An old dilapidated flourmill at the outskirts of town is being restored to serve this purpose. We have come here as tourists as well.
The town itself has not much to offer, its main charm is its unspoiled simplicity. We are here to see the sights of the surroundings: the majestic mountains; a flamingo packed lake; and, a witches’ cave. We head straight for the tourist office, we have learnt by now that beauty is only revealed when one knows where to look. We request a guide to show us around. An older gentleman shows up, every bit the mountain man: tall, muscular, leathery tanned with piercing blue eyes and a long white beard. He speaks perfect English with an old-fashioned British accent. We are utterly surprised until I see his name, which I mistake for Dutch, but no, he is of Danish descent, born in Argentina as a second generation immigrant to a Danish father and a British mother. He learnt British English at home from his mother.
We set off to the Laguna de LLancanelo, a shallow lake where Chilean flamingos breed. The lake is located in a vast expanse of dry desert shrub surrounded by cone-shaped hills of reddish and gray colored rock. It is the land of 800-volcanoes, among which the snow-capped top of the Cerro Nevado. Our guide takes us first to one of the volcanoes and we climb to its rim along a rocky path of sharp-edged lava stones. On top we have a view of the lake which is much larger than I expect. We are here to spot flamingos. At first I see nothing but then when my eyes are adjusted to the glare of the sun on the water I start making out small islands of coral pink. These are flamingos tightly huddled together to withstand the midday heat; they appear as a circle of color in a glass-colored lake. The circles will break apart in late afternoon when the individual birds disperse to feed. We select three large groups of flamingos, then head down the mountain to find a site for closer viewing. The walk down is precarious, the lava rock sits atop sand and does not allow for a foothold; it is easy to slide and roll down. Moreover, the desert bushes are not the plants one wants to grab onto in case of a slip. The guide shows us how to descend and also which bushes are without thorns, just in case. He himself is 83 years old and he tells us he needs to take his time and deliberately chose each step. He used to run up these hills but no longer. We take our time.
By late afternoon we arrive at a viewing site along the lake; we have hiked about a mile along its muddy shore to get closer to one of the flamingo groups we spotted from up high. The birds are already feeding and unfortunately have moved much farther into the lake; even through my binoculars I get but a distant view. I am sorely disappointed; I apparently expect a zoo where animals are on display for the spectator’s pleasure. Just as I ponder the ridiculousness of my reactions I spot an undulating banner of pink somewhere in the distance; a formation of about twelve birds is flying low over the water, necks curved, feet outstretched, wings reddish pink with a flutter of black. They are heading straight for us. We could not have been better positioned to take in this splendid view; the sun is behind us and a wall of dark maroon mountains functions as a color-coordinated backdrop. It is a marvelous spectacle of color and grace. We follow the waving ribbon until it disappears out of sight. I feel blessed to have been here at the right time and in the right place. We head back for town and a late evening meal.
The following day we are on our own. We decide to explore the area by car and by afternoon we will visit the witches’ cave, La Caverna de las Brujas in the nearby mountains. The track through the mountains is more of an adventure than we expect; the land is hilly, the road, a main thoroughfare to the east coast, is in dire need of maintenance. We bounce around potholes and over slabs of stone, scamper over gravel and slither through mud. We notice many herds of long-haired goats along narrow trails in the steep hills; scraggly sheep with their young dart about. It is spring all right! Around midday sheepherders come down the mountain for lunch; some are on horseback, many on foot. At one time I see a shepherd on horseback in full gaucho attire: leather saddle and stirrups, a poncho and the military green flaring pants, a sombrero to cap of his looks. He is a handsome man. I realize that nothing here is done simply for looks though; this is still their way of life. We notice the shelters where animals are rounded up for the night; large corrals securely enclosed with a wide, sturdy fence of tightly woven branches, tumbleweeds and thorny bushes. Refuge against the harsh elements and wild animals; pumas still roam this land. We venture deeper into the hills until we arrive at our turn-off for the caves.
The landscape changes completely; we enter a mountainous track and find ourselves encircled by splendid white peaks against the backdrop of a blue sky. It is rocky as always but here evergreen bushes give some color to the land; the bushes are heavy with buds which carry the promise of red blooms. Behind small rocky outcroppings a minuscule plant flowers in pink. It is here that the caves are located. When we step out of the car we have to hold on for dear life; the wind howls so fierce that we can barely stand straight. A guide coming out of a stone building to greet us, tells us, that this wind is nothing, it always blows like this; wait till the snow comes and the below zero temperatures hit, then life is almost impossible for humans. At such times they have to remain indoors with all shutters securely closed and everything bolted down until the storm passes. We are near Patagonia.
We enter the caves with one other family and a guide, each a hardhat with miners lamp on our heads. It is no sight and I suspect it is not for function but rather to add to the general experience of caving. I am sorely mistaken, never in my life have I been on such a climb-over, drag-through, crawl-under, get-wet kind of outing. I bump my head repeatedly against the very hard rocks and I am exceedingly glad that the small torch on my hat illuminates my path without the use of my hands. At one point the soundness of the minimum admission age of nine is demonstrated clearly; the arms of the youngest member of our group are too short to easily reach the ladder on the opposing wall over an immensely deep abyss. She is very scared, fear written all over her face and I am glad that her father is in the position to reach out and lift her over. The guide entertains us with ghoulish and scary stories and I realize it is the 31 of October, Halloween in the States. The caves are the perfect setting for this day. When we enter daylight the weather is changing, the sun still shines but dark clouds gather and the temperature has dropped a good 10 degrees Celcius. We hurry back to town before the snow hits.
We spent our last vacation day in the mountains visiting Las Leñas, a ski resort considered the Argentinean equivalent of Aspen in Colorado. It is here that the South American jet-set gathers in winter. The setting is spectacular, although the ski-town leaves much to be desired. We visit La Laguna de la Niña Encantada, a high mirror-like mountain lake that has become a place of pilgrimage. A grotto of the Virgin Mary is set under the natural overhang of a towering rock; folded pieces of paper and colorful cloths, each representing a promise to go with a supplication, are tucked into natural crevices or tied to a branch. Photos are stuck behind riverstones and candles are lit in front of a blue draped statue of the virgin. Beliefs are strong and Catholicism is alive and well. It is a peaceful setting until two busloads of schoolchildren are dropped off for a short recess. Tranquility is replaced by exited screams and loud chatter produced by jubilant kids on a school-outing. Time for us to hit the trail home.
We return to the heat of the plains and find our finca well on its way to our second harvest season.
