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D L M M J V S Destino: El Calafate
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21 14 de diciembre Modo: Pies y ómnibus
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29 30 31 Distancia: 420 kilómetros
Parque Nacional Los Glaciares a El Calafate, Argentina

We woke early Saturday at 7:30 to the Not your average KOA

sound of wild horses running around our
campsite. Four horses sprinted down a
hillside near our tent and just kind of hung
out in the base camp for five minutes. While
the horses grazed and wandered, Andy and I
lounged until close to 8:30 when we were Señor Ed checks us out
finally motivated to make breakfast. The biggest pot of oats, Cream of
Wheat and brown sugar this campsite has ever seen gave us the necessary

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fuel for packing up.
By 10:00, we were trekking southeast again toward the Fitz Roy Inn
on this, the final leg of our Los Glaciares trek. The first fifteen minutes
were slow going, as I boldly led us down the wrong path. Our second
obstacle came in the form of an eight-foot wide stream that mocked the
two gringos with a combined forty-five pounds of gear on their backs.
Fortunately, I avoided the agua and Andy, with his Gore-tex kicks, only
got one foot wet. Evidently, we fared much better than the two German
couples trekking behind us. A few minutes after our clearing, we heard
the screams of one of the women who evidently didn’t make it across
with dry unterwäsche. Two hours further down the trail, we arrived at
Lago Capri which was pleasant but nothing out of the ordinary. Back on
the trail, the final leg gave us a good view of the town of El Chaltén
before our descent, which was a very rocky and steep affair.
Finally at 13:00, three hours ahead of schedule, we were back at the
Fitz Roy Inn where we would catch the bus
back to El Calafate. We entered the Inn’s
restaurant/lobby and found the place
practically empty. Either the local lunch
crowd had already gone a casa or Saturdays
just weren’t very exciting in El Chaltén. We

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chose to pass the time reading and making trips to the local proveedería
for homemade alfajores. Around 15:00, the owner of the inn and his six
year-old daughter returned and began decorating their restaurant for
Christmas. Andy and I watched in amusement as the daughter wrestled
with a roll of tape and a FELIZ NAVIDAD banner that was at least
fifteen-feet long. We both
offered to help, but she told
us that she wanted to finish
the job herself and make her
papá proud. Watching her
F E L I Z N AVI D A D and seeing how happy she
was really put us back in the
Christmas spirit. (Now, if
we could only get our manos
on some Maker’s Mark and
egg nog.)
Promptly at 16:00, the Cal-Tur bus cranked up and we were ready
to roll. The Fitz Roy Inn’s café negro proved to be quite strong, as I read
over one-hundred pages on the way back to El Calafate.
We stopped again at La Leona, the same roadside restaurant three
hours outside of Fitz Roy. Inside the joint I ran into Elizabeth Jones, a
cute girl from the University of Georgia that I had met during the semester
in Buenos Aires. She was also coming back from a group trek around
Mount Fitz Roy. We decided to possibly meet up later that night back
in El Calafate. I say “possibly,” because our pact was made with about as
much confidence as a Middle East peace accord. Since none of us out-
of-towners have reliable phone access, just telling someone “Hey, we’ll
catch up with you later,” is truly the best that you can do. And nine
times out of ten, things work out as planned.
We left La Leona for the second time in four days and got back on
board the forty-passenger Cal-Tur express. Our driver, Eduardo, told us
that he was anxious to get back to his family in El Calafate, so he floored
it for the final leg and got us home in under four hours.
By 20:00, we were back in El Calafate. Andy and I trekked down
from the bus station to the Hospedaje del Norte where we had a plush,
eight-peso habitación waiting for us downstairs. The owner even let us
wash a load of dirty Fitz-Roy garments in her lavaropas across the street.

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The little cinder block garage that housed the washer was
a multipurpose facility: garage for the bus that had brought
us home, laundry room for the señora and occasional
gringo guests, and rehearsal room for the son’s band. This,
of course, was the same band that had kept us up late
only four nights earlier.
Long, hot showers were in order for both of us as well as a box of
vino tinto from the autoservicio down the street. Before leaving for dinner,
I went across the street and grabbed our fine washables. For a “dryer,” we
strung nylon trail ropes between the two twin beds and hung our wet
clothes on them to dry. This experiment would fail miserably.
We strolled down Main Street at 22:00 lookin’ for lomo in all the
wrong places. “Weird menu,” “No beer,” and “Too expensive” were our
reactions to the first three spots that we checked out. Fortunately, we
found the Casablanca, a small cornerside restaurant with great music and
framed posters from the Bogart/Bergman classic. Bife de chorizo con
papas fritas and a frosty Quilmes only set us back ten pesos apiece.
Over a second cold Quilmes, we laughed about the few stressful
moments of the past ten days that now seemed downright hilarious on
reflection. The first night’s quest for lodging in Rio Gallegos, the
thunderstorm greeting in Torres del Paine, the Love Bus, the Ricardo
paranoia and the ongoing uncertainty over how we should proceed up
the Chilean coast given our shortage of both time and money. If we had
learned anything since leaving Buenos Aires, it was that traveling sin planos
was the only way to fly. More importantly, we had both learned some
invaluable lessons in teamwork, culture and communication never before
acquired in the classroom or the cubicle.
In search of a nightcap, we ambled down Avenida Libertador where
habitación: room we found the rumored hot
lavaropas: washing machine. Very easy to find in
South American laundromats known as lavanderías. spot of El Calafate, Don
Dryers, or secadoras, are less common. Diego de la Noche.
autoservicio: Self-service gas station or market.
hostel: Most accommodations for trekkers in the Unfortunately for us, ol’
Patagonia bear the name hostel, hostal, hostería, Diego must have turned in
albergue transitório or just albergue.
lomo: beef tenderloin early. The live band, the
sin planos: without plans
bife de chorizo: New York-style strip steak. A less
young bartender told us, had
expensive but equally delicious alternative to the lomo. packed up promptly at
Don: Mister. Doña = Mrs. Señor and Señora are
more commonly used as spoken titles.
23:00.

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 Undeterred, we bellied up to the bar. How about
a cold Quilmes? Hey, we don’t have to get up until 6:30.
The atmosphere and decor were both pretty inviting.
A little, wooden pub with a small bar and at least a
dozen tables full of smiling patrons. Do you want
another round? Those last two went pretty fast. The
bartender was friendly and had a good selection of rock
and blues CDs. We asked to hear some Stevie Ray
Vaughn, and he punched up a live version of
“Tightrope.” Okay, just one more round. Relax, I think
I read somewhere that you can’t get a hangover from South
American beer. It has something to do with the water.
Finally around midnight, Don Patrick and Don
Andy were tired and walked back to habitación numero siete at the
Hospedaje del Norte where our clothes had not dried
a lick in over two hours. In fact, the gentle breeze
wafting in through yon window had given our jeans
a lovely hard shell finish. Content to “deal with
it” in the morning, we had lights out, a self-
imposed drying out of sorts, at 1:00.

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