September 5, 2008
Tap, whoosh, tap, whoosh and the creaking of springs and boots, and the crunching of snow, and the whistle of the wind was all that could be heard. I had joined Laura, Luis, and Pablo on a ski trek up Volcan Lanin on a picture perfect day of cloudless blue skies and brilliant blazing sun.
Volcan Lanin is an extinct volcano that lies in the beautiful Parque Nacional Lanin not far outside the town of San Martin de Los Andes from where we had set off. Luis is the friendly guide, Laura is his exhuberant girlfriend and Pablo is a friend of both of them. We were not planning on conquering all of Lanin{s 3776 meters, but crossing the forest at the base and scaling the snowy flanks to about midway.
This was my first time on touring skis which I figured would be a snap. It seemed to be a simple combination of both cross country skiing and down hill skiing, both of which I can perform adequatly. With the touring ski we used a slimmed down version of the ski boot clipped into a moveable bracket that attached to the top of a down hill type ski. [Skins[ were stuck on to the base of the skiis with a type of glue that kept them in place but allowed the skins to be removed once you were ready to ski down. The furry grip of the skins allowed one the traction needed to [walk[ their ski{s straight up the mountain with out sliding back. Well, with only sliding back a few times. What I hadn{t counted on was the weight of this combination. Though the skiis slid well enough and the skins gripped tight to the snow, dragging two skis and boots up the side of a mountain is a bit more work than I imagined. Luckily Laura was a newbie as well and Pablo was similar, so the three of us hung together while Luis charged ahead with the food.
In the forest at the base of the volcano our tapping heels were accompanied by another rat'a'tat'tat from the tree branches above. On closer inspection we found a pair of wood peckers busy at work. The flourescent red of the male{s head flashed against the dark bark of the tree and blazed against the blue of the sky. The female was an ebony black and flitted from tree to tree tapping in unison with her mate.
After the forest we reached a wide expanse of white snow stretching around the base of the volcano and into Chile. In summer this area was devoid of snow and consisted of only black volcanic ash and rock. We had a clear path across the glistening snow before crossing an avalanche path and then climbing the flanks of the volcano.
once our grade increased we raised our heel binding to allow the boots to maintain a level stance while climbing. Then the work began and the noise of creaky skiis and crunchy snow was the only sound as we put our efforts into pushing the skiis up the volcano.
At 1987 meters we were rewarded with one of those amazing views that you can only find among mountains. We were higher than most of the ranges that surrounded us, had a view of Lake Tromen below, and could even see Volcan Villarrica in Chile which had erupted and spewed lava only one month previously.
While we pulled off the skins and clipped our boots down into the bindings to lock the heels, Luis spotted a pair of condors on the horizon. The condors had been eluding me for the past eight months, all through out Ecuador, Peru, Chile, and now Argentina I had sought these enormous birds. In Ecuador there are only about 30 breeding pairs and they are exceedingly rare and difficult to find. Though they once filled the sky as buffalo had once thundered across America, their population dwindled from the onslaught of man. Here in Argentina they were more common, but the sight of my longed for subject made the day complete. With wing spans of up to ten feet they are a fantastic bird and a beauty to behold in their graceful flight. Coming over the ridges to catch the wind currents you could actually hear them before you saw the giant bird. The wind caught the expanse of their feathers and whipped the plumage as if it were the cloth of a sail causing a snapping sound as they rode the currents and sailed over head.
After a few face plants in the tricky wind whipped snow, we scuttled back down our mountain, roared across the level snow plain, dodged the trees in the forest and were once again back at the base.
Volcan Lanin looked the same as we had encountered her, you could not see the tracks we had left behind. She stood in her white snowy robe with the sun fading and casting royal shadows across her white gown. We left and she remained.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Bariloche, Argentina
September 2, 2008
The bus arrived with the snow in the lake district of Bariloche, Argentina. The snow falling was not the dry shrivelled kind that melts on contact, but big fat fluffy flakes that stick to your nose and eyelashes and make you dream of a cozy fire and bear rug.
My plans for hiking among the pines and vistas were derailed by this unexpected onslaught of snow. It snowed and snowed for two days straight and in the end snowed-in Bariloche. The ski resorts were shut, the cars were stuck, and the fabulous vistas of majestic mountains and crystaline lakes were shrouded and unseen behind the curtain of grey cloud that had descended on the town. The next day when I ventured to the slopes of Cathedral mountain with the rest of Bariloche to track some fresh tracks, we got stuck in hour long lift lines and heavy snow that swallowed the weak. The only thing I left with that day was a bad case of whiplash and the continued desire to see a view that eluded me.
The bus arrived with the snow in the lake district of Bariloche, Argentina. The snow falling was not the dry shrivelled kind that melts on contact, but big fat fluffy flakes that stick to your nose and eyelashes and make you dream of a cozy fire and bear rug.
My plans for hiking among the pines and vistas were derailed by this unexpected onslaught of snow. It snowed and snowed for two days straight and in the end snowed-in Bariloche. The ski resorts were shut, the cars were stuck, and the fabulous vistas of majestic mountains and crystaline lakes were shrouded and unseen behind the curtain of grey cloud that had descended on the town. The next day when I ventured to the slopes of Cathedral mountain with the rest of Bariloche to track some fresh tracks, we got stuck in hour long lift lines and heavy snow that swallowed the weak. The only thing I left with that day was a bad case of whiplash and the continued desire to see a view that eluded me.
Malargue Mexican
August 27, 2008
Malargue is like an old western ghost town in a bad movie between siesta hours of 1pm and 4pm. When the old Andestur bus rolled into this one stoplight town the streets were barren and the shops locked up tight. A stiff breeze was blowing down the main street stirring up little dust tornados and scutteling loose papers and plastic bags in it{s path. The white pitches of the Andes could be seen far off to the north and south as one looked up and down the empty main street.
A lanky mexican, smoking swede, and my straggly self were deposited along with our luggage at a one room bus station on the outskirts of town to fend for ourselves.
Despite the town{s apparent sleep and desolation, Malargue was only an hour{s drive from the acclaimed Las Leñas, [Best ski resort in South America[. I had alighted in Malargue along with the rest of my motley crue to take advantage of the town{s cheaper lodging options outside the high priced resort.
The hostel I landed in [city hostel[ put the term basic to the test. I generaly consider a mirror, bar of soap, night table, and towel basic appropriations, but of these there was none. In an aged wood paneled room the only furnishings to be found were three single beds, and two wooden racks affixed to the walls to serve as the barest form of a closet. THe perk of the room is that it has a gas heater which keeps the room nice and toasty, and even too warm at night.
I was bemoaning the lack of the bare necessities on the bus ride home from our first day on the slopes when the Mexican told me to, [stop complaining, it was cheap[, he said. At the equivalent of 11$ a night, he was right.
Malargue is like an old western ghost town in a bad movie between siesta hours of 1pm and 4pm. When the old Andestur bus rolled into this one stoplight town the streets were barren and the shops locked up tight. A stiff breeze was blowing down the main street stirring up little dust tornados and scutteling loose papers and plastic bags in it{s path. The white pitches of the Andes could be seen far off to the north and south as one looked up and down the empty main street.
A lanky mexican, smoking swede, and my straggly self were deposited along with our luggage at a one room bus station on the outskirts of town to fend for ourselves.
Despite the town{s apparent sleep and desolation, Malargue was only an hour{s drive from the acclaimed Las Leñas, [Best ski resort in South America[. I had alighted in Malargue along with the rest of my motley crue to take advantage of the town{s cheaper lodging options outside the high priced resort.
The hostel I landed in [city hostel[ put the term basic to the test. I generaly consider a mirror, bar of soap, night table, and towel basic appropriations, but of these there was none. In an aged wood paneled room the only furnishings to be found were three single beds, and two wooden racks affixed to the walls to serve as the barest form of a closet. THe perk of the room is that it has a gas heater which keeps the room nice and toasty, and even too warm at night.
I was bemoaning the lack of the bare necessities on the bus ride home from our first day on the slopes when the Mexican told me to, [stop complaining, it was cheap[, he said. At the equivalent of 11$ a night, he was right.
Portillo, Chile
It was one of those perfectly fabulous days when everything goes your way even though you haven{t planned a thing. From the generic beach comforts of Viña del mar I entered the rugged spine of the andes on a bus bound for Argentina. The driver dropped me off on the side of the highway by a sign that said Portillo and continued on. As I pulled my pack off the dirty ice and snow on the shoulder of the road I wondered if I had done the right thing.
Portillo, nestled as if in it{s own private valley admist the giants of the andes is an absolute treasure. The towering peak of the magnificent Acongua rises to over 21,000 ft to the north. The ski resort has only one hotel and there are never more than 450 people on the slopes. In less than an hour from my drop off I was booked in a room, had rented ski equipment, and was on the slopes with Acongua towering over me. The resort had just recently had a sufficient snow storm to close the pass and trap it{s guest for 2 days. Now on the third day in sky{s of the bluest blue I skiied fresh tracks through angel light powder. It was difficult to keep my eyes on the slopes as I was completely mesmerized and enchanted by the magestic peaks and absolute beauty that surrounded me. The runs were challengeling steep to attract the Austrian and Canadian ski teams who competed in races against each other through out the day.
After the lifts closed at a generous 5pm I settled down in the hot spa on a bank overlooking the alpine lake of Laguna del Inca with the rest of the mountains patrons and watched the sun set on the andes snowy white slopes. After the jacuzzi we all migrated to the cinema to listen to Wendy Fisher, Chris Davenport, and other ski legends who were present giving ski clinics at the resort. Each of these famous skiers talked and showed film clips and footage of the best days of their extreme sport.
After dinner and drinks I finished off one of the best unplanned days ever.
Portillo, nestled as if in it{s own private valley admist the giants of the andes is an absolute treasure. The towering peak of the magnificent Acongua rises to over 21,000 ft to the north. The ski resort has only one hotel and there are never more than 450 people on the slopes. In less than an hour from my drop off I was booked in a room, had rented ski equipment, and was on the slopes with Acongua towering over me. The resort had just recently had a sufficient snow storm to close the pass and trap it{s guest for 2 days. Now on the third day in sky{s of the bluest blue I skiied fresh tracks through angel light powder. It was difficult to keep my eyes on the slopes as I was completely mesmerized and enchanted by the magestic peaks and absolute beauty that surrounded me. The runs were challengeling steep to attract the Austrian and Canadian ski teams who competed in races against each other through out the day.
After the lifts closed at a generous 5pm I settled down in the hot spa on a bank overlooking the alpine lake of Laguna del Inca with the rest of the mountains patrons and watched the sun set on the andes snowy white slopes. After the jacuzzi we all migrated to the cinema to listen to Wendy Fisher, Chris Davenport, and other ski legends who were present giving ski clinics at the resort. Each of these famous skiers talked and showed film clips and footage of the best days of their extreme sport.
After dinner and drinks I finished off one of the best unplanned days ever.
Rosa and Marcos
August 19th, 2008
The table was laid with fine china, silver, and crystal. Prepared meats and cheeses and savory biscuits adorned the table. It was as if an honored guest was expected, but it was prepared for me.
I had met Rosa and Marcos just yesterday, a lovely chilean couple from Punta arenas in the south of Chile. Rosa is the sister of the the swim coach Pedro Ordenas with whom I had swam in the San Francisco bay at Aquatic park to prepare myself for the open water of the Ironman. Pedro has distinguished himself among the bay area swimmers for having swum from Alcatraz to San Francisco 500 times. I am just 498 crossings behind him.
Rosa and Marco spent two days showing me the lovely city of Vina del Mar. The long stretches of beach were reminiscent of Nice in France or Brighton in England. We went to the botanical gardens where the recent rains and flooding had destroyed their ponds and scattered their ducks and swans. Vestiges of spring were present in the soft white and pink blooms of cherry blossom flowers and the magestic magnolias, but the gardens glory was yet to come and resting beneath the light misty rain that fell.
After the gardens we returned to the apartment of Rosa and Marco where she had prepared the table for the ¨onces¨. The onces is a light tea or meal that is eaten around five but called the ¨elevens¨ for a reason I wasn{t able to elicit.
I was reminded of my grandmother{s carefully laid table in the handstitched table cloth, the dishes carefully placed, and the loveing hand that I knew had placed it all.
The table was laid with fine china, silver, and crystal. Prepared meats and cheeses and savory biscuits adorned the table. It was as if an honored guest was expected, but it was prepared for me.
I had met Rosa and Marcos just yesterday, a lovely chilean couple from Punta arenas in the south of Chile. Rosa is the sister of the the swim coach Pedro Ordenas with whom I had swam in the San Francisco bay at Aquatic park to prepare myself for the open water of the Ironman. Pedro has distinguished himself among the bay area swimmers for having swum from Alcatraz to San Francisco 500 times. I am just 498 crossings behind him.
Rosa and Marco spent two days showing me the lovely city of Vina del Mar. The long stretches of beach were reminiscent of Nice in France or Brighton in England. We went to the botanical gardens where the recent rains and flooding had destroyed their ponds and scattered their ducks and swans. Vestiges of spring were present in the soft white and pink blooms of cherry blossom flowers and the magestic magnolias, but the gardens glory was yet to come and resting beneath the light misty rain that fell.
After the gardens we returned to the apartment of Rosa and Marco where she had prepared the table for the ¨onces¨. The onces is a light tea or meal that is eaten around five but called the ¨elevens¨ for a reason I wasn{t able to elicit.
I was reminded of my grandmother{s carefully laid table in the handstitched table cloth, the dishes carefully placed, and the loveing hand that I knew had placed it all.
Santiago singing
I spent my first day in Santiago walking around in a daze. How strange it was to be in a cosmopolitan city once again. Gone were the indigenous tribes of Ecuador walking about in their brightly colored cloth and the ladies bent over roasting plantains on dime store grills. Gone were the green leafy trees now laid bare, grey and cold in the midst of winter. I walked in a sea of dark skinned ebony haired humanity as I had so many times before for the last 7 months, and yet it seemed more ordered somehow. There was an underground and one could almost feel as if they were on the London tube. The mercado central was full of bantering fish mongers and tubs of iced salmon, cod, tuna, and octopus, giving the feeling you had just been dropped down into the Pike street market in Seattle. The Spanish architecture of looming buildings and Baroque churches had a distinctly European feel. And yet when the buildings gave way to reveal the muddy current of the Rio Mapocho and the rocky hill top park of cerro Santa Lucia, and the clouds parted to offer striking views of the snow capped andes to the east I was unsettled by the unfamiliarity of it all. I sat down in a wooden pew in the beautifull neo'classical church of Catedral Metropolitano admist the soft glow of the stained glass windows and the lofty recesses of the heavenly vaulted ceilings and somehow felt once again grounded. It was confession time and the repentant were kneeling before the boxes yearning for the forgiveness that would make them new once again. The organ was playing softly and a woman was singing a hym that sounded familiar but couldn{t quite be placed. Here in this cathedral in this country tipping toward the south pole I felt the pull of familiarity and comfort. People came here to seek the same God and to seek solace and peace and in the quiet of the common need the bewilderment I felt gave way to wonder once again.
Santiago Blues
Aug 16, 2008
I left Ecuador the same way I came in, on Taca airlines, but this time I flew south to Santiago and I was instantly thrust into a land I had never seen.
The disorientation began at customs when they informed me that I had to go back to pay the reciprocity fee, a fee Chile charges americans because the US charges Chileans a visa fee. I had my 30$ US ready to pay this fee as I had been instructed in Ecuador. When I got to the window, however, the official told me it was 130$. So I went back to customs and had to get a police official to escort me to an ATM machine so I could withdraw more money. Now of course I had no idea of the exchange rate which it turned out was about 480,000 pesas to one dollar. Now try to work out how much you need to pay the 130$ fee when you are jet lagged at what is now 3am in the morning. And then try to work out if you need to put in the figure with the zero¨s after the decimal point, or without and it pretty much just cranked my brain to a full stop. So I withdrew about 30$ the first time and the second time I actualy had the police official typing in the amount because I couldn{t work it out.
So then we traipsed back to the fee lady who told me I would have to go upstairs to change the chilean pesos into american dollars. I looked at her despairingly and asked, ¨I am in Chile and I have to change the chilean pesos back into american dollars to pay you?¨ Yes, was the answer.
I had now been in the aiport customs-reciprocity fee area for an hour and there was not another passenger in sight. With each transaction I was actually regressing slowly back toward the plane and I wondered if there was ever a point when they just made you get back on the plane and return the way you had come.
As I turned to take the pesos to the changing person the lady cleared her throut and said I could pay 30$ US and the rest in pesos as an exception. I nodded numbly and she took my cash in two different currencies and I was ushered back to customs. WHen I finally got to the empty baggage claim area they were just carting off my backpack and I was able to rescue it before it disapeared forever. The Taxi deposited me at the Happy House Hotel and I finaly hit the sheets at 4:15am.
I left Ecuador the same way I came in, on Taca airlines, but this time I flew south to Santiago and I was instantly thrust into a land I had never seen.
The disorientation began at customs when they informed me that I had to go back to pay the reciprocity fee, a fee Chile charges americans because the US charges Chileans a visa fee. I had my 30$ US ready to pay this fee as I had been instructed in Ecuador. When I got to the window, however, the official told me it was 130$. So I went back to customs and had to get a police official to escort me to an ATM machine so I could withdraw more money. Now of course I had no idea of the exchange rate which it turned out was about 480,000 pesas to one dollar. Now try to work out how much you need to pay the 130$ fee when you are jet lagged at what is now 3am in the morning. And then try to work out if you need to put in the figure with the zero¨s after the decimal point, or without and it pretty much just cranked my brain to a full stop. So I withdrew about 30$ the first time and the second time I actualy had the police official typing in the amount because I couldn{t work it out.
So then we traipsed back to the fee lady who told me I would have to go upstairs to change the chilean pesos into american dollars. I looked at her despairingly and asked, ¨I am in Chile and I have to change the chilean pesos back into american dollars to pay you?¨ Yes, was the answer.
I had now been in the aiport customs-reciprocity fee area for an hour and there was not another passenger in sight. With each transaction I was actually regressing slowly back toward the plane and I wondered if there was ever a point when they just made you get back on the plane and return the way you had come.
As I turned to take the pesos to the changing person the lady cleared her throut and said I could pay 30$ US and the rest in pesos as an exception. I nodded numbly and she took my cash in two different currencies and I was ushered back to customs. WHen I finally got to the empty baggage claim area they were just carting off my backpack and I was able to rescue it before it disapeared forever. The Taxi deposited me at the Happy House Hotel and I finaly hit the sheets at 4:15am.
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