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| You can see a long way in the desert. |
My last post painted a picture that was more bitter than
sweet – more agri than dulce. While I found the wind a challenge for the six
days it took us to get from Esquel to Beto’s home, and it made me sad that we
were heading north, we also travelled through some tremendous landscapes. The
desert is harsh and unrelenting, largely foreign to me. At times, the trail
before us stretched out seemingly forever without relief, and stark evidence of
just how tough life is here stared up at us from the empty eye sockets of the
many horse, sheep and cattle skeletons we rode by. Our route also passed
through remarkable canyons with hoodoos and great scarps of coloured rocks, and
when we arrived at rivers, shaded as they are in Patagonia by graceful weeping
willows known locally as sauces, the
green softness welcomed us with the allure of a favourite blanket.
The latter half of our final day in the saddle was
particularly sweet. And not only because I was savouring the experience knowing
it would soon be over. In the mid-afternoon on what was another cool, overcast,
blustery day, we began climbing out of the desert into the Andes’s foothills. Rocky
sand and uniformly grey or brown dry thorny vegetation gave way to a rich
purplish brown soil that looked volcanic. The plants, many of them still
thorny, had more colour; they were green rather than grey; a few had small
flowers. One particularly beautiful bush was an intense purple. There was no
continuous grass as might be found on the range or on the pampa, but the problem
was moisture not nutrients. Given the chance, this soil would produce
unimaginable bounty. Making our way through this vegetation became a game of a
sort. The horses had to step around, bending to make their way between the plants.
They were adept at knowing which ones had thorns and had to be avoided, and
those they could brush through. It was akin to following stepping stones across
a river, though in reverse since the horses had to avoid stepping on the plants.
Anticipating whether Judy would go to the right or left of a particular bush
and not be slowed down by her deft moves engaged me for an hour or more.
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| Caught in the canyon. |
At one point, we followed a small, mostly dry creek in a
shallow canyon that serpentined its way up a valley. The 10-metre-high canyon
walls were carved out of dense black sand. I missed Beto and Alex exiting the
canyon, and Alex had to come back to find me. He wandered along the top of the
vertical canyon walls calling out until I finally heard him and found a spot
where Judy was able to climb up a break in the steep cliff wall.
All day, we moved slowly closer to a high ridge of rounded
foothills. Alex pointed to a particular hill far in the distance and assured me
that Beto’s place lay just beyond. It seemed impossible that we would travel
that far and I wondered how he could possibly know that that was Beto’s hill
when layer upon layer of rising crests lay before us.
On we travelled ever upwards and always, as Alex promised,
toward Beto’s hill. Our last ascent, completed in failing light, took us across
a broad slope interrupted with now dry, parallel crevasses formed by years of
spring runoff. We would come to the lip of one of these splits in the land and
the horses would sit on their haunches and slide down in the loose soil into
the crevasses that were twice again as deep as a horse and rider were tall.
Sometimes we would have to follow the crevasse for a time before we could find
a way out the other side. The horses would then scramble up onto the flat land.
Beto had charged ahead as usual and we had trouble keeping track of him since
when we were up on the plain, he would often have dropped out of sight into a
crevasse. But somehow Alex managed to follow him in what felt like a game of
hide and seek. It became easier when Beto finally reached the top of the ridge,
the one behind which Alex promised we would find his home. Beto sat up there, a
silhouette against a darkening sky with the wind whipping at his poncho and
tucking his horse’s tail between its hind legs.
Too soon, we also arrived at the top of the ridge. We
stopped beside Beto and an enormous green valley spread out before us. It had
the moisture that was lacking in the land we’d just crossed. In the distance,
high-peaked mountains backstopped rows of hills. A single distant light marked
Beto’s neighbour, the same neighbour where we’d stopped weeks ago and I’d
purchased my poncho. With the same poncho currently protecting me from the raw
wind, it was hard to imagine how hot it had been that day and how foolish it
had seemed to be purchasing such a heavy duty covering. But thankfully I had.
I looked down the steep slope and tucked in at the foot of
the hill were a few tall slender Alamo trees, a dry arroyo, a simple wooden
barn and a modest house – nothing more than a shack by Canadian standards. “That’s
not Beto’s place is it?” I asked Alex. He nodded that indeed it was, deservedly
pleased with his navigating skills. Incredulous and having not yet absorbed
that this was indeed it – the end of our journey – I watched as Beto charged
down the steep slope, clearly anxious to get home. Alex and I stalled at the
ridge top partially to buy ourselves more time, but to also take in the wonder
of the landscape. Although we had stayed at Beto’s early on in our trip, the
view from above gave us new appreciation for his land. Rather than dull our
wonder at the Patagonian landscape, our long days travelling at horse-pace had
heightened our awe at the immensity and variety of the vistas we’d been lucky
enough to enjoy. In the days to come, I wouldn’t just miss being in the saddle;
I would long for the open wilderness, the quiet broken only by screeching
chomangos (small hawks), lowing cattle, rushing water or winds that rustled the
occasional tree.
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| The last leg. |
With Alex clicking
photos from behind, I encouraged Judy to make her way down the hill. Once again,
she sat back into the slope and partially slid downhill as we completed the
last 250 metres of our seven-week journey. Beto’s other horse had caught wind
of us. Whinnying his greeting, he galloped over to say hello as Beto opened the
gate that lead to his house, the last
tranquero we would pass through.
We removed the tack and pilcheros from our horses, letting
them go in the green pasture. In turn, they all lay down and rolled over to
scratch their tired backs before disappearing in the dim light. We celebrated
by roasting the lamb we’d purchased that morning in Cushamen – eight long hours
ago – frying some potatoes and opening a bottle of red wine. It was a tasty and
celebratory meal cooked in Beto’s wood-burning oven in his sparse kitchen. A
single light bulb powered by a small generator that burned his last litre of
fuel brightened the simple room. We recounted the best of the trip ignoring
what we knew to be true: this was it – the end. Trip done.
At midnight, Alex and I climbed into our sleeping bags for
the last time. Overnight, a fierce wind pulled at our tent waking us, but
hardly disturbing our sleep. We had both slept like babies throughout the journey
and this night was no exception. Our dreams, like our memories, were sweet.
