The desert wind rises in the night ruining the sleep and sending dust into the tent and tragically into my healing eye. But we sleep more or less soundly all the same, and rise at dawn for steaming cups of instant coffee as we watch the desert sunrise unfold in simple silent splendor. In the growing light we pack up camp (with astonishing fluidity, as my dad always said, practice makes perfect) and hit the road, the grumbling gravel crunching slowly beneath the wheels. Within a couple hours we are back on paved roads, speeding into the mountains to the incredible little mountaineers town of El Chalten. Nestled right on the edge of the national park Las Glaciares, it is the youngest town in the country, and is tiny, yet energized and full of Trekkers and mountain climbers. Two very famous peaks, Torres and Fitzroy, are in the nearby park, but when we arrive they are swathed in snowy clouds. Undeterred, we swing by the ranger station and drop bags at a great hostel, then grab a bowl of squash soup at a little cafe and, within an hour of arrival, are starting up a winding ascent into the glacial national park. The hike leads us to panoramic vistas, and through prehistoric looking woods. We climb steeply and it begins to snow, the wind whirling it down into our eyes. It is wild and natural and pure. The paths are almost deserted, save for a few souls unashamedly fleeing the mountain storm for the warm village. But we trek on, through weather and wilderness, till we reach a lake called Lago Capri. We stand on a small cliff overlooking the crystalline blue water of the glacier fed lake, snow speeding down in angry torrents. Casey dares me to jump in the lake, and my dad seconds it with something ridiculous about my reputation as a real swimmer. But as absurd as it is, the idea appeals to me, blue water, glacier, snow, it's all very exotic in it's own way. So without allowing myself too much time to consider, I scramble down the cliff, strip down to nothing (really and truly, we are talking blinding white au natural here) and leap in o the lake. When I surface, (very soon I will admit after entering) I feel exhilarated and so awake, so alive. The adrenaline keeps me warm as I rapidly throw my clothes back on, giggling with the ludicrousness of it. Casey is laughing as well on the cliff above, but for a different reason, a family of Argentines are standing on a nearby lake shore, mouths agape and cameras flashing. If you look up "dumb American swimming las glaciares" on you tube, well, actually don't look that up. 
The whole this was hilarious and fueled another couple of hours of hard trekking (I was warm in no time, don't worry when you read this mom). Eventually, as wind whistled over us in a snow covered swamp and the trail was indicated as getting much more dangerous and exposed, we decided to turn back. The descent was quick and nimble, though our energy was flagging rapidly. The exposure to the elements and the hard physical work out (keep in mind we did what was estimated by the national park as 7 hours of hiking in about 4) felt incredible after long hours in the car, but after a sleepless night we were seriously drained. We still had energy, however, for a few beers and a steaming bowl of locro (an argentine stew and local specialty) at the local Cerveceria. The place was brilliant, a log cabin, with a warm glow and world-class microbrewed rubia (blond) beer. The meal, the place, the cold outside, and the warm flush in snow-burned cheeks were ideal. We ate with gusto, and slept with even more. 

The next day we set out on an expedition with a local adventure company. After loading up on sack lunches and fresh coffee and fresh pastries from the panaderia, we set out to the dock on the nearby Lago Viedma. We board a boat with a couple dozen others (all significantly better dressed for the biting cold than we are ourselves; where they wear matching sets of Patagonia and North Face weather proof gear, Casey has his ubiquitous blue Jean jacket). We cross the lake, which is an eerie milky turquoise due to glacial sediment (so fine that it is permanently suspended) and arrive at the unbelievable Glaciar Viedma. It is the largest glacier in Patagonia, rising some 150 feet above the water, and extending maybe 400
feet beneath it. It moves about 3 feet a day, and has been melting and retreating steadily, summer and winter, global warming or no, since the last ice age. It is a vast, shocking, monolith of white and grey and deep royal blue (the color it turns when it is so compacted that air cannot reach it). As the boat approaches, we stare in awe. No photograph or description can do it justice, but we snap pictures and struggle or words all the same. It is otherworldly. Disembarking precariously from the boat, which rocks against the rocky bank in the high winds, we meet our guides, charming, and expert mountaineers. We hike behind them for about an hour over rain coated slippery, windswept rocks, until we arrive at the edge of the glacier. Here we strap on crampons and are taught how to most effectively and safely walk on ice. Then we are up, on the rolling hills of the glacier, trekking along in single file, sometimes sheltered, sometimes wind-whipped. The guides leap like mountain goats, expertly cutting trails for us with ice picks. Our little group is alone on the glacier, and it feels huge and bewildering. Occasionally we turn back and look over the ice, rock, and water, and the panoramas really are staggering. It is easy to imagine getting lost in this massive land of ice and rock and ravines and crevasses. The crevasses, which we peer down one a a time with guides gripping fiercely onto both arms, are eerie and unreal, deep blue cracks to the center of the earth. The whole thing seems impossible. But there we are, walking on it. After hours of walking which is anything but monotonous, the guides stop us for a rest, and present a surprise. We come around a corner to find two bottles of Baileys set into a crack in the ice. Everyone cheerfully grabs a glass (filled with five hundred year old glacial ice, definitely something new) and a toast is raised to the trek. Surreal, but delightful. Eventually, we return to the boat, a luxury catamaran this time, and enjoy our box lunches and a nap (much needed after a 7am start) as we glide across the strange waters to the waiting dock. Back on the road, we glide a few hours along the mountain roads, arriving, in early evening, at another Patagonia mountain town called El Calafate. This one is bigger and more touristy and developed than the younger Chalten, mostly because of the famous Moreno Glacier nearby. Glaciered out for the day, we settle into a cozy hostel on the outskirts of town (interestingly, everything off of the main drag feels like outskirts here, woodsy and deserted). We walk up and down the street, enjoying the impressive shops (all hand crafted wood, silver, horn, and local stones), the evening, and our last few hours with dad. We grab a couple beers at a great bar called Librobar, perched on an enclosed terrace above a beautifully laid out shopping village (incredible, says real estate developer Tom Stubbs, this is one of the best developments I have seen in years, they even have a living roof!! Just wait till my colleagues in San Francisco hear about this!). He takes copious notes, blueprints etc, and we eventually leave the bar to go to dinner. We end up in the most unlikely of places, a vast tenedor libre (all you can eat buffet) packed with locals and serving roast lamb, which lures us in from the street. The lamb, a Patagonian staple, is absolutely delicious, and the trimmings are absurdly good and absurdly filling. We eat to the point of bursting, then eat some more, then eat dessert (I win the dessert competition, consuming in total,  6, although to be honest I lost count). We are unsurprised to have landed in such a surprising place, as that seems to be the trademark of the trip. We talk late into the night and when dad slips away in the pre-dawn to drive to the airport it is sad but, considering how incredible the trip with him has been, bearable. Barely.