We left Buenos Aires (the permanent crossroads of our south American adventure) once again, and hopped on a rickety train that took us to the main bus terminal. We stood in the freight section, surrounded by tense chain-smoking business men and drug dealers, with the windows open and the city hurtling past. We leapt down, backpack laden, onto the platform, and staggered out to Retiro Terminal, where we went through our normal bus procedure. Having now given up entirely any pretense of planning anything ahead of time, we simply wander over to the bus terminal and take the next bus to our destination, which may be in ten minutes or four hours. This time it was four hours so we munched some empanadas and waited (something which, between reading writing singing and talking, we have become quite adept at). Then we boarded the bus and coasted through the afternoon and night, sailing north into the mountains. There is one very strange thing about the Argentine buses, and that is the movies they play. We have had a bus that played only Ben Stiller movies for 12 hours (my worst nightmare), a bus that played the first 30 minutes of each movie before changing, and various buses that play the strangest selection of movies imaginable, including a Texas Bromance, a movie that took place entirely in a club, and the most absurd action movie ever created, starring Every action movie actor in the business. We would both prefer a book any day, but unfortunately the movies are played LOUD on the buses speakers and so is fairly difficult to ignore. Our first destination, which we reached the following afternoon, was Salta, a beautiful city of elegant colonial architecture and tree lined avenues. We found an excellent hostel (we are very much connoisseurs of hostels at this point, and absolutely disdain the very idea of a hotel) and then wandered into town for lunch (steak sandwiches from a street stand) and ice cream on the plaza. The city was overflowing with tourism and tourists, artisan shops (with beautiful cloth of llama wool and colorful Bolivian blankets), and people selling tours and day trips. The city was lovely, but quite in your face. We got away from the noise and action by hiking up a long winding stairway that lead to a hilltop that looks over the town. We climbed 1,020 stairs before arriving at the green grass and waterfalls at the top. It was a Sunday, so the place was pleasantly buzzing with Argentine families taking a relaxing afternoon outing. We descended as the evening fell, and returned to the hostel, where we made friends from France (Matieu),  Denmark (Benedicta), and New Zealand.  The hostel made a big batch of meat empanadas so we all ate together, talking and sharing stories as it is so infinitely easy to do with other backpackers. We drank Salta, the local beer, and one of the best we have had. The evening ended in a gradual cheerful exodus towards bed, and we slept, happy to be in a new place and truly on the road again. 
The following day found us traveling two hours north to Jujuy (pronounced, amusingly hoohawee, like a sound someone might make when they are very happy). Jujuy was similar to in scale, but the atmosphere was utterly different. Far less touristy, it in fact felt like a real working town, not a destination at all. We had an awesome lunch at a real locals place, that served vast helpings of rice and meat and french fries, accompanied by a Litre bottle of Fanta (we try to be healthy but don't always succeed). We spent a pleasant afternoon walking around the market, and hanging around the plaza, and visiting an archeological museum with eerie skeletons of children sacrificed by the Incas on nearby mountain tops. By the end of the afternoon we started to feel a distinct desire to return to the small villages and beautiful landscapes of the kind that we had liked so much in Patagonia. So after a fun evening of cooking dinner and watching ghostbusters in Spanish, making friends with our very adventurous Dutch roommate Sanders, and a brilliant nights sleep due to a fantastically comfortable hostel, we moved on again, to a little mountain town called Tilcara. The bus ride is about 30 miles long but takes two hours, since the bus driver inexplicably drives incredibly slowly and takes long leisurely breaks whenever it suits him. 
Tilcara appears at first as a simple dusty town, but we hesitate to pass judgment, first dropping bags and setting up camp in a leafy, quiet riverside campground, and then heading over to the nearest cafe (essentially a guys sitting room with tables in it)  where we are served heaping sizzling plates of barbecued lamb (Cordero), salad, fresh bread, and the local goat cheese for which this region is apparently renowned. It was washed down with delicious fresh peach juice. It seems that we don't eat too often, but when we do, we eat superbly well. After this decadent feast we walked meanderingly through town, eventually finding a road that led out of town to a nearby pucara (Inca fortress). Joining up with Benedicta, a friend from
Salta who we met on the path, we trekked along through the valley until we came to a bluff with impressive cliffs and topped by crumbling ruins. We made our way up and spent an hour wandering through houses and temples and along pathways tread hundreds of years ago by Mapuche (native to Argentina) and Inca (originally from Peru but thee empire expanded to northern Argentina before collapsing) people. The structures had been partly rebuilt and we could get a sense of the place, the living areas, and the militaristic advantage of the cliff, which had a commanding position in the surrounding mountains. The palpable age and history of the place was comparable, though wildly different, from the roman ruins of Alesia that we visited in Burgundy. 
Wandering back as the sun disappeared of the hilltop, glinting on the water before disappearing entirely, we found some other friends from Salta in the towns main plaza and settled down in a cozy sidewalk cafe for some submarinos. It was warm and cheerful, and the town grew on us as we gazed out on it, and wandered through it in the twilight. It was only when we had bought burgers to grill on a fire at our campsite that we found that there was no firewood to be found or bought. Dark and starting to be cold, but utterly stubborn and with no intention of giving up, we bought charcoal and (in an absence of standard lighter fluid)  96% rubbing alcohol. By now hunger was growing, so we threw the whole thing together and tried to get it burning. At first this was to no avail, so we scrapped it and tried again. But it became clear that pages from a tattered copy of Grapes of Wrath and green twigs were not sufficient to start anything longer than a ten-second blaze. Once again the ashes were scooped out and we went on a careful hunt around the campground, searching for even the tiniest bit of firewood as tempers started to wear thin and dinner started to look like bread and mustard. Finally a tiny blaze was got going and Casey carefully fed it coals and nurtures it while I went to plan B. We still had the tiniest bit of camp fuel left in our stove, so I got that blazing and started to cook the frozen hamburgers in mustard goop. It was slow going, but our spirits were high with red wine and success and before too long we had thawed burgers which (abandoning grilling) we threw into the coals and allowed to cook through. It was 10:30 by the time we ate (we had promised to meet our friends at the bar at 9 but food took definite precedence). Despite snickering neighbor campers and a slight sense of shame (we had, after all, considered ourselves hardy, experienced campers) we consumed our hot, long awaited dinner with gusto. We slept blissfully well, in a way that is only possible in a tent, with bellies full of fire roasted (or coal singed as the case may be) food. 

Though i wanted to strike out into the impressive, unexplored surrounding Quebrada de Humahuaca (canyons) Casey was insistent that today was a day to explore the nearby waterfall, so that is what we did, setting off up a long dusty path, with hot sun blazing down on our bare backs. On the long, winding path into the mountains, we met a porteno named Santiago who was also exploring the area. We formed a quick, solid trekking friendship and set off with him, higher up into the hills on a treacherous, sinuous path, that in the heat of the day, led us at last to a glittering, powerful stream of water that crashed down viciously into the canyon where we were standing. Whooping with joy we threw of our shoes an leapt into the powerful, almost crushing stream of water, which, icy and exhilarating, poured down on weary limbs and dusty hair. We explored various rocky pools below the waterfall, thrilling with the purity and energy of the water, but barely able to withstand it's cold. We drank deeply of the waterfalls that trickled down conveniently from the rocks on mossy beds, and the water (which goes straight to Tilcara to be consumed) was pure and delicious beyond anything we could imagine. We drank deeply of every aspect of the canyon and the waterfall, enjoying it for hours until the sun left the narrow space in darkness. Then we retreated down the canyon (saying goodbye to Santiago) to a sun drenched spot where we ate a long-awaited picnic and slept blissfully on sun warmed rocks that sheltered us from the sun. When we finally returned to town, it was with minds and bodies refreshed and rejuvenated and battered from heat and cold and bliss. Back in town we wandered through the artisans markets (where the dominant theme is unquestionably Llamas!) and then retuned to our campsite, where we sang and wrote and relaxed before heading into town for dinner (not that we had by any means given up on the BBQ. In fact, Casey was roped into helping some other campers get their fire going under the same circumstances which he, understandably, failed to do). We found a little bar on a dusty side-street and ate delectable llama burgers. Definitely best burger of the trip, llama is amazing. (sorry dad, that I got angry at you that one time for feeding the family our pet llama. Soon as I get home let's slaughter the rest of them!). 
The peaceful nature of the campsite was broken only by the loud, persistent, and out of tune marching band which paraded around at ungodly hours with a blasphemous rendition of Simon and Garfunkels El Condor Pasa. That night I finished my Steinbeck, the predominant feature of which (not having enough money and living on very little food) was familiar, and the next morning I was moved by the story to do what one of steinbecks characters does, and spend a little extra on good food. So the next morning we had breakfast (itself a rare occurrence) of milk (milk!!), apples, fresh bread, and dolce de leche. We ate on Caseys colorful new woven blanket in the brilliant sunshine of a fresh new cloudless mountain morning. Lounging, catlike, in the sun, we eventually roused ourselves and set off once again into the hills. This time we abandoned paths and set off up a random canyon. We trekked through the tough terrain, stopping at one point to sit on an eerily mystical seat of stone, where our minds wandered blissfully for what seemed like hours in the sun. For ages we kept a deliberate and flawless silence, drinking it all in and thinking, meditating in the utter silence of the mountains, any human beings certainly miles away. The location and the silence where perfect beyond compare, but we eventually  set off to find a more panoramic spot for lunch. Reaching the top of a ridge over the canyon, we perched on a precipitous, crumbly ledge, and looked out on the meandering canyons, the mighty mountains of the Andes, and the distant, tree filled town of Tilcara. Here again we relaxed, read and ate, our standard lunch of bread (excellent loaves of bread in northern Argentina), ham, and cheese, with juicy apples to finish. Eventually, as there were no crystalline waterfalls, our water bottle ran dry, and we returned to the town. 
Thrilled with the Quebrada and our exploration of it, we packed up camp and boarded a bus for Cafayate which, after a night spent in Salta, was our next destination.