We pull into a dark and rainy town called El Bolson at midnight. For some reason we haven't booked a hostel, and the town, which is a small one, seems entirely shut down. We follow some friends from the bus through the rain and the cold in an attempt to find a hostel. Hostels, for all their benefits, are extremely hard to find, but eventually we do run into one, nice enough, (although the stairway up to the dorm is made of rickety, random pieces of wood haphazardly nailed together, bit scary). We settle down, make friends with an American from DC named Dave, and before long have fallen into an exhausted sleep. 
Bolson, as it turns out, is the Argentine version of Sebastapol. It calls itself a non-nuclear ecological collective as opposed to a town, and is famous for it's hippie identity, beautiful artisan crafts, and marijuana. It lives up to it's reputation on all counts. Great hippie spirit, multiple people trying to sell us vast amounts of "special flower", and totally incredible crafts. We are there luckily on the day of an artisans market, and so we stroll through a beautiful park with impressive wood carved sculptures, passing stands selling every possible incarnation of Argentine silver, Patagonian hardwoods, Alpaca (an lustrous alloy of silver and nickel for which the region is famous), Chilean lapis lazuli, and rodacrosita, a lovely pink stone found only in this stretch of the Andes. The craftsmanship is truly stunning, and the artisans are charming rather than aggressive in their attempts to sell. We buy very little but make friends with a few of the artisans. With bellies full of market empanadas, we lounge in the sun and continue wandering around the eclectic town. Eventually the beautiful morning transitions into a dreary drizzling afternoon, and we head back to the cheerful hostel, a place unusually much more Argentine than gringo. We talk for a couple hours with Mathias, the friendly and loquacious guy at the front desk, drinking mate and discussing everything from indigenous populations (he is full blood Mapuche) to world politics (he has been unconditionally denied entry to the US). The hostel fills up with interesting people, an we have a fantastic asado (barbecue), in the rain, with mathias cooking, us playing music, and everything wildly, contagiously happy. We meet a girl from BA who makes up a song about potatoes (as she slices them) as Casey and I play accompaniment and supply backup vocals. We chat with Dave (who knows and loves Sublime, first person abroad we have met) and another American, Pepe, who is going to Stanford (first American we have met on a gap year)  and plays the violin (my violin) beautifully. It's a night packed with excitement, music, laughter, and red, red wine. Eventually around 11 the asado is done, and we feast on chorizo and a questionable (but satisfying) cut of beef. Dave wipes out (bit too much wine) making a huge scene and adding to the hilarity, and we all fall asleep in the wee hours in good spirits. 

The following morning starts grey and drizzly and we decide that Bolson can no longer hold our attention. So we hop on a short bus north to Bariloche, the capital of the Lake District, which is the most scenic and beloved region of Patagonia and in fact Argentina. Incredibly, as we approach, the clouds clear, and dazzling sunlight illuminates a land of green forests (with interspersed trees of brilliant gold), snow-capped mountains (there is good skiing here in July), and stunningly blue lakes. We spend our afternoon in Bariloche, which is windy but beautiful, immaculate, friendly, and a bit too touristy. We get some lunch with Dave and then wander through the town to the plaza, which is beautifully designed (sort of a Patagonian version of Alpine architecture) and finally get to the chocolate shops. Bariloche is renowned for it's chocolate and ice cream, which is apparently the best in the country. We end up at a shop that is somewhere in between Hogwarts and Willy Wonka in terms of magnificence. Gorgeous chocolate fountains, splendid displays, chocolate Easter eggs and bunnies as big as a small child. There is even chocolate beer, which we try (it is surprisingly delicious). The decadence is wonderful. 
Eventually we wander back to our hostel (called hostel 41 below, very gringo-y but one of the best hostels we have stayed in) to make a much needed laundromat run. Who should be in our dorm room but Jana, the wonderful Australian that I befriended on a cold morning in Chalten. The coincidence is wonderful, but even more so is the chance to hang out with her. Dave (who as it turns out is a great cook) makes us all a gorgeous dish of bolognese, and we all settle around red wine, in the coziest of hostels, and hang out. It is a warm wonderful evening. Casey and I decide to go river rafting the next day (we don't really have the budget for tours etc but we make an exception because we love rafting and this area is apparently world class), and we convince Pepe and Jana (who actually is so won over by our persuasion that she abandons a bus ticket and a rendezvous with friends in Chile to come with us). The cheerful night ends with us all rushing to get some much needed sleep before and early start for rafting

Our days in Chalten and the surrounding Fitzroy Mountains are certainly some of the most wonderful I can ever remember. The town, as I mentioned on our first visit, is small and quaint and charming, but has an edge given to it by the universal passion for adventure. We stay (in between camping on the mountain) at fairly gritty but comfortable enough hostels, where we meet some entertaining people from Canada and Australia. One girl who has just bought a little puppy (interesting choice while backpacking) and another guy from
an unspecified location who is of such an extremist branch of religion (really not sure which) that he can't drive, read, buy groceries, or use a light switch OR (and this led to some
Confusion) ask someone to do any of these things for him. He would come into our room and say I can't turn on the light In the bathroom. 
Would you like me to do it? Casey responded. 
I didn't say that. He snapped. And we eventually figured out what was going on.
There was also an Israeli guy who insisted that traveling solo was better, and persistently tried to convince Casey to start traveling alone. Casey responded that he had travelled
alone and he did in fact really like traveling with his companion. The guy then tried to convince us to travel with him, which seemed a bit hypocritical.  Other than that it was your fairly standard mix of upbeat and interesting hostellers. 
One morning I rose early and thoroughly explored Chalten. A beautiful rainbow (a full arc, so rare!!) crossed the cloudy tempestuous sky, and I wandered through the sleepy village. It had by now (mid April) mostly shut down for the season, but there were some interesting nooks and crannies. I bought a copy of as you like it (amusingly one of the only books in English, but more than adequate for a shakespearophile like me) because I had run out of books. I ended up at the service station (only place with wifi in town, and the satellite was broken) drinking pear juice with a really cool girl from Australia. 
She had come from where we were going to, and vice versa, so we got to exchange advice, recommendations, etc. 
As far as food went, we rewarded ourselves with massive meals after long days of hiking with huge feasts at the Cerveceria (honestly one of the best meals I can remember, due to great beer and food and utter exhaustion) and at a little pizza joint in town, where we consumed enough food to feed about 7 people (we had walked about 15 miles that day to be fair). When we were in the mountains, we traveled light, eating mostly pasta and powdered soup and coffee, and the occasional pastry from La Panaderia Nieve (our favorite pastry shop, and makers of the best alfajores so far). 
But these are all side notes when it comes to Chalten, because 90% of our time there was spent hiking and exploring the mountains, valleys, and lakes of the national park. The first day we hiked up to Laguna Torre, at the foot of Cerro Torre, an incredible toothy crag, which is very hard to spot due to constant cloud cover. The peak was stunning to see, and even more so knowing that it is one of the hardest to scale in the world. The lake at its foot was a windswept icy steel grey mass, and the wind blew directly off the glacier at the opposite end. We camped in a little riverbank glade on the borderline between the wooded valley and the barren rocky mountainside. The campsite was idyllic, and almost deserted, and a glacier fed river swept by loudly and comfortingly at all hours. We ate well despite the fact that i spilled our first attempt at boiling water, and scurried into our tent while it was still light, due to the biting cold. But as we lay in bed that night, our minds flickered with images of the forest we had walked through that morning. It is on of the most beautiful I have ever seen in my life. Along with the alpine woods of ehrwald and the terrain on Stubbs Ranch it is literally the loveliest forest I have known. It is autumn in Argentina now, and the trees have transformed rapidly into blazing reds, oranges, and golds. Really brilliant colors, an aided by the sunshine, and the fact that the small leaves allowed plenty of light to filter through. The trees range in size from tiny dense little clusters of saplings to vast strands that feel as old as time. The only description that seemed to fit was JRR Tolkein's description of the magical wood of Lothlorien. I won't misquote it here, but the essence, of timeless youth and beauty, of still serene perfection broken only by the rustle of a breeze or the gurgle of a stream, and the fierce flames that seemed to burn in the incendiary colors of the leaves as one walked, sun dappled, through soft green grass, was hard not to feel. It was a place of such utter exquisite perfection that we couldn't help but be inspired by it. We wanted to paint, write poetry, compose symphonies, odes, homages to this place. And the light, relentlessly divine, endlessly pleasing to the eye. Taking photos felt futile because once the camera was out everything needed to be captured, everything was photogenic. It was dreamlike, ethereal, something that couldn't possibly be, but was. 

When I woke in the morning I was filled with excitement to be where I was (a good feeling to have in the morning). I climbed up to a rocky overlook just above the campsite and looked up at the mountains and down over the valley. Casey eventually joined me and we enjoyed the sunshine, the panoramas, and the relentless wind (which we have come to recognize as Patagonia's defining feature). After a breakfast of soup and coffee we set off. We dunked our heads in the first stream we came to, then dunked them
again and again, the bitter coldness irresistible. We walked on in sunshine, shirtless, glacial water a respite from the heat, our bags almost weightless as we seemed to glide through the woods "over hill and through dale" taking a different path back to Chalten  (where we would recharge our batteries before being drawn relentlessly back into the mountains). The endless amounts of fallen trees occasionally brought to mind an elephant graveyard, but other than that this was, to us, still pure Lorien. We eventually arrived at a pair of lakes Lagos Madre y Hija, and, drawn by still blazing sun, blue water, and a soft pebbly beach, we threw down our packs and ran into the water, tumbling  off a steep dropoff that sent instantly from ankle depth to about 10 feet deep. The swim, and the sun basking which followed it, were delightful, and then we were back on our way, through the loveliest woodland we had yet seen. We paused by another lake as the day started to wind down, rolled up our jeans and waded around. We ran into a few girls who had been "following" us, or rather had stayed at the same hostel and been on the same trails repeatedly and so we introduced ourselves and made more new friends (Australians, again). Then we sat by the lake in the fading light, almost unable to understand, or come to terms with, the incomparable beauty of our surroundings. 

Our second expedition into the Fitzroys brought us back to Lago Capri (site of my infamous nude snow swim) where there was a nice deserted campsite. We arrived early in the afternoon and then climbed to the top of the hill to have lunch. We settled in a glade, sheltered from wind and bathed in sun that wad so utterly idyllic that we did not move from it, even when the empanadas and pastries were finished, even after mate and a snack of green tea, even after a sweet sunny nap, we did not leave that perfect glen, but sat there, our backs to a tree, writing and reading and talking and basking in the moment. The moment lasted until the sun went down and we retreated to make dinner. The glade, I should add (and I'm not embarrassed by the multiple lord of the rings references) was, if anything, comparable to the spot where frodo sits reading in the heart of the Shire at the very beginning of the story. Yes, that perfect. 
Before making dinner we walked to a lookout rock and watch the sun set of Cerro Fitzroy, famous symbol of the Glacial mountains and another famous conquest for mountain climbers. Fitzroy is incredible difficult to see (always covered by clouds) so we were extremely lucky. Dinner was again, simple and again, delicious. Afterwards we wandered though pitch darkness, letting our eyes adjust, to the edge of the lake, and sat their looking at brilliant stars and the moon-bathed silhouette of Fitzroy, by now like an old friend. Though Casey tried to scare us both with imitations of old Greg coming out of the lake, the whole thing was utterly still and peaceful, and more calming and sleep-inducing than anything I can imagine. 
The next morning we rose late and ate the rest of our supplies, packed up and left our packs hidden in our glade, and hiked (traveling light and quick) to Lago de Los Tres. This is the nearest point to the might Fitz, and the toughest hiking in the park. The first couple hours were standard trekking but the final hour was a steep uphill climb, almost hand over hand over slippery uneven rocks. Signs along the way warned not to attempt unless you were a very experienced hiker with very good equipment. And definitely not to attempt in snow or high wind. Well it wasn't snowing but for wind, well, I can't imagine it getting much higher. But we braved the treacherous climb and finally, after a long slog, found ourselves at the strangely still lake surrounded by looming glaciers, with the mighty mountain rising ominously and powerfully above us. By now it was late afternoon and, after relishing the spot for half an hour, we descended, and returned to lago Capri at forced march pace. And that, considering how fast our normal hiking pace is, is extremely fast. We descended into Chalten that evening utterly exhausted, having hiked what the park estimated to be 8 hours of hiking in a mere 4 and a half. Which is not half bad, in our humble opinion, and certainly deserving of a large feast as a reward. After dinner we hung out at the service station (definitely Not the nicest part of town, but not unbearable) and then got our things together and boarded a late night bus north. As I write this we are on thar bus bumping along slowly on the famous Patagonian Route 40 (which is, for a large part, unlaced). We are making our way north to the cheerful hippie town of El Bolson and from their to the lakeside tourist city of Bariloche. The bus is supremely comfortable and packed with all manner of interesting people, but the long hours are uncomfortably reminiscent of that greyhound trip all those months ago...

We spend a week in El Calafate, waiting for my eye to heal. I visit the doctor at the public hospital (a very different experience from the fancy private clinics in Buenos Aires and Comodoro Rivadavia) and he knows his trade and helps me improve, but it takes time and we stay ear the doctor to play it safe. If we have to be stuck somewhere for a week, Calafate is by no means a bad place. After another night at the cozy Hostel de Los Manos, where we meet and play music for a few new friends from Holland, France, and Germany, we leave the hostel in favor of a campground. We find a nice little spot by a gurgling river and, though not an absolute oasis, and a bit exposed to traffic, it is secluded and there is a great fire pit. We cook ourselves vast dinners there using our gas camping stove and the roaring fire. We make spagetti and sausages and cucumber and cream-cheese sandwiches and drink wine (not San Felicien on our budget, sadly) and play music (it is a good place for music actually, and actually write some quite good stuff while were camping, adding to our repertoire of original songs (most of which begin with some variation on the line I'm traveling around the world). We enjoy our feasts, and spend long hours at the campsite reading (Secret history for me, Silmarillion for Casey), playing cards, drinking Lots of Mate, lounging in the sun, and sleeping in our cozy tent under the trees. It is simple and relaxing and fulfilling, very much the gratifying indulgence that we had often visualized when thinking about Argentina. We go out once or twice a day. Our bigger expeditions include a wonderful windswept hike around the Lago Argentina, where we watch wild flamingos (another first) and take a shady nap in a paddock where nearby horses munch on grass. We also do an incredible hike up Cerro Calafate, a massive plateau that rises above the town. Abandoning paths, we cut through a deserted part of town where dozens of wild dogs roam. One is attracted to us, and follows meekly along, he attracts another, and another, until by the time we leave town and get into open scrubland at the foot of the mountain we have no less than 11 wild but very friendly stray dogs roaming around us in a disorganized pack. They range from big shaggy beasts to little, well groomed pets (there must be an owner somewhere) to really mangy creatures. We give them no reason to like us, but also no reason to dislike us, so they trail along happily as we trek to the Mountain. We pick a ravine and scramble up it, through rocky fields and dusty barren patches with small growths of scraggly weeds. It is steep and hard work, and the wind harasses us relentlessly until we reach the crest.  There we can finally look out, dogs panting all around us, at our ascent, which seems massive after about three hours of steady trekking, and at the view beyond. It does seem, as we sit on top of a difficult to scale, dog free boulder, eating our simple lunch, that we can see all of Patagonia from here. The view is spectacular. The town below us, then the huge multicolored lake shining radiantly in the noon sun, then the vast expanse of desert to the west and snowy mountain crags to the east. We breath it in, with big mouthfuls of sandwich, apples, and alfajores (another argentine specialty consisting of two cookies sandwiching a layer of dulche de leche, and the whole thing dipped in chocolate, I am Addicted) and big lungfuls of fresh, gusty mountain air. Utterly, totally, wow. It is here that we realize, really, where we are, and why. What we are doing here.

But for the week in Calafate, we spend more time meandering than we do on these ambitious expeditions. We occasionally get lunch (hamburgers!!) at a friendly terrace cafe with rock and roll posters and great music and staff who seem to like us. Sometimes we go for a milkshake in the afternoon or a beer in the evening and the incredible fun comfortable Librobar (which also has great music and is one of the best hang out spots either of us have come across ever). Every day we go for ice cream at a place called ovejitos (which translates as little sheeps or as I prefer, lambies). The ice-cream is unbeatable, from chocolate to walnut to passion fruit, blueberry, and calafate berry (of which, legend has it, a taste will guarantee your return to Patagonia). We linger over this ice-cream, which they serve is giant heaps almost impossible to consume. Almost, but not quite. We get amazing pizza and good wine for dinner one night at a fun place called Cambalache. There are only, in fact two bad thing to mar our otherwise total enjoyment of Calafate. One is a dreadful morning when I go at 7am to the eye doctor for an appointment. It's raining, the ATM only dispenses 10 peso bills and tries to eat my hand, the doctor won't see me till I register, the registration nurse is too busy chatting with her friend about last nights party to register anyone, let alone me, and the doctor won't see anyone until his two hour coffee break is over (even though my appointment is marked Urgent). Then the bad news about the eye not healing, more prescriptions, then at the pharmacy the lady in front of me has such a long chat with the pharmacist about local gossip that 7 people cue up behind me in the time it take her to finish her story. All this in fairly (well, very) excruciating pain. I was not a happy camper, and then to top it off a REALLY nasty mangy dog followed me home (and I have see some mangy ones so I'm serious here). So that was a
Lousy morning, but otherwise, all was well and two days later my eyes were healed, doctor gave the thumbs up, and we boarded a bus back to El Chalten. but first we had to say farewell to our dog (who we never named to avoid affectionate bonds). Here is the story of the dogs. We hiked the mountain with 11 strays in tow, and they hunted rabbits all the way down. We expected them to disperse when we passed back through their home neighborhood but 4 of them clung stubbornly to us. 4 big, disobedient dogs, who trailed us persistently. We couldn't return to our campsite as that offered no escape and we didn't want them becoming permanent fixtures. So we walked into the center of town. Imagine us, two teenage backpackers with 4 huge mangy dogs in tow, smiling apologetically and saying " not my dog" when the creatures would knock into old ladies and terrify small children, block the sidewalk and barge
into spotless tourist shops. It was impossible to disassociate ourselves from them, and people assumed we were the shamefully inadequate owners of these destructive beasts. We ducked into shops in attempts to lose them but they always found us. Having at first been very fond of our pack of loyal followers, we were starting to get supremely frustrated and embarrassed. Finally, we escaped upstairs to Librobar, lingered long enough for the dogs to wander off after ice cream carrying kids (hate to imagine how that turned out) and then slipped out Librobar's back door and ran, I kid you not, ran across the street and down a back alley where we slyly picked our way home to the campsite without ever being seen. We were fugitives. But we had to eventually get food, and when we did we had two very close calls with one of the persistent followers. We slipped past him (downwind so he wouldn't catch our scent) silent as wraiths and escaped him. But eventually this particular dog found us, led to us by the VMD (Very Mangy Dog) I mentioned earlier. Once this old feller (a black lab type thing) had found the campsite, he was ours for good, and he defended us from other strays an followed us faithfully for 3 days. When we left Calafate he looked very forlorn. And so, in a way, were we. 

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. 

We leave Bahia Bustamante in the predawn light. It is heartbreaking to leave a place where we were so extraordinarily welcomed and entertained by strangers, but it is good to get on the road again. After getting hopelessly lost on the one road out of Bustamante we finally arrive at route 3. Though our intention is really to cut across the desert to the Patagonian Andes, my eyes have now gotten seriously bad again, so we drive to the nearest town that might have a doctor. The town, a once gritty place that is now swimming in money, owes it's prosperity to oil. We spend 24 hours there, on a variety of mundane wild goose chases, looking first for a doctor, then camping supplies, a tire pressure gauge (try translating that), eye glasses, and finally the day has more or less worn away. We stay in a nice enough hotel and eat a good meal at a cheerful bar. We actually stay in quite good spirits, despite the fact that we are not in the most sought after of Patagonia's wildernesses. The comedic highlight of our stroll around town that evening is when Casey ducks into a store to buy a new mate gourd (his is cracked!). Me and dad wait outside as the store is fairly uninteresting. Suddenly we hear a vast crash and a shower of breaking glass. Casey, I say forlornly, and sure enough we look inside and there he is standing over a shattered tray of no less than 12 large glass beer mugs. He looks bashful and the owner is not pleased. Dad and I are cracking up. Although Casey invents some story about his jacket getting caught on the shelf, it is pretty clear that he just wanted to be the center of attention after a long day worrying about percy's eye.  On the way back to the hotel Casey predicts that the only person on TV will be Bruce Willis and, sure enough, we end up watching Lucky Number Slevin. Ultimately, we snatch victory from the jaws of defeat in our visit to Comodoro Rivadavia, and next morning are back on the open road with my eyes much improved. 

We drive all day, in the same relentless style that had served us well on many a trip. Speeding through the vast desert with huge open skies above us, good music and good conversation. We make one stop, our last junction for now with the ocean, at a little dusty port town called Puerto San Julian (whose tourism slogan is "redefining desolate"). There were very cool crumbling wooden boats washed up on shore and forming art/climbing structures. We climb around on the decaying but impressive old fishing boats and i go for a swim in a bay of questionable cleanliness, never one to miss and opportunity to swim, especially in the ocean. Eventually we turn off the main paved highway onto a road that crosses Patagonia to the Andes. Night begins to fall as we grind slowly along an extremely bumpy dirt road so we pull forlornly to the side and set up camp for the night. We are forlorn simply because of the brutal wind that has been threatening to overturn our little rental car and now threatens to make for a ruinous evening of camping. But we manage to find the one withered shrub of a tree in all of Patagonia and amazingly the wind drops as evening falls. Like a well oiled machine, we spring into action. Not one boy scout among us, and yet you have never seen such a rapid and flawlessly efficient setup as ours, alone for a thousand miles in any direction. Tent up, firewood collected, sleeping bags laid out, fire blazing merrily, water boiling. We are, in truth, I'll prepared for camping, and we fashion wine glasses out of sawed in half water bottles and make cutlery out of splintered bits of wood and caseys deconstructed electric haircutting kit. And then, with wine (San Felicien, our universally agreed favorite malbec) flowing, steak sizzling, and pasta boiling, Casey and I whip out instruments, tune roughly in the still desert air, and improvise a desert jam in the crackling firelight the likes of which has not been heard before or since. Not that our musicianship was especially refined at that moment, bur rather that circumstance, the vast expanse of desert, the makeshift camp, the companionship of long travel and the excitement of stories told and others yet untold, the warmth of fire and wine, feed the music a life that is sought after in many a concert hall as recording studio. Passion and adventure, key ingredients of life, were present in that moment, and they fueled the song that sprung from 7 strings of steel and three of nylon. But passion and adventure had been there before. The new addition, secret ingredient, was the spontaneity, the impossibility of us being there at that moment, under a sky of glittering stars both reminiscent of home and yet, in their southern hemisphere incarnations, utterly different and foreign. You could not make this up, this moment. You could not write this song, tell this story, if it weren't true. 

Every moment at Bustamante is packed with sublime adventure and serene relaxation. We wake in time for a simple breakfast and then leap onto excellent complimentary mountain bikes and pedal fiercely out to the end of the spit. We have been told that it is an undertaking of several hours but we speed there, against tearing wind and over deep gravel, and back in an hour and a bit. The wind and the sunshine and the ocean spray at the end of the spit are wild and exhilarating, as are the panoramic views of Bustamante and the surroundings. Arriving back at the cabin sweating, we strip down and sprint into the water, which is brilliant and refreshing and cold. Then we put ourselves back in order rapidly in time for the days first organized activity. We tour the farm and village, and are told all the history that I related earlier by a funny old woman who has been around since almost the beginning of the operation 60 years ago. When dad tried to touch a piece of seaweed she smacked his arm viciously and mercilessly, and he retreated, ashamed. After the tour we played music on the lovely windswept veranda in front of our cabin, and attracted a few of the staff, including Kelly from California and a musician turned tour guide from Buenos Aires. Made friends and made music. Lunch of onion empanadas and guanaco stew followed by traditional dessert of cheese and quince jam was too good to be true. After a fulfilling nap we were back on the road, bouncing along to a distant cape in two impressive land rover defenders. Oohing and aahing at sea lions, armadillos (never seen one of those before ever), foxes, crabs and fish. Our guide was an amusing Serbian dude who was very friendly, but extremely cautious about getting too near the deadly sea lions (they can apparently get extremely aggressive). Afterwards we picked our way back to the landrovers through gorgeous tidepools and, arriving at one with crystalline turquoise water and a perfect hot tub size, could not resist another swim. Leaping into the icy clear water and floating on my back beneath a blue blue sky was one of the most sublime moments I can ever remember experiencing. The swim was one in a million, or maybe ten. That evening we had a great talk (over lovely frosty pints of Quilmes) with the owner Mathis (grandson of the entrepreneurial Soriano) and his wife Astrid (who bizarrely enough went to Marin Academy on an exchange from Buenos Aires) two of the friendliest, most charming people you could ever meet on the road. Another splendid dinner of seafood risotto and chocolate mousse. Dad very cavalierly dismissed the wine as mediocre, flourishing loudly the fact that he was a California vintner, and demanding another bottle. Afterwards, we watched Oceans, a beautifully filmed and narrated nature movie that should be on every nature lovers top ten list. Though riveting, the swirling images of blue and green gently lulled us into sleep. 

This was the Greatest Day, so action packed and wonderful that it will henceforth be a national holiday. We woke early and went for a long sunrise hike along the beach. At that early hour, the hour about which hardy writes so exquisitely in Tess of the durbevilles, language is set aside for silent camaraderie and the simple but incomparable enjoyment of sunrise. We trudged back to the dining hall for breakfast, over which we gradually awakened into life. In the dim morning we piled into the defender, and from thence embarked into a boat with Mathis, Astrid, Tibor (not, as it turns out, the best boat driver) and a cheerful group of italian tourists. We sped along the coast through ominous weather until we arrived at a Magellenic Penguin Colony!! I had never imagined that I would see penguins in the wild, and it was a revelation. The cute little fellas hopped and flapped cheerfully as we learned all about them. Easily some of the most bizarre animals ever. Not to be outdone, the sea lions showed off their adorable little crowds of offspring and their strange noises. Swinging past a vast cormorant colony (the area was first industrialized for cormorant guano, fun fact) we returned to the beautiful estuary and disembarked, as the weather took a dramatic turn for the better, with winds dropping and blue skies opening up above. Back in the defender (soooo reminiscent of Toby Stubbs epic drive to Badminton) this time just us and Tibor. We bumped over miles and miles of deserted Soriano property until we arrived at an unusual landscape of rolling hills and massive rocks. After a much needed lunch of torta (like a huge hot quiche) 
and Quilmes, we set out to explore the Petrified Forest. At first our expectations were low (big deal, stone trees) but we were stunned by what we saw. Vast trees, as big as sequoias (the same prehistoric species in fact) entirely frozen and preserved by the flow of mud. These trees had been washed all the way from the Andes millions of years ago, and had metamorphosed to various degrees. Some looked exactly like perfectly frozen trees, others vast sculptures of crystal and obsidian, others of red crystal, and every incarnation of stone that one could imagine. Breathtakingly beautiful and geologically astounding surrounded by rolling hill that we could climb to the top of for panoramic views. It was baking hot in the windless desert and felt like we were walking on some distant planet. After some cheerful mate, we bumped back to camp in the defender. Somehow we all managed to nap in the rolling and leaping vehicle, quite the feat. A quick swim in the cold ocean and then back into salty dusty clothes and soon we were pulling ourselves up onto horseback. The three of us and Mathis rode slowly around the property, to beautiful beaches and coves as yet undiscovered, as he talked in a low rasping voice about the estancia and it's story. Being on horseback for the first time in years (for Casey the first time Ever) was wonderful and relaxing. They were sweet friendly creatures and allowed the perfect way to see the idyllic land. But even when we returned from this epic exploration our day was not yet done. We grabbed our instruments and headed to the villages little chapel, where we had been asked (or rather demanded) by the owners of the estancia to play. So we played, in the thrilling acoustics of a church lit only by three candles, filled with all the staff of the estancia who were interested. They were an adoring audience and we pleased them with renditions of everything from Bach and Wilco to Sublime and Jon Swift. The improvisations, fed by the beautiful acoustics and the perfect circumstances, were the highlight. The parallels to our playing in the church in Grimault were eerie, bur we were glad to add to our resume. It was a fun "show" and we had heartily earned our dinner. After a farewell drink with Mathis and Astrid who gave and open invitation to return and work (added to the Gap Year number 2 file) we went to another sublime dinner and, after prolonged farewells to all our new friends, we fell again into the soft feather beds (which I forgot to mention are the best beds I have slept in since leaving home). 

The flight is nightmarish, as we sit right next to the incredibly loud engines, which sputter and stumble menacingly and then roar continuously, putting sleep out of the question. But sleep is important, because the challenge ahead of us is huge. We have arrived in Rio Gallegos, an unpleasant city but one of the southernmost point of Argentina, and have no plans or sense of orientation except to head directly to a famed estancia (ranch) that we have read about. But Patagonia is huge, and it is only when we are all piled into the little rental car speeding out of Rio Gallegos at 4am that it begins to dawn on us what we have gotten ourselves into. But when I say dawn I mean it in a purely poetic sense, as the real dawn is still four hours distant. The arrival is made a bit unpleasant by the fact that Casey discovers that his computer has been taken from his bag on the plane. A casualty of travel, but still supremely annoying. It also explains my bad spelling etc on the last dozen blog posts as I have been writing them on my IPhone. If you have ever written even a short text on one of these monsters you know how terrible it can be, and writing long passages gets harder not easier. So when I write ib ecyemku siege please know that i am trying to write I'm extremely sorry. RIP caseys computer (which apparently right now is in Mexico, according to Caseys Facebook). Back to the epic Patagonian roadtrip: We pick up coffee and 3 CDs in a bleary eyed stupor at a gas station. We had sworn not to sleep (since its a rental car dad unfortunately for him is the only driver and we want to at least keep him company) but sleep is hard to resist. But then the skies start to lighten, and we put on our first CD. Strange perhaps, to find in a gas station, but this selection if Gregorian Chants seems utterly appropriate as we sail across the Patagonian waste. The eerily harmonic voices of divinity twist and twine perfectly, giving the whole experience an even more surreal aspect than it already has. The sun slowly rises over the ocean that lies to the east, and illuminates the strange land around us as we barrel on on smooth paved road (the only on in Patagonia this condition, simply because of oil business). In retrospect it's hard to say quite what we expected from
Patagonia. The name evokes wilderness, certainly, and a certain harshness. But though these are both present perhaps a better defining characteristic is simply the hugeness. Endless flat and stepped land rolling away from us, empty and unspoiled and desolate. Truly empty, for there are only a few towns in it's whole vast expanse, a couple for oil, a few for tourism, a few that fell off the map. But the place pulsates with a sort of strange alien life, made more so when flocks of nandus (ostrich-like birds) and crowds of guanacos (small wild llamas) appear silhouetted on the horizon or, more often, crossing the road. Other than their brief wild spark, the land that we roll across for hours and hours is sparse brush and rock, never a tree, never a mountain. Inside the car things are by no means desolate. We have good food that we brought from Buenos Aires, and we listen to our second CD, 50s and 60s hits. Blue suede shoes, stand by me, rock around the clock, even la bamba float merrily out of the speakers and we sing along, half loving and half dreading each ridiculously cheery song. We stop for about 8 five minute power naps by the side of the road, all my dad needs to continue, but significantly less than I would like. Casey also prepares Mate to go, and extremely unusual occurrence since the ritual of boiling water and camaraderie is normally a very sedentary one. We occasionally see wildlife, like foxes, rabbits, huge deer, and carrion birds. The towns we drive through are bizarre in their tininess and desolation, quite unlike anything we have seen even in middle America. And after 12 long hours of road tripping up Patagonia Route 3, we approach our destination, a small ranch in a bay called Bahia Bustamante, which has recently opened a few small cabins for tourism. The place, as it turns out, was discovered by a man named Alejandro Soriano, a Spaniard in the cosmetic business who needed a bay with lots of seaweed that he could harvest for gel for hair products. This was the perfect bay, so he set up camp. But the seaweed had many uses, from gelatin for milkshakes and ice-cream to shampoo to fertilizer and pet food. Mr. Soriano's business became wildly successful, and the little farm grew into a village of 500, with police, a market, bars, a bakery, etc. The farm expanded to sheep farming as well as seaweed harvesting. But through demand for seaweed stayed strong, and it is still harvested today, the village slowly disintegrated after Soriano's death, and is now a surreal collection of simple whitewashed houses surrounded by trees and flowers and huge barns full of seaweed bales. The whole thing lies in the nook of a bay whose clear blue water laps on a rocky, seaweed strewn shore. Behind the village is the endless Patagonian plain. Bahia Bustamante opened to tourists (with four little cabins and a modest, but lovely dining hall) in 2006, and since then has gained a reputation as an idyllic estancia experience. There are ranches to stay at all over Argentina but, it would seem, few quite like this. Back to our arrival. We slide in on the gravel at 4pm, exactly 12 hours and 1000 kilometers from where we began at Rio Gallegos. We are welcomed in an given a cup of tea and after this, and a restorative shower, we begin to realize what an unusual paradise we have found. The cabins are simple but extremely comfortable with excellent beds and seaweed shampoo. And the beach, though in no way reminiscent of the Caribbean, has a peculiar charm. While dad takes a well earned nap, Casey and I take mate and instruments and go sit on the pebbly shore and play. The mate is sublimely refreshing, and, together with the landscape, feeds the music and otherworldly fuel. Our fingers and the strings are chilled by the evening wind, but the music doesn't stumble, but rather billows out in waves with no obstacle for a thousand miles that could send back an echo. The sky is too big to fill with our little sound, but the sound is bold and clear and true, and is absorbed continually into the vast wilderness. The sun sets in glorious oranges and pinks and creates strange silhouettes as dad comes out to join us and we skip not very flat rocks. We head in to dinner as the light dwindles. As it turns out, the cook here is phenomenal, world class. This first meal consists of excellent malbec, vegetable tempura, and seaweed crepes in cream sauce. The cheerful girl that serves us turns out to be, strangely enough, from Petaluma. Small world it us. After dinner we return to our little cabin and serenade dad with a variety of tunes, ranging from somewhat polished to totally improvised. But he is an excellent audience and it is the perfect end to the day. A day where once again we have made road-trip history