Futaleufú

Futaleufú is two things: a mountain village in Chile and one of the wildest whitewater rivers on the planet. Not much happens in the sleepy village, where woodsmoke mingles with gray skies even in the middle of summer. It's the kind of town where you buy bus tickets and used T-shirts from the woman at the post office (a wooden desk in a charmingly decrepit cottage.) On my way back to Chile I had run into Martina, a German girl I'd hiked with near Pucón six weeks earlier. We decided to join forces for some treks further south and took a bus from Esquel to the border, a few kilometers from town.

Hospedaje El Campesino

I celebrated my return to Chile by eating two empanadas, checking into a cheap hospedaje and just digging the wooden houses and greenery. After the arid Argentine steppe it was nice to be surrounded by greens hills, gardens and fruit trees. Hosepedaje El Campesino (the countryman) was a riot: a ramshackle old residence in decline, where the duck-under-doorways rooms are up the stairs from a parlor full of friendly, befuddled old timers drinking away the afternoon. In response to our question about hot water, the camerera explained that the water was heated by wood, but there was plenty that day. And tomorrow? Maybe, maybe. . .

Tacked to the back of our door, a yellowed paper explained the house rules (presented here verbatim.)

The rules of El Campesino

1. To cancel the berroom before use.

2. Take a shower 3 or 5 minutes maximum.

3. Don't switch on the lights in the day. To switch off the lights when take away.

4. Don't throw papers in toilet.

5. To deliver the vacant room before 9,30 a.m please.

It all sounded reasonable enough.

In town, we did what everyone comes for: the rafting. The Río Futaleufú is considered one of the world's best rivers for whitewater rafting and kayaking. American kayakers started coming down 15-20 years ago and gradually opened the river to tourism, although the general remoteness and the difficulty of getting there has kept a lid on things. A few outdoorsy gringos stroll the village but it doesn't feel touristy at all.

The rafting was a blast, way better than anything I'd done in the States. The rapids were big and just kept coming, the waves and troughs were huge and the post-raft sandwiches were great (turkey and avocado is great combination, but just imagine if there had been some cheddar. . .) Unfortunately, I was the only one in the raft who was keen on continuing for some class V rapids. The others may have hesitated after the raft flipped and a couple people almost drowned. I felt like telling them to get over it, but instead I ate another sandwich and counted my blessings; amazing scenery, turquoise water and the discovery of an espresso machine at a cafe in town.

The next day Martina hitchhiked to Chaitén (geography students have a thing for viewing post-eruption devastation.) I decided to stay another night, but down at a lodge the rafting company owned on the river. The only way to get there was by hitchhiking, and I waited two hours before teaming up with a Finnish girl, who was instrumental in securing a lift. Amazing how moments after an attractive blonde shows up, the first truck stops! It was a great night at the lodge with a few laughs, good company, a salad (noteworthy in Chile), a box of wine and a good night's sleep in my bag on the balcony.

Parque Nacional Los Alerces

After I finished mixing mud on the farm, Gabriel and I went down to the town of Cholila to camp overnight in the mountains. Aside from the lake, Cholila's only tourist attraction is the tumbledown cabin where Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid and his girl lived from 1901 to 1905 after fleeing to Argentina.

I made it down to the crossroads in Cholila on a Sunday afternoon, just in time to eat a sandwich and catch the bus to Parque Nacional Los Alerces. I was actually in buying an ice cream when I looked through the shop window and saw the minibus pull up in a cloud of dust. There's only one a day in Cholila, so I gave up on the cone and ran down the road. From Cholila, the gravel RP 71 runs south along the lakes that line the park north to south, then out to the modest grid of gritty civilization known as Esquel, the largest town in the area.

I had planned on going all the way down to Villa Futalaufquen, but decided to jump off the bus at Lago Verde and camp there. There was a choice of two campgrounds and of course I chose the cheaper one with the reception blasting Guns n Roses. I drank a big beer while I pitched my tent and checked out the lake, which was amazing, circled by forest and snow-capped mountains.

The next morning I set out to hike Cerro Alto el Petiso, one of the big day hikes in the park. I jotted down my name and campsite on the paper hanging on the door of the ranger station (registration for the longer hikes is mandatory for safety reasons), made a quick Radiohead playlist and headed down the road. If anybody is reading this who hasn't checked out their last album In Rainbows, go buy it. I walked about a mile down the road to the little pasarela the crosses the Río Arrayanes and followed the lake shore around to Puerto Mermoud and the start of the trail. Apparently there used to be some buildings here from the first settlers to cross into the area from Chile, but they burned down.

One of the best things about Los Alerces was how quiet it was. Tourism is way down this year all over the world, Patagonia being no exception. Bad for business but great for enjoying a little solitude. The trail to El Petiso is basically a steady climb, gaining a few thousand feet in three sections. First you hike through a forest of tall, mature coihue and dense clumps of the omnipresent and bamboo-like caña colihue. The middle section follows a involves hiking up a streambed of gravel and boulders, hopping from rock to rock and getting great views over your shoulder to Lago Menendez. Finally you leave the stream and ascend narrow ridge and steep bowl of lose talus and scree.

The view from the top is unreal, jagged peaks and lakes in every direction, with a few glaciers thrown in for good measure. The whole day I only saw two people, a couple of lasses who never made the top. I had the summit to myself, which much appreciated but cold and windy. The trip down was wild, as it was the only time I can remember not feeling comfortable and in control when hiking. Descending a forty-five degree slope of loose rock doing the crab-walk to spread your weight, sliding a little bit with every move and nothing to stop you for hundreds of feet down. Yeah.

I finally made it back to the campground and packed up in time to catch the same bus with the same driver as the day before down to Villa Futalaufquen and camp at Los Maitenes. The night was uneventful save for eating my first hamborguesa y papas (burger and fries) in many weeks, while enjoying some good 70s rock, Bob Seeger, Tom Petty and Journey being the standouts. I also watched a father and his two teenage sons playing pool and reminisced a little about family vacations past (the main difference being the two sons were getting along with each other.)

To bring the rambling to a close, the next day I did another hike of equal intensity and duration (10 miles?) up to Cerro Dedal, which looms over Lago Futalaufquen. The views kept blowing my mind until finally I was numb. I enjoyed a few slices of salami and cheese and some apples and chocolate. I really didn't want to wait for the bus, so I went down to the park entrance and tried to thumb it. After almost an hour and eighteen cars, Pablo picked me up in what looked to be a Ford Probe. He absolutely gunned it down the gravel, chatting, passing cars and texting. He explained he was late for work, expressed his hopes for the new US administration, pointed out the best bar and dropped me at the bus station.

Mud and Maté

For the last two weeks I've been farming out here in Epuyén, Argentina. I'm volunteering on a small chacra called Taiquén, owned by a very friendly fortyish couple with a young son, two dogs, two cats and five sheep.

The seeds of Taiquén were sown about ten years ago. Gabriel and Cristina had been living in nearby Cholila until they found a few acres to buy here in Epuyén, an unassuming town tucked into the front range of the Argentine Andes. A few kilometers from the village, beautiful Lago Epuyén extends back into the mountains, where patches of snow hint at the many glaciers hidden deeper in the range.

This valley is on the edge of the vast Patagonian steppe, reminiscent of parts of the western US and characterized by wiry grasses and thorny shrubs. Trees of any size are a sure sign of either water or a farm. Sparse rainfall and strong winds leave little room for luxurious greenery, but where the steppe meets the mountains forests of pine and beech take advantage of increased moisture. It's late January, and the dog days of the Argentinian summer make work virtually impossible from one o'clock until about five. But although the afternoons are blistering, the nights cool down to a refreshing 50 degrees.

The farm is a few miles from the village on a dusty dirt road, a little oasis in a landscape more often used as range land for horses or sheep. When Gabriel and Cristina bought the land, there was nothing but bristly brown grass and brambles. They sank a well and started a homestead. Gabriel has a lot of experience in earth building techniques, and they built a house using wooden beams and mud brick. The end result is an cozy little house that fits the local climate as well as the landscape.

Then came the greenhouse and various irrigated plots. Apple trees and raspberry canes, shade trees and sheep pen, hen house and beehives. Gooseberries, currants, blackberries and a greenhouse full of tomatoes. Not to mention beets, broccoli, carrots, salad greens, cucumbers, herbs, peppers, cabbage, and so on. Other farm products include jams, pickles and honey.

My farm duties have mostly been made up of the daily chores that keep things moving. Feeding the animals, collecting eggs, opening and closing the greenhouse vents, putting the sheep to pasture first thing in the morning and getting them back in the pen at dusk. Not to mention flipping the switches, twisting the valves and priming the pump of a complicated but very efficient irrigation system.

Our main project over the past two weeks has been the construction of a small building down by the road. Something of a farm stand/kitchen for the production of jams, preserves, pickles, etc. The foundation was already formed up when I arrived, so a couple days were spent mixing and pouring concrete. I also added to the supply of mud bricks on hand, which was as simple as mixing soil and water, pulling on some rubber boots, stomping around and trowelling the mud into molds. The bricks dried in the sun for several days, then we started constructing the walls.

It's been interesting to see how to build with earth, but lugging bricks and splashing around in the mud had me wondering at times what I was doing with my 'vacation.' But the building usually happened in the mornings, and after siesta there were peas and raspberries to pick and mulching to be done. At one point I even put on a bee suit to pull apart some hives with Gabriel. And not many days went by without a maté or two.

A word about maté: Maté is the national drink of Argentina, and most people don't go a day without it. A dried gourd or wooden cup is filled with the dried, crushed leaves of the yerba maté (a shrubby tree growing in the north.) A metal straw is inserted, hot water is poured in, and the resulting infusion is what flows through the veins of virtually every Argentine. The whole ritual is more meaningful and nuanced than I've described, especially since maté is usually shared around in a group. There's more than one dose in a maté, and once one person has their sip, the gourd is refilled with hot water and passed on. . . and I've shared many a maté with Gabriel and Cristina over the past two weeks.

I can't wait to get back on the road, but I had a great time at Taiquén. I got to share the life of an Argentine family and escape the cycle of guesthouses, buses and restaurants that form the unavoidable framework of travel. I got relax with my morning coffee with a view of the mountains. But I need to move, so tomorrow morning I'm catching a bus or thumbing it down to Parque Nacional Los Alerces for a little hiking before I head back to Chile.

FYI: I got this gig through WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms), a global farm network started in the UK in 1971. I bought an annual membership back in November for $25, thinking it might come in handy. The basic WWOOF model is food and lodging in exchange for farm labor, although the fundamental idea is to create an experience in which volunteers are introduced to organic farming techniques and lifestyles. If you're curious, check out www.wwoof.org.