SA trip part 2. (part 1, tierra del fuego.)
Music: Wax Tailor, To Dry Up
The people at home always demand to be told all about the extraordinary
adventures you had and if you show them pictures because you don't know what to
say, they will be disappointed and tell you it's too bad you didn't take more
pictures of "the city" and that "your friends" are always hidden under helmets
and behind face masks.
When you look at the photos, you see moments frozen in time and you remember
the way the snow felt that day or that you had a blister on that hike and were
trying to keep your sock from sticking to the raw flesh.
They want to see smiling faces, properly excited young adventurers waving at the
camera, preferably in front of a lonely planet approved location of interest.
How to explain that you know that the people behind the goggles are smiling even
if you don't see it? That you like the cold? The way the world suddenly turns
golden when you reach that magic divide between sun and shadow on a morning
skin? The tranquility of walking through dry gras and thorny bushes at the end
of the day, towards the road, enjoying the slowness? Crouching whiteknuckled in
the back of a pickup speeding down a dirtroad and loving it for the wind in you
face and the way the dust billows up behind you?
Bariloche busy and bustling, some old friends, some new, tourists so in love
with the idea of traveling that they forget to actually travel and americans
who ask if there are whales in the lake. (the answer is no.)
A fairy tale forest and friends that suddenly pop up out of nowhere. Here's to a
small world and the good people of Finland!
Jeni
Jari
klar
Cerro Lopez with Split-It, a reminder of the consequences of stupidity,
redeeming powder turns in the trees and a swiss expat whose sweet tea and
classic asswiggling style make Lopez feel like the Sellrain.
Potential touring partners were turned back by the wind .
:HINT: don't do the retard traverse, drop over the ridge to avoid wind :HINT:
Arriving at Frey I find that the Refugieros have gone to twon to buy provisions
and the place seems deserted. I bolt the doors against the storm and settle in
for the night with a Spanish Sin City comic that was collecting dust under the
table. Dead protitutes and murdering shadows start floating around in the dark
around my small island of headlamp light. The wind is tearind at the shutters,
howling around the hut. Marv is sawing someones feet off, feeding him to a wild
dog part for part. The wind is getting worse, a high pitched wailing. The head
Marv is holding is dripping with blood but still somehow wearing Harry Potter
glasses.
- Wait, that wasn't the wind. It's coming from the storage room next to the
kitchen..-
Another lonely soul hiding from the night, a set of glowing golden eyes, a warm
body next to mine and comfort for both of us...
A bit lazy on the following days due to the remnants of a cold and my generally
dismal performance on breakable crust. Sky: blue. Views: extensive. Clouds in
the valley: Schadenfreude.
Hut below at end of lake.
Lunch view.
klar
Tronador.
Would have liked to ead further out to Jacob, Laguna Negra, the Tres Reyes etc
but couldn't find anyone to come along. Seriously people, sack the fuck up, ok?
Times are a-changing at Refugio Frey. A new owner, the hut warden of 15 years,
el famoso Pedro left and the place will be very different in the future.
Remains to be seen whether that's good or bad.The new refugieros are nice. The
mountains will stay the same.
continues...
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