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Leaving Río Gallegos the next morning we found our friend thumbing it on the outskirts, took him on again for about fifteen minutes and dropped him at his intersection, and headed ourselves, west across hours of desolate estepa… | |
…until dropping off the meseta outside El Calafate, past this frontier estancia… | |
…and a flock of ovejas, | |
…returning full circle to El Calafate, nestled on the shores of Lago Argentino, beneath the intoxicating animations of sky dancing. El Calafate is named after the calafate bush, indigenous to Patagonia, famous for the delicious jam made from its berries. Legend holds that whoever eats calafate jam will return for more. I'm sold and I didn't even eat any. | |
These homes are perched on the ridge above El Calafate, the small outpost of 10,000 citizens, 8 police officers, and plenty of dogs. | |
We holed up in a small cabaña right on the lake and spent the afternoon decompressing, making sense of our gear and provisions, feasting on what may be the best pizza in Argentina, and wondering when our feet would again touch the ground…, | |
…after ten days of logistics with zero margin for error, graced by the near complete absence of errors, enabling the manifestation of a simple expedition through one of Earth's last frontiers, which I suspect plunged each of us into the theretofore incomprehensible depths of our own individual frontiers, tearing us, without mercy or illusion, open, wide open, like the glacial turquoise lakes, snow-capped cordilleras, endless estepa horizons, and dancing skies that only exist in a dreamscape… in Patagonia. As for the Patagonia Expedition 2004, thank you Patagonia. It is my deep honor to have experienced Your wonder with Dad and Mark. May your memory live on eternally, in our shared experience, and through the daily thoughts and actions of our onward marching lives. As for Dad and Mark, thanks and much love to you. | |
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