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Published: April 9th 2010
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Bariloche is the tourist capital of Argentina. It sits close to the Chilean border on the edge of a large lake. The surrounding area is known as the Seven Lakes, although there are many more. We stayed briefly in Bariloche to do some rafting and horse riding and then rented a car and drove north. The sky was a steel ceiling above our heads, the clouds like a huge demonstration occupying the heavens, their coattails dragging along the mountaintops. The Patagonian wind ran rampant in the valleys of the Seven Lakes, threatening to run the car off the road. The road turned into a long crescent shaped valley where trees covered the surrounding mountains on one side and waves, driven to a frenzy by the wind, lapped the shore on the other side.
We passed the resort town of Villa le Angostura and the road turned from asphalt into dirt and dove deep into a forest. The constant drizzle had transformed the road into a long muddy streak full of potholes that set the car hopping and dancing. The space on both sides of the road became gradually narrower until we were surrounded by forest. Going in deeper we saw
great yellow machines tearing up tree and mountain and improving the road to our destination - the town of San Martin de los Andes. The carving of the road out of the forest seemed almost sacrilegious as if someone had decided to build a road right in the middle of an ancient cathedral. The silence of the forest was broken by the screams and coughs of tractors and trucks which rent tree roots, cut down trees and left them die by the sides of the road.
San Martin de los Andes is a small town with beautiful Swiss cottage style houses, avenues lined with roses and a lake with small yachts bobbing in the water. The locals seem to have a penchant for cars from the seventies, which gives the town a French movie atmosphere. There is a constant expectation of seeing an elegant French woman with a long cigarette emerge from a red convertible around the next corner.
The day after our drive from Bariloche we drove into the Lanin National Park, just north of San Martin de los Andes. The road goes east and the landscape turns once more into pampas where lone gauchos ride their
horses and small herds of sleek horses graze. Inside the park and just before the volcano that gives it its name is a huge dead forest. Brittle black fingers pointing at the sky are all that remains of 43,000 hectares consumed by a giant fire in last year's unusually hot summer.
The sky was somber when we arrived and we drove two kilometers down from the visitor center to a small mountain lake. Three families of Argentinians were cooking meat over open fires, the delicious smells causing me to regret the rather humble bread and cheese lunch I'd brought. We sat in the car while rain splashed into little pools around us and ate our meal. We didn't quite know what to do since walking in the rain didn't seem like a very pleasurable prospect and there were no indoor activities available. But the quicksilver weather of the mountains came through for us and just as we finished eating the sun came out and lit up the whole valley. Now the lake was deepest navy blue, where before it had been cobalt, and the sun's rays frolicked on tiny wavelets. We walked a little way along the shore, black
with volcanic rock and sand, and lay down. The only sound was the gentle song of the water and it was easy to imagine we were the only ones in this little mountain paradise. The atmosphere was so peaceful that we soon found ourselves drifting into sleep.
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