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Published: July 31st 2011
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Tie-dye me up and dreadlock me down; it was down the rabbit hole I went to El Bolson, a thriving hippie town of artisans, musicians, organic food, recycling, and hand-made everything. Located at the junction of Patagonia and the Lake District, it is fabulously sited in a fertile valley nestled between two tall mountain ranges, offering hikes with waterfalls, forests, lakes and rivers. A hand-carved sign in the center of town wisely proclaims, "In El Bolson, life is valued more than gold." My kind of town.
This New Age haven is centered around Pagan Plaza with its big artificial lake and a artisan fair where I whiled away two weeks in February dancing in drum circles, listening to musicians and story-tellers and savoring berries, hand-made chocolates and artisan beer from this center of hop-growing, artisan beer-brewing and organic farming. When I wasn't enjoying the fairs, I was hiking in the surrounding mountains or passing lazy days on my porch.
I'd arrived on another marathon overnight bus ride--this time 12 hours--that had brought me from the gateway to Patagonia, Puerto Madryn. The tourist office and guide books only noted rather pricey $15+ dorm beds. However, a friend had told me
of unofficial $10 ones in a cabin at the Ni Nada Campground, on the "other" side of the river from the fancy hostels and campgrounds. I headed there.
Ni Nada was a scenic 40-minute walk from town across wonderfully-funky, swaying bridges over the Rio Quemquemytreu. Even though it was still high season, I often had a room to myself--what a find! Plus, kittens, chicks, piglets and their moms and a horse roamed the campground. Red and yellow plums, red and black raspberries, and apples were there for the picking. Heaven!
I often sat on the balcony of the cabin, reading or chatting, with a young cat and her kittens on my lap. There, I could gaze across the valley to the rugged, granitic ridges and lower forested areas of the Cerro Piltriquitron range, 2260 m/6780 ft, from whose summit, you could see across over into Chile. I felt as if I were home in Santa Barbara's Mission Canyon, sitting on my deck looking out at my coastal Santa Ynez mountains.
Curious how I've so often felt that I've come home in places where I can imagine staying forever. Extraordinary the number of fantastic people I've met in
my travels, and especially here where the campground and cabin were filled with rock climbers, musicians, political workers and travelers like myself. Hopefully, when I return to the US, I can even visit climbers Tanya and Mark in Boulder.
I went on lots of walks directly from the campground (I love leaving my house and being on a trail). Across the river and the town, there were lots of different trails up Cerro Amigo for a view over the town. There were even more trails in the Cerro Piltriquitron range which I regretfully didn't take since I needed a taxi to get up to the trailheads. I should have tried hitching up there.
On my side of the mountains, in the Cordon Nevado, trails led 8 km over the hills to the verdant valley of the Rio Azul, the Cascada Escondido (hidden waterfall), a botanic garden, and the Cabeza del Indo (Indian Head). All around were mountain peaks and fabulous metamorphic rocks--striated and folded--and sometimes cut with walking narrow ledges.
One day, I visited the National Park of Lago Puelo, home of the glorious, turquoise lake surrounded by the Andes mountains, some capped permanently with glaciers. The
very-local bus took an hour through scenic countryside to cover the 15 km/10 miles to the lake. There, we were greeted by friendly forest rangers with maps and suggestions for hikes.
While boaters and bathers enjoyed the lake, I hiked up to a mirador/lookout over the mountain-ringed lake. The river that drains the lake flows west to the Pacific; I felt suddenly thrilled, and a bit homesick, to be connected to my ocean.
From the mirador, I followed a trail cut by the early German pioneers, walking slowly as I munched wild blackberries and plums. A botanic garden had fabulous explanations of how part of the boggy land is inundated each year and the pitra tree, a kind of myrtle, lives partially under water. Other signs told how they were using a Japanese botanist' methods for promoting natural diversity when reforesting after a fire.
While El Bolson's population of 27,000 was too small to support a cinema, the place was full of music--on the streets, at the fairs and in concerts. I attended a fine violin duo performing Mozart, Bartok and some modern pieces in the rather rudimentary church (the images of the Stations of the Cross
seemed to have been cut out of a magazine and glued onto wooden plaques).
I was also there for the National Hops Festival--El Bolson being the chief producer of these and thus a chief producer of specialty beers. I was expecting tastings and demonstrations as in Santa Barbara's avocado and lemon festivals. However, here it was just loud rock music in outdoor concerts that rocked the campground from 10 pm to 5 am. Not exactly my style.
However, so much of El Bolson was my style--the hippies, the handbuilt houses, the organic food, my comfy campground and the mountain trails. After two weeks of perfection, it was time to move on to Bariloche, where I'd taken my broken camera (you may notice black smudges in some of the photos). A part of my heart will always be in El Bolson.
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