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Published: September 19th 2012
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Gold to Crimson
This was it; after almost a year and a half among lakes, mountains, volcanoes and glaciers, I was leaving Patagonia. For the eighth and last time, I crossed the southern Andes. On the weekly Sunday afternoon bus from Junin de los Andes, Argentina, we passed through wild west scenery with native forests of prehistoric araucaria trees and Lanin Volcano, whose clouds kindly parted for my last view. After passing through the Paso Tromen (to the Argentines)/Paso Mamuil Malal (to the Chilenos) our funky old bus was stopped by a herd of cattle walking down the middle of the dirt road that is the international highway. We had entered Chile.
For the last month, I'd been chasing autumn foliage in Argentina's Lake District. In April, I thrilled to the first leaves yellowing in the cooler weather in Bariloche, then stood amazed before the flames of golden poplars in San Martin de los Andes, and finally witnessed the early yellows drop with the advent of the crimson and vermillions in Junin de los Andes. Here in Pucon, autumn was at the golden to red stage. Being from a city of eternal spring, I hadn't even
known that this was the autumn cycle.
I'd left Junin as cold, gray weather set in. What was I thinking? I'd forgetten that the east/Argentina is the dry side of the Andes. Storms come in off the Pacific, hit the Andes and drop their load of precipitation, drenching south-central Chile with up to 3 meters of rain in spots. In May, Pucon receives a foot of rain, 1/3 of a meter--almost as much as my native Santa Barbara gets in a year! The Nobel Prize laureate Pablo Neruda, who grew up in this soaked region wrote "that the rain is born here."
The Glorious Off-Season
I'd spent a wonderful three months in the charming lake-side resort of Pucon the previous spring and summer. Now, in May's autumn, I returned to my friends Luis and Veronica where I was the only guest at Casa Mario in this very rainy season. The town was as gloriously peaceful as it had been in spring, and I revisited friends and favorite sites.
Luis, Veronica and granddaughter Coni drove me a couple of hours to the rocky coast to a small fishing village. Walking
amoung the massive rock formations along the shore, we had the beach to ourselves in the drizzling off-season, but the swaths of campsites attested to the popularity of the village in the sunny summer.
One fine late morning, I caught a bus and hiked down a wooded gorge for a lovely day in the rain at the rustic hot springs at Los Pozones. As in the spring, there were only a few of us soaking and floating in the various pools and enjoying the peace and the sound of the rushing river. Allergic to crowds, I'd wisely avoided the pools during the crazy days of summer. How lucky to be an off-season traveler!
As this was my last opportunity, I finally caught the rather early 8:30 bus up to Parque Huerqueue, where on a cloudy day, I hiked up steep trails past waterfalls, through the last native stands of araucaria trees I'd see and to sweet alpine lakes. No photos and limited views, but I had the place much to myself.
This region, the Araucania, is home to the largest number of indigenous Mapuche in the Andean region. They had held
these lands until the 1880s, and most of the geographical place names are in their language. They had resisted the Incaattempts at conquest and then, for 300 years, the Spanish--longer than any other indigenous people in the Americas. Eventually, they were herded onto reservations and led lives of dire poverty. Now, they are a potent force for asserting the rights of indigenous people though the governments have been brutal in repressing their rights' campaigns.
The Mapuche Museum in Pucon had fine examples of their gorgeous silver jewelry and textiles, as had the Patagonian Museum in Bariloche. Nearby Villarica featured a traditional rounded, oblong thatched dwelling, a ruka, rather like those of our east coast Iriquois. An elder demonstrated how to make and use many of the implements they had on display. I also revisited the small Mapuche town of Curarrehue with its beautiful cultural center and museum and many contemporary houses with rounded windows, reminiscent of the rukas.
Friends Old and New
My walking friend Estelle and husband Pato had lost their eldest son days before I arrived. He was 30 and a talented sculptor working with found objects. She'd always
said he had a bad temper, and perhaps it was this that gave him a heart attack. She, however, now only remembered him as the sweetest person ever--how kind, the tricks of memory. I took her a plant and found her in her garden where she wasn't at all teary, but ever so philosophic, saying she accepted that he was in a better place and that they'd see each other again. I was in a much worse state after I'd lost my dog. Her extended family had come from Santiago, and they kindly folded me into their mourning cloak as they shared family stories.
On a happier note, through the miracle of facebook, I even connected with Charlie and Stuart, English travelers in Latin America for eight months, who, in Nicaragua, had met my Santa Barbara friends Harriet and Alan. We seemed to be going in opposite directions, but on facebook, they announced their imminent arrival in Pucon. We spent a couple of fine days together, lingering in a cafe, walking the costanera/riverside promenade and enjoying a yummy, homecooked dinner in their hostel. Then....it was time for me to leave.
Winter was coming and
it was too cold to go south again, the lake districts were being battered by storms, and I wanted to go to northern Argentina before it became scorching again in spring. To ease my move away from Patagonia, I'd exlpore the little-visited mountains of central Chile that most travelers whiz by on their way to Santiago.
Farewell, fabulous Patagonia--you'll always be in my heart!
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Dancing Dave
David Hooper
FAREWELL PATAGONIA
Thank you for your wonderful Patagonia blogs Tara. Now you will be carried by other winds...may you continue...being Tara.