Penguins and Guanacos oh my...

After endles hours of driving through flat brown sagebrush on the Patagonian Stepp, you come to the Atlantic ocean. From curious little penguinos to native guanacos, which are kind of like a cross between a deer and a llama, sea lions - or lobos marinos as the locals call them, and elephant seals, there´s plenty to see... and sometime play with.

Magellanic Penguins at Punta Loma on the Argentine Atlantic coast live in droves under sagebrush. Their unafraid and curious.

Guanacos, they´re pretty fast and kind of wierd.

Joanna dances the penguin with her little friend.

- AC

Fast Times at 2,000 meters High

This here is a psychological experiment of the blogging variety. Following is the account of the same experience, by one male and by one female, and their different interpretations of the events ...

- AC says

As the speedometer flirted with 150 kilomoters an hour and the tires managed to keep from squeeling around the curves of the mountain road - most likely because of the rain - Tito reached up to the dash and shoved another cracker into his mouth. He had missed lunch, and between checking his cell phone, sipping his Diet Coke and munching away he was shifting gears on the van, pushing it´s less than performance abilities to their limits.

Despite most Argentine bus employees´ disbelief, we had not watched any TV or read any newspapers in Bariloche. In the middle of one of the prettiest places on the planet why would we? Penance for falling of the grid, however, was that we had failed to realize the country was recognizing a time change, one hour ahead.

Of course, we had managed to book bus tickets, reserve a room in our next destination and even sketch out our plans after that. The first leg of our journey from Bariloche to Puerto Madryn, a four-plus hour bus to Esquel, had left on time - an hour earlier.

There were no later buses, no buses would run the next day - New Years Eve, and the hotels in Bariloche were booked with party animals for the holiday. We were left with a solitary option.

We paid Tito, the five-o´clock-shadowed "driver" 300 pesos to drive us the 300 kilometers of two lane winding mountain roads from Bariloche to Esquel to catch our overnight leg which would leave in less than three hours.

For the next two hours and 45 minutes I tried to pretend I was enjoying some of what I think was the prettiest country I have ever seen while simultaneously attempting to keep my heart from exploding out of my chest or my arms from going numb as my fists soaked up all the blood clenching the door handle.

As we emptied out of the mountains into the bigger more open valleys around Esquel Tito was able to really make the engine whine and I relized we were probably going to live after all. My hands loosened up, I had managed to leave the handle intact.

Half an hour later we pulled into the bus stop, 15 minutes early. I shook Tito´s hand and happily paid him his money. Maybe it was too much, but until the moment we pulled into the terminal I never thought we´d make it.


- JMH says

Apparently they have time changes in Argentina, too. Not anything as fancy as "Spring-forward-Fall-back," but someone with power decided tp push to hour ahead by one this year at midnight on Dec. 29. Unfortunately, this person forgot to tell us.

Being the Germanic, puntual travelers we are, Alex and I arrived at the Bariloche bus station about 45 minutes before our scheduled 6 p.m. departure to Puerto Madryn. As the hour drew nearer and nearer, I watched other bus companies come and go, with no sign of ours. I inquired at 6:05 at the ticket booth, digesting the "se fue" response with confusion and then anger. Much to our dismay, the bus had left at its scheduled time, which was an hour before our watches read.

I informed Alex of our error and proceeded to throw the tantrum that`s become my emotional signature - no longer cute at age 25. We weigh our options, and being that it`s nearly New Year`s and everything in Bariloche is already booked and we have reservations in Puerto Madryn, we opt for the $350 peso car ride with a driver I will henceforth refer to as Señor. He told us his name, but in my cries of passenger terror all I could mutter was "Aye Señor." Needless to say, Argentines, as well as most of the rest of the world, drive like maniacs.

I`ve since adapted to the eight minute taxi rides, assuring myself that any accident in the city center would more likely produce a pedestrian or cyclist casualty. But I had no such assurance on this 350 kilometer "3 hour" mountain drive to catch the second leg of our bus ride.

As Señor took the serious curves at over 100 km/hour - irregardless of the "60 km maximum velocidad" signs - I white-knuckled my lap-only seatbelt relseasing my vice-like grip only to grasp the seat in front of me and twist my face into a wrinkly ball of fear. Meanwhile, Señor casually types text messages into his phone, plays with the radio, snacks on crackers and fails to wear his own seatbelt, the safer kind that actually goes over the shoulders. Plus, it`s begun to rain.

My anxiety is palpable, and I remind myself that if there is a god, he/she won`t let me die in a head on collision in Argentina with a man I know only as Señor. I`m thinking that maybe we should nix the whole bus ride thing and hole up with the elves in El Bolson, a town less than 25 km. away. And then I see a road mileage sign. I do some quick math and determine that we need to keep at an average speed of 107 km/hour to catch the 10:30 p.m. bus with no time to spare. That can`t be possible. Or so I think.

The road sign throws me to the wolves and I speak up.

"Are there places to stay in El Bolson?" I ask as though I`m actually interested in the detour. "How close is it to here?" I follow up.

Yes and close are his answers, followed by, "¿Por que?"

I tell him that we`re taking the corners too fast, not staying in our own lane, making blind passes and that the oncoming headlights in my same lane is too much to bare. In a nutshell, "Tengo miedo."

He smiles and tells me he makes this drive three times each week, and when he`s alone he does it in two hours and 10 minutes.

I tell him I don`t want to die. He laughs and says that he doesn`t either.

"Why don`t you wear your damned seatbelt then." But I only think this. I don`t want to be rude to the man who has my life in his hands after all.

So I pull out my pen and notebook to write, realizing it`s easier to whiz be kilometer after kilometer with my head down. Plus, no one likes a backseat driver, especiallt this one.

Needless to say, we caught our ride with time to spare. And I even gave Señor a smile and a kiss when he dropped us safely and in one piece at the bus door.

Throwin` in the towel?

Punto Panorama offers more than a peak at the lush landscape and plentiful lakes in Nahuel Huapi national park, just 15 km from Bariloche. - JMH

Just when I was ready to call it a day, or a trip, really, after another two week bout fighting foreign bugs and bacteriums, we landed here in the land of plenty - plenty of mountains, plenty of lakes and more than enough beauty.

San Carlos de Bariloche, in the northernmost part of Patagonia, is more than a sight for sore eyes. The town itself is cute enough, but the surrounding landscape can only be described as breathtaking - definitely makes my Top 5 list of Prettiest Places. It`s like Tahoe, only nicer, if you can believe it.

The city center itself boasts a dozen chocolate shops, make-your-own t-shirt shops line the sidewalks and hoards of Argen"teens" fill the hotels and hostels to spend their summer breaks dancing away the nights. The place itself is actually more reminiscient of a little Swiss village, which makes some sense at it was settled in the 19th century by Austrians and Germans. It`s situated at the foot of the Andes and on the shore of Lago Nahuel Huapi, a curiosuly shaped body of water - plenty to explore by boat.

Brian, Dad, Alex and I landed here well over a week ago with little chance to blog, if that says anything about how busy we`ve been able to keep ourselves here - with hikes, bikes, drives, coffee, chocolate, red wine, beef and mostly just gaping at the view.

Joanna, Alex, Al and Brian take photo after photo, including the self-portraits, in attempt to share the sights with those back home. - JMH

This was only the second place I`ve been where I really thought to myself that I could stay here. But the economy is all tourist based, and truth be told, I don`t want to work! So instead, we vacationed. A cabin, rented clown car, purchased DVD player and Christmas movie favorites, and a fridge stocked with beer helped make for one of the best holidays ever.

But the time has come, yet again, to repack our backpacks and explore a new place. Alex and I will take a night bus to Puerto Madryn, where we plan to hit up the nearby peninsula`s wildlife preserve. Ever since that movie "March of the Penguins," I`ve been inspired to see the well-dressed little fellows in their masses.

View from Cerro Catedral, one of the biggest and most popular ski resorts in Argentina. - JMH

- JMH

`Tis the season ... Hartman family Christmas letter

Hola Friends and Family,


It`s that time of the year yet again, and in true Hartman spirit, we`ve deviated from the traditional holiday festivities (including my annual snail-mail Christmas letter) and are sending an email to fill you in from the other side of the Equator. It`s warm here in Bariloche, Argentina, and my boyfriend Alex and I are catching up on emails and to-do`s after a wonderful few weeks with the family. Brian and girlfriend Caitlin met us in Mendoza, Arg. closely followed by Al. Together, much like the Griswold Family of National Lampoon fame, we explored the Andes and wine country. Caitlin returned to Rhode Island for her own family Christmas as the four of us continued south to Bariloche, in northern Patagonia where we celebrated a Charlie Brown Christmas in shorts and tank tops with drives and hikes through some of the most beautiful landscape I`ve ever laid eyes on.


It`s been another great year in life of Al, Brian and Joanna, and here`s a little synopsis to let you all know how (and where) we stand.


Al passed another spring walking through Europe, across Spain with his brother Tom - Al`s second go-around at the Spanish Camino de Santiago, this time to Finisterra, the furthest west point in Europe. He spent a month this fall in Shanghai and southwestern China with old Sierra Club friends, including a three-day trek along Tiger Leaping Gorge where he looked ominously down 3,900 meters to the bottom of the canyon. He also snuck in some "local" travel, including a trip to L.A. to visit his college roommate, a stint in Tahoe to watch his daughter report on wildfires, and a family reunion in Baltimore to celebrate his parents` 65th wedding anniversary. Al still calls West Linn, Oregon "home" and continues to tinker in between wanderlust. Next year he`s looking forward to working on the house (and the old cars and motorcycle parts), another camino with his brother in France, and is hopeful his daughter will join him in the Northwest following her travels.


Brian, on the other hand, is looking forward to getting far, far away his dad and sister after an 18-hour bus ride, four-person youth hostel rooms and solid two weeks of family fun. No, really, he`s just off on his next adventure - to Indonesia and southeast Asia in January for two months with Caitlin. Brian`s had an eventful 2007. He resigned as the executive chef of Honga`s Lotus Petal in Telluride, Colorado after expanding and relocating the restaurant, and celebrated the June release of a cookbook by the same name boasting 44 of Brian`s recipes and a proud photo on page 11. He didn`t get in his usual twice yearly travel but left Telluride for Block Island, Rhode Island. He`s now working as the sous chef for Block Island Resorts which operates three restaurants, five hotels and caters a variety of high-end functions for 20 to 500 people. Though he misses ringing in the New Year on his snowboard, he looks forward to seeing more of the world before heading back to work in Block Island in April. And despite his "hard" living, he looks great - just like he did five, even ten, years ago. The appearance of an age gap between Brian and Joanna is quickly closing - Bri still gets carded when he buys beer.


Looking back, my year seems to have whizzed by. I had been living in Tahoe City, California since last summer, reporting for the Sierra Sun and Tahoe World newspapers by day, and moonlighting as a waitress in order to save for this trip of a lifetime. I am now homeless and a "citizen of the world," at least for another month or so here in Argentina. I loved writing for the small daily paper, which even won a General Excellence award in my tenure there, and was particularly psyched to cover my first-ever breaking news story on a wildfire that erupted just three miles from my home and office. My boyfriend Alex and I "retired" in September after a few seasons of exploring the Sierra in sun and snow, including trips to Mammoth, Pinecrest Lake and into the backcountry. I saw high school and college friends in Oregon and Washington en route to a wedding, and also managed to visit with almost my entire family - the Fergusons in San Francisco, Popsi and Jacquee in Grass Valley, Granny and Grandpa and the Baltimore Hartmans on my way out of the country. As we watch the numbers in our our bank accounts rapidly decrease, we will likely be in Argentina only through January, but look forward to another week of family travel with Alex`s parents in southern Patagonia. From there, life is pretty much a question mark - the only guarantee a job and/or graduate school search. I`m interested in journalism, psychology, the Northwest and the mountains. I`m an Aries and I like long walks on the beach. But seriously, if anyone wants to give me or Alex any ins, we`re all ears. And yes, that`s my attempt to plug myself.


In closing, I hope this letter finds you all happy, healthy and well - and not entirely bored.

Take care,
Love,
Al, Brian and Joanna

The Griswalds ain´t got nothing...

Photos: Above, the Hartman-and-friends clan poses for a picture at the entrance to Aconcagua National Park, with Aconcagua barely visible through the clouds; Brian and Joanna laugh at Al´s stellar photographic ability; Joanna poses for a photo as Al worships the Andean gods; a busted out bus sits in a field in the upper Valle Uspullata. - AC

The four or five little squirrels under the white hood of the small sedan whirred away as I downshifted in attempt to pass the two trucks that were slugging it up the hill which wound it´s way into the dramatic peaks of the Andes.

My co-pilot´s knuckles were clenched around the door handle in a white ball.

Her brother and father both teased her from the backseat.

"Finally, I would have passed 17 times already," I could see Al in the rearview mirror. He was sitting in the center of the back seat, between Brian and Caitlin. His head was swivling around taking in the view and his mouth was slightly smiling at the idea of adventuring up into the mountains right in the center of his two kids.

"Dad, don´t egg him on. Why do we have to pass, what´s your hurry?" Joanna didn´t like driving much, and the overturned tractor-trailer we passed a few kilometers back didn´t help matters.

Dispite having taken the Argentine Route 7 twice now by bus to get to and from Santiago, Chile, Joanna and I found ourselves again winding up out of the endless rows of vines in the Mendoza wine country and into the sky scraping peaks of the Andes. Instead of a bus, this time we were packed into a small rental car, looking for photographic stops along the way.

As we wound up and into the mountains, the traffic thinned and the drive became pleasant. Route 7 is a well paved, heavily traveled road, the main source of land travel between Argentina and Chile. In addition to it´s quality as a South American highway, the road passes within kilometers of Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western Hemisphere at 6,960 meteres.

After winding our way up out of the dry cragly Andean foothills and bursting into the gigantic valleys beneath the full peaks of the Andes, we pulled into Uspullata, which was the location of filming for the 1997 Brad Pitt movie Seven Years in Tibet. Valle de Uspullata served as the closest thing to the Himalayas possible for filming.

After lunch, we wound further up into the seemingly endless valley toward the Chilean boarder. Heading west, the Andes rise and rise. The giant valley winds on between peaks that roll and crag, from greens of vegitation, through yellows, whites, reds, purples and all manner of browns millions of years of tectonic growth and geothermal activity are detailed through visible layers of rock sediment.

Mere kilometers from the boarder, Aconcagua rises up in the distance, only it´s snowcapped glaciated upper half visible behind layers of Andean peaks within the park.

It was there that we turned around. The four more hours down through 30 switchbacks within two kilomoters through Portillo into Santiago was not something we wanted to undertake.

After snapping a few photos and trying to catch a glimpse of the Andes´most mighty mountain through the clouds, we piled back into the car and putted off back down the hill.

As the dark grey clouds veiled the peaks to the east, Caitlin slept, mouth agape on Brian´s shoulder. Joanna hung the camera out the window in search of the perfect picture of horses dwarfed by mountains.

"How far to Uspallata?" Al asked. "I could go for a café at Bodega Gato."

- AC

By metro, microbus, hitching and horse

How to have an authentic Chilean adventure ...

Step 1: Forgo the US$60 per person fee for an organized tour to see Santiago´s rural mountain pueblos.

Step 2: Wake up early enough, pre-dawn, to make a breakfast that absorbs the one or two too many Pisco Sours from the night before. Fried bread from a vendor for 20 cents is a good start.

Step 3: Take the subway as far away from the city center as possible. Plus, it`s the opposite direction of the commuters. Disembark the metro, walk to the bus terminal and stand with your mouth agape trying to figure out which bus, one of hundreds, might possibly get you to the right spot. Remember, you have no map - just a bottle of water, a swimsuit, two apples, sunscreen and high hopes for some sort of a rustic adventure. You`re doing it sans tour guide afterall, so it`s bound to be fun.

Step 4: After less than an hour with no hope of figuring out the right mode of transportation, ask someone.

Step 5: Decide to fork out the 9,000 pesos (US$18) for a car ride to some city that is supposedly partway to your final destination, Lo Valdes. Remember, you have no map.

Step 6: When the driver says with a frown "Poco dinero" as you hand him the pre-decided 9,000 pesos, look to your companion. Offer another 1,000 pesos, and refuse when the driver asks for 10,000 more. You`re tired of getting ripped off by the locals after all.

Step 7: Ask at the police station to use the baño. But BYOTP. Few bathrooms supply either toilet paper or soap.

Step 8: Ask the one-toothed, weather-faced local the best way to continue on to Lo Valdes. Then stand in the road and wiggle your thumb just as you were instructed. Gladly oblige when Marcelo stops his dump truck to take you the 25 or so kilometers on the non-paved street. It takes an hour. And be sure to wear a sports bra - it`s a buuuumpy ride. Note that you are riding through a beautiful valley surrounded by sky-high Andes peaks, some still with snow spatterings amidst the jagged rocks and green patches.

Step 9: Hike the 1 km to the German refugio and ask where it is you can rent a horse to take to the termas (hot springs). Mr. Rugged-I-live-here-in-desolation-all-year-round-and-rip-on-skis-through-this-incredible-terrain makes a phone call and tells you to hike another 2 km to Baños Morales (the next "town" over) and meet Nano and the caballos (horses) that will take you winding through the mountains to some off-the-beaten track hot springs.

Step 10: Note that the guide speaks no English and gives no instructions on how to command your horse. Also note that he is wearing long sleeves, a wool sweater and is carrying a down jacket. Remind yourself to always come prepared.

Step 10: Try to enjoy the experience, despite the fact that riding a horse is nothing like your 10-year-old body remembers it. And the views from the rocky single-track lead your mind to visions of your horse trying to knock you into the ravine. Plus, you don´t remember ever being allergic to farm animals.

Step 11: Endure the discomfort for more than an hour or so, watching your fingers turn white, then ask how much further. "Un hora mas," Nano replies. Swallow your pride, your desire to check out the hot springs, remember that you have some idiotic circulation problem called Reynaud´s, and ask to turn around.

Step 12: Keep an eye out for wild horses, mountain goats, and later on the drive home, an ostrich farm.

Step 13: Hours later disembark the horse and practice walking again. It`s as though you may have forgotten. Head back towards the "main road" and hitch with the next semi truck driver, and then again in the back of the German badass`s pickup. Catch the bus, then the subway and arrive back at your hostel many hours later amazed that you were less than 60 miles outside the city but managed quite the day´s adventure.

Step 14: Sleep for just less than a dozen hours.

- JMH, Photos by AGC (Joanna`s memory card was eaten by an Argentine computer virus)

Resident of Nowhere...

Sitting in the shade of a large tree in the river park near Santiago´s Bicentennial Monument, a gentle breeze shifted through the leaves, ruffling the green manicured lawn of the park and carrying away the subtle heat of the day. Modern, well cared for cars hummed along Avenida Andres Bellow, the busy throughfare seperating the park from the river. On the other side of the park, across Avenida 11 de septiembre, a tall, elegant and modernly designed building reached up toward the sky. A group of Chileans rode through the park on mountain bikes, kicking up a small, faint cloud of dust from the well cared for dirt path which meanders through the park. The spotty white clouds shimmed in contrast to the brilliantly blue sky. In the distance, the magnificent peaks of the Andes jut up into the atmosphere, and for the first time evidence of a city became appearant. Through the distance between the well manicured park and the dramatic crags of rock in the distance, brown polluted air came into view. Not in an overwhelming and disgusting way, but slightly and almost unnoticable, the air was not quite as clear as it had previously seemed.

It seems that the long, winding road through the high clear air of the Andes plucked me up out of the foriegn land through which I had been traveling, and deliverd me to the familiar. The bus had wound along through air so clear it seemed the road didn´t go towards the sky, but actually up into and perhaps past it. The immense power of a force capable of pushing solid rock that far up into the sky seemed certain to seperate the world I had left from the one I was headed towards. It seemed impossible that where I was going would be like where I had been. How could any similarity cross through that immense wall of rock?

When the road dropped down into the lush green valleys full of vinyards and fields of waving crop it seemed true, this new land was different than the one I had left hours earlier. It seemed much more familiar, much more natural. It seemed more like home.
As I sat in the manicured park, enjoying the gentle breeze and the lazy shade of that big tree, I began to wonder, had I come home? Was this new place like where I was from?

The next day I explored the central Plaza de Armas in downtown Santiago. Sculptures, street painters, vendors and beggars occupied the plaza´s cobblestone surface. There were no trees and the heat of the day beat down from above. Colonial style governerment buildings and ancient cathedrals made up the unbroken edges of the square. Businessmen bustled about, disabled street people sat pathetically on the steps of the cathedral with hands extended. Unmuffled motor scooters could be heard on neighboring streets, women yelled for taxis and powerful engines of busses excelerated, spueing black smoke into the air. This place, it seemed, was much like where I had been on the other side of that monstrous range of rock.

In an instant I remembered the cool, calm park on the other side of town where I had sat peacefully the day before. The place that had made me think I was back at home. And as I moved through the chaos of Plaza de Armas, the "foreign" things that made it up did not bother me. I did little more than notice the beggars, vendors and masses of people moving through the square. My body moved with the ebb and flow of the plaza as if it were another molecule in the muscle of the city. In a way, I felt as at home in this plaza as I had in the park the day earlier.

So then, which was it? Did that majestic winding road through the mountains deliver me back home, to a familiar place which in reality bore similarities to my own land? Or have I been gone too long? Perhaps I have become so comfortable with what before was the unknown and strange, that it is now familiar. Maybe what was previously my home, my level of comfort and my security has been forgotten or replaced by this new reality, this new tempo and surrounding. So that road through the sky did not deliver me from a foriegn place to a new location like my previous home, but in reality, I never left and what was at first uncomfortable and different now feels like home.

- AC