If I could smell blood in the water when I touched the continent, I could taste it when I touched Argentina.  I had certainly seen Argentina on a map, and knew she was nothing to mess around with.  The eighth largest country in the world, I would be taking her on lengthwise.  At least 4,351 km (2,703 mi) lie ahead.  I attacked her with big, blurry bites.

    There was some sort of folk music festival at El Refugio in Yala, followed by the spectacular Reserva Natural de las Conchas just before Cafayate, where I camped in a sandy grove of trees next to the municipal pool.  It had the best clothes washing setup of the entire trip – 4 sinks/basins side by side!

    I met a physical education teacher in Belén.  Jorge had served in the Argentina military, and was involved to some extent with the Guerra de Las Malvinas (Falkland Island War) in the 1980s.  He had no love for Chile, which did not support its neighbor in protecting their islands from British invasion, while Perú, Bolivia, and Ecuador did. We talked about education, the lowering of standards, the lack of reading and basic abilities as students enter higher grades and college.

    There was dinner with Matias and his family in Las Cauquenes, outside of Jachal.  We spoke of travel, silence, the perils of technology, and their business.

    My roadtrip hit the 20,000-mile mark just after Chos Malal, and soon enough I began a blessed five weeks in Patagonia.  

    Junín de los Andes reminded me much of a Montana outdoors/fishing town.  Patagonia itself reminded me of my home state.  In successive nights, I feasted on a steak the size of my leg, then a chicken fried deer steak.

    Bariloche is the last big town as the land narrows heading southward.  I stocked up on food and supplies, adding more covers for the nights that were growing colder.

    I washed clothes, caught up on writing, updated photo galleries, and did the first great amount of planning for the Project 1:1000 website in Esquel.  I enjoyed a splendid hour on a grassy median waiting for a pizza place to open up.

    The next morning, I sang “Happy Birthday” to my mother, then headed to Cueva de las Manos (Cave of the Hands), where I arrived just in time for a free tour.  We walked 10-15 minutes down into the Pinturas (Pictures) River Canyon, whose walls had been decorated by various peoples as long ago as 11,000 B.C.  Out of reverence, artistic drive, and/or a desire to leave part of themselves behind, they crushed bushes and berries to make dyes, placed their hands upon these very rock walls, and blew these dyes through animal bones, silhouetting their hands.  It was beautiful, spiritual, artful.  I imagined them inhaling the earth and exhaling art, happy to be alive and creating, perhaps wondering who might see their hands one day.

    A communal camping place in Comandante Luis Piedrabuena wanted too much money, so I cruised around and finally found what might be a nice spot, right along the Santa Cruz River.  I took note that it flowed north.  My days southward were slipping through my fingers like water.

    I introduced myself and asked a man who was working nearby if it was a safe place to camp.  Gustavo warned against possible flooding this time of year – otherwise, yes.  I asked him where I could get some wifi in town, and he said I could come over to his place, but we’d have to wait for his son to return home to get the password.

    I parked behind a tree, set up my van, and made some instant soup.  So happy.  I cleaned up and went over to Gustavo’s place around 10:15pm.  His sons Lazaro and Lorenzo were there. I told him I just ate, but he still shared with me a small bit of steak and tomatoes.  It was delicious.

    I watched the river run, made oatmeal and coffee, and caught up on writing.  Dogs came down to the river to play, some with and some without humans.  A young man rode by on a horse, then returned to bum a smoke.

    I returned to Gustavo’s house the night before leaving.  They introduced me to facturas, tasty pastries filled with dulce de leche (milk caramel).  I chatted with him and Lorenzo about America and the grietas (cracks) that were appearing.  Indeed they were.

    A police officer tapped on my window that night.  He was quiet and kind, just wondering if I were okay.  I told him yes and thank you.  He told me to get some rest.

    The next morning, Gustavo let me use his bathroom and a towel for a shower.

    And with the wind, I was off to Río Gallegos, where I spent two nights at Chacra Saldía, some sort of banquet room with parking and a play area outside.  I got online, spread out my maps, and planned Chile, using up the last page of the yellow legal pad.  It would be one of these last great homework assignments.

    The next day, Elsa, my 87-year-old host, asked me if I wanted some meat and veggies for lunch.  I said yes, and asked how much I owed her.  “Te invito,” she said.  It was on her.  I dined on tender meat with grilled onions, and an onion and tomato salad.  It was delectable.

    It was freezing both nights in Río Gallegos.  A cold, blistering wind – Gustavo had warned me.  I began to worry about the pure south.  I was glad not to be waiting until June.  The next morning, I asked Elsa and her friend Nora where I could buy a blanket on a Sunday morning.

    On my way out, they called me inside for a picture.  In the foreground was the blanket Elsa wanted me to have.

    I wept as I pulled away from the place.  I was nearing the end of my journey south and these final kindnesses were taking their beautiful toll.