It's All Happenin': La Patagonia Hitch and Wrap-up

Headed north along the Ruta Cuarenta through the Patagonian Step

The end of the 2012/2013 Patagonian backpacking season was approaching and though the flow of tourists coming in hadn't slowed down, the leaves were changing color, temperatures dropping, and of course, the Chilean tourism industry was fading back into hibernation. Many friends who had come to work in Patagonia for the season were migrating north towards their Santiago origins; few remained and even fewer were planning on staying for the cold and quiet winter.

Having worked at probably one of the most notorious and famed Patagonian hostels located in one of Chile's most southern towns, I've had the opportunity to experience a traveler's dream, the Patagonian buzz, an adventurer's playground, the aftermath of Spanish colonialism (and from that Chilean culture), dirt-bag romance, and new ideas.

It's been a dynamic season; I've hiked and climbed in beautiful wilderness shaped by dramatic stints of ice, water, and wind. I've met influential people and professionals in their own kind. I've leaned more of the Spanish language than I had known coming in. I've worked alongside a variety of characters who will forever be my friends. I've drank more nights than not, many of which are hard to remember. I've explored barren lands once inhabited by people who lived free and sustainably. And even though I wasn't the first to explore these amazing places (even the first German settlers cannot have that claim), I feel even closer to the earth than before, and realize more how much we have to loose if it is not looked after.

One day I was sitting at a table grinding peanuts into peanut butter. Two Aussies walked in and had asked to post a message on our hostel's bulletin board. I asked what the message was for, and after explaining to me that they had two extra spots in their Subaru heading North, I told them not to post that message because my sister and I were going to fill those spots.

And so it began. I said goodbye to the hostel family and the communal securities that I became accustomed to and started driving North in a dodgy Subaru occupied by 1 Aussie, 1 German, my sister and me. We headed north on the infamous Ruta 40, along the east side of the Patagonian steppe in Argentina. We're lucky to have still experienced the remaining dirt sections of the "cuarenta", at times being the only car for hours (Argentina is currently working to pave all sections of Ruta 40 making Southern Patagonia more accessible by large bus and truck).

We made a pit stop at "Cueva de las Manos", one of my favorite places in Patagonia. Imagine perfectly intact hand paintings ranging from 1300 to 9300 years old, located in a breath taking, remote, and hidden canyon. It amazes me that various indigenous groups had inhabited this canyon for over 8000 years and had changed nothing of its beauty, leaving only a handful of eloquent paintings behind (no pun intended). Then I thought of a city like Los Angeles where modern day humans have raped and overturned every square inch of its soil not even 200 years after its first civilized inhabitants had arrived.

Not long after Cueva de Las Manos we arrived to the small pueblo town of Perito Moreno and not long after that we were pushing our broken down Subaru back to Perito Moreno. It was here that my sister and I were standing on a street corner, trying to figure out our next move when a camper-van pulled up and parked right in front of us. Out walked a couple from Portland traveling through Patagonia with their 4 year old son who asked if we needed a hitch north towards Bariloche. After saying goodbye to the Aussie and German, we found ourselves continuing north, sitting in a campervan and facing a sleepy but curious 4 year old boy. After a couple days of Patagonian Portlandia, we were dropped off in the 'hippie' pueblo called El Bolson, where my sister and I ended up taking a 4 day trip into the mountains. I could write a short novel about our experience with Julio the refugiero and maybe I will some day.

After the mountain retreat, we hiked back down into civilization and started hitching just outside the town where a "camionero" (or trucker) named Richard picked us up. I could also write a book about hitching in this truck and our experience sleeping in Richard's cab for two nights, learning about his lonely lifestyle, and eating nothing for 3 days, but drinking mate and smoking cigarettes. About 10 days and over 2,600 kilometers later we were dropped off at San Fernando, just south of Santiago, Chile. From there we hitched a bus to Pichilemu (South America's best surf break), where my sister and I re-entered the conventional backpacking trail and I continued to experience central Chile before my return to the US.