All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Patagonia:Part I

Buenos Aires was our destination and refueling ground. The plan: first, go to the conference, then, find some kayaks.

As a nation, Argentina has the highest per capita beef consumption in the world, and Casey made sure not to skew the statistics. He consumed more beef than he’d had in one year, and while feasting on my platter of pesticide-free beefsteak tomatoes, I watched him in awe, rooting for him to finish every last bloody bite. (I’m all for free range cattle). The good news is that an Argentine meal for two and a bottle of red wine will set you back only $20USD. Our dollar may not match up against the Euro, but due to the Argentine recession, the greenback goes far in Patagonia.

After the obligatory visit to the Recoleta to see Eva Peron’s grave, we left the bourgeoise but spirited Buenos Aires and traveled to the Andes. Here, we would rendezvous with our kayak outfitter to pursue the kind of holiday we always sought: one where you struggled, ate little, got dirty, slept poorly, and avoided people, all in the name of adventure.

San Carlos de Bariloche and Nahuel Huapi straddle the southern Andes as they slope gently toward Tierra del Fuego. This is the core of Patagonia, an area made famous by both legend and history: here, Butch Cassidy, Charles Darwin and even the Nazis made their separate but stubborn mark. Story has it that Magellan named the region “Patagonia” for the “race of giant sub-humans” he encountered. Magellan was so intrigued by the Patagonians that he brought a few of them as slaves enroute to the Phillipines.

Unlike any of our past watery sojourns, no outfitter was willing to rent us kayaks to complete a self-guided trip. We grumbled at the prospect of hiring a guide but eventually bit the bullet since the cost was so low. We planned two nights in Bariloche before our departure, affording us just enough time to buy duendes (Argentine gnomes) and assemble our gear, which included a weighty stack of National Science Foundation papers I'd planned to read in our tent.

The evening before our journey down the Rio Limay, our guide, Diego met us at Hotel Tres Reyes. At the time, we were in high gear, coiled in angst, clad in stress, faithful to our caffeinated North American roots. Everything would change once we hit the river.