Bariloche, April 19, 2009

It just seems to get better the longer I stay here. Away from B.A. and Mendoza I am where I should have been from the beginning. In the mountains almost free of crowds and noise. Bariloche exists for the tourist, but it rests amidst mountains, a volcano or two, and an unbelievable glacial lake.

Today I took an excursion and in one short day see the variety, and only a part, of the Patagonia region. I wonder at how easily one could love this place, and in a few hours find stillness and loset thoughts beside the reflection of cliff and plant upon the mirrored surface of the lakes, which are strung along one after another, as turquoise stones on a Navajo necklace. Though not a fisherman, what thoughts, what excitement, what expectation, one might have to wade out from the shore and cast out, only slightly shaking the surface, alone. Other than these tourist vans, no others appear in sight. How strange to have a treasure chest open to view, and no pirates to grab the gold, the jewels within.

One stop, two stops, along the way to our destination of San Martin de los Andes, I enjoy tortas fritas, somewhat like sopapillas, in small secluded get aways within the immense space of Nahuel Huapi National Park. Isolated hosterias, distanced from the city and pueblo, cabins in the woods, awaiting the arrival of Red Riding Hood and the wolf. Alas, too little time spent, the burden and disappointment of schedule. Not sure the size of the park, but we were in and out throughout the day. Lago Nahuel Huapi lies within, stretched out full length, from satellite view, looking like some ancient petroglyph depiction of an antelope in stride.

We reach San Martin, a pueblo in the mouth of a horseshoe, the open mouth one of seven lakes along the way, the shoe being the mountains rising around. Luckily we approach from above and get a downcast view of the network of criss crossed streets. We stop for lunch, and due to siesta time, little activity otherwise. Our driver gives us a short view upon departure, driving around to give us a look at the mixture of frontier cabin and swiss chalet architecture. No adobe here.

Only a few miles out and a dramatic change in scenery. The trees disappear and steppe trundra vegetation on not so tall mountains, with numerous volcanic rock eruptions, scattered about. Off in the distance is a perfectly coned shaped volcano, snow-capped, towering above its surroundings, the king above the lords below. Along the way is a sign to look for condors. No, I saw none, but further along did see some Guanaco, and even a flock of pink flamingo on the edge of yet another lake.

As we drove nearer to Bariloche, the sun was in its final hour. Almost as if by stage call, the rock croppings increased in number as the road twisted beside an unnamed lake for miles and miles. Unfortunately I sat on the wrong side of the bus, with direct sunlight in my camera view. But the shapes danced, their movement not hindered by their cemented fixture, only by human lack of imagination. Though religion does not appear as prevalent here as I anticipated, these stone figures easily became characterizations of New Testament story, robed, bowed, hands clenched in prayer.

As the sun resisted its final descent, the colors amazed me. The ochred and crimson vegetation, set against the red cliff, the black volcanic rock, the sky blue water lit from beneath, the occasional gold alamo, and the random pine, a full rainbow (arco iris en español) stretched across the wide horizon before us. I try to compare this landscape, but cannot. A bit of Big Bend, some of New Mexico, Monument Valley, yet none fit. ¡No importa!

How easily early man would have found necessity to somehow create ceremony to give thanks, to receive grace in this setting. And, maybe, what a shame that an equal spiritual effort to connect, to relate, to confirm, may be little more than a one-day excursion, documented by quick photo collections.

These are memories. Two weeks for only a few more.

Memories can´t be boughten
Can´t be won at carnivals for free
It took me years to get those souvenirs
And I don`t know how they slipped from me.
(S.Goodman)

God moved in that moment
And the angels all cried
And they gave you a memory
That you will have ´till you die.

Where there´s too many memories
For one heart to hold
Once a future so bright
Now seems so distant and cold
And the shadows grow long
And your eyes look so old
When there´s too many memories for one heart to hold.
(S. Bruton)