Made my tent, now I had to sleep in it

I popped my green, one man tent in the shadow of Cerro Piltriquitron. The tent was positioned at angle which put the mountains in line with the tent´s screen door. I am intent on meeting the mountains first thing everymorning. Cerro Piltriquitron is steep. Grey and brown stone protrode from its face in aggressive angles. There is no central peak- just a scoleosis stricken backbone of stone that cuts up the horizon like the work of a small child with safety sizzors. As the sun sets, light crawls down the face and meets the skirt of trees that extend for Piltriquitron´s base to my tent. Across the valley to the west, the mountains are more subtle. They roll like the wake of an idling boat. Pockets of snow rest in the spots where the sun cannot find.

Famished from the day´s travels, I cooked up noodles on a butane flame. Proper cutlery was forgotten in the clutter of packing, so I shoveled the noodles carefully into my mouth using the buck knife I named Sheppy after my cousin. I tried to forget that Sheppy disemboweled a trout just a week before. Digesting the noodles, I sat supine and admired my camp site. The tent was set on bushy grass and a thick tree trunk with an umbrella of leaves extended overhead.

The satisfying saftey of this scene was swiftly diminished after I did a few pointless pull-ups on one of the tree´s limbs. Shaking it with my hanging weight, the tree became alive. A low hum purred overhead. Above was a swarm of bees- all kinds of bees. Small, translucent worker bees. Big queen bees with white tips on their big black behinds. Hornets armed with nasty stingers. I hate bees. I hate bees like Indiana Jones hates snakes. When I was a kid, my parents had to buy me a big net to sit under so I could be at ease amongst the bees on my back deck. I tried not to look too deep into the puzzle of leaves and bees overhead. If I spotted the nest, one which I imagined would be a huge throbbing tumor clinging percariously to a dying limb, my childish fear would force with the move the tent. So I focused on the mountains and my concern gradually faded.

The next morning I packed up my fly rod and reel and set out to find a place to camp along the river. Before making my way to the local mountaineering information center, I walked around El Bolson´s famous street market. In every guide book I thumbed through, El Bolson is described as a ¨hippy village¨. I learned from two Argentine when on the bus ride from Bariloche that El Bolson was named after one of J.R.R. Tolkein´s characters. The Argentines explained that Tolkien´s descriptions could be used to describe the scenery of El Bolson. Walking from vendor to vendor, the hippy presence became apparent. After a half hour, I was sitting crosslegged on the dirty sidewalk chatting with a Peruvian vendor. He sold beautiful handmade jewlery. I decided that the conversation would be best remember if I bought one of his necklaces. So for forty pesos I got a Peruvian shell that hung from bamboo beads.

After a quick chat at the mountaineering center, I set out for Rio Azul (Blue River). I walked for ages. Finally a car pulled up next to me in a cloud of dust. While I could not answer his question, he told me that the river was just to my right. Thinking that he meant it was literally just a bit to my right, I headed straight into the woods to find the river. It became more of a walk than I had anticipated. First I made my way through long feilds where dandilions swayed in the mountain air. Then I slithered through thorns and tripped over nests of dead limbs. Finally, I descended down a dirt and rock path that came to a clearing. From there I could see the river. The amazingly blue water snaked through bright white rocks.

Following the path down, I came to a farmer´s property. There were bulls, cows, horses, chickens, dogs, pigs- all running around. Spotting me, the famer made his way over to me. I have been continually struck by the people here. More often than not they are the character you imagine before coming. The man approached me with an extended, leather skin hand. He wore a black button down shirt and a black beret. His blue jeans hung over brown Argentine boots. He kindly led me through his farm, past his son who wore the same outfit, to the opening of the river. I thanked him a went on to behold Rio Azul.

My main purpose for being at the river was to do some scouting for a spot to pop my tent. Once my camp was set, I would do some serious fishing. There were many options to pop my tent- all which had me on sandy ground. I did set up my rod and made a few casts, but I knew I had to make the outting brief. I spent alot of time getting to the water, and I was unsure when dark would come.

Back at the campsite, I washed up, then returned to town. Randomly, I bumped into the Greek film producer that I had dinner with back in Bariloche. We bought a couple of beers at the supermarket and sat at the town´s center. The El Bolson community was throwing a party for New Years. They set up a modest sound system, and played traditional Argentine music. Soon couples streamed down from their seats, and danced the tango. All types of couples danced: old, young, fat, pretty. Even the town´s drunks wobbled to the dance floor and danced tango with themselves. It was quite the sight.

I am now in town getting some supplies together. I plan to camp on the banks of Rio Azul for the next couple of days. I hoping for fair weather and better fishing.