After four nights, camping along Rio Chimhuine lost its appeal. The campsite was overrun by boisterous Argentine and Chilean families who crowded all available space with chairs, floats and over-the-top tents. I imagined the scene resembled a base camp where teams of climbers established an elaborate makeshift community to wait out the weather or acclimate to the altitude. Except instead of granola eating, slacklinging climbers, the campground bustled with packs of yelping children, gossiping ladies basking sweaty in the sun, and big bellied men who clouded the air with thick barbecue smoke. We had also acquired the devotion of a mangy mutt who became a mascot of sorts, following us everywhere. With his snout covered in scars and blotches of fur missing in various spots, the ablino dog was the saddest stray I´d come across. It was out of compassion that we did not run him off. We aptly named him ¨gringo¨.
We snuck out of the campsite during Gringo´s midday siesta, and hauled our gear to the bus station. Standing by the pyramid of our packs we watched two men dressed in grease stained denim jumpers service our bus extensively. The two men shuffled amidst scattered lugnuts and wrenches, working to bring the bus back to life. Under the instruction of the mechanics looking up through the windshield, the driver stoked the engine with taps on the gas. Finally in of cloud of exficiating smoke, the bus coughed, then roared to life. We boarded, and set out to El Parque de Lanin giving ourselves a fifty - fifty shot of making it there.
The bus passed out of San Junin proper, and picked up a rocky, dirt road that led into the park. The bus shook mercilessly as it semicircled the park´s first massive lake, Huechulafquen. After two and a half hours of gyrating uncomfortably in the dusty bus, we reached our destination, Lago Paumin. Descending uneasily from the bus, our bodies still trapped in a jittering state, we walked out to a modest church. With its heavy wooden door wagging open, the church's entrance was markedly small, only about five feet tall. Ducking in, I came to a simple alter with four sets of pews arranged in a semicircle. A statue of Mary beamed brightly in its white stone, and a newly plucked rose was placed in her extended hand. "I want to get married here", Megan whispered whimsically.
Behind the church, stood the overpowering volcano, Lanin. At 3776 meters, Lanin towers over the park. Capped by deep glacial ice, the Mapuche name "Lanin" translates to "Dead Rock." It was thought amongst the indigenous tribes that those who climbed the volcano would be killed by evil spirits. Despite its foreboding folklore, Lanin can be summated without ropes, albeit with the aid of ice axes, and crampons.
The 3790 square kilometer expanse that now makes up the Parque Lanin was once the grounds of the Pehuenche Indians. A large tribe of the indigenous Mapuches, the Pehuenche harvested the land up till the 19th Century. Today, only two sections of the park remain in their possession. One of these reservations offers camping to passing trekkers.
We walked down from the church, towards the shoreline of Lago Paumin. Across the lake, masked in a maze of conifers, we could just make out the reds and blues of tightly staked tents. At the shoreline, there was a bell to ring to call on the campground's ferry service. Sounding the bell, a lanky man sauntered out from the shade and dragged an old dingy out into the lake. He crossed briskly, rowing diagonally into the wind so not to be set too far off his mark. The dingy scrapped up on to shore and the man met us with a genuine smile. He wore a white leather cow boy hat that had a colorful salmon fly tucked into its exterior band. His face was sewn in subtle wrinkles and a sunburned scar ran down from his brow. He helped us arrange our packs at the dinghy's bow, and then we boarded to the stern. Facing us, the man rowed and amicably asked where we were from and how long we were traveling. He sifted through our accent impaired Spanish, and kindly answered our time-passing questions. Beached on the other bank, he helped us with our packs and gave us the run down of the site. We sharpened our hearing to his Spanish. Our combined translation was that it was ten pesos a night, there was a store that sold groceries and beer, and that water could be taken from the stream that ran through the property. We all nodded happily, and expressed our understanding with "Si Si Si."
Passing up from the gravel shoreline and through the trees, we found that the campground was more like a farm. Animals were everywhere. Sheep and cows nosed at the ground, and clipped vigorously at the grass. Roosters and chickens bobbed their heads horizontally, and stopped every few steps to peck at some discarded morsel. A boy of no more then eleven skillfully galloped a horse, chasing three other horses that were being held together by a pack of charging dogs. In addition to the array of farm animals, the sky was full of wild Patagonian birds the squawked noisily in the sky. Despite the din of the scene, we were content to be back in the grips of nature and out of the ugly, clutter of vacationers.
Readying for dinner, we needed to get water. Following the Mapuche's instructions we sought out the stream. Walking to the stream, hopscotching over cow patties and lamb droppings, I began to think aloud. "We should not be drinking this water." The number one rule in camping is to not consume water that runs anywhere near livestock. I knew this, they knew this. We banked our confidence on the Mapuche's advice, and said those all too familiar words- the two words that invariably end in tragedy: "F**k it".
We ate a meal before the fire, and drank wine and beer that we bought from the Mapuche family. The exhaustion induced by a long day drew us to our sleeping mats and we closed our eyes just as a light rain began to spit for black night's sky.
An unknown number of hours later, pulsing discomfort ripped me awake. I shot out of my tent with such primal urgency that I didn't even attempt to unzip the screen door. I tore it open like I would a heavily knotted plastic bag. Stepping into the night, cold rain stole my mind from the dream it lingered in. I dashed barefoot as far away from my tent as my body would allow, before dropping my drawers and falling to a squat. Demonic filth exploded from my body and I began to vomit violently between my shaking knees. The frigid night assaulted me, and I began to shiver uncontrollably. When the episode passed, I fumbled back to my tent, my body contorted by the cold. Nausea clouded my mind and cramps clenched my stomach tightly. Fighting involuntary spasms, I poked my feet into my sleeping bag and lay pathetically on my back with my knees bent and cast to one side.
With apocalyptic rain pummelling my tent, I struggled to steady my mind and access my situation. I was sick- sicker than I have been in recent memory. My head lamp was fading to a flicker, and without a watch, I had no idea when the morning would come. The next bus back to town was not till eight P.M. the following day, and just the thought of making the two and a half hour ride back exacerbated my condition. My tent was beginning to leak at my feet, and I knew all subsequent trips to relieve myself would result in being absolutely drenched. The thought that plagued my mind the most though, was that I was thousands and thousands of miles away from my home, my bed, and most of all, my mom.
I fought through the night. My trips out of the tent became so frequent that I opted to be naked from the waist down. No sense in getting my pants wet I thought. The pain and overwhelming sense of desperation cast my mind in a pseudo state of delusion. With each wave of terrible cramps, I clenched my eyes shut and called out for my mom. In these moments, if I could have, I would have deployed my parachute on this trip, and ended it.
The morning came without me noticing. I shot my head out, and dry heaved until acidic bile coated my mouth. I gathered it in a wad, and spat. The noise of my vomiting woke up Chris. "I'm not hung over", I called over. "I'm sick." "What do you think it was?" His question was coated in fear, and he already knew the answer. "The water."
After some hours moaning in my tent, I met Chris and Megan at our wooden picnic table. I thumbed through their Lonely Planet guide book, and found the "Health & Safety" section and read aloud: "Giardiasis...caused by a common parasite often found in contaminated water...Symptoms include stomach cramps, nausea, a bloated stomach, watery diarrhea and frequent gas." Check. Check. And Check. A friend from home once contracted giardiasis after doing some outdoors course. He missed a week of school, and lost a fair amount of weight.
Beholding my surroundings, I could feel the terrible reality of my situation beginning to creep over me. The outhouse was the iconic image of an outhouse: uneven pieces of wood bound together to form a tight closet, and inside a splintery wooden slab with a whole cut out. Roosters sang out loudly. Grazing sheep scoured the grass around our site. Chickens pecked at our scraps. My stomach sounded and felt like it was brewing espresso. Lying across the bench, I submitted aloud "I just need to accept the fact that there is nothing that will make me feel better right now." Remembering that the bus did not leave for another 10 hours, I continued, "And it is going to be along time before I get somewhere better than here." Fortunately, at the time, I did not know how true those statements were going to be. If I had, the meltdown would have been beyond repair.
I spent the rest of the day, laying in my tent like a roasting piece of spoiled meat. The sun beat down on the tent, and with my door open, mosquitos and bees flew in and out. I am not a good sick person. Despite having spent more time in a hospital than most people , I am a terrible patient. I inherited this weakness from my father. He, like me, is unapologetically dependent on my mother in ailing times. We roll on the ground and moan aloud, beckoning her all soothing sympathy. My mother, and my brother for that matter, rise to the occasion when they are sick. They do not complain- just suffer in silence. Lying there, I mulled over this lowsy inheritence. My only mental relief was that I was not going to die. Or was I?
Around six, I gathered all the strength and patience that remained, and got to packing. I hate packing more than anything. I thought doing the task in the midst of a bodily meltdown would be unbearable, but making moves towards civilization actually made the menial ritual almost enjoyable. It took about the two hour window I had to get all my stuff in order. We rang the bell and an old Mapuche women emerged from the house. As the women approached, and looking over all our stuff, I silently doubted the her ability to perform the task. She was missing most of her teeth, and her body was shaped in a perfect circle with its apex exactly at her midsection. She looked over our stuff and motioned for us to place it in the dingy. I thought she might do one trip with Megan and the gear, then come back to get Chris and I. But no, she told us all to climb in at the stern. It was awkward sitting there with this old women rowing us over. I wanted to volunteer to row the dingy myself, but I realized that any exertion would result in messy regret. So I quietly sat there, pinning all the chivalrous guilt on Chris. We made it across, and the women dismissed us, "Bueno. Buen viaje."
I dreaded the idea of this bus ride. Remembering all the bumps for the previous ride I readied my stomach with a concoction of Immodiom, Pepto Bismal, and a Tums (just for the mint flavor). When the bus arrived, we learned that we were suppose to buy our tickets in advance, and that the bus was full. My despair levels were off the chart already, so this information really did not register. Seeing our disheveled state, the driver sympathetically allowed us to board the bus, provided we remain standing in the aisle. He could have thrown me in the trunk for all I cared, I needed to get out of there. Fortunately, three seats were made available by passengers who never showed up, and we sat all the way back to San Junin.
My mind relished in the idea of sleeping in a bed. We camped for fourteen days, and my back could not do another night on the ground. When we neared town, the bus slowed to a crawl behind a line of traffic. Soon the windows were full of lights, and music blared outside the bus. Unbeknownst to us, San Junin was in the midst of its year's biggest festival. Open air shops lined the streets, and hoards of teenage men danced wildly, spilling Quillmes beer over eachother.
Disembarking into the scene, it was clear that staying in a hostel was out of the question. Every bed was booked. So we lugged our gear back to the campsite we started at days before. Approaching the fenced in area, I could just make out the sign "No Hay Lugar"- there is no space. Again my saturated sense of despair could not weigh this reality, so I relinquished all decision making power to Chris and Megan. After unsuccessfully haggling with the campsite owner, two Argentine girls called us over to a cab. The cab driver offered to let us camp on his front lawn. This was our only safe option- safer than camping illegally along the river, where we would be entirely vulnerable to the hordes of drunks that romped the streets.
In keeping with the day's events, the cabby´s house was meters away from the modest stadium where the central celebration was going on. Argentine music blared over poor sound systems, and drunks passed the lawn screaming to one another. I set up my tent in stupified silence. With my stomach empty, my mind numb, and my spirit extinguished, I crawled into my tent and fell asleep.
In its “2010 Resort Awards”, Skiing Magazine bestowed Jackson Hole with the dubious accolade “Most Condescending Locals.” At the time, I had just hung up my rubber boots as a charter fisherman, and was headed West to trade Atlantic for Tetons.
