Silver bullets of rain shot through the warm sun into the dust, flashes of light against the rolling hills of northern Patagonia. I felt Toro’s power between my legs as he picked his way cautiously down the steep hillside of loose sand and rock, avoiding the gray bones of the sparse scrub. I took in a lungful of the clear, warm air and leaned back in the saddle, leaving my horse to find his own path.
Looking out from our small patch of sunlight towards the gray horizon, I could see that we were going to get wet. Really wet.
The day had started under a flawless blue in the main square of Argentina’s “Lake District” capital – Bariloche. On the steps of the Banff-like stone and cedar town hall, Carol Jones waited. She is the granddaughter of a Texan, the first settler after the region had been “cleared” of its original aboriginal inhabitants over 100 years ago. Her assistant, Lucas Ricco, a happy-go-lucky, barefoot gaucho in a white crochet beret, white shirt and colourful scarf sat beside her chain smoking and stitching a border on what looked like a white leather belt. He described himself as “the descendant of Sicilians, a bit of everything that moved through the Mediterranean”.
They loaded me into a Toyota Land Cruiser, along with a sweet French/Swiss couple and an effusive Danish woman and within 30 minutes we were standing on the shoulder of a shallow valley, in the shade of Estancia Nahuel Huapi's disused, white-stucco barn.
A few minutes later, we watched as Lucas, riding a tall red stallion, emerged from a small copse of trees herding a dozen sleek, unrestrained horses into the corral beside the barn. Carol selected a horse for each of us, based on some unseen attributes, separating the spirited animals from the herd one-by-one and throwing a bridle over their twitching ears.
That’s how I met Toro – a handsome auburn horse, with barely contained energy. Carol approached him respectfully, throwing two blankets over his broad back, then a wood and steel structure that didn’t look like any saddle I have ever seen. Another blanket and a thick sheep-skin, a cinch of the belt under his haunches, an adjustment to the stirrups, and I was ready to hoist myself onto his back.
We headed out into the open valley as a group, and I quickly discovered that Toro was trained to be neck reined – simply laying the reins over one side of his neck tells him to turn. They were all magnificent animals, respectfully cared for with a balance of firm training and free-range freedom.
And we soon discovered what an extraordinary range it is: a vast expanse of rolling hills – ancient moraines and worn Andean
foothills - buffering the needle-peaked Cordillera from the flat grasslands to the east. We picked our way through the scrub following a network of valleys, skirting sweeping hillsides of undulating golden grass and around dramatic castle peaks. Curious cattle gazed at us from a swampy creek bed. Skittish sheep bounded out of our way. We stepped over the bones and thick sheepskins of a recent Puma kill and came across an abandoned rack of antlers.
As we neared our lunch-spot, a small group of free-ranging horses emerged from a copse of trees to join us on our trek.
“That’s my best friend”, Carol said, tilting her head towards the large beige horse with the black striped mane that led the newcomers.
With the hot sun reaching its zenith, we led our horses into the deep shade of a creek-side grove and removed their saddles.
They drank noisily from the deep, fast-flowing stream, their coats glistening with sweat in the unseasonally hot sun. Carol used an old tin can with a twisted wire handle to splash them with cooling water.
Lucas lit a fire with handy deadwood and nursed it to red coals before throwing two thick slabs of meat, seasoned with salt, onto a metal grill he had shoved down into the soft earth. Meanwhile, Carol sliced thick carrots, oily sausage and hard cheese and served it with ‘pancito’ – small rolls - to keep us going until the meat was ready.We used wooden plates, and ate daintily with forks and knives; but Carol held strips of the red meat in her teeth, and sliced off a chewable piece with the knife she had carried tucked into her waistband. Lucas didn’t eat; he just smoked. The rough-and-ready meal was washed down with the creek’s cool water, and a bottle of blood red wine.
We had time to relax and feel the sweet lure of siesta, but all too soon, it was time to saddle up the horses and head back towards the barn. The trail was even more spectacular, as we picked our way down steep hillsides with sweeping views of the Estancia, Lago Nahuel Huapi and the Andean peaks beyond.
On the way home, the sun did slide behind heavy black clouds and the silver raindrops turned into a deluge. We were all soaked to the skin by the time we got back to the barn and freed our horses from their restraints. But with a few scrounged pieces of dry clothing and sweet cake washed down with Tang we each breathed the damp, wild air and felt the exhilaration of a brief gaucho experience under the immense sky of Patagonia.
-30-
