Los Años Que Vienen.

The Monday past we packed our back packs tight with only the essentials, stripping out anything

that would cause extra weight. We filled plastic grocery bags full of toothe brush and dental floss, blow gun, books, power adaptors. The owner of the Alaska Hostel in Barlioche agreed to hold on to our baggage while we made the 2-day trip up Cerro Catedral where aside from selling pizza and ice-cream a wooden cabin offered a refuge from a tie with the busy society and also, beneficially, with a constant outflow of money. We had excitment to set-up camp on top of this icy-peak where we had been told by previous adventurers that after fighting through sheets of frozen pools left over from the glaciers that the view would be one described only at the same time as giving proof to the presence of God.

Our bus broke down 15 minutes in to the gravel road. By the sound of the thumping Trevor

called out that it was a displaced rear drive shaft, but regardless we found our selves in the next moment stranded on the side of this scorching dirt road with our thumbs propped up right.

When hitchhiking I imagine it is easier to get a ride when you are in obvious trouble, such as standing next to a derelict bus, but in this situation the next number 50 on the route was the first to give us any attention more then a hand gesture. The driver was generous and let us finish our ride for free.

The bus came to a stop at a cross roads but rather then making a forward decision it began backing up, and turned around to head in the opposite direction. We recalled the directions that Javi the hostel owner had given us - Take the number 50 bus until the last stop on the route- so in a panic I began hastling the old scarf wearing lady in front of me to tell me if this was the last stop. I don´t know what she was trying to say, but after enough of me pointing back and shouting the same question over and over she finally aggreed that this is where we wanted to get-off, and it was at this moment that we lost all hope of reaching the trail head.

The road went in many directions, but the path didn´t seem that complex in the instructions. - Where is the lake that we are supposed to walk by? Maybe the map wasn´t accurate, I´m sure this is it. - Trial and errors of exploration and return led us to sitting slumped at the bus stop

without hope of success. A young kid in a Boca soccer jersey came running down the road and I jumped out in time to catch his attention. ¨Sabes donde esta Cerro Catedral? Sabes donde esta el trekking a Refugio Frey?¨ He checked the time and told us that it was 15km away on the other side of the lake, but that by now it was the beginning of Siesta and no busses ran for some time. We kicked into gear our high hopes and tied our boots and hit the road by foot. Our singing spirits gave us moral as we poetized about the people we had met and the places we had seen, turning all our bad situations into an enjoyable memory that could be laughed at.

Through the cracks in the forest ahead we saw a bus pull out of a side-street onto the main highway, and back tracking its path we found the place that matched the description of the lakeside road and final bus stop where we had intended to go in the first place. With a final boost of energy we made a kilometers distance up the road until an acceptance of defeat lingered collectively in our minds. We returned to the bus stop and waited for the number 50 back into town where we would pack our bags and move on to El Bolsón.

DETENTE Y DISFRUTA De La VIDA

No sólo te pierdes el paisaje

por ir tan rápido, también

estás perdiendo el sentido de

ADONDE VAS Y POR QUÉ

WAIT AND ENJOY LIFE

You don´t only miss the scenery

by going to fast, but also

you are losing the sense

OF WHERE YOU GO AND WHY

This Grafiti on the concrete back of the bus-stop spoke more life into the every moment of our journey. We didn´t need to go Cerro Catedral any more, it wasn´t apart of this trip. In the most positive sense, it became one more reason for us to return in the years that come. En los años que vienen.

Financial Wisdom

I woke up this morning feeling like I was lying in a bed of stinging neddle and looking like all the

red lines that underline every word I write, because the computers spell check doesn´t understand enlglish. I am terribly burnt.

Trevor told me that as the thought came to his mind to put on sunscreen and a hat, he looked over to see me passed out on the sand shirtless in my hawaian swim suit, reflecting light like a sheet of white paper. The entire beach front population must have been stairing at us, like the little kids that spilled sand on our chests and asked if we were Gringos, and including the seal that breached the surface of the ocean for a second of air.

We reached Valparaiso, Chile yesterday, an antique port-city that is full of color and cobble stone streets. What looked like a 20 minute ride by Subway Train on the map took 2 hours by bus from Santiago but we arrived in Valparaiso with daylight to spare in finding a hostel.

I was at first struck motionless as the lady at the desk entitled Ïnformacion Turista told us the cheapest night would cost us 6,000 pesos. You have to realize that as a backpacker you begin to worry quite a bit as the finances available for your trip are draining faster then your planned budget. You begin to think of situations such as selling your clothes, your books, your drawings or whatever else might be possible to pawn on the street. At what point do I turn to spanging (spare-any-change-ing)?

In reality I don´t plan on having to turn to any of these things, though the thought keeps me entertained on long highways after the mate has run flavorless.

Lets do some math.

100 Chilean peso is equivalent to 1 Argentine.

4 Argentine pesos is $1 U.S.

This means 400 Chilean pesos is $1.00 U.S.

4,000 Chilean pesos is $10

and 1 night in a 6,000 Chilean pesos hostel is $15.00 U.S.

Not bad.

This hostel turned out to be 7,000 after I talked the owner down from 8, but I know that the difference this makes doesn´t have to effect the outcome of this trip. If any thing its the bus tickets we have to be weary of, and all the little trinkets, snacks, and drinks we buy add up fast. We´ve saved our money for a reason and know what it takes to budget. Its a lesson of wisdom, of discernment between what we can and can not do.

I had a friend who told me that the best way to travel is to step out the door without even a backpack. This is a test of human ability, and in a way a test of society. Eventually you will find a backpack, someone will offer you a bed, and you will find a fruit tree, or a baker throwing out all his day old bread, and he might offer it to you in an act of generosity. More then anything I take his advice as a metaphor for how we should treat life. We need a lot less then we want.

"So do not worry about tomorrow for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.¨

For now, I buy a big bottle of aloe vera and a bag of cold and super creamy milk for a pasta dinner, and cream for my coffee when I wake up; proof that I have a lot to learn about wisdom.

(Like all South American Milk I have encountered along my journey it can be mostly found in a plastic bag, and oh it is so delicous! They say Starbucks down here is better because the creaminess of the milk. That is one thing I won´t fit in my budget... right yet).

Coming to the Edge of the World

"I´m glad I packed an extra jacket" - I think to myself - ¨I hope Trevor didn´t listen to me when I told him to pack light."

I realize that it is better to have a little extra weight then to be cold. It is better to be over prepared then under, and this truth is multiplied a 1000x when you are 10,000 km from home. Imagine driving from Portland to the equator. That trip takes you past Los Angeles, through the borders of Mexico, through the jungles of Costa Rica, and on, not stopping for rest in Honduras. Imagine then continuing south, the same distance and the same time that it took you to get to that point at the center of the Earth from Portland. If you did this journey you might find me. It is at this distance so far from home that getting sick from hypothermia is the last thing I want.

It´s not that cold here, but I like Labs a lot.

Getting off the bus in Barlioche we step into a new world, what seems like a new country - how can this be the same Argentina in which I was only hours before comfortable wearing a tank top and capris. The bitter cold is made worse by a lake front wind that picks up sticks and throws a grey sand that covers the ground. At first we think this grainy light substance is sand but we are told that it is remnants from the June Volcano that spewed smoke and ash into the sky from the Puyehue-Cordon Caulle volcanic range in southern Chile, as if the long lasting, backstage rivalry that exists between the people of these two countries has been absorbed into the emotions of the eternally connected landscapes. This ferocious mountain that is a part of the Andes and has taken the lives of many animals and of much plant-life, and has disrupted the economy that relies on an influx of tourism, has, I have been told, offered a bright future once a process of natural fertilization of the soil that only ash can offer has been completed. And I am told that this will one day bring life to an abundance of new vegetation, nutritious food for many species of animals, and a great crop for farming and a great future to the people of the region.

From the bus stop we walk 4km into town to look for a place to stay. We pass stray dogs fighting in the street and chasing taxis and motorbikes that don´t stop for us when we cross the streets- my blood preassure drops a bit with relief as these instance make me certain that yes, I am still in Argentina and not some unknown universe.

We see folk with dust masks over their nose and mouths trying not to breathe in the ash that still floats in the atmosphere. Each breath I take I wonder the oxygen to sulfur ratio, and I tie my lucky bandana around my face like I have seen the cowboys do in the Westerns. It was a sight to see on the trip here down route 40 through the barren temperate deserts of the provinces of Rio Negro, and Chubut. The bus cruised along the old windy highway splitting through what seemed to be a thick light obscuring fog but in reality it was ash that was concealing the sun. I don´t even know now if it was desert at all, or just a waste land of what used to be vibrant in green valleys and yellow lillies, now covered in a layer of ash.

This Image was taken in June right after the Eruption. This isn´t snow.

I wonder if this is what the locals saw before me. I wonder what the natives might have seen when they traveled these planes and fished these seas.

Supposedly these early Indiginous people have been living here since close to 10,000 B.C.! Rumors exists that these men and women were a people of giants, they are claims of 9 to 12 feet in height. When Magellan first arrived with the European explorations of America these reports spread across the Colonies and back to France and England. They named the region "Patagonia" meaning "The Land of Big Feet." But like a game of telephone these reports were skewed acounts of the truths, and most of the frenzy died down after more accurate documents found described a gentle people who were indeed tall, but only 6 foot 6 at the tallest member.
So now I wonder what these early Patagonians saw, and I wonder what they must have thought when they first saw Magellan and his crew of light skinned, light haired men dressed in strange dress. I wonder if a formal meeting ever even took place - if they had learned from eachother, how would you explain such drastically incorrect rumors?

Back to reality, here I am now in the Alaska Hostel 7.5 kilometers outside of the Barlioche city center. For dinner I cooked for my friend the Spanish Torilla dish that I had learned from my host-mom; potatoes, eggs, spinache, sausage cooked together into a cake- to him it is a breakfast omelete, but to me it is a classic Argentine dinner. This harty meal was needed after a hard, yet gorgeous, 25km bike ride through Barlioche.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rR-tOVm0ywM

At a stove down the kitchen a Swedish couple stir-fried Risotta rice with green olives and mushrooms, while a late arriving group of Israeli girls mixed togther some concotion that included corn, green peas, and brown rice. I tasted a bit of each, and each had a very distinct taste, one was salty, and one had a lemon-zing, and I imagine that these are flavors in which they were taught to cook from their cultures. Every person that I meet while I am traveling, wether it is at the hostel or in the city has an interesting story to tell, like the Hawaian guy who has seen the giant tortouses of The Galopagos Islands, the salt-flats of Bolvia that are so blue you can´t distinguish the sky, and hopes to travel to Tailand where he may be able to help the elephants become reintroduced into their natural enviornment. By traveling I am able to interact and make friends with young people from around the world, who I find are just like myself. I can see myself in them, I can learn what I want to learn. It would be too easy to stick around Oregon and find myself a future that I would be ¨satisfied with.¨ I think for now, until I can know for sure what I want to do with myself, I will keep looking for clues around me that will help tell me my future, clues that can only be found as I travel.

Until Next Time, ¡Que tengan muchos días magnifico!

- Philip Muir

Leaving Buenos Aires for Better Air

Over a cup of Argentine Coffee, bread and jam my friend and I have drawn out the plan for the next step in our Journey. Take the Subway to the bus station, RETIRO, and buy a one ticket south on a 22 hour bus to the most northern major city in Patagonia, Barlioche.

I dreamt of Patagonia nights ago, of the southern Andes Mountain covered in peaks of snow and painted with forests, rivers, lakes and beautiful valleys. It is known for its camping, its hiking, its kayaking, and its skiing. Travelers and adventures from all over

the globe are drawn by the same dream as I.

I am exicted to breath the fresh air in my lungs, cold as it may be, the coldness makes it all the better. It is becoming Summer here where 90 degrees is common, unlike Oregon where Winter is at the doorsteps.

I have one more entry to make in this online journal, one last transmission to be sent before I lose reception with the world back home. Back in my homes- the new and the old.

I have so much to think about during this time. Three months have passed by that have made a forever changed impact in the deepest parts of my life. I have so much to think about, about my homes which I now consider to be many.

Really, this is the first step in the adventure.