Craig, whom we have now dubbed Aldé (short for his middle name Alden), and I stayed at Jorge's house for a week and a half. Aldé decided to not go home but to stay here, buy a motorcycle just like mine and cruise with me for a few months.

After going through the process of getting his newly bought bike legal, buying saddlebags, bungees, and cargo nets we were off to restart the adventure.

We took route Cinco (5) west over to Trenque Lauquén and then headed south on route 33 heading to Bahía Blanca. From Bahía Blanca we headed for our first destination, Parque Nacional Lanín. Route 22 took us through the windy desert. In Rio Colorado we stopped at a camping ground to eat lunch. A random guy came up to us and asked if we were going to some town I have never heard of. I am still confused about that comment as he said he had met some motorcyclists that were heading for this mystery town, and thought we were them. If he had already met them, then how could he confuse us with them?

Anyway, he came up to us and we had a good little time talking with him about our trip and motorcycles. He invited us to come and stay at his house is Neuquen (the capital of the province Neuquen). His house was not actually in Neuquen, it was across the river in the province of Rio Negro but close enough. We got his number and he left so as not to miss his ride. His name was Facundo and he was driving with some trucker guy that we never met.

We took some free showers at the campground and then headed out to find a place to set up camp that night along the road (as it would have cost us money to stay the night at the campground).

Two days later we arrived in Nuequen, called Facundo, and stayed at his house for a few days.

From there we headed to the Andean town of Junín de los Andes. From Junín the route to the national park began. It was a long dirt road. We began this road in the evening; went a few kilometers and camped on the side of the road. It was a cool night. However the morning was spectacular! The warm morning sun rays spread over the contours of the mountains' andean terrain toward our camp which was nestled behind a small hillock. As the unstoppable morning heat spread it vaporized all the dew so comfortable resting on every leaf and grass blade during the dark hours, whose time was now up. The mist seemed to be the last ditch effort of the evening before to hide the land from our curious eyes or to distract us altogether with its own beauty. Either way we found ourselves lost in the majestic mist that rose and thinned off every incredible surrounding ridge.

The park was magnificent. We arrived after a day of hiking at the patch of land called Aila. A small wood shack with bones of long dead and not so long dead cattle were encountered in the ascent to the small shack, which was the course the main path took. As we approached the top we were met by a wildly barking dog, and shaggy at that.

We circumnavigated the shack to descend to the lake below. We came across a wonderful camping site situated right on the lake. The lake was practically at the foot of the Volcano Lanín, the marvel from which this national park draws its name.

We stayed a few days at this divine location fishing, reading, and enjoying the serene reality that was Lanín. The second day we were there we were visited by a father and son bearing no equipment. They descended into our camp and introduced themselves as the owners of this area. They were Julio, the father, and Javier, the son. I was not aware that we were not in the national park. They informed us that Aila (their last name and the name of the area) had belonged to their family long before the park was established. They had basically been grandfathered in. We chatted with them for a while and after which we were then invited to an asado up at the shack. Apparently there was an old Aila, Julio's uncle, which still lived up there.

We walked up to the shack at the agreed upon time. We were met by Julio and escorted to the shack. The night was brisk and we came in long-sleeves. Entering the shack I was accosted by a choking concentration of smoke, all the while mounting, in this unventilated shack, I looked to my left to see a fire attended by Javier and to the right a rugged old man with an old blanket to match draped over this frame. We were offered seats, sat, and talked for a while. The conversation soon found its way to the food, the asado. Julio informed us that there was no asado. I am sure we must have had strange looks on our faces, as he asked the old man's permission to tell us the story. The old guy nodded his approval and Julio gave us the short version. "The dog ate the asado." As we started to laugh we were quickly offered bread, which we ate with enthusiasm. Our dinner consisted solely of bread and conversation that evening. Not a bad combination.