We arrived in San Carlos de Bariloche today. The drive through the Siete Lagos was a spectacular one. Siete Lagos is a famous chain of seven lakes that spans a stretch of beautiful country. It was only tainted by the gravel road that demanded a constant eye to keep from wiping out.

As we neared Bariloche we passed a sign indicating we had 50 kilometers left to Bariloche. Later as we were witness to an incredible jutting mountain footed by a clear Andean lake we were informed by another sign that we had 52km to go. The landscape continued to one up itself with glass-like water and rugged mountains filling the horizon, as yet another sign calculated the remaining distance to be 58km. However, my faith in the Argentine highway sign system did not hit rock bottom until we lost a full 10km (all the while driving TOWARD Bariloche). That is, several bends later a sign appeared claiming 60km left to the day's destination. Perhaps these signs were referring to the distance as the crow flies.

Bariloche is similar looking to San Martín, but a little larger. Both seem to be modeled after some Swiss blueprint for a mountain town. All facades bear the quaint look of a cozy log cabin. Artisan chocolate abounds, with homemade chocolate stores flaunting their goods in mouthwatering displays visible through store windows.

We made our way to our friends' house, the Rivas. We camped in their backyard and ate with the family. We also made our way to the restaurant of some other friends who specialize in preparing curanto. Curanto is an indigenous style of cooking in the earth with fire heated rocks, incredibly delicious. We ate our curanto and listened to our friend Carlos Fisher sing wonderful Tangos. We met the Rivas and those that run the curanto restaurant in the national park Lanín.

It was in Bariloche where a trip into a cyber café at kilometer 12 resulted in meeting a wonderful biologist that found a soft place is my heart and thoughts. Her name is Cecilia.

She and her friend Paula took us on a wonderful hike up a mountain called Frey to a refugio (shelter) one fine typically rainy day.

04-05-04
We went hiking up to Frey, a refugio not to far off Route 82. Aldé and I drove in the quite brisk rain. We went a bit far, hit a dirt road and Aldé's box fell off his bike. It was good (not for the box) because that gave me an excuse to look at the map. And I figured out we had gone too far. We turned around and found the correct turn off to los Ciohues, a village where many artists live in suburban looking housing peppering the coast of a crystal clear mountain lake.

We slid up in the motorcycles looking confused, as a young woman approached us head slightly turned down and swaying to avoid rain from breeching her eyes. Aldé then asked her identity, suggesting that she might be Cecilia. I glanced her way once again to confirm what I already knew. "Not her," I replied. Thirty seconds later she was well within earshot and asked which one of us was Quique. With one hand raised I replied nonverbally. She accepted the lazy communication and took the opportunity to introduce herself. She was Paula, Cecilia's friend that was to meet us for the ascent. Cecilia had not yet arrived. We reparked the bikes next to the local store. Paula had already tried to call Cecilia, but the phone was not turned on yet in the local store, which apparently served as grocery store, calling center, and butcher shop for this small community nestled around the picturesque lake.

The phones had just been turned on as we entered the small building. Paula gave Cecilia's house a ring while Aldé and I mulled around perusing the sparsely stocked shelves.

The report was that Cecilia had recently left her house 20 minutes ago as she had missed the previous bus which would put her there in a little bit. We strolled outside to wait just as Cecilia, decked in her blue raincoat, smiling floated up the small incline leading to the patio that was the shop entrance.

We again moved the bikes, situating them in view of the shop attendant, who offered to keep an eye on them during our absence. The possibility of our motorcycles being stolen was far from my mind, but as it had been in every corner of Latin America I had been warned of the wanton theft in the area, which, as always, was followed up by gracious offers of aid.

We did the ten kilometers to the refugio in about three and a half hours due to frequent stopping. Not all of us were in tip top physical condition.

The path up was beautiful and at times accompanied by sprinkles. We lunched at the Refugio Frey, a small collection of log buildings comprising of a small eating area, where hot drinks were available for a couple of pesos, and bathrooms. A good sized lagoon fed a gorgeous mountain stream that cut back and forth as it descended.

We followed lunch with a game of spades. I had to teach Cecilia and Paula the game as they were only familiar with Spanish games. I actually wanted to practice my Truco skills, but was faced with two women who were not interested in playing this most common of Argentine card games.

I was partnered up with Paula and Aldé with Cecilia. We lost royally but not officially as we left at five in the afternoon with out either team reaching three hundred points, the agreed point goal. The score, at the time of departure was US: -129 and Them: 156.