A MILE IN MY OWN SHOES – The Ways of Wanderlust

It’s silly I know, but one of the ways my Latin American travel/adventure trips move from crazy notion to harebrained scheme to actual occurrence is that I envision one of my favorite pairs of shoes stepping down the streets or trails of that distant place. Oh…and I’m in the shoes.

For Puebla, Mexico, it was my then-brand-new Keen ultra-lite sandals. In Buenos Aires, it was the Merrell Encore clogs. Havana saw me mostly in my Ecco Yucatan sandals. Oaxaca, in my Birchbury leather sneakers.And now, for my upcoming fall trip to Mérida, I'm thinking my new, walking-on-a-cloud Skechers Slip-ins. (Though for this trip it might make more sense to revisit those Yucatan sandals.)

       I make room for adventure in
       a future that thinks it’s already
       scripted for something else.

Why does it take footwear to lead me to such places? I suppose it’s like any other serious intention in life; to make room for adventure in a future that may not be ready for it, or thinks it’s already scripted for something else, it helps to imagine oneself there. The rest of the plan then starts falling into place around that image.

The shoes get me to that place of my imagining in a way that simply Googling the place cannot. More than just reading someone’s description or looking at photos, they seem to put me there physically. I can actually feel it, my connection with the ground.

FEEL THE YEARN
I remember reading Thomas Mann’s novella, Tonio Kröger, when I was in high school. Mann used the distant sound of the Posthorn to represent the siren song of Tonio’s wanderlust.

There’s nothing as powerful as a dream. For some, like Tonio, it’s just a hazy, unsettling yearning; for others it’s more like a prayer. I see it as simply committing my wishes to the wise ways of the Universe. And, since my Higher Power wants me to be happy, it makes space in the future for the fulfillment of those wishes and then enlists my own intentions, planning and a bit of elbow grease to make them happen.

You see, I have this hunger to keep expanding the realm of my being. To learn new things, meet new people, behold ever-more-stirring expressions of Nature’s beauty, get out of my egocentric, way-too-busy self and closer to the ideal of oneness with everything.

Nothing better satisfies that yearning than travel. (And travel, specifically to Hispanophone places, also lets me pursue my late-in-life quest to get reasonably fluent in Spanish.)

     My wanderlust exerts the same
     pull that being a homebody does,
     but in a different direction.

DIFFERENT STROKES
I realize that, for many, life’s less about opening new realms than deepening the ones they already occupy. That’s fine. I actually envy you homebodies, for your ability to happily grow where you’re planted. And for the strength of your commitments to a beloved place and the people you make sure frequent it.

I suppose I could say my wanderlust exerts the same kind of pull that being a homebody does, but in a different direction. To be honest, though, I feel a bit guilty about how selfish it is. I try to salve the guilt by recalling how many other worthy endeavors demand a choice between familiarity and exploration.

Wanderluster. Full-nester. Aren’t they really like introvert and extrovert, where one is better than the other only for certain purposes. Shouldn’t it be possible to be some of both, to balance the two?

How does one do that? As my mother used to say, when you’re torn between two valid paths, sometimes you just have to follow your nose…

…and, I would add, your shoes.

"To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted."
BILL BRYSON

GUATEMALA – Land of Eternal Spring…and Volcanoes – Part I

(PART ONE OF THREE PARTS)

It’s November and once again the cold and gray here in Minnesota, USA have rekindled the wanderlust. So I’m off to Guatemala—for no better reason than that I’ve heard it’s beautiful and I know several people who’ve been there—and loved it.

This region, much of it forested and lying at elevations above 5,000 feet, has an ideal, spring-like climate all year round. That’s why Guatemala’s known as “The Land of Eternal Spring.” And why it’s ideal for travel.

Oh, and I hear the way Guatemalans speak Spanish is relatively easy for a Spanish learner to understand.

You see I’m sticking to the tried-and-true format I’ve used for most of my Latin American adventures. I find what looks like a good language school; I sign up for a couple weeks of intense one-on-one classes; and then I see if I can find decent lodging and flights.

This affords me a ready-made home base, a circle of potential friends, and a focus for days that otherwise might overwhelm me with options.

An unexpected highlight of this trip is that my daughter, Amanda, has decided to fly down from Boston and join me for a week.

 I’m easily disoriented. Until I realize that
 El Agua, the most prominent of the volcanoes
 surrounding the city, lies due south.

POLITICAL INTRIGUE
As late as two weeks before I leave home, I’m unsure if it’s really wise to go. Not for concern with my and Amanda’s safety as much as with our ability to get around—even from the airport in Guatemala City to Antigua, the town where we’ll spend most of our time.

The problem is that, since last June’s general election in which the progressive, anti-corruption candidate for president easily prevailed and the sitting president seeks to invalidate the results, working Guatemalans, led by several well-organized indigenous groups, have been protesting by, among other tactics, setting up roadblocks around the country—as many as 70 at one time. 

Fortunately, one of my neighbors works for a local college’s international program, which sends student groups to Guatemala. She’s been able to get up-to-date, first-hand information, and informs me that the protest organizers, seeing that the current government plans to come down hard on them, has switched its focus from rural highways to Guatemala City’s government-buildings zone.

As it turns out, we encounter no protesting of any kind, anywhere we go.

GETTING MY BEARINGS
I arrive in Guatemala City just after dark in about as good shape as one could expect after a 12-hour day of travel. My destination—where my Spanish school is located—will be the former colonial capital, La Antigua Guatemala, a mile-high city of 50,000 surrounded by volcanoes just west of Guatemala City.

My ride, a private shuttle arranged by my Antigua hotel, is right where he said he’d be, and after nearly an hour in surprisingly slow traffic for that time of day, we pull up to my home for the next two weeks, the Posada de la Luna, a lovely, unpretentious little hotel with just seven rooms less than a mile from the town’s Plaza Mayor or central park.

(It’s nice arriving on a Friday, leaving me the whole weekend to explore and get oriented before my classes begin Monday morning.)

La Antigua, at least size-wise, is a wonderfully walkable town. Stroll about a mile in any direction and you’re in the suburbs. So, making Plaza Mayor the hub of my wanderings, I trace “spokes” out from there in the four cardinal directions.

At first, what with all there is to see and photograph, I’m easily disoriented. Until I realize that El Agua, the most prominent of the several volcanoes surrounding the city, lies due south. 

Speaking of the volcanoes, I’m disappointed not to actually see any of them in its entirety for the first four days of my visit. The rainy season here should be over by now, so I’d expected more sun. Locals explain that the cool (mid- to upper-60’s) temperatures, low cloud cover and frequent drizzles and mists are due to an unusual cold front affecting all of Central America.

    We walk to El Jardin, a botanical garden
    where all the school’s classes take place.

BREAK A LEG
As easy as it is to reach any corner of Antigua walking, that’s how treacherous the footing is. Every single street and many of the sidewalks are paved in cobblestones, and, with the frequent light precipitation, they’re wet. 

A tourist gawking and taking pictures on that terrain is a recipe for a turned-ankle disaster. So I’m constantly reminding myself: Want to look? Stop! Want to snap a photo? Stop! (Turns out that’s impossible, so it’s just pure dumb luck that I avoid a sprain.)

ANTIGUEÑA SPANISH ACADEMY
My first Monday of language school I head to the address where I think my classes will be held. Instead, I find a cramped little second-floor office with a line of about 50 Guatemalan women—and a few men—winding down the stairs and out to the street.

Turns out this is just the administrative office, and these are the teachers, waiting to be assigned their students for that week. I pay my tuition for the first week and then meet my teacher, Sheny. She takes me back down the stairs and we walk nearly a mile through the back streets of Antigua’s northwest corner to what they call El Jardin, The Garden, where all the school’s classes take place.

It’s kind of a small, enclosed park, a bit like a botanical garden. Not one with identified plant species, but it’s lush with tropical foliage and flowers: palms, bromeliads, orchids and other gorgeous flowers. And there are a couple of two-story buildings with broad, open-air, tile-floored galleries.

During breaks students and teachers gather in groups, stroll around the gardens or climb a spiral staircase to a rooftop terrace. There's also a snack bar.

Every Spanish school I’ve ever attended offered both group and individual classes. But every school in Guatemala, it seems, provides only one-on-one instruction. Also, those other schools have usually had somewhere between ten and 20 students. So I was surprised to find El Jardin’s buildings and paths lined with at least 60 card tables, a student and a teacher at each one.

Sheny is a fabulous teacher. By the time we get to El Jardin that first day, she’s already identified my weaknesses, and devises lessons and drills to nudge me closer to my goal of fluency…whatever that is.

We also hit it off personally, sharing loves for sports, Nature, pets and of course language. (She has several dogs, a couple of cats and a charismatic, blue-eyed tortoise named Tuguis.)

Sheny’s skill and easy manner make conversation quite easy, but four consecutive hours of one-on-one language learning is still exhausting. So, toward the end of each morning’s work, we unwind with a game of Scrabble—in Spanish, of course. I don’t mean to brag—okay, I actually do—but I beat her like six out of eight times! She says I have a good vocabulary.

(FOR PART II CLICK HERE)

(FOR SLIDE SHOW CLICK HERE)

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind

The Oaxaca Series
Instead of the tedious, chronologic journaling format that’s so common in people’s trip reports, I’ve decided to organize my Oaxaca posts by category, by the four main themes of my experience: 1) language school; 2) Day of the Dead; 3) food and drink; and 4) arts and handcrafts—and the following brief introduction to lay the groundwork. So here goes…

                    ~    •    ~    •   ~   

INTRODUCTION

I’d been wanting to visit Oaxaca for years.

Due to my ever-growing interest in Mexico—fueled in great part by my late-in-life quest for fluency in Spanish—I’ve managed to at least set foot in about half of the country’s 31 states.

From the arid lowlands of Sonora to the temperate, mile-high central plateau called the Valley of Mexico, to the upmarket tip of the Baja Peninsula, gateway to the Sea of Cortez; from the tropical Pacific coast string of beaches known as La Costa Grande to the cool, mountainous forests and unique Gulf Coast flavors of Veracruz. I’ve loved it all.

But Oaxaca, the furthest south of any of these climes, has always had its own special appeal. First of all, for the virtues everyone talks about: the food, the art and handcrafts, the mezcal.

But there’s also the state’s unique fusion of several indigenous cultures, whose colors, flavors and customs are ever-present in day-to-day life. Oaxaca City’s Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration—a blend of those pre-Columbian traditions with the European, Catholic traditions imposed by the invading Spaniards—is generally regarded as one of the most spectacular anywhere in Mexico.

I can see why the city’s such a popular destination for both Mexicans and world travelers. Part of the appeal is its apparent small scale. I’m seeing no buildings with more than two stories.

I learn that the reason for the buildings’ limited stature is a variation of the old saw, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Earthquakes are so common here that taller structures just aren’t considered safe. This is also the reason, I’m told, that building walls tend to be quite thick here.

The weather is ideal at this time of year. By late October the rainy season is all but over. Temperatures reach the mid-70s to 80 degrees Fahrenheit during the day and fall into the lower 60’s to mid-50s at night. Humidity’s low. With the city’s elevation just over 5,000 feet, the sun is powerful, but otherwise it’s a benign climate.

And a personal connection: Oaxaca, along the Pacific coast, is where my friend and compadre, Silverio, was born. He and his family, though he’s now a U.S. citizen, still hold the region’s traditions close to their hearts. I’ve always wanted to visit the state, if not the actual village, that’s so much a part of them.

So, last year, I was finally going to make it happen—a two-week trip to Oaxaca including the week-long celebration of Day of the Dead. I decided, as I often do when traveling in Latin America, to focus my activities on a language-learning objective. I enrolled in language school.

So it was all set. Then, as if that vision wasn’t perfect enough, my daughter, Amanda, asked if she could join me, enrolling in beginner’s Spanish. I was over the moon.

But COVID-19 put the kibosh on that dream.

RECLAIMING THE DREAM
This past spring, as it became evident that we were gradually, painfully moving past the pandemic, I decided to reclaim the dream. Only this time, sadly, Amanda wouldn’t be able to join me.

First, I made sure the language school I’d been in touch with, Becari Manuel Bravo, would still be a good fit for my ambitious pursuit of Spanish. Sandra, the school director, couldn’t have been any nicer or more helpful, offering to tailor an advanced program to my interests, and even recommending several possible hotel accommodations.

Well, I soon discovered that you don’t waltz into a Día-de-Muertos-week hotel reservation in Oaxaca city just four months ahead of time. I contacted all of Sandra’s suggestions and no fewer than 35 other hotels before I finally found an available room in a decent hotel.

Hotel Casa Conzatti

As for air connections, I was happy to find flights on the days I wanted—and at reasonable hours—for around $800 round-trip. Not a steal, but doable. And with just one stop each way—not in some city an acute angle and 1,500 miles away from a straight route—but right on the way, in Dallas / Fort Worth.

So, on Sunday, October 23, I’m up at 4:00 AM for my 6:30 flight, and the adventure begins.

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Día de Muertos, should be landing here in the next day or two.

WALKING THE TALK – How Learning Spanish Has Become My Ticket to Adventure

They say one of the best ways to stay sharp as one ages is to learn a new language. Great. But they also say that the best time to learn that new language is when one is about three years old.
Perfect! It’s the best of both worlds for me; I’m a senior citizen who, I’m told, often acts like a three-year-old.

                                      ~   //  ~  //  ~

My roots are a typical American melting-pot amalgam: a little English, a bit of Italian…but mostly German. My family celebrates that heritage in a well-documented trove of family lore and with a few fine decorative and artistic German heirlooms handed down through the generations.

So, naturally, when I faced the choice of either French or German as my foreign language in high school, I went with the deutsch. Never gave it a second thought.

  None of it fit my 
  romantic image of myself as a Mexican 
  fisherman in a previous life. 

AN EPIPHANY
Flash forward to about 2002. It was then, at the age of 57, during one of my several identity crises, that I decided I hated German. Truth be told, I’d never liked the hard, guttural sound of it. I didn’t much care for some of the national characteristics it conjured up for me either. None of it fit my romantic image of myself as a Mexican fisherman in a previous life.

Besides, it was becoming quite clear that I might never even visit Germany. But I had been traveling to Mexico, with my parents when I was nine, and a couple of times with friends as an adult. Then I got married, and Sally and I continued the trend, spring-breaking in nearly all of the popular Mexican beach towns.

I think it was Mazatlán where the epiphany happened. As I usually do, I’d boned up on a few basic pleasantries in Spanish so I could be a more gracious visitor, a better representative of my own country.

But on this one short cab ride, when it came time to pay the fare, the limit of my competence in the language came up and bit me. For some reason, cien (a hundred) and diez (ten) switched places in my brain, and I was convinced the driver had stiffed me.

He explained with patience I didn’t deserve. Red-faced, I apologized and handed him the pesos…and a little extra for the painful lesson. And it was at that precise moment that the trajectory of my late-in-life quest for Spanish literacy took off.

IMMERSION IS THE KEY
Next time in Mexico, I decided, I’ll be able to carry on at least a simple “How’re the wife and kids?” conversation with a cab driver—and be able to correctly count my change. Those were my goals.

So I signed up for a St. Paul Public Schools Community Ed. class: Spanish for Beginners. My teacher was Silverio Rios, an engaging 40-something Mexican who’d been living and working in the Twin Cities for several years.

One evening after class I asked Silverio to join me for coffee and we chatted a bit about my goals for learning his first language. Toward the end of that first get-together, he told me of his plans to take small groups of his students on week-long Spanish immersion trips down to the part of central Mexico where he’d grown up.

That idea captivated me, and, as I was then a graphic designer, I offered to design and write his brochure for him. He accepted, offering in exchange a spot on his inaugural trip.

And so, Voces del Español was born. In August 2003, Silverio, I and three other students flew to Mexico City, then bussed to Querétaro City, and finally rented a car for the drive to the charming little town of Tequisquiápan, which would serve as our home base for the week.

The format involved formal classes in the mornings and an excursion each afternoon. Silverio had designed all the activities to encourage our use of the language in everyday experiences, such as buying produce from the local market or ordering dinner at a restaurant for everyone in our group.

Also included in those experiences was joining Silverio’s relatives for typical family events like a birthday, a wedding and going to the cemetery to tend to family graves. On different occasions we helped make bread with his mom and joined in the elaborate preparation of a mole.

WHERE LA ACCION IS
By the end of that first Voces trip, I realized my original goal of engaging in small-talk with a cab driver had already been eclipsed. Now I knew I was capable of more.

My Spanish learning was to become the theme—the key, one could say—to many more travels in Latin America. I eventually went on three more Voces immersion trips with Silverio. With each one, I gained more tools and more confidence in expressing myself. (Not to mention the great joy of being virtually adopted into his family.)

I’ve also travelled to Spain, Peru and Argentina, and attended language schools in Veracruz, Mexico, Panama and Cuba. All, if not dictated by my quest for better Spanish, at least encouraged by it.

   My goal had been edging up too,
   like one of those mechanical rabbits
   that racing dogs chase, always just
   beyond reach.

NOT LOST IN TRANSLATION
One measure of my progress has been the time lapse between when I think of something to say and when the words actually come out of my mouth. I remember quite clearly when that interval was five to ten seconds. In most of my attempts to join a conversation I was getting left behind.

But my competence level kept edging up, and that time interval down. At some point I realized my goal had been edging up too, like one of those mechanical rabbits that racing dogs chase, always just beyond reach. Now I wasn’t going to settle for any less than holding my own in those conversations with native speakers.

I have my moments—occasionally glorified by a couple of tequilas. They’ve included many conversations with Silverio, members of his family or Spanish-speaking friends I’ve met on my own, about a range of topics from art to zoology.

Once I get going, I enter that rarified air where only the relatively fluent survive. Where my mind goes right from hearing the Spanish to replying in Spanish, without passing through an English translation.

I suppose it’s another measure of my progress that I’m now less focused on vocabulary and grammar than on the finer points, like minimizing my English accent and incorporating common filler words—the Spanish equivalents to the English “um,” “well,” “then” or “so”— into my speaking.

Yes, I’ve a ways to go, but I can definitely see the prize. It may be that I’ll never be able to actually grab it; that might take a few months living in a place where no one speaks English. Maybe in my next life.

EMPOWERMENT
It’s amazing, when traveling, what knowing the local language does for a person. For me, it’s been kind of like watching and envying a competent musician, and then, with a ton of work, being able to play myself.

My new second language opens doors—to friendships, to avoiding conflict, to finding my way around. And for Sally, it cuts through the awkwardness of her having to shop using just hand gestures.

I can even feel my Spanish competence affecting my posture as I walk down the street, especially in areas where I may be the only person in that town who looks like me. I enjoy seeing the look on a person’s face when someone who looks so unlikely to be a Spanish speaker handles their language so capably.

More than once, that person has explained that they’d expected me, at best, to speak English with a heavy German accent.

                               ~   //  ~  //  ~ 

POSTSCRIPT: My dad, at about the same age I was when my love affair with Spanish began, was also dreaming of learning the language. He chipped away at it, but with all his home and business responsibilities he never really got past the basics. I know that a great part of my motivation has been to honor his dream and make him proud. I believe I have.

LAST PORTAGE – A Tribute to the Father I Never Knew

As a teenager I, like most adolescents, believed my parents were total nerds. Knew nothing, I thought, about music, sports, adventure, fun—all the stuff I was into. They were so…well…old, that they embarrassed me.

But as they aged, my dad started sorting through his mementos, and when he showed me some of them it opened up a whole new window on his world. Among those relics were a few small black-and-white pictures of him canoeing with his friend, Bob Clough, in Minnesota’s north woods. They looked to be in their late teens or early twenties, young and fit and happy. I was intrigued.

      This made us not just cool kid and
      dorky father, but kindred spirits.

There were also receipts from outfitters in Ely and Winton, Minnesota, towns near entry points to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCAW). They listed flour, sugar, lard and various canned goods, all in quantities sufficient for extended stays in the wilderness.

And there was this map, printed on treated canvas, of a portion of Ontario’s Quetico Provincial Park, the BWCAW’s even wilder counterpart across the border in Ontario. Hand-drawn on it was a new portage the two had blazed across the base of a long peninsula, cutting off several hours’ paddling time around it. They’d tentatively claimed it on the map with a red arrow and their last initials, C&W.

KINDRED SPIRITS
I’d known Dad was a Boy Scout, but this was something else, something more exciting than good deeds and merit badges. The guy had roughed it on his own terms, for weeks at a time, in true wilderness, back when that word meant more than it does now. A real man’s man. And, since I’d also done many BWCAW and Quetico trips myself, this made us not just cool kid and dorky father, but kindred spirits.

Fast forward to 1997. Dad was 91; I was 52. And that July Dad passed away. Even though Mom was still living, I felt like an orphan. I regretted not having known him better. But finally being aware of that adventurous, woodsman side of his was still pretty special.

When it came time for the family to divvy up Dad’s stuff, I didn’t want much. But I wanted that map. And I got it.

That old cloth map stirred something in me. And during the following year I began planning a canoe trip up to that portage. I invited six friends, with varying degrees of wilderness paddling experience, who I thought would most appreciate the adventure. We put our heads together to plan logistics: dates, route, menu, equipment… And I created graphics for The Memorial Expedition: a six-inch round commemorative plaque and a dozen three-inch souvenir medallions, and had the design sand-etched onto clear glass blanks.

      The miracle material can stop
      a bullet or just about any other
      impact, but, incredibly, is helpless
      against abrasion.

GETTING THERE
On June second, 1998, we headed north for the five-and-a-half-hour drive to the North Shore, the Gunflint Trail and Tuscarora Lodge, where we’d arranged to bunk for the night and rent canoes for the trip. When we left home, temperatures had been summer-like, with predicted highs in the mid-80s. It looked like the warm streak would apply to northwestern Minnesota too, and hold for at least several days. That was good to know, as it allowed me to pack fairly light, always an advantage for a wilderness canoe trip.

Alas, that night, on a cot barely fit for a prisoner, it soon became clear I’d been grossly misled about the weather. With no heat in the bunkhouse, the near-freezing chill easily breached its walls and my flimsy sleeping bag, making for a miserable night.

Next morning, we were introduced to our two slick, nearly transparent, super-light Kevlar canoes. I learned that this miracle material—originally developed by Dupont as a replacement for the five-times-heavier steel belts used in racing tires, and later as the basis of bulletproof body armor—can stop a bullet or just about any other impact, but, incredibly, is helpless against abrasion.

All this to explain why our host applied a strip of silver duct tape along each canoe’s keel at the bow. If we returned the craft with any part of that tape worn through, we’d be charged a penalty. No problem, considering several of us had long ago learned that a canoe’s bow must never, ever touch anything but water or air.

THE TWO SAGS
They loaded up our gear, Carl’s beautiful wood / fiberglass Old Town Canadienne and the two canoes we’d rented, and drove us up to the end of the Gunflint Trail. There we put in at the tip of the long, narrow south arm of Lake Saganaga, one of the BWCAW’s biggest and prettiest glacier-scoured lakes.

We paddled a couple of miles north up the narrow, river-like channel and then into the huge expanse of Big Sag itself.

Then it was west for about six miles across the widest part of Saganaga, skirting its numerous islands and crossing the international border. Once we entered Cache Bay, we had to register with Canadian Customs, letting them know where we were headed and for how many days.

As we paddled away from the rangers’ island, the wind picked up and it started to snow—something I’d only once before encountered up here in June. Luckily, paddling into the wind generated enough body heat to stay quite comfortable…for a while. But soon, the piercing cold was conspiring with high winds and some nasty two-foot waves to deny us much headway, so we found a good landing spot on the lee side of a small island, and built a fire.

The wind kept pounding us for the next couple of hours until, finally, we were able to make a run for it to the nearest decent campsite.

I thought of all the millions of footsteps that have followed in theirs over 75 years.

At the time, officially-designated campsites in the Quetico weren’t shown on the Fisher maps, so we scouted our own site and, hurried by pending nightfall, quickly reacquainted ourselves with the various roles and tasks it takes to set up camp, prepare a meal and protect our food pack from bears.

I shared a tent with my brother-in-law, Carl. Thank goodness neither of us is a super-loud snorer. Nonetheless, it proved to be another long, miserable night, for, once again, the temperature kept dropping, this time to well below freezing.

My ultra-light sleeping bag, with its scant one inch of loft and a rating for about 50 degrees, came up short—or should I say thin—for me, even wearing every stitch of clothing I had. At dawn’s first scant light, still shivering in fetal position, I looked enviously over at Carl, tucked in his brand new LL Bean, five-inch-thick, zero-degree-rated goose down sleeping bag, blissfully sawing wood. It was all I could do not to either crawl in there with him…or punch him!

Next morning, we had breakfast and broke camp rather leisurely, and then paddled west toward Silver Falls, where we made several small portages before entering the very southeastern tip of the narrow, twelve-mile-long Lake Saganagons. (Indeed, its name is that similar to Saganaga’s.)

ETCHED IN STONE AND GLASS
About three miles up the north side of Saganagons, we scoured the irregular shoreline for the legendary portage. In the Quetico, portages are not clearly marked with Forest Service signs as they are in the BWCAW. So it took a while, but we finally spotted it, tucked behind a point that looked like an island. At last, this was it.

I’ve always been a sucker for all things mystical, especially if they involve ceremony. I felt an immediate reverence for this place we were about to consecrate, picturing my dad and his friend standing there, dirty and exhausted, celebrating their success blazing their way across to the other side of the peninsula. And I thought of all the millions of footsteps that have followed in theirs over 75 years.

We paused for trail lunch before starting out across the 52-rod—about 300 feet—trail.

I dug out the small packet of Dad’s ashes I’d filched from the plastic-lined boxful we got from the crematorium. As we slowly retraced my father’s steps, I scattered his ashes here and there, saving some to anoint the lake on the other side.

As we walked back, I scouted the surroundings for the best place to bury the glass plaque and the remaining six medallions. I spotted a rock outcrop with a distinctive, linear groove. Following that line down to the point where it receded beneath the soil, I measured off a few feet past that and dug a hole in the spongy, peat-like earth. And there I carefully laid the glass plaque and six medallions.

After I solemnly replaced and tamped down the soil, we gathered on the trail. There was no question that Dad’s presence was felt. Each of us who felt the inclination offered heartfelt reflections about him and about the extraordinary experience we were sharing. Some read or recited poems; others simply offered their memories of Dad. I shared one of my favorite T.S. Eliot quotes from his Four Quartets:

“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

We made camp that night on a lovely island not far from the portage, and laid over there for one more day before heading back home.

Our paddle back across the border was much more tranquil than the one getting to Saganagons—and no snow this time. I think we all felt a sense of accomplishment, as 50-somethings, having proved our mettle against the challenges of the wilderness, albeit for just five days.

And I felt I’d done my father proud, acknowledging a part of him I’d barely known, but came to greatly admire and respect. I realize it’s pure romanticism, but I’ve filed a detailed description of the medallions' burial site, complete with map and photos, with my will.

My hope is that one of my antecedents—who knows how far into the future—might learn of this tribute through family lore, and mount their own quest to find Oscar Willius’s and Bob Clough’s portage and excavate the buried medallions.

Call me a dreamer; I guess it's in my blood.

THE ONES THAT DIDN’T GET AWAY — Catching Trout and More in Pategonia

(This is the sixth and final post in a six-part series on my November, 2019 trip to Argentina)

If you told me a couple years ago I’d ever go trout fishing on a crystal-clear alpine lake in Patagonia, surrounded by the snow-capped Andes, I’d have said “Yeah, in my dreams.”

Well, thanks to a healthy appetite for adventure, and to my brother, Dan, for his world-class travel-planning, those dreams have come true.

THE FLIP SIDE OF FALL
From Mendoza, Dan and I caught the next of our ten flight legs on Aerolineas Argentinas: two hours south to Bariloche, a city of 100,000 situated on the south shore of glacial Lake Nahuel Huapi, in northern Pategonia.

There we rented a car for the three-and-a-half-hour drive north to our lodging near the small town (population 25,000) of San Martin de Los Andes.

Even though the roads are remarkably good, the driving proved challenging for the intermittent rain and high winds. Not to mention the constant distraction of new, neck-craning, post-card views of mountains and lakes around each bend.

Just-blooming wildflowers and the new green of the forests reminded us that we were in the southern hemisphere’s version of November—the same, climatologically, as our May back in Minnesota.

As one might expect on mountain roads, we found ourselves chained to the rear ends of a couple of slow-moving trucks and one maddening hippy-era RV/bus whose driver studiously avoided every opportunity to let us—and dozens of other cars—pass.

With a little help from Google Maps, we arrived at Rio Hermoso Lodge, a jaw-dropping property located inside Lanín National Park. The lodge, built of native wood and stone, is situated right on a bend of the quintessential mountain trout stream.

Our beautiful corner room looks out over the river and the well-manicured lawn where two of the resident horses frolicked, chasing each other back and forth.

    A handsome, 16-inch rainbow trout,
    caught in a crystal-clear mountain
    lake in Patagonia. Could it get any
    better than this?

LAGO FALKNER
The next day dawned sunny and cool. Perfect weather for our day of fishing in some of the most celebrated trout waters in the world. After an excellent buffet breakfast, we met up with Augustine, our friendly, robust guide, and hopped into his truck for the 15-minute ride to Lago Falkner.

Lago Falkner is one of this area’s illustrious Ruta de Los Siete Lagos, the Route of the Seven Lakes. (There are actually at least twice that many gorgeous lakes hereabouts.) Like the others, Falkner was scoured out, west to east, by glaciers during the late Pleistocene Epoch some 25,000 years ago. It is about 12 miles long by less than a mile wide, and runs to an incredible depth of nearly 2,000 feet.

Surrounded as it is by Cerro Falkner (8,000 feet) and several other snow-capped mountains, the lake is a catch basin for cold air, often funneling it into strong winds. So, at last, after two weeks of much warmer than expected weather at our other destinations, our layers of warm clothes would prove their worth today.

    I had to be sure not to give it an inch
    of slack lest it easily slide off of the
    barbless hooks.

WHY IT’S CALLED FISHING, NOT CATCHING
Augustine launched his boat, and, bundled up against the crisp air, we motored down the lake for a couple of miles before he turned toward the south shore and coasted to trolling speed.

Since neither Dan nor I are very good fly-fishermen, Augustine hooked us up a couple of medium-weight spinning rigs (too clunky for this type of fishing; I’d have preferred my own ultra-light gear), with spinner lures. National park fishing regulations call for strict catch-and-release, and every hook used must be barbless.

PHOTO: Pixabay

Within minutes, we could see the trout swimming around, but they weren’t falling for our baits, even when dragged right in front of their noses. To manage expectations Augustine hinted that, with the lake’s water level quite high, he didn’t expect a ton of action.

Determined to prove him wrong, we spent the rest of the morning drifting along that southern shore. Even in the breezy conditions Augustine skillfully maneuvered the boat, keeping the shore just beyond reach of my longest cast.

Despite a couple of halfhearted strikes, our batting average was dwindling with each cast. But watching the changing shoreline, with its rock-strewn banks, driftwood “sculptures” and occasional cascading creeks—not to mention just taking in the amazing views all around us—proved reason enough to keep at it.

PHOTO: Dan Willius

PHOTO: Dan Willius

Finally, after a couple hours’ work—attested to by some serious blisters erupting on our casting hands—I managed to tie into our first fish. It put up a good fight, and I had to be sure not to give it an inch of slack lest it easily slide off of the barbless hooks.

A handsome, 16-inch rainbow trout, caught in a crystal-clear mountain lake in Patagonia. Could it get any better than this? Well, I hoped, yes, if we could now just get Dan hooked up with one too.

Augustine, between boat maneuvers, had been fly fishing—with no luck. At one point, he borrowed Dan’s spinning rod and made a cast. Wouldn’t you know it, after Dan’s and my combined barrage of hundreds of casts, he’s suddenly one for one! (Isn’t a guide supposed to make you feel good about your own fishing skills?)

    After such an amazing meal I would
    have enjoyed a nice nap in the sun,
    but we had work to do.

A SHORE LUNCH LIKE NO OTHER
At any rate, it was time for our shore lunch. Augustine found a good spot, with room to land the boat, start a fire and set up a folding table and chairs. We’d have been quite content with sandwiches, or maybe some fried trout, but no, this is Argentina; he proceeded to whip up a full-on asado for us.

PHOTO: Dan Willius

Salami, cheese and bread to keep us occupied while he grilled; and then some lovely beef tenderloin, pork sausages and morcilla, or blood sausage. It was all complimented with a colorful and delicious beet-and-carrot salad and a bottle of nice Argentine Cabernet.

After such an amazing meal I would have enjoyed a little nap in the sun, but we had work to do. We had to get Dan at least one trout.

Working our way back along the south shore, we finally found a bit of action. Dan reeled in his own nice 16-incher, and I managed to land another, just a bit smaller.

That turned out to be the sum total of our catch for the day. But Augustine had worked very hard for us and given us a true full day of fishing. (Unlike the Mexican Pacific game fish charters I’m accustomed to, which almost always end by about 1:30, he kept us at it until 5:00.)

We headed back to the lodge, settled up with Augustine, and proceeded to the bar to celebrate our memorable day.

SAN MARTIN DE LOS ANDES
On our final day in northern Patagonia, we made the winding, 30-kilometer drive to the village of San Martin, stopping often along the way to photograph the mountains, lakes and swathes of yellow and orange wild flowers that seemed to pour off of each embankment. Once again, the weather was ideal.
 

San Martin, founded in 1898 by loggers and leather merchants, many of them of German descent, sits at the eastern tip of beautiful Lago Lacár. Today, it’s best known as a tourist destination, a jumping-off point for anglers, hikers and hard-core bicyclists. It is the seat of administration for Lanín National Park.

We spent a couple of hours walking around town, checking out the European Alpine-inspired architecture, some fascinating trees and plants, and people watching. We bought sandwiches and soft drinks and sat on the terraced promenade that runs along behind the municipal sand beach.
 

It had turned quite cool again, with a steady 20-30-mile-an-hour wind channeled down the lake’s long, narrow trough, right into our faces.

The morning of our last day, we checked out, chatted briefly with Giselle, the owner and our host, and hit the road back to Bariloche. We were tempted to stop at every scenic pull-over—many of which we’d already done—if only to more indelibly etch the beauty of this place into our souls.

We did stop a few times, but mostly the ride was quiet and reflective.

   …most awesome of all, sharing this 
   great adventure with my smart,
   thoughtful, multi-talented brother.

REFLECTION
San Martin had been the final adventure, our last destination, before the long trek back home. Misty-eyed, I recalled our arrival, just 15 days before, into the busy swirl of Buenos Aires. It seemed like a month.

Buenos Aires, with its amazing parks, the tango show and all those “good airs;” San Antonio de Areco and the unforgettable gaucho fair; our magical, music-infused dinner and those crazy painted rock formations around Salta; Mendoza’s rich, deeply-rooted wine culture; and the breathtaking alpine landscapes and crystalline waters around San Martin de los Andes.

All these indelible impressions; the kind and colorful people we met; the many chances to broaden my grasp of Spanish; the sheer variety of natural and cultural gifts we received. And perhaps most awesome of all, sharing this great adventure with my smart, thoughtful, multi-talented brother.

I’ll never forget it. And if it’s true, as goes the proverb, that “we travel not to escape life, but for life not to escape us.” then I’d say we both, indeed, captured a bit of living.