The Estancia at the end of the Road: Argentine Patagonia

Departing for El Calafate from Base Camp without a confirmed reservation was in keeping with the region's pioneering spirit. I might have preferred a hint more visibility (and constant currency calculations of room rates - wrong-footed once again by decimal places at car rental), but Flo's been keen to keep things spontaneous. And our luck holds good. Andrea, the caretaker at Estancia Nibepo Aike looked at us as though we were extraterrestrials on arrival at dusk, about 10pm at that latitude at this time of year. Here again the Girls I think provided us with our passports for an overnight stay. Thank you Andrea, and Veronica too granting these unexpected guests so warm and generous a welcome. 

"Will there be a flushing toilet?" asks Jas as we check in, memories of off-grid living in Uruguay still vivid in her mind. We just drive in the direction of Lago Rosa until the road runs out. What a relief to be cruising high on these dirt tracks, we're fortunate to have found a 4x4 to rent at short notice. It's easy to imagine we're in the Wild West, stopping overnight at an inn to rest, water the horses and keep moving. Andrea manages to rustle up a warming soup to counter this cold, unfamiliar after the beaches of Brazil and Uruguay, as well as a slab of soft delicious steak, like a pillow. 

For the space of 24hrs we can imagine we're living on the range, play at Big House on the Prairie. While the Girls examine newly shorn wool, Flo and I brave the changeable weather for a saunter on horseback. We're particularly impressed by the Basque attire. Our young goucho is likeable and willing enough, casts an eye back at us as the weather turns, as if to say, "you sure you're ready for this?" The pelting rain is an awakening, a first baptism in Patagonia. Lunch feels well earned, the best meat we've had yet, sausages, beef and lamb dissolving in this delicious spice oil, all earthen and volcanic in flavour. Jas and Iris go for a make-believe ride in the wagon outside with the steel rimmed wheels, public tranport from the Olden Days. 

El Calafate has absolutely nothing to do with "The Caliphate", as I had surmised. I wouldn't go so far as to say that Calafate is charmless. It's a frontier town like I imagine Anchorage, Alaska, others to be like. There must be stories to hear in its many saloons, but we've got our own to write. On passing through El Calafate for a functional overnight stop on our way to Chile, we discover quite accidentally that the folks at Cabanas Nevis know the Nibepo family well. Infinite terrain, small world.