By Brienne Walsh
Source: The New York Times
The boat slid across the teal waters of Lago Argentino, and soon we were 900 feet from the Perito Moreno Glacier. Through the morning rain, the glacier loomed above us — a jagged wonder glowing with colors: aquamarine, pure white, pale gray and an otherworldly, nearly fluorescent blue. Every few seconds there was a thunderous crack, and a chunk of ice, distant and unseen, went crashing into the ice field.
This was the end of a journey that had begun four days earlier in northwest Argentina. My friend Michael and I had arrived in the ski resort town of Bariloche laden with dreams of driving down Route 40 — the near-mythical highway that had been an escape route for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid more than 100 years ago — to the Perito Moreno Glacier, 50 miles west of the town of El Calafate.
I had just spent nearly two months in Buenos Aires and was tired of urban life, of nonstop human interaction. I wanted solitude and a dose of adventure before returning to my home in New York. Then it occurred to me: I would call Michael and we would go to Patagonia, the windswept frontier bequeathed with the earth’s few remaining glaciers. Adventure and solitude would surely be found there, I figured.
The agents at Hertz, where we rented our car, assured us the route hadn’t changed much since the days it was traversed by outlaws. Especially in winter, they said, it is covered with black ice and riddled with potholes. Hertz would rent us a car only if we promised not to take Route 40 the entire way.
So we mapped a new route, a 1,180-mile cruise along the paved highways that slashed across the lonely landscape of Argentinian Patagonia. It would take us east, to the coastline, and then south along the water, and then back west, to El Calafate, near the border of Chile.
We enlisted the help of our hotel porter the night before our departure. “The first afternoon, you’ll drive south to Esquel,” he told us, making notes on a piece of paper. Soon the page filled up with the names of sights: national parks, caves full of prehistoric paintings, estancias. He circled Sarmiento, the town where Bruce Chatwin, the travel writer, encountered amateur archaeologists collecting dinosaur bones from the banks of the Lake Colhué Huapi. He made a star next to Puerto San Julián, the harbor where Charles Darwin had gathered scientific data in 1834 as a member of Robert FitzRoy’s Beagle survey. If we made good time, the porter said, by the evening of the third day we would be in Río Gallegos, a hair’s breadth away from Tierra del Fuego. From there, we would make our way northwest to El Calafate.
Early the next afternoon Bariloche, with its tidal wave of tourists, slid behind us, and the Andes, black and speckled with snow, filled the horizon.
Patagonia is famous for being a magnet for wanderers. In 1977, Chatwin described the region as having “an effect on the imagination something like the Moon.” Occupying roughly 490,000 square miles, it extends from the Colorado River in the north to Tierra del Fuego in the south. On the western side, it is bordered by Chile; in the east, it meets the Argentine Sea, which feeds into the Atlantic.
But Patagonia today is a different land from the one that Chatwin explored 30 years ago. Stretches of emptiness still exist, but it’s impossible to drive more than a few hours without coming upon a town ripe with three-star hotels, satellite TV and restaurants that accept credit cards.
If anything about Patagonia is still otherworldly, it’s the colors embedded in the landscape — teal, mauve, mahogany, jonquil, periwinkle, azure, lavender.
We arrived in Esquel, 120 miles south of our starting point, as the sun was setting over the mountains. The town is the home of La Trochita, a steam train line relegated to the tourist trail with hourlong journeys through the Andean foothills. But we were in Esquel only to sleep, and left early the next morning.
As we drove, the thermometer on the dashboard dropped to the freezing point. Ahead lay the low, tiered steppes that cover most of southern Patagonia. By noon, we were at Gobernador Costa, a town that looked like a John Wayne movie set, sleepy and seething with boredom. It was here that Route 40 intersected with Route 20, which we took east toward the coast.
Occasionally, we’d be startled by something unexpected — the viridian and turquoise of Lake Musters, framed by ocher reeds; the stratified rock formations of Bosque Petrificado Sarmiento, which presided over an abandoned realm of petrified wood chips deposited by a river that had carved out the valley 65 million years ago.
By DANIELLE PERGAMENT
Source: The New York Times
- Bahia Bustamante combines Atlantic coastline, pastures, fields, desert and canyons. One way to see it all, and the stunning variety of wildlife there, is on horseback.
THE first thing you notice is the scale of everything. The unending distance between towns, the unfathomable stretch of land between you and the horizon, the vast expanses of sky.
The next thing you notice is the landscape — or, more accurately, landscapes. In one spot, you’re surrounded by low, scrubby desert pocked with thorny bushes. And you think: this could be the Australian Outback, or maybe the American Southwest. But then you approach the ocean, the navy blue Atlantic with its frigid whitecaps and craggy coastline, and your mind calls up images of Nova Scotia or Ireland. Then from some point to the south: a flock of hot pink flamingos flies by, so close you could almost pet them. You picture South Florida, perhaps, or the Bahamas. But, in fact, you’re thousands of miles from any of those places.
This is Bahia Bustamante, a private sheep farm in Argentine Patagonia, sprawling over about 210,000 acres, owned by a soft-spoken man named Matias Soriano. Set right on the waters of the eastern coast, about 1,000 miles south of Buenos Aires, the farm is roughly the size of the Hawaiian island of Kauai. Mr. Soriano, 41, welcomes up to 18 guests at a time, from August through May. Bahia attracts a certain kind of visitor — the kind who’s more traveler than tourist, who prefers roughing it to room service, who is happy to spend days kayaking, hiking, horseback riding or investigating Mr. Soriano’s private 65-million-year-old petrified forest — and then collapse with a scratchy lamb’s-wool blanket when the electricity shuts off at 11 p.m. But above all, it’s a place for people who will travel across continents to see a breathtaking combination of hundreds of disparate species, all converging on a single point on the map. Ultimately, that’s what drew me this far from home: I’d seen “Planet Earth,” I’d gone to the Bronx Zoo, I’d even come nose to nose with a hippo in the Okavango Delta in Botswana. But I’d never had breakfast with a penguin.
“Welcome to nowhere,” said Astrid Perkins, our 40-year-old rosy-cheeked guide (and Mr. Soriano’s girlfriend), as we pulled into what the staff members and farmhands who live here call “town” — whitewashed houses and a smattering of bright red picnic tables lining a rough dirt road along the beach. Half of these houses were built 60 years ago for the farmhands and their families; the other half (the ones a few steps from the beach) were added recently for guests, like my friend Lisa and me, who were visiting the edge of the world for a few days.
“Here’s the welcoming committee,” Ms. Perkins said, pointing over the hood of the Jeep. A few feet ahead, a dozen ostriches were walking toward us, curious but keeping a safe distance. They looked like a cast of ballerinas, their long necks craning above the car. Their prehistoric faces cocked slightly, examining us for a moment before they turned and glided away, the haughtiest of high school girls.
We drove on to our lodgings — a very comfortable, simply decorated house that would be our lodgings for the next week. (Rooms are $215 a night, including three home-cooked meals a day and all the malbec you can throw back.) All the guest rooms have a similar setup: two bedrooms, a neatly appointed living room, a modest kitchen and a porch a few feet from the South Atlantic.
Lisa and I dropped our bags and set out to explore. As soon as we started walking toward the water, we glimpsed a family of hares dash away, as two great egrets came in for a landing on the beach.
With such natural diversity, comparisons are inevitable to that other South America destination famous for its isolated and unique ecosystem — but for Mr. Soriano, the Galápagos, the Ecuadorean islands, aren’t a model, they’re a cautionary tale. The Galápagos receive more than 100,000 visitors a year, while Bahia Bustamante receives only about 400 annually. “The Galápagos are being destroyed by the traffic, and I won’t let that happen here,” he said. “We can accommodate 18 people at a time. That’s it.”
Mr. Soriano can keep things at that scale because it’s his land. Two years ago, the government turned the coastline and outlying islands into a national park, but the land is Mr. Soriano’s; he controls access to the ocean. And he’s quite happy to keep it that way.
“It’s been a family farm for over 50 years,” he said, scratching his woolly brown beard.
We were in the communal dining room, a cavernous hall lined with pictures of Bahia Bustamante in the 1950s. It looked exactly the same back then, only with horse-drawn carriages in place of Jeeps, and workmen in suspenders instead of baseball caps. We were sitting down to a lunch of spaghetti in tomato sauce and warm, garlicky bread.
For Mr. Soriano, protecting the eye-opening diversity of life here is an integral part of his business. “The government couldn’t protect the animals and the environment better than we are right now,” he said, “because we are controlling how many people come here.”
In few places in the world does such a variety of species exist in such proximity. First there are the domesticated animals — the sheep, dogs, cats and horses that roam freely over Mr. Soriano’s land. But traverse some of the hundreds of miles of roads that crisscross the pastures, fields, desert, dunes, beach and canyons that make up the property, and you might also see ostriches, foxes, armadillos and the majestic llama-like guanacos, wild cousins of the African camel.
You can watch Southern right whales breaching a few hundred feet off the beach and then see dolphins in the same spot the next morning. Sea lions surround themselves with their harems on the rocky shore, and sea elephants, with their trunklike faces, roll their blubbery bodies on the same sun-splashed rocks. Depending on the time of year, you might encounter more marine life: orcas, octopus, starfish, etc. (The “etc.” really is necessary.)
And then there are the birds. Bahia Bustamante is one of the Holy Grail destinations for ornithologists. There are hundreds of species: egrets, gulls, vultures, falcons, red knots, hawks, albatrosses, eagles, skuas, red plovers and several species that don’t exist anywhere else in the world. 
There are dozens of breeding grounds, including colonies of royal cormorants and rock cormorants. There are the giant petrels, which have six-foot wingspans and can fly 200 miles out to sea. And then there’s the steamer duck, which despite all physical evidence to the contrary, can’t take off and fly. I watched as they flapped their wings, got some momentum going — and for a second I thought, “maybe this time,” until they settled back down and quietly paddled away.
Although Bahia Bustamante isn’t an island, like the Galápagos or Madagascar, its isolated location means it essentially functions as one. “These animals have been left alone for generations without human intervention,” said Catherine Plume, a scientist with the World Wildlife Fund who has spent four years studying the species of southern South America. “And actually, they’re more closely related to animals from New Zealand and Australia than they are to other species in South America. When the continents broke off, these species were left here, blocked off by the ocean and the Andes.”
Bahia Bustamante has also been blessed with the sort of dramatic topography — points, capes, bays, all the pieces that make the coastline so jagged — that creates a safe place for animals to breed, according to Pablo Garcia Borboroglu, a biologist and researcher for the National Research Council of Argentina. Add to that the abundance of algae, seaweed and nutrient-rich water, he said, and you wind up with the perfect place for animals to live — or pass through, if you happen to be a right whale or a white-tufted grebe.
On our second evening, Lisa and I met up with our fellow guests — a conference of Patagonian sheep farmers, here to discuss sustainable and environmental methods of farming — in the dining room.
“It hasn’t changed much in half a century, and I plan to keep it that way,” said Mr. Soriano, pouring glasses of malbec from behind the bar. The room had turned dim and cozy, its huge windows overlooking the roiling Atlantic.
Mr. Soriano’s grandfather, Lorenzo Soriano, arrived on these shores in 1952 in search of seaweed. The young entrepreneur, who manufactured hair gel, needed it to make his products. Broke and desperate, the elder Mr. Soriano left his family behind in Buenos Aires to explore a place then known as Rotten Bay.
“When he got here, it was everything he dreamed,” the younger Mr. Soriano said with a laugh. “The shoreline was covered for miles with seaweed. Everyone thought he was crazy, but he saw the potential.” The rich find eventually led to what Mr. Soriano said was the world’s first seaweed farm, with 500 workers, houses for them and their families, a school for their children, and a thriving business. By 1968, the elder Mr. Soriano was doing so well he bought the two adjoining sheep farms, amassing a plot of over 200,000 acres.
Today, seaweed harvesting and sheep farming — not tourism — remain the primary sources of income for Bahia Bustamante. As far as Mr. Soriano is concerned, people who respect nature will always be welcome here — but the place is a farm first and foremost.
During our history lesson, dinner was served. Most of the food in Bahia Bustamante comes from within a mile of where we sat, including from the farm’s organic orchard and vegetable garden, which Ms. Perkins is expanding. All the flavors of our meals had the earthy taste of the land: warm lentil soup with hearty roasted vegetables; a green salad of bitter greens with sweet olive oil dressing; and platter upon platter of tender and salty fire-roasted lamb from animals that had been grazing outside only hours ago. We washed it all down with a few bottles of Patagonia beer. The place does have its high-end flourishes: the chef, who studied at the acclaimed Spanish restaurant El Bulli, also whipped up rich, creamy desserts each night to remind us of her provenance.
Since Bahia Bustamante doesn’t do any marketing of any kind — there’s a Web site, but the spot is not likely to be on a travel agency’s list, and you won’t be seeing a poster for it on a bus stop anytime soon — I was curious about how tourists ever found it. (I’d learned about it from Ms. Perkins, whom I’d met on a trip to Buenos Aires a few years ago.)
By Peter Kaminsky
Source: The New York Times
Fishing for large brown trout in Tierra del Fuego. The fish become huge after spending time feeding in the ocean before returning to the area’s rivers.
WE paused at the mouth of the Irigoyen River where it empties into the steel blue waters of the southernmost Atlantic, or Mar Austral, about 700 miles (as the albatross flies) from Antarctica. Across the river, two gauchos on horseback and a pack of dogs attempted to cut out a pair of bulls from a herd of wild cattle. Men, dogs, horses and cattle crashed down the bank, crossing the river about a hundred yards from us.
They thundered across the pasture and charged up a dune at the ocean’s edge. The gauchos worked their lariats in wide loops that caught the late afternoon sun as they tried to lasso the fierce bulls. And then, like the roar of a passing freight train that trails off in the distance, the melee disappeared and we returned to fishing.
Within minutes, my brother Don — a Manhattan physician whose professional life is as stressful and overscheduled as that job description indicates — wore a beatific smile as he fought a vigorous sea trout. After three pleasing runs, the trout came to hand, bright silver in color, indicating a recent arrival from the sea. He weighed about four pounds, which is small by Tierra del Fuego standards where, if you come at the right time (late November to late March), you may rely on hooking sea-run browns over 10 pounds, and reasonably hope for a 20-pounder or better.
Fishing the Irigoyen is a different ballgame from the much larger, and more famous, Rio Grande, where I caught some very big sea trout on earlier trips to Tierra. The Irigoyen has high banks and large stands of native lenga trees (they look like wind-bent scrub oaks), which serve as a windbreak; you are, for the most part, spared the polar gales that scour the steppes through which the Rio Grande flows. The Irigoyen is also a smaller river, which means that there is no need for ungainly double-handed spey rods and 100-foot casts.
On the other hand, since it has few deep holes, the fish always seek secure shelter somewhere near tackle-busting deadfalls. In such conditions, the big fish are maddeningly wary. I didn’t do the math precisely, but my aching back confirmed that over the course of the first two days each of us went about 2,000 casts without a bump.
“Sea trout fishing is like that,” consoled Alexander Trochine, the young manager of Far End Rivers Lodge, where we were staying. “They come, they go, they feed, they stop feeding. The biggest fish can have the subtlest takes.”
Of such nostrums are the hours between hook-ups often filled: they are an essential part of the successful guide’s tool kit.
Meanwhile, we got into the groove of the Argentine day, where lunch always includes a huge helping of grilled meat and vegetables washed down with a hearty malbec. Our first midday repast was typical. It started with wild mushrooms (they sprout in profusion in season) and caramelized onions. For the main course, we dug into a crisp yet succulent leg of lamb with French fried potatoes, and a garden salad.
After such a feast, one has little choice but to follow the still-honored, and welcome, custom of a long siesta. The bunk house was spartan but comfy, heated by a woodstove, and thankfully it had none of the sporting “art” and fly-fishing tchotchkes that typify many of the international upscale sporting lodges that have sprouted in the years between the dotcom boom and the subprime bust.
But I was amused by a reproduction of an antique map on the wall, showing the Tierra del Fuego archipelago. The southernmost island — i.e., the one most exposed to the harsh elements — might well be one of the planet’s most inhospitable landscapes. Could it be coincidence or providence, I wondered, that this forlorn dot on the globe was claimed by the Dutch and that they named it Staten Island?
On the morning of Day 3, while fishing with Alejandro Martello (a genial and expert guide whose acquaintance I had made the previous year on the Rio Manso in northern Patagonia), our angling hex finally lifted. At the end of a promising drift, just before my fly, a Girdle Bug, hung dead downstream, I felt a take. I raised my rod and came tight, rather than slamming the fish. When I brought him to hand and then released him, I gauged that he went 10 pounds.