“Jakob checks his satellite phone, he’s expecting the birth of his second child in the next week. No messages. He continues on with us. The only way out from here is through.”

In late 2019 I received an unexpected invite to come riding with a handsome gaucho. Jakob von Plessen has the reputation as being the best horse riding safari guide in Africa but I knew he had recently settled down in his native Argentina and started his own safari outfit. "Would you like to come and ride with me?" he asked. "Where?" I replied, as if it mattered.

"Patagonia".

It is late January and my flight from Buenos Aires is coming in to land at Bariloche airport. The Andes stretch the length of the horizon. Rio Negro, the black river, cuts through the landscape before spilling into Nahuel Huapi lake. Later I spot several travellers in baggage claim in riding boots. My companions for the next week. The Vet, the Mayor, the Farmer, the Homemaker and the IT Consultant. Four are from New Zealand, as am I. We are bundled into two pick-up trucks, both of which curiously have saddles filling their cargo area. I wonder excitedly whether this means we’re about to ride? The mystery of the saddles was solved but only on the last day of the trip - I’ll get to that.

We drove straight into the mountains.

Stopping suddenly on the shores of a lake, I spy a speedboat floating idly near the shore. We board and leave the trucks and saddles behind, the wind blasting our faces, there are mountains on either side each topped with rock formations that look like ancient castles. As we sprint to the other side of the lake a solo figure appears on the lake shore. He’s waving us in. Magenta beret, traditional bombacha breeches and alpagatas on his feet. It’s Jakob.

Our horses are in a leafy glade close to shore. We are matched with and mount them in short order. Jacob's team of elegant ‘gauchos’, South American cowboys, attend to us with no fuss. They’re dressed in natural colours smartly accessorised with colourful cummerbunds and elegant hats. I quietly assess my horse, India, an intelligent mare, sensitive to cues. The horses are a mix of the locally bred Argentine criollos sometimes crossed with percheron to give them the hooves, haunches and strength required to thrive in these mountains. Each horse is tacked up in traditional handmade rawhide bridles and recado saddles, essentially a layering system of blankets, a strong tree frame, and a comfortable sheepskin cover.

Jakob leads our group around the lake side and through a forest, taking out his machete from time-to-time to cut through the vegetation blocking the path. We pass wild cows and flocks of geese, wade through rivers, and discover several loose horses before the log cabin ‘cucina’ of base camp comes into view.

It's here we first meet Daisy, Jacob’s lead guide and the only person with sufficient charisma to possibly distract the attention of the group away from him. She quickly fills our happy hands with the welcome drink we didn't even realise we needed until that moment. We eat our first meal at the dining room table in the wooden lodge before slinking into our beds, that had been preloaded with a hot water bottle, to rest.

Waking up early in the large african-style safari tent the next morning, fireplace roaring, in the large ensuite pink shower I wash away the Malbec hangover I inherited from the night before. The sun blasts it’s morning rays onto the eastern ridge-line. From the breakfast table the group watches the light roll down the mountain as the sun rises. Tomorrow we will ride the ridge-line with its death drops and glorious mountain views. The quiet is broken with the low rumble of hooves and whistles. Daisy leaps up “Quickly! Come with me!”. We follow her to the corral in time to see the thirty strong herd thunder in, in a cloud of dust, skilfully mustered by the gauchos.

The riding on the first full day is an exploration of the base camp valley. The day is cut neatly with a four hour siesta between rides. On day three we leave to complete the “Pass of Tears”, a rocky trail over a mountain ridge-line with some death defying drops to make the bravest mountaineer experience vertigo. Though I’ve learnt to trust India completely my heart in still beating wildly in my chest as we depart base camp. My whiskey flask is full and Daisy is carrying a gourd of Malbec for additional courage.

We weave our way up the mountain single file, taking time to rest the horses. We pass the tree-line and continue to climb the rocky trail towards the summit. Soon we reach the peak and the horizon opens up to expose the full glory of Base Camp valley, surrounded on all sides by expansive mountain ranges and volcanos. It is truly magnificent. Jakob checks his satellite phone, he’s expecting the birth of his second child in the next week. No messages, so he continues on with us. The only way out from here is through.

The path becomes narrower. The stone is pink and white and feels extraterrestrial. Condors fly above us, swooping closer and then retreating over and over again. We are quiet, meditatively concentrating on our horses as they pick their way carefully along the faint rocky path as it gets steeper and steeper with more hairpin turns. Eventually it gets so steep that we dismount in front of a rockface. We will lead our horses directly up this cliff. My heart in my throat and my hands shaking, I can’t bring myself to look to my left at sheer drop to the valley below. At the top I bury my face in India’s mane and hug her gratefully.

It’s three more hours before the land starts to flatten. Slabs of stones litter the landscape like ancient tombstones. We begin to descend into a valley where the guachos have already begun preparing our dinner over the campfire. The smell of freshly baked bread and a warm, hearty stew, dazzles our senses as we ride into the fly camp. Our horses are taken from us to be cared for, reins are replaced with a glass of malbec and we gather around the fire to revel in that feeling of being fully alive that can only be earned with days like these.

Felipe, Jakob’s neighbour, was born and raised in these mountains. His family had retained their thousands of acres from the grasping claws of both the State and capitalism. We discover that he has also retained another of his neighbour's wife as his own. Patagonian gossip.

On the fifth morning we leave basecamp and begin the two day ride to Felipe’s homestead. We summit the mountain on the southern side of Base Camp valley. Just over the ridge-line is a grassy glade where we set up fly camp for the night. I release my horse, India, free into the mountains and she and the rest of Jakob’s horses cantered out of the glade and back to Base Camp by themselves. They knew the way home. Shortly thereafter Felipe appeared wearing a bright blue suit and a guilded hat, driving a herd of horses into our camp. We would finish our safari riding his horses to his home.

The next morning Felipe rode out in front, guiding us to the homestead where he had been born and lived all his life. When we arrived his wife was busily preparing us a delicious lunch served on a long table underneath some fruit trees. Life is changing in the mountains and it was becoming harder to carve a living on the steep Andean slopes. Daisy shared with us a photo of Felipe presenting Jacob with a handmade raw-hide bridle. The proud man’s eyes were filled with tears. His gratitude to Jakob for breathing income and status into his life by bringing us, his guests, into his beautiful part of the world, was very clear.

On our last night the gauchos prepare a traditional asado. A whole lamb is butterflied and installed near an open fire. We eat all parts of the animal in the dark save for the light of two small candles. The Farmer from New Zealand identifies the "mountain oysters" as he bites into the lamb’s testicles.

We wake on the final day unwilling to be dropped abruptly back into civilisation. We tack up one final time and begin our short ride to the stoney shore of Lake Traful. We slide our saddles and bridles from our horses and turn them loose. They make their way back up the mountain to rejoin their herd.

As it started so it ends with a speedboat taking ourselves, and our saddles, back to the same trucks that met us at Bariloche airport. The mystery of the saddles in the truck is solved as the next group arrives on the very plane on which we are set to depart.

The safari cycle repeats with the new group and I long to stay, stuck in samsara in the Andes.

Lots of Love

EMMA

xx

Where: The Patagonia Trail, Argentin a

Price: $5,775

What: 7 Night Adventure Riding Safari through the Andes

Getting There: Flight from Buenos Aires to Bariloche / San Martin de los Andes

Riding Level: Intermediate to Advanced

Horses: Argentine Criollo

FIELD NOTES FROM THE PATAGONIAN TRAIL

“Jakob checks his satellite phone, he’s expecting the birth of his second child in the next week. No messages. He continues on with us. The only way out from here is through.”

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