Actual Lessons Learned: Mountain Riding in the Rain 

• Waterproof or water-resistant poncho or long rain jacket, a must.  

• Something - poncho, jacket, chaps, rain pants, anything - that covers the tops of your boots or half chaps. Otherwise you'll end up with so much water sloshing around your toes that a goldfish could comfortably make a home in there. 

• No cotton clothing. Only wool or synthetic. Cotton pulls heat from your skin the second your waterproof layer fails. You will get cold, no matter how stylish you once looked. 

• Dry bag (the kind kayakers use) for your cloth saddlebag. Electronics and spare clothing deserve better than a soggy end. 

“Jaketa, Jaketa, Jaketa!!!” 

Meet the jaketa (or yaqueta), a large, aggressive horsefly native to Patagonia, with a nasty stinging bite.  

For context: our mountain horses were bombproof. Utterly unflappable. The jaketa is apparently the only thing that makes them lose their minds, as the insects will swarm and attack the horses relentlessly, and the horses clearly know this. Our young newlywed, the first to disturb a jaketa nest, sat her spinning horse like a rodeo star while the rest of us realized we'd learned something very new about Patagonia. 

"Trot, trot, trot, jaketa, jaketa!!" became our rallying cry for the entire week, the primary strategy for leaving the jaketas behind and avoiding equine fireworks. A fine way to liven up a long trail ride, whether the jaketas were real or simply imagined by gauchos bored with walking. Who knew? And did it really matter? 

Chaos and Coke (the sweet kind) 

That afternoon, as the rain scrambled our original itinerary, we instead enjoyed a mad dash in the open lands around the estancia, through trees, brush, dodging fences, cantering downhill at increasing speeds, our lead gaucho Manu wielding his facón(traditional knife) to bushwhack with abandon. I later discovered a huge divot in the toe of my boot. No idea where it came from.  

My horse that day was Fernet, named I was told, after an Italian herbal liqueur that is very popular in Argentina. My inability to remember my horse's name prompted a late-night group tasting of Fernet and Coke, a common pairing in Argentina, as everyone was intent on helping me improve my memory. This was after we enjoyed the most incredible fire-roasted chicken and veg, abundant red wine (of course), accordion and guitars appearing from somewhere (it was Argentina after all), and the horses grazing peacefully around the estancia, jaketas notwithstanding. 

Day Two: Nine Hours of Bushwhacking and Lost Shoes 

Day two, we moved on to our next estancia. Nine-plus hours of bushwhacking through a massive variety of terrain: deep mud and lush grass, lovely forests, thick brush, wide open spaces, gorgeous rivers you can drink from. 

Between the sucking mud and rocky scrambles, my horse, now Torrito (means “Torrito,” sadly no deeper meaning or relation to a fine Italian liqueur), lost a shoe (as did the horse of one of our guides, the lovely Carmen, of Barcelona). It didn’t matter. Manu eventually disappeared and magically reappeared 30 minutes later with farrier tools and new shoes. Problem solved. 

After following the beautiful Hielo river for several more kilometers, we arrived at a brand-new off grid lodge at the end of the main “road” (I use that term very loosely) on the river, apparently a premier fly-fishing destination. We were simply content to soak in the view, the quiet, the sunset and the stars. The food was incredible. Sleep was instant. 

Secret River Spot and Prickers in Your Socks 

Day three: a morning ride after a late but fabulous breakfast (with coffee and hot milk!) to a secret river spot with beautiful waterfalls and a crystal-clear lagoon. Some attempted swimming with the horses. Some stayed on. Some did not but maintained their dignity in a slow slide into the water. Our gauchos prepared riverside charcuterie and homemade salads and as always, local red wine. A long nap followed. 

Also newly discovered that day, in this part of Patagonia, every plant has prickers. They are everywhere. They attach to everything. Saddle sheepskin, socks, dignity, whatever. Some were gentle, others not so much. Several different kinds made it home with me, prompting questions from my husband as he sorted the laundry. I pled ignorance.

Back at the lodge: Aperol spritzes on the deck, sublime sunset over the river, another fine dinner, excellent sleep. 

Fly Camp on the Hielo River 

Day four: After yet another delicious breakfast, we rode on to the fly camp on the Hielo River, deep in a Protected Area of Patagonia and well off the tourist track. Few people other than our local guide Ivan and his father, “El Gringo” Austin, who live and work cattle in the area, have ventured this far. 

The fly camp was unexpectedly luxurious: generous tents, camp cots with sleeping bags, hot showers, and a small cabin for cooking and sheltering from the rain at meals. There was a generous fire pit for the most amazing Patagonian cooking - fried empanadas, asado, ribs. The food prepared over the fire was integral to the entire trip, an event every night, always abundant and always delicious.  

They say Argentina is a carnivorous country, and of course it is, but we also enjoyed an abundance of fresh fruit, roasted vegetables, salads and vegetarian soups. David, our energetic chef, also shared the most amazing homemade calafate jam and calafate vinegar (for salads). Calafate is a small purple berry native to Patagonia, particularly abundant in southern Patagonia, including El Calafate, deep in southern Patagonia, where David lives, and which town is of course named for the calafate berry. I managed to find, pick and eat one during our ride (I swear!), and thus am destined to return to Patagonia, according to local legend: “El que come calafate, siempre vuelve" - "Whoever eats calafate will always return to Patagonia.”  

Hard duty, but someone must carry the burden of coming back to this vast, beautiful, wildly restful place.  

The Longest Ride: Twelve Hours to Hielo Glacier 

Day five: We took advantage of good weather and set off on the most ambitious ride of the trip: twelve hours round trip to the Hielo Glacier, rarely visited except by Ivan, our gauchos and their guests. It really did not feel like twelve hours. You don’t see another soul other than your group, the quiet is stunning. At the glacier, taking in the immense and gorgeous views, I filled my bottle with the most refreshing water I've ever tasted at the base of the glacier. Seriously. 

What we really learned that day: These horses are unbelievable climbers. Powering up ridiculously steep slopes, over and over and over again. Sliding back down, sideways and across impossible pitches. Crossing and recrossing the river, multiple times. Cantering back into camp at the end of the day as if no climb had ever happened. They are unreal athletes. Just beware the jaketa! 

Final Day: Rain, Cards, Wine, and Regret (?) 

Our final day brought another attempted climb for valley views, and what we could see was lovely (although too cloudy/wet for condor viewing), but the rain chased us from our lunch spot back to camp for a quiet afternoon. 

Until the playing cards came out. Then the wine. Then appetizers. Then dinner. Then the guitars, portable speaker, music and dancing. Then the whiskey. Then 2 am (I didn’t quite make it that far). The nine am ride back to the airport the next morning was perhaps quieter than usual. But there were no regrets. Particularly as we were reunited with Federico and Destroyer and enjoyed a surprisingly tasty and abundant lunch of Argentine specialties at a local cafeteria in Esquel. 

At the airport, as the mass of people crammed into the tiny gate area were jostling to board, I, ever the rule-follower, asked a nice couple which priority line they were in (in my impeccable Spanish, my question came out as “uno, due?”), and the woman responded, in English, “It doesn’t matter, this is Argentina.” And she laughed. Of course it didn’t matter. We’d all get where we were going, eventually. And so we did.