Ever since childhood I have understood, without a shadow of a doubt, that great moments are built, at the outset, from pure desire and the enthusiastic willingness to set out on the road. We head toward them consciously. Although certainly there are many who consider chance to be a weapon that fires off at the most unexpected moments.
My journey into the heart of the Andes mountain range was woven together bit by bit, day by day, with every drop of excitement at reaching the summit of dreams made real. Even when I booked the trip with Argentina Extrema, one of the country's leading active tourism companies, I kept feeding the idea of building myself a bubble of constant preparation, a gradual process that included a whole logistics of planning the adventure that wasn't going to let me rest easy all year long.
Now I look out the window and take in the vast plain south of Malargüe, on the legendary National Route 40, on the way to the small town of Las Loicas, the longed-for starting point of our horseback ride. The plain is abruptly cut off by the imposing bluffs of Manqui Malal, where thousands of marine fossils from the Jurassic era lie. I remember having read about this place, and I get excited just imagining it — now I'm passing right beside it, my dreams are about to climb into the saddle.
The road climbs alongside the bluffs and settles into a new stretch that rises and falls; after a few kilometers we reach Bardas Blancas, where we leave the forty-something route behind and turn onto another that follows the course of the Río Grande, one of the rivers that gives rise to the Río Colorado, that famous stream that winds its way across the Pampas plain from end to end until it finally gives way to the salty waves of the Mar Argentino and the Atlantic Ocean (I've always loved Argentina's magical geography and thinking it through). At Las Loicas, the small settlement where our horseback ride begins, this road splits in two, crossing the Andes via the Pehuenche pass (the most commonly used) and the Vergara pass.
I imagine the faces around me hold very different personalities. I watch them now and then as I return shy smiles at some new icebreaker comment from the more outgoing ones. I think about the excessive amount of work the guides must have with each new, mixed group, as they surely all are. Chatty, cheerful people, others quiet and reserved, the joking and playful ones, the bored and the pessimistic, the helpful ones, the arrogant ones, the eccentric ones, the easygoing ones, the demanding ones, the dramatic ones (men and women alike), the “keep to themselves” types, the unforgettable ones, the recently single ones, the “forever alone” ones, all of them…phew; and what am I, exactly? I wonder what strange thing could have inspired and pushed them to take on an experience like this; maybe the very same thing that moved me to come? 
A universe of chasms at the very heart of the Andes mountain range, six nights in a tent or out in the open, six days without a shower, cold, wind, maybe even a storm?, physical aches from so much riding, exhaustion. But quickly I return once again to the memory of the stories of a guide friend of mine (who'd rather not be named) whose skin-raising tales, every time he goes into detail about one of his expeditions, crossings and/or extreme forays into untamed nature, capture my wildest and most spine-tingling mental wanderings. A wonderful, dreamlike journey.
At Las Loicas we meet our special and indispensable companions from here on out, the horses. And of course, also the baqueanos, the other essential members of these expeditions, Eugenio and Hector, the first names of the group I manage to remember, along with our guides Nicolás and Débora. The afternoon turns out warm, windless, with a sky so clear I can't recall ever seeing one quite like it; a magical omen of an ideal setting, one that crystallizes dreams. I can feel my heartbeat as the star of an emotion that won't let up. And I'm reminded of one of my favorite lines (which I claim as my own –): “in the agony of sweet anticipation, anxiety always surges out of proportion”.
An hour later, the vast valley of the Río Chico sees us and feels us, we're already riding along it. A world saturated with mysterious sensations comes to a standstill in my mind. The silence is intense, unsettling, only broken now and then by the piled-up sentences of Verónica, who talks rapidly with her companion Candelaria, two more new names I add to my list. Oh! And Dorita, of course!! Who has powerfully caught everyone's attention from the start with her laughter, her comments and her contagious good humor. Two hours of riding (as Débora put it) to warm up. It's already 8:30 pm when we arrive at Puesto del Mallín, our first campsite. The mountains embrace us with astonishing landscapes, I pinch myself to check I'm not lost inside one of my own fantastical dreams.
Irregular breakfasts will be the trademark of every morning. At half past six the baqueanos light the fire (where on earth do they find firewood in such barren country? A true mystery), by seven the first early risers show up for the opening round of mate. Those who like it sweet hover around Hector and Eugenio, and those loyal to the bitter kind stay clustered on the edges of the circle. By 8 the ones who woke up to some noise appear. And it's not until after 9 that the super stragglers finally show up. I must confess I was part of that last, select squad. Liliana and Rodolfo, one of the lovely, wonderful couples, offer me a very good mate; it seems the game of remembering everyone's names from the night before has paid off for me and I can now finally connect faces with proper names. Diego has told me about his marvelous journey on the Camino de Santiago, one of the world's great long-distance routes that I'll take on myself someday, God willing. With Gustavo and Fernando (two friends of each other) I couldn't hold back and had to join in the football chat about the murky player transfers, especially concerning the recent, dismal run of my beloved River, although it seems now like we're finding our way back (I hope my fanaticism cools down a bit; there are already enough ailments to suffer from).
Before setting off, Débora instructs us on the many breeds or coat colors of the horses. Sainos (brown with black manes), rosillos (light-colored), alazanes (all brown), tordillo (white), doradillo, picazzo (jet black), tobianos and others. Each of these animals plays a decisive role for each one of us, not only because they visibly serve as our only means of transport, but because, over the course of the days, they build a truly moving emotional bond with us. It seems like they never rest. During the day they give everything they have to climb and descend each slope flooded with volcanic sand, carrying the extra weight that each of our bodies represents. At night you hear them grazing endlessly, as if they could never sleep. The mules are a chapter of their own. They carry all the equipment: tents, sleeping bags, pots, cauldrons, a week's worth of food, a grill, a gazebo, tables with chairs, and even a rigid stretcher carried just in case. Our personal gear, mostly clothing, goes in the saddlebags each of us carries on our horse.
On the morning of the second day, after two hours across a plain with wide wetlands and grasslands, we reach the Cajón Grande hot springs. As the name suggests, here there are pools with hot water to enjoy and relax in for a good while. Here, too, the Cerro Campanario appears, radiant, slender and majestic, an imposing mass of over 4000 meters above sea level made of volcanic rock in very poor condition. Locals say its summit has never been reached, due to the danger posed by its steep walls. We have lunch, a delicious meatloaf prepared beforehand by Débora. The meals have also been a pleasant surprise for me. You always imagine that you can't eat well in the mountains, but on these expeditions organized with such dedication, passion and professionalism, the food often turns out to be even better than at home. Asado the first night, meatloaf for the second lunch, milanesas with salad the second night, cold cuts, ravioli, lentil and chorizo stew, tuna rice, and roast goat as the crowning touch on the farewell night in the mountains.
In the afternoon, the next destination is Cajón del Rezago, a beautiful valley about two hours from Cajón Grande; we were getting closer and closer to the border with Chile. I chat for a while with the three friendly couples, Sandra and Javier, Liliana and Florial, and the aforementioned Dora and Alejandro. Most of them were born and raised in Gualeguaychú. They make me laugh a lot with their memorable stories of big trips around the world and teenage pranks in that legendary town in Entre Ríos. This entertaining chat makes me realize I've ended up being the youngest of the group. At 23 years old I've decided to fulfill yet another dream, almost without caring about anything else. I couldn't convince my boyfriend to come, and at the same time I think he's been surprised (and disappointed?) that I didn't stay behind with him to share a vacation on the beaches of Cariló. I think he'll understand someday. My mother and father still jump out of bed every time I tell them I feel that the mountain is my kingdom, the same title as the autobiographical book by the legendary and prolific French mountain guide Gaston Rébuffat, though without taking it quite so far to the extreme. Crossing the Andes on horseback! Who would have thought. Next year I'll try to do it on foot, and this year I'll work more on my rock climbing training; it wouldn't hurt either to sharpen my skills and take some new, intensive course.
Captivating! How I love that word. It's the perfect one to describe the visual spectacle of the steep descent toward Laguna Baya, an extraordinary oasis that gleams as the third day of the expedition draws to a close. Some faces look almost panicked. The descent is striking but poses no real danger. Camp is set up on the shore, and a stunning sunset turns the moment into an inspiring night full of stars. And that, in fact, brings to mind another wonderful and ever-present companion when it comes to describing this experience: the night. Needless to say, in the mountains the stars seem close enough to touch. But if you add to that the chance to sleep outdoors, with a sleeping bag, blankets and horse sheepskins, the combination turns out to be highly recommendable and immensely delightful.
I wake up. It's today. The day beckons. Everything happens very fast. We climb a long, steep slope. Inwardly, I say goodbye to the beautiful mirror-like lake. A condor flies by, leaving behind a frozen trail. We cross a long, gleaming patch of snow. I take out my camera and capture the moment. I imagine the glacial cirque that once existed here. The horse quickens its pace. The slope finally levels off. The border marker. I see it. We've arrived.
Ricardo and Celestino (I still can't tell if that's his first name or his last name…) work at the Alvear hotel in the great world of cooking and culinary arts; they tell us about the delicacies served there and the work that goes into it. Fabiana and Esteban each have children from previous relationships and got together some time ago. I watch them enjoy every moment, as close as if it were the end of the world. A huge smile breaks out on my face, and I think about how nourishing it's been to meet all these wonderful people who make up such a diverse group; each one of them has taught me something new, each one has brought me closer to the idea that life is vast and beautiful (I hope I'm not getting too sappy).
We cross into Chile and quickly descend to Laguna Carilauna. It's hard to believe, but there the stones float. Because of the water? No, because of the pumice stone... We spend an hour and a half throwing stones into the water just to watch them float. At over 2800 meters above sea level, some of us even dared to swim in the freezing water. From here we had two and a half hours of riding to the new campsite by the Panculegue waterfall, another masterpiece of nature.
On the last day of adventure in the mountains, back in Argentina once again, we ride through the heart of the imposing Cajón del Guanaco. Our constant companion, Cerro Campanario, keeps watch over us the whole way. The last dinner, with roast goat as the main course, is an extraordinary complement to an unforgettable night, filled with conversations reliving everything we'd experienced, mantecol, and quemadilla, a typical drink of the baqueanos made with gin and sugar burned over the coals — was that right, or was it some other mix? Hmm. That night I once again camped out and slept under the stars.
We had another delicious breakfast. I saddle my horse like I've never done before, I stroke him, I whisper in his ear. He knows I'm saying goodbye. I look around, at the mountains, at the river, at the people. The breeze touches my face and pulls a smile out of me. I think again of all the people I love a lot, the ones I love a little less, and the ones I love just a little bit. And I come to the conclusion that maybe, if everyone could live experiences like these, if everyone could feel everything I'm able to feel right now, if only many of them could give themselves the chance to be in direct contact, even for one more moment, with nature so alive and so unrepeatable, then maybe, the world would be a little better every day.
