Tired feet, wet feet in the lake district

Arriving in Bariloche, for the first time in ages we had to dig to the bottom of our packs for some extra layers as the high mountain air was crisp and clear - a relief after the scorching heat of Mendoza. Bariloche, king of Argentina´s lake district region is a middle-sized town, choked with tourists and alpine architecture ranging from the quaint to the ridiculous. The town planning went awry when the town started to grow as although it sits next to a stunning lake, the main highway through the region runs along the lake shore, severing the town from the delights of the waterside. However, none of this quite removes the charm of the town and the cute chocolate shops and cafés compensate for the drawbacks.

We warmed up with a lovely afternoon of kayaking on nearby Lago Gutierrez (where Mike became the only tourist in the history of Bariloche kayaking to fall out of his kayak) before drawing up a list of kit and supplies, strapping José to our day packs and heading up into the mountains for a three day unguided trek in the Cerro Catedral. I will need to delve to the bottom of my plentiful sack of effusive adjectives to describe this trek. It was truly amazing. We started in dense green forest of native bamboo studded with the skeletal remains of thousands of trees cremated in a forest fire a few years back with views back across Lago Gutierrez. Joined by Martin, a friendly and knowledgable Swiss hiker we took it easy on the first day climbing slowly out of the forest and up to our first night´s stop - Refugio Frey, perched dramatically at the edge of a lagoon on the lip of a plunging drop into the valley below and framed by an amphitheatre of jagged peaks. We pitched the tent in the shelter of a rock wall to protect us from the wind whistling down the face of the rocks and across the lake.

We spent the evening in the cosy refugio, crammed full of hardy climbers and hikers, and tucked in to steak and mash and played cards before we settled in for a chilly night in our two-season sleeping bags with woolly hats on and all of our clothes piled up on top of us for extra warmth.

The next day began with an extremely long, steep ascent up the jagged peaks that had towered above us the previous night. It was tough going, using hands and feet to haul ourselves up to the top with our heavy packs, but the view from the top was ample reward. Mike climbed off to sit on a rock and admire the view and he formed a tiny dot on the wide horizons of steep peaks and lush green valleys and lakes below. From there we had a couple of hours of scree hopping down into the next valley, a very tiring activity where every shred of concentration and thigh power was needed to keep you upright in the ever-mobile scree. We eventually made it to the valley floor where we lounged in the sun in a grassy meadow and ate lunch. Studying the contours on the map it dawned on us that we had repeat session of the morning to reach the evening´s rest camp - straight back up the next mountain and another few hours of navigation down the scree on the other side with screaming muscles and tired feet. By now there were four of us hiking together but on the scree it was every man for himself and no time for chat and we all chose our own path down, eventually reaching a babbling stream in the valley floor where Mike, fastest of the four of us, was already perched on a rock soothing tired feet in the icy water.

We arrived at Refugio Jacob, again perched next to a sparkling lagoon, wrapped up warm and snoozed on a large flat rock next to the lake in the afternoon sun. The evening was spent enjoying homemade pasta by candelight in the bustling refugio.

The next morning we awoke early and were first out of the camp for an 18km sprint back down the valley to catch an early bus back to Baricloche. It was all down hill and fairly easy-going but our muscles were exhausted from the night before and it was a hard slog to get back in time for the bus. Somehow we made it and rewarded ourselves with a tin of cat food and some dry crackers at the bottom.

From Bariloche we picked up a car and headed off on the ´Ruta de Siete Lagos´fabled as Argentina´s most scenic drive past seven beautiful lakes. I am not sure who was doing the counting as there were way more than seven lakes, but who are we to argue. As we headed off the sky darkened and the clouds drew in. Before long the rain was lashing down and the dirt road turned to a quagmyre. We were very tired and aching and very much in need of a warm bed and a hot shower, but this proved to be harder to find than we had hoped. After several u-turns looking for campsites described by the guide books, but no longer in existence, we eventually found a cute little campsite in a farmer´s field. We pitched José in the lashing rain and howling wind, soaked to the skin in seconds. The evening ended well with a boiling hot shower, some lomitos (steak sandwiches) and an Andes Negra (local dark beer) in the farmer´s front room-cum-café. We awoke in the morning to snow in the hills all around us.

Back in the car, and wearing every possible layer we owned, we drove along the route - our views limited by the thick clouds and mist. We stopped for some breakfast at a campsite further on and spent a thoroughly pleasant hour drinking mate with a lovely couple from Buenos Aires before we pushed on through the boggy roads to St Martin de Los Andes, a cutsey alpine-style town with chocolate shops and parrillas (BBQ restaurants) a-plenty. We pitched the tent on the shore of the lake and treated ourselves to a gigantic steak dinner and a lovely bottle of Malbec.

The next day the sun broke through the clouds and as the temperature slowly inched upwards we snaked back to Bariloche along a little-used road past yet more lakes, now sparkling in the sun, and through a stunning deserted valley of enormous phallic rock formations just in time to catch the afternoon bus to the Welsh valleys. The Welsh valleys? More about that later....