“The amazing thing about all the people we’ve met,” Ann says, “is how passionate they are.”

From the sommelier to the gaucho, she and her little gang journeyed from the bottom of Patagonia to the top, along with their handsome guide (aka my media-naranja), who is also extremely passionate about this place, Patagonia. He took these folks where no tourists go, into the houses of his friends and into the real nooks where authentic patagonians hang out. He introduced them to toothless and barely literate campesinos, extreme-sports professionals, third-generation winemakers and the kind of brilliant artists so gifted they couldn’t fit in anywhere else.
She’s right. Them be passionate folks, Argentines.

Nada sin alegria, the saying here goes. Nothing without joy.

In a place with so many ups and downs (and downs and downs), it’s so incredibly important to smile. To put your best face forward. To open doors and break boundaries, to think for yourself and to think big.
This is a country where you can’t afford to sit back and let life happen to you. Your car’s broke so you fix it. You’re running out of cash, so you stop spending. You’ve got some extra moments, how about a swim and some mate with friends. Each instance of life has something that can be squeezed out of it.

Here, your future is definitely not laid out for you like the red carpet that spells out the obvious, given steps (school, college, marriage, house in suburbs, SUV, boring job, build your savings, spend useless hours on the couch….). Nobody follows the same steps; each person is unique and each life’s journey here is full of challenges, disappointments and a whole heck of a lot of passion. I’ve discovered that people with so little security are so much more likely to take risks. Security is overrated.
One is never bored in Patagonia. There’s always a fence to mend or a trail to hike. And thus the people here are so very far from boring.  They laugh at the top of their lungs, they argue like cats and dogs, they speak loudly, hands wailing about.

They tear up, and they feel deep.

It’s incredibly fascinating, actually, and a wonderful place to be a writer. And it’s also a truly remarkable place to be a traveler (with the right guide, of course).

Let us listen to the countryside, so to be able to speak of streets. G. Iommi

Except for the odd day when I stop by a grocery store and see stacks of pan dulce, or when my eye catches a few pieces of red ribbons inside a restaurant, or more likely a hotel, it really doesn’t feel like Christmastime here at all.

It’s hot and sunny. The days are so long that it’s almost impossible to actually appreciate Christmas lights (although there is a place at the entrance to our neighbourhod that has some lights up, which I noticed at 2am the other day coming home from dinner).

We don’t even have a tree, as we’re going to be away for the holidays. We are not listening to Christmas carols. There are no Christmas parties (every night is a party in summertime in Argentina, after all). No Christmas cookies or eggnog.

So, without the snowmen and the cozy sweaters, what is Christmas anyway? But a day in the year when Christians celebrate a milestone, right?

Since it’s mid-summer, it seems to me that there is less need for excessive festivities here. People are already out and about, socializing, toasting, smiling and feeling happy. Up north, where the days are incredibly short, people need to throw parties to keep from going insane in the darkness. Christmas lights up their spirits in the dark days of early winter.

I don’t really watch TV, but if I did, I think I’d find very few adds for Christmas shopping. There’s no Santas telling us what we must be asking for. In town, people are definitely not all in a frenzy with their shopping lists. There really isn’t a need to go overboard with the purchasing and gifting. Consumerism is certainly subdued.
Here, we’re all feeling light and breezy.

Every once in a while, I am surprised. Being on the road so much and tracing my tracks year to year, up and down and over and back, it begins to feel like I’m staring at the back of my hand. I work, I travel, I have amazing meals and awesome adventures. I try something new. I get up early. I stay up late. Distances are long. Days are too short. The swing o’ things just keeps on rolling forward.
And then, a crack appears.

More often than not, it’s joyous.

A few days ago, I hiked along a massive flow of giant lava boulders. Tiny bonsai-styled trees peaked up through the molten rock. The heat sizzled off the black earth beneath my feet. Above, ahead of me towered the mighty Lanin Volcano. Behind, more remnants of the post-volcanic peak that had spewed the black earth towards Lago Curruhue in front.

An hour later, after being welcomed into a asian-inspired oasis deep in the lush temperate rainforest, I was floating in a thermal pool.
After a spa lunch (taken in a bathrobe), a glass of Malbec rosado from NQN and a chance to be still, we hiked past the bubbling springs to a nearby waterfall. We returned in time for a few more soaks.

And then it was back to the real world.

I still wonder, did that day actually happen?

The full moon last night sure looked just like a summer moon ought to. I remember exactly the same thing last December - the lake flat like a pancake (or ‘ironed’ as we say here), the sky a greyish pink, and that lucky ol’ moon making its giant way up through the northeast sky. We drove along the lake into town to have dinner with friends, and we thrilled with memories of summer nights gone by.

A summer night to feel still.

Tonight is cena de machos, the macho dinner. That’s the night of the week when the boys get together and - you guessed it - put some meat on the grill. No chicas allowed. I don’t really know what else they get up to, but I do know they have a grand time. Here’s its just part of life. And we girls have our own moments.
So I’m home alone. That’s nice. With a good soundtrack, the sky starting to dim to black to the west and glass o’ wine, I’m enjoying a the quiet of a warm summer evening in the woods above the lake in the wilds of Patagonia.

It’s 9:30pm and the light is only beginning to slip away.

I’m celebrating some big deadlines met earlier, and contemplating the hubbub activity of the weeks ahead. This kind of down time is cherished.

It’s been hot here in Patagonia for over a week now. Sit in the shade in a sundress kind of hot. keep a hat on if you have to go outdoors, put ice cubes in your lemonade kind of hot. Feel lathargic hot.

About eight days ago, my better half was spotted swimmming in Laguna Capri, which is just beneath Mt. FitzRoy (see photo) and a stone’s throw from the South Patagonian Icefield and a handful of glaciers. Glaciers and ice, folks! He took a bunch of Canadians in with him, who’d we’d been reminding over and over for months that they must come to Patagonia prepared for wind, rain and cold. Ha! What does Christie know!?, they say. It’s damn hot down here!
You know its hot when…..

Over in Villa la Angostura, I spent the other night at a gorgous lakefront hotel that had to keep all the curtains closed all day long because there was simply too much heat pouring through the massive windows overlooking the lake. There was a little Air Conditioning mechanism in my room (which I refused to put on). The manager said they were installing AC in each room, bit by bit. Up in San Martin de los Andes, all the hotel managers were talking about AC as well.

This is all new here.
There’s a silly new hotel being built here in Bariloche that’s going to suffer from the same problem. Too many of these modern ‘design’ hotels are going overboard with the windows, which is only going to lead to more energy waste when they have to air condition. Don’t they realize? I’ve stayed in too many hotels in Patagonia with huge windows, great views… and stiffling heat. Anybody that lives here know shade is key. And as each day goes by, and new temperature records are set, those gorgeous cypress and coihue trees get more and more valuable.
Of course, nobody here in Patagonia has air conditioning. Except for the Llao Llao Hotel, which added AC to their new wing mostly due to the demands of US tourists, who also wanted bigger rooms and double jacuzzis…. all so more energy can be consumed. Now doesn’t that all seem silly?

Anyway, there are folks swimming in Nahuel Huapi Lake today. Normally, we don’t swim until late in December. I just drove by and longed to jump in with them. Maybe later.
The weather is definitely changing here. Forest fires that burned yesterday east of town, as well as a new slew of insects not previously seen in these parts, are more signs of climate change.

So if you are coming to Patagonia soon, while it’s still essential to bring your Goretex jacket (after all, anything is possible) I’d suggest you include a bikini and some flipflops as well.

As I’m roaming about Patagonia hard at work — or perhaps I should say I’m “F-roam-mering” about — I’m getting in touch with old friends and mingling with new ones. I’m chatting up people left, right and center. Dining with hotel owners, having coffee with managers, ice cream with local guides, a cold beer with old friends, mate with new friends. And people in Patagonia are chatting.
Town to town, each place has its own concerns, its own nuances, and it list of grievances.

In Ushuaia, everyone wonders if the cruises will stop coming. The whole town depends on the boats dropping hundreds (thousands) of gringos for a day or two to drop all the cash possible. And now what?
In El Calafate - or maybe ‘El K-alafate’ - everyone is whispering about the president, her husband the ex-president, and all of their friends swindeling outrageous real estate deals and showing a level of corruption not seen in these parts ever. The list of examples is long, the web is thick, the disbelief is profound. This is really bad and it’s not looking good.

Meanwhile….
In El Chalten, it’s still all about the pavement and the bank. The pavement project was abandoned for political reasons (see above, K-alafate) and the bank, well, it’s still not here. Not even an ATM. Then there’s the problem of the internet, or lack-there-of. It’s still hard to believe this tourism-dependent town ain’t got no web. All the local business owners cram into the tiny little internet cafe daily trying to keep up with business requests coming in from around the planet. Also the campgrounds are closed now here; that’s got a lot of dirtbag climbers talking.
In Villa la Angostura, people are up in arms about a proposed new ‘Biooceanic’ transport route that would have containers shipped by truck from the Puerto Montt port across the Andes, right through the middle of two national parks and a pristine mountain village, and on to the Atlantic. It’s supposed to be an alternative to the Panama Canal, and folks here are, well, upset about it. It’s got ties to corrupt politicians (see above) and has nothing to do with the kind of life people in VLA want for themselves and their children.
In San Martin de los Andes, the concern, as usual, is the airport. There’s a new control tower that ought to be able to better manage the traffic-weather debacle.

I’ll write more about each and every one of these in the months to come, when the Froammering winds down.

There is a common denominator. Amidst it all is a drastic miscontent with the government.

Cristina has got very few friends in Patagonia.

The window’s wide open and there’s not a breeze at all blowing in off the stone terrace here my little slice of paradise on the far northwest arm of Nahuel Huapi Lake.

The sun is setting, the crescent moon lighting up its tiny corner of the massive sky above. It’s completely still out. Besides the clearness, the cleanliness, the freshness, I can smell the fish.

As I sat having lunch in a spectacularly simple lakeside garden this afternoon (octopus carpaccio!!!), I saw the trout jumpin’.  December 1st, a hot summer day.

As my work day came to an end, I dropped by Mecca for fly fishers, just a few meters from where I am now to admire the masters. This, Villa la Angostura, is fly fishing heaven.
Tomorrow it’ll be time to cast my lines again.

The key in life it to push away all the extras, the distractions, the unnecessary noise and temptations, and to focus simply in on what really moves your soul.

For me, the basics that keep me smiling: a clear lake, a thick forest, some good tunes, snowy peaks, local wine, dark chocolate with almonds, raspberries and cherry tomatos. (oh yeah and my marido, con o sin barba).

Simple stuff.

The kind of places I like have a lake I can jump in, some cheap and good ethnic food, friends to share simple adventures with, hikes that lead to high peaks, good coffee, and smart people.
And so while I’m plugging away here at the desk in Bariloche, occasionally daydreaming as I gaze at the forest/lake/mountain view out my window, I’m working on and writing about a few magical days spend in July in a distant land so very similar to the one in front of my eyes.

Oh, how I love the Kootenays. Look familiar?

Okay so maybe they don’t have Malbec, but they do have well-behaved drivers, some of the world’s finest earthly goods, a rational government and damn fine organic espresso.

At first, it took a while to get used to how our cabin outside Bariloche would creek and crackle all day and all night. It’s the wind, or the rain, or the branchs of the cypress trees dusting the tin roof. Or perhaps it’s the sun shimmering on the dark top. Maybe, it was something below.

I’d hold my breath and plead to the heavens for stability.

For a long time, it was just the building accomodating itself, shifting into place. If someone else would walk about, I’d feel my bed shaking. Someone going up or down the stairs would remind of life onboard a ship. Gentle, subtle, but definitely a shift happening.

Things were shifting too much for our liking.

We both had nightmares of a landslide washing down the side of Cerro Otto and turning our beloved rancho into a pile of sticks. We held our collective breath, again. Underneath, the house’s stilts seemed to be rotting a slow death. The concrete was cracking. There was a slight angle to the guest room. Water drops on the counter rolled to the south.

That’s one of the many prices you pay for trying to resuscitate an old cabin in the woods - it has its own history that you may or may not ever find out about. And the more you discover, the more you fear there is to be discovered. It’s an unfamiliar shape.

Just in case, por las dudas, we’d ask everyone to stay still.

We’d ask the wee ones to not jump off the step. Any parties were held out in the yard. Too much hopping or a sudden flashdance movement could have sent the whole place sliding, we’d fear.
So Nino and his boys were brought in to bring the shifting to a stop.  And, a few months later, that has happened. Today the cabin is solid gold.

Now, as is storms outside, I can rest assured that all the creeking and crackling is above me, not below. Relief! I’m not going to host any aerobics classes, but at least now I know that when I’m happy and loving life, I can jump up and down in glee.