so. the adventure...

after an extended stay in rio grande the viejeros found there thumbs itching for action once again. the north beckoned. on the outside of town winds whipped off the ocean pumeling them with a wind chill that was surely below freezing. it was a sunday and no trucks were coming and, as they had gotten off to the usual late start, after only a few hours the sun began to sink low in the sky, and the sky began to spit drizzle down upon them and they soon decided to retreat back to the comfort of the hostel for one more night rather than brave the elements on the side of the highway. the following morning they began afresh, but once again the chilling wind quickly stifled their spirits and they began taking turns seeking shelter in a nearby weigh station. then just as they were about to give up, throw in the towel, submit to the man and buy some bus tickets brooks flagged down a rickety, old, tarp-ceiled cargo truck driven by an eccentric man named hugo. two joined hugo as he chained smoked and fixed mates and searched for various things under and behind his seat and tried to hit the sheep that were bold (or dumb) enough to cross the path of our wild ride. the others huddled in the back amid rocks and packs and mud that splashed up from the road, but with the couple blankets hugo loaned them and the rest of a bottle of whiskey it didnt proove to be all that unpleasant. they reached the boarder crossing back into argentina after dark and in the immigration line dear hugo found his new friends a ride with a couple of truckers who could get them all the way to el bolson by morning. but of course, as in all great adventures, there was a catch. these were not just any truckers... they were meat packing big rig truckers who only had room for vagabond travelers in the refigerated (though, thankfully, empty) meat trailor and as they had a schedule to keep would not stop till el bolson, not for food not for bathroom not for nothin. well, hell. they had sleeping bags and one night in a mobile meat refrigerator would kill them so they hurridly grabbed their packs and bid adeu to dear hugo and clammered into the icy blackness of the big rig. but then, another catch... due to unseasonably high winds the journey lasted 48 hours instead of 12 and with no money and no more food the viejeros past the time reading by head lamp light and playing some cards, and smiling for pictures the truckers took to proove to their friends and family that they really did stash a group of crazy gingos in their truck for two days, but mostly just lying on thier backs in their sleeping bags slipping between sleeping and daying dreaming the dark, until finally their heard the clunk of the hatch being unlocked and as greyish sunlight flooded their shrunken pupils they heard three beautiful words...el bolson, chicos!