4 May, 2017. Depart Calama, Chile at 1:30pm.

The drive to the border crossing, into Argentina, is rather uneventful when you have already explored the area spanning from San Pedro de Atacama to the unnamed Salares. However, in reality, the terrain is absolutely unbelievable. The salares (salt flats, with salt lagoons; blinding white) were absent of flamingoes this time of year (autumn), but full of vicuñas (similar to a small deer that inhabit the mountains above 10K feet). From San Pedro de Atacama, one climbs directly up the highway adjacent to Vulcan Licancabur (19,420’) and continues climbing until within mere feet of the border of Bolivia and driving at an elevation of 15K ft. Then you’re cruising by the salares and vicuñas until the border crossing of Paso de Jama into Argentina sneaks up on you (13,800’).

Common theme of the trip: Argentines were much nicer than Chileans (I say “were” in case co-workers and/or amigos happen upon this journal. For this trip, Argentines were awesome people, all of them). The border experience was no different. A quick process through four windows inside and verification of identity and insurance on the company rental F-150, and outside just a casual check of a couple bags and the inside of the truck, and we were on our way. We filled the gas tank up just past the border for about $1.60/liter and headed into the great unknown, our virgin trips into Argentina. Steve cracked a beer, what else is a passenger to do but enjoy the view with a cold one?

We then passed by herds of llamas and their colorful ear ornaments over the next 100 km. It appears either the llama owners take pride in their llamas and their appearance, or the llamas demand to be decorated! The terrain flattens out and little shacks pop up, made from materials available in the Atacama Desert except for the noticeable Dish satellite propped next to a solar panel on the roof. Then the vast Salinas Grandes makes its appearance, 12K hectares of snow-white salt with mining equipment removing portions of it. After a long straight stretch, the highway becomes a twisting snake down the sides of mountains, a Surveyor’s dream to plan this route! The views are incredible (for the passenger, the driver is white-knuckled and hoping to pass the next semi-truck in his way), and the drive seems to take forever down this mountain pass. It eventually straightens out after dropping 4000’ and funnels traffic into Purmamarca (elevation 7625’).

Make no mistake; Purmamarca is a tourist trap, very similar to San Pedro de Atacama. However, the haciendas are gorgeous and a fraction of the cost of San Pedro. In addition, we found the mountainous backdrop of Purmamarca to be far more beautiful than San Pedro. We arrived at 7:30pm, and after dark, so we did not have the time to discover the town in daylight hours (as we would later). Instead we were informed that the 2-room hacienda we had rented (“Colores de

Purmamarca”) was all to ourselves which included the upper floor bar/kitchen area. Fiesta time!

We indulged in Loma Grillado and Pollo a la Pimienta at a local restaurant, and most importantly Salta Negra Cerveza.

The young waiter looked at us funny when we ordered a liter bottle each of the dark beer, but Steve thought nothing of it. Gringos don’t share. The meal, with the 2 most expensive entrées on it and the two liters of beer, came out to about $40-45 American bucks. This exchange rate kicks ass! We couldn’t tip on the debit card so we had to give the kid 3 American dollars and 3 Chilean Mil Pesos, which worked out to about 15% so we felt satisfied. The kid probably wasn’t entirely pleased with his experience with the Gringos, but he didn’t show it beyond a tired expression and entire lack of curiosity.

5 May, 2017. Depart Colores de Purmamarca (5*’s, excellent), Purmamarca, Argentina at 9:00am.

After a late night of playing cards, jamming tunes, and battling Jameson to submission, we awoke around 8:30, shook off our hangover and moved on down the road. The highway changed from 52 to 9, and after passing through Yela and multiple washes, we could smell the water creeping up on us. The Atacama Desert was in the rearview mirror, and jungle was encroaching on us.

We ventured our way into Jujuy, a city of approximately 400K, and finally found a metropolitan section. We were without internet service, a detailed map, and money. Add fishing licenses to the necessity list, but in hindsight, we shouldn’t

have sweated that detail. The ATM turned out to be the hardest thing to find as we walked for blocks and blocks, finally finding one in a 3-story mall. One ATM in the entire mall, the line was over 10 people long! We waited in queue only to find our bank cards didn’t work! Oh Shit! So we decided the $80 American I had in my wallet would have to become Argentian pesos, asked around and headed toward the Cambio to change it. Just before we got there, we found a large Santander bank. Time felt like a luxury so we decided to stand in yet another long queue for an ATM that took over 30 minutes. We stepped up, inserted the bank cards, hoped and prayed, and they worked! What a feeling! To be able to access our own money! This country was ours. We moved onto step 2 of the Jujuy plan and went to a Claro cellular store, muddled our way through the obtaining of a SIM card for my cellphone, and BOOM!, we had 3 days of internet for a mere $80 Argentine Pesos or about $5 US. World travelers, indeed.

Step 3 of the plan, let’s get those fishing licenses. We looked up the fishing tackle stores on the internet, went and looked for them, and found them closed. This is a common thing in Argentina: stores take about 4 hours off in the afternoon, call it a siesta or just a dead time for them, it’s a pain in the ass for a tourist. We went to a Restobar to wait out the siesta, ordered steaks (Lomo Grillado), and drank Quilmes cervezas for about 90 minutes. By now, it was 3:30. We headed to the store again, still closed. We managed to get the attention of someone moving around inside, and he came to the door and said “Cuatro y media”, 4:30. Ok, we decided to make use of the time and headed up to Yela to see what we could find for a fishing destination. There were lagunas on the map after all. We drove up the mountain to find gorgeous vistas and some small lagunas. There was a bar-restaurant-hostel next to a laguna and we talked for a short time with the locals. They, pretty much, told us not to waste our time fishing there, although we could, there wasn’t anything worth catching and with all the cattle around, they didn’t recommend eating whatever small fish we managed to catch. They were extremely polite, friendly, with lips full of coca leaves, which we found to be standard for northern Argentina. I’m beginning to draw a correlation between the coca leaf addiction and their friendly behavior…

We headed back to Jujuy to obtain the fishing licenses and an idea of where to fish. This time we were much more confident driving in the crazy city of Jujuy, where intersections do not have stop signs or stoplights, just a conscious flow of automobiles. You come to an intersection, if the car in front of you was moving through it then you better move through it too! When you stopped at an intersection, it could be many minutes before there was a gap in traffic to bull your way through. It certainly didn’t hurt roaming the city in a F-150, although parking could have been an issue, we found spots without a problem. I did not find the traffic of Jujuy to be as shocking as the traffic of Lima, Peru, but definitely more chaotic than anything I have seen in Chile including Santiago. Chilean drivers are much more cautious.The first fishing shop we stopped in, where the young guy had told us to come back at 4:30, wasn’t very inviting. We spent time looking around with no assistance from any of the three employees. Eventually I asked for the fishing licenses, which we purchased for one day (24 hour period) at the cost of $50 Arg Pesos. The guy even told us that we didn’t really need them, but since we were heading to (the legendary) Rio Juramento eventually, he thought we should probably purchase the day pass. He was zero help with fishing inquiries, so we checked out the second shop.In the second shop, owned by an elderly couple, they were all too eager to assist us even drawing us a map on where to go within the Jujuy region. They were extremely helpful, and I noticed the sour smell emanating from the coca leaf stuck between lip and gum. A-ha! Helpful and energetic indeed. They pointed us in the direction of the “Diques”, or dammed reservoirs, to the south and we headed out of town.

We found “Municipal Camping” on the north shore of the Dique La Cienega. It was the perfect spot to stop and set up camp. Organized camping areas for $70 Arg. Pesos (US$5) per person with campsite dogs that would just hang out with you, not begging for anything, seemingly assigned to watch over you. These dogs would chase off animal intruders during the night. Maybe I’m glorifying a stray dog, but their occupation was fascinating; friendly animals that didn’t request a thing from you, probably only scavenging after they heard you doze off.

6 May, 2017. Depart Municipal Camping (3*, bathrooms a major negative), Dique La Cienega, Jujuy, Argentina at 10:00am.

In the morning after some French Press Brasilian coffee and a revolting impression from the campground bathrooms, we headed down to the larger Dique to the south, Dique las Maderas. We veered off Hwy-9 to the dirt road of Hwy-51 on the south side of the Dique and pulled into an unmarked entrance to the body of water. Two local men were fishing and we exited the vehicle and greeted them. “Buenos dias, como estás?”…and hope they do not talk too much in response. You never know what to expect when you meet strangers, especially anglers who tend to be territorial. Steve put on his waders, fixed up his fly rod and headed over to the shore away from their fishing lines. I clumsily began assembling my spin reel and rod which I thought the Dique required (I did not have waders like Steve and shore fly fishing a lake never works for me). I had a sea shore-fishing reel (large) and a river-fishing rod (small), in other words, they didn’t fit. So I shaved off a large chunk of the reel slot with a leatherman, and duct-taped the reel to fit. It was perfect. Now for the fishing line. I began tying the knot to spool line to reel. The Argentine anglers must have been fascinated by my work because they eventually came over for closer inspection of what-in-the-hell was I doing. Now remember, we had a large language barrier here, but they basically said “No, use a 4-lb line”. So I removed the 20-lb line and grabbed the other line I had, which happened to be 4-lb, and again clumsily tried to tie a knot. Confused, the anglers took my assembly away and said in Argentine Spanish, “No, you’re doing it wrong”. Both men had a massive amount of coca leaves in their lips, and unsteady hands, but they knew what they were doing. They put my entire line on the reel, added a swivel, an Argentine bobber (“bolya”), and told me to come fish with them. I started to head over to where Steve was fishing, and they said “No, aqui, aqui, sientas.” I obeyed, and stationed myself between them on the shore and cast my lure in the water.We conversed for hours! As best we could, of course. Steve was off doing his own thing and I was conversing with the locals in my Spanglish. There were lulls in our

talking but they were comfortable. We were just three men fishing, after all. I eventually switched to using their live bait, “carnada”, but still didn’t catch shit. It didn’t matter. After 40 hours in Argentina, I was finally fishing! And I was fishing with the locals, in the middle of nowhere, well off the beaten path.Sure I was worried about my kidneys. You don’t meet some strange men in a foreign land in the middle of nowhere and not worry about being kidnapped and strung up in a cabin somewhere. Especially when you don’t understand half of what they’re saying.But I buried those silly fears. I retrieved a beer from the cooler, “Escudo” – Chile’s finest/cheapest, and offered them one. They both took one and took a long drink, observed the can in depth and exclaimed “Sabor suave y bueno!” Smooth and good flavor! They liked it, I felt safe.Marco, the elder of the two, had told me he caught four Tilapia earlier that morning, and his amigo, Roberto, had caught nada. Which made him roar with laughter. After the beer, Marco felt obliged to give me the fish. He fileted them and I put them on ice in the cooler. Steve had just returned from his fishing empty-handed, and after I told him Marco had given us fish he said “Shit, that’s worth a beer”, so he gave Marco and Roberto another beer. Marco started building a fire and told us we had to stay and have “Asado” with them. He cooked chorizo, blood sausage, beef ribs, and the tilapia filets, along with veggies and bread. We feasted on the Asado, and drank a bottle of local sweet table wine Roberto had, and I broke out my Woodford Double-Oaked Reserve bourbon. They were incredibly impressed by the bourbon. After the long lunch, we exchanged phone numbers and emails, and I determined it was the best time to leave. We weren’t terribly drunk, and everyone was happy. Before I left, Marco kept mentioning “Karlito”s reel. He was after my reel. Of course I couldn’t give him that. Then he remarked on the quality of the bourbon and how he could fish all night if he had some of that! So I left them with the remainder of the Double-Oaked, which was maybe a quarter full, and they were incredibly happy. “Oh Karlito!” I heard that maybe 100 times that afternoon, but it was always affectionate, never weird. He demanded that we come stay with him in Jujuy next time we make it to the area.

After we hugged and said our goodbyes, we cruised south to find camping closer to our destination of (the legendary) Rio Juramento. We found the perfect campsite and set about finding more beer and some beef to cook for dinner. We were hooked on the Asado style! It was a helluva birthday for ol’ Steve-o…did I mention it was his birthday and the reason for this trip?We drove into a little town called La Caldera that one can only access by a single bridge over the giant dry-bed Rio Caldera. There we received help from an old lady who clapped her hands outside a house so the residents would open their corner store. Once inside, we purchased their last 3 liters of cold beer and a dusty half-pint of Tres Flores whisky. We asked them when the carniceria (butcher shop) opened and we were told “más tarde”, or “later”. We left La Caldera to find more beer and the beef. The next shop we found, in a small town named Vaqueros, had beer but we were told the carniceria did not open until 7pm. It was currently 4:30pm. We headed back to check on the La Caldera carniceria, yet it was still closed and this time some young boys on the street told us it would open “más tarde”. At least their stories were consistent if vague.

We exited La Caldera again to look for beef but could only find a convenience store where we purchased a bag of firewood. I asked the female clerk when the carnicerias in La Caldera would open and she replied “6, 6:30”. We drove around some more until it was after 6, went back to La Caldera, found the butcher shops still closed, threw our hands up and swore off La Caldera. We entered the perfect little campground we found earlier and asked the attendant where we could pay for the night. He told us it was a daytime only campground and we could not spend the night. Considering we had been bouncing around all of these little towns for three hours trying to find camping sundries, our plans were crushed. Oh well, off to Salta! Steve remotely reserved a room at the Buenos Aires Apart on his iPad. We drove past La Caldera. “One last stop, make it our fifth visit?” Steve cracked a beer, “Are you serious?”

Salta (3780’) was, for the most part, a bit of a letdown. Most of the streets surrounding the plaza become pedestrian-only flea market walkways at night. Nothing but cheap junk for sale and crowds. The city has some old architecture, and the Catholic structures that come with most of the old South American cities (Salta was founded in 1582.) However, it just did not strike us as much of a destination. In addition, the hotel room did not compare at all to our previous stays; we wished we were camping.

Of course, the disappointment did not stop us from enjoying a Pisco Sour and a Salta draft beer. We split a pizza in the restaurant “New Time” and we left half of it on the table. Salami and cheese sounded preferable for lunch the next day.

7 May, 2017. Depart Buenos Aires Apart (3*, great location, average room, parking not included), Salta, Argentina at 9:30am.

Off we went on our third morning, Sunday, for (the legendary) Rio Juramento! We were beyond excited. I plugged in a location for the river into the iPhone map. Siri responded with directions, and we blindly followed. Note to self: Never trust Siri maps again! Holy moly, did she lead us down a dirt road that had us worried to death. We climbed out of Salta and into the mountains on this road, and then dropped deep into the jungle, with zero cellular reception and nothing but a dirt two-track in front of us. We would encounter motorcycles traveling cross-continent; vaqueros, in their heavily padded chaps and armored horses for protection against the Argentina Mesquite trees in the brush; rural churches (the Spaniards conquered and converted nearly everything down here); and the occasional hut, with Dish satellite and solar panel. We drove this road for nearly three hours. After I nearly lost it at a dead end until Steve pointed out that there was a right turn 500’ back. I hoped it led to the river because my mounting fear was we would have to turn around and head back the way we came.Then we saw a bridge, and a giant river, the largest yet! We were there! The Rio Juramento!Now this is not much of a fishing story. I don’t have a trophy fish to show off. But nothing made us happier than spending five hours that day fishing in that river. Just casting, wading, and flicking the fly. It felt great. It was hot. The bugs were

eating us alive (we forgot the repellent). But we didn’t care. A family was so happy to meet me, they gave me a Coke and we bullshitted for a while. Steve was wading up and down the river in his fancy equipment; I had changed into shorts and flip-flops, and was waist-deep practicing my technique. We had lunch in the cooler, plenty of beer, and a giant river to fish. We didn’t catch shit. And we didn’t care.

We discovered we were only a mere five miles from the main Hwy-9, a highway that seems to zig-zag whichever direction it wants, but also brings one to Purmamarca. The two-track we had traveled all day was labeled “48” but you won’t find any signs telling you that. Siri had cost us a couple hours we figured, but we also felt fortunate to drive such a seldom-used road. (We felt more fortunate that we made it through without issue!)

We took 9 north to 34, then 66, then back onto the zig-zagging 9 and up to our last highway, Hwy-52, which takes one all the way to Calama. We stayed our last night of the journey in Purmamarca. It was only appropriate because it had impressed us so much the first night. Close on a high note like the rock stars we had become in Argentina!We stayed in the “La Comarca Hotel”. Beautiful haciendas and a top-notch restaurant on site, it was heavenly. We drank the dusty half-pint of Tres Flores we had picked up in the little La Caldera tienda, and finished the last of the beer. I determined the “Imperial Cerveza” was my favorite of the four we had tried, the others being Salta Negra, Salta Rubia, and Quilmes Cristal. Salta Rubia a close 2nd. Steve claimed the king-size bed in the hacienda, citing birthday privilege, which I still think he stretched a little far over the weekend. Last beer? Steve’s, “cuz birthday privilege”. Last shot of whisky? Steve’s, “cuz birthday privilege…”

8 May, 2017. Depart La Comarca (5*, pricey at about $200/night but worth it), Purmamarca, Argentina at 12:30pm.

The final morning we hiked around Purmamarca. The colors of the surrounding terrain and mountains are incredible. The streets were full of vendors, even for a Monday, hence the “tourist trap” designation. We were suckers and spent the last of our dinero and a whole bunch more when we discovered the American dollars were accepted and a credit card that would work. Once again, the people of Purmamarca only cemented our opinion that the Argentines were awesome folks.

We made the six-hour trek back shortly after noon. The climb up the mountain was much better in the daylight, and seemed a whole lot safer going up rather than down. The scenery of northern Argentina was beautiful: the abundance of saguaro cacti, small farms we noticed in the mountainsides, sheep farmers leading flocks and their dogs, the llamas and vicuñas. And then we arrived at the Paso de Jama border crossing. Thinking it would be easy for us with our Chilean resident cards, we passed through the windows quickly until we came to the Agriculture officer. She reviewed the declaration and walked outside with us to check the vehicle. Steve had brought fruit from Chile into Argentina, which the Argentine officers didn’t notice or didn’t care. The same fruit came back with us, four oranges. That was immediately confiscated with a dirty look. And then she found the plastic sealed bag of firewood in the bed. We had completely forgot about it because we didn’t camp as planned on the third night. For the next twenty minutes, she lectured us about bringing these items into Chile. We said that technically we were bringing the oranges back to Chile, but she had no sense of humor. She made me fill out the declaration form again, declaring these items, and then threatened to fine us. “Multas! Multas! Multas!” (Fines, fines,

fines!) Only after she had exhausted her redundant ridicule were we allowed to leave. Welcome back, residents of our fine country.

I wonder in hindsight if we were ill prepared, fortuitous, and/or serendipitous. Each time we went to a gas station, we prayed our credit or debit cards would work, often trying multiple cards. What happens if you cannot pay for the gas? Finding an ATM that worked was an adventure, and could have been a big hit to the trip if we could not obtain Argentine pesos. Many stores and restaurants do not accept credit/debit cards, including where we ate lunch in Jujuy and all the stores we went into off the beaten path. I also think the sense of adventure, or going where the wind blows with only the eventual destination of Rio Juramento in mind made the trip that much more fun and exciting. Having to make conversation with strangers led us to immediate friendship and laughter. After all, we were just two guys looking to fish, how much more harmless can you be? The terrain; the change in elevation of nearly 12K ft; the saguaro cacti in a jungle setting; the rural clashing with the urban; the crazy drivers; the coca leaves; the fishing; the culture; the food; the beer…Northern Argentina is an amazing place.