Back in El Calafate, first thing, I found myself back at the supermarket buying a wiener-schnitzel bread roll. Weiner-schnitzel bread rolls, finished off with a plate of sausages, unfortunately my stomach was too full when a group at the hostel offered me their home-made vegetable soup.
I should have taken it anyway. Something I still regret to this day. I could have put it in the fridge and, given the hostel offered warmth and hospitality but no free breakfast, tucked into it first thing in the morning.
I was not thinking. I was listening to too many a backpacker story, of how they were going to return to Patagonia one day and buy-up some land; testament to the beauty and settled wild-country outback feel of the place. Testament to the cheap Argentine peso; Argentina in the mid 2000s was a backpacker’s heaven.
One day we would be rich, spiritually, sexually, financially; living off the ranch, watching cable television, privately owned.
But these were the dreams of the youth. What was once can never be. The dreams had faded into oblivion. I looked out the window of the van as it made its way along the road towards Moreno Glacier. Still advancing, the glacier was defying logic, fighting stereotypes.
She was huge, covering the void of a valley. She wanted to take over the world, but nature had conspired against her. She was one of the last remaining of her kind.
We were dispatched from the van and boarded a boat to wish her well. But she was falling apart, great chunks of ice peeling off, landing into the aqua depths below with the crackle of rifle fire.
We turned our back. The backpackers were distracted, having found taking photos of the local Argentine tourists more interesting.
She was on her own.