Billy Idle working his ‘do’

Picada Quince at la Laguna Negra

‘Graucho’ Dustin

Low flying condors

Morning mate

A chance encounter

Rita the trusty Mula

Asado preparation

Mountain Yoga

A thirsty gaucho

I just couldn’t stay away.

Here are some photos from my first month back in the place of my dreams.

The Jerra. A bad day for the the young bullocks, but a great fiesta for the rest of us.

Buta Mallin, the best front garden that ever there was

Sky’s new horse making venture

Un Gauchito

Don Tores with a jug of Chupilca- breakfast/hangover cure

An unwelcome morning view

Driving the cows to their summer pasture

Sky took these when I stole her horse

A magnificent sunset

My brother Chile breaking a horse – gaucho style

Apart from taking photos I’ve mostly been testing the credentials  of my guardian angel.

 The other week I got stuck up a mountain in a whiteout with Fiona ‘Batters’ an ad exec from London. Our home was a leaky little shed and half a windbreak 5 hours ride from anywhere. We’d crossed two mountains to get there with the help of Martin, the gaucho I lived with for a month last year. He had no problem picking his way through the thick brush and rocky passes; up there the only trails are made by guanacos  – a demonic relative of the Llama- and there’s no way we could have found our way without him.

As we scaled the last ridge, with our horses blowing hard, it was like walking into a dream. Cutting through the arid dust bowl of the valley below was a perfect slash of lush green pasture about 30 meters across.. A stream high up in the mountains gives life to the precious grass, and it was our job to protect it from the illegal animals driven there by the indigenous herders who have the loosest concepts of land ownership. But first we had to make repairs to the puesto which had taken a bit of a hammering when the last occupants had a run in with the Indians from the valley below. The aggressive tactics they were using to remove the bovine squatters hadn’t been appreciated, and a posse of Mapuches rode out to let them know…

 We were aiming to make more diplomatic evictions, but with clouds gathering on the horizon our first priority was to patch the roof as best we could. As always we were limited by the materials available and ended up with half a roof that half worked. And then the wind picked up and the heavens opened. We moved all the firewood Inside the 4 meter square garden shed, and tried to find dry patches for the saddles, food and clothes. Water pooled in the scraps of tarpaulin above us, and as the drips turned the dirt floor to mud we prayed for the rain to stop. Which it did, but not in a good way. Rain turned to sleet and sleet to snow and thick white clouds put out the sun. The freezing wind whipped up the snow and blew it through the gaps in the puesto walls and we huddled round a smokey campfire built under the worst section of roof. Outside the 2 dogs we’d brought along begged to come inside and our horses turned their backs to the wind and waited for the weather to pass with the infinite patience that only horses posses.

Fiona was all for packing up right away, and riding out into the blizzard to get home before dark. How she imagined we’d find our way I do not know; I doubted if I could navigate the route without mistakes in perfect conditions. Short of relying on the dogs to lead the way home we would be riding blind over the most challenging terrain I’d ever ridden. So we decided to stay put and took solace in the hope that the storm might at least be seen below and someone would come and help us out. But privately I knew the Patron (boss) wouldn’t send anyone while it was snowing and he knew we had food for 5 days. It could be a long wait.

Needless to say we spent a sleepless night; cold, wet and worrying about our horses. But at sun up a small patch of blue sky to the north lifted our hearts, and two hours later the snow blanketed valley below was bathed in sunshine so bright, to look at it hurt my eyes. We raced to clear the fast melting snow from the roof, and with relief began to cook a stew. But before the meat was even browned, the dogs began to bark, and there was Martin; our knight in goatskin trousers. The storm had reached his puesto and he’s spent a sleepless night worrying about us.  So at first light he’d saddled his horse and rode out to get us before the weather turned again.

A miserable ride down the mountain in freezing gale force winds was soon forgotten when we were warming our feet by the stove in Martin’s puesto with a glass of wine, fresh torta fritas and a steaming bowl of broth. I lived there with him for a month last year, we worked hard on the fence line, and became close friends. And I am eternally grateful to him for rescuing us.

 The storm kept us on low ground for 3 more days. But I had a new mission; I had to kill ‘Surviver’ the thanksgiving turkey and ride with him for 2 days to get to the main ranch in time for the festivities. Accompanying us would be 25 Indian horses we’d rounded up and corralled earlier. The gauchos had grown tired of chasing them off the land only for them to return 2 days later, and the Patron wanted to send a message to their owners. So we drove them 20 kilometers and abandoned them in El Huecu. Now they were the problem of the police.

Surviver had gained his name by being the only chick out of 60 to make it through the incubation period last year; every one of his 59 siblings had succumbed to the Argentine power cuts and died ‘in-egg’. His early days had a great effect on him; he had a zeal for life and displayed clear psychopathic tendencies. Everyone lived in fear of his attacks and the job of dispatching him was much coveted. I have never tasted turkey so good.

The next day was a holiday and I’d planned to go riding with Sophie. She’s the daughter of an ex-girlfriend of the Patron, he gave the her the accolade of ‘most beautiful girl in South America” and I do not contest it. Her mum owns my horse ‘Picada Quince’ and she wanted to ride him; I was happy to oblige. We planned to go fishing and swimming, but like everything here, nothing happens as its meant to, and the next morning we rode out with a hoard of hungover volunteers to the confluence of two rivers and had a lazy day by the water.

On the way back Sophie and I got separated from the group and found ourselves at a steep boggy stream. In Picada’s place I was on an angry little palomino who hadn’t been ridden since last year when he threw me off on a camping trip. When Picada refused to lead across the water I ignored my gut feelings and kicked my moody little pony into the mud. His front legs immediately sunk to the knee and he couldn’t get any purchase with his back feet. Facing up the hill and scrambling for a grip he started to topple backwards. Maybe because of all the wine I’d drunk the night before, or because I had no time, but I wasn’t afraid, and managed to jump out of the stirrups before he did a backwards summersault down the hill. He rolled a couple of times and ended up stuck in a bush. I’m pretty certain if I’d have been under him Sophie would have been riding home alone.

The next day, with two other volunteers  I left the main ranch and all its attractions and headed back to hot dusty Colapilli to chase Indians. We rode hard to make it back in time for a scheduled radio call. The Patron wanted to know whether the Marpuches had retaliated for stealing their horses. I was giving Picada a break and pulling him on a rope behind Cresent, a lobotomised riding school nag. In the heat of the day she began to flag and it didn’t look like we’d make it so I swapped horses with one of the girls to ride ahead and make the call. Now, everyone here has to have a knife at least 3 times bigger than what is necessary, its almost the law. They sit in the back of the trousers and have the tendency to bounce out when cantering. I was planning to gallop so I moved mine to the front of my trousers instead. The sheath of my knife is too big, meaning the blade has worn out a hole in the side, out of which pokes the point. In my haste to get going I didn’t take this into account and vaulted onto the horse and in the process pinned my ball- sack to the saddle. I knew immediately I’d done some damage, but couldn’t feel any blood and time was against me so I let it be. I made it to Colapilli with ten minutes to get the lowdown from  Chile, my brother and resident gaucho and set up the radio, which needless to say, didn’t work.

I’m already the most infected man this side Bolivia; every cut and scratch immediately swells up and turns purple. It’s not the cleanest of places and I probably don’t take enough care of my ailments. But I certainly did nurse this wound, and with the help of a tube of Savalon, and with the grace of god my balls have survived to live another day.

There are exciting times approaching. Sunny Christmas at Ranquilco is almost as special as snowy Christmas in Yorkshire. We have long trips into the mountains planned, friends are visiting and general tomfoolery is expected. So watch out for more pictures.

Stay happy.

There are more to come, and I’ve got some interesting projects coming up in the next couple of months, so if you want to be kept up to date, you can subscribe to my blog here.

Big thanks to Darren for helping me with the website