Patagonia--the animals

It's not easy being an animal in Patagonia. The weather can be rugged, the terrain taxing. Dogs are generally not treated as pets; they are employees. Sometimes they're left on the farm for days at a time without regular meals. Lambs end up as the main course at an asado, the cattle have to swim across the lake before they're taken to market, and an occasional goat gets sick and dies in a yard (right, John?).

On our hiking trek, one of our overnight stops was on don Moncho's land. I was going to get the chance to milk a cow after all. Without my prompting, don Moncho decided to hop on his horse and round up two of his cows and their calves. He sequestered them in his round pen and proceeded to lasso the calves and tie each of them up. One was fairly docile; the other put up a real fight. In fact, it almost ran Pablo over and knocked through the fence. After the two calves were finally well tied, their moms were ushered back into the field, bellowing all the way. The idea was to keep the young ones from nursing overnight. In the morning, we would have first rights to an ample supply of fresh milk.

After our morning coffee/mate, we gathered back at the round pen. The cows were ushered back in from the field. Don Moncho hobbled their back legs together to keep them from kicking, and then Pablo showed me how to squeeze and pull.

Notice the size of the cup

I was indeed successful, but Tom and I each filled a small cup in the time don Moncho filled an entire pitcher from the other cow. We took the milk back to camp and drank it straight from the cow--rich and a bit earthy. The calves were released into the fields with their moms, no harm done. Probably the most authentic cow-milking experience that I could hope for.

John's horses are...well, I won't say pampered, but they're well respected and cared for, and I believe they compete with one another for John's attention. At home, I never would have the nerve to enter a round pen containing 17 horses. But John took me into the pen to introduce me to his clan, and it was fascinating. Not one was aggressive. Rather, they all seemed to want the first kind words and scratch from John. Because he handles them from the moment they're born, they have a very symbiotic relationship. He understands each of their unique personalities and treats them accordingly.

His horses are Criollos, descendants of horses brought to South America by the Spainards. Through the years, they have adapted well to the sometimes harsh Patagonian conditions. What they lack in stature, they make up for in hardiness. They live off the grass on the ranch, even through the winter. They most definitely have a pecking order: Martes is king. John trains and rides all of them; some serve as pack horses as well.

Our next adventure was a two-night horse trek. Before we headed out, Pablo played farrier. More than just a chef, Pablo is quite an able horseman. Using rather rudimentary tools, he trimmed the hooves of several of the horses.

Pablo at work

Six riders (John, don Moncho, Casey, Pablo, Tom, and I) set off with eleven horses--each of ours plus two pack horses, and three 16-month-olds (two fillies and a colt). The young ones were still nursing, but they were also starting to sow their wild oats and act like rambunctious teens. Fetch, Pestaña's colt, is going to be king of the hill someday. Since John has chosen to not geld him, he will have to separate him from the herd in the not-too-distant future. Fetch was already trying to strut his stuff with one of the other broodmares. Kind of like a teenager making the moves on one of his mom's friends. She let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he best back off.

We set off from the ranch, up and over the hill to the Solér Valley. Over the course of three days, we covered about 34 miles, crossed rivers 22 times, braved riding by a bee's nest in the ground twice, and had the horses desert us in camp late one afternoon. The uneven, varied terrain didn't warrant a blink from any of the horses. They are truly bombproof. Many a horse would buck a rider off when faced with a horde of bees. Our horses danced a bit but kept moving forward.

We rode up to the base of the Solér Glacier on our second day out, passing a couple huemuls (rare Patagonian deer) along the way. Upon our return to camp, John untacked the horses and allowed them to graze briefly. Pestaña (my mare) strolled over to me. I gave her a scratch, and then she nonchalantly kept walking, right out of camp. One by one, the other horses all followed. The colt and fillies, never wanting to be far from their moms, followed suit. Before we knew it, all except one were headed back to the ranch. Don Moncho and Pablo ran to tack up two horses and gallop off in pursuit. John was walking, only with a lead rope in hand. Casey, Tom, and I were left in camp with the one broodmare that was tied to a tree.

Suffice it to say that this mare was not at all pleased to be stuck in camp, especially since her filly had trotted off without her. The three of us gringos tried our best to calm her down. Before we knew it, she pulled the entire tree down, wedging her head between the trunk and a large branch. Tom managed to attach a lead rope to her halter, but we had to allow her to free herself and gallop off. Just the helpless gringos left in camp, wondering whether the horses would cover the 8 1/2 miles home.

About half an hour later, don Moncho and Pablo rode into camp with the string of horses. Once they were able to round up Martes, it wasn't too difficult to convince the others that the itinerary included another night in camp. John was convinced that Pestaña attempted escape because she succeeded once before when she wasn't tied up correctly overnight. Smart mare.

The fillies and colt never have to be tied; they won't stray far from their moms. So, at night they wander a bit but spend a lot of time grazing and some time hanging out with Mom. Tom and I were amused to wake to surround sound grazing in the wee hours of the morning. The young ones surrounded our tent, grazing closer and closer until we could make out their noses through the thin fabric. When one finally decided to paw at our fragile abode, I had to yell and chase them away. It was fascinating to observe the youngsters and the communication they had with the mares. I would love to see them again a year or two from now, or better yet hop on one of them when they're trained.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention my other favorite Patagonian mammal--the guanaco. Cousin to the llama and alpaca, the guanaco is native to South America and stands 3 1/2- to 4-feet tall at the shoulder. John drove us into the Chacabuco Valley, future site of the Patagonia National Park, so I could photograph the guanacos.

Last but not least are the working dogs. I didn't even know that don Moncho's dog had a name until the day we left, and now I can't recall it! The dogs are hard workers--herding cattle, rounding up horses, chasing hares. I can't begin to guess how many miles that dog ran during a day on our horse trek. It didn't have an ounce of body fat, and the only meals I saw it eat were ones comprised of our leftovers every few days. While we crossed the rivers on our horses, the dog had to fight the current, often drifting downstream faster than it could cover the width of the river. Once Pablo had to jump off his horse to grab the scruff of the dog's neck to pull it up a riverbank it couldn't negotiate. Yes, it's a hard life for a Patagonian dog, but they certainly are faithful.