With the house stuffed to the gills with of out of towners, touristy activities were the order of the day. We piled into two cars (Nadia’s brother, apparently quite a road dog, had driven his Camary the 600 miles from BA), and drove west into the Andes. We hit a minor snag in that all the gas stations in town were bone dry, not an unusual occurrence, but fortunately we found a petrol station outside of Lujan that was still pumping. We stopped in Potrerillos, 45 minutes down the road for lunch. The bulk of the group went with lomos, while a couple opted for milenasa sandwiches (the same thing but with the steak breaded and baked rather than grilled). Young Ollie, substantially outgoing for a two year old, with minimal “terrible two” outbreaks, loves cheersing. He wants to “Chin Chin!” every sippy cup he drinks with every person at the table. In this case, he wanted to chin chin lomos. I felt quite special when, after celebratorally knocking food with everyone else at the table he said, “Erik esta lejos,” and got up to walk to my end of the table to complete his round of cheers.
We continued on winding Route 7 towards Chile, passing through Uspallata, which bears such an uncanny resemblance to the Chinese highlands that Seven Years in Tibet was filmed there. We turned on to a dirt road and the geologic formations became more and more unusual, until an exceptionally curious plateau appeared around a bend in the road and our caravan came to a halt at the Hill of Seven Colors. Splashes of red, purple, green, white, orange and I guess two others, painted its gaudily made up face. Numbers may have been fudged and inflated during the counting of colors, but it was a natural wonder none the less. Brennan and I scaled the top of the mount, where a valley of seven colors revealed itself behind the hill. We received hurrahs from our group below on our successful apexing. After some more pictures we continued onward.
Los Penitentes, Mendoza’s closest ski resort was the next location of note on our journey. A few chairlifts and ropetows were visible on the brown mountain slopes. In winter it makes for incredible treeless ice sheet skiing. Shorty afterwards, once we slipped through an army check point, we arrived at Puente del Inca. The Incan Bridge was our second geographical marvel of the day, a natural stone archway created by the burbling sulphurous thermal waters, spanning the cliffs over Las Cuevas River. An abandoned stone day spa sits at the base of the bridge, slowly being emulsified by the minerals and disappearing into the mountain under layer upon layer of yellowish stone. A small mercado of Incan ponchos, alpaca sweaters, and other souvenirs existed in a shanty town of colorful, scrap sheet metal stalls. We did some browsing, stimulated the local economy, and made the acquaintance of the resident 180 pound St Bernard, Syrah, who disappointingly was not outfitted with a cask of brandy around his neck. We then turned our fleet around; 40 miles shy of the Chilean border and headed for home. The setting sun at our backs smeared vibrant reds and oranges on the summits in front of us as we meandered our way back to Mendoza.
