Campo de Don Arturo de Valle Azul

"The farmer's office is precise and important, but you must not try to paint him in rose-color; you cannot make pretty compliments to fate and gravitation, whose minister he is. He represents the necessities. It is the beauty of the great economy of the world that makes his comeliness. He bends to the order of the seasons, the weather, the soils and crops, as the sails of a ship bend to the wind. He represents continuous hard labor, year in, year out, and small gains. He is a slow person, timed to Nature, and not to city watches. He takes the pace of seasons, plants' and chemistry. Nature never hurries: atom by atom, little by little, she achieves her work. The lesson one learns in fishing, yachting, hunting or planting is the manners of Nature ; patience with the delays of wind and sun, delays of the seasons, bad weather, excess or lack of water, - patience with the slowness of our feet, with the parsimony of our strength, with the largeness of sea and land we must traverse, etc. The farmer times himself to Nature, and ac-quires that livelong patience which belongs to her. Slow, narrow man, his rule is that the earth shall feed and clothe him ; and he must wait for his crop to grow."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Long strands of dirt roads follow a myriad of valleys where cascades and November's melt find fast moving nomadic homes.  Foot, car, and horse are assuredly fortunate to follow these waters temporary stations.  Patagonia must be part of this exclusive group, "Overpopulation of the Nature." Unbelievably these strands of dirt and rock exist for the minority group of humans.  And even so, these strands end before reaching Don Arturo's Valle Azul.  Follow the Rio El Tigre to where the road's form becomes smaller and its rocks less compressed and grass begins to grow between its tire tread space and finally Don Arturo comes in hand with a rest for walking toes.  They came in multi-shades of brown and white with fashionable purses.  I took a white one.  The Chileans brought boxed wine to intentionally share and the sky brought foreign waters to intentionally share.  And all these things melted into a wordless existence, where I was grateful for the beasts and wines warmth.  Don Arturo rode not as an Englishman.  He offered no resistance and his ribs swayed back and forth with his steeds movement.  The reins freely pulled his shoulders forward and everything was so immaculately fluid as campo life years have shaped.  The Rio El Azul was just low enough for Chileanito to cross.  It also was just high enough for outfitted feet to become transportable ponds.  The cattle agitated by our horses and pups begrudgingly and conversationally crossed the Rio.  And its a cruel game to separate mother and child for the morning coffee milk.  After sundown the unfamiliar stars stabbed my retinas and gas lamps lit nightly games of Truco, a Spanish card game of wits and chance.  This is life of patagonia's minority group.  They extraordinarily burned virgin forests for quaint homes, cattle, sheep dogs, horses, gardens and hard tranquility.