Pehuen nuts are about the size of a finger joint, incredibly fire-resistant, supposedly high in protein, and taste more or less like other pine nuts. They were a main part of the locals’ diet, which made sense as I looked around and saw them everywhere. I picked up a few and tried preparing them in three ways: boiling, roasting on my camp stove, and roasting wrapped in aluminum foil next to a fire. The last approach worked best, though baking or possibly steaming would probably be better. This being Argentina, though, I should have built a fire and put them in an old tin can.It was surprisingly cool in the morning, so I got a late start back around the lake, and was further delayed collecting a bag of araucaria nuts to experiment with later. The road along the Rio Aluminé was dirt, but in relatively good shape and slightly downhill, so I proceeded at a decent pace, then made much better time in the strange island of asphalt roads around the town of Aluminé. I stopped briefly at a shrine to Ceferino, some kind of local saint, then reached town mid-afternoon. It was hot, and this would be my last civilization for awhile, so I half-napped in the park while waiting for the stores to open. Sitting up and looking around I was surprised to see another bike tourist at the next table over. He turned out to be Francisco (or Pancho), an Argentinian man who had been touring for three years non-stop. He was headed north now, criss-crossing the border and hitting pretty much every pass along the way. Because he was traveling year-round, he had even more gear than I did, including two panniers of winter clothing he hadn’t opened in months. I had hoped to split the 200-ish kilometers between Villa Pehuenia and Paso Tromen into two equal portions, but delays talking to Pancho and finding the ATM in Aluminé (the shiny bank building is buried in a dirt-road residential area), I only made it a few kilometers farther, camping near sunset at a popular spot along the river. I knew I had a long haul the next day, so I managed to get a reasonable start. The river road was paved until it crossed a bridge, then turned to dirt and added regular rollers, which slowed my progress. Still, it was not bad as far as Argentinian dirt roads go, so I was in a decent mood as I made my way south. The road eventually leaves the Aluminé where it bends east, climbing around 1500 feet before dropping a similar amount to the junction with the Paso Tromen road. This could have been ugly, but I found that a road crew was working at that very moment to pave it. The fresh asphalt was incredible, and even the surrounding dirt was freshly-rolled, so the climb was much less of a struggle than I had feared.
Reaching the pine-treed summit, I stopped in one of the Argentinian roadside shelters (for hitchhikers?) to drink some water and have more sausage and bread. A nearby worker, toiling away by himself at some task and apparently bored, came over and offered me water, asking about my trip. He seemed to think it was a bit crazy, preferring to head into the mountains more sensibly by horse. I eventually continued, leaving the construction to be faced with the original washboard dirt for awhile, then finding more good pavement on the descent to the Tromen junction.
The heat was intense at this lower elevation, and the roadside springs I had seen to the north had disappeared. Too impatient to deal with my overused and half-clogged filter, I dipped my bottles straight into the river, despite knowing that it came from a large lake and passed all sorts of livestock. I had become used to drinking some pretty sketchy water, and figured one more time wouldn’t hurt. (I paid with a day of diarrhea 2-3 days later, but… worth it.) A herd of motorcyclists and the odd tourist passed me while I was at the river, but the road seemed pleasantly quiet.The rest of the ride went much as I had expected, though with the addition of a discouraging headwind. Lanin first comes into view soon after the junction, its cone divided almost perfectly into white and black halves by the edge of its southeast glacier. Most of the climb is gradual and well-paved, and would have passed easily in the morning before the wind and heat. The pavement gives out at the park boundary, though, leaving 10 kilometers of unpredictable dirt. The first few kilometers were freshly graded, and I though my work was almost done; I stopped for more river water, and thought better of scolding a family collecting araucaria nuts, which is clearly forbidden in the park. The last part, though, had not been improved, and was a sandy washboard that, with the headwind, kept me in my lowest gear despite barely being uphill.
Reaching the park office, I thought I would be a good visitor and register for the climb. He told me that I should come back at 8:00 the next morning (ugh, but okaaay…), that I needed crampons, ice axe, and mountain boots for the obviously-dry hike up the northeast side (yeah, got ’em, whatever), and that I needed a radio. A what?! Yep, I would need a radio to fill out the papers (I should have just lied and asked “what frequency?”), he did not have a loaner like the nice guys at Domuyo, and there were none for rent. Still in “good visitor” mode, I sulked out and rolled over to the neighboring campground, where I paid actual money for no showers, no electricity, and a crappy table. I stewed for awhile, then decided “screw you guys, I’m walking up and down your stupid mountain.”