El Calafate & Perito Moreno

Argentina is a big country. A 3.5 hour flight from Edinburgh will get you to Prague. From Buenos Aires, it will get you to the small town of El Calafate on the shores of Lake Argentina in the region of Patagonia, with the Andes shining white on the horizon. Much of the flight was over bare country, before the descent brought us down over a winding river and lake of a distinctive milky blue colour, water still full of ice crystals from the glaciers and mountain tops.

The main street feels like Chamonix, with high end outdoor clothing suppliers mixed in among cafes and restaurants and adventure tour companies in shining glass offices. But only a block or two away are the scruffier more dilapidated homes of a population dependent on tourism in a precarious economy. You think we have a cost of living crisis in the UK? In 2024, Argentina had an inflation rate of 117% for the year, a vast improvement on the 214% rate of 2023.

My wandering feet take me over the shoogliest bridge ever and eventually out onto the wide boardwalk alongside the lake. Here in the delta of the river is a large area of wetland and clear water, with no trace of the ice that clouds the majority of the lake. Horses graze on the drier parts, unidentified birds float and call on the wetter areas. Under the wide blue sky, it's beautifully warm, t-shirt and sunglasses weather. Or down jackets and fleeces for visitors from warmer climates.

Having had apple pie and hot chocolate for lunch (the region is famous for its chocolate and I now understand why), I have pizza for dinner on a first story terrace overlooking the main street. It's still just warm enough to sit without a coat, although nobody else seems to agree with me!

When I first booked the Patagonia extension, the plan was for me to join up with another C&K group on a different tour in Calafate. At some point, that changed to a private trip which is a novel experience. So this morning, Ana and a driver arrived to take me to Perito Merino glacier. The advantage of a private guide is that you choose your own stops along the 80km road winding through the open plain, where isolated ranches sit sheltered in the scrubland by a distinctive copse of plane trees. On one such stop, we watch a flock of rhea pecking amongst the bushes. Rhea are flightless birds, like short legged ostriches that live in unusual polygamous groups of one male and a dozen females. The male builds a communal nest in which each female lays a single egg. He then sits on the clutch, hatches and rears the chicks, whilst the females continue life unconcerned with their offspring.

On another stop, we watch a group of condors soaring low overhead, juveniles in all brown, adults with white collars, their three metre wingspan turning lazily in the riding thermals. Minibuses and coaches rumble past without stopping, without seeing. Another mental image for the memory bank.

As the southern spur of Lake Argentina appears beside us, strangely shaped white and blue boats float in the water. Only they're not boats; they're icebergs calved from the glacier a few miles away. Eventually they will melt and the water flow north and east through the lake before joining the rivers winding downstream to the Atlantic. We're close to the Chilean border here, that roughly follows the watershed line through the Andes. Water heading west to the Pacific is Chilean, water heading east to the Atlantic is Argentinian. These aren't the high Andes of northern Chile but lower peaks, still covered in permanent snow and ice. The lake is less than 200metres above sea level, lower than Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh. And unlike the Alpine glaciers that I've seen before, this flows into the lake itself, leaving only a narrow channel between its eastern face and the land opposite, where we are. In a hard winter, the glacier advances and closes the channel entirely, leaving the southern spur captive and unable to drain until the spring combines with the water pressure to force its way through again to equalise the water levels like a mad God's canal lock.

Now, at the end of summer, the narrow channel is fluid, with a collection of dead ice floating on the surface. Several times during the day, I get to see - and hear - a part of the glacier face break away and fall into the water below, crumbling into icy debris. It's one thing to watch an Alpine glacier calve, quite another to see this white and blue phenomenon break into the water below. It's especially stunning observed from a boat floating below the 40m ice wall, even from a safe distance. But even before the boat trip, we spend hours exploring the metal walkways that cling to the mountainside in this national park, offering an ever changing view of the glacier opposite. I could have stood and watched it for days, hearing it creak and groan on its 500 year journey down from the mountains to the water. Magical.

The town of El Calafate is named after the berry that grows on the banks of the river and fed the the first travellers here in this harsh land.  Out of season when I arrived, but it makes an excellent serve for gin and tonic.