I could see the river from Don Polo’s kitchen window. Laden with silt and gravel, ominously opaque, the Río Futaleufú surged between boulders. Locals had built a footbridge because so many people had died crossing a ford there in winter.
Here in Chile’s northern Patagonia, the rivers are powerful and omnipresent. They created this landscape, made Don Polo’s ranch possible, directed the course of lives. But they are capricious, unreliable allies. I recalled T. S. Eliot’s description of the Mississippi River as a strong brown god, “sullen, untamed, and intractable.” Never trust a river, Don Polo said.
Don Polo is a gaucho. His hands, I noticed, were like tree roots; around his neck he wore a pretty floral scarf. We were sitting in his kitchen on a spring afternoon, the apple trees around the house in blossom. Don Polo opened another bottle of chicha, his homemade liquor. Read more…
