Puma Day: Part One - The Fortress

As I looked over the edge of mountain, I knew there was no way we were going to be able to sneak in on the mother puma, and her kittens. The area was obviously a puma fortress with a lake serving as a mote in the front, A cliff for defense, and two well camoflauged drainages for escape.

For the past several weeks, Mark and I have consistently been looking for the tracks of Mojada, a female puma. These were needed to determine whether or not she was still taking care of two kittens or had lost one. He needs this data to determine the energy requirements of a puma, and these numbers could be affected significantly if all the cats are not accounted for.

Simultaneously, the first volunteers other than myself arrived. It was a whirlwind trip to spend two weeks in Chile, and the best they could think of was working at La Estancia. I don't think it was quite the experience they wanted, but it is really hard to have a full out experience in Patagonia without staying for an extended period of time. Because of these time limitations, we were trying to help these guys get the most out of their experience abroad. This made for a great excuse to go out and track Mojada down. Seeing a puma would totally make anyones trip.

Just looking for a puma would be very difficult, but we had an advantage with the previously captured pumas. All of the collars are equipped with a VHF transmitter which emits a signal that allows Mark to pinpoint their location. It lead us to an open grassland with some random trees, and some hills in the background. He said, "She's back in there," as we exited the truck. It was a quarter mile walk to where the puma was hiding. It seemed like it was going to be an easy venture to see these pumas, but it was quite a bit more than that. As we got closer to the site, the entrance became blocked by seemingly impenetrable terrain. A series of drainages covered in thick thorn ridden shrubs, surrounded by jagged cliffs, and an uncrossable marsh blocked our path to the puma, endangering our chances of getting to view these elusive creatures. Our best bet for getting a sighting was to walk all the way around the mountain. This was not surprising, and was almost expected considering Patagonia is all about doing things the hard way.

After we reached the potential cat site, we pin pointed the exact general location of the cat. "She's somewhere in there," Mark says. It was going to be difficult. We needed a plan. I really wanted to see the cat, but I was willing to give up a good view so these fellow travelers could possibly salvage their trip. Mark didn't want to make the decision because he didn't want to feel responsible if these guys didn't see the cat he promised. "It's always really hard when you split up into groups because half the people see the cat, and the other half doesn't." With this in mind, I came up with a plan to put the other voluteers on top of a point that would give them the best potential viewing; I sent Mark to walk up one of the other drainages, and I walked down the second drainage. We sent the other two down first to get into place, then I stepped in.

I felt like a special ops soldier. I crept through the trees as if the slightest of sounds would alert the enemy to my presence. I would wince each time the leaves crackled under my feet. As I got closer, I started hearing sounds of thuds on the ground, limbs casually being toyed with, and the occasional rustling in the grass. From what I could tell, the pumas were just enjoying a casual day of relaxation. I kneeled there for a few moments, then advanced. "How close am I going to be able to get before they know I'm here?", I thought. All of a sudden, the other two volunteers came tromping down the path that I had made, sounding the alarm for the cats to get ready to run; Well, new plan. The other two went up the hill to the right while I continued straight to the other side of a patch of trees. When I got to the other side, there was Mark, already through the drainage. I didn't say a word because he was listening to the reciever. "She's moving," he whispered. All of a sudden he spoke in a hurried tone, "She's going up the drainage," and we were off. Short sprints combined with quick stops to listen for the puma guided us through the drainage. A section of it was split by the ridge that the other volunteers were supposed to be sitting on, so I went up one side, and Mark went up the other. I was walking fast until I got to some thick scrub. A possible sixth sense told me I might be in the presense of a puma. Just then I looked up, and Mark was standing right above me on the ridge with the Telemetry. Indeed, she was right there. I looked at Mark, and he looked back with a grave expression on his face. "James, come this way...," he warned. I looked at the position I had gotten myself into, and was not very pleased. I was a mere stride away from where the puma was hiding, with no escape route due to a poorly placed rock. I quickly made it to the top of the ridge. We stood there amazed that we had caught up to her. "Once the other guys came down off their spot, and you came out of the drainage, she had an open route. I'm sure she walked right by you guys. Pumas do that; they like to play 'Cat and Mouse'," Marked confirmed. Right as he said that, he interrupted himself and yelled, "There she goes!". I didn't see her at first, but she quickly revealed herself, slinking over the top of the other ridge. "There you go James, your first puma," Mark said smiling. It was a very exciting time, but I couldn't get over how much it looked like a really big house cat. He said "Yeah, pretty much." One of the guys stopped at the ridge the lion had used to escape, and said "Did you see anything?" He neglected to see the fresh paw prints just beneath his feet. Mark told them how close they had come to the lion, and I think it may have blown their minds. In fact, it blew mine as well. I was within feet of it, and I still couldn't see it.

We left the other two to continue their hike, trying to make the most of their last day, while we walked back to the truck to have a victory cigarillo (Snickers for me). It had turned out to be a pretty good day.

If Only It Were a Mad Lib

Part of my reason for coming to South America was to immerse myself in not only the culture, but the language. My plan was to learn the language, and then see what doors opened. I thought about the language very nonchalantly, and I took it as something that would naturally come to fruition. Now, I have feelings reminiscent of childhood. I think it's bringing back all the repressed memories of the times where I had something to tell my parents, but just didn't know how to say it.

Learning a second language is possibly the most frustrating thing that I have ever done. There is always something that I want to say, or something someone else says to me that would be as simple as opening a door if they knew english, but not having extensive coursework in Español, it's like the door is locked, and I'm sitting there trying to pick it with my thumbs.

The first week I was here was terrible. I spent an entire time with the restoration team. I was pretty wary about going out for five days without any other english speakers, but what choice did I have? The couple of guys I was going with seemed pretty nice. We would have fairly simple conversations, only using words that were very similar to english, for example: Presidente, Barack Obama, familia, parientes, etc. The problem was that my vocabulary was very limited.

Upon arrival, we met up with some other workers that were mining rock. It was being taken from the side of a mountain to be used as siding for La Estancia's future park buildings. After we introduced ourselves, a whole new speed in conversation emerged. Words were flying from person to person like bullets, and we were in a shootout. To make it worse, they were all interested in me, and yet I could tell them nothing. The friends of mine decided to become amateur translators for me, but they wouldn't tell them the things I wanted them to. Each time we would start a new conversation, it would always begin with people asking questions of me, and my so called friends cracking jokes about me. It drove me insane. The other Chileans would just sit there and laugh while I didn't have so much as a word for them. All I could do was just take it. Later we visited a gaucho by the name of Ruiz, and he had some friends over for lunch. They were more skeptical than the rest of the Chileans I had met. These were weathered country folk that were tired of Gringos coming to their country, and had no use for them. I sat in silence, knowing that I was just another gringo. I confessed to one of my bosses that I was having a really hard time communicating. He reassured me that it would get better, but it didn't. I sat there for days in silence being laughed at, ridiculed, and left with nothing except a dumbfounded look. I finally retreated to my room in a puesto that night, and started to read a book. I figured I had enough trouble throughout the day, and that giving my mind a rest would help.

The next morning I was fresh, and ready to figure out a way to communicate. I started by telling them one simple truth: "The more you talk to me in spanish, the more I learn." So we started out with a quick overview of commonly used chilenismos, which is chilean slang. Most of them translated would naturally be vulgarisms, but to uneducated gauchos, it was a substantial part of conversation. In fact, that helped alot. When one of them would come at me with a joke, I would call them a name, and the listeners would laugh hysterically because I got them back with their own language. That became pretty fun. They would laugh, and tell everyone all the bad words they had taught me. Later, I would use them, and everyone would laugh some more. It was kind of a circus act, but it worked. I did have a little trouble getting through to Ruiz though. It was hard for him to understand my accent, and I couldn't understand his 'Patagon' at all. During any given day, we stop at puestos, and ate with the hosting gaucho. During one of these times, Ruiz came out with an accordian. He played pretty well considering he had no formal training. Finally, I asked him if I could try, and he taught me a simple accordian melody. I kept fooling around on it for a while, and eventually came up with "La Cucharacha." They were totally impressed, and went on and on about how I was better in 15 minutes than Pablo (our boss) ever was.

Since those days, it has been a slow struggle to get up to a reasonable level of communication, but I have been practicing by reading a duel language book. The only problem with the book is that it doesn't explain what situations certain words can be trouble. For example: one night I had been reading, and learned the word "duro." Duro means a number of things, but in this case hard. So, being the adventurer that I am, I was going to test out my new word. That night, they were serving left over bread at dinner from when we had been out at the puesto. When I first grabbed a piece I said, "Pan duro." All the guys at our table just looked at me, and cracked very mischievious smiles. I thought I was just describing something, but Mark knew different, and decided he was going to turn it into an insult. He told Pablo (the maker of the bread) that I said his bread was duro. Well, then Pablo turned it around, and told the head chef, Maria, that she made "pan duro" which is a huge insult to a chef, compliments of me. The entire cafeteria erupted in laughter, but I don't think Maria was too happy. I spent days trying to get back on her good side because she also cleans my room. Finally, after a rough weak in the dog house, she got me back by refusing to give me a second helping at dinner , and then confessed that she was joking and the fued was over.

Learning something new always has its ups and downs, and in most of my situations, they have been downs. But with the arrival of more volunteers, the tides have turned. Now that the english speakers have the upper hand, we will see who's laughing at the end.

The West Still Wild

The West has been a driving force in American history since the first settlements heard of the wide open spaces. Although promising, it was a place of solitude, reserved only for the soul requiring the absence of humanity. The hardships required to endure were deep and heart felt, but not shown through emotion, but through appearance. The hardened expression on the face of the cowboy is not because of his status as such, but because he has been forced to deal inwardly with all the emotions brought upon him. The hardened exterior providing the defense against emotions intruding or escaping. With such an absence of feeling, one must ask themself "Why come to a place of such desolation?"

To answer this question, one has to have seen what they have seen, or felt what they felt. It's not actually the land that is the west, but the mind of the individual who has experienced the west. Such pure desolation plants a seed of thought that continues to grow uninhibited. It excites romantic feelings that can only be felt through isolation and pain. The hardshell of the cowboy may not, in fact, be to protect against the negativity of feminine emotions, but to hold dear to what emotions he has left. The ones that have seen the land, the creatures, and the absensce of humanity.

This last Saturday, I didn't exactly feel the hardships of the cowboy or the gaucho (aside from a sore backside), but I did get to go on an experience known solely to a herdsman, which is as close to the idea of the West as I will ever get. Our goal was to drive a group of horses to the otherside of the valley on horseback. The herdsman consisted of three people, Luigi, Cristian, and myself. Luigi and Cristian are definitely descendants if not themselves gauchos, along with me the Gringo. Right from the get go, we were moving. The herd we were driving had taken off at a gallop and we were in charge of directing their movements. But they knew where they were going. They must have done this hundreds of times. All we had to do was follow the hoove prints. They did get a little off track from time to time, but with a quick readjustment, we set them back on track.




The trip was five hours out and five hours back. Plenty of time to practice my horsemanship. Along the way, there was a definite feeling of solitude, but not loneliness. It really gave a man room to breath and think clear of distractions.




After dropping off the herd of horses, we went on to our final destination; an abandoned puesto back in the crevaces of what is known as Guanaco Valley. There, we made camp in an old shed and ate lunch. We had cordero asado al palo which is sheep grilled over an open flame. To eat the meat, we had to cut it off with huge knives that had sword like qualities. The blade slide through the meat like butter. We sprinkled it with salt and it tasted delicious, the fat crunching like bacon in our mouths. Next to the puesto, a bird known as the Bandurria had made a nest. Cristian had never seen the eggs before, so I took it as my pleasure to take a picture of them.












After lunch, we headed back to where we had dropped off the horses earlier. There, we administered medicines, and exchanged our horses for fresh ones. We also picked up a horse in the process of being broken in for riding. Luigi explained the process of breaking in a horse to me, "First you have to catch them, then you touch them all over so they´re not afraid of you, then you begin to ride them, and after six months, the gringos can ride them." I thought that kind of funny, seeing how I was no longer a gringo, but a gringo gaucho.




My new horse was fresh and ready to run. I decided to take her out for a gallop and boy did she go. The other guys whistled at me to make sure I was ok, but I just pulled back on the reigns, turned around and waved. Along the way, I happened to be watching the ground, and stumbled upon some puma tracks. They were the most defined prints I had seen to date.





By the time we had returned, I knew my body was in for some pain the next couple of days, but it was totally worth it. I had experienced the life of the gaucho, and it was good. To top it off, I learned a lot of things. For example, after a long ride by horseback, I learned the origin of the word "hardass."

At the Peak of Exhaustion

On my first day off, Mark (the puma researcher) invited me to go along on a hike into the mountains behind the Estancia. He has captured five pumas and is monitoring them via radio-collar. The cat behind the Estancia is named Mojada. When monitoring the pumas, the GPS signals can indicate that a cat is holding a position due to a number of possible reasons, but mostly due to kill sites. Mojada happens to be a very good subject for such kill sites because she generally gets most of her meal taken from her due to Andean Condors. Therefore, she has a kill every couple of days.

I was thrilled to go along, but didnt realize to what extent I was going to punish my body. We departed at around 8:30 or so on what was only supposed to be a two mile hike...Ha Ha. Things were pretty easy going at first. We walked along a fairly easy trail crossing small mountain streams; enjoying the morning sun; talking about all kinds of things, but that was just the beginning. At our first stop, Mark checked the coordinates of the potential kill. "Only a mile left," he said casually.

We packed back up and headed straight for the brush. No more trails here. We were crawling through thorn thickets straight up the side of a mountian, and he was experienced at it. He went through them like it was nothing. I followed close behind, but as the incline got steeper, I started to drag a bit. The trees were thick, and I think it must have only been 200 or so meters long, but it was exhausting. Mark kept saying how he could see the edge, but I kept thinking to myself,"haha Mark, thats only a mirage. Its going to be funny when we have another whole cliff side to go through this needle forest." Well, it didnt turn out that way. He was right, but I think I would have taken more needle bushes over taking the next step in getting to the top. As we emerged from the forest, the mountain increased in the degree it sloped. We stopped for a second to catch our breaths (my breath) and were back on the ascent.

As we got closer to the top, the climate began to change a bit. The warm, mellow atmosphere at the base was none existant approaching the peak. The air had cooled to a crisp chill, and the wind picked up considerably. My legs were in a serious state of being overwhelmed by lactic acid. It reminded me of lactic acid workouts I did during track season. The pain would be so intense, my legs would be on the brink of collapse, but I had to just keep going. As we got closer and closer to the top, I started falling further and further behind. Mark had a good fifty meters on me by the time we got near the last cliff to climb.

On our last approach to the corridor of finishdom, the air became frigid and the wind turned gale force. The wind was so strong, it choked the air from your lungs, then threatened to hurl you over the side of the cliff. That is a terrible feeling to have

We finally made it, but the whole aura of the place changed instantly. The violent turbulence of the side we had just climbed turned eeriely calm, dropping down into a caldron of moss laiden trees with shadows scattered across a glaze of melting snow. We were on the hunt for the puma now. Marks walk became slower and more cautious as we got closer to the kill site. Lion tracks covered the snow, trails leading in all directions. We scanned the trees hoping to catch a quick glimpse of a just fed cat, but no lion could be found.

As we approached the kill site, a kind of rancid smell filled the air. Come to find out, it was the ravaged stomach of a large male guanaco. We continued on, following the drag marks of the once living, breathing animal, now reduced to stomach rubbish. Lions are very powerful animals, and this particular lion showed its brut force by dragging the dead guanaco over a giant log. One so large, even the biggest mountain man could not lift it. On the other side laid the picked remains of the dead guanacos and with, sure enough, condor feathers littered about the ground.

It was a prime site for Mark to get data and he will get his chance probably in another day and a half or so. Mojada has had 38 kills in the last three months, which his pretty outstanding. She has become a specialist, feeding solely on guanacos. She will definately have another kill soon not only because most of her meals get eaten by the condors, but she has two kittens as well.

Would I do it again? Probably. Im probably going to be doing it as often as I can. Pretty soon, I should be scaling the cliff faces like a guanaco, but hopefully not just like one. Wouldnt want to be picked clean by lions and condors.