I found that moment, November of ‘04 (several times) and our journey to Argentina began.

May 10, 2005 Arkansas and it is climbing into the mid-90’s. Walking under trees has become hazardous (ticks) as has walking on the grass (chiggers). We are surveying our ranch for the last time; empty sheep and goat pens, empty pastures where the horses had been, the pine covered ridge that  formed a barrier to the chicken house smells, lastly to the hill where my favorite cat was buried... Time to move on.

Our caravan consisted of a truck + car dolly, and the Uhaul rental truck. My wife Brandi and daughter Sierra and I were driving to Portland Oregon, a mere 2100 miles away to return family heirlooms and meet a Delta Flt on the 18th. No more than 4-5 days of driving - sort of a farewell tour of my life, growing up in the Midwest, moving to the West coast when I was 11, then on to Portland and a mini family reunion.

Lots of loose ends tied up nicely.

Selling everything you own-down to six, 70 lb boxes, that the airline would allow you to take was an education. A favorite guitar, the bed that I will always miss, all the pets, animals, tools, toys, books and music, 5 TVs, “Susie” my ’85 short bed 4X4 truck, all gone to new homes. It had taken a lot of ‘things’ to fill our lives. Now we were stripped down to the basics (only 2 computers) and looking to fill up our lives with different experiences, people and things. Starting with that last look at the ranch, we locked the gate for the last time at 1:30 and headed for Kansas, and beyond.

The Uhaul truck had looked a little shaky when we picked it up but we were assured that we had 2100 trouble free miles ahead. “I just checked the oil and water and you probably won’t need to add anything”. The radio didn’t work and the AC fan cut out as we left Russleville. We drove 50 miles home and the next day added 1.5 qts of oil.

I should have thought...

But we had just loaded a houseful of heavy furniture...

The battery light flashed a few times as we left Arkansas, entering Missouri. Sometimes the battery light syncopated with the “check engine” light but everything was running the as usual: little power and very loud going up the slightest grades. After a few bumps I noticed there were wires hanging down from the dash but the radio had begun working. The truck drank lots of oil - 3qts - from Arkansas to the Nebraska line; after which, we didn’t need another drop.

A mile past Potter, Nebraska, all the engine lights came on and there was an ear shattering BANG. I radioed ahead “Mayday! No Power! Going down!” and pulled over to the side of the road with the engine banging loudly. I turned off the motor in order to breathe.

I was born in Lincoln, Nebraska. I had almost made it through the state to Wyoming, where I grew up. I tried to find a pattern in these facts as I waited for the mechanic to come. I sat in the lee of a hill and listened to the prairie wind blow.

The mechanic came, and connected a lot of wires and charged the battery. We needed an alternator. He didn’t have one - we would have to go on to Cheyenne for that, and besides he had only three fingers on his left hand - ”put my hand where I shouldn’t have” – so he couldn’t have changed the alternator. “You’ll make it to Cheyenne, now” he promised.

We did make it - rolling - to the “Port of entry”, 6 miles short of Cheyenne, Wyoming. The mechanic had to come from Loveland, Colorado, but he did have the alternator, and even figured out a way to solve the mystery of several different size, metric and common bolts, to install it.

The next day we made it to Provo, Utah before we broke down. I had found the battery laying on the posts and tied it down with a couple of plastic bags - don’t leave home, without one - but the entire wiring harness was a mass of shorts and had to be extensively reworked by the mechanic over 2 visits.

We were feeling very good to be entering Oregon, finally. A few more hours and we would be in Portland and I promised myself - "No more driving". I was planning to give up my license and leave the driving to others, who still enjoy it.

The mountains are pretty in this part of the country but the long upgrades and dancing with 18 wheelers is no fun in an underpowered moving truck.

The “service engine” light came on and blinked off. Sometimes after I hit a bump, it would blink on and off for a few seconds or minutes. Going down hill, trying to gain momentum for the uphill, the lights would all blink and the engine would lose power, briefly. Then on the Looong downhill on Hiway 84 as I passed a slow truck, all the lights flickered and the RPMs began to fall. No Power! I had a truck right behind me and another beside me. The emergency lights wouldn’t come on. The truck beside me was going the exact same speed. Headlights behind me were blinking. My service engine light finally came on and stayed on as I put the truck into neutral and hoped gravity and the skill of the other drivers would save me.

It was so quiet in the cab - just the whistle of the wind... 

From above, the scene must have been very graceful as the trucks swooped around the slow-rolling, moving van.

“Goin’ down...Again” I radioed.

Then, all chance of an accident past, the RPM’s climbed as the familiar tired roar of the motor returned. My speed increased to 40 then 50mph.

I could have just gone on to Portland, if it wasn’t for my knees.

We get to Mum’s, hurriedly unpacked the truck, kissed cheeks, slept a couple of hours, kissed cheeks again and drove to the airport. Our six hernia-inducing heavy boxes are sent scurrying to the plane. We are stopped, however, because my very fragile, classical guitar is a problem. The carefully negotiated deal with the airline to ‘carry on’ my old friend has disappeared. Finally a 100usd later, (holding 3 $50usd coupons good for a Flt I will never take) we are escorted to the gate. I am wondering if our boxes and my guitar will appear in Atlanta then Buenos Aires, but as we collapse into our seats, all things are in the hands of Delta. We slowly sink into a fetal position: the plane taxis for the runway.

But wait there is a Problem! 

With the engine! Imagine...engine problems...

One begins to seriously consider the condition of Karma at this point. Particularly when “Goin Down” has an important new significance.

We must return to the gate; perhaps to “de-board” or maybe to just wait in our seats. Should one take this as a cosmic hint and wait for another flight (on a functional airplane) or are the demands of schedule so much that you just hope for the best...

Our one hour connection window, for the Buenos Aires flight, is down to 15 minutes. The International Terminal is more than a mile from the Domestic Terminal where we will be disembarking. A flight attendant (who’s pension hopes have been dashed that day) kindly adds “ You’ll never make it - you have to go by train”

But a few minutes later the guy waving the feathers and flowers by the wing is satisfied that the plane will leave the ground to become someone else’s problem, and we are cleared for takeoff. We are “Expedited” due to our late departure. Less than 20 minutes later we are in the air. The aw-shucksy captain announces “There is a tailwind - this is good news- we will make up time”(And Thanks for ‘choosing’ Delta). A few minutes later as the Steward is mopping the drink remnants that he spilled on my shoulder and sleeve, he explains, “the tailwind has turned into a headwind and we are going to be arriving a little bit later”. (And thanks for choosing Delta???)

In Atlanta, we run for the shuttle train and against all the predictions, we make the plane. I doubt either the boxes or my guitar have made the connection (an unusual number of guys named “Vern” work for Delta).

On United Airlines there are small ‘seatback’ monitors and a choice of 6 movies to get you through the 11 hour flight. On Delta, there are several semi-obscured screens with a Jim Carrey movie, unless you don’t like him, in which case there is a Steve Martin “Family” movie with a dog that talks. 

Half awake after no sleep, complete exhaustion, and Jim Carrey ‘overload’ we deplane in Buenos Aires (finally, with all our boxes AND my guitar). Customs is never fun when you are carrying boxes the size of small trucks and you cannot remember a single word of Spanish. So, we are stopped in customs for carrying a lot of “Illegal” stuff, like computers and chef knives. My Mexican influenced Spanish and the Agent’s Extraterrestrial flavored ‘Castellano’ will never meet in a single’s bar.

You don’t have return tickets. What is that all about he seems to be saying. Suspicion abounds. The Agent begins calling people over.

He is holding our passports like they are now evidence.

“Where are you going?” someone asks.

Bariloche is not the answer they are looking for. Other passengers are now watching our little human drama. When are you going back to the United States? I knew that my answer of, “not for the foreseeable future (maybe never),” was not going to fly.

Quite a crowd of the tallest, most robust, customs fellows were now surrounding us. Passengers from our flight and a few passer-bys stare with that pitying look reserved for criminals, caught and about to be brought to justice.

“We will continue on to Chile” I try to say. Silence...

Then, All the agents break into Big smiles. Our passports are thrust into our hands as the Agents turn to one another (no doubt remarking, how the Notoriously Scrupulous Chilean Customs service will have us over a slow fire in minutes).

I notice several hands ease away from holsters.

Welcome back to Argentina.

A blur of a night in Buenos Aires and we catch the “semi-cama” bus to Bariloche. These double-decker buses are completely different from the ‘grey dog’ buses in the States. Seats are comfortable and lay down almost completely, with a leg support panel that locks into your seat. You really don’t mind being on a bus for a few hours (unless you are 6ft tall or more). Meals and drinks are served, just like on a plane. ‘Two tray’ meals are served. A cold first, then a hot tray. I was concerned about the sway of the upper deck - but not to worry - it was very comfortable. Very “first world.”

The on-board bathroom was strictly 3rd world. There was a mysterious fluid splashing about, that smelled terrible and stained everything it touched blue - if you were a boy, green if you were female. I drank very little after my first visit to cut down on my participation in bathroom use. I will be forever haunted by the accusatory eyes of the passengers on the lower, bathroom level, seating. Blankets (complimentary) pulled up over the nose-and just those tortured eyes staring at me...

Around 3AM - or as I say - the moment I fell asleep - there is the sound of someone spilling an ice-chest. “Everyone lift your feet” I holler as I try to figure out where the hell I am. As luck would have it a rock or stray bullet has exploded a 4ft by 2ft window in the rear of the bus. The closest passengers begin to complain about the sub-freezing temperatures, and our 20hr ‘excursion’ becomes a marathon 23 hrs, as cardboard boxes and tape are used to effect a repair. With the dawn we depart from our route to change busses.

Our six elephant-like boxes make the exchange as we watch, and we are off.

My hopes of being met in Bariloche, with a truck that can hold and transport our herd of boxes and limp bodies are shattered as we run hours and hours late.

Stories were circulating in Buenos Aires that a freak snow storm had dumped 60cm of snow in Bariloche. Planes were not flying and we would probably find the entire population in a state of panic and misery. We comforted ourselves with the thought that we would NEVER make this trip again. The depressing ‘flat prairie to the horizon’ view began to change. We could see a mountain, clearly, in the distance. Signs listed Neuquen - the Capital of the state of Rio Negro. Finally there was a sign with Bariloche on it!

There was snow, but it just made the mountains look more beautiful. So even though we were speeding toward personal destruction, it was wonderful to have made it back to the Andes again.

A sign announced “21km Bariloche” and we turned from our reverie and began to wonder, what in the hell we were going to do. It was freezing outside; we had several boxes the size of musk-oxen, that needed to be transported to an address we hadn’t gathered yet. This was serious! Blindfaith in our friends and associates was not going to get us home warm and dry. The thought of carrying the boxes even a few hundred feet left me staggered.

A cell phone behind us rang and a young female began chatting with a concerned friend about her late arrival. Suddenly she is at my side, thrusting her phone at me saying “su amigo, Matias”. Our welcoming committee had tracked us down- they looked through the passenger list for someone they knew, who had a cell phone, with a number they knew, so that they could call us and tell us everything was all right. A truck to carry the boxes, and a warm car waiting for us at the station.

Less than an hour later; while standing in front of my first home in Bariloche, I watched Cerro Cathedral peeking out through curtains of mist.

The next day as we rode the “urbano” bus into town the transmission failed. As the driver pulled over to the side of the road, he looked up at the mirror, to see our faces...

“Not your fault” we said...

The following are the previous articles that Doug wrote for the magazine:

• Invest In Beauty ~ Thoughts On Argentina
• A Little More On Living In San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina ~ Escaping To Patagonia 
• Living In San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina ~ Real Estate And Life In Bariloche