In search of the west

The cab rattled its way up the rocky mountain track at a speed its suspension really didn’t seem to be enjoying. The three passengers laughed nervously at each other as the driver, apparently some sort of amateur rally enthusiast, whooped and cheered his way round the corners, gleefully kicking up clouds of rocks and gravel in his wake. “Estancia? Por favor?” we’d asked in our best Spanish accompanied with mimes of horses. He seemed to understand and a phone call later we were rapidly on our way out of Mendoza and towards the Andes. We were late he explained, the gauchos were already out on a morning ride, but they had agreed to accommodate us, provided we could get there quickly and would stay for lunch. None of us were sure what to expect exactly, but at 300 pesos each we were happy to find out.
Arriving at a ramshackle series of wooden stables nestled high on the hillside, we were motioned towards a withered tree, bowing under the weight of a few dozen rough looking saddles. A young gaucho in an equally rough looking hat hurriedly greeted us with a broad but toothless smile. Without another word we were ushered onto horses and led up a meandering path that would take us further into the mountains. After a few minutes, presumably satisfied none of his party had fallen to their death, our guide increased his speed with a few encouraging noises. Apparently we were still late.
After half an hour of white knuckles we met up with the other gauchos sheltering in a dry river bed before making our way towards lunch. We approached a makeshift shelter and a long wooden table standing in the middle of a dusty plateaux, a spot the family eat when the weather allows. As the parrilla was fired up, we had chance to fully appreciate our new surroundings and the lifestyle we’d been presented with. In one direction a blueish haze hung low over plains dissected by the Mendoza River and the furrows of the local vineyards, in the other, the white-walled family home and behind it the mountains reaching high into a clear sky above. We sat and washed down chargrilled meat and potatoes with generous helpings of red wine and marvelled at the almost geometrically perfect series of triangular peaks of red rock blanketed in thorny desert shrubs.
Lunch sadly over we mounted up once more and explored a little further before the falling sun marked time to return to our friendly rally driver, who we found in the midst of repairing his cab in preparation for whooping us back to the city.