About the Book
Beside a rain-swollen river in Patagonia, a man approached on a horse. His mount, a rusty red beauty, sported the short-trimmed mane and neatly squared-off tail of a well-kept horse. The man wore goatskin chaps, a woolen poncho, and the jaunty black beret typical of the region. This pair belonged to this place in a way I could only dream of.
The man stared at us. We were up to our knees in mud and dwarfed by huge backpacks. It was apparent we had money, but we had no horses.
“Por qué no tienes caballos?” he asked as he rode into the river.
At that moment I knew. I wanted to travel this country like the people who lived there. I wanted to know this place as only one on horseback could.