It's 10 o’clock at night and we are gathered around a table in a leaky tent in the middle of the Andes while thunder reverberates around the mountains.
Dinner has just been served; it is what could be described as a one-pot wonder, some sort of meat, lentil and vegetable concoction cooked over the gas by an Argentinian gaucho.
He, like most in the tent, does not speak English but we get by with smiles and thumbs up. It is surprising how much communication and understanding can occur without actual words.
Outside, the rain pelts down and there is talk of snow. Our accommodation for the night, a pop-up tent, is a mere pinhead in this vast landscape and we retreat to it after several warming whiskies, unsure what the next day will bring.
But there is a calmness in this landscape. It is a feeling that is indescribable. One might imagine what the Andes is like, all towering peaks and vistas for Africa, but to feel it is something else.
Our horses and mules have disappeared, filling their bellies before they are rounded up the next morning and saddled and loaded up with literally everything plus the kitchen sink.
Sleep surprisingly comes easy and the pitter-patter on the thin nylon, the only thing which separates us from this extraordinary world, has ceased when the new day breaks. The day is fine and clear. Welcome to day 2 in Argentina.
"Sal, have you ever wanted to go riding in Argentina?" The question is posed by my friend Lucy in one of our regular chats last year. "No," I reply simply.
But that offhand comment gnaws away at me. Maybe it is the milestone birthday year (40 plus 10 as I like to say), or possibly I just need to get away from it all.
Whatever the reason, something stirs in me and I immediately start the modern-day equivalent of trawling through travel brochures; I get online and become bamboozled by the options.
While not sure exactly what we do want, we do know what we DON’T want — a tourist-style ride where there is an hour or two sedately riding through flat paddocks followed by lounging around the pool. We want authenticity.
Life is all about connections and connections are quickly made with an Argentine couple who recommend Emilio from Manzano Adventures who takes treks over the Andes. The Andes? Now that’s more our style than a poolside cabana.
Our adventure begins in Santiago, Chile, where we arrive in late January with our backpacks packed with the bare minimum.
Conscious that all our gear will be carried by mules, we have endeavoured to travel as lightly as possible while also ensuring that we are covered for all elements.
Wool proves to be my best friend from top to toe; this is a blatant shout-out to Kiwi brands West Ridge (best-ever jersey), Mons Royale (for tops, long johns and buff) and Swanndri (long pants and socks) for unparalleled warmth and comfort.
We are to follow a historic route over the 4300m Portillo de Piuquenes Pass, once used by General San Martin and his army in their quest for independence, and one of the most famous mountain passes in the country.
One of the great architects of South American independence, San Martin is a figure still deeply revered more than 170 years after his death and there is a sense of historical importance in following in his path.
Leaving the city behind, we head to the Yeso Valley, passing the massive El Yeso reservoir about 100km from Santiago which is the city’s source of drinking water.
Home for the night involves pitching a tent next to a rustic yard full of horses and mules. The camp is also home to some police officers patrolling the border, who shoot pool while we drink South America’s famed red wine from metal cups.
The vista is enormous and we can see a glacier, which we will get closer to the next day as we climb to 4100m to cross the border into Argentina. Somewhere out there are 13 missing horses, which a father-and-son team of huasos have gone searching for.
They eventually return with the mob and we are encouraged to choose our horses for our first day’s ride — but only until we cross the border, when we then swap to Argentine horses, gauchos and gear.
Once the horses are settled, the younger huaso — apologetic for his lack of English — pulls out his phone and proudly shows us images of him and his beautifully turned-out horses on parade and we reciprocate with photographs of our own horses and farms.
This gentle man tells us he has never been to New Zealand — nor does he want to. Despite riding to the Argentine border, he has never actually been to Argentina and he is content with his huaso life in Chile.
That night, we fall asleep in our little tent to the sound of a jangling bell worn by the lead horse to identify where the herd is as they jostle around the yard. Tomorrow, we set off on the ride of a lifetime, Emilio’s first Kiwi customers.
As he helps me mount my horse, Huaso Junior flashes a reassuring smile. The horse is owned by his father and, as we leave the camp at a sedate pace — getting accustomed to this new horse and a saddle which is very different from the stock saddle I usually ride in — Huaso Senior gives it a whack or two on the backside to hurry it up.
We head along the valley floor and then we head up. Way up to cross the border into another country, which seems utter madness.
I have so much respect for these horses, their sure-footedness and fitness — no blowing or sweating — as they pick their way up through the shale.
And as for the mules which are carrying all our gear? I can confirm that they do indeed kick like a mule, and have minds of their owns.
But I develop a deep fondness for these tough, quirky little characters, who continue a way of life that has existed for thousands of years.
Sadly, that way of life is under threat as I am told that they are being targeted by animal rights activists who want to halt their use as pack animals through the Andes. To what end, I wonder.
We reach the border for some quick photographs before meeting a group heading in the reverse direction to share lunch, a celebratory mug of bubbles and swap horses and huasos/gauchos. The altitude hits me but thankfully only briefly.
That day, we get our first glimpse of Andean condors soaring high above us, and we also spot some guanacos, the wild South American member of the camel family.
In the far, far distance, amid the mountain tops, we see our destination on the third day; the Portillo Pass — and it seems hopelessly out of reach.
In the meantime, we make camp alongside a stream before the rain sets in and take refuge in the shelter, enjoying the camaraderie of people we mostly cannot understand, yet feel a connection with.
Mate is passed around, there is dulce de leche to spread on toast. This is authenticity and, for the moment, life is perfect.
The next day remarkably dawns fine. Ablutions are done in the stream and horses and mules are rounded up. Today, we are taking a mob of horses and mules with us down the valley, passing amazing mountain formations.
We also pass a memorial in the middle of nowhere to a dead gaucho and I tongue-in-cheek wonder if he was hit by a falling gas bottle from a passing mule train.
We had a few issues today with loads coming astray but we made it intact, swift river crossing included, to the military refuge Real de La Cruz.
A significant location for those undertaking the historic crossing of the Andes, it is usually home to three stationed there over the summer.
But numbers swelled the day we arrived with the arrival of mule-riding personnel from the Argentine Army heading to the Chilean border, accompanied by a jovial priest from Buenos Aires who pulled his guitar out that night for a sing-song.
Mules play an important role in the army and these were magnificent beasts, some part-Percheron; big, strong animals. I liked the one that looked to be carrying a drench container of red wine.
Becoming accustomed to the very different dining habits in South America, we ate home-made pizza and pork belly with blue cheese melted on top about 10.30pm before retiring, while the singing and laughter continued well into the night.
Opening the tent fly the next morning, we see piles of saddle blankets and sleeping bags slowly stirring, as the gauchos make their beds in the open air.
Today, we leave the mules and spare horses behind to follow as just Lucy and I, our fellow riding companions Avril and Sofia, guide Tim and gaucho Tito head for the Portillo Pass.
We climb up out of the camp and spend the next eight hours in the saddle and my admiration for the Horse With No Name — as I have dubbed my steed — continues to grow.
These horses have been raised in the mountains but that does not make them immune to predators in the mountains. Emilio shows the scars on the face of his own mare, Agatha, who has already lost two foals to the Andean puma, or mountain lion. Such deaths are common but Emilio has never seen a puma.
As we climb towards the "door" of the pass, we are encouraged by Tim to take it slowly to reduce the effects of the high altitude.
I look over at where we have come from and at the sheer drop just inches from the trail. It would indeed be a bad time to suffer from a bout of vertigo.
And then we are at the snow-covered top, where the Virgin Mary is waiting, behind a thick wad of gaucho scarves, to grant the wishes of those who pass.
It is extraordinary to think that in the days before rail and road transport, cattle were driven over this pass — and were even shod to make the journey. On the descent, we see the remains of stone yards where they camped.
We also see signs of the beginning of a short-lived project to drill a tunnel through from Argentina to Chile, and other ambitious projects that have foundered for whatever reason, no doubt many financial.
We are greeted at Dead Mule Camp by Nino, who owns many of the horses, bearing welcome cold bottles of soft drink, along with lucerne hay for the horses and mules, which caught up with us towards the end of the day.
We enjoy Argentine beef, cooked on an open fire, for dinner, washed down with more good red wine. It has been a long day and we head to our tent, before Tim appears in the darkness to tell us that Feli, one of the gauchos, is leaving early in the morning with the mules and wants to say goodbye — and have a dance.
Declining the dancing option, we promise Feli, via Tim, that we will be up in plenty of time in the morning to bid him farewell.
Next morning, our merry band begins to go its separate ways as we make our way out of the mountains and towards suburbia. Tito breaks into song, his voice and the sound of hoofbeats all that is in the clean mountain air.
We encounter a road and eventually traffic. We are now in a national park area and it is popular with recreationalists, including rock climbers. Riding up to an immigration stop and hitching our horses while our passports are stamped is a novelty.
Ironically, the Horse With No Name — who has not put a hoof wrong during the ride — shies suddenly when a cyclist zooms past from behind.
Eventually, we ride into Manzano Historico, a village in the heart of the Uco Valley. The end comes brutally fast and we are loath to ride into the yard that signifies the end of the adventure. Surely we could just keep going?
The horses are quickly farewelled and eight slightly dishevelled-looking souls head into the small town for lunch at a local restaurant.
This quickly becomes a revelation. There are toilets! That flush! I feel out of place with my dusty boots and hat hair as we are lavishly welcomed and seated for an exquisite meal with matching wines.
I suppress a giggle when Maury and Tito, the two remaining gauchos, still wearing their traditional gaucho garb, down to the spurs on their boots, eye the beetroot gazpacho with suspicion.
Too soon and it is time for farewell hugs and Lucy and I are in an air-conditioned vehicle bound for the leafy city of Mendoza, about 120km away and noted for its wine and olive oil production.
It’s back to playing tourist; clean sheets, Google translations with shop assistants and pounding the pavement in 35degC heat while exploring our new neighbourhood.
From there, and slightly reluctant to leave such a safe and pretty place, we continue the tourist adventure in Buenos Aires.
From El Ateneo Grand Splendid, named by The Guardian as the second-best bookstore in the world and housed in a splendid theatre, to the presidential palace Casa Rosada from which Eva Peron famously addressed the people from its balcony in 1951.
We walk, we eat gelato, we walk again, we eat gelato again, and we admire an extraordinary city full of history, colour and people. There are even basins to clean our teeth in, instead of a stream.
But there are no cries of "Salleeee, Luceeee", no braying mules and no smiling gauchos and this country girl knows what she prefers.
We visit the grand Metropolitan Cathedral of the Most Holy Trinity in the city centre and marvel at its beauty. In a mausoleum reachable from the right aisle of the church, and under guard by the Grenadiers, we silently pay our respects to General San Martin, whose remains were brought from France in 1880.
Would he ever have imagined that, more than 200 years after his birth, people — including two Kiwi girls — would continue to follow in his bootsteps?
And when our adventure does finally come to an end and we begin the long flight home — me smug in the knowledge I have somehow managed to squeeze a Hereford cowhide into my backpack — we fly over the Andes and marvel at the sprawling ranges below us. We rode over those mountains and it wasn’t just a trip. It was unforgettable.
