I wonder if it’s becoming redundant for me to mention the wind, once again. Are you sick of hearing about it, dear reader?
But one can not think about – let alone write about – Patagonia without having the wind to consider. Especially during springtime, when it’s ever-present.
Last night, the wind woke me at 3:30am, rustling the trees out my window, sneaking through the cracks in the walls, making the roof shift and rustle. It took me hours to fall back to sleep, my mind twisting and turning with the gusts.
On the news this morning, an alert for hefty winds was announced for all the provinces of Argentine Patagonia. The west wind is expected to reach 60-80 km/h, with gusts reaching even higher numbers. Hold tight!
I finally rolled out of bed this morning and headed into town early, sleepy, to run errands. I bumped into a friend in front of the bank, and as we tried to make our way down Calle San Martin, traditionally the windest strip in town due to the funnel effect of two tall buildings, the two of us howled at the wind as it blowed our hair to smithereens and ripped down the street all around us. It was pushing us, lifting us, just hinting at making us feel crazy.
The wind in Patagonia is romantic, it’s melancholic. It can give you a headache and it can be exhilerating. It’s just there.
But it does complicate things, making it nearly impossible to go paddling on the lake, to work in the garden or to go fly-fishing (three of my discarded tasks from yesterday).
When it starts to really get to me (and it does really get to me after a while) I remember one of my all-time favourite songs by Cat Stevens: “I listen to the wind, the wind of my soul.” There is freedom in this kind of wind, a desire to just throw it all into the wind, so to speak. To let go.
But while you’re letting go, you are tightening up. Before I go to bed tonight, I’m going to take extra efforts to batten down the hatches.