Argentina’s Rio Grande flows into the Rio Colorado. Familiar river names to those of us in the Western USA, but different continents. Still, the continents share similarities. The Rio Grande in Argentina is a picture of eastern Idaho, with even less people and less pavement than Salmon – Lemhi country.

We launched on the Grande amid dogged horseflies in an aggressive wind, fostering doubts about this Rocky Contos recommendation. A dozen miles of class III wave trains delivered us to a sheltered bug-free campsite. My skepticism vaporized.

Contos’ trips continue downstream into the Mojave-esque desert of Mendoza Province. Govi and I took out after three days on the upper river, at a village called Bardas Blancas. A rest day from kayaking was due, and the high Andes were calling.

Camped beside a tumbling stream near Las Lenas ski resort, looming crags compelled us to scramble toward a striking gendarme on the skyline.

What we anticipated as a two-hour walk became a five-hour odyssey.

From 11,800-feet, I spied peaks above the Las Lagrimas Valley—Valley of Tears. This is where the storied plane crash and survival epic of flight #571 occurred in 1972. Scrambling through those barren peaks, I gained some small perspective on the heroic escape hike that brought the survivors rescue.