The Perilous Peaks of Patagonia

Several days have passed as I drifted north-easterly. I have spent this time experimenting with the baloon's mechanisms and have become somewhat adept at its control. The weather has been quite co-operative, just some small squalls that I was able to avoid by varying altitude. Finally schoals appeared beneath, and some minor islands announcing the approach to Tierra del Fuego and the southernmost reaches of the southern continent. As I sped along, the mountains and steep hills of Patagonia loomed on either side.



It was reassuring to see the green fields and increasing trees below me as I wended between peaks, carried by the drift and deflection of winds from these tall hills. I could only trust to providence in some cases, coming within an alarming closeness to some rocky ridges as I passed.



The green vales below were deceptive, as I knew they only held unsustaining scrub, so I resisted all temptation to land, holding out for signs of habitation, and hopes of a speedy rescue. This was a gamble, I felt; but one worthwhile, as tired as I was of my journeys alone.



After several hours a welcome view greeted my eyes- that of the Atlantic, and the eastern side of the Horn. It was a glorious sight as I perceived the end of these threatening peaks.



I spied a fort below, and hoped not to be seen, for I did not know if this would be a National or a pirate stronghold, but the drift held other ideas and brought me closer toward it.




Luckily the fortification seemed deserted and my flight continued uninterrupted. This was the fort near Mt. Innocence, I later found, abandoned by Spanish and later Argentine troops. Onward I went, northeasterly, out to the Atlantic now.



A day's drift later I passed some tall deserted mountain isles, then my heart jumped and I let out a "Hurrah!" for my bearings had proved true, and ahead laid before me my destination, the Falkland Islands.



The Falklands looked so welcoming- the British were here, having defeated the Argentine nation in an invasion here nigh on 20-some years ago.. 1833 I believe, and had evicted the Costa del Malvinas residents to complete their conquest (some might say it was a re-occupation, the discovery and ownership has long been disputed.)



The Falkland offered the port city of Stanley (ne Puerto Margeurita) and many of the comforts of British rule, so I looked forward to a good Beef Wellington, Yorkshire Pudding, and Oxtail Soup at the inn, being somewhat sick of salted fish. Later,I would seek out a ticket and relax during the long passage back to Steelhead.




I touched down gently in a town lea, my baloon drawing surprisingly little attention.



I lept from the craft, relieved at the feel at grass and rich soil under my feet once again.



With a sigh of thankfullness, I surveyed the town. Next- a cup of joe and a copy of the Caledon Times. My one-week sojourn had lasted nearly four. I wonder if anything of import has happened in Caledon in the last month?