They ate and drank some coffee, and from the meadow they climbed and climbed some more, finally arriving at a rustic hot springs—the Cuihuío Baths—where they would rest and spend the night to prepare for the next day’s push over the Lilpela Pass. At the baths, they saw what looked like broken-down stables. They entered one and saw large tree trunks burning for heat, smoke escaping through cracks in the roof. They saw mountains of local cheese and several men lying near the fire, grouped together like sacks. In his Nobel lecture, Neruda described what happened next:
In the silence, we heard some guitar chords and the words of a song, which, out of the flames and the darkness, brought us the first human voice we had heard since beginning the trip. It was a song of love and longing, a lament of love and nostalgia to the distant spring, to the cities from which we had come, to the infinite extension of life. They did not know who we were; they did not know anything about any fugitives. They did not know my poetry or my name. Or did they? What happened was that by that fire, we sang and ate, and then we walked in the darkness to some rooms. A thermal current of volcanic water passed through them, and we submerged ourselves in this heat that came from the mountains and brought us to its breast.
We swam joyously, submerging ourselves and cleaning off the weight of that long ride. At dawn, when we traveled the final kilometers of the journey that would bring me to where my country ended, we felt fresh, reborn, baptized. We left on our horses, singing, full of a new air, a breath that pushed us toward the great world journey that awaited me. And I remember vividly: when we wanted to give the people of the mountain a few coins for their songs, their food, the water, the beds, and the roof over our heads—the unexpected shelter we had found—they refused our offering without even a gesture. They had done what they could for us, and nothing more. And in that silent “nothing more,” many things were understood; perhaps acknowledgment, perhaps dreams themselves.
They started up on horseback again the next morning. The path through the valley was beautiful, surrounded by great green hills, but it was full of obstacles. They frequently had to cross fallen logs, and the forest growth was so thick it impeded their progress despite the Flores brothers’ efforts to clear the way ahead of them. At one point, one of the brothers said that a curving incline ahead was particularly steep and narrow, and that it would be best if Don Antonio dismounted and went on foot for a bit. The word didn’t get back in time, or perhaps it was ignored. Neruda advanced sitting poorly in the saddle, without leaning forward to help the horse as it climbed. Everything happened quickly, and Bellet saw Neruda’s horse fall to the rocky ground. Neruda was fine; he had been able to break his fall somewhat by holding on to a tree as the horse fell. But according to Bianchi, the horse’s face was bloodied, a piece of its tongue torn.
There was no choice but to continue on, but, as Bianchi wrote in his journal about the trip, “the wound set the poet’s sentimentalism loose a bit, and soon that wilderness was witness to the most unexpected scenes of tenderness, in the midst of a fugitive’s flight out of his country. Pablo caressed his horse, lavishing comforting words and promising not to ride him for the rest of the trip.” This led to an absurd argument, with Bianchi and Bellet insisting that Neruda continue on horseback, and Neruda saying it would be ignoble to ride the horse. The poet finally gave in, and they rode on.
Despite sometimes struggling to breathe at the high altitude, Neruda didn’t let up. They were nearing the Lilpela Pass when all of a sudden Neruda’s horse lost its footing, rearing back and staggering to the edge of the path they were following. “Jump off!” Bianchi yelled, just before the horse fell on its back. Neruda managed to fall into the brush. He was tired and shaken, but unhurt. He sat on a rock and, when he finished wheezing, said, “You know, the last time I crossed the cordillera I kept complaining about how uncomfortable the Transandino train was!”
They made it through the pass and felt relief upon entering Argentina and descending into the valley of the Huahum River. The first main post on the Argentine side was at Hua Hum, next to Lake Nonthué. Bellet showed the authorities documentation for everyone in the party, including the Flores brothers, and a forged one for Antonio Ruiz, the ornithologist accompanying them. Bellet had a letter of safe passage from the Valdivian police that identified him as an administrator of an important wood farm. He explained that the trip into Argentina was for business purposes and that the Flores brothers would wait for them on the west side of the lake, taking care of the horses.
Lake Nonthué is the northern arm of long Lake Lácar. The party crossed the first few miles south by boat and then changed vessels to head due east for about fifteen miles, before they arrived at the shore of San Martín de los Andes. The stunning greenery that surrounds the lake was tinged by hues of the setting sun. They went immediately to the Hotel del Turismo a couple of miles outside of town and rested well. Bellet planned to meet the Communist compañero from Buenos Aires at nine o’clock the next morning.
But when Bellet went into town for the rendezvous, he found no one. So it
