Sex After Sixty and the Younger Guide: A Hot Adventure in Patagonia
You're Too Old to Spend the Rest of Your Life on the Couch: Let's Adventure!
When things come to a fiery end, but the souvenirs are worth it
That’s Berny, above. Back when we met at the Nibepo Aike Estancia in Patagonia, southern Argentina, he was 31 and I was 62. Berny was my guide at this remote horse ranch down near the bottom of the world.
I’d signed up for a few days’ riding, including a trip with Berny to a tiny cabin nestled in a meadow at 11,000 feet. It was November, so springtime, still plenty cold in that part of the world.
It’s amazing country, and I couldn’t wait to see more of it by horseback. Berny took me out the day before our trip to put me through my paces so that he knew whether or not I could ride at all paces (I can).
Berny had a great sense of humor but he was no-nonsense when it came to the horses. However, if he saw you were a serious rider and loved your animal, you were golden.
The morning of our departure, with the clouds lowering and threatening moisture, Berny changed my mount at the last minute to a much faster horse. While that was a gesture of respect, it had interesting consequences.
What he failed to tell me was that said faster horse had a trot and a gallop like sitting a jackhammer. Combined with unfamiliar tack, that can be very entertaining. It was several hours’ ride to the cabin.
About an hour in, and far from shelter, the clouds unzipped. Suddenly we were swamped with sideways sheets of sleet. Berny, ever the gentleman, snatched off my backpack and took off, with my mount hot on his heels. The rain loosened the stirrup straps (they aren’t buckled, but tied) and suddenly I had nothing for my feet.
I flopped like a sack of potatoes on this pounding animal, desperately trying to stay on, holding the pommel like a damned rookie rider. My dentures rattled like a box of Chiclets.
Suddenly Berny veered hard right. I nearly flew off and clawed back on, not exactly the poised equestrienne. Now we’re in the middle of cow country.
The herd parted and I got pelted with cow flop all over my brand-new, very expensive turquoise Arcteryx jacket.
I made the tactical error (I make a lot of tactical errors) by calling out Berny’s name, whereupon a perfectly-timed clump of cow flop landed on my tongue. After that I kept my big mouth shut.
By the time we reached the remote cabin, Berny and I were soaked to the skin and shivering.
Well, okay, I was shivering. And I stank.
We took off the tack and loosed our mounts into the corral, then ran inside. Our cabin was nestled in a vast mountain meadow, tundra surrounding us on all sides. A small trickle of cold and very drinkable glacier water ran next to the front door.
In other words, heaven, but especially when we got out of the downpour. Getting warm would take a while but at least we could first get dry.
As for inside, this tiny cabin, with two bedrooms (sadly, we were segregated) had one great room dominated by a large fireplace. Large enough so that whoever was cooking could lean over and walk a pot to the fire.
With Berny’s help, a fire was soon merrily warming us both. Meanwhile I’d stripped off my wet duds, relieved my clothing of the cow flop and hung it all over the great room to dry, the smaller items on various bits of wood above the fireplace.
Thus settled, Berny set to making dinner. We told stories (lied), laughed, and I fell in love. Well, you know.
We had no running water but for the stream outside. It’s wickedly difficult to feel sexy when you look like a wet dog and smell like cow flop. Just saying.
God’s Country
The next morning Berny and I saddled up and headed to the glaciers. Snow showers threatened above the peaks. We tied our mounts and hiked to the high lake where we drank freshly-squeezed orange juice. We had just enough time to enjoy the view before the view started to barrel towards us.
This high up, impending snow is deadly serious. As black clouds loomed, we leapt back astride and high-tailed it back to the cabin. We skidded in just in time to get the horses back into the corral as the snow blotted out the landscape.
Did I say I was in love? Yes I did. Well. You know.
Nothing like a close call to get your “feeling dandy” up, right?
Berny isn’t just handsome and athletic. He wanders into dream territory when he’ll lug your backpack along with his. As it turns out he’s also one hell of an excellent cook.
Of course, he knows that by spoiling me silly he also increases his chances of getting a seriously good tip, right?
But who’s thinking of such crass things with all the other distractions? Cute guy cute butt sexy accent take charge wonderful manners excellent cook.
I’ll stop there. You get it.
Outside had gone dark with the snowstorm. I had my back to the warm fireplace, sitting at the thick wooden table which took up a third of the great room. I was reading, listening to Berny make lunch.
Suddenly the room lit up like fireworks. I heard a WHOOSH. I grabbed my camera and spun around, eyes wide.
There was Berny, his butt pointed skyward, staring at something burning merrily in his frying pan.
Curious, I walked over to the burning pile and studied it. In seconds I was giggling uncontrollably.
Berny looked up, mystified.
“That’s my underwear,” I choked, holding my sides.
Berny turned tomato red.
As he had walked that frying pan full of chicken and oil into the big fireplace, just enough oil slopped over to catch fire. As he backed out the oil exploded. My undies, strategically located right above the fireplace, parachuted down right next to the chicken breasts.
Berny was watching his Big Tip curl in the flames of his frying pan as my undies cooked along with the chicken breast.
“Oh my god,” he said, backing away, “I AM SO SORRY!”
“Not at all,” I gasped, as I fished my frying undies out of the oil. “You’ve just given me the best story of this entire year.
“I’m telling everybody that I had such great sex with my 31- year-old guide that he set my underwear on fire!”
Berny was able to preserve our lunch. Which was excellent, by the way. It might have been a mystery spice. Who knows.
The best spice was how hard we laughed.
About that unlucky pair of HotTotties? Those undies are the best trip souvenir ever. EVER. They’re draped over a horse statue in my living room.
As for that hot last night at 11,000 feet in Patagonia? Alas. We still slept in separate bedrooms.
Berny got his Big Tip, if for no other reason than having provided me with the best story of the year. It was worth it.
But that’s not the end of the story.
Every so often, Berny sends me an email asking if I have room in my suitcase for him.
I’m tempted. Maybe next time I don’t bring underwear at all.
Thanks for joining me for a good chuckle. I hope you got a bang out of this as much as I did writing it. If you did enjoy this, please consider
As this is how I pay my bills, if there’s room in your budget, please consider tossing pennies on my deck so I can keep dancing:
If someone you know needs a good poke in the ribs, please also consider
Life is amazing. I hope yours is. Thanks for reading.
OMG -- I've decided the Universe arranged for you to have these adventures (and misadventures) so you can share stories like this with us. I'm so delighted to be among your rapt audience. And you kept me going . . . all along, I thought Berni was getting a big tip of an entirely different nature. His loss.
Bahahaha...as usual, you had me hanging til the very end. Can't decide if I'm disappointed that it was only your undies on fire 😂 30 years difference is just a number 😁😁😁