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[[newspaper article, left side]] One-Time Texan Is Now Patagonia's Chief Mechanic HE Can Repair Anything; Just Climb Mountain and Holler 'Sam' By W. H. SHIPPEN. Jr., Star Staff Correspondent. ^[[47]] [[image - W.H. Shippen, Jr.]] BARILOCHE. -- I's an illusion of course, but I get the idea that Patagonia is practically knee deep in Texans. For instance, there's Samuel Wagner, "the Patagonian mechanic," a jack of all trades --- Mule skinner, Gaucho fishing guide, boleadora artist, truck driver and rancher. "But my real profession is Patagonian mechanic," Sam said. "What's a Patagonian mechanic?" "Wal, a Patagonian mechanic carries his machine shop in his hip pocket -- a pair of pliers and 2 yards of baling wire. He can make anything go, from a sewing machine to a balky mule. If you get stuck, call on Sam Wagner." "How?" "Just climb a mountain and holler 'Sam!' Somebody will pass the word along!" Sam, 6 foot 2, raw boned, homely, weather beaten, good natured and keen on the scent of a joke, is one of the most popular men in a wide region where characters stand out like landmarks. "Everybody likes Sam," an old acquaintance said; "he has no enemies -- none to speak of, that is, and they're the sort any man should be proud of!" Brothers Have Cleared Out. Sam arrived in PAtagonia at the age of 7. It's hard for him to speak English, now that he's 40 and more, but the words he remembers betray his origin. Sam has nine brothers, most of whom returned to the Western United States, and are doing well, but Patagonia is good enough for Sam. The big Texan knows every fish in the Lake Nahuel Huapi region by first name; he knows the favorite haunts of land-locked salmon, the swift water where rainbows lurk and the riffles likeliest to produce a speckled trout. He helped to introduce the trout from North America. The other day, when we called at a local estancia, Sam offered to take us to a nearby stream and show us a fish. "We'll just hook one and throw him back," Sam said, "the season's almost -- but not quite -- over, especially for fishermen who have come so far. The trout are spawning now, but I know where a few hang out which haven't changed their spawning season yet." It seems that the trout sometimes confuse their spawning periods when transported from the Northern to the Southern Hemisphere. We drove across the grazing lands to the banks of a limpid, swift-flowing stream. Sam made one cast and reeled in his spoon -- nothing happened. On the second cast a 2-pound speckled trout took the lure. Sam played the fish out of the rapids, landed him, took the hook from his mouth and held him up for a photograph. Then he tossed the fish back. "We use that size for bait!" Sam said. "My 7-year-old daughter wouldn't fool with a small one like that. I had to make her quit catching 14-pounders, though, after one pulled her into the creek!" Refuses Money as Guide. Sam refused to take any money for guiding us. He said he got fun enough out of watching me cast a light spoon to repay him for the trouble. "Well, then, take something for your daughter," I said, "put it in her savings bank -- she seems to be a better fisherman than you are." "That will go into her educational fund," Sam said. "I want her to be able to tell fish stories in three languages!" I offered Sam a cigar. He stuck it into his pocket. "I have a thousand cigars," Sam said. "Everybody I take fishing gives me a cigar. Four ambassadors have given me cigars!" "Wait a minute," said Zoo Director William M. Mann, "if you're accustomed to the cigars of ambassadors, be careful of one a newspaperman gives you!" "That's all right," said Sam, "I don't smoke!" [[end article]] [[newspaper article, right side]] Lake Nahuel Huapi And Andes likened To Pre-Tourist Alps Peaks Seen Far Away As Waves Foam on Beach; Water Keeps Its Dead By W. H. SHIPPEN. Jr., Star Staff Correspondent. ^[[47]] [[image - W.H. Shippen, Jr.]] BARILOCHE. -- "Switzerland before the tourists moved in!" That's what travelers say of Lake Nahuel Huapi and the surrounding Andes, especially during the off season. Glittering pinnacles emerged from the morning mist today, whitened to the timberline by last night's snow. Across the lake white caps slashed at the granite base of the Andes. Just under the windows of our little Alpine hotel waves come foaming on a rock-strewn beach. The crests of mountains 50, 60, 70 miles away, far over the border in Chile, were etched clean against the blue sky, or blotted out by snow clouds. The lake, with its shifting moods of color, was a study in itself -- blue, green, violet and all the clear shades between, subject to the whim of scudding cloud banks and the depth of the sparkling water. The lake can be cruel as well as beautiful. Its ice-cold waters are reluctant to give up the bodies of its victims. Bodies Suspended in Lake. Fisherman drowned in sudden storms, bathers caught by cramps, or persons unable to swim who have fallen into deep water from time to time -- their bodies are still in the lake; not many of them, its true, since they represent the usual casualties of a sparcely-settled waterfront community, but enough to impart a certain eerie quality to the water. The body of a drowned person finds a level 30 or 40 feet below the surface and the icy water prevents decomposition -- the chemical process which ordinarily brings a corpse to the surface. But who brought this subject up, anyhow? Last night a moon approaching the full imparted an unearthly radiance to the snow-clad heights. A storm blew over the lake, shutting off the white light as suddenly as the closing of a door. The wind a struck hard against a grove of old cedars already bent and torturously growing away from the prevailing gales. On stormy nights in spring and fall one hears faint detonations, like distant blasts of dynamite, from far-off Cerro Tronador -- Thunder Mountain. The echoes can reach 70 miles after wind and thaws send avalanches roaring down into glacier-filled ravines. The early Jesuits believed the thundering was caused by volcanic action within the mountain. Crevasses Buried Climbers. Crevasses in Cerro Tronador are the tombs of three famous Italian-Alpine climbers who failed several years ago in an attempt to scale the heights. Only three men have won to the top of the mountain, one an Argentine and the other two from Europe. The granite mountains rise sheer some 12,000 feet above the surface of the lake. Crowned by cathedral-like spires and rock castles, the peaks trail plumes of snow in a gale. Low clouds flow at the mountain facades and stream up like inverted cataracts. The timber line begins at our hotel on the lake. In one direction stretch dun-colored hills, crowned by rim rock -- typical "Texas Panhandle country," where sheep graze in the valleys and outcroppings of basalt are weird freaks of erosion. In the other direction, towards the Andes and Chile, natural forests cluster at the base of high granite peaks. Just at this season a native tree called "niri" is turning russet and gold in the autumn frosts. It grows in great quantity and forms a vivid border between the white above and the green below. The tourist trade is growing here. Hotelkeepers mine gold from "them thar hills!" [[end article]]
