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with canned goods left over from the summer season. [[handwritten insert from left margin]] We had asked at the Parque if there were not some place near Llao Llao where we could lunch & Mr. May said "No - only places where the workmen eat."  "Why couldn't we eat there?" asked Bill.  "Oh they wouldn't have anything except beefsteak & potatoes." [[/handwritten insert from left margin]]  At a nearby inn, called the Hostelleria de Caballo Blanco, we were able to lunch heartily off sardines, roast beef and cheese, and then drove home, through a beautiful forest, where red masses of quintral and pale, fresh bunches of Spanish moss festooned the trees.

We all took a walk into the village, about a mile from the Parque Hotel, and bought ourselves berets, or gurras, Argentine style.  The muddy streets and the low frame buildings, with more horsemen than chauffeurs on the road, give a real impression of a frontier town.

In the evening the local photographer, Kalbschmidt, brought over his movies of ski-ing in the nearby mountains, and we all wished we could see this country under snow.

[[underline]] May 31 - Bariloche [[/underline]]

It was cold when we awoke, and had been raining.  there was fresh snow on the mountain.  We went into town again, as much for the walk as anything, and came back through a hailstorm that bit for a few minutes.

We drove over to the Newberys in the afternoon, a good road that gave us a series of beautiful views over the pale grass, the yellow neneo clumps, the blue water and the purple hills beyond.  There were many birds to be seen, and we saw [[illegible strikethrough]] a hawk, an eagle and a caracara actually sitting side by side on a fence rail.

The Estancia Newbery consists of 40,000 acres, on which graze 15,000 sheep.  Mrs. Newbery now runs the place alone, as her children have grown up and left the ranch to seek their fortunes in the city.  She has a tremendous amount of vitality and spunk, and took a great deal of pleasure in showing us around the house, which is the oldest one in that part of the world, a simple but comfortable block house.  Her husband, George Newbery, who dies in 1935, was an artist as well as a dentist and rancher, and she gave each of us one of his water colors.  Ours is a view of Trafull, a nearby mountain which he painted repeatedly.  He, together with a son and a grandson, are buried on the place, and simple granite crosses carved out of local stone, mark the three graves which lie at the foot of a great outcropping of rock.  The simplicity of the last resting place of the man who loved Patagonia so much, is very touching.

We had a grand tea, with hot buttered scones, pound cake, home made jam and cherry brandy, and then went fishing with Jim Newbery and Sam Wagner.  Sam is another local character, and another Texan, who has been here more than thirty years but has not lost his Texan drawl.  In the winter he works as a mechanic; in the summer he is guide to fishing and camping parties.  He knew just where he could get a trout, although it is really out of season, and we drove over narrow trails to the banks of a rushing stream that was part of the Newbery property.  Sam made two casts and