In no time at all, as our personnel carrier slowly wound its way up a vertiginous mountain pass, the fog dropped. The temperature dropped. It was freezing hard. Ice crystals festooned the roadside vegetation. And we were in trouble. Looking back now, perhaps it wasn’t as serious as it seemed at the time. We unexpectedly stopped. And after a few urgent brief words with someone at his window our driver leapt out. Then raced back down the track we had come up. Carrying a warning sign. Upon his return he informed us that a lorry had gone over the edge and down into the void below. Our company went all quiet as the reality of our situation came home to us. We couldn’t go forward. We couldn’t go back. It was bitterly cold. There was no radio transmitter. And we had no food on board. In the event the truck hadn’t gone off the road but had jack-knifed across it. Blocking it completely. It was sheer good fortune that this primitive highway was being widened and that down in the valley below there was a construction camp. And some heavy earth-moving machinery. The articulated lorry was eventually pulled straight and the small log jam of assorted vehicles finally got moving. It is through this pass that car transporters slowly and carefully wend their way up and over. Carrying new cars which have arrived in Argentina by sea. From Japan. And which are headed for Paraguay. It was one such vehicle that had jack-knifed on the freezing mud coating the surface.

Descending uneventfully into Purnamarca was a relief to us all. One Englishman. Two Maltese. Six Argentinians. A German. And a Swiss national. Who just happened to be married to a Portuguese woman! We dropped off the elderly German and his Argentinian son in law at a little hotel at the bottom of the pass. Convoys of lorries were parked up waiting to cross the mountains. By night. When the road would be clear of casual traffic like us. It must be a nightmare journey for them. Even for experienced drivers. By now I was drinking Cedron tea. Taking electrolytes. And of course Loperamide. Eating them like sweets! It was 8 pm before we arrived back in Salta. It had been a long day. The others went out for a meal. I stayed within two strides of the lavatory. The door deliberately left ajar. It was safer that way. We were flying back to Buenos Aires in the morning and I don’t have the stomach for flying. At the best of times! We, "The October Meeting" as someone once called the four of us, had pigeon business to sort out before retiring. A telephone call revealed that there had been two 375 mile races taking place simultaneously that very day. One from the North. The other from the South. With a ten-bird limit on each. And that Jorge the loft manager for Pistorio and Gole (Giancarlo and his partner) had sent to both. With the same tired birds that I’d seen on my arrival in Argentina. And had clocked several good pigeons from one race. After 11 hours on the wing! Plus a couple from the other direction. One of the things I’ve noticed about pigeon racing in Argentina is that the recovery rate from hard races is much more rapid than over here in the UK. It must be something to do with the environment they are kept in. The full-time management? The climate? The feeding? Or perhaps they know something that I don’t?

Sunday was a beautiful morning. As our flight was not until 1 pm we wandered about the indoor market. And generally loafed around in the sun. Drinking and eating. Well some of us did. A fresh orange juice was all that I dared risk. The flight landed in Buenos Aires at about 5 pm. Coming down quite alarmingly amongst the high-rise buildings and very close to a main road. With seemingly not a lot of room to spare. But that was probably just me worrying too much! The end of what was roughly a 5000 mile trip. After saying our goodbyes to those who had done the entire journey with us, we booked back into the Waldorf Hotel and set off for Carlito’s place. The pigeon men gather there every Sunday night. In Carlito’s welding shed cum workshop. A bit like my old cabin. We weren’t disappointed. A group of eight people was already assembled and the multi-lingual crack was brilliant. No beer. Just mate tea and Coca-Cola. And pigeon talk is pigeon talk the world over. We couldn’t stay for long as we were due to eat at Giancarlo’s home. Where, although I didn’t know it, yet another celebration of my birthday had been set up. A king-sized, hand-made birthday card was fixed to the outside door. I was treated to piano and recorder playing. And singing. Not to mention an excellent meal. Served with the best wine in Argentina. All this in the company of a lovely family unit. I was amongst friends. And there is nothing better than that. Plans were made by Joe and Giancarlo for us to eat out the next night. With some of the men from Carlito’s shed. And several other pigeon fanciers that we had met in our three previous visits to Argentina.

It was our last full day in the country. And we had some shopping to do. In Buenos Aires crossing the road is not exactly a risk free enterprise. Not with nine lanes of traffic bearing down on you when the lights change. The technique is to be very quick.Very patient. Or very dead! We scoured the bookshops. Looking for books in English. On Perito Moreno for me. And on Argentinian cuisine for Joe. Then we put Joe’s digital camera in to be downloaded to disk and to kill time we went by taxi to a very fashionable area of town. Down by the quay-side. To have a look around the best Italian restaurant in the city. La Cabana Los Lilas. And I mean look around. Eating there was out of the question. For more than one reason. Although we did get an escorted tour of the premises. Thanks to Giancarlo.

The civil police. The naval police. The army. And private security firms, all carry guns. When we were in the Internacional Gems and Company premises, where Charlie was buying a couple of small amethysts for his wife, the armed guard inside the shop never took his eyes off us. Or his hand off his gun! It is easy to understand why. A few hundred yards up the road from where we were stuck in a traffic jam a bank had just been robbed. In broad daylight. By a person or persons armed with a hand grenades. Threatening to throw them! We lunched at a roadside restaurant, La Tronchera. Where I left all but the bread chips strictly alone. No meat. Why spoil the beginnings of an alimentary comeback? Aerolineas Argentinas jets taking off from the city airport roared overhead every twenty minutes. We were on route to Giancarlo’s loft. Then on to Carlito’s place And to the headquarters of the Federacion Colombophile Argentina. To purchase the pigeon medications that the three of us considered that we needed for the coming season. In addition to those already acquired from the Jockey Club Veterinarians! I have never seen pigeons in better condition than those in Argentina. And I don’t expect that I ever will. They are just so physically good that it is almost unreal. And I expect medication comes into the equation. Somewhere along the line!

We met for our farewell dinner. There would be about 10 of us. All pigeon men and the conversation was brilliant. Joe, being multi-lingual, held court. In full "Guru" mode. So I took to having a bit of fun at his expense. And why not? He does it to me often enough. They all do. In polite circles it is called taking the mickey. In Geordie-Land we call it something else! If you haven’t heard "It’s a hard life being a Guru" sung ,sotto voce, to the tune of "It’s a long way to Tipperary" you haven’t lived! As we pored over the result of last weeks races the banter was exactly the same as you would get in any pigeon club. Anywhere. Jorge, the loft manager responsible for sending the Pistorio /Gole birds to the races in the absence of both partners, was being hailed as an absolute genius. And Giancarlo (Gole) in turn was being referred to as someone completely surplus to requirements. Likewise his absent partner! That is pigeon racing. No mercy given. No quarter asked.

Despite my best endeavours I still haven’t completely worked out the official racing programme in Argentina. For example, on the weekend after I left they were running two 650 mile races. Simultaneously! One from the North (Cataratas) and one from the South (Zapala). With a two bird limit on each race. 680 miles is about as far as the birds go, with up to 300 members taking part. The normal entry being somewhere in the region of 6,500 to 9,500 birds. I have been there when they have been running as many as four races on the same day! All at about 280 miles. With 200 plus lofts competing. I am pretty sure that they have about 45 races a season. Which lasts about six months. And that at least 15 of these races are over 400 miles. That the birds all race spare. To the perches. That the hens are notably successful. And the cocks spectacularly unsuccessful. I don’t know why. And neither do they! Rings are freely available in August and the youngsters don’t race until they are about nine months old. When I was there in late October most of the youngsters that I saw had been just been weaned off.

It was another memorable holiday. Time flies. And as you get older it seems to go quicker! Take it from me. I am now very conscious of its passing. It does not seem like eight years since I retired. The best eight years of my life. Reaching the age of 65 is a milestone in anyone’s existence. I have mostly enjoyed the ride. And I am reasonably content with the way things have gone in my private and professional life. As well as with my years in the sport. I have made some good friends along the way. And I am looking forward to the next 65 years. All the same, when celebrating my 65th birthday, "The Fat Welder’s" words kept running through my mind. Someone had once said to him that "80 is a good age." "80" "The Fat Welder" had scathingly replied "is not a good age. It’s a bad age. 21 is a good age." You can’t argue with that!

ROD ADAMS. Postscript

Now I am no great believer in coincidences as such but how about this. Steve Grose from Exeter wrote to me saying that my articles about travelling in South America had reminded him of a man called Sebastian Snow who had once lived in an old peoples home owned by an uncle of his. About 20 years ago. This man, Exeter born into a wealthy family, had travelled on foot from Cape Horn to Panama City. The first white man to do so. He had intended to walk all the way to Alaska, 15,000 miles. Carrying everything he needed in his rucksack. But gave up after 19 months and 8,700 miles! The Indians had referred to him as "the man in the rucksack." He had also rafted down the Amazon. Steve had been enthralled by Sebastian’s tales of his travels in South America. A country he loved. I knew straight away who he was referring to. Mr Sebastian Edward Farquason Snow! I used to read a daily national newspaper which published accounts of his journeys shortly afterwards. With the bit now firmly between my teeth I searched the internet. And there it was. A book written by Sebastian Snow. Called "Rucksack Man." After I had ordered the book. I rang Steve up. He mentioned that Snow had once been married to a beautiful Italian countess, the Contessa Letzia Bizarri and was a great friend of the mountaineer Chris Bonnington. Godfather in fact to Bonnington’s children. And that in one of Bonnington’s books there was a picture of Snow fording a river. It just so happens that I have most of Bonnington’s books. Not because I have, or have ever had, any aspirations to being a mountaineer. Far from it. I am terrified of heights. But because Bonnington is a fine descriptive writer and an excellent photographer. Who was writing about places that I would have loved to have visited. And showing the world, via his photographs, what he himself had seen. I found the book I was looking for. "The Next Horizon". And there it was. Pages 200 to 220. Several photographs. Confirmation of all Steve had said. And more. Amongst other details it was stated that Sebastian Snow was an old Etonian. Had written three books. Explored Lapland on a motorbike. And was "One of the last of a fast disappearing breed of gentlemen explorers." A "Victorian amateur" whose "eccentricity and neuroses" hid a rather special man. Steve thinks Sebastian Snow died about three years ago. Alone and sadly forgotten. After failing as a chicken farmer. And after a spell in a mental hospital. I shall check out the exact date and circumstances of his death. Thanks to Steve and his library searches I now have practically enough information to write a book about the man! I am currently in the process of finding out even more about this rather remarkable and independent individual. Who had, according to Bonnington, "a whimsical sense of humour and a special organisational ability perfectly geared to the elaborate etiquette and principle of manana (leave everything until tomorrow, in the absolute confidence that tomorrow will never arrive), which dominates all dealings in South America." As it indeed does. ROD ADAMS.