A thin, cold wind moves through the coihue crowns as the group sets off from the transfer van—light crunch of gravel, the smell of damp leaf litter and a horizon of serrated peaks sharpening above the lake. The trail climbs steadily from a modest trailhead near Cerro Otto, threading through a forest that looks older than the town below: trunks ringed with lichen, trunks bowed by snow, understory alive with low ferns and the furtive calls of birds. After two to three hours of steady upward walking the ridge opens, and for a moment the hard work falls away beneath a panoramic sweep of Bariloche’s lakes and volcano-carved summits.