You step off the minivan onto a moss-soft trail and the city’s hum falls away. The wind here smells of cold water and resin; lenga and coihue trees lean together like old friends. Your guide folds a map into their pocket and points up—just beyond the next stand of beech is a lookout that opens onto Nahuel Huapi Lake, its arms named Triste, Blest and North reaching into the Andes. The ascent is patient rather than punishing: a well-formed path, roots and stone to negotiate, with patches of sun that warm cheeks even in the shoulder seasons.