By the end of the first day we had had to dig the truck out of a rushing stream on a snow-covered track at 14,000 feet in the Andes, push our way down miles of dirt road that had become rivers in the torrential rains, and finally found ourselves, late at night, in a $12 room in an obscure mining town called San Antonio de los Cobres.

My travel partner and I were in the northwest corner of Argentina, at the top of what Argentines call the "mythical" Ruta 40, stretching 3,000 miles from the Bolivian border down the west side of Argentina, through Patagonia and east to where the Strait of Magellan meets the Atlantic. It took us, in our rented Nissan four-wheel-drive pick-up, 11 days. By the end, we knew we'd done one of the world's finest road trips, harder than we had thought it would be. Definitely not, as the limited literature available had indicated, for a conventional vehicle and not, as the country's departing president, Nestor Kirchner had once pledged, mostly paved.

It's a trip of "Oh, my God," as we would come around a bend to see a brilliantly hued strata in the cliffs ahead. Days of endless desert vistas rising toward the Andes, the peaks snowcapped even in mid-summer. Days when we'd encounter perhaps four other vehicles in a half-day's driving. Days when it was hard to breath in the icy winds blowing above 15,000 feet. Evenings of startling sunsets as the sky and clouds in the thin mountain air changed from blues and whites to reds and oranges.

One early morning start came to a sudden halt on the dirt road above the Rio Calchaqui, 20 minutes outside the colonial town of Cachi. A huge flatbed truck coming the other way, loaded with a large bulldozer, had slipped its rear wheels off the road on a sharp turn and was hanging precariously over the edge, completely blocking the narrow road. It took the men in the truck all morning to dig themselves out before we could be on our way.

North of Cafayate, as our necks twisted in every direction, the road led into the Quebrada de las Flechas, where wind and water over the eons has carved the sandstone statues of pinks, yellows and browns in a chess board-like array of sculpted figures. It was that night that we came into the town of Belen, not at all surprised after days on the road to find that all the hotel rooms in town had been taken for a weekend festival, That night we found beds in a "hospadaje," a private home with beds rented out by the night. Big spenders, we paid $6 per bed to have a room to ourselves, still sharing the bathroom down the hall with the occupants of two other rooms.

The day before coming into Mendoza for a touch of R & R and the luxurious accommodation of the country's wine capital, the route had led us high up, the pickup laboring up the mountain on a narrow, rust-colored track with a shear drop-off. The truck's traction, even in four-wheel drive, was precarious. And there was no guardrail. My hands on the wheel were becoming sweatier and sweatier the higher we went, even through the view to the river and rocks below tried its best to draw my gaze before we topped out at the magnificent Cuesta de Miranda and then dropping down to spend the rest of the day crossing deep fords in the rivers of the high plateau that crossed our path.

A trip like this always has its detours, its pauses, and Ruta 40 is no different. Just south of Mendoza we ran into a lengthy halt on the paved highway. Surrounded by green fields, orchards and vineyards, a large crowd blocked the highway peacefully, singing and holding placards in a protest aimed at a nearby mine. Just to the south, we turned off the road for a typical midday pause in the hamlet of Sosneado. We drank a glass of wine and chatted with owner-barkeeper Edmundo Aznares in his tiny store/bar, with its beat up pool table, scarred wooden floors and shelves with wine, soap and toilet paper.

The open country of the south is marked by long miles of desert pocked by dark volcanic cones, the occasional small farm protected by rows of poplar trees rising from flat grazing terrain. For a while, the road meanders along the rim of the gorge of the narrow yet fast-running Rio Grande.

Once, we detoured west into the Andean foothills to the idyllic valley of Cholila. It was easy to see why Butch Cassidy, Sundance Kid and Ethel Place had chosen the valley for their ranch. Raising cattle went beautifully for the former members of the Hole in the Wall Gang until they were accused of pulling off a robbery which — this time, at least — they hadn't done and were forced flee the cabin they had built above the river. Shredded and dilapidated though it is, we were fascinated to be able to walk through the cabin ruins, look up through the holes in the roof and take pictures of one another in the doorway.

Further south, we turned east to walk the ancient rock paintings at Cueva de las Manos, where more than 800 handprints, interspersed with animal drawings, are preserved in the overhanging cliffs high above the Rio Pinturas. The nearest accommodation, at Bajo Caracoles, is as humble as they come, but we passed time before dinner drinking cheap vodka with Claudio, the innkeeper, shared a bathroom down the hall with the rest of Claudio's guests and dined together on goat ribs and fried potatoes washed down with red wine.

The road south from Bajo Caracoles through Patagonia goes on seemingly forever, more than 200 miles with nothing but a handful of ranches where sheep and goats are raised.

At the first town, if fuel is on your mind, the conversation at the "gasolinera" is likely to go like this: "Got any diesel?"

"No, Senor."

"When will you have some?"

"Next week, Senor, maybe."

Always, we had learned early, find out where they're likely to have diesel. Ask around, talk to the truck drivers.

The ranches in the south have become even larger, with spreads of more than 200,000 acres rolling away to each side. Yet the western Argentine wildlife has not lost its footing — an armadillo crawling across the road, flocks of baby rheas fleeing through fields led by Mother (or is it Dad?), flocks of llama and guanaco grazing alongside the road.

Then the battered Nissan, covered with dirt and mud, we ourselves not much cleaner, are jumping on the edge of the cliff at the foot of the lighthouse at Cabo Virgines. We throw our arms around one another, yelling, "We've made it."

David Goldman is a freelance travel writer. To find out more about David Goldman and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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