It’s long past midnight high up in paradise, and Atilio Csik’s hand-rolled cigarette has cast a wispy haze across his mountain cabin. Atilio washes down the smoke with a gulp of red wine, then continues to regale three eager city slickers with a patient profile of his life in the mountains.

He’s no raconteur – preferring to explain the right of public access to rivers and lakes rather than to wax on about the adventures that have coloured his 28 years in the mountains – but he plainly likes conversation. At 1:30am, with only a few amber lights still glowing, Atilio finishes his wine, and sets off to bed. He will wake up long before sunrise the next morning, setting off on one of his occasional journeys out of the mountains and in to town.

Photo By: Eric Benson

Every day of the year, Atilio’s home, a wooden cabin perched above the Río Azul, is open to throngs of hikers seeking a warm meal, mate, and a place to the rest their heads. Refugio Cajón del Azul, the public name of Atilio’s home, is set against the startling beauty of the Andean Comarca of the 42nd Parallel, a mountainous area west of El Bolsón and Lago Puelo that has become of one Argentina’s most treasured wilderness sanctuaries.

In 1960, the Club Andino Piltriquitron (CAP) was founded to help open these mountains to those who felt their call most strongly. CAP began with only a few refugios (the name given to these South American alpine hiking huts) but has now swelled to become a confederation of 11 with a network of trails crisscrossing the peaks and valleys of the region. Most of the CAP refugios are privately owned and operated, gaining entry into the CAP network based on their adherence to the group’s governing philosophies, which emphasise conservation and low-impact, non-exploitative, alpine tourism.

Photo By: Eric Benson

On an early December trip to the region, I made the trek up Piltriquitron, carelessly underestimating the snow and freezing winds at the top. I arrived back at the refugio with a growling stomach and numb fingers. Inside, I found a crackling fire, oven-cooked pizza, and the refugio’s own home-brewed beer.

Camping is all well and good, but stumbling off the frigid summit of a mountain into a cabin where you can get a hearty pizza and a few pints strikes me as the ideal mix of stark nature and rugged civilisation.

My experience in Atilio Csik’s refugio, Cajón del Azúl, was no different. Cajón del Azul lies a three-hour trek from Wharton, a place that is nothing more than a four-way intersection an hour’s bus ride from the centre of El Bolsón. The hike up is spectacular – the trail winds along the side of the strikingly turquoise Rio Azul as it cascades down from its glacial source.

Photo By: Adam Bloch

Thirty minutes into the hike, you find yourself making a perilous crossing of two bridges that, in my mind, have come to define the word ‘rickety’ (think ‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom’, subtract a few planks from the bridge and stop worrying about the crocodiles).

Once you cross these treacherous obstacles, you find yourself deep in the forest, occasionally peeking out at the river and the rest of the Comarca range as you make the steady ascent towards the refugio.

The final approach to Cajón de Azul evokes a sense of fairy-tale wonder. You’ve been navigating perilous bridges, scrambling over rock faces, and trudging up and down an endless series of heavily wooded hills, and suddenly you find yourself in a bucolic clearing with a vegetable garden, a bright green lawn, and an immaculate log cabin.

Photo By: Eric Benson

It has a perfect, somewhat eerie beauty. When I knocked on the door, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a grinning wolf dressed in an old woman’s rumpled garb.

Cajón del Azul does have its own grinning wolf, but he’s of the most benevolent sort. Atilio, with his wizened face and full white beard, has a mythic air about him that is reinforced by the romantic arc of his life story.

The scion of Hungarian immigrants in Buenos Aires, Atilio left the bustle of the city behind at the age of 27, purchased the property on which Cajón del Azul currently sits, and began a life that of rugged isolation that would put Henry David Thoreau to shame. For 12 years, he lived exclusively off the land, raising crops, livestock, and his own family, before converting his home into a refugio in 1992.

Like Refugio Piltriquitron, Cajón del Azul is a careful mix of wilderness and bare bones humanity. There’s electricity, but it depends on a series of old car batteries. The lights in the central room range from dim to dimmer as the batteries slow lose their charge. Every few hours there is a brief blackout before Atilio or one of his staff members hooks a new battery into the system. Then, the flickering towards darkness resumes again.

Photo By: Eric Benson

There are hot showers at Cajón del Azul, but they’re only available for a few hours at night. The oven is wood burning, and specialises in pouring out rich stews and warm bread – the perfect complements to the starry mountain night.

This fairy tale existence, however, is in peril. Tourism to the area is unrestricted, and in the height of the January season, Atilio has found himself playing host to as many as 280 guests. It’s his policy never to turn a hiker away, a decision that reflects his idealistic hospitality, but also results in overcrowding.

Lest anyone think that financial concerns drive this inclusiveness, Atilio says that when the place is packed, he lowers prices if he doesn’t think the experience is up to par. I didn’t need to hear this to know that the bottom line had little to do with the workings of Cajón del Azul.

When my hiking companion asked if he could buy one of the Cajón del Azul T-shirts that Atilio and his three staff members were wearing, Atilio gave a soft smile and replied that he regretted that he couldn’t please my friend, but that ‘he didn’t like engaging in that sort of commerce’. My friend was never so pleased to have been refused service.

Despite this anti-commercial posture, Cajón del Azul and the rest of the CAP refugios have embraced tourism even as worries mount that the growing numbers may compromise the area’s splendour.

Photo By: Eric Benson

“The era of massive tourism coincides with the era of greatest risk to the forest,” Atilio said in our late night conversation – he pointed to the increasing number of fires that have torched the region in the last 15 years, many due to human carelessness, and to the growing incursion of foreign plants that has crowded out fragile local species.

Protecting the Comarca from the full brunt of human development relies on the continued collaboration of public and private forces. All the land in the Comarca is privately owned, much of it by cattle and sheepherders who use the high plateau as pasture area. Yet, all of the land in the Comarca is under the stewardship of the provincial government. If a landowner in the Comarca wants to do so much as fell a tree on his property, he must consult with a provincial officials before legally carrying it out. It means a lot of hassle, but also a real commitment to conservation.

Even in this carefully controlled zone, the balance of tourism and nature is a constant concern. In the last ten years, three new mountain houses have cropped up within an hour’s walk of Cajón del Azul, threatening to inflate the already high number of visitors.

One of the new mountain houses, Refugio El Retamal, is a year-round CAP refugio that is a kind of sister facility to Cajón del Azul. The other two houses, La Playita and La Tronconada, occupy a more shadowy area in the Comarca landscape.

Photo By: Eric Benson

Neither La Playita nor La Tronconada has been granted entry into the CAP, and both advertise their presence with the commerce-promoting signs that Atilio shuns. One of the bylaws of the CAP is that refugio owners should ‘impede the creation of other similar mountain houses in the areas serviced by already existing refugios ’. It would be silly to cast the owners of these new mountain huts as crass capitalists, but their decision to do business on the mountain poses another risk to the delicate balance between access and exploitation.

While the Comarca is an increasingly popular summer destination, it’s worth remembering that its exposure to humanity is limited almost completely to a two-month window. In the winter, Atilio spends his time in almost complete isolation at Cajón del Azul, working on carpentry projects and relaxing amid the snowy splendour. The only interruptions to his solitude are visits from his daughter and the friends and neighbours who occasionally make the snowy trek from El Bolsón. It’s rare though, that Atilio sees more than 30 people in these winter months.

The fairy tale charm of the refugios of the Comarca stems from the solitude that they maintain even as tens, even hundreds, of hikers file in and out of their walls. There were 40 other guests staying with me during my night at Cajón del Azul, but as the lights flickered and the last wisps of smoke drifted off of Atilio’s cigarette, it could have been the dead of winter. These mountains, threatened as they are by human incursion, have the spectacular power to make you feel small without feeling lonely. Here, I’ve experienced joyous solitude amid the pleasures of company – a feeling that maybe only a wooden cabin on the side of a mountain can bring.