Wood with Legs

Meks McClure · December 27, 2023

My friend George and I are in El Chaltén, a small mountain town in Argentine Patagonia, planning to try via ferrata: harnesses, cables, and iron rungs bolted into a cliff face.

We walk into a small tour office on main street, well the only street really. It's a single-room cabin, with walls, floors, and furniture all in the same warm, polished wood. Sunlight pours through the window, catching dust in the air. Two women are inside, helping us get everything set up.

They explain the route and make sure we understand what we're signing up for. Then one of them pauses.

"The weather," she says, "especially the wind, is very important."

So they don't actually book us. Not yet. They take my card information, but explain they'll only charge us the morning of, if conditions are good.

"Knock on wood," the other woman says.

They both reach out and knock on the wooden wall beside them.

I do the same, naturally, and knock on the gleaming wooden table in front of me.

"No, no, no," one of them gasps.

George and I stare. "What?"

"You can't knock on wood with legs," she says.

She points at the table.

I look at the table.

I look at the wall they'd knocked on.

I look back at the table.

"Wood has spirits," she says. "That's why you knock on wood. But not wood with legs."

She pauses.

"If it has legs, the spirits can run away with your luck."

"So never tables," her friend says. "Or chairs. Or stools."

George looks down at his chair and grins.

We thank them, finish up, and head out.

Going down the steps, I catch myself brushing my hand against the wooden railing and pulling it back.

---

The next morning, we're up early: packed, ready, excited. We step outside our hostel dorm into the sharp morning air and set our things on the picnic table.

My phone rings.

"Hi..." says a familiar voice from the office. She sounds out of breath. "We're so sorry. We have to cancel today."

There's been a fire at the farm. Horses broke loose in the chaos, and everyone's out dealing with it. No one left to guide. No excursions today.

The call ends.

George and I look at each other.

"Well," I say.

"Yeah," he says.

We both look at the table.

Then George laughs, and I join in.

"Alright," he says, already pulling out his phone. "Let's see if the others are still on their way to Cerro Torre lagoon."

---

We catch our friends on the trail, and George, still amused by the whole morning, recounts the story of the table. "You knocked on a table?" Izzy says, shaking her head at me.

At the lagoon, chunks of glacier float in the pale blue water. I step barefoot into the shallows. The water is so clear that I can see the goosebumps forming on my submerged calves.

But the whole time, somewhere in the back of my mind, I keep thinking:

Maybe you really shouldn't knock on wood with legs.