As hospitable as the Argentinian Andes get

"Would you do this again?' I asked Neil as we packed up our tents on a stony plateau near Aconcagua, the highest mountain in the Andes. In January last year, he was my companion on a ride in the hoof prints of General San Martin, the great liberator who passed this way in 1817 on his mission to free Chile from the colonial yoke. Neil, an inexperienced horseman, reviewed long days in the saddle in temperatures of 35° Celsius and bone-chilling nights on the rocks in minus-10. He shuddered. "I think I'm better suited to glamping," he replied. I'd never heard of glamping, but when I had the chance to try it a year later, I was quick to sign up for a walk-in tent with a real bed, a communal dining room with real chairs, a shower block with hot water. No more crawling into a micro-tent, crouching on a rock to fork down rapidly cooling pasta or squatting to wash in a freezing stream. Why resist? Sergio Cernadas, a Buenos Aires native with a passion for high places, established Nuestra Tierra (Our Land) in 1999 to organise regular cabalgatas (horse treks) with nightly stopovers. A decade later, he decided there was a market for a more permanent arrangement. His clients already rode horses provided by Armando and Lalo Escobar, brothers whose family have grazed their flocks on Andean summer pastures since the 1930s, so all he needed to do was pick a spot in their domain and set up glamp. With the help of six men and an army of mules, he transported tents, furniture, cooking utensils, crockery, shower units and toilet bowls from the road head at Las Loicas, two hours west of the small town of Malargue, over barren mountains to Guatana. After 25 gruelling days, the camp was ready to receive its first guests. It lies at 2,400m on a sandy plateau above a grassy, flat-bottomed valley. Sergio chose the site for the vast rock that contains a cave kitchen. In winter, when the valley is under 3m of snow for at least four months, everything that moves is dismantled and stored inside it. Like many riding holidays, this was a sisterhood event - six women from Buenos Aires exploring parts of their country they'd never seen before and one London-based reporter whose Spanish was not really up to the task of following their rapid exchanges. On the first ride from Las Loicas to the camp, we crossed a moonscape overshadowed by towering sandstone cliffs, terrain that underlined the ambition of Sergio's vision. En route to camp, we stopped for the first of several delicious Nuestra Tierra picnics on a grassy bank by a stream, the only oasis of green during the day. Three mature condors with wing spans up to 3m kept watch as Sergio sliced and distributed pionovo, a sweet cake roll with a savoury filling named for Pope Pius IX, a worthy tribute to papal taste. I felt the condors agreed, but Sergio was quick to correct me. "They'd prefer to have us," he commented. An alarming start to the siesta, but as condors are carrion eaters rather than killers, I didn't allow it to interfere with my sleep. At the top of the final hill above the camp, Sergio paused briefly. Below us, the sand lay steep and deep in the evening sun. "You have two options," he said. "Follow me or take the easy route behind the pack mules." Then he turned abruptly and rode tall as his black horse sank up to its belly in the shifting sands. I followed his wide loops, rising and falling in the rhythm of the descent like a skier in hip-deep powder. The sisterhood followed gamely. Though most were novice riders, they were always up for everything the adventure had to offer. We arrived in camp on the adrenaline high that follows a challenge conquered. The Escobar brothers take it in turns to lead Sergio's groups. This was Armando's week so he had to field the sentimental questions as he unsaddled his horses, hobbled them and set them free. "What are their names?" we asked eagerly, patting necks. He shrugged, bored by the need to tell city slickers that his horses are workers, not domestic pets. "No names, never any names," he replied.