Salta to Cafayate: Quebrada de las Conchas, Devil’s Throat & Wine Tasting

4.95

(152 reviews)

What’s the experience like?

Someone passed around a plate of crumbly alfajores before we’d even left Salta—powdered sugar everywhere, people laughing quietly. I remember the driver humming along to old folk songs on the radio as we rolled south on Route 68. The air smelled faintly sweet, maybe from the tobacco fields outside Talapampa where we stopped for coffee and a stretch. There was this older man selling empanadas out of a cooler by the bus stop—he winked when I tried my Spanish (not great), then handed me one anyway. Warm, salty, perfect.

I didn’t expect Germany to be so tiny—five families and a couple of faded railway signs. Our guide, Marta, pointed out how the tracks used to connect all these little villages; now it’s just silence and wind. Then suddenly everything changed: red cliffs started rising up around us, crazy shapes in the rock like someone had sculpted them on purpose. The Quebrada de las Conchas is wild—at Devil’s Throat you can hear your voice echo back at you, which made everyone try it (some louder than others). The Amphitheater felt cool inside, almost damp compared to the sun outside. I kept running my hand along the stone walls—they’re smooth in places, rough in others, like time did its own thing here.

By midday we were in Cafayate itself. Lunch was loud and slow—grilled goat for some, pasta for others—and then came the Torrontés tasting at a vineyard just outside town. I’m not really a wine person but this one tasted like flowers and citrus at once; even Marta seemed impressed. We wandered through rows of vines with purple grapes hanging low enough to touch (I may have snuck one). After that there was an hour or so to wander around Cafayate’s plaza—kids playing soccer barefoot, women selling woven bags under jacaranda trees. I bought a tiny bottle of dulce de leche that leaked in my bag later but honestly worth it.

The drive back felt quieter somehow. People dozed off or stared out at the fading light over those painted hills—I kept thinking about how old everything is here, how much has changed and how much hasn’t. You don’t get that feeling everywhere.