Villa O Higgins to El Chalten

The crossing into Argentina begins with an early boat from Villa O'Higgins, ferrying you accross the lake of the same name and past the glaciar of the same name. The trip takes nearly all day and is particularly special because of it's unique access to such a remote huge glacier and it's many icebergs. Unlike the other more accessible glaciers in Patagonia, with organised excursions aboard 300-seater catamarans, there is only one boat on this lake, and for the 20 or so people on board, it is possible to experience the remoteness and isolation of the Campo de Hielo Sur, the vast southern icefield.

After saying goodbye to Holger and Karin (they were heading back into Chile) we disembarked at Candelario Mansilla, essentially just a farm and a border post with a jetty, and began inquiring about horses for rent. As there are no roads here, and even the horse track is very bad in sections, we needed the animals to carry our bags over the 22km pass to Laguna Del Desierto in Argentina, whilst we would push our bikes. Unfortuantely the horses were all being used to round up cows so we camped for the night at the farm and set off in the morning.

The crossing begins with a long switchback climb giving amazing views of the huge lake dotted with icebergs. When we reached a high saddle, we got our first view of Cerro FitzRoy nearly 30km away, the surreal granite spire that manages to look from every angle like a painted backdrop in a fantasy film. We continued along a high forested valley between snowy hills until we crossed the border, marked only with sign in a clearing, and began our very steep descent into Argentina. The route was only difficult in certain places because we had been exceptionally lucky with the weather, but we still had to carry the bikes accross a few streams, bogs and fallen trees. The route was unique so far this trip because of it's limited access; you really are the only people in the forest as there are no roads in or out, and the only people who use the pass are those few occasionally crossing the border. We had been told to expect the worst of this crossing but we found it to be a beautiful empty and remote valley with fantastic views into both Argentina and Chile.
At Lago El Desierto, you pass Argentina immigration and catch another ferry to the start of the nearest road taking you into El Chalten. The boat was late however and arrived at the southern shore after 8pm, just as the sun was setting. Camping at the lake was an option discussed, but the lure of a warm bed, a steak dinner and a bottle of red wine was too tempting however, so we set off for a 37km ride through the mountains, over an unmade road, lit only by moonlight. We rode fast and reached town by 11pm and the ride turned out to be amazing, and not as scary as we had thought; the full moon made it possible to see the bigger potholes, rocks, and even the hares and skunks crossing the road. The snow doesn't seem to dim at night and whilst the moonlight doesn't penetrate the forests, it lit up the mountain tops all around us. Reaching El Chalten, a small mountain town overrun with climbers during the summer, we threw our bags into a hostal and went for a 400gram streak and a good bottle of red each. Bienvenidos a Argentina.

El Chalten is incredible because of it's access to the FitzRoy area of the Parque Los Glaciares. All of the trailheads start from the centre of the small town and within a few hours you can be high in the mountains surrounded by crumbling glaciers and lakes, safe in the knowledge that you can get back to a warm bed and a steak dinner that evening, instead of a cold bed and mosquito-rice under canvas. We only had time for one trek here so we walked to the base of Fitz Roy itself, and had possibly one of the finest views of the holiday. Our luck with the weather continued and it was warm enough at the top to fall asleep in the sun on a big rock under the glacier. Sunburn.


Back in Chalten, we had a big farewell meal with some friends that we had been bumping into on and off since Villa O'Higgins. We would see Joan again as he was following a similar route south until Puerto Natales, so it was just 'hasta luego' to him.

Day 47: Candelario Mansilla to El Chalten: 57km

Stage 3, Leg 3: Coyhaique to Villa O'Higgins

Our 'day off' in Coyhaique followed the usual format of being busier than a cycling day, shopping, cleaning clothes, internetting, and fixing the bikes. For the last week both of us had experienced problems stopping on the steeper descents and realised that we had absolutely no brake pads left, so these were top of the list. The bike shop in town was excellent so I was finally able to replace my broken front racks. Catherine has politeley offered to continue using my botch-job repair rather than buy new rear racks, although I suspect that it's because she plans to spend the money on pisco sours.

We said goodbye to our Chilean tourer friends that we had being seeing on and off since La Junta, as they headed back up north from this point, but we bumped back into James again, the Canadian from the Futaleufu border crossing, so it was nice to catch up about the last week of travelling.

We decided to change our route slightly, so the next morning we headed towards Puerto Ibañez on the northern shore of Lago General Carrera, where we would catch the ferry to Chile Chico and cycle the southern shore to rejoin the Carretera Austral at Cruce El Maiten. The idea being that we would save ourselves a few km of cycling, and would break the journey a bit with a lake crossing. The journey out of Coyhaique is the same either way, at least for the first 100km, so we enjoyed a rare but great day of paved roads and beautiful high, lush dairy pasture in wide forested valleys. With the paved surface came a welcome return to the long distances, and we covered 120km, but the route included a 2km vertical climb, so nothing comes for free. James caught up with us during the day so we cycled together for a while and after the last climb we were treated to one of the best views of the trip: Cerro Castillo. As the road twists sharply downhill, you enter a wide grassy basin surrounded by huge snow-capped mountains, crested with granite crags and spires that resemble the battlements of a castle (hence the name).


The road was a cyclist's dream with wide swooping turns and a serious camber, making it feel like a downhill velodrome (we clocked another 70km/hr today). The feeling of leaning into the curves on this road was as close an experience as you could get to skiing or boarding on a bike I imagine.

This elation lasted until we arrived at Puerto Ibañez, one of those places that you never wish to return to. There are some boring reasons, but the life has gone from this place ... and it's inhabitants. I'm not feeling charitable towards them because their tourist office gave out the wrong vital info about the boats, and the woman in the actual ferry ticket office lied and told me that there were no spaces available for at least a week. I assume that she was at a crucial point in her favourite soap opera and didn't want to be kept any longer than necessary. Thanks again to Joan who arrived later that night (after swapping his doomed trailer for panniers), as he had reserved 3 tickets from Coyhaique whilst he was waiting for the mechanic. The only reason to be in Ibañez is to catch the ferry; thru-traffic seems to be their life-blood, and the idiots managed to get the departure time, availability of tickets, and the method of acquiring them wrong. Argentina was charmingly haphazard at times but Chile seems to be frequently and frustratingly inept.

As the ferry left at 6pm the following day and not 10am as we had been told, we had a day to kill here, so we made the best of it with a lie-in at the camp site, a cooked breakfast and an asado for lunch. We were amazingly lucky with the weather so I was also able to top up my sunburn under a blazing sunny blue sky. The meat was great; ribs and a whole beef roasting joint cooked for two hours over a wood fire. Bananas and chocolate for dessert.

The boat trip was definately worth the wait. Lago General Carrera is the second largest body of fresh water in South America and is cut north to south by the international border between Chile and Argentina. It widens to the west, where it almost looks like an ocean, whilst to the west it narrows between huge snowy ranges fringed with clouds. The day we crossed, the water was like a mirror, and it created amazing reflections of the sunset. The best part however was the fact that the captain had dressed his son up as a mini-captain, complete with navy blazer and silver stars. The power had obviously gone to his head and at one point he held Joan's nose until he admitted to smuggling beers on board. The precocious little tyke even spoke solely in nautical terminology, and when we reached land he asked if we could disembark to 'tierra firma'. He was 8. We half-heartedly tried hitching along the southern shore but no traffic was passing so we stayed in a prison-like, but friendly, residencial.

The rain poured down the next day and didn't show any signs of getting better. We decided to stick with the motorized transport option, so we asked around for a bus or taxi that would take us to Puerto Tranquilo, the launch point to see the famous marble caves on the western shore of the lake. We found Fernando and he drove us along a spectacular but challenging stretch of road that we almost wish we had cycled. Almost.


We woke early the next morning to visit the marble caves but the drizzle hadn't stopped. We sat in wet plastic ponchos on wet plastic seats in a wet plastic boat. The marble caves were amazing though and the weather eventually cleared a bit to allow the photos to not look too depressing. The water has carved huge caverns out of the marble and they are patterned with the natural stripes and colours of the rock. All of this is reflected in the milky glacial water of the lake, illminated by the white marble floor bouncing the light back upwards again.

After the trip we set off cycling south at around noon after two and a half days off the bikes. The route around the lake was as challenging and spectacular as the section that we had decided to miss out so maybe no time was gained after all. The day brightened and we had spectacular views of the lake and it's mirror reflections of the surrounding mountains.

We camped at a farmhouse next to the amazingly green Rio Baker. The owner let us sleep in a barn with a fire pit, so we were toasty warm and out of the drizzle that came with the evening.

The next morning we cycled past expensive fishing lodges on a bumpy rollercoaster road following the rio Baker south. Catherine briefly terrified me by telling me that she saw a ghost on the road; a cyclist wearing all black, approaching me whilst I was turned to talk to her. Needless to say it was probably a horse, but as I wear all black most days I spent the rest of the day convinced that this was a premonition of my falling off a cliff into the river. Having another painful fall from my bike shortly after, on a fast section of downhill, was not helping me feel any more secure. Both me and Joan fell hard today and we all seem to have our own particular style in falling. Catherine's specialty is usually falling on gravel, landing face down with the bike mostly on top of her; Joan has nearly mastered the art of leaping frog-like from his bike when he senses a fall is iminent (he only comes unstuck when a foot gets tangled in his bags); and I have been practising the 'bronze-gymnastics-badge' forward roll over the handlebars.

We eventually entered Cochrane, the last town of any real size (bigger than 500 inhabitants) on the southern Carretera Austral. It has a real 'last outpost' feel but was nothing compared to the towns to come. We had lunch and passed through quickly as we wanted to break the back of the 130km to Caleta Tortel, the next town. We stopped in the woods for the night, shooing the cows from our site, and lit a fire. This was another idyllic camp on a mountainside next to a fast-flowing stream, and we even cooked sausages on the fire, skewered onto tent pegs driven through a log. The night was clear and the stars were excellent that night. I still had nightmares about Catherine's vision though.


We still had 100km to reach Caleta Tortel the next day, something we hadn't yet done on ripio road so we left camp early. The road was only to get more lonely and isolated but this was our first real taste of true Patagonia; absolutely nothing but a dirt track winding through wilderness. We cycled though wide glaciated valleys, through thick forests, and along narrow ledges hugging the steep cliffs. Very little traffic passes, just a handful of trucks in 10 hours on the road, and there are no sounds beyond the wind. Unfortunately the lovely silence was eventually broken by a contender for 'idiot of the trip', an Aussie cycle tourer heading north with two Swiss cyclists. I'll say no more than he talked almost continuously about himself and even described himself as 'an animal'. The Swiss couple looked at the ground throughout with a resigned look that suggested they had become stuck cycling in the same direction, and at the same speed, as an idiot.

We eventually arrived at Tortel, a fascinating town hugging a steep cliff and circling a small bay in one of the many fjords along the Pacific coast. The entire town is built on stilts and is linked with a maze of raised boardwalks and steep staircases. The town was only accessible by boat until about 15 years ago and they still contact eachother by radio. The staircases wind down the hillside between the wooden houses and the trees, curving around rocks and other obstacles, ending in a series of jettys and piers at the waterside. The night we were there, they were celebrating their annual festival with a singing contest in the town hall. We were lucky enough to arrive just as they announced the winner of the children's category, and were treated to a screeching but totally motionless fat child belting out a Chilean cowboy song. He was followed by the town lothario; a well-seasoned performer in a wide brimmed hat, shiny leather boots and an even shinier face. He had an eye for the ladies, although he evidently had an eye for the empanadas too, so he sweated enough to make Catherine worry that she might be called upon as a nurse. We went to bed after midnight but the party was obviously going to go on all night.

Joan had followed behind us on the approach to Tortel and had met a German couple called Holger and Karin along the way. The five of us shared a lovely wooden cabaña and decided over a few beers that we would charter a fishing boat the next day to take us directly to Rio Bravo, the shore of the final stretch of the Carretera Austral. The tourist information office told us that this was only possible for about 150,000 Chilean pesos (about 220quid), but whilst this was expnsive, it was affordable between the five of us and it would save us haf a day on the road. It would also break the journey with a scenic 3-hour chug around the fjords. We asked around the docks that night and were quoted the same price by a few captains stood by their boats. The morning after the party however, we walked the length of the docks trying to find the same captains but they were all drunk or absent, still dancing in the town hall higher up the hill. We eventually asked a couple of drunk sailors what we should do and they told us that there was a free boat, subsidised by the governement to keep the community connected to their neighbours, leaving in half an hour. They even directed us to the captain's house and he was surprisingly sober.


The lesson here is that a drunken sailor is still more reliable than a Chilean tourist information office. Our luck was incredible actually because when we asked the captain during the voyage why he ran a free ferry whilst the others were charging so much, he said that the service runs just twice a month and he does it do link the remoter families, provided that the government pay his fuel costs. Both he and his mate were wonderful and genuinely generous guys, and they wouldn't even accept a tip at the end of the journey.

They dropped us off at a lonely jetty that marks the final 100km of track to Villa O'Higgins, the furthest outpost on the Carretera Austral. We needed to cover about 30km before nightfall to make the final day achieveable, and the five of us eventually set up camp in a swampy nest of mosquitoes. Night fell, the drizzle started, and we were carpeted in mosquitoes that have no qualms about biting your face. We still managed to create a respectable 3 course meal (with wine), but we ate it all through tightly closed hoods,and with every millimeter of skin covered. Nobody escaped this unscathed and we are still itching now. Joan came off worst however and Holger commented dryly that his legs looked like a popular German cake known as 'cauilflower cake'.

The mozzies were back in the morning so breakfast was quick, and we hit the road early for the final 70km. After a trio of steep climbs right at the start of the day, the road levelled out but the surface was still pretty bad; like cycling along a cobbled street where every second stone is missing. The feeling of remoteness was absolute now, as we cycled along empty tracks past dead forests submerged in inky black lagoons. The sky was cold and grey, the hillsides were barren apart from the waterfalls crashing beside the path, and the snowline had dropped to just 200m.

In the afternoon however, the sky brightened and the scenery became greener. We were eventually cycling alongside sandy beaches looking out over deep blue lakes dotted with black-necked swans. Eventually we rode through long stretches of dense, mossy beech forests until we reached Villa O'Higgins, the isolated outpost at the end of the Carretera Austral.


From here you leave the road and have to attempt a cross-country border crossing into Argentina via a series of lake crossings and mountain passes linked only with horse tracks. We will have to hire horses to carry our bags and then wheel and carry our bikes for 6 hours through streams, rivers and forests until we reach a dirt track on the Argentinian side. Needless to say, I didn't explain this in detail to Catherine before we started this section.

We were going to have a rest day and get the first ferry on the Wednesday, but we found out that the National Geographic had chareterd the boat for a short expedition to a remote glacier, so we couldn't leave for another day. We actually asked the guys if we could tag along on their trip but there wasn't the space. Or we smelled too bad. Two days of rest and relaxation it is then. Shame.

Day 41: Coyhaique to Puerto Ibañez - 117km

Day 42: Puerto Tranquilo to Puerto Bertrand - 71km

Day 43: Puerto Bertrand to The Forest - 70km

Day 44: The Forest to Caleta Tortel - 100km

Day 45: Caleta Tortel to Mosquito Hell - 30km

Day 46: Mosquito Hell to Villa O'Higgins - 70km

Stage 3, Leg 2: Futaleufu to Coyhaique

There's nothing like getting into a damp wetsuit on a cold drizzly morning, looking out onto a mint-green glacial river that you will probably end up in. Whilst Joan and I were being given the talk from our saftey kayakers, Catherine was being told that if she wasn't rafting but still wanted to stay at the nice warm lodge for the day, she would have to drive the crappy van there herself. This was possibly more dangerous than the rafting because the terrain was muddy, and sometimes near vertical, and they had replaced the gear stick with a big nail. After a confident wave and a sudden stall in front of the owner, she got there safely enough and spent a nice day by a fire reading her book and drinking hot chocolates with a kitten on her lap.

On the river, we began our saftey briefing from Santiago, our guide from Peru. He said that the river was higher than normal because of the recent rainfall and would therefore be faster too. We were told that if we fell out, we would be rescued by the safety kayakers, but if it happened in the middle of a rapid, this might not be possible until the next calm water, so we just had to 'stay calm', face downstream and 'keep your legs up'. Our first major rapid was called 'Asleep At The Wheel' and was a class IV+. We flipped almost immediately and went upside down into the raging water. The river was a freezing foaming watery torrent and staying calm was much harder in practice. When we turned to face downstream it turned out that for this rapid, the 'next calm water' was behind another class IV rapid. We can safely say that the swimming the rapids of the Futaleufu is even more exciting that doing it in a boat. We were all eventually expertly rescued and could face the rest of the trip knowing that nothing could be scarier, so we had an amazing day with near constant rapids, and during the quieter bits you could jump off the rocks and float down the river in your lifejacket. All of this was down a stunning stretch of river surrounded by dense rainforest and jagged mountins covered in snow. One of the best days so far. After spending the day with Joan on the river we found out that our routes and schedules were more or less the same so we agreed to cycle together for a while, without being too precious about waiting for one another if we got a late start or wanted to change plans en route. Luckily for us, Joan is good company, a good cook, and is fanatically obsessed with Monty Python, particulary the Four Yorkshireman sketch.

We camped in the garden of the rafting lodge and set off early the next morning after a night of yet more constant rain. After just one kilometer from the lodge however, a huge landslide had taken out a 30m section of the road, and had left it piled high with rocks and mud, trees, and a brand new river. This was the only way south without a major detour via Argentina again, so after picking the safest route, we had carry the bikes and bags barefoot through the mudslide. This took nearly two hours as the mud was up to our knees and the stones were pretty sharp. The whole thing was pretty unstable still as it was all so new, which made trying to find the same route each time nearly impossible. Despite needing about 10 trips back and forth, at least it was possible to do this with a bike; cars had to either wait for the earth-moving equipment from the next town or drive back to Argentina. Losers. Sadly the weather just got worse and worse as we continued on and the road was peppered with rocks from the cliffs, fallen trees, and lots of water. Unfortunately, the pet labrador from the rafting lodge decided to follow us for over 20km too, despite us trying to shoo her away. In the end we had to ask someone at the next village to tie her up and take her back the following day. Dogs out here love a road trip and ropes couldn't hold her ... another km down the road she was back again. They eventually tied her with an even bigger rope and that was the last we saw of her. We also found out that much of our 'waterproof' gear was not actually waterproof. I shall be writing letters to all of these companies: North Face, Mountain Equipment, Sealskinz, Merrel, Garmont and Lightwave - shame on you. After just 38km, our shortest day yet without a planned stop, we arrived at a fishing lodge by Lago Yelcho and asked to stay the night. The couple that ran it couldn't have been nicer and even lit a huge fire in their smoking shed so that all of our gear could dry. We threw everything over the rafters; tents, sleeping backs, rucksacks and clothes, and Alfredo kept the fire burning all night. The sky cleared in time for a beautiful sunset and they even had a flowering bush by the livingroom window that hummingbirds came to feed from.

The next morning we left the fishing lodge with their dog and kitten in tow. I lost sight of them after a km or so but we later found out that they had actually tried to follow us for some miles and were missing for about 4 hours. Pets love cyclists.
After all of the rain, water was literally pouring off the mountain sides onto the road and made a spectacular journey to Santa Lucia, where we left Juan to get part of his trailer welded. We had finally joined the Carretera Austral, the extreme southern end of the Pan American Highway that will take us past the Patagonian icefields to Villa O higgins, where we cross into Argentina via 'the back door'. The day was overcast so we lost some of the more spectacular mountain scenery but the road itself follows many wild rivers, forests overgrown with moss, and shivering cows.
We arrived in La Junta, a 'gas-station-town' and camped in someone's garden (we asked first). We were joined by a group of five other cycle tourers, four Chilenos and a Polako, also heading south. They were all great and we watched as they tried to repair one bike after a drop into a large pothole in the road. His rear rack had been bent into the wheel and had ripped out a quarter of his spokes. They had to completely re-build the wheel which was quite an achievement in a dark muddy garden. A bigger achievement was Joan finally joining us again at about 10pm after riding the same pot-holed route in the dark with just his head torch to light his way. It was at this campsite that Catherine considered throwing in the rest of the trip for a parrot-kitten that adopted her. Even the owners asked us to take her with us but we didn't have a spare helmet, so we had to leave her. Bizarrely, at night in La Junta, the horses take to the streets.

We were excited about the trip from La Junta to Puyuhuapi because this would be our first sight of the Pacific. The Chilean coast is a tangle of fjords, glaciers and islands, where you can smell the saltwater in the sounds, but rarely see open ocean. The valleys narrowed throughout the day, and we cycled towards the high-sided fjords alongside plunging lakes and through forests dripping with huge ferns. We picked up yet another dog today, this time from the middle of nowhere, and he ran a 'new trip-best' of 30km before leaving us as quickly as he had joined, shortly before the town. The descent into Puyuhuapi towards the sound was spectacular and the little fishing village was filled with multi-coloured wood-shingle houses. It was so different from everything that we had seen up to this point; there were fishing boats pulled ashore, lobsterpots on the beach and fish on the menus. We met a friendly couple of Chileno motorbike tourers at our campsite (another family's back garden) and they said to prepare for more wet weather in Queulat Park the next day, where it receives 4m of rain, spread over more than 300 days per year. We also went for a coffee where the milk seemed to take for ever to arrive. Just as we were joking that they were probably milking the cow, the lady arrived with warm milk saying that she had just milked the cow.

Expecting wet weather in Queulat park, we were surprised to start with beautiful weather as we skirted the sound early the next morning. Joan had even suggested it may be a 'shorts day' so we optimistically changed in preparation for a sunny cycle. Later on, after nearly 90km of driving rain, misty rainforests and freezing glacier-influenced temperatures, Joan conceded that it may not have been 'a shorts day' after all. Catherine suggested that it was like cycling in a fridge; Joan said at least it doesn't rain in a fridge. We had however learned our lessons from 2 days earlier and it was better to get soaked in as little clothing as possible so that you have less to dry later, and more warm dry clothes to put on when it finally stops raining.

The whole experience wouldn't have been the same without the rain though, and even the steep 500m climb towards the glaciers, via 18 hairpin bends on a muddy loose gravel track was a highlight of the day. Atmospheric and stunning.

We finished this leg of the trip with an optimistically large day of over 130km of ripio road with some paved sections. Needless to say we were still on the road in the evening, the light was fading and we were not quite at the city of Coyhaique. We flagged down a passing truck to carry us and the bikes some of the remaining distance. The dirver not only drove us to his village but went miles out of his way to take us to the door of our hospedaje. He had even asked if we wanted to stay for free at his place - what a lovely guy. I still feel bad about having to rely on lifts but we still did over 90km that day and we hadn't had a complete a rest day since Bariloche (excuses over). We met up again with Joan in Coyhaique as his trailer had finally died, so he caught a bus halfway along the final leg. He commented that the city might not be the promised land that we had created in our minds. It was a bit of a moneypit and even our hostel had a sign on the wall itemising the 'extra' charges such as: filling up water bottles from the tap, each use of the microwave, and use of plates. Oh dear.

Day 36: Futaleufu to Lago Yelcho - 38km

Day 37: Lago Yelcho to La Junta - 80km

Day 38: La Junta to Puyuhuapi - 44km

Day 39: Puyuhuapi to Villa Amengual - 88km

Day 40: Villa Amengual to Coyhaique - 93km

Stage 3, Leg1: Bariloche to Futaleufu

The bad weather was back so we left Bariloche in see-your-breath cold, under a low sky and through a constant drizzle of rain. Despite this, the scenery was amazing and the road was perfect. We cycled a smooth paved route through deep valleys alongside gun-metal grey lakes. The mountains were high and snow-capped and we could occasionally view the glaciers of Tronador, the mountain we had trekked a few days before. The rain and mist completely changed the atmosphere of the scenery; the lakes and rivers were no longer inviting but looked moody and dark.
Besides the usual climbs, the road was predominantly downhill and we enjoyed long stretches of fast free-wheeling as we approached the next town, El Bolson. We expected big things from this town because other travellers had spoken so highly of it's laid back atmosphere, and even the Lonely Planet described it as 'a refreshing antidote to Bariloche's relentless commercialism'. It's famous for being a hippie hang-out since the seventies, and for it's amazimg artisanal food and beers. The food and beers were amazing, some of the best we've had, but the hippies were a let-down; just the usual middle-class trustafarians from the cities, slumming it for the summer, smoking roll-ups and juggling. Catherine said that hippies were 'her people', but she says the same thing about Indians so I don't believe her. The best thing about the place by far were the family-sized portions of home-made cakes, the fresh breads filled with lamb stew, and the 'taster selections' of micro-brewery beers, where you get a half pint of everything on the menu. Lovely.

The countryside around El Bolson is stunning and the next town slightly to the south was possibly what Bolson used to be before it became commercialised in it's own way; sleepy, picturesque and no bloody hippies. After a long up-and-down ride through the mountains, Ruta 40 bends sharply to the east and leaves the mountains behind for open praerie. This is the land that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid settled in after escaping the States, and it looks (in places), every bit like the wild west. With the flatter terrain however, came the wind, and we struggled initially with fierce gusting cross-winds that blow you off the road one minute and under a passing truck the next. There was one stretch however, where we were amazingly lucky; the wind was square in our backs and the road was straight, well paved and with a slight downhill gradient. Even on flat ground, without peddling, the wind would push you along at about 40-50km/hr. We saw a little more of Argentina's wildlife, more armadillos and even a skunk. All dead, flattened by the traffic. We've even seen plenty of dead birds at the roadside, the most confusing scene was way back on day four of the whole trip when we saw a dead cow lying next to a dead condor. If, like me, you've ever wondered who would win in a fight between a cow and a condor, there's your answer: it's a dead heat.
After a while the praerie got a bit dull though (no wonder Butch and Sundance went back to robbing), and the tailwind became a headwind. We had optimistically hoped to reach Esquel, 160km from Bolson, but we stopped about 25km short and camped in the desert, under a bridge, lulled to sleep by the sound of trucks thundering overhead.


The wind raged all night but we woke to an amazing sunrise, and the journey to Esquel was quick and painless. We passed through Esquel, only stopping for supplies, and headed for Trevelin, the furtherst west Welsh settlement in Argentina; they landed on the Atlantic coast, settled Puerto Madryn and Trelew before heading west up the Chubut river towards the Andes. The result is an entire valley bisecting Argentina where everybody speaks Welsh. Just as the Swiss settled in the mountains and Butch and Sundance settled on the praerie, aspects of the countryside that we were cycling through looked spookily similar to the black montains. The rainy day helped to hide the more incongruous snow-capped 2000m peaks. In the town, the streets have names like Davies and Jones, the buildings look out of place for Argentina, and there are tea-houses everywhere. We stayed for the night in one of the nicest hostals we've ever seen, on a hill overlooking town, and went straight out for the famous Welsh afternoon tea. Catherine was in her element with a four-pinter pot of loose-leaf tea (apparently the Welsh are 'her people' too), and a selection of home made cakes, scones and jams. Trevelin and it's tea houses are a bit like a living museum where they out-Welsh the Welsh; people really do speak the language here, but it was a nice litle reminder of the UK, so we weren't complaining.


The sunrise the following morning and the clearer skies made me realise that we'd been a bit unkind in describing Trevelin as 'a bit like Wales'; Once the clouds had lifted to reveal the full mountain range, the town and the surrounding countryside is absolutely spectacular. I would happily own a sheep farm here (although possibly not as happily as a Welshman).
A short distance south of town the road heads west into the Andes and our pass into Chile became visible through the higher mountains. The weather got bad enough to distract Catherine from the road and she fell again, this time breaking the lugs holding her rear rack to the bike. Catherine was fine but the break is a serious problem; without the rear racks we have no way of carrying anything significant on her bike - I'm beginning to think that the falls are pre-meditated. We patched it up with cable ties and duct tape and headed for the border post.
As expected, the Argentine military post couldn't care less that we were leaving for Chile, whereas the Chilean border guards were a different story. They are paranoid about pests, and therefore have very tight controls on the importation of fruit. We dutifully declared two bananas, two apples, an orange, some very nice but very dangerous unpasturised artisanal cheese and a chorizo. We were told to eat the lot or loose it, so we joined the little group of people having a fruit picnic at the border. Some poor old guy was carrying loads of food for a party and ate the lot out of principle, staring defiantly at the border guard whilst he ate a whole bag of prunes, 10 plums, and countless apples and oranges.
We met a nice Canadian tourer called James at the border so we cycled into Futaleufu with him to look for accommodation and to try to book a rafting trip for the following day. The scenery changed almost instantly as we entered Chile and we began to see the first hints of the rainforests that we expect further to the south. In the town square we also met another tourer from Spain called Joan who had arrived in Argentina to climb Aconcagua. When he came back down he decided not to be a backpacker and instead bough a bike to cycle to the south of the country. James decided to continue south as it was still early, but we stayed in town with Joan to camp for free in the back yard of the rafting company that was going to guide us down 'The Terminator' the following day. The Rio Futaleufu is world-famous for it's rapids and draws rafters and kayakers from all over the world. The river includes class VI rapids, only accessible to guides and professionals, but you can take to the river as a punter and raft the class IV+ and V's, the fastest water available to non-guides. Me and Joan signed up for the full day for a trip taking in rapids called, 'The Terminator', 'Son of Terminator', The Khyber Pass', and 'Asleep at the Wheel'.

To prepare for the day ahead we went out for a drink, but Futaleufu is a sleepy mountain town with not too many options. Our first choice was shut so we looked around until we saw some lights and heard music coming from a bar called 'Scorpions'. The curtains were drawn and the door was locked. We knocked and a lady opened the door, just a bit, looked us up and down and asked what we wanted. We said beer, she thought about it, looked us up and down again, and let us in. It was dark, full of smoke and cowboys, yet only a few exotically made-up women. There was also a huge screen playing the DVD of a Chilean band singing love songs to girls dancing in bikinis and cowboy boots. We were in a brothel. It was however the only place serving beer, and apart from the occasional request for a dance with Catherine, we were left to ourselves, so we stayed for a very interesting evening. Drinking in a Chilean brothel is now well and truly ticked off our 'list of things to do before you die'. Next up is riding a monkey.

Bike Stuff

Warning: For bike people only and will bore eveyone else to death

Before leaving Bariloche we had some major maintainance to do to the bikes because of falls, crashes, the weather, or just wear and tear from the terrible roads. After more than 2500km, we had to completely replace the drivetrains for both bikes; so new cassettes, chains and chain rings. My rear tyre was completely bald so I replaced this with something with a bit more tread. Argentinos are always asking why we are using 'road bikes', because they only really use mountain bikes. The shops don't seem to sell tourers like ours, so anything with drop handlebars and slightly thinner tyres is just classed as a road bike. 27inch wheels are not common here either, and presta valves are even rarer, so it has been almost impossible to get spare inner tubes, and the search for a new tyre (suitable for touring) required one to be sent from another town. Another rarity in South America are front racks; For such a popular sport here, we can't understand why tourers seem to rely solely on the rear pannier bags and an oversized bar bag. They always complain that the bike is overloaded to the rear and we know that you can fit a front rack to bikes with suspension forks. As a result, I have had to settle for a temporary 'fix' for my front racks as the queue for aluminium welding in Bariloche is days long. For this same reason we specifically bought steel bikes, but we should have thought more about the components that we fitted; every little town here has someone able to weld steel, quickly and cheaply. The rest of the maintainance work was just tightening brake cables, re-aligning the gears and true-ing wheels.

Bariloche

Bariloche isn't so bad. It's by far the most expensive place we've seen here, and the rustle of Gore-Tex can be deafening, but it has the best bike and camping shops, and even a cinema showing films in English! More importantly, it has a choice of restaurants for my birthday. We opted for a hobbit's house, built from large stones but surfaced entirely in cypress wood, complete with a tree poking through the middle of the restaurant. The food and wine was amazing so Catherine was forgiven for not buying me a present. Catherine had offered to buy me a massage, but the only place that we have found so far is an underground parlour with a flyer girl in the doorway (a bit like in Soho), a sign showing a sultry girl in a bikini, and when we went downstairs the only staff at the time were two bored looking guys wearing women's clothes. Catherine wasn't keen but I may go back.


We decided to do a 3 day trek to mark my birthday instead. Since Slovenia, we have wanted to do another refugio to refugio trek because you don't have to carry a tent, and you can eat goulash and thick soups around a wood-burning stove on a mountain. We decided to head for Volcan Tronador, the highest mountain in the area, because you can walk to 2100m between two advancing glaciers, and you can continue on to a valley where some Australian friends had seen chinchillas. The morning we left for the park the weather was awful and just got worse as we got closer to the start point. You couldn't see the mountains through the clouds and the rain was constant. The icing on the cake was when the park ranger said that he was closing the trails because of snow higher up the mountain. All we could do was a short and crowded low-level valley walk and sleep at the refugio by the rangers office. A few other hikers were stuck in the same predicament so we chatted, had dinner and a few beers around a wood-burning stove ... so it wasn't all bad. The main problem was that we had lost a day of the trip and had no way of contacting our hospedaje in Bariloche to let them know that we wanted to postpone the reservation. I had tried to convince the ranger that this was an emergency warranting the use of his emergency radio. He said it wasn't. Catherine was impressed by the Park Ranger's powers and thought that his must be the best job in the world; sitting around in his hut in the middle of a beautiful park, drinking tea by a stove, occasionally closing a pass or two. She even said to the man, in a rather creepy way, 'you have a lot of power, don't you?' Even he looked uncomfortable because she kept looking at his gun.


The weather the next day was much better, and just improved throughout the day. The ranger had opened the passes and we had the best walk of the trip so far. It began following milky rivers flowing along forested valley floors, before rising up the steep valley walls to a high ridge. We followed the ridge until we left the tree-line, passed the snow-line and continued over more volcanic rubble and snow until we got to the basic-looking hut high on the mountain. Throughout the walk up you can hear occasional rumbles of thunder; this is the end of one of the glaciers breaking off and falling 300m from the ridge to the valley floor below (Monte Tronador means 'Thunder Mountain'). Because of the movement of the glaciers, the eastern side of the mountain reaches the valley floors via a series of vertical steps, hundreds of metres high. Each step links a series of waterfalls, sometimes so high that the water turns to mist before reaching the floor. Really spectacular. We arrived at the refugio early in the afternoon, just in time to see a parascender leap off the side of the ridge. we felt jealous because he had an amazing flight right over the huge glacier to the North of the refugio. Presumably because of the temperature maintained by the glaciers, the refugio staff were also able to ski during the day as well. 'Park Ranger' had just been overtaken by 'Refugio staff' as the best job in the world. We met another English couple at the hut called Catherine and John so we took a break from mangling Spanish and had a great afternoon walking about in the snow and sunbathing because the clouds had all cleared, and it was quite warm despite the snow. The hut has an awesome position on the side of the mountain, higher than most of the surrounding mountains, so we were able to see for miles in every direction. The sunset and moonrise were awesome too. When the sun did set and the temperature dropped, we went inside the refugio for a few beers and a steak dinner by the fire. The refugio staff were amazing, and made a beautiful dinner for about 50-60 people in a tiny kitchen, and then accommodated everyone for the night in one huge room in the roof. Admittedly, the accommodation was basic ... quite literally just 40 single mattresses shoved together to cover the entire floor, and then everyone was assigned their personal 75 percent of a mattress. I spent a cosy night, rolling about well beyond the boundaries of my 75 percent, sometimes cuddling Catherine, and sometimes other people. Sorry John.


We descended the next day and sadly had to miss the 'valley of the chincillas' because of the weather delay at the start. The ranger consoled us with the news that we'd have been very lucky to have seen one anyway so maybe not all bad. When we got back to Bariloche that night we went for a drink to say goodbye to Catherine and John as they were continuing north the next day. Whilst out, I also stubbed my toe. As Catherine had found out a week earlier in San Martin, toe stubbing in South America is much more elaborate affair than back in the UK, where even unattended minors are able to take part, stubbing their toes at will. I myself had plenty of experience in stubbing my toes, so thought myself ready to tackle the worst pavements and tree roots that Argentina had to offer. Sadly, we have found ouselves to be well out of our depth here, and toe stubbing always seems to result in unsightly flaps of skin, blood pooling on the pavement, bilingual swearing, black toenails, and more betadine. Maybe even a tear.


The next day we went horse riding. Since horses always bite me I had only agreed to this if Catherine would go rafting, although I suspect she'll back out yet. We booked in with a local gaucho lady with the deceptively English name Carol, and when she picked us up, we shared the truck with two hungover cowboys from Wyoming called Tyler and Frank. Tyler was a younger guy, helping out on the ranch until some friends arrived, but Frank was purposefully in town to buy horses so that he could ride over the mountains into Chile and beyond. Frank was in his 60s and every story seemed to involve drink. Later, whilst we were out on our ride, he had drunk the horse's medicine thinking Carol was 'hiding whisky' from him! Unlike previous horse riding experiences in the UK, they first have to send gauchos out onto the ranch to 'catch' the horses (I'm sure there's a proper term for it). Carol's horses didn't even attempt to bite me so all got along fine and we had a great ride over the hills, spotting a few deer and some hares as we went, and we finished with a beer afterwards. Frank had fallen asleep under a tree but joined us for the beer. We asked Carol about the wildlife in the area and she said that, amongst other things, there were pumas. I asked what they ate, and she said 'deer and small horses'. I said that, as a camper, this worried me, but she said not to worry because 'you never see them'. I explained that this worried me more. When Carol dropped us off back in town I asked if she was going to sell a horse to Frank; She said she was, and she would like to buy the horse back at the end, but after glancing into the truck, she solemnly supposed that Frank would probably never be seen again.


We finally made use of the English cinema and saw Avatar. Catherine lost all her street-cred, and cried like a schoolgirl ... over an animated action film. Never again can she mock me for only crying at Armageddon, the powerhouse emotional rollercoaster set to an Aerosmith soundtrack. Tomorrow we leave for Stage 3 and Patagonia proper.