Stage 4, Leg 4: Rio Grande to Ushuaia

We were sad to be starting the last leg of the trip but we were glad to be leaving the flat windswept plains of northern Tierra Del Fuego for the mountains that curl eastwards along the north shore of the Beagle Channel. We followed the Atlantic coast for a while and, looking out to sea, it was amazing to think that we are now so far south, there is no land to either the east or the west ... just open ocean. The ride south of Rio Grande to Tolhuin was easy enough and we were faster than expected because the wind had dropped significantly. We had a few stretches where the road turned westwards, straight into the wind, and if the gusts from the previous few days had continued, we would have crawled along at about 6-7km/hr. As it was we maintained a fairly consitent speed of about 30km/hr and completed the 120km in just under 5 hours. We were also spurred on by the occasional glimpse of the snow covered peaks that surround Lago Fagnaño. It's been one of the amazing aspects of this trip, when the landscape surrounding you is built from such huge natural features; deserts, vast salt flats, huge mountains, and the oceans, you can often see your destination from quite early in the day. Despite the distance being over 100km, we could see the ghosts of the mountains from just 20-30 km out of Rio Grande, and they just got bigger and closer with every hill climbed.


We camped in Tolhuin by the vast, picturesque, and extremely cold Lago Fagnano. It has an amazing setting, lying to the north of, and paralell to, the mountains that plunge into the Beagle Channel. It is a huge body of clear glacial water fringed with pebble beaches and smooth driftwood. The colours here are somehow always cold; even when the sun set, the usual oranges and reds seemed to lack any warmth. We had been cycling all day with full thermals, gloves, coats and hats and we didn't take much of it off to sleep in the tent that night. Luckily, there was a log cabin where we could light a fire and keep warm before the dash to the sleeping bags. We met another French bike tourer here who was just starting out on his trip and had just completed his first day. Olivier was a really nice guy but we all felt sick with jealousy as he had the whole adventure ahead of him.


We wished Olivier the best of luck the following morning and set off south as he headed north. We had anticipated stronger winds than we seemed to be getting, and it now seemed possible to combine the next two days we had thought necessary to reach Ushuaia from Tolhuin. The last day of cycling had crept up on us and it seemed to have arrived too early. We were however glad to have one last mountain pass to complete before the end of the journey; it seemed fitting that after following the Andes for nearly 6000km, cycling over 4500 of them, we should cross them one last time to drop into our final destination, Ushuaia ... el Fin Del Mundo.


Without telling Catherine, I had secretly hoped to be cycling through snow on the Paso Garibaldi because it would look 'atmospheric' in photos, although we seemed to have arrived a month too early. We were surrounded by beautiful mountains on all sides but the snow line was still well over 100m above us. Fortunately our first view of the Beagle Channel and it's islands, suddenly appearing during an amazing descent through the mountains behind the city, more than made up for it. The southernmost limit of our journey didn't disappoint; it was packed with small sailing boats, sturdier vessels heading for Antarctica, and even a succession of tall ships making a short stop during a round the world regatta.


We headed for the puerto for a few photos in front of the 'Fin Del Mundo' sign, and congratulated ourselves on completing a mammoth journey from the arid deserts of the north all the way to the frozen southern tip of the continent. I'm sure the locals must be used to seeing odd foreigners in tights, high-fiving eachother by the sign, pretty frequently but plenty were still kind enough to ask us about the trip and congratulate us.


We did however have one last task for the day: Together with Pierrick and Vincent (who were celebrating their 7000km with a bottle of Beaujolais from home), we had promised ourselves that we would go to a bar and drink so much that we would forget our own names. The night was a success and we were still in a bar at 4am drinking with the Potuguese navy and some guys from the Argentine Airforce (avoiding awkward conversations about the Falklands!). If anyone was wondering, it takes 14 bottles of local 'Beagle' beer before a Portuguese naval officer will admit to being prepared to fire on a civilian Spanish vessel if nobody would find out.


Well, we made it. Whilst we let it sink in and think about how best to sum up the trip of a lifetime, here are some exciting statistics from the last four and a half months on two wheels ... and occasionally two legs:

Exciting Cycling Stats:
Total distance cycled: 4627km
Total no. of days cycled: 54
Longest distance cycled in one day: 158km
Most shameful daily distance (without a specific destination): 38km (excuse: mudslide had destroyed road)
Fastest speed: 70km/hr
Fastest speed (sober): 66km/hr
Hottest (known) daily temperature cycled: 45 degrees celcius
Longest unbroken stretch of sunny days: 31
Total days cycling in rain: 5
Highest pass cycled: 3000m (Highest altitude off the bikes: 5300m in Bolivia)
Longest continuous climb: 35km
Longest continuous descent (without pedalling): 26km
Largest (known) altitude gain in one day: 2000m

Miscellaneous stats:
No. of dogs & cats unofficially adopted by Catherine: 45,328
Most pointless town: Talocasta (1 resident)
Worst injury & most spectacular crash: Catherine's speedy 'descent' into Bardas Blancas
Best Cuisine: Any Asado (although special mention has to go to Doug in Capitan Montoya)
Worst cuisine: Bolivian 'Bangers and Mash'
Successful marriage proposals: 1
Most useful Spanish phrase learned: 'Claro'. Translation: 'Got you', 'understand', 'yep', 'sure', 'with you on that one'. This allows you to 'participate' in conversations of which you can understand nothing.
Worst stretch of road: A lot of competition here between the many corrugated, sandy stretches of ripio throughout the journey, but it has to be cycling the 8-lane motorway out of Mendoza.
Longest continuous distance cycled with a dog chasing the wheels: 30km (between La Junta and Puyuhuapi)
Most dangerous animal encountered: It's a toss up between 'all birds' (we've seen them eating every other animal on the continent), and the ants in the desert north of Chilecito because they tried to eat the bikes
Number of times a lorry driver indecently exposed himself to us: 1
(un)Official sponsor of the trip: Quilmes Cristal Cerveça
New favourite wine: Bodega Fin Del Mundo - 'Ventus' (tinto, tres varietales)
Food most likely to start a fight if offered to either of us within the next year: salami or pasta


10 English Pounds will buy you:
A 250km coach journey in Argentine Patagonia

6 beers in a Chilean brothel
4-bed cabaña in northern Argentina
One dorm bed in Southern Patagonia
8 blasts on the microwave in a Coyahique hostel (the cheek)
Enough top-quality Argentine meat to feed a starving family of 10 with an asado
A one-hour massage from a tranny in Bariloche

Boring bike stats:
Punctures: 5 (all mine) - Catherine cycled over 4500km over some unimagineably bad terrain without a single puncture. A shining advertisement for Schwalbe Marathon Plus tyres.
Broken spokes (whilst riding): 2 (mine)
Snapped chain: 1 (mine)
Broken headset: 1 (mine)
Bald tyres: 1 (mine)
Broken pannier racks: 1 (mine)
Regrets that I didn't buy Catherine's bike: 1 (mine)

I rode a 2008 Panorama Ridgeback with Blackburn lowrider aluminium racks and Continental tyres, whilst Catherine rode a (seemingly indestructible) 2008 Dawes Horizon with similar Blackburn racks and Schwalbe Marathon Plus tyres. We both ran 27inch wheels with 'road touring tyres' (and spent the holiday explaining the decision to everyone else on 26inch mountain bike fat tyres). We both had to replace cables, brake pads and the chains and cassettes, but this was part of the wear and tear we expected prior to the trip. The Ortlieb panniers were faultless, as expected due to the glowing reports on other people's cycling blogs. There were many tricks that we learned along the way and there are some aspects that we would change for a subsequent trip but overall, the bikes and equipment lasted incredibly well considering the demands.


... and here is a photo of my favourite painting seen during this trip:

Stage 4, Leg 3: Punta Arenas to Rio Grande

The French had obviously been converted and asked for another fry-up before catching the ferry the next morning. In turn, I have also been inspired by the French, and will be wearing my padded spandex tights for the first time. English to the last, I will be protecting my modesty beneath my baggy cycling shorts however, so no need to add a 'child filter' to the blog just yet. The reason for the switch is the fact that Punta Arenas is the first place to be consistently bloody cold. Rain or shine, it's freezing here. We arrived at the dock early and saw that the water was absolutely flat. We were incredibly lucky to make a crossing of the Magellan Straights in these conditions because we had been told that the journey time can often be doubled from 2 to 4 hours becase of the wind and the turbulent waves.

In our case we passed an enjoyable and comfortable two hours drinking coffee and watching dolphins play in the wake of the boat. Aboard the boat we were confronted with our Carretera past in the shape of 'Pisco' Pete, a large gruff bike tourer from Poland who drinks neat Pisco before bed. It was nice to see him, although we were unsure about cycling together with a Baltic sailor in his fifties that looks like he may have killed a man. Pete's a nice guy but he has a habit of drawing his thumb accross his throat at inappropriate points in the conversation, and he studies you in such a way that makes you concerned that you are unknowingly being added to his list of 'no good people'. The criteria for joining this list seem to be quite open, as it currently includes 'Moroccans' and 'Peruvians'. The decision was his however, and as we chugged past huge comorant colonies to dock at porvenir, he was saddled up and off down the road before we could say a proper goodbye. Despite being sad to begin the last leg of the journey, it was an exciting feeling setting foot on Tierra Del Fuego; the distant and mysterious land that features in a variety of stories about explorers, early penal colonies, epic whaling expeditions, antarctic expeditions and doomed yacht races. The excitement continued as we checked provisions and left Povernir to set off into the interior, where the remoteness of the western side of the island surrounds you very quickly.

For the rest of the day we followed the unkindly named Bahia Inutil (Useless Bay) on a rolling dirt track that hugged the beaches and occasionally lifted us up onto the cliffs for amazing panoramic views of the straights and the dwindling Andes, faraway on the mainland. A highlight was standing on a deserted beach watching the dolphins surf the waves almost to the shoreline. This is why cycling is such a good way to see a country; there are no coaches taking backpackers to see the 'amazing surfing dolphins of Bahia Inutil'. There are no viewing platforms here, just a couple of bewildered cyclists stood on an empty beach watching the dolphins doing what they do on a Sunday afternoon.

After a slower start from the ferry, the French boys had caught us up again and we all camped together in a canyon out of the wind. It was only after we had put the tents up and started dinner that, whilst looking around for firewood, we found a large number of skulls and bones. Sometimes even whole legs. Presumably the birds had gone to work on the sheep at some point. We thought it would make an interesting picture to put a jawbone on the fire. Never do this. Just as I learned a few moths ago never to extinguish a fire by weeing on it, the smell of burning bones is hard to remove from jackets and hair.
The following day we shooed foxes and sheep from the campsite and re-joined the coastal track heading eastwards. Eventually the bay ran out, taking the beautiful sea views with it, and we were back in endless pampa again. By now we were almost constantly frozen and completely covered in thick gloves, tights and thermal tops.

This is bad for cycling however because as soon as you hit a hill, you overheat and have to peel all the layers off again. You then set off downhill and freeze to death in the wind. After many costume changes, we completed 100km of ripio and eventually reached the borderpost at San Sebastian, where we camped for the night behind the only hostel in the settlement. Despite the doors of the hostel being jauntily plastered in the stickers of touring clubs from all over the world, the owner treated us as if we had just hidden his moustache comb. He came dangerously close to destroying the recent hard work of Puerto Natales and Punta Arenas in making us think that Chileans weren't all humourless and ill-equipped to work in the field of customer services. We slept within sight of the border and Catherine stayed up into the night plotting what foodstuffs she could traffick this time.

The Chilean border guards were typically grumpy and the Argentine guards were typically jolly, full of questions about the ride. The no-man's-land between the two was ruler flat but as we got closer to Argentina, a streak of silver appeared to divide the grass from the sky; the Atlantic ocean was visible for the first time this holiday and it felt amazing to have now crossed the continent from the Pacific to the Atlantic ... albeit at the narrowest point.

Because of the fierce tailwind blowing us southeast, we hurtled along the Atlantic coast at speeds up to 65km/hr, covering 50km before 11:30am. When the road occasionally turns westward however, facing accross the wind, we had to cycle with the bikes on a 60 degree tilt to stay 'upright'. The wind was gusting that day at well over 100km/hr. We ate lunch in the shelter of one of the many oil pipeline stations along the coast, although I still question the boy's decsision to smoke next to the pipes. Tsk ... the French and their Gauloises.

We arrived earlier than expected into Rio Grande and found the road was blocked by a demonstration made up of teachers striking for better pay. They were blocking all traffic in and out of town, although they seemed to have a soft spot for cyclists, and so let us pass with no problems at all. We got talking to one of the spokesmen and his friend and they offered to take us out for the rest of the day, showing us around the town ... and into a few bars. We spent a great afternoon and evening drinking with Paula and César (and Vincent and Pierrick), eventually eating an obscene amount of meat in a parillada restaurant. When we asked César, at 1am, after many beers and more bottles of wine, whether the strike would continue tomorrow, he said: 'It's up to the governement'. We got the feeling that it would depend more on his hangover.

Day 50: Povenir to Bahia Inutil - 49km
Day 51: Bahia Inutil to San Sebastian - 100km
Day 52: San Sebastian to Rio Grande - 96km

Stage 4 - Leg 2: Puerto Natales to Punta Arenas

Inevitably we got up later than planned (Catherine had stayed up late watching Jennifer Aniston romcoms on SkyTV), and when we went down for breakfast we met a couple of French bike tourers. They had begun their journey almost 6 months earlier in Lima, Peru, and they were also about to set off for the south that morning. We left ahead of them as we were sure that they would catch us up, and just as we were revelling in the fact that our walking blisters were painless now that we were back in the saddle, one of my rear drive-side spokes snapped. Two weeks earlier, on the last climb into Villa O'Higgins, my chain had slipped off the largest sprocket and had become tangled in my spokes. The chain had snapped but I hadn't checked to see if there was any damage to the wheel. Looking closer, every spoke had a chunk gouged from it by the chain links and would need replacing. Just as I had the bike upside down, the rear wheel and cassette removed, and spare spokes lying all over the grass by the side of the road, Vincent and Pierrick cycled over the hill covered in heavily sponsored spandex. As luck would have it, they are both mechanics (Vincent is a bike mechanic at a Decathlon store near Lyon - how French), and they made really quick work of trueing the wheel once the spoke was replaced.

We set off together this time, originally because we thought that they would be handy in another spoke crisis, but eventually because (despite being French) they are very nice guys. Today was one of those days where the planets aligned and we really had perfect conditions; a very rare solid concrete road (very hard and very fast), a good tailwind, and virtually no traffic. The lack of traffic meant that we could ride in pairs, and so hardly noticed the 100km go by as we were talking throughout the day. The tailwind even meant that we were cruising at around 35-40km/hr, without pedalling, for long stretches.

We stopped talking occasionally just long enough to notice the rheas running alongside us; huge emu-like birds, about one and a half meters tall roaming the pampa. The birds along this stretch of road were pretty diverse; besides the rheas, we were able to see flamingoes, black geese (sinister / possibly evil), and the ever-present eagles and condors. The latter were always seen leaving the crime scene just before we cycled past more flattened armadilloes and skunks. Seemingly the only land mammals quick enough to escape either the cars or the birds are the beautiful patagonian foxes, looking genetically closer to cats than dogs here. All of these animals live on an increasingly flat plain of grasslands, criss-crossed by fences dividing the land between the sprawling estancias, and punctuated occasionally with twisted trees, blown completely bare of branches on one side by the unrelenting winds. After 100km we stopped at a restaurant in Morro Chico, to ask about camping possibilities nearby Morro Chico is just a collection of 5 or 7 buildings sheltering behind a huge rock protruding from the middle of the plain. Our luck continued when the lady inside said that she had a cabaña on her land that we could stay in for free. It was amazing because it had beds and a log fire, as well as keeping us sheltered from the howling wind. This lady is a new hero of ours because she continued to bring us fresh fire wood throughout the evening to make sure we were comfortable.

The next morning we woke up to another lovely sunrise over the plains, although it quickly clouded over and threathened to rain. The landscape had sucessfully ironed out the previous day's lumps and bumps and we were now cycling through an entirely flat and shelter-less windswept plain. It did at least provide us with the quintissential picture of the remote Patagonian wilderness that I had been hoping to see. Like all beautiful and remote wildernesses throughout the world however, it was carpeted with land mines. This enlivened the search for a suitable wild campsite since the warning signs ran at regular intervals on either side of the road for some distance. With the prospect of a potentially lethal pitch, we drew straws to decide on whether we should press on to complete the full 150km to Punta Arenas. Catherine pulled the short straw and decided that we should go for it. We continued south, now in freezing drizzle and increased traffic (the road joins the main road heading towards Rio Gallegos), until we were suddenly cycling alongside the gunmetal grey Straights of Magellan.

It was great to finally see this famous waterway, separating the mainland from Tierra Del Fuego, although seeing the wind whip the tops off the tall black waves filled us with dread for the crossing; just as famous for re-introducing people to their breakfasts. We continued alongside the water, at shore-level one minute and along cliff-tops the next, until we entered Punta Arenas via the sprawling northern industrial parks, the huge wool factories and docks, and eventually the multicoloured suburbs. We rented a cabaña for the four of us, showered and went straight out for beers and burgers to celebrate the 2nd highest daily kilometer count for all of us; 150km through freezing rain and wind ... but at least we didn't have to worry about popping out for a pee during the night in the middle of a mine field.

Despite arriving a day ahead of schedule, we only had one day in Punta Arenas if we were to catch the most convenient boat for Porvenir on Tierra Del Fuego. We agreed that we would cook for eachother; In the morning Catherine and I forced Vincent and Pierrick to 'enjoy' a full English breakfast complete with fried bread and double helpings of tea. Watching their faces as they ate classic English cuisine was like watching a cat having a bath. In the evening they returned the 'favour' by preparing ratatouille. Joking aside, I think we all did a pretty god job at improving Anglo/French relationships with these meals ... they were bloody fantastic.

I will also be forever in debt to Vincent, who quietly and generously re-built my rear wheel, replacing all of the chain-damaged spokes, whilst I was in the internet café. Nice man.

Day 48: Puerto Natales to Morro Chico - 100km
Day 49: Morro Chico to Punta Arenas - 150km

Stage 4 - Leg1: El Chalten to Puerto Natales

This is the start of the last stage, and the defining factor for this stage is time. We seem to have run out of it. There is still a huge distance to cover (over 1100km) and if we hope to complete the Paine circuit on foot, we just don't have the days left to complete the whole stage by bike. This is a big disappointment for me (not for Catherine, she loves buses), but we both agree that we would rather sacrifice some of the cycling than miss out on the sights and activities of Patagonia. We looked at the map and listened to travellers heading north, and decided that we would travel by bus between El Chalten and Puerto Natales. This is a significant distance (420km) and means that we will unfortunately be unable to complete the 5000km target that we had set out to achieve. It is howvere, supposedly the 'least interesting' section remaining as the route leaves the mountains and glaciers, and instead passes through the flat and featureless pampa. We certainly don't want to miss any of the cycling in Tierra Del Fuego, especially crossing the 'finish line' into Ushuaia.

Leaving El Chalten, the bus took us very quickly to El Calafate, and we immediately appreciate that if we had to miss any section by bike, this was indeed the best bit to miss. There wouldn't have been a great deal to write about.


El Calafate itself is a tourist mecca purely because of it's access to the Perito Merino Glacier, the third largest in Argentina, and the only one with a road driving right past it's nose. Other travellers had been very unkind about Calafate because it seems to exist solely for tourists, and therefore carries all the associated baggage: high prices and no soul. Every cloud has a silver lining however, so with GoreTex shops also come well-stocked bike shops (I needed to replace the head set on my bike), and with the backpacker-budget pizzerias come the 50-flavour heladerias (ice cream parlours); we enjoyed a lovely ice cream from the interestingly named 'Tit Ice Cream' - not very appealing if you think about it.


We felt that we had 'looking at galciers' covered, so we decided to book a 'walking on glaciers' tour. Very expensive but very worth it. The glacier itself is best described in pictures but we spent an amazing day wearing what looked like home-made crampons, tramping about on the ice, past freezing waterfalls, rivers and lagoons, jumping over crevasses, and peering into ice blue holes up to 50m deep. The only downside to the day were the two useless guides that looked like they'd rather be anywhere than on a glacier!? (evidently there is a point where glaciers become tedious) The mood was lifted continually however by the sight of an short fat guy from the States who was even worse at walking in crampons than Catherine. Catherine spent most of the day bent double in fits of laughter as he waddled and slipped about, trying to support himself with a walking pole, looking oddly like Willy Wonka greeting the ticket holders at the gate.
We were actually incredibly lucky with the timing of our trip because, whilst the glacier is advancing continually at the rate of 1.5m per day, shedding a stream of icebergs into the lake, we were just starting our trek, right at the foot of the 80m face, when a chunk the size of a 4-storey building calved into the water next to us. The cracking of the ice followed by the crash into the water was unforgettable.


Another day, another bus, this time to Puerto Natales ... the launch pad for the Torres Del Paine trek. We can't comment on the landscape that we missed out on here because we slept for the entire trip, apart from the tedious border crossing into Chile - the land that fears fruit and veg. Catherine proudly (but illegally) smuggled a tomato and an onion this time.

Not wanting to kick a country whilst it's down, but our experience of Chilean hospitality had left a sour taste in our mouths after the Carretera Austral. Individual Chileans were often lovely but our overall experience definitely lacked the warmth of Argentina. The Chile of southern Patagonia however has proved to be completely different, and Puerto Natales is a perfect example. Whereas the food along the Carretera Austral was often awful, here the choice and quality is amazing. The owners of the residencials are warm and homely and the people you meet on your travels are welcoming of travellers and cyclists in a way that we rarely felt further north. It may have something to do with the blurred line between Argentina and Chile here; there is as distinct animosity between the two countries in the north but here they all live under the unified Patagonian flag, always flying next to their national flag. The only thing the people of Puerto Natales are more proud of than their flag is a 5 mere high prehistoric sloth discovered in a nearby cave. It's image appears everywhere, even replicated in fibre glass, life-size, as you enter town. These are great people.


One of the must-do elements of this trip was to trek the Paine circuit in southern Patagonia. With side trips and extensions, it makes a 145 kilometer trek through amazing mountain scenery, past huge glaciers (still not boring yet), along beautiful forested valleys and glacial lakes. We even trekked by moonlight up to the 'Torres' on the final morning to catch the sunrise from the top which was an amazing experience. During the long days of walking, we saw Vicuñas, Patagonian foxes, Flamingoes, huge woodpeckers (the size of cats), and more face-biting mosquitoes. You will have to either google these animals or visit Patagonia to see them because my skills at photographing wildlife haven't improved. Most of these animals didn't even run away and I still couldn't get a decent picture. Thankfully, glaciers move much slower, and mountains slower still so we have plenty of them. Reading about the walk in any more detail would be even more boring than reading about a bike ride, so I have just uploaded a couple of pictures here and have included a link to a few more on our Flickr page.










One thing we are proud to point out though is that, fitness-wise, the cycling is obviously paying off; we completed the 8 day trek in just five full days, carrying all of our own gear and food (Catherine's bag was so big (and multi-coloured) that it was like trekking with Bertie Bassett). Spot the difference.

There was even a brief moment of 'excitement' when the park ranger told us that a forest fire had been started, and had cut off our exit from the cul-de-sac valley that we were camping in! Thankfully they got it under control within a few hours, although we are beginning to worry that Chile is a bit doomed at the moment.

Returning from the walk we met up again with Joan in Puerto Natales; he had finally succeeded in convincing his boss to let him extend his trip until November(!) so he was leaving Patagonia for a world trip. Our farewell meal together was in the local, and presumably unique(?) Chilean/Zambian fusion restaurant. We finally tried ceviche; raw chunks of fish 'cooked' in lemon juice and red onion, and it was excellent, (the African twist was serving it with coconut milk, chilli and mango). We were invited to stay for a lock-in, so we had another large night on the addictive pisco sours and the restaurant even had their own take on these: mango sours and Chardonnay sours. They were all pretty tasty and, when the owners found out that we had to be up early the following morning to begin cycling to Ushuaia ... all free. Love the (southern Patagonian) Chileans. Cycling tomorrow ... oh dear.

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