Patagonia By Bicycle

PATAGONIA BY BICYCLE

Hugh Morshead c2011

The bike wobbled alarmingly as I launched myself into the morning rush hour steam of traffic. Frustrated commuters darted across lanes for gaps like single-minded salmon jostling upstream to spawn. The thought crossed my mind that I had never actually ridden a fully loaded bike before, the stop and go traffic combined with the angled storm water drains exasperated my erratic peddling. The cognoscenti say you should leave yourself at home when you travel - for better or worse, I have brought myself along on this trip. The city’s dawn chorus is in full cry and beyond the cacophony of car horns is the exhilarating wail of police sirens that are eerily similar to air raid sirens from black and white movies.

There are two ways to travel by land from Buenos Aires to Bariloche in the Andes foothills. Take a train south to Viedma and then an ancient one across the pampas, or the convenience of coach travel. Rail travel had uncertainties and only ran once or twice a week. The bus could take me to the Andes the next day and travelling with the bike was not a problem – or so I thought.

“You can’t take a bicycle on the bus; go to the freight office downstairs.” Said the ticket agent. I navigated the bike through the crowds and manhandled it down a long flight of stairs. I queue at two different freight offices, neither will accept the bike. I battle the stairs once more with the bike, half way I stop for a breather; a friendly hand helped me with the remaining steps. The guard refused to let me on the platform. The bike had to be packaged. The situation is beyond my phrase book and the bus departs in an hour. I go back down the stairs and queue at a freight office; handing over cash for crumpled cardboard is an irony for a dumpster cowboy. At least I found an escalator. The challenge is to hang onto the handrail, balance the bike and prevent pannier straps grinding between the moving steps. An attendant shouts at me to stop, I hang on and collapse in a heap at the top. The guard at the platform entrance is like John Cleese at his most adamant. The words are a mystery, the meaning is clear.

“Absolutely, there is no way you can take a bicycle onto the platform.” The bus leaves in twenty minutes. Ten minutes to departure, he relents. I whip out the Gerber multi-tool to cut wire that had somehow wrapped around the rear wheel, remove both wheels, the handlebars and duct-tape it all between the cardboard. Five minutes to spare I present my ticket to the collector at the bus door. The bus is full and there is no room for the bike. The luggage handler refuses to load it. I alternately plead with the handler and the ticket collector. The bus engine fires up.

“Give him 20 pesos.” Says the collector. With great relief, I sink into the plush seat and regret my water bottles are with the bike. It was late afternoon and I purposely ate or drank nothing all day so that I would not need to pee. The terminal has 80 platforms and teems with people, the bike can be chained to a post, however the panniers snap off quickly. Plan B was to use the water bottle with an open jacket and a street map as a screen, hoping that no one would interrupt with an offer of directions. Movies are shown as we drive into darkness; one of them is Mr. Bean’s Holiday. I am hungry, thirsty and clammy with sweat; however, I take satisfaction with the thought that today I out-beaned Mr. Bean. The adventure has begun.

Bariloche is the tourist center for the Lake District region. Swiss German flavour, chocolate, ski-hills and famous resorts. I arrive at 1.30pm. A sensible person would stay overnight and re-fuelled, particularly as I only had been to bed one night in the last four. Puntas Arenas is about 2000km south and I estimate it will take me between 4 to 6 weeks. I bike through the rain happy knowing that each day is progress. Towering glaciated valleys and narrow lakes, tall fir trees and low cloud, much like Scotland. My Trek mountain bike has no front mudguard and I am damp with sweat and the rain seeping through my layers. There is very little traffic or signs of habitation, then, in early evening I am delighted to find a restaurant. Big feed of streak, chips and beer. The senora dries my outer gear and gives me two shots of rum. I feel much better and bike until near dark; a dense clump of bamboo is perfect for stealth camping. My Gogo tent by Nemo, Silshelter flysheet and Thermorest insure that I am warm, dry and sleep well.

Frost highlighted spectacular scenery, snow-capped mountains with firs and scree covered slopes, there are small grassland pastures on either side of road. I am up at dawn and bike to warmth. El Bolson is a chic alternative culture center with microbreweries and organic market gardens. I stock up with three bags of oats, bread and dulche de leche, a sweet dairy spread. The terrain levels as the road drops away from the foothills and fast flowing snowmelt rivers provide lush farmland. I camp between cathedral pines after 12 hours of biking. I have not trained for this trip, instead I will pedal my way to fitness.

By mid-morning the next day Patagonia becomes real. I pedal south into the heart of emptiness, snow-capped mountains are on the horizon to the right and scrub desert extends as the eye can see or the mind to wander. Vehicles are few and I bike fast exhilarated by the freedom. The terrain change from farmland to desert is sudden and I only have a ½ litre of water; it is a full day’s ride to Esquel. Then I cross a babbling brook, sheep graze nearby, it reminds me of the west of Ireland. The Katadyn water filter works perfectly. I fly down the road feeling like a carefree twenty-year old.

Benetton, the Italian textile company purchased over 400,000 acres of this land. Foreign-owned sheep have displaced local farmers. I have seen no habitation all day, and then there is a rough cabin and a small holding farm. The roadside fence carries big protest banners. I stop to chat and share a mate with the farmer, his wife and son. Yerba mate is a caffeine beverage made from the crushed leaves of a species of holly, it tastes exactly like you expect holly to taste like. The family has been reduced to squatters and are fighting for the right to farm their land. In spite of the harsh environment, they have a productive vegetable garden with rows of beans – memories of Thoreau and W. B. Yeats.

I pitch the tent in a campground at Esquel for 15 pesos, first hot shower in five days. It is cool mountainous country with tall poplars and touristy. I eat at the gas station across the road. I should have made the effort to cook, but still have not found either Coleman or naphthalene fuel. Quick food trumps everything after 12 hours of biking.

I travel without a road map, instead, I use the small-scale maps in the back of the excellent Footprint Patagonia guidebook. The sun is always on my left and the compass around my neck confirms I am heading south. Now I leave the highway onto rough gravel and am relieved there are road signs. I am entering the foothills and disappear into the narrow steep glaciated valleys. There is a constant roar of falling water. Every other day is sunny and clothes dry on the bike as I travel. I have one set of clothes and three sets of under garments, this system works well and throughout the trip I always manage to keep one set dry. I wash clothes, myself and drink from the cascades falling off the cliffs by the roadside. Food is bread, sardines and oats, oats and more oats.

“Use the gears. Why don’t you use the gears?” Says the cyclist, as I pushed the bike up the hill. I had marvelled how a Dutch couple cruised effortlessly up a hill. Twice I flew past them downhill and then they passed me as I pushed the bike uphill. My bike has 24 gears; however, my biking experience is limited to the gear-free bikes of the sixties. I regarded the array of gears like the superfluous buttons on a computer keyboard. I assumed bike gears worked on the same principal as those of a car; it is of course the opposite. My strong knees from years of galloping racehorses compensate for my idiocy. The rough gravel road is narrow and sinuous; cycling is reduced to concentrating a few feet in front to avoid the holes and rocks. A welcome surprise is the support and encouragement from the occasional passing vehicle. The drivers all hoot, wave and give the thumbs-up. This support continues throughout Chile and is a wonderful complement to the stunning scenery.

The village of Futaleufu is a collection of wooden houses, no shops in sight. This is considered the finest white water in the Southern Hemisphere. Grade 2 -5. Much as I love rafting, I am already chilled and cannot face an icy wetsuit or numbed body. When I took my gloves off at the border my fingers were bone white, they quickly warmed when I switched to ski mitts with liners. It is midday and I pushed on to a dot on the map called Ramirez. In the desert, time and distance are easy to quantify, the horizon is roughly 50km away and time is measured by increments of two horizons a day. Here the road snakes through a series of narrow glaciated valleys. Vision is restricted to a few dozen metres and the dense foliage amplifies the forlorn seclusion. Azaleas blossom in perfusion and the occasional stray cow grazes the ‘long acre’; it is reminiscent of a forgotten back entrance to a ruined demesne in the west of Ireland. A road sign with the word ‘profuna’ warns that a chunk of road is gone and the hazard is potentially life altering. A long day of rough biking through a maze of mountainous greenery, as dusk falls my doubts increase and I feel that I am lost in a maze. Finally, a bridge sign reads, Puerto Ramirez, followed by one for a cabana. Dinner is half a cow’s vertebrae and minced fish.

I join the Austral Carretara at Villa Santa Lucie. The reason I am here is because I read Alistair Humphries’ pair of book about his five-year bike trip around the world. He said this was one of the finest sections. The reason the road exists is because Pinochet had much in common with Roman emperors. The genocide and human rights abuses made the headlines. The economic damage was equally devastating. Health and education funding was slashed in half during his ten year rule and the manufacturing percentage of the economy dropped to the level it had been in the 1940s.

The sun shines, the road is level and, for a while, no wind. I eagerly anticipate the hundreds of miles through the Chilean archaepelio, a world of fiords, National Parks and legendry scenery. A pair of condors drifts up a river valley far below. They have striking white stripes on the upper sides of their wings; this gives them a majestic appearance. Black storm clouds build to the west, it is late afternoon and I have a long climb up a switchback to a mountain pass. The road is carved into the steep mountain face and dense vegetation reduces the track to almost a single lane. I need to camp before reaching the exposed summit. I continue pushing the bike up the incline. The terrain and road are intriguing; I am a ‘palaeo’ kind of guy and have an affinitivity for glaciation. Time has a foothold here and the landscape speaks of grinding ice and torrents of melt water. As an amateur road and bridge builder, I also savour the engineers’ skill in building switchbacks through the mountains and not having washouts in spite of a rain forest climate. Finally, at 8 o’clock there is a tent-size level patch relatively clear of flora. The drop at the tent entrance is hundreds of feet and almost vertical. The storm raged all night - lightning, high wind and over an inch of rain. Above and below is the roar of cascading water, the tent is pitched on dirt pushed out to make a hairpin bend in the track. The roar of rushing water keeps me awake; the saplings are an indication that this is not a storm water channel; I don’t want to be washed over the cliff. The rain lets up at 4.30 and this is my chance to wriggle out of the tent and get dressed. The tent is too small to kneel, let alone dress. I stop for oats around 9.30. My fingers itch and I remove the mitts, there are leeches between my fingers. Leeches – and I am just below the snowline. The plan is to have a big feed and buy food once a day as I pass through a village. Communities are roughly a day’s distance apart. Unfortunately, everything closes for siesta, invariably I pass through during the afternoon and the storefronts are barricaded with iron grills. I am fuelled as much by endorphins as calories.

My wallet is gone! I frantically pat all my pockets to no avail. First, I think it might be at last night’s campsite and I missed it leaving in the dark, then I remember having it out at the last village, only to find the store closed. It is awkward replacing it in my Velcro-closed pocket with the overplants on, maybe it slipped out along the way. I ponder the lost of cash and credit card. My options are limited, there is no phone to call Visa and I do not have the number. I still have traveller’s cheques and bike on despondent. It is only day seven and I had the craziness at the bus terminal, ignorance about the gears and now I have lost my cash and credit card. I rack my brain how it could have happened. I do a circle check leaving campsites and when remounting the bike. Similarly, my panniers are organized and every item has its place (I was fed up searching for stuff). “While there is breathe, there is hope,” said Shackleton on losing his ship and marooned on an ice flow. My sunny disposition bubbles to the surface, the difference between adventure and stupidity is adventure has a Plan B, a margin to thrive in difficult circumstances. The slimmer the margin, the greater the adventure. It is all about the climb through the unknowns towards the summit of one’s personal ingenuity and stamina. I bike on with the thought that this trip is becoming interesting.

Around 3pm, I adjust my belt and there is my wallet. Somehow, the pocket had inverted and become sandwiched between the belt and the outside of the pants. I bike on grinning. Late in the day, I reach the village of Manihuales. It had been a wet and hungry day; while scoffing food on the sidewalk I am invited to stay at a local community center. The dry bed, hot shower and cooked food are much appreciated. The tent dries on a clothesline only to be chewed by a dog. Luckily, the only damage are punctures to the inflatable tube that makes the entrance rigid. A bamboo cut from roadside makes a tent pole. Condensation inside the tent is prevented by stuffing a pannier down the end and keeping the front open. When packed the Gogo tent is the size and weight of a loaf of bread and this matters on long climbs.

Eighty kilometres to Coyhaique, a bustling regional center. I arrive at 3pm; somehow, it always takes longer than expected. Up to this point, I navigate with my watch and the distances between towns. On a scrap of paper, I have written the towns and the distance between them. Each morning I memorize the guidebook map and the destination for the day. Generally, I average 12km an hour when not pushing up long climbs. I camp at the Albergue Las Salamandras, a wonderful timber frame hostel, very friendly and English is the common language. A Dutch couple, Robin and Georgine, are also camping. They are riding a tandem bike from Peru to Puntas Arenas. The three great things about bike touring are the landscape, the physical challenge and the comdarerie with fellow cyclists. The sharing of info, experiences and bike repair expertise is a great help. My bike, a Trek 4500 hard tail mountain bike is perfect for this trip. I replace the brake pads with bigger ones, the original ones smoked on long downhill sections. The aluminum front pannier frames have broken welds. I strengthen them with hose clamps and zip ties. Tears in the panniers are stitched with dental floss (my dentist gives me floss, although I have few teeth). I have a growing stash of string, various grades of wire and strips of inner tube rubber beachcombed from the roadside in anticipation of more wear and tear repairs.

Two nights at Coyhaique enabled me to catch up on essentials - bike maintenance, laundry, kerosene for the stove, full pannier of food and finally, a map. This is critical because the road ends at Villa O’Higgins and to get back on the road in Argentina involves two lake crossings and about 17 kilometres of wilderness. Both Chile and Argentina disagree who owns this area and the map has a large rectangular blank. It is marvellous that in the 21st Century there is still a blank spot on the map. My friends, Robin and Georgine, are well organised and informed. The ferry at O’Higgins sails on Saturdays. Cochrane is five days away and two weeks should be ample to reach the ferry. My 100km a day average is considered good, some people do half that distance. The legendry howling Patagonia gales I have yet to encounter, I am keen to make progress before becoming storm bound.

The scenery is mountainous, wild and breathtaking. I arrive at Villa Cerro Castillo, a handful of rugged farms, in early evening. The wind howls. A thick bush with bright red flowers (a firebush) a few yards from road provides some shelter from the gale. The next day is mostly uphill; however, much of it is on pavement through another National Park. I stop to watch a pair of calf-size Humel deer, the guidebook says only about 1500 exist. The only people I meet are Robin and Georgine; we have a good chat and plan to meet up at Bahia Murta. I reach the farmhouse B & B at 7.30 soaking wet. The front pannier frame is broken in two places from relentless bouncing on rough gravel road. I am concerned that equipment is falling apart only a dozen days into the trip. This is largely my fault, I go into a zone and keep peddling when I should stop and tighten panniers to the frame or even take photos. I plan to reach O’Higgins by Saturday, a week early.

Long uphill climb before Cochrane. A backstreet auto mechanic obligingly tried unsuccessfully to weld the panniers; he did secure it with a splint of tin and inner tube bandage. I stock up on food, enjoy a huge meal in a restaurant and then bike until 8pm. Wild desolate countryside, the track is narrow and rough. I am glad I am on a bike and can avoid the occasional pick-up truck. There is not room for two vehicles, at least, from a Canadian viewpoint. I am on the road the next morning by 5.45, breakfast of oats and a spoonful of the sweet dulche de leche; I drink wild water from a roadside cascade. The terrain is too rugged to sustain animals and I am only a few hundred feet below the snow line. I bike for hours over 6” high washboard, the pannier frames take a beating. Push on all day snacking on chocolate and cookies. A section called, Tranquility, is magical and like Lord of the Rings. Tall beech trees are festooned with lichen and moss. I arrive at Yungry at 6.45, feast on coffee and cake at a tiny snack kiosk. I stay overnight at kiosk owner’s B&B. Practice my Spanish the next morning as she bakes bread. Four pairs of bicyclists on the ferry. This is the first collection of travellers I’ve met so far.

A ferry efficiently takes us across the lake. I am back in the saddle at 11.30 and bike the 99km to Villa O’Higgins in ten hours. Steep desolate mountainous terrain. A pair of condors swoop down from the heights and glided past only about thirty feet away. I read somewhere that they can smell carrion from two or three miles away. Their baldhead enables them to tear into carcases without dirtying their feathers. Although I am fit, there are often sections where my hiking boots and the bike would slide on the loose steep surface and I would count five steps and then have to wait a few minutes to catch my breath. It was on one of these tough spots that a bus stopped. Out jumped Georgine, the drive train on their tandem bike has broken. This is a huge disappointment for them having made it from Peru and near the end of their journey. She pressed into my hand a packet of chocolate cookies. These fuel me for the day.

Villa O’Higgins is a colourful collection of wooden planked houses and cabins. I arrive with a day to spare; about half dozen cyclists are staying at the hostel. We work on our bikes, Robin and Austrian Max, are expert bike mechanics and kindly tune my bike and tighten loose spokes. Robin and Georgine have jury-rigged their sprocket; however, they have doubts whether it will withstand the hard peddling. They are both national level athletes in Holland. I covered the 1,400km from Barilochi to Villa O’Higgins in two weeks, much too quick, but I am intoxicated by the scenery and the exhilaration of biking in rough terrain. There is uncertainty over next section. A three-hour ferry trip, then about 15km of no- man’s- land through the bush, followed by the Argentinean border post and then another ferry ride. A gravel road then leads to the tourist center of Chelten. Horses can be hired to carry packs through the bush.

Mid way on the ferry ride, the ferry stops and two crewmembers ride a zodiac to the shore. They hand a man on the beach a modest cardboard box. Every fortnight the ferry drops off supplies to this 85-year-old man. He was born and lived all his life here alone. The nearest neighbours are an 8-hour hike across the hills. He is the man who missed the 20th Century. The lake is an azure blue, steep mountains drop down to the lake; a glacier backstops the end of the lake.

The 17 km through the bush took seven hours. The customs personnel use an old farm tractor for transport. The first section was uphill on a rough track, then into beech forest and scrub. A single deep rut indicated the route; it is too deep to push the bike. In many places, I carry the bike and then did two more trips for the panniers. A huge fallen beech tree completely blocked the path and after a couple of creek crossings, the bike and I are wet and mud-covered. The trail ends at the Argentina border outpost on the lakeshore. The view is the most spectacular so far. The peak of Mt. Fitzroy is directly beyond the lake. I camp on the grass on the shoreline; sadly, my camera no longer works. The mountain is named after Capt. Robert Fitzroy, captain of the Beagle. The outcome of the five- year voyage was Darwin’s book, The Origin of the Species. Fitzroy, a devout Christian, believed in a literal interpretation of the Bible. His world was turned upside down when Darwin’s theory of evolution received public acclaim. A few years later Fitzroy committed suicide by cutting his throat. A dramatic endnote on the survival of the fittest. I look over my shoulder for condors.

Ferry arrives at 10.30. A rough gravel road leads to Chelten with easy biking along a broad river valley. Towering mountains and open grassland. Chelten is a dusty windblown town. It looks like it was built yesterday. Tourism is the main industry and backpackers fill the streets. I sit and eat on the grassy slope in front of a food store. I had more eye contact with the pair of condors that glided by me the other day than I do with the backpackers – perhaps for similar reasons, I am travel-worn. There is a paved road and no hills for the 222km to El Calefate. I am confident to make it in two days. Stock up on food and more zip ties to hold the panniers to the frame. Two rivers on route will provide water. Finally coast into El Calefate at 6pm, the last thirty kilometres were tough, a strong head wind and low on water. I camp in the municipal campground, these are cheap and convenient. Downtown streets are wall to wall with tourists dressed like fashion plates for high-end outdoor stores. All the top adventure retailers are here. I feel totally out of place.

Anticipate an easy day, the road is paved, it is sunny and there is no wind. After 30km, there is a long uphill climb – read walk. Reach the top of the plateau at 5pm. Fabulous views, air crystal clear and can see beyond the beyond. Luckily, I found two water holes earlier in the day, the last one little more than a patch of green in the stony scrub desert. It had some reasonably clear water in a small hole that is half-full of plastic garbage. I am now biking across the top of the high plateau, scrub desert or steppe as far as eye can see. Occasionally see a grey fox, hare or armadillo. Once in a while, I smell the rotting carcase of a road killed guanaco, other roadside attractions are broken windshields, scattered broken red bricks (trucks do not tie down loads) and shrines decorated with red flags and many pop bottles filled with liquid. Finally made it to a fork in the road, I planned to camp here, thinking it was a settlement. Nothing but a road works shed. I continue another 20km to Rio Turbio, a fast flowing trout stream. It is 9pm and I am jaded. Up early next morning, it takes 6 hours to reach a lone gas station, the only habitation between El Calefate and the Chilean border at Cerro Castillo. I could eat a horse; despite that, this is the only waterhole for hundreds of miles in all directions, all they offer is coffee and cookies. Instant coffee, sugar and powdered milk never tasted so good. Only 40km to the border. I walk most of the way because of the strong head wind. Finally reach the border at 9pm; this is my first 15-hour day, tired and hungry. Another hour or so to the village, huge steak and salad. Luckily, I find a hostel that is open, it is 11pm and only stray dogs are out.

Gauchos are herding a dozen big Hereford bulls down the road past me; sheep dogs try to keep them together and on the road. I stop to watch, the lead gaucho signals me to keep moving, the situation is precarious. The valley narrows, the road is on one side, the remainder is a minefield. A lone bull is fenced inside the minefield. I push the bike up a grade pass the bull as he walks towards me. The thought of that bull stayed with me for a while. Easy ride the 65km to Puerto Natales, a picturesque fishing village on the coast. I ride along the shore with the tang of the ocean. Stay one night at The Erratic Boulder hostel. Great place, staff all ex-pats. Fun crowd of hikers, we stay up until midnight chatting and watching a movie. Cook a huge meal every three hours. Wonderful fresh veggies, fruit and cheese.

Perfect biking the next day, pavement, and no wind. Scenery is like the Scottish moorland, except for flocks of pink flamingos lining the lakes. I sleep by the roadside, rain all night. Easy 60km to Puntas Arenas the next day. I stay at Backpacker Hostel. This city has a rich history of adventurers and explorers; I should stay here for a while. I have biked the 2,122 km in three weeks - much too fast. I blame it on the thrill of discovering what is around the next corner.

The next day I take the bus for the 12-hour ride to Ushuaia. I plan to then bike back up the Atlantic coast as far as I can. Taking the bus avoids doubling my tracks for 500km. Once again, I forget to bring water on the bus, I fill a bottle in the tiny washroom on the ferry crossing the Straits of Magellan. The sea is calm, black and white porpoises swim alongside. Food on the bus is a stale bun, stiff slice of spam and a half cup of black coffee. I stay two nights in Ushuaia. Signs everywhere proclaim this is the end of the world, streets are filled with tourists and a cruise ship dominates the waterfront.

Slow climb up the Garibaldi Pass, 450m, only cover 75km today, partially because loaded with food. I camp by a trout river and fish without success. Beavers thriving here. My multi-fuel stove is temperamental – it splutters out and the powdered soup and rice is borderline too crunchy. A full tank of fuel normally lasts a week and hence I don’t carry a spare fuel bottle. Next time I will bring one because it burns best with a full tank.

On the road at 6am, it is 130km to Rio Grande, the next town. My Katadyn filter struggles with the muddy water in the roadside ditch. I scoop up relatively clear water and neglect to also strain it through my bandana; the ceramic filter is becoming clogged. The road twists and climbs, the headwind strengthens. Truck traffic is another challenge. The road is only wide enough for two vehicles; I go on the gravel shoulder when trucks pass. The combination of truck slipstream and crosswind make balance difficult, I cannot hear approaching trucks until the last minute because of the wind whistling through my helmet. I move onto the shoulder whenever a vehicle passes in case another comes from behind, sometimes I am slow to do this and get an air-horn blast. The scenery changes from moss-covered decaying beech trees to scrub steppe. The horizon is empty in all directions except for the occasional nodding head of an oil-pumping derrick. It is a Mad Max world with a gravel highway disappearing into the distance and then the sudden dust and thunder of a transport truck. The road at the end of the world exists for the oil industry and the trucks that service them.

I continue biking through the evening and into dark, finally the lights of Rio Grande, an oil town, are in sight. It is 10pm and I peddle several kilometres through the outskirts before finding a convenience store. I ravenously devour food and juice. It is a rough neighbourhood; iron grills, padlocked gates and snarling guard dogs. I cannot find a hostel or any other accommodation. Bike through town and camp in an industrial wasteland at the edge of town. In sleeping bag at 11.30pm, the longest day so far.

The next morning I bike back 5km into town for breakfast and to stock up on food. Long search for both. Back on the highway by 10am. It should have been an easy 77km to the border at San Sabastian; battling strong headwinds, I reach the border at 9.30, faded and jaded. The next day I make slow steady progress. The gravel road is rough, uneven and the wind howls. Around midday, a pick-up truck stops and offers me a ride, I gladly accept. They are two oil field workers and take me to Rio Gallegos on the mainland. It is fun chatting with locals in English. I ask why there are so many police checkpoints.
“The holidays are soon and they are looking for contraband, particularly meat,” he said, and added, “In Argentina you get five years and a day for stealing a sheep, three years for killing a man.”

Successfully navigated across Rio Gallegos and took the 8pm bus to Puerto San Julian, arrive at 2am. I bike to the beach and sleep amongst seaweed and flotsam junk. The municipal campground is clean and great value at two dollars a night. I stay three days. Despite bright sunny weather, I seek the shelter of the tent during afternoon when the wind is strongest. My neighbours in the campground are a team of Argentinean Marine Corp veterans; they are hiking 2000km in celebration of the 10th anniversary of the Falklands/Malvinas war despite missing limbs. We talk over sausage on a bun. The aftermath of the war was greater than the conflict itself. Democracy returned to Argentina and Thatcher was re-elected with a majority in Britain. The consequences on the workers in both countries highlighted the change. In Argentina, workers took over a factory and refused to let it close. In Britain, the strength of the unions was broken with closure of the coalmines and key industries were privatized

Puerto San Julian is a sleepy seaside town; it is famous for two renowned visitors – Magellan and Darwin. Laurence Bergreen’s book, Over the Edge of the World, describes how Magellan over came the mutiny of three of his five ships here. After the failed mutiny, the sailors feared Magellan more than the prospect of sailing over the edge and this enabled the circumnavigation by one ship. I walk along the shore gathering firewood and am delighted to see bright fossil shells several inches in diameter. Charles Darwin would likely have seen the same shells embedded in the limestone bedrock. Until reading Alan Moorehead’s book, Darwin and the Beagle, I had the mistaken impression that Darwin was primarily a studious observer of nature. He was also a hardcore adventurer. On arrival here, he took off on an 11-hour trek across the steppe with scant water. Later he rode 600 miles across the pampas at a time when there was open warfare between the indigenous tribes and colonists.

The bus company refused to sell me a ticket because of the bike. I will ride the 260km to Fitzroy, a lonesome gas station, and the next dot on the map heading north. I start at 3am to get miles covered before the wind picked up, which it did by 8am. Achieve 50km by midday. I have plenty of food and am using the camel pack for the first time. Both the shoulder and the road are paved; trucks are no longer a problem. The landscape in all directions is of gently rolling steppe, rock and scrub. The road stretches in front and behind into infinity. I am delighted to find a small pond and the opportunity to re-fill water bottles. A pair of ducks has turned it to green slime. The filthy water is too much for the filter and the plastic casing breaks. I try to boil the water, the stove cuts out, I suspect from the wind and gasoline fuel. Progress becomes slower, on slight uphill grades I am in the lee of the wind and can peddle slowly; going downhill, I have to push the bike because of the high wind. I watch a series of mini tornadoes that form vertically in the distance and then suddenly shoot across the landscape; some form to my right. Suddenly the bike and I are lifted into the air, carried twelve feet, and dropped. The panniers break the fall; the fasteners on the front ones are snapped. I bind them to the frames with strips of inner tube.

Ruta 3 is not for cycling, my attitude is - if you are get where you are going, you have not gone far enough. The wind cries, “Stop”. The guide rail supports me against the wind and I stand with my thumb out. A man with his young son stop, we throw the gear in the back of the Ford Ranger. The speedometer stays at a steady 140kmp. Several hours later, we reached Caleta Olivia. My Spanish works enough for directions across town to the bus terminal. Two bus companies refused to sell me a ticket, a third did and the bike is charged as freight. Happily, I leave the bike with the baggage handler and get on the bus; it is 8pm and I arrive in Trelew at 6am.

My bike is not on the bus! I am told it will come this evening by truck. All my gear, including backpack with notes and maps, are with the bike. Argentina Tourism is easy and effective; there is an info kiosk at every bus terminal and in the town centers. I quickly find a hostel. The bike and gear arrive all intact at 8pm. The next morning is an easy 17km ride to Rawson, a sleepy resort community on the coast. I stay in the municipal campground, plenty of fabulous fresh fruit and veggies. Temperature in the mid 20s and sunny, I swim on a crowded beach; there is a holiday season atmosphere. A city work crew invite me to join them at their BBQ, slaps of beef two feet across and inches deep, roasted on huge iron racks. Juice dribbles past my grin as I ravage the meat and swill the vino. It is like a knife convention in gaucho country, sharp pointy daggers slash at the beast.

The explosions started around midday; between midnight and 2am, they are continuous from all sides. I hesitate looking up at the sky for fear of falling burning debris. I can feel the shock waves of the explosions. I lost track of time, the date on a receipt confirms it is Christmas Day. Up at 5am to the sound of techno beat from a beach party. A Canadian/Philippine couple invite me to breakfast. They had to ship their Land Rover by sea because they were denied entry to the US. I suspect they envy my simple travel style. Their vehicle is totally loaded with gear and spare parts for every situation. My stove now works well with gasoline so long as the tank is at least half-full. Three days of rest and then an easy 75km to Puerto Madryn, a major tourist centre for whale watching.

A very pleasant five days camping, warm, but not hot; sand swirls around the tent. I have solved the riddle of bus travel with a bike. The company may sell you a ticket; however, it is the driver who decides whether or not to take the bike. This time the driver relented because he would have been delayed if I had to arrange at the last minute with the freight office. Back in Buenos Aires, I return to the Kilca Hostel, very friendly management and fellow travellers. I have two weeks before flying home. Uruguay is expensive and I have trouble finding info about customs and the ferry crossing. Instead, I bike south 120km to the former cow town of Chascomus. It takes half a day to get through Buenos Aires, a city of 14 million. Despite of having a street map, compass and street signs, I struggle to find the most direct route and zigzag through shantytowns. I stop for a cold beer and nosh at a roadside eatery; kids excitedly help with their school dictionary to translate our chat. Progress is slow and it is midday before I reach open fields. Peddling on the shoulder of the freeway feels odd until I see a horse and cart ahead of me. I pass a farm equipment dealership with a military tank lined up with the used tractors.

Chascomus dates back to 1750s, cobblestone streets and a baroque town hall and square. An ancient railway station is overgrown with weeds, trains rumble through at night. I live on juicy peaches and avocadoes. It is easy living under the campground ground’s eucalyptus trees. I shelter behind a tree trunk from the heat of the sun, the temperature in the shade is in the mid-thirties C. Ancient Citrons and Ford Falcons pass me on the street. The campground is quiet in the morning with cooing doves and pigeons. In the evening, the neighbourhood comes alive with barking dogs and road between camp and lake fills with walkers, scooters and joggers. Around midnight an ice cream vendor bicycles along the road by my tent crying - “Helio, helio.” (Ice, Ice), in my drowsy slumber, he is like a deranged prophet warning of climate change. I live the life of a lotus-eater for two weeks and then it is back to reality.

I bike on the shoulder of the motorway to the edge of Buenos Aires. There is no direct route by secondary roads and for several hours I travel on a compass bearing. It is a post-industrial world of hobbit- like hovels packed between dirt paths. The air is thick with the smell of burning garbage and decay. Bicycling through the barrios to the baroque palaces of downtown Buenos Aires tells more about world finance and politics than a stack of Economist magazines. It is the emptiness of sprawling humanity clinging to the margin of a world that has abandoned them. My thoughts are of the endless beauty of Patagonia and I am thankful I have a bicycle and a pannier of oats.