Jan 30 2020
I left Coyhaique about 9 am. First a fill up of petrol, a coffee and one of the rather bland sandwiches they seem to like here. The first part of the road was a bit cold, and for the first time I had the liners in my trousers and a down jacket under my riding jacket. Heated grips on too. As usual, the scenery was stunning. About 40km later, I took a wrong turning. I realised after about 20km and turned round in a town called Balmaceda, not far from the Argentinian border. I headed back into a howling wind, which I hadn’t noticed until then, as it had been directly behind me. The wind continued all the way back to where I had taken a wrong turning, and carried on for the next two hours. I’d heard stories of Patagonian wind, but thought it was worse in Argentina. Rain threatened, but there were only a few odd patches. The wind was so strong it was blowing the bike around, and I had to slow down for a while. Mountains, valleys, rivers…it just kept on coming. Later I stopped at a viewpoint, where an improbable series of perfect hairpins snaked down into a valley. I say improbable, because, although the slope evidently required a few corners, this looked like a biker had just drawn them onto the hillside for fun. While there, I chatted for a couple of minutes to a couple on an Africa Twin, on their way back from O’Higgins.
About 15km later, just after Villa Cerro Castillo, the continuous dirt started. I knew I had to reach there before 1pm, as the road is closed for work every day from 1-5pm. It would be dirt the rest of the way. I arrived at the major road works at the start of the dirt section just after midday. Initially, the road was quite sketchy loose gravel. Then there were miles and miles of roadworks: apparently they are planning to tar the whole route. I felt very glad I came here before they did. Although tarmac is obviously easier to ride, and of course is faster, it’s far less personal. It’s much more fun to have to find a line, rather than it being obvious. After the roadworks, it was back to the normal ripio, and the road was quite good, enabling a good turn of speed on stretches. A few steep twisty mountain passes, views of rivers, lakes and trees.. I’d let a bit of air out of the tyres earlier, when a short stretch of dirt had deceived me into thinking I’d already finished with tarmac. The dirt road was almost hemispherical in places, the sides dropping off very steeply, which made it virtually impossible to park anywhere to take pictures.
A couple of times, I stopped and took a picture while sitting on the bike. However, one bonus of the incredible camber was, right hand corners were great, as you can use the slope as a berm, helping you round the corner. On left hand corners, it meant I was riding on adverse camber on a very loose surface, unable to stay in the centre in case of oncoming traffic. After a while the road turned to a hard clay-like surface, which was grippy and fast. Then back to the gravel, deep in places, nice ruts fee of stones to follow in others.
There were a lot of bikes parked up at the gas station when I pulled into Puerto Rio Tranquilo, and, after filling up, I met an English guy, Pete Leach, working for a motorcycle tour company. We chatted for a while, and he told me of a shipping company they used to bring bikes from the UK. They sounded cheaper than James Cargo, who I had used to ship the bike out, so I resolved to contact them on my return to Argentina.
Puerto Rio Tranquilo is a on a bright turquoise lake, and not on a river as it’s name implies, and seems to be the turning round point for a lot of the bikers. I spoke to a group of guys from Chile on BMW GS’s, and was surprised they weren’t going any further. Lots of bikers were, however, joining the throngs being disgorged by buses, who had come to see the famous marble caves. These caves were a short boat trip away., and getting on the boats seemed to involve queueing and being hassled by touts. Not really my thing. As I had done many times previously on the trip, I denied myself the opportunity of “seeing the sights”. I just couldn’t get excited about joining hordes of people. The longer the trip went on, the more I realised how much I enjoyed being on my own. More than anything, I wanted to get some food, but at the gas station shop they wouldn’t let me into the building, as they were filling up the ATM. Several security guards were inside, and one stood, arms folded, stopping anyone from entering. I also really wanted some water, so decided to wait. The bike was parked up next to the security companies 4×4, and it chose this moment to perform it’s great trick of falling over for no apparent reason. It fell into the security companies vehicle. The guard at the shop door, intent on his job of protecting a gas station in the middle of nowhere from being robbed by bikers in a small town with only one way in or out, didn’t even seem to notice, despite being only a few feet away. My handlebars had left a huge gouge in the door of the truck, but the guard saw it happen, and he didn’t seem at all bothered. So I decided I wouldn’t be, either. Eventually, they finished loading the ATM, and I went inside and bought some water and a typically crap sandwich. I also decided to top up my cash reserves since the ATM was now full of shiny new notes. After pouring some water over my head, as it had now got quite warm, I set off. I only saw one more biker the rest of the day.
The cyclists were still going, though. I nearly hit one who suddenly veered into my path. They were everywhere. Many of them would stick to the best bit of road, whatever was coming, and hope that vehicles with more traction would swerve round them. I realised most of them couldn’t hear me, as they were listening to music, when a guy I had hooted at still didn’t move, and very nearly crashed as I swerved round him at the last moment. I decided then that cycling long distance probably required a very fatalistic approach to be successful. A bit further on, I stopped and waited for the cyclist I’d nearly hit. For some reason, I was really curious what he was listening to as he rode. When he puled up next to me, he pulled out his white earbuds and introduced himself. His name was Marco, he looked about 30, with scraggly long blonde hair and a goatee, he had lycra pants and a string vest on, and he was Swiss. He’d been on the road for 3 years. I asked him what he’d been listening to when I nearly hit him.
“I’m listening to Bach”, he told me, before gulping down some water. “It works well here. In the deserts, where it’s more dangerous, I prefer Wagner”.
About 40km from Cochrane, there is an amazing little cafe beside the road. Hector, the owner, was well aware of just how lucky he is to live in such an incredibly beautiful area. His house/cafe is next to a turquoise river running through a tree-lined valley. I had a coffee and some raspberry cheesecake while chatting to Hector about the region. He recommended I camp at the Patagonian National Reserve campsite, 11km off the Carretera Austral, up a mountain road in the Parque Nacional Patagonia.
After setting off again, it didn’t take much time to reach the turnoff, and I followed a tiny road into the hills to the campsite. Guanacos grazed beside the road, a hawk circled above me, and I thought to myself, “Shit, I really like this long distance motorcycling lark”.
The only slight drawback at the campsite was that I couldn’t park the bike next to the tent, and had to carry all my gear across a meadow. However, it’s a beautiful campsite, with wooden huts near each pitch where you can cook. I chatted for a while with an English couple touring the region by motor-home, then cooked my staple of pasta and tomato sauce before turning in for the night. I was really glad I had abandoned Ruta 40. This place was magnificent. The only thing that could improve things would be Jackie being here. I miss her.
325km today, not including the 20km in the wrong direction. Tomorrow I will continue to Villa O’Higgins, the end of the road.
I hope my air mattress is fixed.
