Link #9
28 Feb - 08 Mar, 2000
Coihaique to Villa O'Higgins, CHILE (550 km)
Hoping for an afternoon tailwind, we enjoyed a leisurely morning in town.
We got the tailwind. It's a good thing too because we also got an undulating,
30km climb out of the Coihaique valley. At least it was paved. Down the
leeward side of one of those undulations, Bob and I clocked 80.4 km/hr,
or a little over 50 mi/hr.
Our "team" for this stretch consisted of ourselves plus Pierre,
a Olympic Peninsula tree-planter riding a classic Bridgestone MB2, Stephane,
a crazy Frenchman who started his tour in Alaska nine months ago, and
Sebastian, an East German.
Forty clicks south of Coihaique, we reacquainted ourselves with the ripio.
As the wind graciously served up one dust meal after another, we squeaked
out another twenty and made camp. With the altimeter reading 850m and
the temperature in the shade dropping to just above freezing, we realized
we weren't in Kansas anymore - more like Patagonia. Our first taste of
a land we had only seen on clothing labels.
That night, while making another lovely pasta dinner, the daughter of
a local shepherd walked up to our tents and spent an hour with us. Born
and raised here, her father had settled this land long before the road
arrived. With big eyes she watched our every move but hardly said a word.
Would love to know what thoughts were going through her head!
The next day took us over two passes - the first at 1015m, the second
just over 1200m. Coming down from the second, we received our first views
of Cerro Castillo - an incredibly craggy peak with scores of finger glaciers
teeming down its upper couloirs and emptying into its large southern ice
field. Clouds seemed to tear themselves on its jagged pinnacles. This
mountain, topping out at only 2319m, would stay with us for two and half
days.
At the bottom of the grade we came to the town of Cerro Castillo. In
these parts, towns are truly sights for sore eyes. They mean food and
drink. This particular town, for us, came to mean that and a whole lot
more.
While provisioning at the general store, we met Andres, a solo cyclist
from Santiago. After chatting a bit, he decided he would join us for the
night. We mounted back up and road only a few more kilometers before finding
a nice grassy riverbank. As we were pitching our tents, Andres had the
idea to ask the farmers at the nearby house if they would help us make
Cordero al Palo, the traditional huaso, or cowboy, meal of lamb
slowly cooked over a campfire. Besides the lamb, you need skewers made
from palos, sticks of wood or iron. Andres had read all about it
in school.
Andres and I walked up to the house to inquire about the possibilities.
The man of the house wasn't in but his wife Carmen said he should return
within the hour. Yes, she thought such a feast might be possible. An hour
later, we re-knocked on their door and found the farmer, also named Andres,
home. While Cordero al Palo was not feasible due to the lateness of the
hour, he could prepare for us Cordero al Parrilla, or grilled lamb.
The two of us jumped on our bikes and raced back to town to buy meat
enough for eight - six of us, the farmer, and his wife. After a few inquiries,
we came to the butcher's house. His living room was more like a kitchen.
Mounted on two of his walls were steel racks from which hung two full
sides of lamb and a couple lamb's heads. Not exactly interior design by
Martha Stewart.
With a large knife in his hand, the butcher asked us how much we wanted.
Good question. Having never bought lamb by the kilo, we told him enough
for eight extremely hungry people. He lopped off one leg and handed us
the other, with the entire half of a lamb carcass attached. Ten kilos.
The next question was how to carry our meat back to camp. I think the
butcher expected us to walk out the door dragging the carcass behind us
because when we asked for a bag, he appeared surprised. All we had was
Pierre's brand new Dana Designs backpack. With Pierre not there to help
us engineer a better solution, we reasoned that this wasn't bear country
and therefore folded and tucked the moist carcass inside the pack.
We made one more quick stop at the store for four more liters of wine,
a couple kilos of tomatoes, some onions, and three kilos of bread. Drawing
the short straw, I strapped the bulging pack to my back and we cycled
back to camp.
By the time we returned, the rest had congregated around the blazing
fire and had already put a dent into the first 2 liter box of wine. Andres
the farmer got out his cutlery and made short business of that lamb. Meanwhile,
Carmen made piebre, a mixed salad ambrosia of tomatoes, onions,
garlic, vinegar, a little water, and some assortment of unknown spices.
Within the hour we were feasting. And we feast we did, for over two hours.
Amazing the appetite a little wind and dirt road can generate. Needless
to say, all ten kilos found there way into our bellies that night.
Even more needless to say, we woke very late the next afternoon.
. . . . . . . . . .
The following day we made Puerto Murta on the shore of Lago General Carrera
by early afternoon. The next morning we rode the shoreline of the lake.
Beautiful turquoise water set against sheer Andean peaks. Quite spectacular.
And quite a contrast to the absolutely nasty roads we were rolling through.
Washboards for 50 km at a time, with stretches that come in mogul-size.
For weeks the Camino Austral had been definitely taking its toll on the
bikes and gear, but this particular day it extracted its heftiest tariff.
First, Nicole's rear pannier bit the dust. The tumble pulled one of the
mounting hooks clean through the pannier frame and put a nice rip down
one side. We labored on the side of the road for a half hour but had little
to show for it. It wasn't pretty, but the bag was back on - fastened with
string, bungies, rubber strips, wire, and duct tape.
And why were we carrying such an assortment of hardware and software?
Let me pause here to describe a certain phenomena that's come to my attention
regarding the cyclists in this part of world. After a week or so on the
ripio, one becomes part cyclist, part scavenger. Travelers in these regions
can regularly be observed picking up what at first appears to be garbage
- for example a chunk of a gas tank that an unwitting motorist dropped,
a tendril of fence wire, or anything that speaks "sturdy" when held in
the hand. More often than not, after picking up such a scrap, they tuck
it away in their bags. Farther down the road, that same traveler can be
seen making perfect use of that piece of "garbage." We too,
share this affliction, and thus were prepared to counter the blow of the
ripio.
Second, another 2 whole kilometers down the road, Pierre's front rack
broke in two places. Third, our patch job on Nicole's rack blew apart
and sent her bag flying again. Fourth, we rode in the back of a dumptruck
the next 150 km to the nearest mechanic's shop. Even by motor, it took
six hours to advance what it would take roughly (pun intended) twelve
hours to pedal.
The nearest shop was in Cochrane, about 330 km south of Coihaique and
220 km north of Villa O'Higgins. There we spent a couple days putting
our creative powers to use as we rebuilt Nicole's pannier support system.
Until only a few years ago, Cochrane used to be the end of the line for
the Camino Austral. While it's grown quite a lot recently, cars are still
quite rare and telephones that work even rarer. During our stay in Cochrane,
we had the pleasure to meet one of its most colorful citizens, Washington
Luis Baez.
Trotting gallantly down the road on his immaculate steed, Washington
came alongside our camp, waved, and flashed a warm smile. We bid him closer
and watched as he dismounted with the grace of a twenty year old. He sat
with us over a cup of tea and asked us who we were, where we were going,
and why. Before leaving, he invited us to his house the next day. We hardly
learned a thing about him that evening, but would later come to know a
little of his fascinating history.
Coincidentally enough, one of the German cyclists had read a book written
by another traveler that included a small chapter on Washington Luis Baez.
Here's what we learned:
Despite being born and raised in the then small pueblo of Coihaique,
Washington has seen quite a lot in his days. Up until his early thirties,
his life seemed normal enough - married, had a couple kids, and held a
government job with Chile's forest service. It was then that Pinochet
came into power and changed Washington's life forever. For apparently
no reason, his wife was abducted by Pinochet's henchmen. Washington ducked
across the border to Argentina and there concocted a ruse involving a
fake telegram that somehow got his wife sprung. He and his newly reunited
family fled to Romania, which at the time welcomed Chilean exiles. For
the next few years Washington painted portraits and somehow became a friend
of the Romanian elite. Soon he was painting for Ceausescu, the ruthless
communist dictator of Romania. Later in his life he would paint a portrait
of US President Gerald Ford.
Fed up with the contradictions of Romanian communism, Washington and
his family moved to Stockholm, Sweden. There they lived for the next 18
years. Washington worked as a Spanish professor at a university and as
a carpenter restoring older homes. When Pinochet's reign came to end,
after over 20 years in exile, Washington finally was able to return to
his homeland. Back in Chile, he assumed possession of his father's property
- 3000 hectares just outside of Cochrane.
Today, even in Cochrane, he seems a little of an anachronism, a modern
day Miner Chivvy. His house has no electricity, no running water. Rather
than drive a car, he rides his horse. Many might say he hasn't much besides
land. I say he has more than most. A prouder, happier man I've have hardly
met.
. . . . . . . . . .
From Cochrane, we rode four more days of ripio, through even more sparsely
populated areas to Villa O'Higgins. One of those days we saw a total two
cars all day - crazy when you consider that the Camino Austral, is the
ONLY road in these parts.
Out of Villa O'Higgins, we would continue south, but by slightly different
means...
< Prev
Next >
|
