Link #12
27 Mar - 04 Apr, 2000
Puerto Natales, CHILE to Ushuaia, ARGENTINA (728 km)
Puerto Natales and the coziness of Nancy's Hospedaje was tough to leave.
Nonetheless, on the morning of March 27 we got back on the bikes for the
first time in 11 days - our longest respite yet. The legs must have gotten
a little soft during their vacation because starting our climb out of
Natales, they gave us nothing but sass. But by midday we had them in order;
good thing too - they would be our sole motive power for the next nine
days as we made our final push south. By the time we reached Ushuaia,
our odometer would read 3377 km, or a little over 2000 mi.
In the far southern regions, the pampas know no borders - Chile and Argentina
become one massive windswept plain. From Puerto Natales, route 9 bisects
the pampas for about 200 km before reaching the Strait of Magellan and
dropping south along the coast to Punta Arenas. For three days we pedaled
this stretch.
The first night we camped in the field of a poor rancher. There wasn't
much to his spread besides a small sooty shack and an outhouse perched
in the middle of a bridge over a small creek. Needless to say, we were
careful where we drew our water that night.
Morning greeted us with a cold misty drizzle, the kind that makes you
very wet very quickly. We broke camp and packed up everything wet. It
took a fair bit of rolling before we regained sensation in our fingers
and toes. Brrrrhh. Once again, we were reminded that it's mid autumn and
we're below 52° S. We've given up all hopes of an Indian Summer. The
chill in the air is too exact.
Our standard costume nowadays includes an extra layer all around - a
Goretex shell, leggings, gloves and a hat. Toughest part is trying to
keep your body temperature regulated. Have learned there's a very fine
line between a chill and a sweat. The slightest shift in climate or road
condition tends to tilt the balance and sends us to the shoulder for adjustments.
By day's end we made it to an inlet on the Strait of Magellan. With clouds
brewing overhead we anxiously scanned the horizon for possible places
to pass the night. With the binoculars we sighted a cluster of buildings
to the south and made a run for it. Turned out we were two months late
- the Hotel Cabeza del Mar was closed for the season. Not to be discouraged,
we walked the premises shouting "halo's" until the proprietor
came out from the hen house. Understanding these countrymen is real tough.
The farther south we get, the more guttural the speech, the more impossible
for my gringo ears to decipher. I managed to grasp that he didn't mind
us squatting in one of the half-restored cabins. Luckily the windows were
already in and afforded fantastic views out to the Strait. We swept out
the sawdust, got the water boiling, and made use of the scaffolding to
dry out our wet gear. Warm and homey. .
Not surprisingly, we again woke to rain. The winds had also picked up.
Hardly anxious to leave our roost, we burrowed back into the bags, brewed
another cup of coffee, and grabbed our books. Cole's almost done with
Wallace Stegner's Big Rock Candy Mountain and I can't put down
Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. After two hours of snug denial, we resolved
ourselves to the fact that the rain wasn't going to abate anytime soon.
So, we loaded up and pointed south. Punta Arenas lay a tough 48 kilometers
downstream.
Founded in 1848, "Sandy Point" was originally a penal colony
and military outpost. Although not planned, it soon became a major stopover
for boats en route to California during the Gold Rush. With the advent
of the Panama Canal, it's importance diminished but the shear weight of
the new wool industry soon made up for the loss. Today, with wool fetching
less than one fifth the price it did ten years ago, the main industries
are petroleum, fishing, and tourism.
We arrived Punta Arenas damp and numb in the late afternoon. Not used
to larger cities, the eight kilometers navigating the periphery through
narrow, congested streets fried my nerves to a crisp. At one point, I
tried to assume one of the two lanes on the main thoroughfare. The motorists
didn't seem to find that appropriate. After a second taxi driver shaved
my side with no more than a couple inches to spare, I lost it. Pedaling
furiously in his wake and spewing a shameless stream of profanity, I ripped
off my mitt with my teeth in order to communicate an international gesture.
Not my brightest moment. Fortunately, he ignored my fit and sped on.
After that, we stuck to the side streets and eventually found the the
city center where we indulged in a midrange hotel ($32/night). The next
day was one of rest. We took in a few museums and walked the town. I realize
there are some who think our travels tend to the "rough" side.
Perhaps they will be relieved to hear that while in Punta Arenas, we talked
the bellhop into rounding up a VCR and then picked up some popcorn, a
liter of beer, a tub of ice cream, and a couple movies. The only thing
missing was the licorice.
Thus sated, we woke early the morning of March 31 we rode to the Punta
Arenas dock. There we caught the two and half hour ferry to Porvenir,
the main Chilean town on the Gran Isla Tierra del Fuego.
The island got its name from the early European sailors who navigated
its coasts. Upon seeing these great ships the scantily clad natives would
coming running to the shore with their ever present torches. From the
ships' decks the island looked like a "Land of Fire." These
torches were in lieu of clothing and thus their means for staying warm
in a most tempestuous climate.
When we reached the shore, it was hardly tempestuous, but the rain was
falling steadily. We found a Croatian restaurant (majority of Porvenir's
population claims a Yugoslavian descent), had a couple hot sammys and
got out the full rain gear. The muddy coastal road started with a climb
and continued with nonstop rollers for 40 kilometers. Along the Bay of
Inútil there's not a whole lot of vegetation - just open space
with sweeping views to the straits and fjords and mountainous islands.
Nice to have such views when the riding gets so messy - brakes and drive
train clogged with mud and bags assuming a hue of drippy brown.
That night we stayed at a famed estancia whose dueña, or
woman land owner, lets anyone arriving on two wheels stay for free. Run
by the highly industrious and diligent Rigoberto Vargas, Estancia Concordia
is a convenient 60 km west of Porvenir. The only one there besides 7000
sheep, Rigoberto greeted us at the gate and insisted we stay in his back
room. Soon enough we were showered and warm and our muddy wet riding gear
was drying in the kitchen over the stove. It was April and Rigoberto was
surprised to see people still pedaling. The previous season the stragglers
came through at the end of February. Perhaps we were the last cyclists
for this year.
Maybe as reward for slogging through the mud, tailwinds the next day
carried us swiftly east, gliding almost effortlessly along the hardpack
for 95 kilometers. Away from the coast, the terrain is flat and not too
interesting - more pampas. We reached the San Sebastian border crossing
on the other side of the island in the early afternoon. After a couple
hour rest we gained a lovely paved road on the Argentine side. We pedaled
south until dusk, clocking another 20 before pulling over at a lonely
police post manned by a kind young soldier named Leon. He was quick with
his maté gourd and hospitable in every other way. By his station's
light we fixed Nicole's rack which had snapped at a solder joint during
the day. A chunk of rubber, scrap of steel, and a couple hose clamps did
the trick.
Next morning we cruised 65 km south to the aspiring metropolis of Rio
Grande. A stranger town I'm not sure I've seen. An overly ambitious city
planner, perhaps from Barcelona or maybe an apprentice architect fresh
from the Georges Pompidou center in Paris, seems to have gotten a hold
of the reins in Rio Grande and went hog wild. Streets densely lined with
gauche streetlights, superfluous dangling arches, mock bridges, and curvy
sidewalks. Colors never intended to be seen side by side were side by
side. The cumulative effect made the head spin. It's a twisted Candyland
spawned from the barren pampas.
Despite seeing it for what it was, we were not immune from the lure of
gaud... the all you can eat Sunday brunch at the Tenedor Libre was too
much to pass up. Apart from the MEAT, there was actually a fine array
of veggie dishes and tasty casseroles. Needless to say, we filled our
biker bellies and both sets of legs before rolling out of there. We immediately
worked off the first two plates by cycling directly into a vile headwind
for a good 10 km outside of town. After that, we gain a slightly favorable
crosswind and cranked another 40 before stopping at an estancia to fill
up our water bottles. As we topped them off, the manager asked if we needed
a place to stay. It was apparently not a day to say no to, so we shacked
up in one of his sheephands' houses and enjoyed the hot showers.
After oatmeal, coffee, and a little bike maintenance the next morning,
we packed and mounted up. The road skirted the Atlantic coast for a short
while and then cut due south into the hills. The winds whipped up first
at our sides and then into our faces. Turned out to be a tough ride to
the village of Tolhuin. We had almost passed it when we decided we could
use some fresh bread. We spotted the panaderia and then saw the pastries
through the window. As we were going through our dismounting ritual, I
looked at Nicole and warned her that if I go in there, I'm not coming
out for a while. She agreed. We proceeded to wolf down a large family's
share of pastries before escaping with hands crossed over our bellies.
A few curves later, the road turned to dirt again. Shortly after we checked
into the Hosteria Kaiken, a gorgeous place overlooking the fantastically
scenic Lago Fagnano and the island's southern range.
After a good night's rest we were poised for the final leg of Tierra
del Fuego, the last 100 km of our tour south. We had heard there was a
nasty pass about halfway and thus tried to conserve energy during the
morning ride. We had also heard that a week ago it was snowing and sleeting
at sea level in these parts. Somehow we hit it just right because for
the previous two days we enjoyed sunny albeit brisk weather. We lunched
right before the pass in the village of Lago Escondido.
Paso Garibaldi turned out to be a steady, but not too tough climb. It
was our fifth ~100 km day in row, so our knees whined a bit, but other
than that, we felt great. The most difficult task was keeping our eyes
on the road. The mountainsides blazed with autumn color. Southern beech,
lengua, and various other trees and bushes raged yellows oranges purples
reds and greens. I'll go out on a limb here and say that New England's
fall is drab in comparison. Never before have we seen mother nature so
wantonly display her spectral force.
From the top of the pass we sailed down the backside on a miraculously
smooth ribbon of a road. The crews were getting ready to pave so it was
in an ideal state. With the sun at our backs and the valley unfolding
in front of us we could not help but feel like the happiest two creatures
on earth.
And so we descended into Ushuaia, the last town in South America, 75
days after departing Santiago de Chile. All together, 47 pedaling, 28
days walking talking and resting.
From here, we start making our way up to Buenos Aires...
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