Riding to Patagonia

[ducpainter]

How much longer until you reach your destination?

[1.21GW]

How much longer until you reach your destination?

Almost there...

[1.21GW]

From Calafate to Ushuaia you can either go west back into the mountainous part of Patagonia (via Chile) or take the plains south through Argentina (passing through Chile for a bit) along the Atlantic coast.  I chose to go down via the latter and return north via the former.  On reflection, taking the mountain route south through Torres del Paine and then returning north via ferry would have been the best option because there's nothing to see or enjoy in southern Argentina along either RN40 or RN3.  Hours of riding in landscapes as interesting as the surface of the moon, you tend to get excited for anything that is not an endless plain of wind and sun-baked shrubbery.  Things like: guachos on horseback herding a flock of sheep, an enormous ferry towed by two semis parked on the side of the highway, the remains of car fires.  The only joy comes from the schadenfreude you get passing those pedal bikers who must endure that forsaken landscape at a sluggish 20kpm.















I skipped my day's planned destination after riding through and realizing there was nothing worth seeing or doing.  I then kept pushing past more possible stopovers, each as unattractive as the last, until nightfall forced my hand.  By pure luck, I ended up in a tiny town where a group of overlanders---four vans, one bike---had stopped for the night.  I decided to join the caravan and by the time I was settled in another van, three motorcyclists, and two bicyclists had arrived as well.  It was an impromptu overlander gathering.










When you stop to talk to people---be they locals or fellow travelers---you really never know what you're gonna get but after enough surfaced is scratched you find something remarkable.  One of the MB Unimog owners was a German couple, the husband a retired BMW mechanic that was also a race instructor on the Nürburgring.  We spent a few hops-fueled hours just talking about his experiences on the track, something that totaled over 100,000 km.

Meanwhile, a modified VW bus housed a Brazilian couple and their daughter.  They just gave up on Brazil after years of continued violence and struggling economy and now they're living on the road happy as a dog with two tails.  More genuine and welcoming people I have not met.







Finally, the most intriguing transportation of the group was a Royal Enfield loaded up like it was 1950.  Its owner was a Swiss that had ridden from Switzerland though Eastern Europe, the Middle East, India, and SE Asia before shipping the bike to Uruguay to tackle South America.  The only modifications on the bike that were not done with zipties and duct tape was an engine swap performed by a guy that specializes in putting diesel generator engines in Royal Enfields.  Puts out only 8hp but it goes 600-700km on its 3.5L tank.  Tops out at 100kph and to achieve that he has to ride behind trucks, which was the arrangement he made when he met the Nürburgring couple up near Buenos Aires.  They drive about 85kph and he drafts behind them, occasionally riding alongside them when there are heavy cross winds.









Fabian was was a vintage traveler.  I don't think any of his gear was fully waterproof and I also don't think he cared.  Watching the whole world pass by at 80 kph was good enough.  It was a comical contrast to see him and another Swiss who arrived later on his scratchless fully-loaded Africa Twin (w/ DCT, something for which he was subjected to endless ribbing), wireless aftermarket tire pressure sensors, more luggage than baggage claim at Laguardia, a full DSLR and its case of bells and whistles, the latest GoPro and even, yes, a drone.  A make the beast with two backsing drone.  But all our judgment was in jest as he was a good guy and anyone riding on two wheels is a comrade.  For comparison, this was the homemade bash plate on the Enfield:






 

I love ADVers!

[yamifixer]

shout out to the Enfield guy. I'm impressed with riders like that. I've not ridden because it MIGHT rain later. I am soft that is a real biker

[1.21GW]

Southern Patagonia Wind Anecdotes


- In heavy crosswinds you have to ride as if in mid-turn at a 10* angle.  It's not that noticeable when you're alone until you get off the bike and your arms are exhausted.  When riding with others it's a little funny watching the guy ahead of you wobble at an angle for three hours straight.

- A fully-loaded adventure bike parked without the wind in mind is ripe prey for a Patagonian swift.  I've stopped and got off to take a picture only to return to a sideways bike.

- Fuel efficiency on my fully-loaded bike has consistently been the 10 or 11 miles-per-liter range under normal conditions.  Riding to El Chalten with a gale force wind in my face I got about 7 miles-per-liter when I did the math at fillup.  The next day with the same wind at my back I filled up midday to a surprising 14 miles-per-liter.

- Both my tent and my bike cover had survived fourteen months in the most searing sun, dusty desert winds, falling ashes spread from holiday firework residue and, on the Pacific coast of Mexico, the most violent (non-hurricane) storm I've ever experienced.  But within a span of a week in Patagonia my tent poles were snapped and my bike cover torn nearly in half by the winds.

- In El Chalten when I hiked up to see cloud-covered Cerro Torre the wind was so strong that it lifted the scree around the laguna as if it were dust.  As a result, the hoards of hikers that came locked and loaded with their DSLRs looked like a platoon of marines under heavy fire.  They'd run to a boulder and crouch up against it, waiting for the sound of the wind to die a bit, then turn quickly around the corner to fire off a few photos before taking cover again.  As comical as it was for me, it was a real threat to them since the spray of pebbles was strong enough to crack a lens.  My hiking partners pants didn't cover her ankles and she had welts from the flying rocks.

- Riding with the caravan of overlanders I met above, we crossed the Chile-Argentina border as a group.  A British couple in a Unimog finished their paperwork on the Chilean side and walked back to the truck.  The husband (Nick) helped his wife (Pat) up into that behemoth of a vehicle and then walked around to get in the driver's seat.  He heard a shout and then ran over to find his wife on the ground 3m from the truck writhing in pain while a stranger army crawled towards her.  A bizarre scene indeed.  Apparently, she had re-opened the door slightly at the exact moment of a major guest and the door thrust open and, having her hand firmly on the handle, launched her out.  Two witnesses said she flew 3m before hitting the ground.  A local witness rushed to help her but the wind was so strong he had to crawl to her to over getting blown over himself.  This was the scene Nick saw when he ran back around the truck.  Luckily, nothing was broken but Pat was badly bruised and a little gun shy for a couple days.

- It wasn't all bad: the sensation of riding at 90kph with a 90kph tailwind is both wondrous and a bit discomfiting.  To go that fast and not feel a single breath of forewind is euphoric, like floating in a dream.

- Faithful Fabian of the Royal Enfield reached a new speed record with a heavy tailwind.  Lacking a speedometer he had no idea of his feat until I informed him at the next stop that he tickled 130kph for a brief stretch.  Godspeed!

- And in the ultimate display of irony, an artwork consisting of wind statues near Puerto Natales sat broken by the very winds to which it held fealty:

[DuciD03]

  nice pics and pros as usual 

Hope you find a taylor with zippers soon in that wind ...lol!

Ride on 

 

[TWDucfan]

Fascinating journey, wonderful pictures, thanks for sharing!

 

 

 

[1.21GW]

It is not the grand ferocious edge of the world you might expect but more like a gentle sigh that ends in a calm and quiet bay.  Even the name sounds passive: oo-shoo-ay-ah.  All those open vowels, that sibilant "sh" passing over the lips like a whisper, ending in a weak "ah" that seems to trail off like a dying breath.

Despite its claims, Ushuaia is actually the second-to-last town in South America (Puerto Williams, across the Magellan Strait, is the last) but has marketed its way to the boastful title of "The End of the World" and thus become the destination for those seeking to punctuate their wanderlust.  And so it serves as an apex and a nadir.  Where all hence become thence.  The end to so many journeys and the beginning to as many more.  It is the mother of all homecoming.

Standing at the literal end of the road of an entire landmass that for so long was the world's blind corner around which so many men temerariously turned, you can't help but think of Magellan and his demise, something that reads like a fabled fall portended by an old gypsy woman in some bustling Mediterranean port.  You think of Shackleton and the ferocity and aplomb with which he conquered that Long Night adrift in a sunless sea of ice.  You think of Sir Francis Drake.  Of Cook.  Of Lewis and Clarke.  Of Livingstone.  Of Ted Simon.  

And you think back on Colombia and its sweet delights that now feel like an unrecoverable dream.  And you think of all those august suns setting over the Pacific---in San Blas, in Sayulite, in Mazunte, in Playa El Esteron, in San Juan del Sur, in Tamarindo, in Santa Catalina, in Montanitas, in Punta de Lobos---how each would hover an eternity on the edge of the world until every drop of color was bled from its fiery heart and whole crowds of people would stop to stare as if witnessing the final spectacular death of the universe.  You think of that masked catrina in León that pulled you from the crowd and danced with you to a country burlesque and then disappeared into the mob as mysteriously as she arrived, like an apparition passing through this world on its way to the next.  You think of that night in a Bogota bar as old as the country itself, a grand colonial villa converted to a wine bar where a caramel-skinned nightingale sang in a language that even after eight months was still foreign to you but you didn't need to know the words because it was as if two centuries of woe in that house had finally found release in her sad and soulful voice.  And you think of the father and son you stopped to help on the road to Cafayate, and how disappointed you were that your tire pump did not fit the valve on their cartwheel because you wanted to be a good citizen and reach across cultures to sew another stitch in the fabric of the world, and how they too seemed to want the same unspoken thing, but it didn't fit and they thanked you profusely and you thanked them endlessly not wanting the chance to connect to end but it did and you rode on.

And the tide of memories continues rushing in as you stand on the crest of an entire continent looking out over a placid bay beyond which, after 456 days of pushing on, you cannot push further.  So you wipe the bugs off your face shield for thousandth time and swing your booted paw up over that pillion once again and turn your grimy forks north, away from the impenetrable sea and towards the beckoning light of a new unknown.

[duccarlos]

Here, here!

[Mhanis]

Freaking WOW!

Congratulations.

Mark

[koko64]

 

[Howie]

 

[DarkMonster620]

Congratulations on the long journey down America and remember, you and ALL wanting to do it, you have a garage, a bed, coffee, a shower and a few pets in my house if you wish to make a stop here.

[ducpainter]

It is not the grand ferocious edge of the world you might expect but more like a gentle sigh that ends in a calm and quiet bay.  Even the name sounds passive: oo-shoo-ay-ah.  All those open vowels, that sibilant "sh" passing over the lips like a whisper, ending in a weak "ah" that seems to trail off like a dying breath. 

Despite its claims, Ushuaia is actually the second-to-last town in South America (Puerto Williams, across the Magellan Strait, is the last) but has marketed its way to the boastful title of "The End of the World" and thus become the destination for those seeking to punctuate their wanderlust.  And so it serves as an apex and a nadir.  Where all hence become thence.  The end to so many journeys and the beginning to as many more.  It is the mother of all homecoming.

Standing at the literal end of the road of an entire landmass that for so long was the world's blind corner around which so many men temeraciously turned, you can't help but think of Magellan and his demise, something that reads like a fabled fall portended by an old gypsy woman in some bustling Mediterranean port.  You think of Shackleton and the ferocity and aplomb with which he conquered that Long Night adrift in a sunless sea of ice.  You think of Sir Francis Drake.  Of Cook.  Of Lewis and Clarke.  Of Livingstone.  Of Ted Simon.  

And you think back on Colombia and its sweet delights that now feel like an unrecoverable dream.  And you think of all those august suns setting over the Pacific---in San Blas, in Sayulite, in Mazunte, in Playa El Esteron, in San Juan del Sur, in Tamarindo, in Santa Catalina, in Montanitas, in Punta de Lobos---how each would hover an eternity on the edge of the world until every drop of color was bled from its fiery heart and whole crowds of people would stop to stare as if witnessing the final spectacular death of the universe.  You think of that masked catrina in León that pulled you from the crowd and danced with you to a country burlesque and then disappeared into the mob as mysteriously as she arrived, like an apparition passing through this world on its way to the next.  You think of that night in a Bogota bar as old as the country itself, a grand colonial villa converted to a wine bar where a caramel-skinned nightingale sang in a language that even after eight months was still foreign to you but you didn't need to know the words because it was as if two centuries of woe in that house had finally found release in her sad and soulful voice.  And you think of the father and son you stopped to help on the road to Cafayate, and how disappointed you were that your tire pump did not fit the valve on their cartwheel because you wanted to be a good citizen and reach across cultures to sew another stitch in the fabric of the world, and how they too seemed to want the same unspoken thing, but it didn't fit and they thanked you profusely and you thanked them endlessly not wanting the chance to connect to end but it did and you rode on.

And the tide of memories continues rushing in as you stand on the crest of an entire continent looking out over a placid bay beyond which, after 456 days of pushing on, you cannot push further.  So you wipe the bugs off your face shield for thousandth time and swing your booted paw up over that pillion once again and turn your grimy forks north, away from the impenetrable sea and towards the beckoning light of a new unknown.

Does all this mean you made it?

[Howie]

Amazing journey