An open road. A loaded pack. The crunch of gravel and the whipping wind. You're not 100% in strength but damn does it feel good to be mooooooovin'.
The wind in Torres was a bitch, and she left you with some sniffles in Puerto Natales causing a 2 day de-lay but the immune system gave a sucker punch and you were back on the road in no time, just fine.
A short wait, short ride, it's all great. Walk a ways looking at linticular clouds mount like pancakes, flat stacks piling up above some gaucho's place. An hour stroll and a mixed bag of women from Switzerland, Australia, and Chile give a hand through the tolls of immigration. 2 more stamps and you're back in Argentina, Che.
Río Turbio's got a mine, not much more, so you don't waste time. Stick out the thumb and hey diddly-dum! The first catch is a miner who backpacked once to the north, now he's payin' the road debt back and drops you off at the crossroads to the Ruta 40. Time to make a bit of an acquaintance and walk a bit because you'll be stickin' with her for about 600k to Chile Chico.
You note the backpack is definitely back and the little bug you caught is doing wonders on the strength reserves. A good long sit ends with a lucky bit as a Bob Marley blastin' Argentine keeps you in time all the way to La Esperanza. This town's got absolutely nothing going for it, at least surely not esperanza.
Compañero Chileno and you fish for a bit but decide to quit and bring a new trick to the table. Approaching the town's seemingly only cookery, you ask with humility, if to cook some pasta they are able.
"Che, no problem! Hey grab a chair, would you like me to pass the maté?"
"Well, don't mind if I do if it's all right with you, and how is everyone passin´?"
So ya sit right there in that plastic chair while the guys pass ya some beer and y'all start chattin'. They serve you the 1/2kilo of pasta and added a veggie sauce with some bread for munching, free of charge.
Waking the next day the skies are looking dark, a few drops fall just as you begin to start. But you kids are playin with luck today! You get a ride without even leavin the service station, all the way back to Ruta 40...then you're left in the rain, a painnnnn in the ass but not 3 cars pass and a couple takes your wet hides for a ride.
"Where to?"
"North"
"We're taking a day trip to El Chaltén"
"And coming back?"
"That's right, so if we catch you on the return we'll give you another flight"
Soon Mr. Fitz Roy is looming above, clouds swirling around him in the cold air, with trekkers looking from below at the show. A few hours and lunch then back to the exit, the couple takes you to the crossroads and exchange emails so you can send them some uploads.
The wind is howling, bullying you and your pack. You jump and catch it like the sails of a galleon. A short truck ride and you've made it to Tres Lagos, or, almost. The service center on the outskirts (if there was any town there in the first) provides the night's camp and you make the most.
Next day and you face ol' 40 again, this time she's pure dirt and gravel for as far as the eye can travel.
"Wow man, how are we going to conquer this..." (pickup stops) "one..."
"Would you be willing to give a lift? Anywhere north would be a gift."
"Of course, we're going to Chile Chico"
"You mean the Chile Chico 400k that way?"
"The only one I know of. Sorry the cab's full, you'll have to sit out back."
"Please! No problem! Let me grab my pack."
And so begins Dust Ride. Such a fine powder that's been given a million years to settle gets disrupted by every pull of the Firestones. Rickity-tik-TANK-TONK-BAP slap the stones on the Japanese steel carriage. One hour, two hours, three hours then bizhhhhhhh, ah a patch of tarmac thank YOU Kirschner for giving a little bit of public funding down here! The tailbone's been jostled enough that it's now flush with your rear. But as suddenly as it's come...drop! Rumble, rumble, bumble and the sand storm provides you with it's blanket humble.
The halfway point allows a respite and rinse so you shovel off the rouge from your face. The rickshaw needs a rubber paw change and some combustible but the station's dry as the surroundings. No problem though, your chauffeurs are prepared with a hose and two jugs of the green naphtha. So who's to start the siphon? Ah, how nice of you to volunteer! The dragon fuel leaves your mouth with a taste of magnificently aged tarpentine moonshine.
Back on the road! Back on the pebbles! If your ass hurts now by the end it will treble! But wait? Can it be? From here to Chile Chico it's both dust and bounce free? And hills hide the pampa behind the curtain, your return? Date uncertain.
Chile Chico, aye que rico! Back in the adopted homeland just after 2 short days. A couchsurf contact allows you guys to set up the tent in the apple tree grove and shower off the day's dose. The wind still howls outside but is no match for the bag of deliciously warm sleep.
Sunday and the town is dead, held hostage indoors as the gusts throw everything to the ground...including ruby orange apricots to be found. A routine price check on the pasta in a small family supermarket brings you to a gathering of the local elders, swiggin' grape juice of the white and red varieties. The best from the box is insisted upon you and the conversations begin about the "damned Israelis" and days of old Chico's insobrieties.
Blasted wind keeps on blasting till the morning and you're ready to hit it again. To the main drag at a leisurely 2pm, it's lined with Israel. You strike up conversations with them and find it interesting that this patch of the journey is the only part by thumb, the rest by bus. To each their own in the outstreched arm we trust.
So what's to do when there's so much competiton and traffic so few? Strap the sign on the back and pick up the slack, it's time to ramble on. The competition looks on, confused and dumbfounded as to what the scraggly gringo-chilean team is doing. And so it's 30 minutes walk, 3k ride, 50 minute strut, 25k lift, 1 hour skuff, 3 hour flatbed to Puerto Guadal shared with some Israelis and spent hooting and hollerin' like cowboy of the respective countries (Yee-haw, tiuuoo,uyuuui!), then the crossroads with the grand Carretera Austral is breached in the waining hours of sunlight. To the right are some cabros from Santiago and a friendly banter finds you with some camping pals. Que tal. Stories are shared 'round the campfire with noodle soup and a 1.5 of red wine jive.
Pit...pat...pit...pat-pit...patpitt-pat...patpitpatpitpattattaTATAaPATtatPatTATTATATTTAAAAATAAAA "good morning, it's 6:30 and time to get up" says the shower. It's a benign windless wet pour, easily walkable, easily waitable...now if only there were some rides to fish for.
2 hours and a jeep comes to pass, alas they can only take 1. So it starts down the road but brakes and into reverse it goes.
"Yeaaa Ok two of you hop in, this is my wife _____ and my daughter _____ now from where you kids coming?"
"Cauquenes, 7th Region"
"...and Los Angeles"
"Ahhh both Chileno?"
"haha oh please no, Los Angeles California"
"Really? I'll be. You must have been practicing your accent"
"Sometimes I can pass if I keep it nice and short"
"Well you fooled me for a second there kid"
You know you're sure you did.
And you bump down the road to the turn off at the marble caves. The steady rain is a deterrent to taking the boat out so there's a good 5 hour waiting period chatting with some Swiss cyclists near the bonfire. Someday, someway, you're gonna bike this route. Details and other logistics like money will be worried about... later.
There's a break in the rain, a chance to end this boredom and hop on a skip to see some marble eroded by the gentle lap of waves of a million years. 5000 pesos, a lap around some interesting island rocks, and some photos. As much as you don't want to sound like a "I'm above tourism" prick, nature has a tendency of losing it's value when it's paid for.
9pm in Rìo Tranquilo and you're fooling around with your "Recièn duchados" sign for the few cars that pass, all laughing at such a grand fib but hey at least you've got class. The sun casts crepicsulars of neon orange and red from behind the mountainous backdrop and as you take an errand for the daily bread it seems as though the night will be spent in this town at least recently fed. But on the return trip you see the scene play out in slow-mo. The pickup stops, the compañero questions, up with the bags, and you take off running not wanting to miss the ride that's apparently to Coyhaique.
Ice ride. Oh if you'd had any idea! The trip, motion sick popsicle stick. Flyin' down the gravel road to the 9th circle of Hell where ol' Beezulbub is whipping up a windstorm that passes through every layer, goddamn it's a slayer! Not even the cocoon sleeping bag provides any sort of relief and you curse the gale out loud, just to be sure it hears your discomfort...
But the landscape. Bathed in the brightest light from the brightest of moons you've ever seen in 23years 6 months and 5 days. Each nauseating twist in the road and a you watch magic unload on pupils wide looking at nature pure and bonafide. The sparkle of the ice water dancing down river while saw-toothed ranges cast long shadows over the forests and plains below is a gigantic grace saving you from the invisible cutting wind.
Useless your trembling self is in arming the tent at the service station 4 hour later.
A warm sun knocks on your eyelids and it's time to check out of Coyhaique. After so many single road towns the bustle and jumble of the region's largest provides a stark contrast to those passed. At the city exit the pack hardly hits the ground before it's recollected and thrown into the bed of a well-loved pickup. 30 minutes later it's back on the tarmac, a wait with frequent trips to the trees lining the edges loaded with plums, maki, and bees.
Friendly farmer takes you and 5 others 5k and then you watch with jealousy as a pickup takes them away. You're left for 3 hours before stuffing into a circus mobile. A 20k trip to the middle of the forest with the lions, tigers and bears...no rides. Farmer Jaime gives the go to sleep under the moon on his private piece of Patagonia.
And the morning wait forshadows fate. A dismal 30k then perching it along the Rìo Cisnes. Hours and hours with your boredom you fight, only one car stops and says the cross is a 5k hike. 5k? Ok. And the kilos hit your back, but after 5 clicks have passed you ask some Brits rolling fast "No more than 12", agh sonofabitch oh well, and 2 hours more sun hotter than hell. Alas more cycles! And what do they say "10k and you're good for the day" but by now you don't trust a word anyone say. The sun is sunk behind the clouds it's shrunk, but to trudge you must. La cruce, la cruce, la cruce, la cruce or bust. The last chunk of 3 is ridden in speed, and you've arrived to where the tarmac ends. With sweat and funk, you take refuge in the roadside shack, with holes, vermin and other luxuries to pamper.
An early start but not necessarily catching the worm. The conversation with Mr. Traveling pirated DVDs man (among other merchandise) is as good as any to kill time.Then some luck to La Junta you strike, or about 70 more than the day before hike. Glacier valleys are as common as inner city alleys and exist in precious ambience too perfect for words.
La Junta, "a meeting place for friends" it says, "apparently the memo didn't arrive" thinks you. And it's still dirt that gets kicked in your face with every car that passes every 10 minutes, but the 3rd is a winner.
"I've worked in every part of this country. Antartica to Rapa Nui. Laying roads and asphalt's the game. Played pro soccer and studied under socialism yet worked for a dictator. Pardon the munching boys I haven't eaten nothing all day. You've heard of the Bulls right? Michael Jordan, Scotty Pippen, and maaan, who was that other guy? Rodman! Oh could he play dirty, but never fouled-out nope. Ah, and see here kids they're sprayin' SR7A, compound sticks to the gravel under the asphault but they'll finish this stretch of road today yup, and you can drive on it tomorrow..." all the way to Chaitèn.
It's been a year out of the country that bears your passport so why not set up the tent on the beach and splurge on a 6 of Chile's finest, 12 months down 3 to go. The pitter-patter chatter knocks you out.
Sell out. The bus tickets remind you how much transportation really costs, and the bus reminds you how much it sucks to travel by bus. Limited view, limited mobility, and isolation. 5000k tramping has spoiled your core and 12 hours to Puerto Montt with 3 boat crossings exiting Jurrasic Park is pure mental sedation. As Austral fades a promise is made to return again to slay the beast properly.
Then Valdivia, now Conce. Home base. HQ. The start of round two. 2 months to Bogota, and 6 to Wichita.
The wind in Torres was a bitch, and she left you with some sniffles in Puerto Natales causing a 2 day de-lay but the immune system gave a sucker punch and you were back on the road in no time, just fine.
A short wait, short ride, it's all great. Walk a ways looking at linticular clouds mount like pancakes, flat stacks piling up above some gaucho's place. An hour stroll and a mixed bag of women from Switzerland, Australia, and Chile give a hand through the tolls of immigration. 2 more stamps and you're back in Argentina, Che.
Río Turbio's got a mine, not much more, so you don't waste time. Stick out the thumb and hey diddly-dum! The first catch is a miner who backpacked once to the north, now he's payin' the road debt back and drops you off at the crossroads to the Ruta 40. Time to make a bit of an acquaintance and walk a bit because you'll be stickin' with her for about 600k to Chile Chico.
You note the backpack is definitely back and the little bug you caught is doing wonders on the strength reserves. A good long sit ends with a lucky bit as a Bob Marley blastin' Argentine keeps you in time all the way to La Esperanza. This town's got absolutely nothing going for it, at least surely not esperanza.
Compañero Chileno and you fish for a bit but decide to quit and bring a new trick to the table. Approaching the town's seemingly only cookery, you ask with humility, if to cook some pasta they are able.
"Che, no problem! Hey grab a chair, would you like me to pass the maté?"
"Well, don't mind if I do if it's all right with you, and how is everyone passin´?"
So ya sit right there in that plastic chair while the guys pass ya some beer and y'all start chattin'. They serve you the 1/2kilo of pasta and added a veggie sauce with some bread for munching, free of charge.
Waking the next day the skies are looking dark, a few drops fall just as you begin to start. But you kids are playin with luck today! You get a ride without even leavin the service station, all the way back to Ruta 40...then you're left in the rain, a painnnnn in the ass but not 3 cars pass and a couple takes your wet hides for a ride.
"Where to?"
"North"
"We're taking a day trip to El Chaltén"
"And coming back?"
"That's right, so if we catch you on the return we'll give you another flight"
Soon Mr. Fitz Roy is looming above, clouds swirling around him in the cold air, with trekkers looking from below at the show. A few hours and lunch then back to the exit, the couple takes you to the crossroads and exchange emails so you can send them some uploads.
The wind is howling, bullying you and your pack. You jump and catch it like the sails of a galleon. A short truck ride and you've made it to Tres Lagos, or, almost. The service center on the outskirts (if there was any town there in the first) provides the night's camp and you make the most.
Next day and you face ol' 40 again, this time she's pure dirt and gravel for as far as the eye can travel.
"Wow man, how are we going to conquer this..." (pickup stops) "one..."
"Would you be willing to give a lift? Anywhere north would be a gift."
"Of course, we're going to Chile Chico"
"You mean the Chile Chico 400k that way?"
"The only one I know of. Sorry the cab's full, you'll have to sit out back."
"Please! No problem! Let me grab my pack."
And so begins Dust Ride. Such a fine powder that's been given a million years to settle gets disrupted by every pull of the Firestones. Rickity-tik-TANK-TONK-BAP slap the stones on the Japanese steel carriage. One hour, two hours, three hours then bizhhhhhhh, ah a patch of tarmac thank YOU Kirschner for giving a little bit of public funding down here! The tailbone's been jostled enough that it's now flush with your rear. But as suddenly as it's come...drop! Rumble, rumble, bumble and the sand storm provides you with it's blanket humble.
The halfway point allows a respite and rinse so you shovel off the rouge from your face. The rickshaw needs a rubber paw change and some combustible but the station's dry as the surroundings. No problem though, your chauffeurs are prepared with a hose and two jugs of the green naphtha. So who's to start the siphon? Ah, how nice of you to volunteer! The dragon fuel leaves your mouth with a taste of magnificently aged tarpentine moonshine.
Back on the road! Back on the pebbles! If your ass hurts now by the end it will treble! But wait? Can it be? From here to Chile Chico it's both dust and bounce free? And hills hide the pampa behind the curtain, your return? Date uncertain.
Chile Chico, aye que rico! Back in the adopted homeland just after 2 short days. A couchsurf contact allows you guys to set up the tent in the apple tree grove and shower off the day's dose. The wind still howls outside but is no match for the bag of deliciously warm sleep.
Sunday and the town is dead, held hostage indoors as the gusts throw everything to the ground...including ruby orange apricots to be found. A routine price check on the pasta in a small family supermarket brings you to a gathering of the local elders, swiggin' grape juice of the white and red varieties. The best from the box is insisted upon you and the conversations begin about the "damned Israelis" and days of old Chico's insobrieties.
Blasted wind keeps on blasting till the morning and you're ready to hit it again. To the main drag at a leisurely 2pm, it's lined with Israel. You strike up conversations with them and find it interesting that this patch of the journey is the only part by thumb, the rest by bus. To each their own in the outstreched arm we trust.
So what's to do when there's so much competiton and traffic so few? Strap the sign on the back and pick up the slack, it's time to ramble on. The competition looks on, confused and dumbfounded as to what the scraggly gringo-chilean team is doing. And so it's 30 minutes walk, 3k ride, 50 minute strut, 25k lift, 1 hour skuff, 3 hour flatbed to Puerto Guadal shared with some Israelis and spent hooting and hollerin' like cowboy of the respective countries (Yee-haw, tiuuoo,uyuuui!), then the crossroads with the grand Carretera Austral is breached in the waining hours of sunlight. To the right are some cabros from Santiago and a friendly banter finds you with some camping pals. Que tal. Stories are shared 'round the campfire with noodle soup and a 1.5 of red wine jive.
Pit...pat...pit...pat-pit...patpitt-pat...patpitpatpitpattattaTATAaPATtatPatTATTATATTTAAAAATAAAA "good morning, it's 6:30 and time to get up" says the shower. It's a benign windless wet pour, easily walkable, easily waitable...now if only there were some rides to fish for.
2 hours and a jeep comes to pass, alas they can only take 1. So it starts down the road but brakes and into reverse it goes.
"Yeaaa Ok two of you hop in, this is my wife _____ and my daughter _____ now from where you kids coming?"
"Cauquenes, 7th Region"
"...and Los Angeles"
"Ahhh both Chileno?"
"haha oh please no, Los Angeles California"
"Really? I'll be. You must have been practicing your accent"
"Sometimes I can pass if I keep it nice and short"
"Well you fooled me for a second there kid"
You know you're sure you did.
And you bump down the road to the turn off at the marble caves. The steady rain is a deterrent to taking the boat out so there's a good 5 hour waiting period chatting with some Swiss cyclists near the bonfire. Someday, someway, you're gonna bike this route. Details and other logistics like money will be worried about... later.
There's a break in the rain, a chance to end this boredom and hop on a skip to see some marble eroded by the gentle lap of waves of a million years. 5000 pesos, a lap around some interesting island rocks, and some photos. As much as you don't want to sound like a "I'm above tourism" prick, nature has a tendency of losing it's value when it's paid for.
9pm in Rìo Tranquilo and you're fooling around with your "Recièn duchados" sign for the few cars that pass, all laughing at such a grand fib but hey at least you've got class. The sun casts crepicsulars of neon orange and red from behind the mountainous backdrop and as you take an errand for the daily bread it seems as though the night will be spent in this town at least recently fed. But on the return trip you see the scene play out in slow-mo. The pickup stops, the compañero questions, up with the bags, and you take off running not wanting to miss the ride that's apparently to Coyhaique.
Ice ride. Oh if you'd had any idea! The trip, motion sick popsicle stick. Flyin' down the gravel road to the 9th circle of Hell where ol' Beezulbub is whipping up a windstorm that passes through every layer, goddamn it's a slayer! Not even the cocoon sleeping bag provides any sort of relief and you curse the gale out loud, just to be sure it hears your discomfort...
But the landscape. Bathed in the brightest light from the brightest of moons you've ever seen in 23years 6 months and 5 days. Each nauseating twist in the road and a you watch magic unload on pupils wide looking at nature pure and bonafide. The sparkle of the ice water dancing down river while saw-toothed ranges cast long shadows over the forests and plains below is a gigantic grace saving you from the invisible cutting wind.
Useless your trembling self is in arming the tent at the service station 4 hour later.
A warm sun knocks on your eyelids and it's time to check out of Coyhaique. After so many single road towns the bustle and jumble of the region's largest provides a stark contrast to those passed. At the city exit the pack hardly hits the ground before it's recollected and thrown into the bed of a well-loved pickup. 30 minutes later it's back on the tarmac, a wait with frequent trips to the trees lining the edges loaded with plums, maki, and bees.
Friendly farmer takes you and 5 others 5k and then you watch with jealousy as a pickup takes them away. You're left for 3 hours before stuffing into a circus mobile. A 20k trip to the middle of the forest with the lions, tigers and bears...no rides. Farmer Jaime gives the go to sleep under the moon on his private piece of Patagonia.
And the morning wait forshadows fate. A dismal 30k then perching it along the Rìo Cisnes. Hours and hours with your boredom you fight, only one car stops and says the cross is a 5k hike. 5k? Ok. And the kilos hit your back, but after 5 clicks have passed you ask some Brits rolling fast "No more than 12", agh sonofabitch oh well, and 2 hours more sun hotter than hell. Alas more cycles! And what do they say "10k and you're good for the day" but by now you don't trust a word anyone say. The sun is sunk behind the clouds it's shrunk, but to trudge you must. La cruce, la cruce, la cruce, la cruce or bust. The last chunk of 3 is ridden in speed, and you've arrived to where the tarmac ends. With sweat and funk, you take refuge in the roadside shack, with holes, vermin and other luxuries to pamper.
An early start but not necessarily catching the worm. The conversation with Mr. Traveling pirated DVDs man (among other merchandise) is as good as any to kill time.Then some luck to La Junta you strike, or about 70 more than the day before hike. Glacier valleys are as common as inner city alleys and exist in precious ambience too perfect for words.
La Junta, "a meeting place for friends" it says, "apparently the memo didn't arrive" thinks you. And it's still dirt that gets kicked in your face with every car that passes every 10 minutes, but the 3rd is a winner.
"I've worked in every part of this country. Antartica to Rapa Nui. Laying roads and asphalt's the game. Played pro soccer and studied under socialism yet worked for a dictator. Pardon the munching boys I haven't eaten nothing all day. You've heard of the Bulls right? Michael Jordan, Scotty Pippen, and maaan, who was that other guy? Rodman! Oh could he play dirty, but never fouled-out nope. Ah, and see here kids they're sprayin' SR7A, compound sticks to the gravel under the asphault but they'll finish this stretch of road today yup, and you can drive on it tomorrow..." all the way to Chaitèn.
It's been a year out of the country that bears your passport so why not set up the tent on the beach and splurge on a 6 of Chile's finest, 12 months down 3 to go. The pitter-patter chatter knocks you out.
Sell out. The bus tickets remind you how much transportation really costs, and the bus reminds you how much it sucks to travel by bus. Limited view, limited mobility, and isolation. 5000k tramping has spoiled your core and 12 hours to Puerto Montt with 3 boat crossings exiting Jurrasic Park is pure mental sedation. As Austral fades a promise is made to return again to slay the beast properly.
Then Valdivia, now Conce. Home base. HQ. The start of round two. 2 months to Bogota, and 6 to Wichita.
1 comment:
Just don't go to Witchita... it'll be a letdown.
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