Punta Arenas, Chile. December 18th
Ten days after the first revolution we have made the transition from island to mainland life, from pedestrian to cyclist, from Quilmes to Cristal, from clean shaven to plain unclean and from Ushuaia, Argentina to Punta Arenas, Chile. Are you sitting comfortably? We're not!
Moments before departure on an epic adventure – Ushuaia, Argentina, with the Beagle Channel behind us.
Day one. December 8th. Ushuaia to Lago Fagnano. 99 km
Sunshine and warm breezes replace snow showers and hail and we're off. Ish. Suffice to say preparation never actually included riding the bikes (for me, add full stop here) fully loaded and thus we cycle to the waterfront due more to the effects of gravity than any grand departure plan. A good place to kick the expedition off though, the Beagle Channel is the backdrop for the obligatory photo shoot. Lack of roads in this part of the world makes for easy navigation and we're soon rounding Monte Oliva and up into the mountains on Ruta 3. After some 4 or 5 stops I'm thoroughly briefed in the workings of a disc brake though none the wiser in how to get mine to release the back wheel. Shimano thus ensure stately progress for the author and the Colliers Wood to Hackney training ride with the same problem on a different bike assumes an unwelcome relevance. My mother for one will be delighted to know I have little choice but to ride with the brake on throughout week one. Paso Garibaldi proves to be a sharp test for men with our restricted training opportunities (ahem) but once left behind we sail on to down to a camp on the shores of Lago Fagnano. The tent and stove come out of the plastic wrappers and both go up. Astonishing. Time to tell my fellow happy campers my big news - I'm cutting down on needless consumption by going without deodorant for the 8 months. Lights out to a tough crowd.
Just past the starting line – a touch north of Ushuaia, Argentina.
Day two. December 9th. Lago Fagnano to Estancia Viamonte (42km south Rio Grande). 89 km
The division of labour goes badly wrong and a man who later reveals to having no idea what porridge is meant to look like is handed the stove. Team morale survives only as my tirade of abuse fails to make it past jaws cemented together. I think up some cutting remarks but they are forgotten by the time I prise my teeth apart sometime in the afternoon and Col has to endure only angry scowling. Perhaps lack of verbal communication is the reason for us losing Al for 20 minutes in the two street town of Tolhuin. Hail and sleet are happily coming with what would turn out to be the week's only tailwind and we speed through rolling country to the pampa of the Atlantic coast. Colin, speaking for his backside rather than through it, calls stumps on the day and we are given a large empty lodge to sleep in at Estancia Viamonte. Fantastic accommodation for free the shower block smells like it was last used by the sheep - or perhaps the deodorant policy is already taking effect? A freezing night is enlivened for Al by a nosebleed suffered without being able to get his arms out of his sleeping bag. Colin and I try not to laugh too hard.
Home for night #2, Estancia Viamonte, Argentina.
Day three. December 10th. Viamonte to Rio Grande. 51 km
Fate suitably tempted by the previous night's diary entry of 'Easy day planned tomorrow...' we set off into the face of a minor gale which develops steadily into something Beaufort did not bother counting up to. It's enough to make me forget Col's labelling of my porridge as 'a bit runny'. The back brake becomes a useful ally in halting progression backwards to Ushuaia. The Rio Grande is crossed though we must confess to pushing over the bridge, forward movement being replaced by wind assisted sideways and nearly resulting in an early bath. Ayuntamiento de Rio Grande, larger crash barriers on the side of your bridge please - my swimming is bad enough without being bolted to a bike. Some fooling about in the bleak gas and logistics city of Rio Grande as we search for our campsite. The notion of putting up a tent being tantamount to posting it express service to the Falklands the kind people at the Club Nautico on the mouth of the river let us kip above the boathouse on a gym floor with bedding improvised. After a full day battling the wind to make 50 pitiful KMs never has the term 'crash mat' been more applicable.
Windy? No sh!t… Somewhere south of Rio Grande, Argentina.
Day four. December 11th. Rio Grande to San Sebastián (Arg). 89 km
Hell on wheels. After surprisingly being able to enjoy some Diego Rivera prints over breakfast in a petrol station cafe we pay a visit to the Malvinas memorial (Rio Grande and Rio Gallegos being major conscription zones for the Argentinian navy) and nudge our way out of town. The tornado seems to have subsided to a gale but it was merely gathering strength for later... A visit to La Misión Salesiana provides some interesting background on the oiginal native population. Skips over the reasons why there are none left now though. Animals evolved in and adapted to the extreme elements overtake us as we cycle. Snails and slugs for example. Heroically rejecting the last possibility of a camp in an estancia we press on to San Sebastián and are rewarded with a struggle against a rainstorm in the gloaming. The waterproof panniers prove excellent at keeping water out, the waterproof footwear as good at keeping water in. Somewhere in the unfortunately placed range of hills just before the 'town' it stops being fun. I try to cheer the troops by shouting that Col could do the remainig distance in 3.40 minutes at the speed he drives Bomber's Porsche but an hour later I'm still pedalling the bike. The truck stop at San Sebastián arrives just in time to save feeling above the neck although cutlery operation remains a distant dream for some time. Any port in a storm indeed but San Sebastián is something of a disappointment. A customs point and a bar are more or less the sum total of the place. It's conceivable that any buildings present that morning were whistling across the Atlantic in a Wizard of Oz style by the time we rocked up. We are allowed to 'camp' on the floor of the waiting room by customs however which is not so bad - a heater and a hot shower are available and all we need.
Day five. The Albatros bar. San Sebastián (Arg).
Downright fatigue demands a rest day which is lucky as outside our room / bus stop what little remains of the border post is slowly taken apart by a wind that relegates the gusts of the previous days to mere 'draughty' in comparison. Lucky day too for Juan, the owner of Bar Albatros, who has three captive clients for the day. Unfortunately for him they're not big rollers, though we clean him out of chocolate and peanuts before the cash dries up. Time to read, meditate and consider the facial hair situation which is unsurprisingly absurd. My chin looks like a Brillo Pad that someone has being using to clean a very rusty pan while Colin's face will be familiar to anyone who has read the illustrated version of Roald Dahl's 'Fantastic Mr Fox'. Al, having arrived with a crew cut last seen when Gazza was playing for Wallsend Boys FC, is sprouting hair the same length all over his bonce and thus merely lacks the word 'Dunlop' printed across the top to make the tennis ball look complete.
The Albatross Bar. Rarely have I been so bored, and sober, whilst spending an entire day in a bar. 2 million mph winds outside…
Day six. December 13th. San Sebastián (Arg) - Puerto Nuevo, Bahía Inutil. 87 km
We're off at 05:00 and enjoy an enforced breakfast in a ditch of the salchichon we're not allowed to carry into Chile. A previously unheard of pollen disease prevalent in Argentina results in our only confiscated item and it's honey sandwiches all round for the customs boys in San Sebastián, Chile, tonight. Balmy spring day with light breezes. The road has become unpaved, adding misery for the Montys whose 'culos' were obviously not designed with cycling in mind!! Over rolling pampa, westwards to Bahía Inutil where we visit a small cemetery populated by a handful of unfortunate settlers from the 1800's. "Drowned in Useless Bay" and "Killed by Indians" are the two legible inscriptions. Plenty of space for a plot for the employee of International Travel Maps, 530 West Broadway, Vancouver, responsible for our map of Tierra del Fuego who I'd happily inter some 30 minutes later. The Maltese Planning Authority know I'm no cartographer (send for a 'Physical' geographer next time you want slave labour, not a 'Social' one) but even I drew the line at inventing roads that didn't exist. The people at ITM just draw the line wherever they fancy. Clearly frustrated by the lack of man-made features on the survey, our creative cartographer must have enlivened his morning's work by dreaming up imaginary roads. As works of romantic fiction I highly recomend the ITM library. Just as we realise our map is the 'Beano' of the cartographic world my bike compounds the misery by falling to bits. Colin's eyes light up as he anticipates the chance to engage in more 'Mechano' but unfortunately the weighty box of spares that contribute to the breakage lacks one crucial part. In summary - bolts in Bahía Inutil, screws in Belsize Park. Ooops. Still, we remembered the wire and it still seems to be holding the pannier rack on some 150 km later.We push on to a stunning camp on the shores of Bahía Inutil where fish are bought fresh from the net from the only fishermen within tens of kms. The Cordillera Darwin brood far away to the south over the water and the night's sleep is disturbed only by Sea Lions growling. Or is that a Monty snoring...?
Fresh fish cooking on the camp fire, Bahía Inutil, Argentina.
Sunset at our stunning camp, Bahía Inutil, Argentina.
Day seven. December 14th. Puerto Nuevo - Cabo Boquerón. 73km
Strong headwinds again and we fail to reach the bright lights of Porvenir due to a late start and lack of water which forces a detour to an estancia and the help of a friendly sheperd. We later find out during this morning of tomfoolery we are overtaken by Cristian and Olga, the Amundsen to our Scott. We should have taken dogs!! Camp on top of a cliff on Cabo Boquerón (hola Malagueños!). Al and I experience a strange floating sensation when we enter the tent and lie on our air beds... ah ha, Col has knocked his mug over and we sleep in a lagoon of asparagus soup!
Day eight. December 15th. Cabo Boquerón - La Caleta de Porvenir. 28 km
We need not go into the reasons why the boat to Punta Arenas from Porvenir was missed today but the final head down, time trial style charge along the bay was rewarded only by the sight of the ferry steaming off round the lighthouse. Compensation comes in the form of the bar La Pica de Pechuga where our friendly host lets us sleep for free and use the facilities. We're also delighted to find a very nice German couple have also managed to miss the boat due to a mix up over the timetable. They look suitably ashamed at having tarnished their nation's reputation for steely efficiency. We eat nearly all the food available within 500 meters and I set some sort of unofficial record for speed eating a fish stew. I've developed the sort of ceaseless hunger that means I don't seem to have to put food in my mouth and chew it, just fixing it with a meaningful stare as it arrives on the plate results in it's immediate teletransportation to my stomach.
Day nine. December 16th. Porvenir to Punta Arenas by ferry.
I join a party of women from Arenas on the launch of our barman to do some dolphin spotting in the bay while waiting for the ferry. I appear to be a much stranger animal to my fellow passengers than Flipper and co. Finally it's adios to Tierra del Fuego and the two hour crossing to the small city of Punta Arenas. The back end of my bike needs some attention, my sunglasses have had an arm amputated and some serious darning needs to be done to my gloves after I tried to bite my finger nails without removing them in a moment of high tension. Other than that all is well and before the next leg to Puerto Natales the only serious oustanding task is a log on to Google and the introduction of the words 'Porridge - preparation of'.
¡Hasta Luego a todos!
David Midd
