Pablo Neruda Crashed My Bike: Coyhaique to Puerto Montt

"Under the Volcanoes, beside the snow-capped mountains, among the huge lakes, the fragrant, the silent, the tangled Chilean forest..." Pablo Neruda

Puerto Montt glistens more than a little in the sunshine today and here we are, at the head of the Reloncavi Sound and the end of the Carretera Austral. We're relaxing in the warm summer weather for a couple of days, and why not? The bikes are undergoing intensive care, under the spanner of a 'Doctor Marcelo', and we are thus reduced to the status of pedestrians again. No bad thing. Puerto Montt is a good place to amble among fish markets and along sea fronts. Happily skipped by most visitors including other long distance cyclists, who might prefer seeing places to people, we rather like it. Then again, when you come from Middlesbrough you tend to have a high tolerance level for urban ugliness. Regardless, the city marks the end of a significant section for us. The 1240 KM of the Austral have been visually and physically intense. We completed them in a pleasing 17 days though this speed owes little to cycling competence. We were driven by the feeling that time alone in Chile's frontier region was reducing our bikes to scrap. The relief at entering 'civilization' with the basic elements still attached was palpable. By the end I'd stopped looking down at the bike for fear of spotting another breakage or noticing the disappearance of something or other. Eyes were glued ahead and the legs motored round as components flew off around us. Besides, there were plenty more interesting things to look at rather than bikes between the town of Coyhaique, the capital of Aisén, and here, the start of the 'Lake District'...

Day Forty Four. Coyhaique - Lago Las Torres. January 20th. 143 KM

The only time we listened to a weather forecast yet. It was wrong.

The extremely helpful and friendly Gunter and 'Arnie' (sorry mate, I've forgotten your name but all your information to date has been spot on so many thanks and I hope we bump into each other again soon), of previous "you will make it" fame, promised us 5 days of rare sunny weather the previous evening. We left in a downpour that continued for three hours. It didn't matter though as the road was smooth and the going fast. The only thing I suffered from was nostalgia for the Lake District as clouds and drizzle rolled down green valleys. Perhaps it was the parrillada the previous night (Richard Virenque hasn't pumped so much blood into his system before a day on the bike) or the body reveling in a return to porridge after two rest days - either way we reeled off 90 KM before lunch. Then again, we only had lunch at four in the afternoon... I'll teach these Ulster boys some Mediterranean hours yet! The rain abated but the road fell apart and started what would be a week long process of bike and rider erosion. We camped by splendid Lago Las Torres whose mill-pond stillness  was not only hypnotic but also the reason why I failed to catch any trout with a fly rod borrowed from the local fishing guide. That and the full moon, his poorly tied line, my cycling shoes clunking on the rocky shore... Oh no, you never lose the most important thing about fishing: the excuses.

Day Forty Five. Lago Las Torres - Puerto Puyuhuapi. January 21st. 100 KM

It was the day when nothing went wrong

Porridge and dried bananas. This is the future! Things went so well today that deeper thoughts than these were surplus to requirements. A village called Amengual, one of the many to have been founded during the building of this road under the Pinochet regime, proved more welcoming in morning sunshine than some of the guide books would lead you to believe. This proved to be the case with more of these 'tin villages' found on the route form here on northwards. It was breakfast here before a sharp pull up to Portezuelo Quelat. Boring cycling note: these hairpin 'ripio' climbs not only hurt but require more concentration than normal road hills. Looking around, swatting flies or adjusting caps to a more jaunty angle can move you off the worn line in the road, on to the loose sand and eventually off the bike as traction is lost. Trying to start again on these inclines is more amusing for the observer than the participant. However, as this was the day when 'nothing went wrong' we made it through the Reserve of Quelat, past hanging glaciers, through crowding foliage and out of the forest to the sea inlet at Puerto Puyuhuapi. The place is as charming as it's name. An early morning walk around the shore line the next day revealed no trace of WW II submarine shipyards which were suspected to exist in this German community. Nothing but a bloke collecting mussels in a wheelbarrow and a long view to an outrageous snow mountain miles away to the south across the sea. It was bathed in sun, but the day would prove to have it's moments of shadow... dun dun dur!!

Day Forty Six. Puerto Puyuhuapi - Villa Vanguardia. January 22nd. 89 KM

Right. This was the day when everything went wrong

Any Wolves fan knows all too well that promising starts precede staggering collapses and end in bewildered head shaking. Today was a Wolverhampton Wanderers season in a day, with the happy exception that by the end of it some upwards progression had, somehow, been made. Early morning cycling alongside Lago Risopatron was a sensory overload. George Emerson would have been inspired to climb his tree and start yelling his creed "Love! Beauty! Porridge!". In this version however it wasn't Lucy Honeychurch who came round the corner to complete the scene but rather the Montgomery boys to wreck it. The rear rack itself, as opposed to the less important brackets, had cracked on Col's bike. Al's, showing admirable brotherly solidarity, had decided to snap as well. Being somewhat fundamental elements of the operation it was a solemn and slow party that slouched into the village of La Junta, not least as we were now carrying what we could on our backs and the temperature had risen into the mid thirties. I tell you though, these Monty's are more resourceful than Royal Dutch Shell's 'available oil' accounts - and happily a lot more reliable! After an afternoon with the good people of La Junta we had more racks ordered under warranty on the way to a bike shop in Puerto Montt and the current ones welded, stapled and hammered back into some sort of shape. The latter task was completed by the town mechanic. I marveled at his handiwork as he gave me them back and thanked him profusely. "They won't last" he said. This man must be a Wolves fan too!

As I picked myself a little bloodily out of a ditch about an hour later I reflected that 'eventism' would lead to more than one paragraph for today's blog. Here it is, my anatomy of a bike crash. Mam, you need not worry - look, both my hands are still working to type this rubbish. Anyway, when you and our Dad tried to find this website you actually wrote 'dot' rather than '.' so the chances of you ever reading this are slim and my sisters will edit it out... Euphoric at the unlikely resurrection of our equipment I bowled along the valley of the Rio Frio. ExxonMobil, who don't tend to deal in euphoria, will tell you that accidents are not actually accidental but the inevitable result of a number of factors that could have been avoided. The bores! Excess speed down a hill, the presence of a truck stirring up a cloud of dust and my lack of sunglasses or goggles form the basis of this triangle at whose pinnacle sits my painful prang. I managed to prize my eyes apart just enough to realize I had gone off line a touch and was heading straight off in the gravel as the road turned to the left. Steering and braking in this stuff is like steering and braking on ice or in snow - in other words, you shouldn't do it. Given I was heading into a rocky wall though I'd left myself little choice. The front half of the bike and D Middlemiss turned left. Pablo Neruda, Joseph Conrad, the rest of my hefty mobile library and the back half of my bike kept straight on. I should have got the audio books on my ipod.We were now still aiming at the wall but all going sideways. One final attempt to turn things around got us all going in the same direction again but, strangely, this direction now seemed to be underground. It was time to get off. Stu Eynon - we were wrong to slag off Charlotte Bronte in English Lit after all! We never believed Rochester could have time to get out a speech while falling off a horse but I remember saying quite a lot as I sailed over the bars and towards my ditch. It wasn't as printable as "What the deuce is to do now!" though. The Monty's turned up at my bike at about the same time as I made it back to find it pointing the wrong way in every sense. Nothing serious was broken and, spookily, that which was had been ordered by Colin the day before "just in case". He is a witch.

Unsurprisingly the day ended by us stumbling on a man who made cheese in his little hut in the middle of nowhere who showed us round and gave us some samples. When the photos become available you'll see this is not the figment of delayed concussion.

Day Forty Seven. Villa Vanguardia - Chaitén. January 23rd. 110 KM

Chaitén 'in four days' and a very strange fish stew.

Al's otherwise tremendous first aid has bandaged my elbows up so tight I've had to stop waving at other road users as it looks like I'm giving them a fascist salute. Other than that things are going rather well. We find a house in Villa Santa Lucia that serves us homemade jam and cheese. This sticky brunch and the impossibility of getting it all past the beards means we spend the rest of the day being pursued by hordes of enormous flies with orange heads. There is a steep climb and descent to large Lago Yelcho - we take a break to bathe in the river that flows out but in the end only Col has the 'huevos' to take the plunge and he's back out 5 second later. It was a bit chilly. The day however is ferociously hot and we are forced to do battle with the lowest form of all road surfaces: freshly laid ripio is sand covered with tennis ball size stones. It is nearly impossible to pedal across this moonscape even on the flat. For 10KM of this lunacy we only keep going at all because stopping invited a swarm of biting flies. Al demonstrates the virtue of a high elbow in one's cover drive as he racks up a huge kill-count of these rascals. It all ends wheeling along in tranquility though to the first sight for weeks of the sea actually looking like the sea at Chaitén. The sun sets across the bay and we eat a fish stew called 'Curanto' that is still giving me trouble now. Pinning down what the problem ingredient was is impossible as the feast includes not only most things that swim, but plenty of what walks too. A ferry leaves from here to Puerto Montt but to complete the full length of the Austral you can continue up through the virgin temperate rainforests of Parque Pumalin. Which, amazed that we made it here in only four days from Coyhaique, is where we went...

Day Forty Eight. Chaitén - Caleta Gonzalo. January 24th. 61KM

Environmentally sensitive camping = cold showers

Parque Pumalin is really incredible, and not just in it's jungle scenery. It is the world's largest privately owned Natural Park, a 'deep ecologist' called Douglas Tompkins, the founder of North Face, having bought it all up to protect it from exploitation in the 90's. 0 out of 10 to the Chilean state for selling off their own country to whoever rocks up with a brown paper bag large enough but full marks to Mr Tompkins who, unlike the hoons of Endesa and Co. further south, is protecting it rather than attempting to flood it all. Further thoughts on all this chaos not for discussion here. Anyway, the result is a fitting end to the Austral for us, dense Alerce forests cut by fjords and rivers are overlooked by snow-capped fells. After a shuddering descent we camp at a place called Caleta Gonzalo and wait for the morning ferry. Another day of oppressive heat and the passed-up prospect of a cold shower in the dark means that the funk in our tent is thicker than a misjudged porridge.

Day Forty Nine. Caleta Gonzalo - Baños Termas Hornopiren. January 25th. 10KM

Bish bash we were taking a bath

Tompkins might have become disillusioned with the world of marketing but he hasn't lost his knack. We are happy to give in to consumer culture in his twee cafe cabin while waiting for the ferry and it is organic muesli with organic honey and organic fruits for breakfast. I couldn't find the Guardian Media section to complete the picture though. A 6 hour ferry crossing through the mist to Hornopiren reveals a tiny town with TWO Methodist churches. Where was the coal mine?! Dad, they need to get you out of retirement to heal this clearly divided congregation - and then sell off the surplus building for a loft conversion job. This 5 minute tour of Hornopiren and District Circuit precedes a thwarted attempt to make ground to Puerto Montt. A combination of factors lead to this short day of which I think we can say the most compelling was Al being run down by a car. It is hard to relate exactly what happened though as it was Al and not one of the two twits who got bumped you might find it easier to believe that our idiotic motorist was in the wrong and not the law abiding and on-the-correct-side-of-the-road at the time cyclist. Al is so considerate he even shouted "Car!" seconds before it ran into the back of him. I'm looking forward to see if the pattern repeats itself in the future: "Dog!" - bite - "Hole!" - thud etc etc. Happily, despite my best efforts at first aid, little harm was done to man, though machine was a bit of a wreck. Our moronic motorists got out and, surprisingly, rather than checking on the condition of the poor sod they'd just walloped suggested we should take more care. I suggested they might have been going a little fast. I was informed you could do 100 KM on this road. We all looked at the farm track we were on and the blind corner for a few seconds. Then there was a scene. Laureano Turienzo, the full breadth of the Toledo vocabulary you taught me got an airing - many thanks! Colin chipped in and for once translation was not required. They left in an attempted hurry but stalled the car and at least we got to laugh at them before settling down to an hour and a half of bike reconstruction. The silver lining to this cloud was that the crash had taken place just outside some thermal baths - no further excuse was needed for an early camp and a long twilight soak in the Patagonian forest.

Day Fifty. Hornopiren - Puerto Montt. January 26th. 97 KM

Puerto Montt goes to the seaside and ZZ top rock up on bicycles

Leaving the baths behind we enjoy the day to Puerto Montt incident free. A Brazilian cycling couple heading south are good company for a quick chat. They look a little worried and I realize with our bandaged arms, shaggy beards and bikes held together by wire again we are not a good advert for the road ahead. We're in good spirits though as we take a final ferry and reach... could it be... too good to be true... tarmac. We should have gone faster from here but now we're free wheeling past the population of Puerto Montt as it takes to the beach on this sunny Saturday. There are many pressing tasks to complete in town but they can wait for the most demanding of all - a cold beer and a long snooze. Now for a haircut. The ZZ Top look is provoking fear in the eyes of the locals rather than the hoped for glances of admiration and something clearly needs to be done. And so in half an hour or so I will exercise the delicious power that is ordering Colin's haircut for him. What will he leave with ladies and gentlemen? Given he a speak a little a Spanish and a no understand a mucho my money would be on a mullet, no?

I watch a TV for the first time in weeks and WHAT IS THIS I SEE?? Chilean TV reports that Kevin Keegan,the manager of Newcastle United is trying to buy David Beckham. Errrmmm????? Am I just coming round from a barmy dream? Is it actually the early 90s again? Is John Major still in charge? What am I doing in Puerto Montt's public library in Chile?? I need to be in The Boro revising for my A Levels. Yikes!! Taxi!! The Airport please - I've got to dash!!

D Middlemiss

Egg day cometh!

Ok, I see you sitting there browsing through the cycle diaries web site (as you probably can't be bothered doing any work) and you see the link "Egg day cometh" and you're thinking, "what's that all about then?" It's simple, really. We're going to see how many eggs we can scoff our way through in one day. You may ask why (I have) and it's a valid question.

The story begins with a guy by the name of H.W. Tilman. H.W. Tilman was an old school explorer who ventured around the world, presumably in a tweed jacket and smoking a pipe, in the period around the 1930's. When Tilman and his traveling companions would reach  a destination, perhaps after cycling thousands of miles on bikes with no gears, they developed an obsession with eggs. They would set off chasing the sound of a chicken to see if they could acquire the necessary eggs to satisfy said obsession. It has been recorded that a group of four of them managed the fairly significant feat of devouring 160 eggs between them in one day. After hearing of this feat (and after having a few beers obviously) we thought it would be an idea to try and emulate this 'achievement' by having our very own 'Egg Day'.

The basic plan of egg day has been laid down and with some forward planning we hope to attempt it soon. The problem is we require the necessary eggs at the start of the day (scrambled for breakfast is our current thinking) and some appropriate cooking facilities. We simply don't have a big enough pan with us to cook enough scrambled eggs and our Whisperlite stove will most likely burn them to the arse of the pan anyway. So after cooking our scrambled eggs in a hostel of some sort in the morning we then plan to take some hard boiled eggs with us for lunch and snacking along the way. The end of the day will be a combination of omelettes and poached eggs split between an early dinner and a late supper (again we're probably going to need a hostel here to facilitate the cooking process).

We have a figure in our heads of how many eggs we can get through but for now we aren't going to mention it as we're interested to see what figures you lot can guess and we don't want to influence your decision making. Who knows, perhaps you want to set up a sweepstake between a group of yourselves to make the event more entertaining! Or how about have your very own egg day and you can join in our challenge and perhaps make yourself violently sick as well - now wouldn't that be fun!

Due to the excessive eating we've been doing this conversation has also led to other variations of egg day being discussed. So far the possible eating feats that have been discussed are as follows:

ice cream day - 1Kg of preferred flavour to be eaten in one sitting

porridge day - 4 litres of porridge to be scoffed (by Dave) in one sitting

steak day - 750 gram steak to be eaten in one sitting (side orders optional)

bananaman day - who can eat the most bananas in one day?

 

Any other suggestions as to possible theme days drop us a mail at thefellas@cyclediaries.com

 

Alastair

My Kingdom for a Horse

 

El Chalten, Argentina to Villa O'Higgins, Chile by cycle, foot and no horse, January 7th to 9th 2008

Are you sitting comfortably?  Then I'll begin...  Our story starts in the sleepy little town of El Chalten, Argentina, which is a very newly established settlement (22 years only, by most accounts) and acts as a hub for active-minded outdoor types to partake in various activities in the mountains and foothills of Cerro Torre and Fitz Roy.  As we arrived in the rain, we were pleased to wake the following day to beautiful sunshine.  The following day yours truly was displeased to wake to a heinous sunburn.  All those lessons from my past were not heeded, once more, and the cycle continues (pun unintended, honest).  On the following two days the weather returned to it's rainy best and unfortunately the clouds continued to obscure our view of the peaks which we hiked to see, but nothing ventured nothing gained, as a wise man once said.

Our objective was simple: get from A to B, via C, D  and E using our bikes, two ferries and possibly a horse.  More explicitly:

37k by cycle from El Chalten, Argentina, to Punta Sur, Lago del Desierto
45min ferry to Punta Norte, Lago del Desierto
22k by horse, or not by horse, to Candilaria Mancilla, Chile
2.5hrs by ferry across Lago O'Higgins
7k by cycle to Villa O'Higgins

The reality was hell.  With a bike.  Not exactly on a bike, but definitely with a bike.  While we haven't weighed our bikes when fully loaded up, we reckon they're coming close to 45kgs each when we're stocked for 5 days or so.

All set for the off, in El Chalten, we procrastinate for quite a bit as we look towards the rain in the valleys where we are headed.  We meet Christian and Olga yet again, who'd just arrived in town, on their bikes at 5am, following the decision to ride all through the night because there is no wind and a strong one is forecast.  217k in one day humbles us by a considerable margin, but we remain upbeat as we set off at 6pm in the pissing rain, towards the campsite by the ferry port, fuelled by the huge sugar-rush brought on by a large bag of facturas.  Of course the rain continues all night as we camp and then as we cycle to meet the Viedma on the following morning as she waits to take us across Lago del Desierto.

Despite some hairy moments with rather large waves, the Viedma deposits us safely at Punta Norte, at the top end of Lago del Desierto.  Here we get our passports stamped by an Argentinean soldier who looks to be about 12 years old, and has obviously either drawn the short straw when the postings were being decided, or has done something very stupid.  His cohorts, who cohabit his allotted hut, are very welcoming and sell us coffee and biscuits for double the price they'd quoted five minutes earlier, but arguing for our change doesn't seem like it will win us much in the current circumstances.

It's here that we wait, mostly outside, for some mythical guy to appear out of the forest with horses to take us the 22k to the next lake.  We're not alone, there being 3 French people and one German girl waiting along with us.  The soldiers tell us that our saviour may not appear at all today due to the inclement conditions, so we prepare ourselves for a long wait and possibly even an overnight camp.  Having to stay the night would be bad as we have to make it across this trek in time for the next ferry, which only leaves twice a week, for 5.30pm the following day.

Now we have to admit that we'd heard numerous reports about this 'trek', and especially about how tough it was without a horse.  Having already had to spend the guts of a day of our trip hauling our bikes and bags up and across incredibly tough terrain (on our 'bird watching' trip north of Torres del Paine National Park...) we had been of the opinion that we could make this trip without a horse to take our bags.  When it had rained for a couple of days straight, we decided to investigate booking ourselves a horse, and the day before we needed the horse had successfully made the online booking request.

At 4pm Ricardo finally arrived, with some horses.  However, it quickly became evident that this guy didn't have a horse for us, so we tried to keep a stiff upper lip as the Frenchies and Germans got loaded up on their horses.  The German girl hadn't booked herself a horse, so the young French guy, Stefan, offered her his horse in a show of manners and goodwill which made Mother Teresa look like Alan Rickman's Sheriff of Nottingham.  This proved enormously good news for us as Stefan was free to help us haul our bikes up the first 100m or so of near vertical, horseshit lined track.  This section alone took us about 15 minutes and the look on Stefan's face was beginning to change, somewhat.  Unfortunately for us his tour of duty was cut short as the young soldier had ran up the track to catch the party to tell the German girl that she had to have her passport stamped or risk not getting into Chile.  Stefan jumped at the chance, quite conveniently and understandably, to run ahead to tell her.  Obviously that was the last we seen of Saint Stefan for some considerable time.

As if this lot wasn't bad enough, the rain had started to fall again, and the insects in the forest had taken an instant liking our our pale, gringo skin.

We knew, however, that it was 'only' the first 6k of this trek which was really bad, so we continued pushing, hauling, lifting and sliping (N.Irish people will, no doubt, know this term well) our bikes and bags for a total of 5 hours, without respite, safe in the knowledge that the last 16k or so would be easy in comparison.

  

Amongst this lot there were multiple water crossings to overcome, some amusing pictures of which are above.

On finally completing the 6k we were delighted to make out what looked almost like a vehicle track, and quickly mounted up for the first time in hours.  While hardly the M6 Toll-road to Manchester, this was welcome relief, and we hammered down the track for a couple of kilometres before being confronted by a fair-sized river and half a bridge.  Yes, the bridge was out, so it was time to get the bags off the bikes once more and wade across the thigh-high torrent multiple times with our gear before re-encumbering the bikes with their unasked-for luggage and cycling on.  As you can imagine, with darkness falling, temperatures plummeting, insects swarming, and our clothes and footwear saturated, our moods were far from that of spending a sunny Saturday afternoon in the beer garden of the Dog and Duck watching the FA Cup Final on the big screen.  Pictures at this point were out of the question and, anyway, you wouldn't want to see us suffering now, would you...

After that we started upon one of the best off-road descents that yours truly has ever experienced.  Alastair was enjoying it, though he would have enjoyed it much more had his suspension forks not given up a couple of days previously, but he still claims it was enjoyable.  Dave, on the other hand, found it 'boring' as one had to frequently slow down to navigate the large rocks etc.  About 4k long and very rocky and technical, it was tough going in the semi-darkness, with fully laden bikes, especially with large cliffs appearing on either side of the track at points and pannier racks which were surely due to fall apart again at any moment.

At the bottom we found the Chilean border post and, once we'd ruined the carpet once and for all, the amazed young soldier stamped our passports and welcomed us to Chile.  A further kilometre down the road we found refuge in the stilted house belonging to the crazy old mother of Ricardo [the horse guy], and we were safely in Candelario Mancilla.  Bizarrely, answering the door was Cyril, a Swiss guy who we'd first met when on our 'exploring' trip, north of Torres del Paine, coming down the mountain with his girlfriend in a 4x4.  We were next to meet him 3 days later while cycling out from the Glaciar Perito Moreno which brought a smile to all those involved as he knew exactly how we'd gotten there so quickly...

As it turns out, the 4 people who started the trek with us on horses were holed up there also, and had only gotten there about an hour before us.  They were truly amazed that we'd made it at all, never mind that we'd made it that day/night so shortly after them.  We removed our sodden clothes, handed them to Ricardo's mama, and she promptly hung them over a large bowl, in a corner full of electrical plugs.   Our room was smaller than our tent, with our victorious navigator, D. Middlemiss, taking the bed and the Montgomerys happy on the floor. It was incredibly cold, but it was Chile, and we'd made it over the worst bit of 'cycling' that we would surely ever do in our lives, so we slept well and long, contented with our day's efforts and successes.

The next day was beautiful and provided us with an ideal opportunity to take over the entire balcony area at the front of the house by spreading all our gear out over it to dry.   Alastair put his back into removing the horseshit from our waterproofs, while I fixed up some pannier damage and generally sorted out the kitchen bags.  This balcony was a lifesaver, in the non-literal sense, but was a potential life-taker in the literal sense as the wood was mostly rotten and the whole thing is surely only a short time from falling down completely.  This was also our first meeting with Fred, a dance-loving, booze-hating Aussie with a ponytail whom we were to meet on numerous occasions along the Carretera Austral.  A thoroughly good bloke he is too!

5pm and it's ferry time again so we wheeled down to the port and jumped aboard the Hielo Sur with our fellow travellers.  Once more the German reputation for astute planning and organisation was scythed to the ground by the German girl, Kathleen, as she'd somehow paid for her room twice and had to return to the house to collect her winnings.  Two and a half hours later, and without incident, we were deposited at the top end of Lago O'Higgins (the same lake is named Lago San Martin on the Argentinean side), 7k from Villa O'Higgins.

Cycling into the town of Villa O'Higgins was very relaxing in the late evening and by pure chance we happened upon the same camping as Cyril and his girlfriend, and Kathleen.  A passing fruit and veg truck was ransacked, the campsite-owner's girlfriend's 'closed' shop was used to buy a couple of bottles of Chilean red, dinner was cooked, wine was drunk and cycling and mountaineering stories were swapped with our friend Cyril until the inevitable bedtime was reached.  Next day we were off to catch another ferry to Puerto Yungay, on a road which was to prove considerably different than that which was described by Fernando, the owner of Camping Mosco... (as dramatised by D. Middlemiss, in his last blog post).

Hasta luego,
Col

Crikey, we're in Coyhaique

The sunshine pours down in Coyahiaque, the capital of the province of Aisén halfway up the Carretera Austral in Chilean Patagonia. The Austral is a staggering route, stretching from the city of Puerto Montt in the north to the village of Villa O´Higgins in the south. The latter is where we came in, crossing the border from El Chalten in Argentina in conditions so absurd only C. Montgomery can do the three day epic justice in a soon to be published and eagerly awaited blog. Suffice to say that in 'Heart of Darkness' when Kurtz wakes in the wheelhouse and yells "The horror, the horror!!" he isn't imagining the void at the core of human existence but rather visualizing pushing a bike through the mud for 20 KMs from Punta Norte, Argentina, to Candelario Mancilla, Chile. However, that story is for another day, and time is limited to describe the 8 days that took us from the very start of the Austral at the northern end of Lago O´Higgins ,through 630 KM of mountain, river and jam, to this oasis on the Rio Simpson. Let that mouse sleep awhile weary office worker, put down the washing up mother and let Esso Petrol stations run themselves for 10 minutes Señor Alvaro; the bike demolition derby is about to start.

Day Thirty Four. Villa O´Higgins - El Sordo. January, 10th. 73KM

In Spain they say if you meet a Galician in a lift he won't tell you if its going up or down. Our Gallego camping site owner in Villa O´Higgins did not betray his roots with his confident description of a flat road the 100KM it would take us to reach the Rio Bravo. The reality was that the road would go both up and down rather violently and, without any help from elevators, we were to find the going tough. Buoyed by the previous evenings purchases from the O´Higgins fruit man and shared wine with nice-one-Cyril (details to come from Monty Burns) we steamed out of town towing a heavy cargo of avocados. The Austral only reached O´Higgins some 7 years ago or so, the whole 250KM stretch from Cochrane being a remarkable feat of engineering. Having never made the leap from Lego to Mechano I'm not qualified to pass comment on construction projects but, as we pushed across the ripio to the sound of cycling components shredding themselves apart, I couldn't help but think a lick of tarmac would have been a nice finishing touch. 'Pinch punctures' seemed to be targeting Monty senior and myself which gave us plenty of time to contemplate the scenery of lakes and wetlands as we made our way slowly into a rather unwelcome headwind. Two irksome climbs up shifting shale was followed by a descent to the muscular Rio Bravo - the drop into the canyon on the right hand side focused the mind wonderfully. Even Colin used the brakes on this section whereas I stuck to upping my mint consumption to one a minute, finding intense sweet sucking a comfort in 'tight spots' as I do. It all proved a bit too much so we threw the towel in. We'd picked a bad place to chuck it, washing up as we had in a vast bog, the only way forward being another round of bruising hill climbing that I didn't need a corner-man to tell me I was in no shape to take. Never mind, I remembered a disused cabin we'd seen a KM or so back and, sure enough, it provided dry land to pitch the tent on. About a yard in front of the disused front door as it happened. Oooh look, no lock! We start cooking up tea in the disused hut. I went to fetch water from the nearby river and returned to find the hut had suddenly become rather more used than before. The lorry driver, whose house it turned out to be, had rocked up with two pals to find the Goldilocks gang making themselves at home in his gaffe. It was hard to say whether an international diplomatic incident had been started or averted by the mutual incomprehension between the three Chilean Bears and the Goldilocks brothers but Daddy Bear was evidently getting a sore head contemplating the scene. Truth be told, it looked a bit bad. It took some ridiculous excuses to, first, avert some kind of ruck and then, remarkably, to persuade him to let us leave the tent up. Frosty relations were hardly thawed by the bears waking up at 06:00 the next day and commencing a white noise attack on our tent. This consisted of loud music, some yelling and then, a little worryingly, some chainsaw action. A man's character comes to the fore in these sort of situations and it was truly inspirational to see the Monty boys sleep through this threatened assault. Come on lads, in the fairy tale Goldilocks gets to eat her porridge before it all kicks off and we only eat ours at 08:00. Al suggested going in to borrow some milk. In the end both parties rolled out of the hut together and the El Sordo Situation was over, an uneasy truce suiting the side who'd brought Allen Keys to a chainsaw fight.

Day thirty five. El Sordo - Caleta Tortel. January 11th. 77K

Surrounded by nature, away from the trivial misunderstandings that can occur when cultures clash, we fair rocketed the remaining 30 KM to the ferry crossing over the Rio Bravo to Puerto Yungay. Alas, our ferry crossing is populated by the full cast of characters from the last few days and, unluckily, this includes the rightful owner of the hut at El Sordo, friends thereof and his buddies in the army. The crossing is spent studying the wonderful landscape and avoiding eye contact. In reality (something this column rarely likes to flirt with) they didn't seem too bothered by now. On reflection this was probably because they knew what we were about to have to cycle up, a brutal climb up out of Puerto Yungay to the jungle-like mountain tops. Ropes rather than bikes would have been more appropriate. However, the only ropes we have are holding bits of our bikes together so we dug in and mint consumption went off the scale. The reward came in death or glory plunge to the Rio Baker valley and our first glimpse at this turquoise companion of the next few days. The Baker is a giant, down here winding it's way slowly through bright green forests, mountains hanging about menacingly in steamy clouds. We shunned the road to Cochrane and took a 44 KM there-and-back detour to Caleta Tortel where the river meets the sea, or rather the snaking inlets of the Golfo de Penas. We get a little drenched on the way but it's worth the soaking. This blog is too absurd to try and convey how beautiful this town is, built out of the cypress wood it was created to export. No streets, so no cars or even bikes, just wooden walkways over gushing streams and everywhere 'freshness' flourishes. Hmm... lets just say it is very beautiful. I was staggered. Literally. Cycling shoes don't go well with wet cypress and I enter town feet first with the control and elegance of piano dropped down a flight of stairs by Laurel and Hardy. I've rarely seen Col happier. Our Hostal is chaotic perfection, my room barely big enough for me, the bed and the spider I find under the pillow. There is no room big enough for me and a spider and so there is a scene. The admirable Burns deals with the situation with a shoe. Dinner is a delight because we don't cook it for once and the restaurant owner who is also the baker turns out to be the posty as well so all 'admin' is taken care of before the third bottle of wine turns up and spiders are forgotten.

Day thirty six. Caleta Tortel - Lago Vargas. January 12th. 55KM

Relief for all - I've got about 30 minutes to finish this blog so things are going to have to be rushed. What's that? You don't think I'm just knocking this stuff out thoughtlessly in some bar?? Er, one more cheers Al... Righto. This day starts perfectly with a walk around town that doesn't involve any bruising falls. We buy the last bread in town and eat it in the last shelter on the way out, waiting for the passing shower to live up to its description. It doesn't and some hours later we're soaked. We're also not going very far as Col's chain has broken for the third time today. It's had the decency to breath it's last right outside a closed campsite which we promptly put under new management, 'Nathan Stone style', and reopen. We start a big fire in a shelter and by the time the owner gets the smoke signal and makes a horseback appearance we're in full drying out mode. We're flat broke, no pence means no sense in asking what the price is. He tells me he's the owner of the campsite. I can only answer I'm the owner of the tent. Contemplative silence. Then best wishes all round and another free night on the road. It's all rather pretty despite the wet.

Day thirty seven. Lago Vargas - Cochrane. January 13th. 77KM

The weather turns and it's sunshine from here on to Coyhaique. Today's ride is beautiful although rather tainted personally by a puncture followed by the loss of my back wheel which starts a solo journey down a hill as I'm trying to go up it. Odd. The scenery is stunning, especially the zone known as 'Three Lakes'. The road falls to bits in the last 5KM and we're into to Hostal Ana Luz shakier than Shakin Stevens in 'His Ole House' (pick that cultural reference out!). The town is functional rather than picturesque but home to a rather nice bar. The owner is baffled by where Ireland might be. Near England doesn't help him much - 'like the Falkland Islands' he suggests? A good night to assume my Basque identity I reckon.

Day thirty eight. Cochrane - Puerto Bertrand. January 14th. 50KM

An Esso looms into sight and I'm off on the hill out of town in case someone wanders out and asks me to complete an audit. This is a stated half day and, after an enormous bread and jam late lunch, we're not ashamed by a rather puny 50KM. Our new friends, who pass us three times in their 4x4, tell us about a camping site further down the road. "You will make it" they intone in an Arnie from Terminator accent. We didn't make it. We stopped in Puerto Bertrand. The last were first today though - our campsite is a free pitch in front of the charming village, 5 yards from the gin-clear lake. The self-professed 'oldest resident' of the village grants it to us with the assurance that her daughter is the president of the Community Council, thus granting her the power to bestow free accommodation where and when she sees fit. The spot is next to the chicken coop and they are the latest locals to fail to stir sleeping Montgomerys when the next sun-drenched day dawns.

Day thirty nine. Puerto Bertrand - Puerto Tranquillo. January 15th. 70KM

Today was perfect in every way. We even got free coffee from a cabaña complex which normally plays home only to the rich and the stupid. The poor and stupid are also welcome! We meet charming Basques, but aren't they all... The scenery has got so picturesque it's ridiculous. In a hostal in Puerto Tranquillo we simply shock the obligatory party of morose Israelis with our eating feats. We conjure a meal sufficient for an army and I shatter the spaghetti eating speed record in the process of it's demolition. There is talk of a 'big push' tomorrow and we need fuel.

Day Forty. Puerto Tranquillo - Villa Cerro Castillo. January 16th. 114 KM

Colin was stung by the manner in which I took him apart in the eating stakes last night and he exacts his revenge over a monumental breakfast. Porridge and bread is followed by 18 eggs and all the bread in the place. Al wisely throws in the napkin and his leftovers join the fray. Cold-eyed Col eggs me under the table. I can just about finish the mountain before mounting the bike to ride up a mountain. Happily its a good 60 KM before we start to climb out of the Rio Murta valley, Lago General Carrera now behind us, so the breakfast has just about started to settle. Then we reap the reward. Egg and porridge fuels the hoped for 'big push' and we make it well over 100 KM through high country to a camp site near Villa Cerro Castillo. Despite the desire to never eat again at about 08:00 this morning the hunger was stirred enough to buy tremendous homemade rhubarb and redcurrant jams en camino. We add Mermelada de Leche to the feast from our lovely host Rosa's kitchen tonight.

Day Forty one. Villa Cerro Castillo - Coyhaique. January 17th. 114 KM

Porridge and rhubarb jam. We're off like a steam engine and, glory be, a paved road appears under our wheels. Life being as it is its paved straight up the biggest climb yet, 15km up from the Rio Ibañez to 1120m above sea level, the 'Hill of the Devil' to the highest point on the Austral. The jam is potent though and we grit out teeth and 'pop' the summit. Actually, gritting your teeth is a silly idea, painfully ripping out chunks of moustache as it does. Madrileños met at the top - thanks for the map amigos y un abrazo muy fuerte! We're getting a little smug with our progress and stop to start 'jammin' at a nice looking picnic table. Red tape arrives in the form of a park ranger looking for 3.000 pesos for the use of the table. I suggest it's a bit of farce. He suggests he's already doing me a favour by waving the entrance fee. Fine, I'll just move my jam sandwich the other side of the gate. Fine he says. I make a principled march the few yards down the lane. My plastic bag breaks during this moment of high drama. The redcurrant jam is dashed. We are assaulted by biting flies during the clean up operation and subsequent ditch bound lunch. I'm ashamed to admit there is much strong language regarding the park ranger. However, replacement jam is later bought and enjoyed over Coyhaique porridge in our garden campsite. The lesson? For us, jam is not just the preserve of the ditch.

I've been working on that last gag for 630 KM of mind boggling scenery on the Austral. Perhaps it's all just getting a bit too much.

Hasta Pronto amigos y un abrazo muy fuerte a todos

D. Middlemiss

The El Calafate - El Chalten Choo Choo

Un abrazo muy fuerte a todos from the village of El Chalten in the top left hand corner of the province of Santa Cruz, Argentina. I write recovered from the stomach bug that laid me low in El Calafate, a bloated monument to commercialism that was no place for a man with little spending power and less appetite. If the retail hell of Calafate is enough to make the town council of Windermere blush the situation of Chalten begs more surprising and pleasant Lake District comparisons. The approach and the valley is the Argentinean St Johns in the Vale. The weather on our arrival is suitably English as well, but wait... behind those clouds and above the green valley sides lurk monsters. You can't just walk down to Keswick for the Guardian in the morning, pop up and down Mount Fitz Roy and be back in time for Auntie Jude's scones and the evening news. Oh no. You need a head for heights, very tight pants indeed and, in the case of Cesare Maestri, a 150 KG bolt gun to wander up the Cerro Torre. H.W. Tillman would NOT have approved of this sort of mountaineering vandalism, and Middlemiss senior, unlikely to be dissuaded by the technical demands, would doubtless be discouraged by the improbability of brewing up a cup of tea on the top. And so we wait for the peaks to produce themselves before moving on to Chile across Lago O'Higgins. Time to clean bags, bikes and beards, meditate on the grandeur of the surrounds and relate to you how we came to be here. Bilingual readers and fans of The Four Tops back catalogue will be delighted to know things are about to get a bit 'loco' in more ways than one...

Day Twenty Six. January 2nd. El Calafate to Estancia Luz Divina. 98 KM

We leave El Calafate at last. My system is completely flushed out, which is more than can be said of the toilets thanks to the efforts of C. Montgomery. We hit top speed and swerve wildly to avoid a demonstration by the Argentinean Plumber's Union, Santa Cruz Southern Branch, at the town limit. Whether they want Colin lynched or retained in town on the basis of job creation is unclear. Colin's resemblance to Vincent Van Gogh has reached uncanny proportions and provokes a day of artistic reflection. We start with a Turner - murky oils through which shafts of light reveal indistinguishable solids, consumed by onlookers with silent wonder. Yes, the morning porridge was up to usual standards. Someone seemed to have substituted our map by a Joan Miro abstract  - a blank canvas with only one colored lined wandering around erratically before petering out into a row of dots; Patagonia's Ruta 40. We cover the first 32KM in wind assisted record time and enjoy a Carravagio lunch - the dried fruit being tastier than it looked. Sailing on serenely across the head of Lago Argentina we pass a Velazquez fool - Esteban is a cyclist who reckons he will reach Mendoza in one month. Big words delivered from a man pushing his bike on the flat as we cycle past, bewildered to find ourselves looking competent in comparison. His secret trick is revealed later as he speeds past... in the back of a pick-up truck, 'Likely Lads' Terry and Bob style in the bike race to Berwick upon Tweed episode. Back to the art and Miro was right after all - the line becomes dots and the road decays into rocky chaos. All the elements are there for the job but no one has bothered to put them together and the result is uncomfortable and irritating - Ruta Tracy Emin. All is shuddering agony for the cold last 25 KM. My vertical hold breaks from the shaking, Colin's head is transformed from Van Gogh to a Picasso. We see the journey's end on the horizon but Estancia Luz Divina is a blasted Dali - the closer we push our bikes the further away it seems to get. Just as the day seems likely to end in despair an Indian curry house wall mural appears - lush green pastures, a bright blue river and an absurdly beautiful mountain backdrop. But this is not The Star of Bengal in Tooting, it's Luz Divina in Patagonia and all is crazily real!

Day Twenty Seven. January 3rd. Estancia Luz Divina to Estancia San Agustin. 61 KM

Porridge at Estancia Luz Divina

Everything looks better after a bowl of porridge and we scoot easily across the eastern extremity of Lago Viedma. Oh dear, we all know by now that a couple of easy hours cycling is the precursor to a nightmare of  some sort and we realize this one as we turn off Ruta 40 and on to Ruta 23. The Patagonian gale is back with a vengeance in our faces and any sort of progress is only achievable by forming the cyclists train - all aligned and taking turns at the front to shelter the others. Alas, dear reader, our train is not the High Speed AVE from Madrid to Sevilla. It is not even a slow but powerful coal shunter. It is the post privatization disgrace that is the branch line from Darlington to Bishop Auckland. On a Sunday. When there are engineering works. Replacement bus service from Shildon. The line has been sold out to weather's local highest bidder and the wind subsequently runs a mindless and monstrous monopoly over affairs. We're customers without a choice, it's this rubbish or sitting in a ditch going nowhere. We actually try the latter but it's even more dispiriting than 'the train' so our frequently stopping service resumes. Colin's coupling (knee) goings twang and he becomes Colin the Coach. The two remaining engines are running out of fuel fast. Our cycling style becomes that of a unicyclist on a tightrope - trying to closely follow a man riding at this sort of ludicrous rhythm is impossible. Behind this comical leadership there is more dangerous weaving about going on than in industrial revolutionary Lancashire. Spanish readers - ¡Estaba hasta las pelotas con el ciclismo! We spot a potential station - it's not mainline but we make a three man request stop and pitch camp on the northern shore of Lago Viedma in Estancia San Agustin. Tomorrow morning can't be this windy surely?

Day Twenty Eight. January 4th. Etancia San Agustin to El Chalten. 66 KM

Of course, this morning is actually windier than the previous day. It's back in to the train, which for me consists of 15 minutes of staring at Colin's backside from about a yard away followed by seven minutes of squinting into a gale, struggling not so much to catch breath as get it back out again. Then repeat. The air is at least cleaner at the front, although it's reshaping Al's hair from 'the thug' look to 'the Beaker from the Muppet Show' look. Things start to look up at Estancia Santa Margarita where we are welcomed in for free coffee. The effects of the wind after fighting into it all morning are truly remarkable. In the cosy kitchen Colin looks less like he's been out on a breezy day and more like he's been electrocuted. I note there have been no sheep or cows for the last couple of days. Perhaps when sheep reach a critical wool level round here they simply lose traction and are blown the length of Santa Cruz to the shearing sheds in Rio Gallegos. Sheared and more aerodynamic they can start the drive back west before the process is repeated. The city of Rio Gallegos probably owes it's importance as a wool and hide exporting center less to it's port and more to it's location downwind of everything worth getting out of Patagonia. Such are the unwired thought processes of a man condemned to spend all day cycling at walking pace into a tornado only inches behind Vincent Van Gogh's rear rack, as it were. Sheltering under a bridge over el Rio de las Vueltas we at last had our efforts rewarded. Out of the low cloud and round the corner of the fellside a Condor. It was first spotted by Al with the memorable comment (paraphrasing a little here) "Crikey, that's a big bird'. Identification was complicated as, unlike every time seen on TV, it hadn't arrived with a pan pipe soundtrack. We soon had it confirmed though as it neared and appeared to be about the size of our tent, though a good deal more stable in the wind. It eyed us up but soared on to something with a bit more meat on it - a rabbit perhaps.

Mount Fitz Roy from El Chalten

Well, that's enough for now I think. I'm off to see if international relations in our 'commercial' campsite have improved since last night when a returning drunk tripped over our tent and stirred our sleeping sardine can. Dangerous business upsetting a tent containing international mischief maker V Van Gogh like that I'd say, especially as his tent appears to be neighboring ours. If the only thing on fire on my return is our stove I'd deem it a victory for common sense, something readers of this blog may be forgiven for doubting exists at all in punishing, panoramic Patagonia.

David Middlemiss

Excursions to Paine

So here we are then.  Well, now, actually.  We're in El Calafate, a very touristy town on the banks of Lago Argentina, and it's New Year's Eve.  We got into town a bit earlier than expected, for various reasons (which will not be aired here for some time...), and that has allowed both Alastair and Dave to get a good dose of food poisoning in them.  Midd's currently in bed (it's 15:45 at time of writing...) and Heed has just left me in the bar so he can go back to his bed for some form of siesta.  Well, regardless, it's fiesta not siesta for me!

Having done another 'Mendoza' on the in-house facilities last night, we are glad to be getting out of the gaffe tonight to get amongst it in downtown El Calafate for the NYE celebrations and are scheduled to get out of town for good tomorrow morning.  Ok, so there's no bendy stick involved this time, with experience having been on our side in this, erm, sticky situation, and we do have some random foreigners to blame the incident on, but it's still not an ideal situation.  Anyway, I must get off this subject so I guess I should give you a rundown of what's been going on over the last week and a half or so since we left Punta Arenas...

Day 12. December 19th. Punta Arenas to Estancia Rio Verde
Leaving town late, as has become the somewhat expected norm, we fly along past the airport and are all agreed on ignoring the penguin colony which would take us over 50k out of our way, the way back being into a strong headwind. The decision is made to take the coastal route to get away from the tourist trail, the cars and buses, and also in the hope of some more impressive scenery, and we're generally fine with the fact that it means an unpaved road.  After our longest day yet (101k) we finally rock up at Estancia Rio Verde, not knowing what, if anything, to expect.  Riding around the back we are shocked to find a room full of yanks and Europeans enjoying a whole lamb being roasted over the parilla and some quality Chilean reds. Having obviously stumbled upon a very flash affair, and looking every bit the bedraggled cyclists that we are, we make a very easy decision to camp in the field with the horses (and skunk...) rather than pay over USD $100 for a room.  Our first experience of quinoa is a good one, despite it being accompanied by the ever present tomato based sauce and chorizo, and it's all downed in typically frenetic style, to allow us to enjoy a relaxing bottle of red in the luxury of the restaurant.  Our Chilean hosts, Sandra and Marcelo, are great people and seem much keener on swapping stories (and, strangely, mildly pornographic jokes) with us than entertaining their proper guests. Turns out Sandra is the only woman ever to swim in Antarctica and Marcelo is an electrician by trade, but an excellent chef.  Despite them accusing me of looking like William Wallace and Vincent van Gogh, we leave on good terms.

Day 13. December 20th.  Estancia Rio Verde to a ditch, Morro Chico
Even for us, this day takes ages to get under way.  The wind is really bad all day and we struggle against it for 70k before giving up about 7k before a left turn would have faced us directly into the wind. The 'camp site' is a rough piece of ground beside the road, with foot long grass and an amazing ability to channel all the wind in Patagonia onto our trusty tent. Food is cooked and sleep is not had.

Day 14. December 21st.  Morro Chico to Puerto Natales
We manage to stir at about 5am and get under way about 6am, having only enough water for a quick coffee.  This is a record time for us but there's no air of jubilation as our attempt to 'beat the wind' proves to be 100% ineffective and the first 40k takes us nearly 7 hours, including water stops with the local Carabinero. Next thing marked on our map is Hotel Reubens and, again, we're scared to expect anything at all.  We're surprised to find it chock-full of yanks who're being shipped about in absurdly large 4x4 people carriers.  We each scoff a magical steak and egg sandwich and hit the road, turn the corner and enjoy a tail-wind for the first time in a L-O-N-G time. Cycling is fun once more and we absolutely fly down the mountain and into Puerto Natales where we stay at Hostal Lilli. Our biggest day yet, managing 112k despite the grueling start into the wind.

Days 15 to 16.  December 22nd to 23rd.  Natales.
Not much to do about this town, so we use our valuable time to yet again stock up on food.  This time it's a monster shop as we've got to get food for 8 days or so on the road, as we can't be sure of getting anything once we leave. Kilos of rice, pasta, sauces, chorizos, canned fish, nuts, dried fruits and chocolate see our panniers reach the point of bursting and make us very nervous about the flimsy rack mountings. Oh, and obviously we stock up with 2 litres of vodka. It is Christmas, after all.

Day 16. December 23rd. Puerto Natales to Rio Serrano.
[Author: Al] Yet another late start, although at least this one was planned (to hopefully get the better of the weather conditions, which seemed to be more settled in the afternoon). Thankfully this worked out for us and we set off about 1pm to head for Torres Del Paine National Park (after scoffing 18 scrambled eggs and plenty of bread - another feeding frenzy). A good days cycling in great weather started to turn into a nightmare later in the day. Some steep climbs on unpaved surfaces started taking their toll, especially on me and I started to struggle somewhat. Whilst Col and Midd waited on a bridge for me to catch up they seen a figure waving to them - Olga. We met up with Christian and Olga (who are cycling the same route and arrived at the same hostal as us back in Ushuaia the day after us) and decided to cycle with them to the park together. The roads became less undulating but the surface became much rougher, and, just as things were going well, disaster struck. Cycling along happily, whilst chatting to Olga, Col's rear rack had what would be best described as a massive failure. The mounting clips broke and the rack fell backwards bending the rear deraileur into the spokes.  What resulted was something akin to an international rescue mission . Our Spanish and German friends helped forge some temporary solutions with a combination of canvas strapping (for my rack which was on the verge of collapsing) and a mixture of wire, cable ties and copper brackets we had picked up earlier for Col's rack - these won't last! Repairs completed we all set off again and struggled on. More steep climbs on unpaved roads and the unwelcome emergence of a strong headwind caused me to almost break, with both hamstrings on the verge of imminent cramp. Things got so bad at a point we were all forced into pushing the rigs up hills as the loose gravel, headwinds and steep gradients meant getting moving was almost impossible. Midd was sent ahead to tell Christian and Olga not to wait for us as they were keen to head for a campsite inside the park which was out of our reach as it had turned 10pm. We rolled into the nearest campsite available to us - Camping Rio Serrano - and had the tent up, dinner cooked and eaten and 6 beers downed within the hour. After a hot shower the mood in camp was a lot more positive and we were soon off to the land of nod dreaming of the usual tailwinds and perfectly smooth roads.

Day 17. December 24th. Rio Serrano to Camping Las Torres, Torres del Paine.
A lay-in is soon scuppered by D. Middlemiss who is up-and-at-'em, urging his troops onwards. As he cooked up the porridge and coffee, Al and I took care of repairs to the bikes. Taking the easy option, my rear deraileur was replaced with the brand spanking new one we thankfully had the foresight to bring with us. The morning disc-brake-adjusting-session was just finishing up when I noticed that his rear hub was loose, forcing yet more comically futile brake adjustments.  The 1k off the main road to the camping was, without a doubt, the worst road we'd ever seen. Record speeds of 4kph were reached while trying to make sure the makeshift rack mountings held firm.  Which they didn't, obviously.  More wire and cable-ties were employed as we were entering the Torres del Paine National Park.  Weather on this day was absolutely superb and we were incredibly lucky to have such spectacular views of the Torres while there was no clouds obscuring them. We try to restrict our photo-taking, but the views are so amazing that the cameras are out seemingly every couple of kilometres. Mucho deleting of similar mountain photos are in our near-future.  We have lunch in a restaurant set in the middle of a glacial-blue lake, which we reach by cycling over a small wooden bridge .
Remarkably, nothing else breaks for the entire day, and we find ourselves thanking Mr Montgomery for suggesting and supplying the roll of wire that has saved the day on a few occasions already.  That said, about 30m of it should have been taken as we're fresh out already.
After spending the vast majority of the day climbing in fierce heat, we're rewarded by a very long and enjoyable downhill which takes us to the start of the 'nightmare 7k' which an American cyclist had warned us about earlier in the day. It turned out to be just that - 7k long and an absolute nightmare. No sign of an office at this campsite so we pitch our tent and grab a much needed shower before heading off in search of alcohol. First stop is out of beer so they suggest we try the bar - what a fantastic, novel idea!  Couple of beers, a bottle of Chilean red and the staff turn the lights out and go home to leave us in the bar.  Unfortunately they appear not to have been 'born yesterday' and have locked down the good stuff, so we end up in the tent shortly after midnight.  This lack of boozing has us really perplexed!

Day 18. December 25th. Camping Las Torres.
It truly is Christmas day - 0 Km on the bikes so Instead of the usual punishment of cycling we decide on the slightly different exercise of hiking. Despite the tent turning into an oven shortly after sunrise we stick it out to about 9am when we get up, shower (we decide on washing at every given opportunity as these opportunities are somewhat limited), and pack a bag to head up to the Torres viewpoint. First port of call is the hotel down the road to check up with the folks back home and, after finding all is well, we set off up the track. Progress is good and we find we're doing the track in half the time estimated although the last section is quite tricky and takes the full 45 mins suggested. We reach the final ridge and as we come over the top we're treated to a quite spectacular view of the Torres.  Christmas lunch consists of rice and mixed vegetables cooked up on our stove and after a lot more photos we start our descent where we stop for a beer in the glorious sunshine. We get back to camp around 7pm to find Christian and Olga camped beside us (we had passed them coming down the trail whilst we were going up). Dinner is cooked and afterwards they join us to get stuck into the vodka - they seem quite amused by the powdered fruit drinks we're using for mixers. We polish off one bottle of vodka and, surprisingly, common sense prevails and the bottle of Eristoff survives for another day.

Col and Al