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
No comments:
Post a Comment