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