Andy and Fiona’s cycling adventures in South America




Part 1 - Southern Patagonia 2005

I will never fly on New Year’s Day again! It was difficult to get a lift to the airport, the check in staff obviously didn’t want to be there and one of Delta’s supervisors spotted that our bikes were oversized packages… that cost us $200 each! We were upset by this because Hector and Bertha (our Thorn eXXp bikes) were packaged as small as non S+S coupled bikes would allow… wheels out, seat post out and pedals and forks off. At less than 40Kg, we were well within the 64Kg limit, which had made the flights via the US seem so attractive.
After a long flight to Atlanta, with poor in-flight entertainment, we were thumb-printed and sat waiting, for many hours, for our connecting flight to Santiago de Chile. We passed the time watching CNN, horrified, as the true extent of the devastation caused by the Asian Tsunami, a week before (Boxing Day 2004) became known.

The smiling check in staff at LAN Air allowed our considerably over-weight packages (25Kg allowance) onto the internal flight to Punta Arenas without surcharge.
The brightly painted, weather board houses of Punta Arenas glowed under a bright blue, cloudless sky. We unloaded the taxi outside our pre-booked accommodation, Hostal Al Fin Del Mundo; the air felt warm and almost balmy… not what we had been expecting at all!
We applied a thick coating of P20 (a non-sticky, alcohol based sun screen) necessary because of the fierce intensity of the sun’s rays, due to the large hole in the ozone layer. As we walked around the town, in our shorts and tee shirts, exploring the sights and historic buildings, I couldn’t help but notice that all the other “tourists” were wearing long trousers, thick socks, big boots, thick fleeces and heavily-constructed waterproof jackets… it seemed too much to hope, that they were all just a little bit odd.
We spent a few days chilling out and gradually collecting all the provisions we would need for the first stage of our journey, including plenty of rice, lentils, cardboard cartons of (surprisingly good) red wine, porridge, honey and, most importantly, tea bags (fortunately readily available throughout Chile). “Meths” (Alcool de Quemar) for the Trangia had been difficult to obtain, so we carried 4 litres of it. We even managed a tourist trip to Isla Magdalena, in an open car ferry (!) to see the colonies of Magellanic penguins. As we looked across the Straights of Magellan, we decided not to take the ferry to Tierra del Fuego for a fortnight’s tour, therefore we put plan “B” into operation… we were keen to spend more time in the Andes.
When we told our hosts, at the hotel, of our intention to cycle north back to Santiago via Puerto Natales, eyebrows were raised and we were told, “There is nothing but pampas between here and Puerto Natales”. We replied that it was always our intention to see a little of the Pampas, that we had done this kind of thing before and anyway, we knew that were no big hills for a while and that furthermore, despite our age, we would be fit by the time we reached the big climbs. Although confident in our abilities, I felt a little uneasy, because I somehow sensed that the ride to Puerto Natales was not necessarily going to be the easy warm up that we had imagined.
As we cycled beside the lupins, past the last of the brightly painted houses, we spotted our first Condors circling above. Soon raindrops started to fall, followed swiftly by sleet and freezing rain. It was a bizarre experience, because the sky above us was still bright blue, the rain must have come from the black clouds several kilometres away! We were putting on our waterproofs, when an Argentine trucker stopped and offered us a lift. He was surprised by our polite refusal and explained that he would be in Puerto Natales before dark and he had an empty truck, rope to tie our bikes down and a flask of hot water for Mate. I explained that we really did want to cycle and in my best Spanish agreed that “Si, soy loco.”
I honestly don’t know if we would have accepted the lift if it had come along half an hour later. The wind picked up, or perhaps we just emerged from the shelter of the hills? In retrospect, the proximity of the hills is probably the reason for Punta Arenas being used as a safe haven for centuries, if not millennia!
By the time we reached the edge of the exposed Pampas, the road surface had changed to ripio (gravel and loose stone surface) and we were struggling to maintain 4mph into the three quarter headwind. We were constantly being blown down the steep camber of the road and into the deep, loose gravel at the road’s edge. We had always known that the prevailing wind was from the West and we had concluded that, as we were travelling north, it would be no worse than if we were travelling south. We had many cyclists’ reports of riding South, but it was at this moment that we realised that the bottom of South America was bent around (by the wind?) and that we were, in fact, cycling north west! We pitched our tent in a dip by the side of the road. Being non-pressurised, we considered the Trangia safe enough to use inside one of our Stalon’s porches. We made a quick meal of rice and lentils and washed it down with a mug of red wine. We were grateful that Mr. Hilleberg makes his tents so strong, as the winds, gusting to over 60mph, battered us all night long. We thought that the storm would blow itself out and this seemed to be the case when we emerged in the morning to set about making porridge with honey and a pint each of very strong tea. Unfortunately, settled weather is the exception rather than the rule in Southern Patagonia. The wind can blow for weeks at a time, if it wants to but it often seems to like to take a little rest early in the mornings.
(We later found out, from a reliable source, that, on the Southern Pampas, at this time of year, 40mph winds with gusts to 50mph were normal. We were also told that 80mph winds, with gusts to 100mph, were not unusual and, in fact, more common than flat calm days!)
After several days’ cycling into very strong winds, we were nearly deaf from wind roar. When we reached the fishing port (and tourist destination) of Puerto Natales, with its little boats being tossed about in gales and driving rain, we were absolutely determined to find some quiet shelter, with a real roof over our heads, for a night or two! The little family hotel boasted a stuffed Puma in the lounge, it was larger (as were its teeth, claws and the width of its bite) than I’d imagined. We were casually informed that the last person known to be killed by a Puma, in this region, was, in fact, a Puma hunter… that sounded reasonable enough to us.

Our next objective was Parque National Torres del Paine. Fiona had read of a “back road” route which would lead us into the Torres, via the Milodon’s cave and a rickety bridge (apparently down to a single plank). This would surely be one of the highlights of our trip. We set off, travelling north, loaded heavily with fresh provisions, up the grinding climb out of Puerto Natales, gradually turning into the wind again. From our exposed vantage point, we could see the vast expanse of shimmering silver gold Fjords and misty green islands to the west. To the North, we could see, on the far distant horizon, the masses of snow covered peaks that made up the Campo del Helio Sur and, in the mid distance, stood the spectacular pinnacles of the Torres. As we lost altitude we received some shelter from the Westerlies and my computer’s speed crept into double figures (Fiona reached double figures before me… her computer being calibrated in kilometres!)
The Milodon’s cave was very interesting… but how an accurate, life size, twenty foot high, fibreglass replica of the giant sloth could be made from evidence obtained from a bit of fur and some pooh was a mystery to us. We journeyed on; the wind having dropped altogether now, determined to put in a long day whilst the going was good. We passed a sign saying (we thought) “road ahead closed” certainly we had seen no traffic coming the other way. “It must be the bridge” we thought. I had been worried about this bridge when Fi was “planning” the route back in Blighty, so much so that I had invested in 25m of thin climbing rope…in case we had to wade across the river… and it was looking as if we might.
Just as twighlight beckoned, we saw a vehicle approaching that contained 3 German lads. They informed us that they had been turned back by a warden as the Army was dynamiting the road ahead to make a new vehicular route into the Torres. The warden soon appeared in his Jeep and the German lads translated for us. “We could not go on tonight; perhaps the Army may let us through tomorrow, if they were not dynamiting… or they may not. We could stay at the Wardens house if we liked.” The warden grinned at us and nodded. We were so tired that our limited ability to speak Spanish had been replaced with half remembered French, so the thought of having to make any polite conversation was daunting. We concluded that we would make embarrassingly poor guests, so we opted for a tent in the woods, pitched upon spongy mossy grass, by the side of a crystal stream, fed by ice melt, from the neighbouring snowy topped mountains. After a quick meal, of rice and lentils and a mug of red wine, we slept the sleep of the righteous!
In the morning we discussed our options over a bowl of porridge and honey and a pint of very strong tea, it seemed as if we either had to backtrack 70Km and take the long route into the Torres, or try and blag it past the Army. There were only 40Km between us and the river. Fi was in favour of going on… I was not so sure but I didn’t want to be a kill-joy. In my new spirit of adventure, I postulated the theory that, as we couldn’t speak Spanish well enough to plead our case, our best bet was to just smile and wave and cycle through…unless we were stopped. It made sense at the time! The rain had started and we pulled on our brightly coloured waterproofs and wet socks.
We cycled past another road closed sign and when a large crane swayed towards us, carrying a massive concrete pipe, we pulled off the road…just to show how sensible we could be. We waved at the soldiers in their tented barracks, they waved back. We came to a big sign clearly saying “cerrado” and “dynamite para 20km.” We hesitated and some soldiers in a tractor, towing a large bright red box trailer nodded us through. I took careful note of my computer reading. We crossed a knee deep ford…thank goodness for the wet socks… thank goodness for Rohloff! The track became a series of short, very steep hills paved in blasted rock. The Schwalbe marathon XR tyres gripped well enough and I was glad that we’d chosen 2.25”. The tractor almost caught us on the climbs but we dropped it on the descents, thanks to our suspension forks. I was very pleased with Hector and Bertha’s prowess, carrying 35kg each, on this, the most severe terrain imaginable and I quietly congratulated myself for their spot-on design. It was obvious to me that the tractor was bringing the dynamite and, if we kept ahead of it, we would be allowed through… the race was on! I really can’t describe how severe the route was… on occasion we had to double push the bikes up some of the 30 degree slopes of loose rock but we kept ahead of the tractor! A large Army lorry came the other way, its big diesel engine roaring as it clawed its way along in the lowest of its splitter box gears. We waved… the occupants waved back. The tractor was, by now, a long way behind and we could no longer see it. The roaring lorry came past us again, in the other direction, we waved and smiled… they waved and smiled. We passed another sign saying “Dynamite” and another. We soon noticed that it had stopped raining and we stopped to remove our waterproof shorts and tops. The lorry came back towards us and stopped near us, we gave and received the waving smile and a passenger got out, carrying surveying equipment but he didn’t speak…which seemed odd.
We had ridden 20Km since the “dynamite para 20km.” warning sign and we carried on for another 10km, before we felt it was definitely safe to stop. We were very hungry and we scoffed some cheese and biscuits; we congratulated ourselves for being so “daring” and we sat admiring the bikes and discussing how well they had behaved. We plodded on, feeling very tired now and very aware that the ordeal of the single-plank-bridge, over a (potentially) roaring, river was still to be negotiated. Fiona noticed a hole in the ground, with a bit of branch poking out, then another and another. “It’s just holes that the sappers have drilled ready for placing a charge” I said. Soon the holes no longer had branches sticking out…they had wires sticking out! I used to work with explosives and I knew that these wires had yet to be connected to a common wire, before the charges could be detonated. I told Fiona this and assured her that there was no danger…whilst this was not an ideal situation (!) the explosive was extremely stable and still perfectly safe. The explosive was not ready to be detonated and anyway, there would be a loud Claxton horn sounded, before any explosion. All the same it was a bit of a worry, there were sheer rock faces to our left, dense undergrowth to our right, which sometimes disappeared into a vertical drop and ahead of us, we could frequently see the clouds swirl around peaks of the Torres in the distance.
Fiona stopped for a pee and we decided to eat a couple of biscuits. We had stopped for no more than a couple of minutes when, very close to us (perhaps 200m away) there was the most almighty explosion that I have ever heard! The ground shook and seconds later we could hear huge rocks falling back to earth… there had been no Claxton! For several more seconds smaller rocks fell, some were very close!
Any confidence, that I had in my knowledge of explosives, had evaporated; should we turn back… past the laid charges? Should we sit tight and hope? Should we go forward? I thought it unlikely that there would be a second explosion…there was no chance that any detonating wires would have survived such a blast…so forward it was! We jumped on Hector and Bertha and pedalled furiously, past lots of holes with wires emerging and onward, through the thick acrid smoke and dust, past large smouldering rocks which were strewn over the road. Through the smoke, we could see that the road in front of us was blocked by a massive pile of smoking rocks and debris about 50m long and 3m high. At the far end of this pile a large, tracked earthmover was moving the enormous rocks with its gigantic yellow bucket; I knew that they wouldn’t set off a charge on the other side of the machine.
Two minutes ago we were exhausted, now we were both pumped up and buzzing… adrenaline is an awesomely powerful drug! There would be very few people, in an English mountainbike park, who would have dared to have ridden over that pile of rocks on a hard-core mountainbike. We pointed Hector and Bertha at the rocks and, with over 35Kg each in the rear bags, we pedalled hard at them. managed, by both pushing down and pulling up hard on our SPD pedals, to claw, hop, jump, spin, slide and bounce our way through, without incident. Our hubs’ gears changed instantly and precisely, where necessary, the frames tracked beautifully…indeed at no time did I even contemplate falling off, putting a foot down or allowing Hector to come to a halt!
We negotiated the obstacle and waved at the operator of the machine…he nearly fell off his seat!
We were not going to stop now, not until we were over the river and safe in the national park. We rode the wave of adrenaline, feeling like super-beings, past more dynamite signs, up and down many short, steep gravel slopes, hoping the effects of the adrenaline wouldn’t run out before we reached the plank-bridge. Suddenly we found ourselves descending a finely surfaced, broad, gravel road, which led onto a concrete bridge, wide enough for 3 cars; the centre span of which, crossed a furious river in full spate. We dismounted and ducked under the heavy chain at the far side of the bridge, from which hung a little sign saying “Cerrado” and we laughed at the huge, retro-reflective road sign, already positioned to direct future traffic across the bridge to Puerto Natales!

We walked back to the middle of the bridge and looked at the water… we could never have waded across that… the climbing rope made a very useful washing line that evening (and for the rest of the holiday). We camped “wild” in an overgrown orchard, which belonged to an elderly Chileano, who had joints of lamb, not apples, hanging from the trees near his canvas shelter. He had a look of total contentment, as he sat, with his back protected from the wind and a blazing fire of apple wood to highlight, in amber, his deeply wizened, brown features.
We had horses, friendly dogs and the southern stars for company. As we ate our rice and lentils and washed them down with mugs of red wine, we looked north, beyond a private bridge, over another river, not 600m away. There we could see the lights of luxury cabins, expensive 4 x 4s, gleaming beneath their layers of dust, were parked outside and the wealthy tourists inside were, no doubt, enjoying their own adventure holiday.
We slept like logs!
The next morning, gazing with pride and admiration at Hector and Bertha, whilst sitting, eating a bowl of porridge and honey and sipping a pint of very strong tea, we felt the mountains resonate to the sound of a whole series of explosions!