100% of Chile’s extraordinary Patagonian highway this time!

But let’s get there first ...

Any further south from Ushuaia would have meant wet toes, so I did a U turn, retracing steps over the Garibaldi pass. It was even more attractive a second time.

 

It’s a funny feeling revisiting places - sometimes the oddest little spot rang a big bell, other times all was novel from a different angle.

This windswept house sitting alone between the Atlantic and a ridge was easy to remember. 

 

In Rio Grande a whopping big KTM 1290 burbled up behind at the servo. Off hopped the biggest smile ever, attached to Julio of Chile. His orange machine was sporting a few wounds, as was he - left hand bruised, swollen and hurting. Nevertheless he was enjoying the trip and proudly showed an onboard video of him doing 150 km/h down the “damned 73” gravel section I mentioned last time.

A cheerful maniac.

 

The wind was astonishing heading across Tierra del Fuego. Riding westward towards Pornevir on a long gravel road was hairy. The breeze was mostly head on through to broadside, but fluctuated wildly.

At a photo stop I was again blown over while stationary sitting on it.

 

There are several penguin colonies in Patagonia with a mix of species. Around one hundred King Penguins hang out in this spot of the island. Our guide described their movements which all seemed to revolve around mating.

Staying inside a bird hide made sense for the chickens in dinner suits, though it was a little hard to view them. Telescopes let us see little brown fuzzy chicks being fed by parents. Pretty cute.

Sadly hard to get in a photo.

 

Owen from Canada had bought this pushbike in Ushuaia. A few days in he gave the distinct impression of regretting his choice after battling the strong and blustery breezes.  

He even spoke of maybe buying the DR but seemed unsure of himself.

 

A new highway was being built in parallel with the gravel road. Check out the monster machine that laid concrete sections. I’d loved to have seen it in action.

 

The wind murdered fuel economy, reserve needed after only 230km. It was a slow, nervous last 35km into Porvenir.

 

In Porvenir a couple came into the cafe looking for the overland rider. They were on two Honda CRFs, three years into their RTW trip, having started with Europe/Asia from homeland UK. Impressive. 

Jealousy too: I’d give my left leg to have Kirsten still interested in moto touring. Gear changes would be hard though.

 

Porvenir is on the western side of Tierra Del Fuego only a stone’s throw from Punta Arenas. Well, if you count a two hour ferry ride where land is beyond sight as a stone’s throw.

 

Out of Puerto Natales was Torres del Paine NP.  Upon arriving at the trailhead of a 18km round trip hike to the three rock towers, I was told “you’re too late”. The park rangers would close the trail at 2pm at Chileano, a rest stop part way. 

Q. How long will it take to get to Chileano?

A. Two hours

It was 11:54am. I took one hour, two minutes.

Feeling all a bit cocky I cruised the rest of the way.

Rather like other Patagonian hikes, a final push over a rocky hill ...

... led to the main prize: a turquoise lagoon fed by glacier melt and whopping big rocks behind, in this case the three Torres (“towers”).

 

The bike’s front end had started to become vague. Almost imperceptible for a long time, a slight wallow in cornering. I suspected the fork bushes needed replacing. Front wheel bearings were not showing any play and steering not notchy. At home I could get replacements and do the work all in a day. In Chile, not so much. A worry.

 

Moto amigo Thomas had lavished praise on the two day ferry ride from Puerta Natales through the fjords to Puerta Yunguay. He’d seen marine creatures and island/glaciers/stuff not visible through a helmet visor.  

Sounds great!

 

My experience differed.

There was angst getting a ticket. It only sails north once a week and was booked out for weeks. It was due to sail at 5am the next morning. However the ferry operator suggested going to the terminal anyway the night before in case of cancellations.

 

Several of us riders waited at the office until dark, uncertain if we could get on. One asked “so where’s your bike?”. Answer: back where I’m staying, of course. Shaking of head. Turns out the ferry boards that night, passengers must stay on board overnight and it sails next morning.

Faaaaaaaarrrk.

A quick run back to grab my crap and fly back to the terminal in haste.

Why are Argentinan and Chilean drivers so formal? Drivers flashed lights and waved arms at this lost idiot blasting the wrong way down one way streets, open jacket flapping like mad. Long live the practical anarchy of Mexico and Peru.

 

Hurry up and wait. An hour later, number plates were being recorded, tickets purchased and we were on board. All very exciting.

 

“Sleeping” was in recliner seats. 

Snoring, cabin lights, videos on phones and passengers talking and laughing loudly put the kibosh on sleep.

 

I’ve mentioned Patagonia having a lot of weather. It certainly did those two days. Apparently it was one of the roughest voyages - winds peaked at 150km/h. The boat took longer paths to the lee side of islands. There were no idyllic nights watching the stars.

 

Still, it was a different perspective.

The food was above prison standards - at least the white bread sandwiches for breakfast had plastic cheese and ham.

 

The best sights were on the third day in the calm channel approaching Puerto Yunguay.

Maybe I'm simply more into things with wheels rather than propellors.

 

A saving grace was hanging out with terrific folk, including:

• Colin from Minnesota on a Triumph Tiger whom I’d already met - he’d asked if I needed help while changing brake pads in a town park weeks before
• Diego from Colombia and Inés from France (yet they lived in Germany !) on their Royal Enfield Himalayan, Inés did her internship in Melbourne, visited the GOR Sydney Cairns Uluru
• Francisco from Brasil on a R1250G/S, a fascinating bloke into fast bikes and cars, was runner up national kart champion in ‘88, went to Australia years ago purely to learn English had worked in a Sydney car wash & restaurant
• A German couple hitchhiking their way around South America, she a paediatrician up for long thoughtful conversations

They were all great company and we had a heap of laughs.

 

Ferry destination Puerto Yunguay is about 100km from the bottom of the Carretera Austral, on the north side of the water.

 

I’d made a blunder in the ticket excitement. Hadn’t filled up after the 240km Torres Del Paine round trip and before boarding the ferry. No servos for 100km. Whoops.

My new best friends helped out. What a team: 8 litres siphoned from Francisco’s 33 litre tank (!), use of Diego’s fuel can and a hose borrowed from a car driver. Chilean petrol has an unpleasant taste ... but it works.

 

Once disembarked we waited for a regular ferry to take us over the straight. Many cars and bikes arrived in that time and there was a minor shit fight to get a place. In the end our merry handful of riders made it, Colin and I the last two on. Most other riders missed out. Phew.

This put us in great spirits.

 

The Carretera Austral finishes at the sleepy town Villa O’Higgins. The 100km down there was exceptionally pretty, but I struggled to appreciate it with the cold.

 

We five stayed in the same bed & breakfast, run by Vaenis and José, a gorgeous older  couple. 

Our bedrooms used to be for their five kids.

 

That night we made up for the awful shipboard food at a restaurant praised for its roast lamb. Alas arriving late only three lamb portions remained. This was a blessing. We put the three plates in the centre of the table along with a fish and a chook dish then shared the lot. Excellent comeraderie.

 

It was a beautiful clear morning.

 

We rode a few km to the very end. 

Here hikers can take a ferry across Lake San Martin then walk into Argentina. There is no vehicle access. What a romantic way of crossing a border.

 

Glacier O’Higgins was hanging over the lake. A little hard to make out in this shot with the morning sun behind but my golly nice to the eyeball.

 

Our little fivesome broke apart and reformed in pieces over the following days, each rider having different desires. It was all relaxed and sociable. 

 

In better weather the return 100km north from Villa O’Higgins back to Puerto Yunguay was magic. I was alone, zipping along the gravel at a brisk but sensible pace, punctuated by a dozen photo stops and a hundred “oh wow” moments.

 

At the ferry up came a rider on a ratty looking dirt bike, bits missing but obviously still functional. Aha - another DR650!

Darcy was also from Australia.

Whereabouts? 

Near Melbourne. 

Keep going.

On the Mornington Peninsula.

Ah, I was born in Frankston says Gav.

Cue laughs.

We crapped on for an hour on the other side. To be fair Darcy did 90% of the crapping on. He had a healthy self image.

He’d being going two years, started in Canada riding a pushy then walked most of the Pacific Crest Trail in the US then decided a murderbike was the go, had done motor work on the fly when things blew up and was dating half of South America’s cute ladies. Apparently.

Funny bloke though.

 

Next was Tortel, a town with no roads. All vehicles have to park upon entering and from there a spiders web of wooden boardwalks take the pedestrian.

 

All very fascinating but I wasn’t up for yet another expensive, cooped up room.

 

Instead I free camped a few km out of Tortel by the Baker River, as did Diego and Inés. The ground was terribly soggy. This stand of trees was in soil less than a foot higher, but drier. Shifting some good clean cow pooh gave a useful tent site.

The morning was glorious. 

I shifted camp next to the river to dry out. The mood was so chilled I left after 1pm.

 

Soon enough I was retracing steps from a month earlier. Again some places were familiar, others not. This spot was so much nicer in sunshine than the first time. I enjoyed a slow lunch, washing mushrooms in a waterfall, fondly recalling the novelty of being there the first time.

The worst aspect of the Carretera Austral is the white dust. When following anything bigger than a car it was horribly risky. For some kilometres I followed a bus, only able to see a glint from its upper rear edge above the plumes.

Otherwise the road was great - mostly firm & fast with no need to stand.

 

In sunshine the waters were intensely emerald and snow peaks were seen throughout each day. The trick was to not become blase and keep noticing the beauty.

 

I had a rest day in Coyhaique. Half the reason was that a B&B had been particularly nice the first time.

 

When ambling past a tyre repair shop a familiar shape was spotted inside - an early 70s TA22 Celica. This was the first model car I had at 18yo and in recent years I’d bought another in a sentimental rush of blood.

Tyre fixer upper Martin showed me his boss’s toy car. Geez, it was rough. It had flared wheel arches, the welds bare unpainted to match the other natural rust spots.

He cranked it up and I envied the twin carbies on the old 2T pushrod motor. 

We then played show and tell. Martin shared a video of him drifting his Sylvia, I responded with photos of my Celica and GAVS7. Typical car nuts.

 

In Queuelat NP an inquisitive fellow wandered over. He explained that the Carretera Austral had only been commenced in 1976, opened early 80s. Just as we can thank Adolf for the Autobahn, gratitude should go to Pinochet for this delight.

In 1970 he’d been one of the first to hike into the glacier we’d seen that morning. Up until the Austral all town access had been by boat.

 

I found the hanging glacier in Queuelat a bit ho hum after others. 

 

The Austral is not contiguous. A set of ferries join the pieces. 

 

North of Chaiten I’d misjudged the distance to the next ferry. Trying to reach it on time I turned the wick up and to be fair my head wasn’t in the right space.

Just after a crest the road went left. I didn’t.

Bang. Down on gravel, thumping my left knee the most and a few other body parts less so.

Not ATGATT.

 

I must have had some concussion as moments are vague. A driver stopped, we talked, but I can’t remember much. I guess he helped me lift the bike because it’s hard to imagine doing it in the condition I was in later.

 

For sure I’d missed the ferry. A further bummer was where to stay. The choice was camping (oh my golly, hard to imagine with the pain) or a swanky resort. Nothing else within cooee.

So I paid $350 for a fancy cabin that would be great to take your lover to for a fun weekend. I only had Panadol and Nurofen to take to bed.

 

Come ferry boarding time the next day there was some harrumphing about my ticket being for the previous day. Fortunately the bloke I had talked with after the crash was a ferry attendant and helped smooth things over.

 

The crash has left a mark on the trip since. Even a week later as I write the knee is giving me gyp. There will be a visit to my favourite radiographers at the Angliss Hospital in Ferntree Gully upon return. What, you again?

 

In Hornopirén once again the handlebar mounts got the untwist treatment. A few days later I removed the front wheel to check fork play. They don’t appear bent, though it can be deceptive without disassembly. Oh well, crack on.

 

The skid lid had copped a good old bang. It was annoying riding afterwards with the peak bent backwards, so I ripped it off. Sometimes I don’t think much - the peak ends hold the visor in place. Bugger. I didn’t have a tiny Allen key to reinstate it, so out with the duct tape.

A by now permanently closed visor was a complete PITA. Gone was the ability to crack it open to reduce fogging.

A bike mechanic later helped me reattach the visor mount, waiving any fee. Thanks!

To think that it normally gets cleaned religiously every day ... now it was like watching the Winter Olympics non stop.

Anyway, I just had to keep going.

 

Beyond Hornopirén no ferries were running due to all that Patagonian weather.

There was a long dirt road alternative. Not that appealing in my banged up state, but necessary.

 

Salmon farms were scattered here. They generate controversy, just as in Tasmania.

 

The head was full of mixed emotions: longing to be home with family and the familiar, wanting to leave pain behind ... yet sadness at being near the end of it all. I choked up.

 

Even in gloom all around was magnificent.

 

Puerto Montt, a big port city, marks the top end of the Carretera Austral. Puerto Varas only twenty minutes up the road was a much nicer place to kick back for a couple of days.

 

The views across Lake Llanquihue were exceptional. Volcan Osorno was Mt Fuji like in shape.

In fact there are a string of volcanoes in the area. Volcan Calbuco tended to hide behind clouds.

 

Puerto Varas has a strong German heritage. Here’s one for Kirsten’s aunt Tini, who lives in Lübeck.

 

It’s full of German themed eateries and beer barns. Seeking a tasty brew I tried “The Berliner”. The only staff member was an ancient man in a tatty brown shirt, his few remaining hairs combed over to the side and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. He had a map of the world out and kept thumping Russia, muttering to himself. 

I couldn’t figure it out and left thirsty.

 

Patagonia is an exceptional part of our world. 

There I was, bumbling along on a cherished machine, free to choose my own path, gazing in wonder at each new sight.

What a lucky bloke.