Ripio–ing it up on the Carretera Austral
- May 4, 2016
- 2 min read
On the Road - early March 2016
The 120km of paved road from to Cerro Castillo will be the last pavement I’ll see until Argentina.
I dodge graders, earth movers and stop-and-go men for several hours as road construction continues full steam ahead on the Carretera Austral.
The best viewpoints of the shimmering Largo Verde are being hogged by porta-loos for the road gangs and parked-up Caterpillars. And with a stop-and-go sign either behind or in front (it gets confusing at times) it’s a bit rude to stop and keep the waiting traffic waiting any longer. (My sightseeing slowness had already earned the wrath and fist pumps of impatient Ruta 7 motorists back up the road.)
By the time I reach the dead woods – Bosque Muerto – I’ve left the roadworks behind and pull up and admire the deadness in the valley. The tree skeletons are the remains of the former forest devoured by Volcan Hudson.
Escaping the clutches of the zombie trees the road leads me into the land of the living trees and past Laguna Cofre. Soon Rio Murta flows languid and blue alongside me. It’s murmuring waters lure Hank and I to spend a while resting on the rocky banks.
A little further south, an arm of Largo General Carrera reaches out and into view. It’s the first glimpse of the vast expanse of water sitting in both Chile and Argentina. Known as General Carrera in Chile and Largo Buenos Aires in Argentina, it is the second largest lake in South America after Lake Titicaca.
A fishermen waist deep in the silver liquid mercury-like water casts his line. Yellow wildflowers grow on the banks and brooding clouds as silver as the lake drift across the sky. Fat drops of rain plop onto the thirsty Carretera Austral creating small dust explosions.
I pass an old man in a beret and shabby coat walking his dog. It looks like a breed of sheep dog - big and wearing its own shabby woolly coat.
The gloom doesn’t last long and as I ride towards Puerto Tranquilo the sun breaks through and sends the clouds rolling away and still full.
At the Bellavista campground I’m confronted with my first hardship of the ride. Somewhere along the way I’ve lost a running shoe and my Bundy Rum cap. The mighty Carretera Austral has claimed a small victory.
But over an inspired meal of boiled hotdog sausages and two-minute noodles I raise my box of cheap red wine to those we’ve lost and swear I’ll avenge them by conquering the bumpy road south they call Ruta 7.
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