Into the Wild
- Jun 13, 2016
- 3 min read
The guanaco gazes as I ride past.
Wide eyes, curious or in contempt for this noisy creature crossing its peaceful and expansive Patagonian plain.
The nandu strides out in front of the motorcycle. It’s long legs stretching and lurching. Refusing to leave the dirt road it leads me on a merry chase.
In the soft sandy soil there is an impasse. The armadillo won’t budge. It stares me down with a beady set of eyes behind a pointy snout.
Paso Roballos is a remote mountain pass through the Andes connecting Chile and Argentina. It is the most southern crossing – for cars and motorcycles - from just north of Cochrane on the Carretera Austral into Argentina and Bajo Caracoles on the Ruta 40.
It is a bright morning as I make a start for border. Morning mist lifts from the Chacabuco Valley. A great big sea of silence swallows me up when I switch off my bike. Snow-capped peaks begin to surround me the further I roll into the valley.
Around the snaking bends of the road, I run into herds of guanaco. They are the only ‘traffic’ I meet during seven hours of riding.
Scrubby plants and prickly grasses line the dusty route. The sun sparkles on pristine lakes that quench the guanaco herds and reflect the Andes.
The road over Paso Roballos is challenging. It is a combination of smooth easy riding, soft sand, corrugation and rocky patches. The hardest part is keeping my eye on the road with so much spectacular scenery as a distraction. There a few slips and slides but I manage to stay upright.
Since my adventure started, I feel truly alone. With strange and fantastical rock formations and yellow grasses stretching out ahead I’m a lone rider in the wild wild west of all those cowboy movies I love. Theme tunes from Clint Eastwood movies fill my head.
After several hours of riding I turn a corner and find the Chilean border post. The formalities are fast and friendly. It’s the same at the Argentinian post set in a valley beneath a series of red and pink ridges and hills.
In Argentina there are a few estancias in the distance. Long lines of poplar trees run away from the road leading to the homesteads. But I don’t see any movement.
There are also more lakes. Some filled with blue water and others with only crystalline white powder. Nandu flocks lope along the dry bed.
I stop to stretch my legs and bladder. Instinct makes me look for some privacy. But my isolation, and a distinct lack of cover, makes me feels like I am on the moon so I dispense with modesty.
As I enjoy the short break from the bike, I’m joined by a curious onlooker. An armadillo shuffles up to my feet. Suddenly I feel self-conscious and get stage fright. I never like public urinals.
At my back, the sun is dipping and I’m feeling weary. The 200km from Cochrane to Bajo Caracoles in Argentina is taking a full day. My body and mind are feeling the effects of intense concentration and sitting in and straddling the saddle for nearly 6 hours. A close call with a furry-four-legged beast woke me once from a hypnotic like state.
With dusk approaching I push on with a bit more urgency. The bike rattles across a long stretch of corrugation and loose stones flick out from under the tyres.
Bajo Caracoles is only 20km away a battered and weathered sign reveals. And soon the rocks and dirt give way to a shiny brand new tarred highway. It’s a strange floating smooth sensation coasting into Bajo Caracoles – population 9.
In the glowing pink of the days fading light, I pull up in front of the Hotel Bajo Caracoles. The hotel is famous for being a travellers’ rest. And supplies much needed fuel in the middle of nowhere. I quench Hank’s thirst first while the gas pumps have fuel. It is known that in parts of Patagonia, especially on Ruta 40, pumps run dry and it can be days before the tanker arrives. Then I quench my thirst. Washing the road dust from my mouth with a cold beer.
The barren, windswept Patagonian Steppe lies in wait for me and as night falls and the wind begins to howl I seek refuge in the hotel bar/grocery store/souvenir shop.
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