A maelstrom of apprehension and hope swirled within as we slowly approached the site of the landslide. Despite the hostel owner being unable to provide us with any recent updates on the state of the road, we had decided to leave Puyuhaupi regardless. The rain had stopped overnight, and we were itching to get back on our bikes. A few kilometres out of town, we came across a long line of parked cars. The drivers stood around their vehicles, leaning on bonnets, and making small talk. We slowly rode to the front of the line to get a better look at the situation. Fearing the worst, we were flooded with relief when one of the road workers shot us an optimistic ‘thumbs up’, indicating that they’d soon be letting people through.
Whilst sitting beside the road waiting, we were approached by an affable, silver-haired Dutch couple. Their faces were familiar, yet I needed them to remind me where we’d met each other. I could have been forgiven for forgetting. As it turned out, they had been the ones who had given Jeffrey a lift on that wet morning ride from Villa Santa Lucis when his tyre had finally given up the ghost. They told us that they’d dropped him in Puyuhuapi where he had planned to buy a new tyre. Considering the weather over the past few days, the lack of shops (let alone bike shops!), and the fact we hadn’t seen him in the village, I figured he must have wrangled another lift and managed to get further down the road before the landslide occurred.
Eventually, the road was deemed safe and we were all let through to continue our respective journeys south. It didn’t take long for the line of traffic to overtake us, leaving us alone with the road. We followed the edge of the fjord for a while, struggling to comprehend that it was an extension of the ocean and not a lake. Mist hung over the inky, motionless water creating a tangible sense of calm as we rolled along. The road soon turned inland, hooking back on itself and providing a new perspective. Visible above the tree line, a substantial glacier appeared to be floating, suspended above the treeling at the head of valley. This region to the north was part of Parque Nacional Queulat; a national park renowned for its virgin evergreen forests and the presence of hanging glaciers.
We were stopped at the base of the day’s biggest climb, eating bananas and chocolate biscuits, when another cyclist came into view. He sat with us for a minute but appeared to be in somewhat of a rush. His name was Byron and he was from Durham in the northeast of England. Durham is just to the south of Newcastle upon Tyne; the hometown of Dad’s parents. As a result, Dad has always had an affinity for the Geordie accent, so when Bryon spoke, he had Dad’s full attention. He told us that he had left Quito, Ecuador, in early July and needed to be in Ushuaia by the 19th of December. It was an achievable, albeit formidable, task. Considering the unpredictable elements of the route (i.e. landslides), I could understand why he was feeling pressure to make good time. We wished him well, not expecting to see him again given the pace he was pushing.
However, the hill had other ideas. It was a ‘jacket on, jacket off’ affair. Chilling winds made way for sunshine, followed by short downpours. Shortly after beginning the climb, we passed Byron sitting beside the road removing wet weather gear. Five minutes later, he pedalled past as we were doing the same thing. This leapfrogging pattern continued for several kilometres before he eventually pulled away.
The climb was sustained and consisted of countless switchbacks which allowed us to rapidly gain elevation. Whenever sunshine hit the surrounding forest, the injection of warmth would cause clouds to swirl upwards from the valley below. Turbid roadside creeks churned as the hills attempted to purge the heavy rainfall from the last few days. Opportunistic lichen spores had colonised the leeward side of tree trunks; the windward side buffeted smooth by the prevailing weather. It was a reminder of the harsh conditions that challenge the survival of all species in Patagonia. Inquisitive hummingbirds darted in and out of the dense pine forests as we neared the top of the climb.
It wasn’t until we reached the highest point on the road, that we realised how sheltered we had been all morning. An Antarctic blast raced up the valley from the south, instantly chilling our wet bodies. To reap the lingering benefits of body warmth, we decided against lunch at the top of the hill and instantly commenced the fast, gravelly descent. By the time we reached the bottom, I was the coldest I’d been for a long time. A perfectly positioned bus stop gifted us some protection, and allowed me to a space to quickly get some water boiling. We were so cold that we even needed to get the iPad out and crank some Red Hot Chili Peppers; quintessential rhythms for increasing body temperature.
We felt significantly better following some boiled eggs, coffee, and vigorous, funk-fuelled dancing. Just as we were about to leave, Helen and Adrian rolled down the hill. Shortly after their arrival at the bus stop, the descent produced another cyclist. Riding alone, she introduced herself as Maria from Germany. Despite the pleasantries, we all recognised that she looked absolutely freezing. I offered her some hot water as she wiped water from her glasses. She politely declined the gesture and opted instead to just keep riding. This was the first time we would witness the stoicism and tenacity of the pint-sized Maria. She would go on to become one of our greatest inspirations throughout Chile and Argentina.
As we rode away from bus stop, Adrian told us that they were planning on staying at Hostel don Claudio; a site he had found on the iOverlander app which was undoubtably his most favoured and trusted resource. Considering the lack of notable camping options, we suspected we’d end up staying at the same place as them that night.
The riding that afternoon provided a divine contrast to the frigid, wet conditions experienced throughout the morning. We traced our way along the floor of a lush, verdant valley which was framed by precipitous limestone cliffs. Content cows grazed beside the road while Andean condors rode the thermals several hundred metres above. At the head of the valley, a bridge carried us across the formidable Rio Cisnes, where an enormous volume of water was being forced through a narrow gorge, creating bone-crushing rapids.
Once we were on the other side of the river, we began the search for Hostel don Claudio. We checked the map several times, compared it with the coordinates on the iOverlander app, and rode a few kilometres up and down the road. Still a mystery to this day, we conceded that it must be a ghost hostel; the online reviews and images are the work of the supernatural. It simply didn’t exist. But, in what turned out to be the greatest consolation prize ever, we spotted a small sign a few minutes later that was advertising camping and cabins. We rode up to the house at the end of the drive and were welcomed by the most delightful young family; José, Diana and their baby daughter, Sami. José looked confused when we questioned him on the actual location of Hostel don Claudio, consulting Diana before they both agreed that they’d never heard of it. It didn’t matter. José explained that they had only recently opened their property, Refugio Rio Cisnes, to tourists. He said we were welcome to camp, but suggested we look at the new cabins that he had only just finished constructing. He led us across a small creek where he’d installed a microhydropower system, and through a paddock populated by damp horses, sheep, and chickens, to where the cabins stood. With gas hot water for showers and a small bunk room to keep out of the afternoon rain which had started to fall, we couldn’t have been happier. We negotiated a price and I helped José carry some mattresses from the main house to the cabins.
Showered and warm, we wandered back to their house for some coffee and a slice of Diana’s homemade lemon pie. Helen and Adrian turned up soaked and equally perplexed by the Hostel don Claudio mystery, electing to take the other cabin rather than continue their search. Being in the presence of José, Diana and Sami warmed my soul. Over the course of the evening and the following morning, we had the fortune of getting to know these wonderful people and benefit from their philosophies on various aspects of life. Their passion for living a holistic life was infectious and inspiring.
José was originally from Antofagasta and Diana was from Santiago, where they had met several years earlier when José was studying to be a lawyer. Prior to the birth of Sami, they had cycled and hitched their way along the Carretera Austral, coming to the mutual realisation that it would be the best place in the world for a child to grow up. When Sami was one year old, they left their lives in the city and relocated to their current property on the banks of the Rio Cisnes, which they had purchased with the help of José’s father. In making the move to Patagonia, José surrendered his career as a lawyer. He believes that what they are now creating is having a far greater impact than he could have possibly achieved in a courtroom. He also said that if anyone ever tries to take or damage his property, he will call on his successful friends from law school!
Since arriving, José has invested all his spare time in learning local history and attempting to understand how the region and its people have been shaped by various natural forces. He has become fascinated by traditional ways of life, intrigued by old roads connecting abandoned settlements, and obsesses over how to live comfortably while having minimal environmental impact. Rather than be frustrated and deterred by inhospitable factors, José considers every misfortune as an opportunity for learning. The previous winter, a puma had taken down their entire herd of sheep and a fox had decimated their flock of chickens. To many people, this loss of assets would be heartbreaking. To José, however, it provided another moment of clarity.
‘We need these lessons. We need to learn about this area somehow. It teaches us how to live in, and with, all of the other species that call this place home’.
Together, José and Diana spoke of the importance of preserving Patagonia. They understand that it is the last remaining true wilderness in Chile, yet to succumb to the pressures and infiltration of industries such as mining and forestry. But they are also aware of the importance of managing the rapid growth of tourism, which is being seen by many as a sure and quick way to make money. In their words, ‘everything in Chile is for sale; private operators have far greater power than the state, and economic growth trumps everything’.
Armed with a deep understanding of the economic forces and legal shortcomings enabling the exploitation of wilderness in Chile, José is leading the resistance from the ground up. They are striving to have a positive influence on the mindsets of individuals and help create a collective conscience devoted to preserving wild places. The ‘think global, act local’ adage comes to mind. Their business provides the perfect platform for conversation with countless people from near and far. After an evening in their company, it is hard to walk away and not want to join the fight for Patagonia. In addition, they had also signed their property up to a government trial which was investigating the economic and environmental benefits of food forests as opposed to traditional monocultural agriculture in the region. It was refreshing to hear them acknowledge that conservation was not simply about locking an area up but, rather, considering how to move forward with equal and fair consideration of the environment, the economy, and the social welfare of those in surrounding communities.
Over breakfast the following morning, José asked about our home in Australia. When I said we were from Tasmania, he appeared genuinely stunned. He jumped up and rushed out into another room, before returning with an enormous book.
‘Everything we know about how to live with nature, we learned from a Tasmanian’, he expressed with palpable elation.
The book was ‘Introduction to Permaculture’ by Bill Mollison. Mollison was born in Stanley, Tasmania, in 1928 and went on to become one of the world’s leading voices and researchers on the topic of permaculture. In addition to his writing, Mollison established the Permaculture Institute in 1979, with the goal of teaching the practical design of sustainable soil, water, plant, and legal and economic systems to students worldwide, such as José and Diana. Sadly, Bill Mollison died in Hobart in 2016, but there is no doubt that José and Diana at Refugio Rio Cisnes are doing all they can to carry on his legacy. The fact wasn’t lost on me that the academic work of a Tasmanian was playing a critical role in the sustainable management of Patagonia.
Our night in the cabin provided deep, unbroken sleep. Light rain prompted a slow, leisurely breakfast as we marvelled over a majestic speckled rooster keeping a close eye on his hens. After packing our bikes and cleaning the room, we headed to the main house were Diana presented us with freshly brewed coffee and almond and walnut muffins. Helen and Adrian had managed to leave earlier, but for me, it was becoming increasingly difficult to leave. In fact, I could have stayed for weeks. Dad found humour in repeatedly bringing up my obvious infatuation for José over the coming weeks. But really, it’s not funny if it’s true.
Before we left, José suggested that we walk down to the river and look at the old house on the property. He explained how they used to rent it to guests, but the effort required to prepare it, then clean up afterwards, outweighed the income it generated. As we pushed through the scrub and caught a glimpse of the building, it was love at first sight. A rustic, timber-clad structure, with a perfectly chaotic assortment of different shaped windows. Internally, everything was situated around a central slow combustion stove. Well-loved enamel crockery filled the shelves and several hand-built chairs were positioned around a table constructed from a commanding, single slab of timber. There was a loft for sleeping and a continuous soundtrack provided by the nearby river. I lost myself in fantasies of returning with a group of friends one day and staying for months.
We said our final goodbyes and José promised that whenever it’s raining there, it means the sun is shining in Coyhaique; our destination for the day. His optimism was much appreciated as we pulled the hoods of our rain jackets over our helmets. Sami continued waving until we reached the end of the driveway.
Immediately upon leaving Refugio Rio Cisnes, we were faced with a short but nasty climb. A series of tight switchbacks carried us up to a roadside lookout that provided great views back down the river valley. Two other riders were also using the viewing point as an excuse to have a break at the top of the hill. They were a middle-aged English couple who had been living and working in New Zealand for the past year. Before returning home to the UK, they decided they’d make a stop-over in South America with the intention of cycling the Carretera Austral. First impressions suggested they weren’t having the best time; they were soaking wet and looked completely exhausted. The girl explained that their bikes had been lost in transit and took three extra days to finally join them in Puerto Montt. She went on to say that the precious time lost waiting for the bikes had meant their itinerary had been thrown out significantly. It sounded like a dangerously tight timeline to be working to in a region where the weather dictates all. To make up for lost time, they’d caught a bus to Puyuhuapi, only beginning their ride the day before. Considering the climb and the cold conditions of the previous day, it would have been a brutal introduction to riding in Patagonia. They had suffered a wet and sleepless night camped beside the road a few hundred metres back down the road. I offered some motivation by echoing José’s belief that the sun would be shining further south. We wished them well.
We were rewarded for our effort on the hill with a fast, flowing descent through the small town of Villa Amengual and further on to the shores of Lago Las Torres. We both conceded to feeling flat and lethargic on the bikes. Fortunately, the surrounding landscape was enough to direct our attention away from our tired legs. Sitting on a roadside guardrail eating bananas, we watched on as the enigmatic weather continued its regular mood swings. Cloud spiralled upwards, revealing colossal granite cliffs framing the lake. The monolithic slabs of rock had been stained by years of water seeping down from the pine forests above. Intermittent beams of sunlight struck the exposed faces, illuminating a pallet of earthy yellow, brown, and black hues.
Following a bucket lunch[1] at a perfectly located bus stop, we embarked on what was one of the most magical stretches of riding to date. The route descended through what seemed like a never-ending valley, bordered on either side by towering cliffs. Wondrously fertile pastures, populated by cows and horses, lined the road and a whimsical river danced continuously from out left to right via a series of small stone bridges. Add a strong tailwind into the mix and it would be hard to describe better conditions for cycling. If it hadn’t been for the town of Mañiguales at the bottom of the valley, we could have kept riding for hours. We were low on cash and food and had planned to spend a night there before pushing on for 100 kilometres to the larger town of Coyhaique the following day.
A single road dissected Villa Mañiguales and at the southern end of the town we located a brilliant campground. We were greeted by an overtly relaxed man who appeared grateful for the business as we were the only people staying. He wasn’t expecting the tourist season to kick-off for a few more weeks so hadn’t got around to reconnecting the water to the shower block. This wasn’t an issue for us, but he still made a point of knocking a thousand pesos off the price of a campsite. There were several stable-like shelters dotted around the grassy, tree-lined property. The lack of competition for space allowed us to colonise one shelter for the tent and another for cooking. Camping beneath a roof was always a bonus as it meant there was no need for the outer fly. This allowed for extra ventilation, plus the guarantee of a dry tent the next morning! After setting up, we rode back up the street to a small supermarket to get a few things for dinner and make the most of having rare access to an ATM. Since they had run out of cash in Puyuhuapi, Adrian and Helen had mentioned the ‘ATM in Mañiguales’ every time we’d run into each other on the road. We finished the day with another carbohydrate-heavy dinner comprised of beer, pasta and chocolate; a true diet of champions.
I left Dad in his tent the following morning and made a cheeky trip to the town bakery, returning with two custard donuts to complement our morning coffee. As we were packing our gear and doing some general bike maintenance, Dad discovered a broken spoke on his rear wheel. It was crazy to comprehend, but this was the first significant mechanical issue I’d had to deal with since leaving Colombia, 6000km ago. Being on the cassette side of the wheel, it was a bit tricky to access and more than I could handle with the tools I was carrying. We taped it to the adjacent spoke and planned to get it looked at in Coyhaique. It was 11am by the time we finally got going, again aided by the most delightful tailwind.
The supreme riding from the previous afternoon resumed immediately. We followed a larger valley which had been created by the Rio Mañiguales. The vast flood plains were indicative of the immense volume of water that travels through the valley at various times of the year. Fortunately for us, the clear emerald waters appeared relaxed and the expansive deposits of alluvial soil provided a fertile foundation for a host of spring flowers. Most notable were the throngs of mauve lupins populating the roadside. The wide valley floor gave way to sharpened peaks in the distance. After roughly 40 kilometres, we reached the turnoff to Puerto Aisén; a sizeable town located at the head of Aisén Fjord which lay to our west. A large proportion of Southern Chile’s agricultural industry had been established from this port and it had been a detour we’d been planning to make. However, with the weather closing in again, and Dad’s desire to get his spoke fixed as soon as possible, we opted to continue along the Carretera Austral towards Coyhaique.
From the junction, the road swung inland picking up yet another river valley. The hillsides closed in the further we travelled. Gnarled old beech trees hung over the road with an air of wisdom and eroded cliff faces rose into the darkening clouds overhead. The river we were now following, the Rio Simpson, evoked a quiet caution within us due to its split personality. In its wider sections, the water swirled gently with an essence of tranquillity. But, when forced through narrower sections, it raged with an untrustworthy whiteness. The light grey concrete road with freshly painted yellow lines provided a sense of familiarity and guidance as we continued climbing through the rugged landscape. We stopped at an impressive roadside waterfall and met an amiable family on holiday from Valparaiso. The trip was a gift to their daughter for her 17th birthday. She and her younger siblings appeared cheerful, but there was no way they were going to match their dad’s exultant mood. It was refreshing to witness someone in such awe of their own country.
‘This is the best, most beautiful country in the world! Don’t you think?’
It was hard to argue with him at that point. It also reminded me of myself when friends have come to visit in Tasmania.
Before commencing the day’s final climb out of the river valley and up to Coyhaique, we made a mandatory stop for lunch at a bus stop. Whilst these small concrete structures had become a critical part of each day, I was also becoming increasingly perplexed by the fact I hadn’t seen a single bus since leaving Puerto Montt. Regardless, we relished the available shelter and used the last of our fuel to brew a coffee to get us over the next hill.
The road climbed steeply out of the valley to open fields where wind turbines rotated with ease. We were held up briefly by road works which gave us time to walk up to a lookout providing sweeping views over the city. Coyhaique is the capital of Patagonia’s Aisen region. It is also the largest settlement with a population of around 50,000. From where we stood, it was evident that the city’s shape is dictated by the surrounding natural features. Several rivers course around and through the built environment, while the rocky escarpment of Cerro McKay looms high to the east. We got back to our bikes just as the traffic warden gave us the greenlight to commence the ripping descent into town.
Arriving in larger towns and cities often bares anxieties around navigation and accommodation. However, it was with welcome ease that we found somewhere to stay when we arrived. A bike path with several signs lead us directly to El Camping; a quiet, forested campsite with a large communal cooking area and great showers! It was located on the bank of a small river at the bottom of a steep hill. This gave the site a sense of remoteness whilst only being a kilometre from the CBD. It was perfect.
Upon riding through the gates to the campground, I was struck by the site of a vehicle parked in the main gravel turning circle. It was the large beige overlander belonging to Joe from Germany; the man travelling to generate discussion and raise awareness of cochlear implants. I had last seen Joe at the border between Bolivia and Chile having just completed the Lagunas Route. Admittedly, I had caught a few busses since then, but it was still incredible to reconnect this far south. There didn’t seem to be anyone home at that point, but I was sure we’d catch up again soon.
We found a patch of grass to set up camp and took it in turns to use the hot shower. Before Dad had left Tasmania, I’d asked him to bring my bivvy bag[2] and a lightweight tarp. Over the few nights that we’d camped since leaving Puerto Montt, we’d managed to develop a neat system. We’d tie the tarp up between two trees at around head height, securing the outer guylines to the ground with pegs. The tarp would provide protection for the inner of the tent meaning we could forgo the fly, and the bivvy would also be sheltered from any rain. The whole set up had a minimal footprint and meant that Dad could have the tent to himself which allowed for necessary alone time. On dark, we wandered back up the hill into town and stumbled upon a busy steakhouse. Following a burger and beer, we headed back to the campground via a minimart to grab something for breakfast the following morning. I also slid some whiskey and chocolate over the counter and Dad added some ice creams for the road. It was great to see that our eating habits were now more aligned than those first few mornings at the buffet in Puerto Montt.
We had every intention to get Dad’s bike fixed the following day and get back on the road. However, upon waking up I quickly learnt from the internet that it was Sunday and that all the bike shops in Coyhaique were closed on Sundays. Neither of us were overly disappointed by the prospect of a slow rest day. The remainder of the morning was spent drinking coffee and playing scrabble before ambling into town. A reconnaissance mission to locate bike shops for the next day provided a good excuse to stretch the legs and see a bit more of the town. We passed a small market where local vendors spruiked various ceramic and wooden trinkets. One stall holder gave us a lesson in correctly preparing and consuming maté; a traditional, caffeine rich drink made by soaking dried leaves of the yerba maté plant in hot water. The public consumption of maté in South America is as common as rain. When heading out for the day, most locals will carry a thermos of hot water, a bag of dried maté leaves, a metal straw for stirring and drinking, and a small mug typically fashioned from calabash gourd. Interestingly, this common, white-flowered gourd is also known as Tasmania Bean! The man showed us how to steep and mash the leaves with the straw, explaining that his mug is full all day, but he must stop drinking at 4pm otherwise he can’t sleep.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent wandering, eating, and buying some groceries for the coming days. We also visited a Patagonia clothing store which, despite being an American company, seemed novel at the time. Back at the campground, I made some coffee as we distributed and packed food and gear, hopeful of an efficient, early start the following morning. Dad struck up a conversation with two inquisitive, middle-aged American men. One was a retired doctor from Utah and his friend worked as a teacher in Montana. They were making their way down the Carretera Austral by local bus and were quick to point out the importance of a flexible itinerary. As there wasn’t a single service for the entire highway, they were booking it day by day, quickly learning the ropes when it came to unpredictable timetables and unexpected weather events. They had also been stuck in Puyuhuapi for a few days. Regardless, they were having a great time; travelling light, camping wherever possible, and determined to experience everything that the region has on offer.
Walking back to the tent and tarp after a dinner of vegetable curry, we saw Joe getting out of his vehicle. He recognised me instantly and was equally as shocked as I was that our paths had crossed once again. I introduced him to Dad, describing the several encounters that we’d had throughout Bolivia. He asked if Mum minded being apart from Dad for so long, before going on to tell us about his own wife back in Germany. Apparently, she still enjoys her job too much to commit to full-time travelling but joins him for several weeks on the road each year. He also finds somewhere to park his vehicle so he can return home for a few weeks annually, preferably during the German summer. Joe also explained that the Cochlear company pays for his fuel! This enables him to travel on a relatively small budget, striking up conversation with people all over the world about the life changing benefits of receiving an implant. Following a few photos together beside his vehicle, Joe asked me if I’d do him a favour. He told us that it was a dream of his to drive around Australia, particularly to experience the solitude offered by remote desert tracks. However, transporting a vehicle like his to Australia was extortionately expensive; something he’d need support with to make this dream a reality. He suggested that I email Cochlear a picture of him and I together, explaining to them that he is a great ambassador for the company and that he could have a big impact driving around Australia, spreading their message. He was hopeful that this would encourage them to pay for the freight! I promised I’d do my best.
[1] A quintessential last-day meal on any backcountry trip, a bucket lunch basically involves the pouring of all left over foods into a pot, mixing in some crushed corn chips or crackers for some added crunch, and spooning the contents into a tortilla.
[2] a Bivvy (Bivouac) Bag is a bag constructed from lightweight waterproof fabric. Basically, it’s a thin, light, waterproof outer bag that goes around both you, your sleeping mat, and sleeping bag.
Faults and Folds 