The Carretera Austral is a renowned road, stretching across nearly 800 miles of rural mountains. Because of current border closures we hopped on for a middle chunk, crossing over at tiny Futaleufú. At the time, you could only enter Chile on Tuesdays and Thursdays, limited to 60 people. We cycled a gravel road that wound alongside a brilliant glacial-blue river and set up our tent in line the night before behind a few cars.
Now further west, the terrain was more thickly forested -- we were on the rainy side of the mountains. Chileans seem to speak faster, and more imperatively, a funny contrast to simpatico Argentines. Chileans are also stricter about covid protocols, wearing masks, and checking for vaccine passes. One store owner took pity on us, though, on a cold wet afternoon. We stopped for sandwiches and coffee (always instant, alas, in Chile), thrilled to be indoors for a few minutes. When the owner saw we'd be out in a gale with sheets of rain, she made a place for us inside. Similarly, an officious hostel manager sprayed our bags with disinfectant and took our temperature upon arrival, but later set a table and provided tea when we cooked on the camp stove and were about to sit on the concrete driveway.
In addition to rain, another misfortune beset us: stomach bugs. (And by that euphemism I mean days and days of the squirts.) We can identify no definitive cause, and after a few days of tentative recovery are hit again without warning. Unfortunately, fate conspired to align my malady with biking up a mountain pass, in the rain, on a narrow gravel switchback. First time I've been dehydrated to the point of heart palpitations.
That day we were hoping to reach another casa de ciclista, rest up, and get dry. We climbed a last long hill to the village, and as the evening grew dark, came upon what looked like a freshly charred shipping container. The casa had caught fire the previous night. Luckily no one was injured and the woman who ran it and lived next door was shaken but ok. We eventually found a hostel where I curled into a ball and took a long time to get warm.
It feels like piling on the misery to dwell on my bent derailleur, Jace's blown tire sewn with floss, and his camp stove that burns only at rocket-fireball level. It's not all bad, I swear! One of the best things about Chile is its conspicuous abundance of port-a-pottys. Ok, there was a lot of road construction, but really, they were like every two miles, just in the middle of nowhere. -And the sun came back and felt glorious.
I was originally going to finish cycling in Coyhaique, a city where I could easily sell the bike. But I wanted to do just one more bit together now that Jace and I were able to eat real food and had reached dryer country. We'd heard from many people that Cerro Castillo was amazing, so made a detour to hike the base of the jagged-peaked mountain. The 3,000-ft descent into the village alone was stunning, as well as the days of shaky legs after the hike.
We'd also heard many conflicting stories whether a particular ferry was running. Yes; no; it's broken; only locals can take it; only twenty people can fit; it goes every day; it goes once a week... So we rode there, and with a lovely bit of luck arrived just before it left. We traversed Lago Buenos Aires, a more than 100-mile-long lake split between Chile and Argentina. Arid tufted-grass hills and cliffs surround the lake. The 2 1/2 hour ride took us to Chile Chico, saving a week's strenuous ride on rugged dirt roads around the lake.
We took our time the last couple days, happy for sun and bittersweet to say goodbye. Since it's getting colder and the days grow shorter, Jace will make a bee-line for Ushuaia, covering many more miles per day than I could. We enjoyed a lot of natural beauty, popcorn, silliness, and hospitality together. And I learned a lot from him about how to see the world by bike.
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