The Nazca Lines

1.16.2018

My time in Lima was mainly spent within the Miraflores area around the hostel, a good mix of upscale and funky. The traffic congestion of the city is massive, and with the time and danger involved when on a moto, I opted to mostly walk and explore. The moto travelers in the hostel were relaxing and re-thinking their plans and destinations, a common occurrence I've found. It was a chill time for all of us. Some other moto travelers staying at a different hostel had come to hang out with a couple of the guys, including a guy named Philippe from Switzerland. He'd been exploring South America and after knee surgery had given up his DR 650 and had just purchased a 4WD diesel van. He'd bought it in Lima and was in process of getting it sorted for his explorations.

That evening I was contacted by Suzie and Kelvin (https://www.avvida.co.uk), whom I’d met with Michnus and Elsebie in Cuenca. The four were still traveling together and currently in Cusco. Suzie asked if I was coming to Cusco, and if so could I bring a package from a friend who was in Lima. Turned out their friend was Phillipe whom I'd just met, and we got a chuckle out of our chance meeting. I had learned that the traveler's community was small but interconnected, always helping other travelers when possible. The interconnectivity comes as travelers meet in various choke points along the way.

The next day while Touratech was disassembling my suspension, Ed and I visited a couple of moto shops. I was having a fantasy that I'd miraculously find a new waterproof jacket, something like a Rukka or BMW, on a clearance rack due to the fact that some buffoon had mis-ordered an XXL and it had been hanging on a rack for years... (Need I mention my fantasies might need improvement?)

One shop in particular, Motorrad Style and Tours, had an outstanding selection of gear, including Held jackets from Germany, but thank God they had none in my size or I'd have been tempted to buy one and go even further in debt. They also carried Heidenau tires in the size I needed and at about $210 USD wasn't too outrageously overpriced. Much of the gear in Peru fairly close to US prices, maybe about 10% higher. I was tempted to buy a new rear tire to replace the Motoz I'd had to buy in Panama City. I'd planned to replace my original rear Heidenau in Santiago, Chile, roughly 10,000 miles from Texas and usually about the lifespan I get from them. My unfortunate gash in Panama had forced me to buy an unknown brand to me, Motoz, and though I liked it, I could see splits developing early which concerned me. The sales guy said they didn't install them, but recommended I get Touratech to do the install if I did purchase one.

The shop had every color shield and accessory Schuberth makes - never seen so much Schuberth stuff in one room

Despite my pushing him to, Ed decided not to buy any rain gear and continue on with his $1.50 blue balloon Colombian rain suit. One of the riders at our hostel had bought an inexpensive set of construction worker's rain gear, and donated the new day-glo orange pants to Ed to help his rain suit cause.

Touratech contacted me the next day and said the main seal of the rear shock was leaking due to dirt contamination, which was considered normal wear and tear and they wouldn't cover it under warranty. Ivan said the shaft seal was always the fail point of wear from dirt, and I pointed out that the shock had not been used heavily offroad, and that I'd put a MudSling protector on it from the day it was installed. I wasn't happy to hear that it wouldn't be covered under warranty since it was a damn expensive, supposedly overbuilt state of the art shock and it had failed miserably with very low mileage. However, I was glad they could repair it and get me back on the road without some huge delay, and if I ended up having to pay, I would. One thing I've learned in life, is that high-priced, supposedly superior products usually aren't, except in a few cases. Believe me, after a 30 year career buying huge amounts of photography gear, not to mention motorcycle and other hobby toys, the hype rarely meets reality.

Ivan at Touratech had spotted the splits on my rear Motoz tire when I initially brought the bike in and recommended replacing it. I told him he had read my mind, as at low mileage the Motoz tire had begun developing cracks around the tread lugs, something that happened on Heidenaus but only as they neared the end of their life, not at the beginning.

Ivan told me all the Motoz Tractionator or Tractionator GPS tires they'd seen in the shop on adventure bikes always had splits and they commonly replaced them. I was glad to find out they stocked Heidenaus. When Michnus had seen my tire earlier in Colombia, he'd informed me fellow traveler Kevin Chow had the same issue with splits very early on his Tractionators. Kevin had finally gotten a response from Motoz, saying they would replace the tire in Colombia, however he was already much further south in Argentina. My emails to Motoz never even got a response.

The bike would be ready with the rebuilt rear shock and a new rear tire the next morning, a Saturday, so I caught a cab from the hostel over to the shop. It had been cleaned and detailed, looking almost brand new. Good news as well, since Ivan had spoken with Touratech in Seattle and Germany and they agreed to cover the shock rebuild as a warranty issue. The bike felt like new again, the suspension tight and stiff, with my feet barely touching the ground since it had no luggage on board. After the shock had failed, my feet had been flat footed easily.

Sweet mama biscuits, she's clean and has new shoes!

Riding the bike back to the hotel felt good and the new tires made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I looked forward to getting the luggage on and hitting the road again.

Back at the hostel I once again combed through my gear and deleted a few more things to save a few ounces. I decided to leave the brand-new Motoz front tire I'd been carrying with Ernesto the hostel owner in case someone needed a new front tire.

The next morning I loaded the bike with the cases, only to find the suspension sagged badly and was very soft. My first thought was the rebuild had failed and lost pressure already. Trying to adjust preload had no effect on the sagging. I'd had so many failures of gear on this trip, many unmentioned in the blog, that my nerves were raw. I hoped it simply needed readjusting, but visions of yet another delay and frustration swirled in my mind and out of my mouth. So much worry, waiting and then disappointment. It seemed Ushuaia was slowly fading away in time.

After getting packed we made our way back over to Touratech and the technician tried to adjust the shock but it made no difference. After all the BS and worry on the main seal repair, the loss of the month and money spent, then the failure of the rear shock and how much the issues had changed my plans, my blood pressure skyrocketed at the thought of waiting for additional parts or repairs or replacement.

When Ivan finally arrived at 2:30, he jumped in the shop and after about 30 minutes or so asked me to come try the bike. It was indeed better but still sagged more than before the failure. He suspected the springs had sacked out and said they'd replace them except he had none in stock in the rating mine were built to. The shock had been set up for my weight, plus a passenger with full luggage, so the current spring rate should have more than covered me and my gear alone. The fact that the springs were now weak and the shock had to be rebuilt so early in its lifespan for such a highly priced premium suspension was disappointing. I made the decision to keep going though the shock still wasn't 100%, but was better than a failed one. Expressing my frustrations on gear failures, it would be easy to mistake them for complaints, but Ivan and Touratech Peru were absolutely first class and I highly recommend them.

It was now 4 pm and the next destination of Nazca was many hours away. The way south out of Lima wasn’t too bad, other than a couple of streets that appeared to have been bombed, and we got onto the highway pretty easily. The blowing sand and high dunes continued and the landscape was desolate and ugly as we flew towards Nazca, riding through a legitimate late day sandstorm.

By the time we made the town of Ica, it was getting late and Nazca was too far in the fading light. Ed spotted an old hacienda style hotel and we grabbed a room for the night. It was a really nice place with many outdoor areas and rustic architecture. It was a little oasis in the midst of a desert and sand coated town. The night’s meal and cervezas were outstandingly good.

The next morning Nazca and its famous lines were the destination for the day. The ride continued in dust and dunes and desolation, yet amazing to see.

So many miles and hours of this, the mind can't help but wonder... what if?

Dropping into a river valley broke the barren terrain

As the day wore down, in the drone zone of hours blasting across a huge desert plain, a lone road sign appeared, "Lineas de Nazca". We hit the brakes hard and made the stop, rolling my bike in for a picture as Ed did the same. From nowhere a man appeared, as if he'd came out of a hole in the ground, as there was no hut or building and we’d seen no one around. It weirded us out. He was telling us not to put the bikes in front of the sign since we were actually in the archeological zone. It was shocking to realize we were actually riding through the Nazca lines on a road that cuts right through them.

I played "stupid gringo" and acted like I didn't understand the man, just long enough for Ed to hit the shutter on my camera, then backed the bike out. Ed rode his 800 up quickly and I got a shot of him as well to the high frustration of our shape-shifting attendant.

I added one of my stickers to the collection on the sign, jumping as high as I could to make it harder to obscure or be removed, to which the magical sign attendant shook his head in frustration... as if one more somehow mattered.

A few meters down the road we stopped to climb a viewing tower and get a couple of pics, realizing how close the lines were to the edge of the highway. It was hard to imagine that these lines and drawings could last for such a long time, until I read that this desert never receives rain and now scientists are worried that with the climate change rains may come.

Overhead, the constant buzz of single engine aircraft called your eyes to the sky, dipping their wings from side to side in sharp turns for the viewing benefit of passengers, but as likely to nauseate the poor folks as well.

From the safety of my couch watching documentaries, I often wondered why the Nazca lines existed and who in their right mind would spend so much time making them... that is until I stood in this place and realized that if you lived in such an absolutely desolate locale, there wasn't a damn thing else to do for a hobby.

We fired up and blew on down the road for the town of Nazca itself. It was late afternoon and we desperately needed some grub when rolling in, parking at a little street-side cafe. A Suzuki DR650 puttered past, taking no notice of our two bikes parked on the street.

The hostel wasn’t too far away, and as we loaded up, Ed noticed his license plate was missing. It had been bolted to his side case, but in Lima, he wanted to ride around without side cases on the moto, so he'd used wire to hang it from his top case, forgetting to bolt it back on when we left town. A lone piece of wire hanging off his top case was evidence that the wind had flexed the wire until it broke, dropping the plate somewhere amid hundreds of miles of desolate road.

Ed decided he’d last actually seen the plate at the viewing tower for the lines and headed back to search the roadside while I went on to the hostel. The DR650 and rider we’d seen earlier was parked at the hostel but didn't acknowledge me. A couple of hours later Ed appeared at the hostel, having had no luck. I suggested getting a sign shop to make a fake one out of metal and he agreed. Considering Ed's passport, registration and moto title all had differing names on them, I figured his showing up at the Bolivian border with no license plate, probably wouldn't go over well...

A few days previous, Ken and Chip (I think) had mentioned insurance and I realized I’d forgotten to buy it after crossing into Peru. There was none sold at the crossing and once on the way into Peru and into the desert I'd simply forgotten in trying to make the town for the night, never to be remembered again. Ed's missing license plate would be a great excuse to get pulled over by the well known corrupt Peruvian police, in which I'd get busted for no insurance. After some thought and discussion, the much larger city of Cusco seemed to be a better place to have a fake plate made up than in the village of Nazca.

The evening in the hostel was spent uploading photos and updating the blog on the excruciatingly slow Peruvian internet.

Lima to Ica and Nazca

Nazca to Chalhuanca

1.18.2018

We left the heat of Nazca after getting an opportunity to speak with the DR650 rider, who was doing an oil change in front of the hostel. He was a Romanian guy living in California and had ridden to Canada with a friend to begin his journey to Ushuaia. He’d gotten sick in Lima and his friend had gone ahead to Cusco to make a pre-booked Inca Trail hike. He was leaving the next day for Cusco and would be a day behind us.

Ed toyed with the idea of trying to make up a license plate that morning, but recreating a license plate out of nothing but toilet paper and candy wrappers didn’t seem feasible and I certainly didn't want to waste another day on such a foolish task. Google showed 7 hrs just to the halfway point to Cusco and one thing I've learned on this trip everything takes longer than expected. Ed decided to wait for Cusco to make a dummy plate.

In no time, the road climbed in switchbacks from almost sea level to near 14,000 feet, twisting up barren stone and desert sand. Several times we waited for road crews to clear rockfall on the well maintained tarmac.

As the elevation increased, so did the dark clouds and soon the rain started. Pulling off to don rain gear, Ed produced his latest rain suit creation, a purple plastic poncho and the new orange construction pants, as well as a couple of grocery store bags and a roll of clear shipping tape. Finally taped up and dressed, he lifted his leg to get on the bike and to the immediate explosion of the crotch on the brand new orange road worker pants exploded. He clambered off to repair them with clear tape, but I didn’t want to waste more time on such ridiculousness and went on ahead. I had been growingly irritated at the amounts of time wasted over silly things and had lost my patience. Those delays had put us in difficult and dangerous places with longer than necessary days.

Ed had had opportunities to buy real rain gear, but had chosen not to, so I made the decision I was not going to keep getting delayed and arriving late at night on any more long rides in bad weather. Our first day traveling back in Ecuador had put me in dangerous circumstances riding very late at night in a state of exhaustion due to ill prepared riding partners. Ed's choices were his and though I'm never the type to abandon someone, his choices affected me, my schedule and safety. I'd spent months of research and lots of money preparing for the various conditions one would face, not the least of which was knowing I'd be at 15,000 feet in the Andes and needed to be dry and warm. Though my original riding jacket had failed and leaked, I'd also brought a motorcycle rain shell as a backup in case of jacket failure. I knew he'd be fine and just a few miles behind me, but I'd had enough of delays...

Soon after, the heavens opened for a brief spot of blue then swapped back to alternating between bursts of rain and sprinkles. Spotting guanacos in the pampas, I pulled off briefly and grabbed a shot before the rain came again.

Ed rolled up and we rode together a while until the sun came out and it was time to ditch the rain gear.

A couple of his bags got away and were blowing off into the National Guanaco Reserve but he managed to snag them just before they sailed off the cliff, sparing certain and horrible death to baby guanacos everywhere. I asked him what had happened to the blue suit and he said he’d finally tossed it in Lima. It had been about as thin as a Walmart bag and designed for one use. Ed had gotten a few days out of it before it likely committed suicide. I would still think of the air inflated Michelin Man blue suit and the laughs it brought.

Since some reading this blog will not be familiar with riding, I feel I should mention the occasions where I've talked about riding on ahead of other riders, and may address that in further posts. Each rider and especially each motorcycle differ in their travel speeds. For example, my 1200 hits its stride at about 75, where the engine and transmission were designed for optimum performance and smoothness. Ed's 800 for example, is a completely different engine size and design, which has far more vibration and fuel consumption, with much higher engine revs at the same speed, so his best niche is at slower speeds than my 1200.

All riders can adjust speed to match, but skills differ, and in long travels you have to find the "groove". In my case, it was faster than Ed and his bike, so as distance progresses riders often separate when traveling. In my few travels with riding partners, only my friend MotoHank and I seem to be compatible, usually running about the same speeds. However being individualists, we often choose different routes and later meet at the destination. Just wanted to clear that up for those who aren't familiar with moto traveling.

It had been a long ride so far, the goal being Chalhuanca since it was roughly half way between Nazca and Cusco. Google Maps time estimation has been fairly accurate, showing almost 7 hours to Chalhuanca vs 3 hours proposed by my alternate GPS apps Sygic and Maps.me.

The pampas between rains

We’d only gone 60 miles in 2 hours and still had 120 left to go. At the first sign of a place to eat we pulled in. Across the street, a couple of guys were slaughtering a calf. If the cafe was serving beef, it was certainly a good sign that the restaurant was serving fresh meat.

I walked back across to the café, and Ed told me that his top case had popped open and he’d lost one of his tennis shoes somewhere along the way. There's probably a dead baby guanaco with its head stuck in Ed's sneaker somewhere.

Inside the little restaurant, two truck drivers were the only folks besides us. The restaurant owner, one of the three men slaughtering the calf, said the menu of the day was "trucha frita" or fried trout! The owner then popped in a VHS movie dubbed in Spanish for the two truck drivers to watch. It was an old World War II movie called "The Enemy Below" starring Robert Mitchum and Kurt Jürgens. Despite being dubbed in Spanish, we all were mesmerized by the film while while downing the excellent fresh trout and listening to the cold rain falling outside.

Outside the rains came heavily, and it was hard to make myself head out into it. Ed’s plastic outfit had of course completely shredded and he began searching the restaurant trash cans for plastic bags or something to patch and repair the outfit. There was still a very long ways to go through bad weather. I’d already spent too many times getting delayed and having to ride after dark - a cardinal rule I never normally do.

As self centered as it felt, I told Ed I couldn't keep waiting for him and wished him well in his repackaging. I got going on the bike in pouring rain since I knew making Chalhuanca by dark was now going to be very iffy and besides, my LED lights had begun developing issues. They had started flickering, then failed completely in the last hour. It was yet another $1000 aftermarket product that was failing. I felt for Ed, but as mentioned, he'd refused to buy real rain gear, something I couldn't comprehend in the Andes. My aftermarket LED floodlights had been a trusted partner in the high, slick roads on the mountains, but they now failed me and I really hated the idea of riding with only a lone headlight after dark.

As I started the bike, the Clearwater LED lights were flickering and dancing, then went completely off. Far worse, my headlight would not come on at all. Now I was desperate to make Chalhuanca before dark. Otherwise I would have to stop on the roadside and try to set up a tent, as the sheer heights and narrow roads of the Andes would be far too dangerous in total darkness. With as much rain as had soaked the bike over the last weeks, I figured some water finally made its way into some connections.

The road began climbing even higher to 14,000 feet, topping out on a huge plateau with nothing to break the wind. The rain continued sideways as the temperature dropped from 50 down to 40 and strong side winds began. The elevation climbed to 15,000 feet as the temperature fell to 33° and the rain became stinging sleet. My face shield was so wet and foggy I had to leave it open to see the road through squinted eyes. I had a fogproof insert in my helmet, however as I'd learned over years of travel, everything will eventually fail if in rain long enough. It wasn't long before my face was frozen, but I motored as fast as I could at 65 to 70 miles an hour, dreading the idea of getting caught after dark in these conditions. The side winds were probably 30 to 40 miles an hour and despite my layers of gear, I was shivering hard.

Faintly through the visor could I see herds of alpacas or guanacos or llamas - I never know which. I would have loved to have been able to stop and look at them, but it was miserable and I had a long ways to go. I couldn't help but think how much it would suck to be broken down there with no shelter to stop the winds. My only comfort was the knowledge that in a worst case scenario, I did have a tent with me. The skies had gotten darker and as uncomfortable as it was for me, I knew Ed would really be suffering much worse somewhere behind me.

The next couple of hours seemed like forever, but eventually the weather slacked off just as the road began to work its way downhill.

After an area of dense fog, indicating the road was dropping lower into the cloud level, I glimpsed a deep, green valley ahead. Seeing the road switchbacking its way down towards a river through the narrow canyon felt great, knowing I was coming off the bitter, wet highlands.

Finally down into the valley, Chalhuanca still lay another 30 or 40 miles away, so I knew there was about an hour left before night fell and hoped I would get into town about dark. I could feel my wet crotch where my rain pants had leaked from hours in the rain.

The canyon was beautiful and the rain finally stopped as I entered it. For a short period of time I was able to enjoy the twists following the river but ahead I could see a black cloud in the canyon and about 20 miles from town the rain began again. For some reason it always seems I arrive the last 20 miles in rain and today would be no different. Here and there the road was covered by little rivers of red muddy water and assortments of rocks and gravel from the mountainsides.

Chalhuanca finally fell beneath my wheels and I was soaked, cold and tired. Luckily I had programmed into my GPS the coordinates of a hotel and arrived just at dark. Water was pouring off me as I walked into the lobby. There were no other guests and the place was nice. He opened the main gate to allow me to park in the secure area and I carried my gear in from the rain.

The beautiful room was soon covered in dripping wet gear as I tried to lay out everything I could, including the cameras that had been trapped in my tank bag. Darkness fell and I couldn't help but wonder how Ed was doing. Despite being the only guest, they opened the restaurant for me and delivered hot soup along with coffee, and I ordered a complete meal. As I sat eating and began to feel my fatigue, I got a message from Ed that he had arrived and was in a hotel downtown. He said it had been a rough ride and was going straight to bed. I was glad to know he was safe, but trying to ride through the Andes in a plastic poncho is not my idea of fun.

The rain hadn’t quit since I’d arrived and didn’t stop throughout the night. I couldn't help but think about my bike sitting in the pouring rain and the potential for more water in the electrical connectors.

Reaching the halfway point to Cusco had been a very long day.

Cusco

1.23.2018

The next morning in Chalhuanca, I awoke to a freezing cold room and gloomy skies.

My gear was still wet from the previous day's soaking and was excruciatingly cold to slip into for the hotel breakfast, which consisted of a piece of bread, butter and jam. It didn’t help that the staff were frying eggs in the kitchen for themselves and as I sat pitying myself, Ed texted he was having breakfast in town. I said I would hit the road at 9 because it showed to be another long day to Cusco.

There lay breakfast, a scant 15 yards away from my hotel balcony. If only I had a .22 rifle and a fishing rod with a treble hook...

After loading, I swept as much water off the bike as I could and got it fired up, I rode down to town and spotted Ed and the Romanian rider on the DR650 in the gated hotel parking lot. The Romanian guy was changing a flat and apparently had left Nazca the day we did. Ed wasn’t ready to leave and was planning to ride with the DR650 rider. I was glad he had a partner to ride with for the day.

The rain began as I left town, something that had become a plague on my trip through Peru. I had barely seen any blue sky other than on the coast and it was frustrating. I was still hungry and stopped a few villages away where the rain had abated to find a snack. The roadside tienda provided both food and information on the rain. The girl who ran it said rainy season had begun in January and would last through Marzo. Though in Spanish, she looked up at the mountainsides and said “muchas piedras” indicating the rainy season brought a lot of danger and potential death from rockfall and landslides.

The sun chose to come out while we spoke and I peeled out of my rain gear before I got completely soaked from sweat.

As I continued up and down the switchbacks of the highway, enjoying the sun and beautiful vistas of blue and green and wisps of clouds, I was almost hit by a bus flying around a switchback too fast and too close, the rear end moving towards me and again I barely missed it. Sheesh. It was very, very close and a reminder that in Peru the drivers don’t give a crap.

After the close call I focused on the skies and mountains as much as I could until again the rains came again, forcing me to stop and suit up just in time for a downpour.

After another hour, the sun had shown again and I stopped in a village on the roadside where some vendors were selling lunch to the locals. It was here I had my first ancient Incan traditional meal of rice, green onions, roasted chicken, chopped up hot dog wieners, french fries, and spaghetti, all smothered in ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise.

One thing I'd learned in my travels was to eat where the locals congregated, and there had been along line of folks waiting at her kiosk. The line moved quickly and I was expecting roasted guinea pig stuffed with quinoa or some other traditional Incan fare, only to watch in fascinated terror as she covered the bottom of the plate with brown rice and green onions, then a piece of roasted chicken, smothered it in french fries, chopped up hot dog wieners, then doused with a huge spoonful of water and spaghetti onto the pile, followed by huge slathers of mustard, mayonnaise and ketchup.

I'd have thought it was a prank on the gringo, however the local women in tall hats and old men continued to line up at her cart.

That afternoon, and honestly for days afterward, I mulled over what I'd eaten, and even why I'd eaten it. Only once before, when in Alaska, had I had a similarly interesting meal. In that case, it was my moto-traveling Czech friend Kachka, who'd been excited to discover tortillas thanks to me, and had made breakfast burritos the final day of our parting ways, handing me one excitedly as I conversed with a Swiss couple, to which I noticed the tortilla had been filled with peanut butter, canned corn, chopped up wieners and tuna fish. She was so excited to have made breakfast and stared at me while I ate it, which of course I had to. She ran back and made a second one for me. I hate to admit it, but that tuna-peanutbutter-corn-wienie combo was better than the Incan fare.

Cusco was still about an hour away and I enjoyed the scenery until I made the city. My old friends Christine and Jules were there in a pricey hostel and we looked forward to seeing each other again. They’ve become family to me. I did want to find a cheaper place however, and scoured the map, finally getting some cell data after horrible internet the previous night. One hostel touted motorcycle parking, however when I stopped and inquired, the front door was up over a 12” curb, then had a 16” wall blocking water from running into the lobby, followed by an entry of about 4’ width and 6 ft in length, probably 18-24" below the threshold level. I told them there was no way the bike could get in. He produced a 1x4 about 24” long and insisted we try. I tried to ‘splain my bike wasn’t one that could be carried like one of the little 100’s running around but he never understood. I finally had to just tell him no and leave.

This was followed by attempting to make my way to another hostel, ending up coming into a tiny street at a sharp angle… the problem being that the city dug a deep trench down the center and there was no way I could get my front wheel out of it once in. For that matter I wouldn’t even be able to get the bike into the trench at the angle I was. I managed to get the bike onto the narrow strip along the edge and of course they had planted light poles on that side, surmounted by getting off the bike, standing in the trench and leaning it towards me to clear the poles every 30 feet or so. After that fiasco I was tired and gave up, plugging in the coordinates of the hostel where my friends were and reversing a couple of miles before reaching it.

The secured parking was uncovered and of course, the rains came. I covered the dash area with a plastic bag to try to quell the ingress of water since the lights had been having major issues. The hostel had a great view but no heat, and that night it got very cold. Christine and Jules had left that morning for a Machu Picchu tour and were due back the next night. The rains came heavy and the internet didn’t work either that night, or any all the time spent there. Ed texted me later that evening that he’d arrived and was staying in the worst place he’d ever stayed.

The next day the rains remained, pouring heavily, so I stayed in the room under the blankets trying to post a blog report. Foolish, but I had to at least try. After several hours I’d uploaded not a single photo.

The next morning at a frigid breakfast, Jules and Christine showed up, looking haggard, beaten and derelict. They’d arrived back at the hotel at four in the morning, likely the sounds that woke me at that time. They were delirious from fatigue. We greeted each other and they ate breakfast but were planning to head straight back to bed. Their expensive marathon trip had resulted in hiking in solid rain to the top, only to see pouring rain and thick clouds. It was a complete bust, other than to say that they’d been to Macchu Pichu. Disappointing. The forecast for the next 10 days showed 100% chance of heavy rain in the region.

For some reason, I hit another mental wall in Cusco, feeling drained physically and emotionally. The lack of oxygen, constant cold and seemingly endless rains probably added to it, but I just had no energy or desire to do anything. Macho Pikachu didn’t interest me due to the intense rains and the idea of spending a lot of money for a tour and effort to stand in pouring rain and spend an additional 2 or 3 days of time didn’t make sense, not to mention paying for hotel rooms both in Cusco and Aguas Calientes simultaneously. When I looked at it, there was no way I’d be spending less than a week in Cusco, and I was feeling under pressure for time after Cuenca. I’d been looking at the routes and distances left, considering I was now about to enter February, the month I needed to reach Ushuaia and hadn't even made Bolivia or Chile, much less Argentina.

Due to the motorcycle issues, I had been forced to skip exploring Ecuador and now even Peru, my routes being driven by locations of repair shops in cities. I was getting very frustrated. Bolivia was next on the list and I was hearing from riders ahead that it was raining in many places and the famous Salar, the highest desert salt flat in the world, was now deep in water and mud. The conditions were so bad even a stage of the Dakar race there had been cancelled. I had received plenty of pictures of travelers ahead with their bikes buried to the skid plates or deeper on the flooded Uyuni slat flats.

My poor luck of having been in a constant state of rains almost the entire way through central and south America was getting old. Friends ahead of me had generally had good weather. Due to the unnatural heavy monsoon rains ahead of me in Bolivia, I seriously mulled over the idea of skipping the country and heading for Ushuaia as fast as possible, then returning back up through Argentina to Bolivia and Peru to explore these places in better weather - without time pressure. The flipside of that coin, was that if my money ran out, or the string of bad luck continued to expense me, I’d have missed Bolivia on this trip, one of the top places I wanted to see.

After 2 days, the rains stopped and I was able to leave the hostel and head down to the main plaza of Cusco. The street from the hostel was extremely steep going downhill, but worth the effort, as Cusco is one of the prettiest colonial cities I’ve seen. The old churches of stone are beautiful, as is most of the architecture. Despite hordes of tourists, it was still a nice place to be and despite the rain showers I enjoyed being there.

Suzie and Kelvin, whom I’d met in Cuenca, had contacted me about the package I was bringing them and we planned to get together the next day. As it turns out, while walking across the main square, I bumped directly into Liwia and Sebastian, a Polish couple I’d met in Cuenca at Cristobal’s shop. They were traveling two-up on a BMW F650 Dakar and we’d connected on WhatsApp. They had briefly met Suzie and Kelvin, as well as Michnus and Elsebie earlier at a hostel in the past and were excited to connect again. Christine and Jules had also met Suzie and Kelvin and Michnus and Elsebie somewhere on the road.

We all met the next day at the main square just as a rainstorm hit and we found a coffee shop for the meeting of the minds. Ed dropped in as well and we had a great time that evening sharing stories and laughs. Another of Liwia and Sebastian’s friends, Johnston Julao was there also. Everyone’s information seemed to match up about Bolivia and the rain issues, and most of the group said they were skipping the country and going for Chile. It didn’t sway my decision, but confirmed the feeling I needed to skip Bolivia and get going southward.

I hadn't gotten any responses from Ron since the 2nd day of traveling, and Ed informed me that Ron had taken his moto to a KTM dealer which had taken a few days to repair due to lack of parts. Then his bike had failed again on the way to Lima and he was now stuck there awaiting more parts for the KTM. It was unfortunate to hear, the infamous "KTM's aren't reliable"curse hitting him squarely between the eyes. Since leaving Ecuador, his trip had been nothing but repairs and failures. Taking an unproven motorcycle on a long trip is not without risk, not to mention a proven one. At least it was good to know he was safe, though sad to hear what he was going through.

Christine and Jules

Liwia and Sebastian, Johnston and Kelvin​

Suzie, Liwia and Sebastian

I didn’t really want to skip Bolivia, but I had to make realistic choices and get the Ushuaia weather deadline off my back. Inside I just felt strongly I needed to head south quickly, and despite rationale and questioning, I made the decision to turn away from Bolivia for Chile. I figured I would catch it upon my return from Ushuaia back north.

Ed planned to head on for Machu Picchu the next day, despite the rain forecast, and had shockingly actually bought a fake North Face rain jacket, God bless him. The town was rife with counterfeit outdoor gear in the shops. As it later turned out, his experience in Machu Pichu was ruined by the heavy rains.

Tomorrow the destination is for Puno and Lake Titicaca, then south for the Chilean border.

Chalhuanca to Cusco

Lake Titicaca to the Desert Coast

1.24.2018

It was about 8 am when Christine, Jules and I headed out of the parking lot and down the steep streets of Cusco to find gasoline for the bikes. The girls at the hotel had said the chance of encountering snow on the route to Puno and Lake Titicaca was a real possibility, which added to my interest. I led on the way out of town, taking a main street alongside the airport that was so bad it was hard to believe it existed in a city. Truly terrible.

Our route out of town coincided for about 50 miles, before they peeled off southwest for Arequipa, while my route for Puno wound southeast towards Lake Titicaca.

It wasn’t long before blue sky and stunning roads were in my path, the road climbing high to the altiplano and following an old railroad line. The old and crumbling European style buildings seemed incongruous amidst the local mud brick dwellings with grass roofs and newer tin, speaking of wealthy times of the pioneering railroad's past.

Heights of 13, 14 and 15,000 feet were reached with stunning views of surrounding peaks. Huge herds of alpaca, goats and even cattle randomly appeared along the road and across vast valleys. It was hard to comprehend that the "low" route of a valley was still at 15,000 feet. It just didn’t compute after living in the US. For hours my ride hovered between 14,000 and 15,000 feet.

This somewhat twisted Texas boy continued to have his mind and emotions blown at the reality of what I was finally witnessing in my life. Vast and remote areas filled me with fear and wonder at the peaks and snow above, threatening skies to my left and the sunshine to my right, huge areas filled with alpacas and in the vicinity, a lone women barely visible, keeping watch in the chilly air. No Gore-tex, no modern gear, only the clothes worn for centuries and hard to imagine, capable of surviving some of the storms that inevitably come across the flat and open valleys at 15,000. What thoughts did they think, as every day of their lives they stood alone, guarding herds?

I’d be wondering about such survival in the most remote places, only to spot a tiny figure colorfully clothed and alone with a herd high above me. The scale of things were very humbling.

After a few hours I reached the first sizable town and pulled over briefly to check my GPS, when I heard a voice calling...

After hours, the road neared Puno and I was glad, as the day had gotten cold and gray. I glimpsed the end of the famous lake Titicaca across a massive plain and couldn’t imagine I was now at one of the places I’d read about since childhood. I found my way to a small hospedaje and was warmly greeted by the owner. He opened his garage/office for the bike and showed me my room and the kitchen. It was clean, simple and comfortable, all for a measly $10 US, paid in Peruvian soles.

Puno sits at roughly 12,600 feet and I felt the effects when I walked about. It’s funny when riding, as when you climb to 12,000, 13,000, 14,000 and then 15,000, each step the bike gets weaker and breath becomes harder. Getting off the bike and walking a few feet to take a picture in your gear brings huffing and puffing (at least for me), and then you begin to wonder if the next mountain pass will take you even higher than 15,000.

That night as I laid down to sleep, breathing wasn’t too bad, however for some reason when I fell asleep I would jerk awake as if smothering. Not sure what was going on, but I could not sleep, finally getting an hour or so just as the sun began to rise. I was dead tired, it was very cold and raining. I’d planned to visit the floating islands colonies on the lake, but the damn weather curse continued and I didn’t want to stay since the weather report showed rain for a few days. Damn disappointing, but that’s travel. There was still much to see further south, I told myself, and decided the return to Bolivia would bring me back to this area to catch what I missed some day.

I rolled off the next day about 8 am in the rains and gassed up on the edge of town, heading into the now familiar gray clouds and weather. After a while the rain stopped but it remained in the low 40's. The sun eventually broke through in places as I entered a world remote, cold and breathtaking, again on a high plateau and surrounded by winds and snow covered peaks. The landscape was reminiscent of the previous day, but somehow even grander in my mind. It was higher, consistently staying around 15,000 and the winds were strong.

Far apart, herds were seen and despite being distant, I knew that unseen were the ladies watching over them.

A lone dog stood on the roadside, with long patches of foam dripping from his mouth. I wondered if he was rabid, as I’ve never seen a rabid dog before, but having smelled a skunk many miles back I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been bitten somehow in this remote place.

Villages and settlements were few and far between, consisting of small buildings made of mud bricks with tin roofs. Occasionally the remnants of wooden reed roofs displayed the past.

Somewhere in the blowing winds, I caught the sour sniff of sulfur and it wasn't too long before I passed a spewing geyser of hot and acrid water. Just above it lay snow upon the tufts of grass.

After 2 or 3 hours of watching the elevation hover around 15,000 and the green landscape with tufts of snow on the ground, I crested a peak to see a stunning sight. As if a line had been drawn, before me lay a desert landscape as barren as any seen, with massive dunes and sand covering the mountains. Behind me lay a green mountain plateau and before me lay a wasteland at 15,000 feet. I was stunned at such an instant change. Snow lay on top of the sand dunes just a few hundred feet higher than I, and it was amazing to travel solo through it. Mind blown to see a desert landscape so high in the sky.

It had been a long time in the low 40’s and the elevation remained about the same. I was getting chilled but continued on, as I never know what delays may lie ahead. Riding through that desert at 15,000 feet for a very long time is something I'll never forget. As the road made another climb out of the valley, I got a chance to look out at the size of the plane. It was yet another breathtaking sight of so many on this journey. I don't know that I've ever felt so small and so alone in any other place than in those last hours.

Slowly I began to see the elevation dropping on my GPS and despite the incredible sights, I was glad to know I was nearing the edge of the range and eventually the town of Tacna somewhere far below.

Soon the road began dropping quickly into a brown and dead landscape ahead, the temperatures rising as the switchbacks slithered down the mountains.

By the time I reached a small town to look for a meal, I had to peel out of my layers and open all the jacket vents. After a typical meal in a family restaurant, the stares of the locals tickling the back of my neck, I headed out into the flats below towards the coast, right into wind and sandstorms. Peru is amazing in that only extremes seem to exist. You’re either at high altitudes, or in deserts and sand. There’s very little in between.

I have no idea how people live in these conditions, and every time I convinced myself these shacks were for animals, I'd see someone come out and try to hang clothes or something. Just pulling the camera out for 30 secs got the lens squeaky and sluggish from the powder sand.

After another hour or two of either sand storms or wind, I finally broke out into plains near the ocean and my sand shower slowed, finally reaching Tacna and spotting a hostel I’d starred on the map.

The manager assured me they had parking and the front showed a big rollup door. I carried all my gear in and paid for the room. It had been another long day and after swapping clothes I went down to park the bike. I was told in Spanish it was somewhere down the street and over somewhere to the "derecha". All I remember was there was something to do with a a "dentista" and "puerta azul". Of course I never found it and played around the one way streets back to the hotel.

This time a different guy offered directions again and gave me the hotel card to present. Back I went and spotted a large cochera with an aqua colored gate, running up a one way to avoid more backtracking. The attendant never showed until I began speaking to a little boy playing between the parked cars. She didn’t give a crap and stared at the hotel card for a long time then said “no”, pointing at a different place.

I headed there which turned out to be a car repair place and they looked at me like I was a lunatic. I rode back to the hotel, telling them the story. It had now been an hour trying to park the bike and I was pissed, walking down the street to another hostel a couple of blocks away to find they had both a room and parking. On my return, yet another guy waved at me to follow him and before I could say no he took off in a different direction. I got on the bike and followed him a block away, where he rang a doorbell on an apartment, to which an old lady appeared, conversation erupted and shortly after she crossed the street and opened a dirt lot for the bike.

Back at the hotel and anxious to get some sleep after having none the night before, I was excited to hear the jackhammer on the floor above for the next hour, between the screaming children in the hall. I was too tired to move to another hotel, but told the owner I was leaving the next morning. I looked online and booked the hostel I’d walked to for the next night. Christine and Jules texted me to let me know they were arriving the next day so I went to add another day, but the hostel was sold out.

I finally found another hotel that was pricier but available. The next morning I headed over, to find a brand new place that was relatively quiet and nice, then canceled the previous hostel booking. Just an example of life on the road.

Cusco to Puno, Peru

Puno to Tacna, Peru

Into Chile!

1.26.2018

The new hotel in Tacna I moved into was nice and I was able to chill while waiting for Jules and Christine to arrive in town. They would be coming from Arequipa a day later, so I had a day to explore the nearby square and upload a couple of blog posts. Tacna was the last town in Peru before crossing into Chile. It, as most of the other coastal towns, was not attractive or picturesque, however there was a tranquility to the dusty place and it seemed to draw a fair number of tourists from Peru.

My Canadian friends arrived the next day and the following morning the border crossing to Arica, Chile, was just a few kilometers away. It was rumored to be an easy crossing and our travel day would entail less than 60 km or roughly 40 miles. As with all things Latin America, nothing is as it seems and the roadway between Tacna and the border was being worked on, so we had many long traffic delays. Once at the border, it was a bit confusing despite having read other traveler's descriptions. It wasn't clear exactly where we were to check out of Peru and continued on to the Chilean side.

The buildings were new and modern, however there were no signs indicating where to go or what to do. Having been told Chile was about like the United States, I was hoping for a less confusing border crossing. This was not to be the case despite instructions from other travelers.

We parked the bikes, got in a long line, and as we neared the officials behind glass, another official came over and asked if we were on the motorcycles, then pointed us to a different line. Before we could walk to that line, about 30 people overhearing him, rushed ahead of us. After a long wait we were next for the window, but of course the officials shut the window for a lunch break. One official said he would be back shortly so we continued to stand and wait. At this point another official came over and ordered us into a third line. As we continued to move forward, another official came over and told us that we needed to go upstairs and get some papers. I had been advised of this by Louise Jobin, a solo lady traveler who had been following my blog and was a few hundred miles ahead of us. However, the building wasn't obvious, but the official had pointed "up", so as we attempted to walk over towards a lone 2 story building, a construction worker yelled at us and told us we couldn't go up the staircase, so we had to go around a different direction.

After finally getting in the building and going to the second floor, the only thing there was a cafeteria for the employees. I saw a hallway at the back end and as we walked that direction, a lady began yelling at us. I turned to see a lunch lady complete with hair net standing at the cash register and waving at us disgustedly. I walked back over, and sure enough she was the person selling the Aduana forms in triplicate. Perfectly logical that you would get to buy an Aduana form from the lunch lady in a cafeteria, rather than with the other forms we were given in the actual Aduana office. The lunatic Latin American crossing logic was still on display in Chile. Honestly, the entire hours long process could so easily be solved with a few signs and painted numbers like: Step 1, Step 2, etc

There were no moneychangers at the border nor was there an ATM or any method of either getting or exchanging money. That morning I still had a few Peruvian Soles but got a bit paranoid that there would be some unknown fees and had grabbed a few more from an ATM in Tacna. Despite the price of the form being in Chilean pesos, of which we had no way of getting any, the lady grudgingly accepted my soles.

We paid our money and filled out the forms as best we could, then headed back down to get in line. This was our fourth time in line and luckily a large family in the front of us moved to a different one. At the immigration window at last, we were stamped out of Peru and then into Chile. From there we were pointed to the Aduana window and after being given some forms, we finally got the bikes checked out of Peru and into Chile. The most satisfying sound in our world truly is the thump of an official stamp.

We now had to remove all our gear from the motorcycles and carry it inside the x-ray building to be run through the machine. This was going to be a real nightmare as a few of our cases had no carry bags. We rode around the barricades to get closer, and after I pulled out my clothes bag and the rear duffel bag and my tank bag, the attendant indicated just to put them on the belt and not to bring everything off the bikes. The x-ray procedure seemed more symbolism more than substance, and we finally got the bikes loaded again.

Christine located an insurance salesman at a portable table on the sidewalk, and luckily she took American bills for our 30 day policy. We now had our insurance, aduana, and immigration papers, complete with four stamps. We were pointed back to the motorcycles and geared up, riding to the exit gate, where I was refused an exit because I only had “cuatro stampas” and not “seis”. We turned around and rode back to the Aduana and I showed my stamped paperwork to the x-ray attendant and said “seis?” He had pity on us and lead us back over to another harried official inspecting a car. We pointed to the motorcycles and he told us to wait, then when he finished the car came over, looked at the bikes and hurriedly stamped our papers. I counted six and was happy, as well as the guard who then let us through.

Very quickly the short ride to Arica, Chile was done and the search for food and a hotel began. We stopped at one of two hostels listed on iOverlander but they were fully booked and knew of no one with rooms. We decided to head downtown and one of the first things I noticed were people dressed in Carnaval costumes. Not a good sign. The previous night on booking.com had shown the town as 98% booked.

Each hotel we attempted to find that afternoon was completely sold out. It was obvious the carnaval weekend was horrible timing on our part so we began to look for campgrounds on the edge of town. Locating one, we rode out in the failing light having spent the afternoon looking for lodging. The “cabanas and campground” were located behind a restaurant on the beach. The camping area was not much different than a junkyard, replete with dogs, pallets and old rusted vehicles. We had little choice, as we were starving and the day was gone.

Jules and Christine re-stacked some old pallets so that we had enough room to set up two tents. The area reeked of dog poop and urine, but we had to make do. The restaurant was very good and I had some outstanding fresh fish. The waitress was a very sweet girl, a refugee from Venezuela, incredibly nice and helpful. As in several instances, it has been Venezuelan refugees who have been working in hotels and restaurants. The story has been the same and it is a very sad one, as they love their country and miss it, sending any money they make back home to try and support mothers and family. This girl told about how they had to leave, typically only being paid about $4 a week in their country. Needless to say they could not live. Now, in the other countries they find their employers requiring double shifts and more since they know the refugees are desperate for a job. My heart goes out to them, as I have heard this story multiple times in South America.

Our “easy day” had, of course, turned into a challenge. I capped off the night with a Pisco Sour to celebrate being in another country and crawled into my tent falling asleep quickly. Chile's time zone is two hours ahead of Peru. We'd stayed awake until midnight which correlated to 10, but for some reason I woke wide awake at 2 AM and could not go back to sleep. There were many dogs around the tent throughout the night and I think that's what kept me awake.

From Arica, I booked an AirBNB home in Iquique, which was the only reasonably priced accommodation for three people to share. We quickly found out after having been told by others, that hotel rooms booked up very fast and the prices in Chile were roughly the same as, if not higher than, the United States. After paying $10-$18 for hotels for the last two or three months, suddenly seeing $100 dollar hotel rooms was difficult to swallow.

The ride from Arica to Iquique was incredible, heading through the Chilean desert which was a grand scale of dry desert mountains and subtle colors. It lacked the blowing sand and huge sand dunes of Peru, but was no less desolate. Not a blade of green was seen. The northern Chilean desert is incredibly impressive. Gas, food or towns is quite rare in the huge distances, so one must plan accordingly.

As we rode through high scenery and dropped into valleys, I began to feel the fatigue from not having slept the previous night. I was overcome with sleepiness and really needed to pull off and stop, but traveling at 80 mph behind Jules and Christine, I figured I could shake it off after a bit. Unfortunately in my extreme sleepiness, I slowly had caught up close behind them rather than maintaining several hundred yards as usual.

Passing into a steep canyon at high speed, I suddenly saw Jules swerve hard to the right and Christine behind him swerve hard to the left. Why, I could not see, but it happened so quickly I instinctively swerved to follow Christine. Unfortunately, I should have gone right as I was to that side, and at 80 mph a big, square-edged block of stone freshly fallen from the cliff edge came directly under my front wheel. I hit it directly at 80 mph and the bike went airborne, landing hard but luckily I didn't crash. I expected a flat tire at any moment and could feel a wobble in the front, knowing I'd bent the front wheel. My stomach turned as I knew this was serious and we were in the midst of a huge, desolate area of the world. Due to the road, I could not stop but had to continue slowly down a hill until a bridge crossing where there was a little shoulder I could pull off onto. Christine and Jules had no idea of course and had ridden on, finally realizing I had stopped and returning.

On one side, the rim had been seriously bent out and it was hard to believe the tire had not blown out. I'll admit, I got very angry at yet another piece of bad luck, having been continuously plagued with problems on this trip. I had lost so much time and had missed so many things I wanted to see in trying to get the bike repaired. Disgusted, I threw my gloves on the ground and cursed out loud. I was sick inside at yet another expensive repair and yet another forced route to a major city to solve a problem. I was very blessed that I hadn't crashed and that the tire seemed to be holding enough air to continue, but I felt so gutted inside that I couldn't even look at the blessing and bright side for another day.

Christine and Jules felt so bad for me that Jules gave me a hug.

Iquique was still far ahead and I rode with uncertainty in silence, feeling the wobbling handlebars and wondering at what moment the front tire might blow out. After another couple of hours in utter desert desolation, the coastal city appeared. Having received confirmation from AirBNB earlier, we had not received an address for the house, only for the street. Christine and Jules had ridden slowly behind me and I arrived about 30 minutes before them. I sat in the heat and sent multiple emails to the homeowner but had the feeling this all had gone awry. When Christine and Jules arrived, they walked the street asking residents if they had heard of the woman's name, but everyone said no.

I went back through my emails and finally discovered a phone number, calling it to no answer. I tried again multiple times and finally a male voice answered. He hung up quickly as I begin to speak. I called again and he answered, and after mentioning the homeowners name, a woman's voice came on the line. I tried to explain in bad Spanish about the booking and confirmation, however in Spanish she said there was nothing available and there was no booking, then hung up. Christine's Spanish is much better than mine, so I had her call again and this time the woman stayed on the line. After denying again that there was a booking, the lady disappeared for a bit then came back on the line speaking perfect English. She had not checked her email and said she had no idea that AirBNB had confirmed a booking.

It seemed to me she had no experience, later borne out when she admitted this was her first booking. She said nothing was available where we were, but to drive to a large apartment complex a ways away, which we did. No one was there and as we prepared to leave to look for a hotel, someone began whistling loudly. A man and woman waved at us to come up the street where they were, The man seemed annoyed and distrustful, and I couldn't help but focus on the giant, bite-mark hickeys on his neck as the woman with him spoke to us. The fruition of the long discussion was that they had no place available, and when I said she could return the money and we would try to find a hotel, she suddenly remembered her brother's apartment and said we could all share one room and one bathroom only. We were then sent back to the very same spot we had just left, and were tenuously shown around the apartment as if we were thieves. I was frustrated as hell and ready to go find an expensive hotel, but the attitude of the woman and man lightened.

The next morning I aired up my tire and we packed to leave, waiting for the final inspection by the couple to make sure we hadn't stolen something. The coastal cities of Peru and now Chile, were similar in that they had no appeal, despite being on the coast. They were proving to be dusty, sand-filled, dirty towns of industrial character. One had no desire to explore the streets, only to spend the night to move on.

Christine & Jules had picked a small town between Iquique and Antofagasta, but with my bent wheel concerns I was trying to make it to Santiago as fast as possible and told them I'd continue to Antofagasta instead.

The coastal road south toward Antofagasta was an incredible experience, reminiscent of Highway 1 in California but on a scale so massive it was hard to comprehend. Huge mountains came down into the sea with the highway cut just along the bottom. To the left lay steep mountain walls, at times, and to the right the Pacific ocean exploded against black lava formations and rolled onto yellow beaches. The ride was yet another memorable day of so many.

It was frustratingly hard to capture images that could show the scale or the scenery in the haze. At some point, my two friends peeled off for their town and I pushed on, making my goal late in the afternoon and on a tire with only 12 lbs of air I was to discover, rather than the 40 it was designed for. After the initial impact, the tire had seemed to hold air well, or at least leak very slowly, but now the pressure was beginning to escape at a faster rate.

I was pleasantly surprised at Antofagasta and the hostel I'd found. Antofagasta was a bit cleaner and more upscale than previous towns. The hostel was new and in a quiet neighborhood, with private parking a block away. The rooms were unique in that they were all identical and small, yet very clean and just large enough. There was a large openable skylight in the ceiling for air and a view. The place was very serene and I immediately booked a second night. I took a nap, falling asleep easily, and then got up to ride the motorcycle down to a large shopping mall to try and locate an AC adapter for the Chilean wall outlets. In all the previous countries, the standard US plug was normal, however Chile had none. Somehow I had managed to leave my lone adapter in Dallas, so sourcing one was necessary and not as easy as I thought.

I rode the motorcycle to the mall and got in line for the liftgate for parking, only to discover that tickets are not dispensed and I was stuck between the car in front and a lot of cars with angry shoppers behind. When the arm raised I got as close to the car in front as I could and squeezed under the bar as it came down. I was now in parking and tried to find a place to pay, however the machines in the lot would only timestamp a digital card for you to prepay for your exit. There was no way to simply pay to leave the parking lot.

I wandered the mall to no avail, then spotted a big home store further down the block. I had no luck finding adapters until one lady remembered where they might be and I bought two. Getting back out of the parking lot was going to be a challenge as there was a guard near the exit watching each car. I waited until a couple of cars pulled in and used my tailgate touching exit technique as the guard watched me go past. I was actually amazed she didn't begin yelling at me. What a wild man I am. Next I'll be tearing tags off mattresses.

That night I walked the beachfront and watched people jogging, kissing and hanging out. I slept very well and woke refreshed the next morning.

Though Iquique had a much nicer vibe and cleanliness then most of the other coastal cities, I had no desire to explore and spent the day napping. It was also time for my annual toenail clipping and eyebrow comb-out. I was excited to finally discover what the strange tickle on my cheek had been while riding. Apparently a random 4" eyebrow hair liked to coil in the eyebush and come out like a snake stretching its nonexistent legs to tickle my cheek and then hide again.

Refreshed and groomed for yet another year, I inflated the sagging front tire and loaded the bike for the next push southward. Copiapó was roughly five hours south and about halfway to the city of Valparaiso. There were two choices of highways going south from Antofagasta, Ruta 1 along the beautiful coast and Ruta 5 a bit further inland. I would've preferred the coast, but I had discovered that the Mano del Desierto, the huge hand sculpture in the desert, was about 70 miles south on Ruta 5.

One thing good about Chile is that the weather had been rain free, and other than a few hours of overcast, had generally been clear and sunny, a more than welcome change after months of rain on my journey. I was in the groove and enjoying the slight cold air and crisp sunshine when I spotted the sculpture ahead more quickly than expected. As I exited to take a short dirt road to the hand, there was not a soul in sight. I pulled up to the sculpture and began trying to figure out where to take a selfie, when I turned around to see two giant tour buses exiting the highway and starting up the road...

It’s hard to express how excited I was when the buses pulled up and a hundred people, apparently Bolivians heading to an Herbalife Convention somewhere, poured out like ants swarming around the statue and my bike. I waited patiently as they took photos with the Bolivian flag, Herbalife products and countless selfies. After their initial excitement, they spotted the bike and spent time posing near it as well. Time waddled away as I waited for an opportunity to get a few pics of the motorcycle in this iconic place.

Still, the few moments before all the people had arrived were enjoyable, getting a chance to observe the huge sculpture alone in the wind against the eerie and silent desert backdrop.

The bleak and desolate desert continued as I rolled southward. The Chilean desert is on a scale hard to comprehend.

Every 20 or 30 miles it seemed, the skeleton of a car lay on its side or upside down, as if a metal skull in the desert. In each case they lay off the highway fifty or a hundred yards, every conceivable part stripped from them. I was surprised at the number of wrecks as I rode, and found it somewhat odd that these aluminum and steel bodies had never been picked up. Maybe that was the point, a constant reminder of the people who had died on the highway from running off the road or who knows what. Stranger still was the fact that the landscape was completely flat and made one wonder how the wreck had occurred.

I had found a somewhat reasonably priced hostel in Copiapo, and after difficulty locating it, the owner seemed absolutely stunned at my arrival. When I showed him the booking reservation he decided to look on his phone and was perplexed. It's hard to explain, but at almost every hotel or hostel in Chile, people seem to be absolutely overwhelmed and perturbed that you have actually booked their place and they seem to know nothing about it. It's kind of weird.

Once settled in the crappy room, I texted Christine and Jules, to find they were in Copiapó at a different hostel. As I left the room to park the motorcycle in the secure parking area of the little hotel, the owner offered to lead me with his Ford F150 4x4. After several blocks of one-way street intrigue, we’d finally made it to the back of the hotel and when he had seen the bike we suddenly became friends. He fixed some coffee and we sat at the table having a conversation with our translation apps. There were quite a few laughs as we discussed motorcycles and his previous Triumph Rocket.

The route from Arica to Iquique and Antofagasta

Copiapo to Concepcion

2.07.2018

From Copiapo, the next day saw La Serena, another coastal town about halfway to Valparaiso and the following day, Valparaiso itself.

The hostels and hotels have been much more expensive than in Peru, and as mentioned before, they book up very quickly. There isn’t much infrastructure or towns in northern Chile, so possibly travelers keep them booked up daily.

I managed to find a homestay in Valparaiso for about $20 a night, and it sat high on the hillside overlooking the town below and the port.

Valparaiso is known for its colorful street art and graffiti, so I roamed the town for a day after the sunshine appeared and shot a few pictures. Much of the art is in alleyways and “escaleras”, which are stairways down the steep hillsides to streets below. The art is free, however the price you pay for much of it is the smell of urine, piles of dog poop and broken bottles, as the stairways are a hangout for drunks and homeless types.

Still there is much to see and it adds a lot to some of the areas. The houses in the town are colorful and the architecture is a mix of German and English, belying the heritage of Chile. As one rides through the desert areas, there are signs and even ruins of military outposts from Germany and Britain.

Might this be the last Chevette in the world?

The older neighborhoods are a bit more polished, quaint and upscale, with many hostels advertising their eco-friendliness on the signs. Tourists and backpacking girls roam the streets, with the accompanying top-knotted, dreadlock wearing, beardy-men in eco-friendly sarongs or whatever seems the edgiest. Valparaiso has some grittiness to it, but it's a nice town.

The highlight of my time there was being invited to the family dinner in the home I was rooming in, a rare thing I was told by my hostess. She said they could tell I was “friendly” and wanted to discuss the U.S. and my trip and spend time with them. The fools. When I came down for dinner, there was some great blues music playing and I was right at home. The hostess’ brother and his son were both huge blues fans and we had a lot fun talking about the greats. The Chilean wine was superb and the Italian meal was delicious.

Our conversations were wide-ranging and entertaining, with of course the real topic being Donald Trump. Chile seems so isolated to me, sort of like an Australia, being so far south and tucked between an ocean and the Andes, that I wondered what they thought of the President. It was different than expected, my hosts saying it seemed like the news media was trying to make him out as a buffoon, but they could see he was trying to help the US financially. I was not expecting an answer like that, but again reminded myself that they are not as emotionally involved as the countries closer to North America, like Mexico.

I’d contacted a few motorcycle related places in Santiago about my damaged wheel and was pleasantly surprised to get a couple of responses back the same day. MotoAventura emailed me quickly and said they could have the rim professionally straightened, trued, and put on a new Heidenau tire in 48 hours if I got the bike to the shop by Monday morning. I responded I'd be there when they opened. About that time, Jules and Christine texted me they had arrived in Valparaiso and Jules’ F800 had died in the hostel parking lot, battery dead as lead. They'd spent the day trying to locate someone who could test the battery and charge it, suspecting a failed generator as the cause.

The diagnosis from a local shop was a failed battery, despite the BMW one being only a month old... so they sourced another one that would work and planned to head for Santiago the next day.

I enjoyed my short time in Valparaiso and rode with them the next day, removing Jules’ headlight bulb to stop some of the battery drain in case the generator had actually died.

From Valparaiso, more greenery had begun to appear - a few trees and grass, things I hadn’t seen for a week in the desert. Getting closer to Santiago, the landscape reminded me of west Texas and the Hill Country region - brown grass and rolling hills dotted with green trees. Vineyards began to appear along the highway and there was no doubt a different region had engulfed us.

We split in Santiago, as my hotel lay far to the east in an expensive neighborhood, a ten minute walk from the MotoAventura shop. Since I had no idea of the scale of Santiago, I didn’t want to get a hostel in a different area because I knew cab rides would be very long and very expensive. The other hotels anywhere near the area were over an hours walk away from the shop so I said continued to screw my and decided to stay within walking distance of the shop. It turned out best, as I found out that a cab ride from downtown Santiago took over an hour and I was glad I didn’t have to deal with it.

As if to verify that I had made the right choice in bypassing the floods of Bolivia, Ed sent me photos of his F800GS stuck on the Bolivian salt flats, in hub deep salt water. He had continued to Bolivia with a couple of riders met in Cusco, and they'd ridden onto the salt flats in Uyuni only to get stuck deeply in water and salt mud. Stuck so badly they'd had to walk out and hire a 4wd dump truck to find the bikes and pull them out. The extremely corrosive concentrated salt water had done its damage to the bikes which sat in it for a few days before rescue.

MotoAventura was in a pricey neighborhood, filled with BMW, Mercedes and similar dealerships. I’d bitten the bullet for a costly hotel to minimize the BS while waiting for the bike, but was reminded why I never do. Parking the bike near the front door, the doorman seemed reticent to let me in. Yes, I was in my motorcycle gear but still felt a bit of disdain, and then the security muscle stared at me, walking a couple of steps behind as I went to the front desk. The Muscle Men stood watching while the reception guy ignored me. I was the only one there and I stood for a few minutes just in case he was busy with paperwork. I moved closer and he continued to ignore me. I finally stepped right to him and I could see his arrogance as if I were a leper, simply because I was in motorcycle gear and fresh off the road. He was bothered that I had a reservation and could barely be civil.

Once in, I took full advantage of the nice room, excited to see the 10’ ceilings, as it allowed me to jump up and down on the bed freely without knocking myself out cold. I had to admit it felt good to be in a nice room after some of the places I’ve been and some of the places I’ve actually PAID to stay in.

That evening, I got an email from another repair shop, IMR Motos, that they had a spare R1200GS rim and they could pick up a new Heidenau tire from Motoaventura to mount. I’d agreed to MotoAventura trueing and straightening the rim, and made my hotel choice based on that, since they said they could repair the rim for about 1/4 the cost of the used one.

I was waiting at the shop when it opened and but disappointed to be told they could not repair the rim after all, as their supplier’s machine had broken down over the weekend and wouldn’t be repaired for over a full week.

My only other option was the used rim, and I damn sure didn’t want to sit in yet another expensive hotel and city waiting a week or more. When I added up the hotel room and meals, plus the rim straightening cost, it came up to the same amount as just buying the existing used rim. In addition, I'd lose yet another week getting to Ushuaia.

It turned out the owner of MotoAventura was making a run to Ignacio’s IMR Motors that very afternoon, so I asked him to take my old wheel and money to Ignacio and returning with the used replacement. It worked out perfectly and the wheel was on my bike with a new tire the next morning. Almost. I found many loose spokes on the new wheel and spent a while tightening them before checking out of the hotel and tentatively heading south. I’d forwarded Ignacio’s name to Christine and Jules, who had him work on Jules’ bike the same day. He’d pulled the generator, sent it out to be rebuilt, and got the bike running again in one day.

I was definitely ready to get on the road for Concepcion further south, and I hit the highway with a knot in my stomach. It seems like each time I get moving, some issue lies ahead and I’ll admit to feeling gun shy now, but the sky was blue and the sun was out!

It took almost an hour to get out of Santiago proper, but the weather was great and the terrain was changing. Distant arid mountains stood in the haze, but near the highway green trees, brown grass and vineyards lined the road. It felt good to see green again. The region reminded me even more of the Fredericksburg, Texas area than the days previous.

Toll booth frequency increased, as did the amount of the tolls. It seemed every 30 miles there was a stop for a couple of bucks US, but in soles of course. Somewhere Christine and Jules were on the road, having been delayed by a problem with their phone and GPS app. I expected to catch up to them but after a couple of hours I realized they were probably behind me.

Osorno, Chile

2.09.2018

I arrived late in the day to Concepcion, a bustling town that was in rush hour, finding my hostel and a parking area loaded with trekking bicycles. It wasn’t long before I was talking with six or seven guys from England about their trip. They had flown in with the bicycles to Santiago and were heading south. They'd only been on the road a week when one of the bicycles had broken and had subsequently had to wait another week in Concepcion for the part to arrive by DHL. Distant memories. They sat packed and waiting as the part was to arrive any hour.

One of the guys was going to stay in Concepcion, having to end his trip early because of severe back spasms.

Wandering the streets in the fading light, I grabbed a few images before settling into the hostel that night. Looking at the map, it felt good to see that finally I was about half way down the length of Chile. Having spent so much time on repair issues, each time I’d look at a map and how far north I still was, it would seem I’d never get to Ushuaia.

From Concepcion, the town Osorno was now in striking distance - the jumping off point for either east to Bariloche, Argentina or south for the beginning of the lakes region in the more remote area of southern Chile. Either way, the doorstep to Ushuaia.

I chose to head for the smaller town of Valdivia to stay, north of Osorno with less of a busy city feel. The highway south was filled with SUV’s and family vans stuffed with luggage and people, heading for vacations somewhere ahead. On the opposite side of the highway, a continuous stream of clean and new adventure bikes were heading north, with couples and their gear returning from said vacations.

More and more trees appeared, with logging trucks loaded and trailing clouds of sawdust. The temperatures were getting cooler and the scenery reminded me of Canada, replete with grey skies and threatening rains.

Valdivia arrived and though a bit crowded, was a nice little town with German restaurants and beer. People walked the river banks and lounged in the sporadic sun. After a street side coffee, the rains came and I found my hostel for the night.

That night as I tried to remember some things for the report, I noticed I couldn’t remember the previous towns or the places I’d stayed. I had to refresh myself with the map and photos. I realized the road fatigue was now beginning to creep in. I also felt a bit guilty for having had to ride so much and not spend as much time as I’d like shooting images, but I reminded myself one can’t see or do everything, especially on a trip with a schedule.

Ahead lay the vaunted Austral region of Chile and I was excited, yet unsure of the routes as a massive landslide south of Osorno at Villa Santa Lucia had blocked the road and wouldn’t be cleared for months. I’d read snippets of bypasses and ferry options, but could not find real and current information. I’d planned to bypass Osorno originally and stay further south in Puerto Varas a few miles north of Puerto Montt, but I also needed to change oil and final drive fluid before heading further south. I chose to stay in Osorno instead, and deal with the bike as well as mine more information on the situation south.

That afternoon when I reached Osorno, I rode directly to MotoAventura, the second location of the shop who'd helped me Santiago, meeting a South African from Colorado, Richard I think, on a KTM who had ridden the Amazon and down through Brazil. He'd just returned from Ushuaia. He told me after reaching Ushuaia, he’d taken the ferry from Puerto Natales all the way north to Puerto Montt to give himself and the bike a break, highly recommending it for its route through the uninhabited areas of south Chile’s fjords. It went into my mental bank as a possibility. I still wasn't sure whether I'd head for Buenos Aires after Ushuaia, or ride back north through Argentina, or now consider taking the ferry back to Puerto Montt.

I inquired about buying oil and using their parking lot to change it at the shop, but was told they could do it for me the next day. I decided to let them handle it, as after so many months I find myself getting lazier.

At the hostel, I was very happy to see a wood stove in my room after so many cold nights in lodgings! The warmth brought back memories of my wood stove in a previous life. The cozy room was a nice respite from the cold wind outside that evening.

That night I searched the internet for as much information as I could about the landslide that had destroyed the highway and found that ferries were the only way past the blockage. However, the ferries were swamped due to the landslide and the absolute soonest available from Puerto Montt was 5 or 6 days out. The optional longer ferry south all the way to Puerto Natales was booked completely and only a $2000 cabin was available, far out of my price range. I booked a hostel in Puerto Varas just a little north of Puerto Montt and decided I’d be hang out a few days waiting for the ferry.

Into Argentina

2.11.2018

After the night in the hostel in Osorno, I returned to MotoAventura to look at some gear and buy some oil for the bike, specifically for the final drive.

When I got there, there was a heavily loaded KLR 650 already parked, with the rider inside. I briefly spoke with him, Gary, as he was looking for oil and a place to change it. The local Kawasaki dealer was the place he left for, briefly discussing our routes south for Ushuaia. The shop said they could fit my bike in for an oil change so I went ahead and let them do the oil and final drive fluid.

The owner of MotoAventura has been in business leading tours to Ushuaia for almost 20 years so I asked his opinion on the ferries and options. He said the ferries were overwhelmed and likely to have no room despite what their online schedules said. I'd checked previously and the earliest one showing space was 5 days out, but he said that likely it wouldn't leave on the scheduled date. He said my best option would be to cross into Argentina to Bariloche, then ride south to Esquel and cross back into Chile on the road going to the destroyed town of Santa Lucia from the east. From the Argentinian side they'd been able to create a bypass road at Santa Lucia to connect to Ruta 7 going south, but the road north wouldn't be open for months. The suggested loop would be a 3 day ride versus a week or more waiting on the ferry. The added benefit would be that I would still get to see about 80% of the Chilean Austral terrain as opposed to landing much further south on the ferry.

I decided that Bariloche was the answer I'd been looking for and canceled my hostel reservation in the town of Puerto Montt, my destination for the day and where I'd planned to spend a few days waiting for the ferry. About that time, the mechanic called me into the shop to show me the final drive fluid, which was milky and chocolate brown indicating water had gotten in. It was very disturbing but there were no obvious signs of leaking of the final drive where water could enter. They flushed the drive and added new fluid while I called my friend Hank to ask his opinion. When the repairs had been done in Cuenca, the owner had used a pressure washer to clean the bike and had managed to fill up the sealed TPS unit with water causing a lot of problems. I suspected he had somehow forced water into the sealed drive which seemed impossible, however Hank said the rubber vent on the top of the drive could've been where it had gotten through.

By the time it was all said and done, it was about 1 PM and I figured I had enough time to make the Argentinian border and on to Bariloche. As Osorno disappeared behind me, so did the gray cold and overcast. The skies cleared and showed blue with puffy clouds over the beautiful mountain road for the border. The road ran through a national park or two and was exquisite.

As I rolled up to the Chilean border control, cars were parked everywhere much to my surprise. There was a very long line which I stood in for an hour and a half. I could not figure out why the border was so busy but I had seen hundreds of vehicles stuffed with suitcases on my ride to Osorno and this morning as well. As I sat in my frustration, suddenly I heard a German voice behind me say "Are you on the Boxer? Do you know Hank in "Deely" Texas?" It was such a shock I turned, almost expecting to see the Grim Reaper. Instead I saw the smiling face of a middle-aged German man. "My name is Burkhart" he said, "I met Hank in Mexico where I lived, and then went to Dilley to have him work on my BMW R1150 GS Adventure!"

What a small world it truly is and what are the chances of meeting someone in a line at a border crossing in South America, who spotted my Texas plates, found me in the line and happened to have met my friend from small town Texas. That was truly crazy and I sent a message to Hank as well as a photo. Just too weird!

My turn came to go through the exit process for myself and the bike, but was disappointed to find that the two hours spent there was just to exit Chile. I said goodbye to Burkhart and his wife and rode through more spectacular scenery another 20 km or so until the Argentinian border control came up.

For some very odd reason, the huge crowds of people who had preceded me, were not at the Argentinian side. I was checked into Argentina within 15 minutes, lacking only my insurance which I planned to get in Bariloche. I got a sudden rush and shouted out loud at the realization I was now in Argentina!

The road was beautiful, reminding me of Glacier National Park in Montana. It wasn't too long before views of the lake upon which Bariloche sits appeared, as well as a nice little tourist trap town. It was nearing 5 PM, and I stopped to check messages. Christine and Jules had texted me that a festival was going on, as well as a bank strike and all the ATMs in Bariloche were out of money. I decided to find a bank in the smaller town where I was and when I stopped, Gary and his KLR were there. He told me his hotel name in Bariloche and we exchanged information to get together later. It had been 10 hours since I had eaten so I grabbed a so-called hamburger.

I had absolutely no idea what language the waiter was speaking as it sounded absolutely nothing like Spanish. I don't know if it was Castilian or Portuguese but I recognized not a single word of it. He spoke a very small amount of English and was amazed I was traveling for so long on the bike. He then chastised me that I needed to learn Spanish before going any further south to Ushuaia. Easy for you to say I thought!

As the road continued around the giant lake, I could see Bariloche across the water and got a rush. Not sure why, just a place I never thought I would see and I was about to spend the night there. The amount of traffic and cars were crazy when I arrived and I was glad I had a pre-booked hotel.

Having heard of Bariloche for many years, the prospect of being there triggered excitement as it was yet another new country and the launching point for Patagonia. Years ago when I still had a brain, it had figured prominently in reading about the post WWII era, having its share of intrigue as a haven for some of the elite Nazi escapees at war’s end. The town was very nice, positioned on the gorgeous lake with beautiful homes and buildings, much of it showcasing German heritage in style and restaurants. It was easy to see why it was a popular city for tourism and culture. Luckily no signs of post war Nazi sympathy and I suspect the allegations were a bit farfetched and fodder for conspiracy theorists.

My lodging for the night, Adolf’s Hideaway Hosteria, was incredibly difficult to find and the extremely old man who ran it had zero sense of humor, a surprise since he had a white Charlie Chaplin style mustache which I assumed was an homage to the comedian. The place was austere but clean and built of thick walled concrete, maybe for earthquakes in the area, but I think it could have survived a direct bombing attack. I was hungry and he made a couple of recommendations, saying the owners were old friends of his. He suggested Klaus Barbiecue for the best parilla in town, followed by dessert at Hermann G’s Bakery. He said he could point them out on a map for me, but all he had was giant one of the world laid out on a massive table. He went silent and just stared at Russia for some reason. I slipped out while he stared and found some food at a nearby tienda.

I was lucky to have gotten a room as the town was absolutely full to the gills, it being yet another “Carnaval” three day weekend. I mean seriously, Carnaval messed up our week in Cartagena in November, then again in January in Arica, Peru and once again in February in Bariloche! Each time we were almost unable to find any place to stay. What’s the deal with a year round traveling Carnaval???

The next morning I was delayed in leaving due to the incredibly slow internet, having let a video upload the entire night only to find it 90% uploaded and foolishly thought I could wait a while for the last 10%... I got out of the hostel about 10:30, planning for Esquel to the south. I rode downtown to Gary's hotel to discuss the information on routes south I had, however he had gone out somewhere. It was already 11 and I needed to get moving, but a string of tourists in town kept coming by the moto and looking at it, wanting to take pictures with their families and such. Of course I couldn't resist as I enjoy watching kids and adults sitting on the bike and the enjoyment they get from it.

When there was a break I hopped on then headed for gas, which turned out to be a project since there were block long lines of cars waiting to get in every station. I finally found a short line at a station somewhere in a neighborhood and by the time I got everything sorted it was already noon. I'd checked the map the night before and Ushuaia lay only 1200 miles south if I took the fastest route. It was damn tempting, but I soldiered on with my original plan for Ruta 7 in Chile and the Austral region.

The area around the beautiful town of Bariloche is a bit more arid than the lush green valleys and mountains to the west, however it was no less enjoyable as I caught the famous "Ruta 40" south for Esquel. The route was beautiful, running alongside massive, jagged tipped mountains covered with snow to my right. The road curved and twisted under the sun and blue skies, and as has happened since I hit Argentina, I started laughing out loud at the simple joy of knowing I had finally made it into the land containing my final destination. So many years of reading, hoping, fantasizing, planning, and a huge life change later, the reality just really hit home. Passing the rare Ruta 40 road signs covered with stickers made me giggle inside.

After a while on the road, I spotted a small shop that sold local cheese, salami and other cured meats. Sitting outside by my bike slicing off chunks for lunch, two motorcyclists of the many streaming past on the road pulled off to look at my bike. They were well worn and weathered, running small 250 cc bikes with adventure cases and all sorts of gear strapped on. They looked at my BMW and we attempted to communicate for a while. They were returning from Ushuaia after a two week trip. I was fascinated by their bikes as I have been with so many I've seen on the road. Adventure bikes are a big deal in Argentina, as well as Chile. I saw a great number of 1200 GS's and similar, all sparkly clean with side cases and duffel bags, too clean and new to be true adventure bikes. They seem to be very popular for weekend travels. However, there is another group of bikes that are small and inexpensive, heavily modified with side cases and all sorts of things home built. They tend to be a mix of small displacement cruisers and inexpensive bikes, set up as adventure bikes, with the riders dressed like bikers, but they ride the hell out of them everywhere. I've been impressed with the gusto they have for travel on the bikes. Real adventurers in my mind.

As the conversation wore down, one of the two came to my bike, kneeling down with a cigarette clenched in his teeth, attaching a sticker of an upside down hand with the peace sign to my side case then flashing the sign to me, saying "hermano" and pointing to me. While he had been attaching the sticker, I'd gotten a sudden twinge of feelings, then when he flashed the sign and they rode away a moment of sadness came upon me. As he'd been applying the sticker, the sadness I felt came in the knowledge that these days of special moments would change. Amidst the joy of riding Ruta 40 and the incredulity of the reality of it coming to pass in my life, I also knew that 1150 miles further down that road, a goal of so many years would be achieved, and with it, an ending of that dream.

The ride south was a good one, the cold temperatures of Bariloche slowly dissipated and after a couple or three hours I was opening my jacket for more ventilation. As the day waned, I rolled into Esquel and found the hostel I had booked for the night. It was a nice place, well-designed and one of the nicer hostels I've stayed in.

I headed down to the town for the late afternoon to grab a coffee and enjoy the amazing weather. Esquel was larger than I expected and reminded me of a Colorado ski town in a way, with tourist shops and candy stores and outdoor gear shops with lots of rafting, kayaking and other sports. It had a peaceful sense about it after the frantic Bariloche experience.

That night as I dutifully waited while the internet cycled on and off, a guy my size rode in on a small motorcycle, one of the many Moto Viajeros I've been seeing all along the roads in Argentina. He was as big and bad-ass as any a Harley biker I've ever seen, but friendly and gave me a thumbs up.

The next morning we looked at each other's bikes and communicated as best we could. He disappeared and returned with two well traveled decals of him and his moto club. We waved and headed different directions in the morning sun.

Looping the Landslide

2.12.2018

Despite crossing back into Chile being my destination that day, I still needed to get insurance for Argentina in Esquel before leaving if possible, since I'd be crisscrossing the border a few times. I hit 5 places, all closed for holiday of course, then gassed up and gunned it for the Futaleufu border crossing and praying I wouldn’t get stopped. I’ve heard consequences are severe if you are caught without it and Jules had just met two Chilean riders whose bikes had been seized by Argentinian authorities, adding to my paranoia.

Just south of town I saw a checkpoint ahead with 5 officers lined up on the center line and started getting nervous. I slowed and rolled up tentatively, preparing for the worst, to find 5 attractive female officers who were smiling and pleasantly waved me through. My fear immediately turned to sadness at the thought of missing the opportunity of being gang tackled and handcuffed by five women for no insurance paperwork. Damb.

It wasn't long before the blacktop changed to gravel that lay in piles and ribbons for about 20 kilometers to the border. Traffic was constant and the dust thick.

After a while the Argentinian border buildings came up with a long line of folks outside. The process was the most organized of any crossing yet, with an attendant organizing the line, and each step marked in order. It would have been a 10 minute process had the tourists not been there. An hour later I was back on the bike and a few hundred yards further at the Chilean border, similarly organized and easy, other than the line. It was a minor relief clearing Argentina and a possible insurance check.

Oh crap...

I stopped at the small town of Futaleufu to sit in the warm sunshine and enjoy a cup of coffee. It was a nice little community, a bit funky cool with hipsters and backpackers about, and more traffic than usual from the summer vacationers.

The day was spectacular, with crisp sunshine and blue skies as I skated on stone marbles for the next 70 miles, rarely able to look at the mountains and false blue lakes and rivers surrounding me. Since this had become a main route after the landslide in Santa Lucia, they'd probably deemed it worthy of an upgrade and just as in the US, Ricky Bobby Johnny the road guy, thinks there's no problem that can’t be cured by dumping 4 inches of gravel on it. There were sections that were great, but far more with rutted gravel piles keeping it interesting. Oncoming pickups and SUV's had as little sense or care as anywhere, driving far too fast and in your limited lane space, running you deep into gravel and smothering you in dust. At some point a dozer was schmearing an 8 inch deep layer of soft dirt on 4/5ths of the width of the road leaving a huge berm that couldn't be surmounted and an oncoming fire truck with lights blazing in the middle of nowhere was blasting towards me. I barely got over the berm then got stuck on the narrow strip. All in all, a typical riding day.

The Chilean Austral landscape was inspirational, a combination of the Alps, Alaska, Germany with some West Virginia thrown in for good measure. Rich soil and green fields, rivers of aqua blue and lakes the same color, with snow capped mountains around. What an awesome road it was and one I wish had been easier to ride for the viewing. As is often happens, there are no places to get stopped and off the bike for photos, watching beautiful images slide away behind you. The gravel and cars were a real problem that day.

The town of Villa Santa Lucia showed on the GPS and then around a curve, in real life. The landslide bypass road was right at the edge of the town, but one could see where the swath of mud landslide had left desolation and the damage in the town. It must have been a true nightmare to endure. Police and military oversaw the roads and construction. I was directed which way to go and was surprised to find asphalt when Ruta 7 came under the wheels.

I wasn't sure how much of the roads south were paved, but it felt damn good to roll up the engine revs and let the big 1200 roar on the silky smooth tarmac. The landscape was beautiful, one of the more impressive I’ve encountered and similar in my mind to what I fantasize New Zealand might look.

It wasn’t too long before the blacktop road fell back to gravel for long sections, some easy and some overzealously deep in loose gravel. It appears it won’t be too long before the entire route south is finally blacktop.

La Junta wasn’t too far away and as the shadows lengthened I rolled into town, finding the only gas station and grabbing a juice for a butt break and a chance to look for lodging. A hotel showed to be about 50 yards down the road and I swung in to find a quiet oasis. It was a nice and cozy lodge, with the owners friendly, the rooms first rate and a small bar and restaurant as well. I grabbed the last room and decided to call it an early night and enjoy the fast internet. I can’t tell you how many times I’d tried to get a good hotel, only to find out the internet didn’t work worth a crap in the last few weeks. I’d gotten so far behind on the ride report and blog it was overwhelming and the time wasted trying to find the next and next hotel with internet was frustrating.

But not tonight, a king size bed and a nice warm laptop was the plan. Fifteen minutes in, as I began my first photo upload, the internet stopped. Crap I thought and waited for it to cycle back on. Forty five minutes later and I was not happy, heading into the lobby to have the wonderful owner tell me a truck carrying a high load had snagged the phone cable over the road and ripped out a huge section of the line, killing internet for the entire town. Of course.

Riding the Chilean Austral

2.13.2018

The next morning I left La Junta early for Coyhaique, the larger town further south. As I gassed up, I watched a few adventure bikes stop on the roadside for a conference. There had been a lot of bikes - well, relative to the few I’ve seen overall on the trip - and it seems that Brazilian, Argentinian and Chilean riders really love the roads of the region. My favorites are the MotoViajeros however, the Harley-inspired looking bikers on small adventure bikes. A great group who love riding.

One particular rider I remember was coming towards me at about 60 mph, sandwiched between two cars. He was wearing a brown leather jacket with a sheepskin collar and an old open face helmet, but I could see his huge smile and kicked back enjoyment from far away as he gave me the thumbs up. As we passed, I saw he was attached to the car in front with a 30 foot tow rope, just enjoying the ride and smiling at me. I burst out laughing at the situation but mainly at the sheer joy he was having.

At one point, the road came to a stop with about 15 cars ahead. We all sat waiting for cars coming the other direction, but after quite a while, the attendant directed a few cars off the road down a slope.

After another wait, we few rolled forward and waited again. The man signaled for us to go, but then pulled me over and let all the cars pass me. I sat alone, then a couple more motos pulled up behind. Down the slope I could see a temporary landing and a small ferry coming our direction. The two guys talked to the attendant, then got off their bikes and one tapped me on the shoulder, saying in broken English to follow them.

For some unknown reason I suddenly felt the need to pee badly, but I followed and stood looking at the narrow band of road cut into the mountainside and the approaching ferry. The rider who’d told me to follow, said he was a retired attorney from Buenos Aires and loved adventure travel. He said the road crews were about to blast a chunk off the mountain and he wanted me to get to see it. As we waited for a gas tanker to come from the other direction, he kept telling me there was another “grave road” ahead and then more further south. It took a while before my crazy imagination realized he meant “gravel” and I chuckled inside at the fact the gravel roads were indeed "grave".

A few moments before the detonation was scheduled, several cars were directed to the ferry and as we stood watching, they motioned for us to load the bikes onto the remaining ramp space. We scrambled back up the bank and got the bikes onto the ferry. Just as I swung off the bike, I heard a loud boom and saw a rock fall and cloud of dust on the bank ahead. My two friends didn’t get to see it and were audibly disappointed.

We made our way slowly across the water and through the thin veil of dust at the temporary landing site. The rock fall was down on the road and would take quite a while to clear. It was obvious the road bed was being widened for the upcoming blacktop improvements.

From the short ferry ride, I sped on southward through additional gravel sections that seemed designed to bring bikers down, but the scenery never stopped its pleasant smile. The rocky road was long and wound through forests and canyons, eventually switchbacking up high over the pass. The road was dusty and dousings went on the whole way from the oncoming traffic.

After paying gravel dues a few more times intermittently, the road finally remained tarmac and was relaxing.

One thing I found interesting was that there were many sections of road repairs done with interlocking pavers and even some long stretches

I got to Coyhaique reasonably late in the afternoon, stopping at the main square, well, the main pentagon, and looked for lodging with my phone, finally locating a place and headed to find it. Of course the GPS doesn’t show one-way streets and after a few blocks of searching for a route I ended up back at the pentagon, making a fast left and catching a glimpse of a couple of parked motorcycles in my peripheral vision. I heard a voice shouting and saw my friend CanuckCharlie standing in his riding gear having just gotten of the bike. I yelled back and made a U-turn in the street pulling up to give him a high five. Though I knew he was in the same region, our contact was sporadic and it was a real surprise to see him again. He had been riding with a girl on a Yamaha 225 who was heading for the little town of O’Higgins farther to the south.

Charlie was unsure what his plans were since he was with the other moto traveler, so I headed on to my hospedaje and later he texted me. He’d been camping and was ready for a break so we split the cost of my room and caught up on past events. He, as well as I, were both a bit punch drunk from the 6 months of travel and mentally weary, but it was fun to catch up and I still needed to find insurance for going back into Argentina the next day.

The search started early and I had little luck until finally one insurance agency told me to locate a cafe downtown and talk to the man behind the cash register. Indeed, he was selling 30 day insurance out of the cafe for the Patagonia region, which covered both Argentina and Chile. Attempts at online insurance purchases for me had not worked, due to some spots on the online forms that didn’t correlate to USA numbers and the process would never complete.

By the time I was back, the drizzle had begun and neither of us were feeling it, so another night was booked and the day was spent with travel details.

South to Patagonia

2.17.2018

The next morning we’d planned to ride together and take the road that looped Lago Gral Carrera, hitting Puerto Rio Tranquilo and Puerto Guadal, then to Chile Chico for the crossing back into Argentina again.

The road was great, running through the national park of Cerro Castillo, just a superb ride.

At one of the photo stops, I noticed an oil stain on the side of my rear tire and then saw where oil had begun to leak from the right side of my final drive. A sick feeling hit me, as I’ve begun to expect something to happen to the bike every time I swing a leg over it. Unreasonable, yet unstoppable, as I’ve had more than enough issues and the final drive on BMW’s have a history of failures, especially on bikes past 60,000 miles. Luckily it was from the right side seal and not the left, so it meant the drive bearing might not be failing...

My excitement over the last few days from nearing the region of my final destination, Ushuaia, was short lived and I resigned myself to another bike failure. I told Charlie I had to turn for Puerto Ibañez and the shorter ferry to Chile Chico since I couldn't chance a final drive failure somewhere on the long, remote gravel roads south of the lake.

My mind was tormented on the oil leak and "what if's" the rest of the way to Puerto Ibañez, where the winds had become extreme. Making turns in the town weren’t easy with the howling gusts. Passing the police checkpoint showed the flags shredded and almost stiff from the wind, an indicator of the climate. Gingerly parking at the ferry ramp building, seeing the ferry was a nice sight and it sat stable in the heavy wind. Inside the shelter of the office, we were told we could get on a standby list for the 8 pm ferry as it was full that day. We signed up, then had to wait 7 hours in the tiny community.

Finding lunch killed a little time at the local cafe with the rest of it was spent watching the waves and listening to the howling wind and creaking roof of the ferry waiting area until around 7 when tvehicles began arriving. Charlie was nervous we wouldn’t make the boat but I felt confident that they could squeeze a couple of bikes into such a large vessel. We stood outside the office and the security guard waved us up to get a numbered ticket, a good sign. In a few, we were inside the ferry terminal and the smiling agent accepted our credit cards and rewarded us with tickets for the ferry. It was hugely expensive for the two hour ride, almost $10 US!

After loading onto the ship, we headed up to the top deck to enjoy the ride across as the light faded, the blasting winds making it chilly as the sun set. I met a German photographer using a self made dual stereo camera system to view his travels on a 3D television. We had a good chat about his backpacking around the region, and despite my efforts to joke, he responded with just a stare. Ah, the German sense of humor.

The trip was spent on the top deck, enjoying the serene scenes and less so the cold winds. The sun came and went as did different clouds and spats of rain. Very relaxing and enjoyable to not have to think and focus on riding precipitous gravel roads on the BMW.

The ferry touched ground about 10:30 that evening and we pulled off, agreeing that was the best $10 ferry ride in existence and began looking for a hostel that Kevin Chow had texted Charlie about. We found it and got into a shared room, meeting Kevin afterward. He was on his way back north from Ushuaia and it was good to meet him in person and exchange information. Always good to meet other moto travelers and share the love.

The next morning Kevin left a bit before us, having shot some photos and exchanged stickers.

After packing for the road and crossing the Argentinian border, I looked at the leakage which had left a couple of splatters on my tire and rim though it was only a short ride from the ferry the night before. Today I would find out if the leak was an indicator of final drive failure, since we had to cross the border, then get to Gobernador Gregores roughly 300 miles south.

Make it or break it, I was sick of worrying about issues on the road. My goal so close and yet so far. We gassed up and I found a quart of GL-5 rated 80-90W to carry with me in hopes of refilling the final drive as it leaked out. I carried tools to service the final drive several times if necessary, and figured if the leak was bad at least I could stop, pull the wheel, drain and refill on the roadside if need be.

My friend Hank had messaged me and said the final drive bearing was probably okay since the leak was on the outside of the wheel rather than the inside. He said the oil may have been overfilled and burped through the right side seal, despite a separate burp valve on the drive. I felt a little better and could do little but watch it closely. We headed for the Chilean exit station, then only a few minutes for the process, before a discussion with the border guard for a while.

Into Argentina at last, it was a few kilometers before the entry station appeared, very professional and easy, though I always get nervous. At the inspection point before leaving, I proudly awaited the moment to show proof of the hard-to-find Argentinian insurance, ready to whip it out with the sound of a Ninja swoosh, but alas they didn't even ask…

Leaving Perito Moreno and turning south, the vistas of the incredible wide landscape were taken in. It reminded me much of Wyoming, vast rolling plains, hills and plateaus with distant mountain peaks. Buffeted by winds and following big sweeper curves, I tried to stay around 60 mph, hoping to keep internal pressures in the final drive a bit lower, at least I imagined.

The immense landscapes were occasionally dotted with the flightless rheas, a surprise frankly, with occasional herds of guanaco, sometimes on the roadside and sometimes distant. They are skittish like deer, even a drop in engine rpm triggering a herd run, as they gracefully cleared the fences on the roadside.

The only gas available south of Perito Moreno is in Bajo Caracoles, and if they’re empty, there is none until reaching Gobernador Gregores. My big GSA tanker had no problems with the distance we needed to make, but Charlie’s smaller standard tank required a top off in Bajo.

The pumps were old and coated in stickers from countless travelers. The place is a gold mine for the unfriendly owner, who takes his time coming to pump gas for the line of overlander vehicles and rental RV’s. But again, if this is his life 24/7 I can’t blame him. There were significantly more oil drips and splatters on my rear wheel and tire, but I had no way to gauge how much of the limited amount of oil in the drive had seeped out, being a sealed unit that has to be drained to see.

As protocol required, I searched the hundreds of travel stickers on the pumps and poles to find a spot for my “Moto Foto Adventures” decal to leave my mark, eventually locating a spot amongst what seemed like a thousand. Incredibly, some months later Michnus and Elsebie whom I’d met in Cuenca, sent me a photo of my sticker on the pump. How the hell they found it I’ll never know!

Headed on for Gobernador, I couldn’t stop thinking about the leak, at one point beginning to feel more vibration than normal followed by whiffs of a metallic burning smell. My heart sank, as that would indicate metal failure and a burning drive. I pulled over off the road but couldn't see any obvious failure. Charlie pulled in behind me and ran up, saying he had smelled a metal-on-metal burning smell. I put my hand on the final drive and it was warm but not burning hot, nor could I smell anything out of the ordinary.

I ran back to his bike to compare how the final drive felt and was relieved to feel the same temperature as mine. Neither of us could explain the smell and frankly the paranoid head game was getting old.

For the last 30 miles I went as fast as reasonable to make Gobernador Gregores. Reaching the town I immediately filled with gas, a habit I have gotten into in order to assure I have a full tank in the morning just in case... A great hostel was found and it felt like home. I was too tired to deal with doing anything to the bike and waited for morning.

With the design of the final drive there is no way to check fill level other than to remove the rear wheel and drain the entire unit, then refill with the specified amount. BMW has specified 2 different quantities, originally 230cc’s but then reduced to 180cc. This change came after reports of blowing seals from overpressure with 230. Hank says 160cc and advised me to do the same.

Having had the final drive fluid changed just before leaving Osorno at a BMW shop specifically with a rental fleet of the same model as mine, I’d assume they would use the proper spec of oil volume, but after my blown main seal in Cuenca, most likely from being overfilled at the BMW dealer in Colombia a week prior to the incident, I wondered. If they had indeed overfilled the final drive, the symptoms I was having would suggest it.

The only way to know how much was leaking was to measure how much drained out. I calibrated a plastic soda bottle with my 60cc syringe, marking 60cc, 120cc and 180cc's with a sharpie to get an idea of how much had leaked in the previous day’s 285 mile stretch. I put the bike on the center stand and checked for wheel play or grunchy sounds or roughness, but felt and heard nothing, a very good sign.

Upon draining the drive, I was surprised to see about 190-200cc’s of oil, despite all the leaks and drips for a few days. Actually, it was far more than a relief. It appeared it had been overfilled, probably to 230cc's, having lost oil down to 190cc. If so, the burp valve designed specifically for this overpressure issue hadn’t worked and it had blown out through the right side seal instead. Either way, it hadn’t damaged the bearing and I could easily make 300 miles a day if the leak continued at this rate.

I completely drained and refilled with 180cc, with new crush washers, then removed the right side seal cap, looking for any damage. I then cleaned the hell out of it and wiped residual oil off the drive, rim and tire. Any new leaks would be easy to spot.

The relief was huge. The last thing I needed was a final drive failure in the desolate stretches of Patagonia and my nerves were already raw. Who knows why it happened, maybe just the age of the seal and preparing to fail, maybe just a piece of grit that managed to work it's way into the seal rim, or as mentioned possibly overfilled at the shop. I have no idea.

A couple more hours were spent on the bike dealing with details, putting Locktite on a few pesky bolts, swapping out yet another burnt out parking lamp, as well as a burnt out H7 high beam bulb after staring at the dash warning for weeks. My Clearwater LED flood lights had not worked since Peru and I suspected the dimming switch design. I swapped in my second spare air filter after the sand storms of Peru and took care of a few more details forgotten on tired evenings, again going over the bike to look for loose bolts.

Later that evening I heard a bike arrive and soon met the rider, Tom from Canada. He was on a new Honda Africa Twin coming from Canada south, connecting with a MotoAventura tour group in Osorno. He had signed on with the group as he didn’t want to ride the last section to Ushuaia solo in the heavy winds and gravel. He had split off coming north was now heading back to ship home from Santiago, Chile.

That night at a fantastic parilla, I asked him his opinion on the Honda Africa Twin and he was generally happy with it, saying it was easier in the gravel than his previous Suzuki V-Strom but not as adept on the tarmac. He’d only had one real issue, when on muddy gravel roads a rock had wedged between the front tire and low fender, momentarily locking up the front wheel before shattering the fender and breaking the wheel loose again just before causing a crash at high speed. His initial thought was he could just toss the broken fender until he realized it held the brake lines and there was no option. The chase truck helped him duct tape and wire the fender back together so he could continue until Punta Arenas where a local mechanic fiberglassed it solid enough to ride home. He said he did not have the aftermarket fender riser but would certainly be getting one. The only other issue was running any oil weight different than 10w-30 that made the bike hard to shift and oil consumption went up significantly. Apparently finding 10W-30 hadn’t been easy in South America.

A Patagonian Icon

2.18.2018

The next morning Tom went north on his black Honda Africa Twin, while Charlie and I headed south for El Chaltén and the fabled Mount Fitz Roy.

There was a 70 or 80 kilometer section of deep gravel ahead, warned about by several travelers, that featured foot-deep gravel sections. I was hoping the infamous Patagonian winds would be kind that day, but it was not to be the case. They started as we left town and rose steadily until we reached the gravel section where they came sporadically in bolts, blasts and shoves. The daily winds in Patagonia are well known, especially amongst two wheel travelers, as they gust continuously at up to 90 kilometers per hour, roughly 60 mph, and are known to surpass that speed substantially. They almost never cease, and traveling in them can be a real challenge to a motorcyclist or bicyclist.

The views across the landscape were superb, with aqua blue lakes and windy plains. Short sections of the road were easy and some were not. Charlie was riding too slowly for my bike to be stable, so I had to pass him and run a faster pace to manage the wandering front wheel. He slowly disappeared in my mirror as I strained my eyes ahead, looking for the thin lines of shallower gravel amidst the 8-12” deep rocks and tried to stay vertical in the wind gusts. My long legs saved me a couple or more times when the front end would sink into deep gravel and start to throw the bike down.

There were stretches piled a foot high on either side of tire ruts, as well as solid sections with 5 or 6” deep loose rocks. The ruts were challenging since the wind leaned the bike over and it would try to climb the rut on the lean side, of course slipping badly. In a couple of places I had to dog paddle in first gear. Those areas were a lot of work and I figured Charlie would have some trouble in the deeper stuff since they were slow going and he didn't have the long leg advantage I did.

The gravel meant that you couldn’t relax or stop for photos, unable to even reach up to turn on the helmet video cam. If you’ve never ridden, gravel is the bane of a rider’s existence, causing the vast majority of crashes everywhere. Just a 1/4” will bring a bike down easily and most rider’s have experienced it. Large and heavy bikes in deeper sand or gravel can’t rise up over the top and the front end pushes through it, constantly slipping and sliding which in turn can throw you off balance easily and down you’ll go. These roads with 12” of gravel are almost impossible to ride and you have to find a rut with less depth to have a chance. It’s akin to trying to stand on a dolphin’s back in the ocean, being tossed and tilted continuously. Concentration, balance and strength are required for hours in it and exhaustion comes easily.

After a very long time, finally I spotted blacktop farther ahead and joyously sped up in hopes of getting free of the gravel, only to find that the last several hundred yards before the blacktop section had been covered in 6” of fresh, loose gravel in which I nearly crashed.

Finally out and on blessed blacktop, I stopped to wait for Charlie and enjoy the wind and sun. A lone car came slowly past, one of several I’d passed, a blown and shredded front tire flopping along at 5 miles an hour. I waved him over to help, but he had no spare tire to change. He was driving for Tres Lagos to seek both a tire and now a new rim. I offered him a snack and water but he said he was good and slowly rolled on with a smile and wave.

It was about 45 minutes before Charlie rolled up, exhausted from having dropped his bike a couple of times and now glad to be through it. Tres Lagos was the closest town and had food to offer.

I passed the car with the rolling flat a few miles down the road with a honk and thumbs up, seeing him waving in my rear view. Tres Lagos wasn’t too far away and when we arrived, as per Argentina, the few restaurants were closed in the middle of the day. Charlie was exhausted and needed to take a nap.

I was starving and found a small shop to buy a cold sandwich and drink. I sat on the sidewalk and ate for about 45 minutes, then got ready to find Charlie. He rolled up just as I got on the bike and just as the little cafe adjacent opened up. Charlie went for food, but I went on for the town of El Chaltén and Mount Fitz Roy.

At one point, my motorcycle suddenly slowed and I thought the engine was dying, only to finally realize it was a headlong gust of severe wind that had knocked a good 10-15 mph off the bike as if someone had applied the brakes. That says something about the winds in the region.

Throughout the day, herds of guanacos would be seen close and far away. And a bit of a surprise, herds (flocks?) of rheas as well. Their similarity to Emu was amazing.

The very long stretches of open road would be broken by a lonely estancia, easily marked and visible by the tall trees planted around the homes and buildings, sticking out like a sore thumb on the giant rolling plains.

The constant wind plays with your mind, riding and having to lean sideways into it for hours, then it hesitates for a moment and the bike veers off and requiring instant correction. After leaning for so long, it's a very strange feeling when there is a pause in the winds, almost as if riding vertical felt out of control. I learned to spot the heavy winds far ahead by watching the clouds. The puffy clouds meant reasonable wind but the big long stretches, lenticular style meant high altitude winds.

Along the roads and at stops there were quite a few backpackers hitching rides. It would seem that both in Chile and Argentina, backpacking and hitchhiking is a right of passage. Occasionally one would see an American or European, but the vast majority were not. At the rare road intersection, several would be lined up to hitch and and often gave a big thumbs up to the roaring motorcycle. I wonder how many have decided that a motorcycle may be a great way to travel the next time.

El Chaltén was approaching, the town near the base of the Patagonian icon of Mount Fitz Roy. As I made the turn on the 60 mile road leading to the village, I got a strong rush from deep inside. It continued to build and though I’m not sure why, it became a turning point for me. Aside from the beauty of the road and the flooded senses, the vision of the smoky outline of the epic peaks ahead brought a strong wave of emotion. My throat tightened and I got a bit choked up.

Maybe after so many disappointments, including the emotional spike from the recent rear hub leak, it was just a relief that went very deep. I didn’t realize that the famous mountain peak, Mount Fitz Roy, so much a symbol of Patagonia to me, would be the trigger moment for my emotions, but it was. I expected an emotional reaction at my final goal of Ushuaia a thousand miles further south, but instead it was here. For the first time I really felt as if I’d made it.

I cannot explain what followed, but I was hit by a strong sense of the presence of my grandfather, many years ago passed away. It was so strong tears came to my eyes. It had literally come out of the blue, as I'd not thought of him in a long time. I don't know the theology or belief, but I honestly felt as if my grandfather was next to me and with me. I can't explain it, nor can I deny its reality. Never before or sense have I felt anything like it. The sensation and moment will never be forgotten. Maybe it was some deep inner emotion that had lain hidden in my heart, or maybe he had indeed put his hand on my shoulder from heaven, but out loud in my helmet I said “This is for you…” and went silent.

From where it came and why it came, I have no idea, but then again this trip has been about life and the soul, not a sightseeing tour. There was such a sense of relief I think, from the final drive not failing after all the previous pressures and stress. At times it seemed everything was against my making it to Ushuaia but now it didn’t matter anymore. For some reason, Mt. Fitz Roy had been my unknown finish line.

The hour-long ride to El Chaltén, the indigenous name for the jagged peak we call Mount Fitz Roy, is unforgettable, with the mountains ahead, beautiful blue lake waters to your left and punches of wind from your right. The long thin ribbon that slowly draws you west seems like a road to a misty, hidden mountain of import in a fantasy movie. I enjoyed my time alone and the feelings that went with it.

I arrived an hour or so before Charlie, grabbing a coffee and watching the little town full of foreign backpackers. It reminded me of Silverton, Colorado without the tacky tourist sense. It was a mountain village dedicated to real trekkers, and despite the requisite bakeries and coffee houses, had no cheesy feel.

Of Mountains, Glaciers and Seas

2.24.2018

The next day I awoke early and caught a glimpse of Mount Fitz Roy with the golden light of the sunrise on it. By the time I got outside its grey cloud hat had hidden the face again.

Canuck and I had decided to visit Chalten’s nearby glacier by boat like real tourists, taking the bus out to the launch. It was a very windy morning as the boat sliced across the water.

You know you're in Patagonia when the stern flag is pointing to the front of a moving boat.

As the boat neared the glacial region, the winds picked up considerably, as did the cold temps. A few of us up top were bundled up like crazy. Trying to hold the camera steady was a challenge.

Although I had seen glaciers in Alaska, it was still fascinating seeing the 70m high slab of ice in contrast to the stone surroundings. The small icebergs had such a deep and beautiful blue.

Later that afternoon we headed for a hike and looked over an old Kawasaki Tengai motorcycle parked near a tent. It's been fun seeing some older adventure bikes on this trip, including Cagiva Elefants, Tenere 660’s, and old Africa Twins.

The next morning as I was packing the motorcycle, I heard another coming up the street and turned to see a great looking Moto Guzzi scrambler with a smiling rider. Turns out it was Johnston Julao whom I’d met in Cusco! He said he was looking for an ATM and had spotted my white hair down the street and knew it had to be me! It was a nice surprise to see him and we walked into the hotel to introduce him to Charlie. They had apparently communicated before or somehow knew of each other but hadn't met before.

After talking a while, it was time to hit the road for the town of El Calafaté and the world famous Perito Moreno glacier nearby. We stopped on the way out of town so that I could get some pictures of myself and Charlie with Mount Fitz Roy behind. It was a spectacular day with a rare view of the peak in brilliant sunshine.

After getting a few shots, we were preparing to leave when a motorcycle heading into town began to slow down and pulled over. It was a Suzuki DR350 with a very tall thin rider on it. He got off and came over, having recognized my motorcycle from reading my ride report. His name was Noam and he had come from Israel and was heading for Alaska. I immediately recognized his bike as one of the two DR 350’s that my friends Ken and Chip had been riding! I laughed because I had seen Ken's picture of his bike for sale and couldn't believe I bumped into the guy who'd bought it. He confirmed it was Ken's bike and I told him to give me his camera and do a couple of runs to get the mountain in the background.

We exchanged information for contacts when he gets to the US and were preparing to leave when another motorcycle pulled up about 50 yards behind us. I figured they were wanting photos and waved them forward. It turned out to be a young French couple who bought an F800GS in Santiago and were heading for Ushuaia before turning back north. They had no schedule or time limit, and I shot two or three motorcycle runs with her cell phone camera so they would have an iconic image.

El Calafate lay a few hours south and the paved road swept its way through the huge plains and high winds, with views of turquoise colored lakes and a few rivers that were swollen to the top from recent rain or flooding in the mountains. As usual, there were herds of guanacos and a few rheas to break the monotonous landscape.

The town of El Calafate was more upscale, with outdoor shops and restaurants, but not too obnoxious as a tourist wonderland. The next morning I was excited to get the chance to see the Perito Moreno glacier and as we got a few miles out of town towards it, the skies turned gray and it began raining. It looked dark as far ahead as one could see in the mountains.

The road followed the edge of a large lake until reaching the park entrance where entry was about $25 equivalent and cash only. The attendant said the weather conditions were perfect at the glacier and not to worry.

The asphalt continued to weave its way along the lake's edge until in the mist and rain the huge glacier could be spotted.

After a stop or two for pictures, I was passed by a guy on a green Kawasaki KLR 650 in more of a hurry than I was, and upon arriving at the parking area he was standing by his bike. His name was Dan and he was from Colorado, on his way to Ushuaia of course. In our discussions the gravel section had come up, showing me his missing windscreen and broken fairing, as well as a limp from a twisted ankle. The last 500 yard stretch before pavement I had previously written of had caught him in his excitement as it did me, but his the KLR had high-sided and body-slammed him down into the gravel in a crash that took out his windshield and tweaked his ankle.

We took the bus up to the glacier viewing point and walked the many platforms. The glacier is absolutely beautiful and amazing to see from such a close perspective. It was fascinating to stand and take in, but the occasional pop and crack took it over the top in anticipation of seeing a huge chunk fall. When least expected, a large section collapsed to our left which we both got on camera. Then you're hooked trying to anticipate where the next piece will fall based on the pops and cracks. It was fascinating and I could've spent the entire day there in anticipation. It is a site not to be missed. We were lucky as the rain had stopped and shafts of sunlight were coming through the overhead clouds.

That evening in town, we three met for parilla at a nice restaurant.

Since we were heading the same direction the next day, we met at Dan's hotel for continuing out of town and the next destination. Ruta 40 was nice and smooth in the morning light and waffling winds. The pavement was short-lived as Ruta 40 turned south as a gravel road for the Chilean border and the crossing to Torres del Paine.

The road was classic gravel with good smooth sections and deep butt clinchers. At the entrance cattle guard, someone had made a dummy over a piece of water pipe that looked like the grim reaper.

"Abandon hope all ye who enter"

It was a kick and as we took off down the road, we all spread out as our paces were different. Charlie disappeared over the horizon behind and I could see Dan’s headlight in my rearview mirror, as we raced through smooth sections and quickly shifted down in the nasty parts.

The wind continued to keep things interesting but dropping down into a valley with a break from it, I spotted two horses gingerly approaching a large skeleton that I assume were the bones of another horse. I watched as they tentatively approached, necks stretched and sniffing. I stopped for a photo and Dan caught up where we waited for Charlie for a while. I finally told Dan to go on ahead and waited a bit longer before taking off.

After quite a while I could see two or three small buildings ahead and the gravel ended at a blacktop road with a small gas station. Dan had been there a few minutes and was talking to two other riders from Brazil. They were leaving and handed me their remaining half liter of Coca-Cola. It felt good burning the dust out of my throat and I ate some bread and cheese I’d had in the top case while waiting for Charlie.

Eventually I could see his flickering headlight come over a rise as the bike bounced on stutter bumps. We hung out a while at the station and my plan coincided with Dan’s to cross at the Torres del Paine crossing, however Charlie was considering going further south to the crossing near Puerto Natales.

He decided to cross with us and it was probably 10 miles or less of gravel to reach the quiet little outpost where we exited Argentina and then a few kilometers later entered Chile. The crossings are so nice and professional I actually enjoyed them.

On the Chilean side, the road is absolutely perfect concrete from the border and if I didn’t know better, I’d think it seems like a snub to Argentina and its substandard rutted gravel road.

We were all undecided whether to stay in Torres or continue to Puerto Natales, but Charlie needed gas and headed into the little town to look, while Dan and I made a run towards the park. It was getting late in the day and the asphalt road had many large sections missing with the requisite deep gravel. It had turned into a long day and the sun was dropping as we turned off onto another gravel road to try and get a high elevation view of the lake and mountains. The main park entrance still lay 60 km away and I'd heard reports that the park was closed due to flooding, but had no idea if it was still so. Another rider told us the campground was full, so we made the decision to head on for Puerto Natales.

After skittering in gravel back to Torres, the road south was nice smooth asphalt and gusting winds.

When I rolled into the port city about 45 minutes later, I was surprised to find it a nice, almost quaint place. I was expecting an ugly port city but it was not. Dan had booked a place and headed for it, while I found a coffee shop and began looking for lodgings. Charlie texted me and came over to search for a hotel also.

That night, the three of us met at a great hamburger place. Puerto Natales was a nice surprise, with several hip restaurants and bars and a place one could enjoy for a couple or three days easily. In fact we did just that. The hostel had decent internet for a few hours a day so I used it to get a couple more updates done.

Celebrating the famous Patagonian winds

It was time to head for Punta Arenas for me, with Charlie staying behind for another day or two, considering returning to Torres del Paine. I was smelling blood in the water for Ushuaia and my plan was to cross on the ferry to Porvenir and take the gravel coast road east to Rio Grande.

Punta Arenas, being a trade free zone, also contained a dealer or two known for purchasing motorcycles from adventure travelers. Some guys will ride their bikes down to Ushuaia, then sell them in the free zone to other riders or dealers. Riders from other countries are free to purchase a motorcycle that way and it is free to travel with, whereas Argentinian riders can also purchase a bike in the free zone, but cannot leave the Patagonia region. A rider I’d met previously on a 1200 GS had gotten an almost market value offer on his bike, but he decided he wanted to keep it. As an option, I decided to get a quote on my bike which is currently sporting just over 74,000 miles. If the offer was a good one, it might be a consideration to sell and fly home after Ushuaia, keeping the accessories with enough saved on shipping to purchase another low mileage moto in the US.

The ferry from Puerto Natales to Puerto Montt... one of my options​

My mind has been focused on the next phase for the last month and I'm still not sure exactly what the next move will be. Heading north on the bike again? Tired of the worry and ready to get a new bike in the US for a new adventure? Take the ferry north to Puerto Montt, continue on to Bolivia and then across to Buenos Aires? Ride to Buenos Aires and then to Bolivia to ship from Lima or Santiago? No matter the case, if someone was willing to pay me a good amount for the bike with 75,000 miles on it, it's something I would consider.

The temperatures had dropped a good 10 or 15° south of Torres del Paine and it was a bit nippy as I sped south that morning for Punta Arenas.

Nearing Punta Arenas, the road swings out along the Strait of Magellan and it blew my mind when I saw it. Having filed away the story of the discovery of the route through Cape Horn long ago in elementary and junior high school, I actually could not believe that I was seeing it with my own eyes. It was something I never expected in my life and now it was to my left as I sped along.

It was around noon when I got into the port city, which meant that everything was closed until after three. There was a motorcycle shop called La Guarida run by "Salva", whom I'd heard of as having a good shop. I sent him a message through ADVrider to find out more information about selling a bike in a trade free zone but had not received a response. Google said his shop was open after three, but it turned out it was closed for the entire weekend. I slapped one of my stickers above his door anyway, as I had been doing at almost every stop in Patagonia.

I headed to the second car/motorcycle dealer I'd heard about and after photographing the bike and getting the information, he said he would contact me on WhatsApp with his quote the following Monday. I told him it would be fine as I was continuing to Ushuaia and if the money was enough, would return.

I went to bed at a reasonable hour since I had to be up early to get in line for the ferry ticket purchase to cross the Strait of Magellan to Porvenir... and the island of my final quest, Tierra del Fuego.

Tierra Del Fuego

2.25.2018

The ferry across the Strait of Magellan to Porvenir, provided by Austral Broom, was scheduled to leave at 9:30 am on this morning and I was up early to get there before 8 since the line could be long. It was cold and crisp outside and I caught the manager setting up the continental breakfast to ask him to unlock the parking gates of the hotel. I snuck a couple of rolls from the plastic wrapped platters and a couple of bananas for the road and rode the bike to the front sidewalk to load up.

It was cold enough to make my nose run riding the couple of miles to the ferry as the sun began to warm things up. The terminal was just a few hundred yards past the dealership I’d taken the bike to for a quote and cars were already lined up. There was a big line of people waiting to board at the dock as I parked and scrambled into the office. A very long line of backpackers stood in line and my heart sank until I noticed a single window that said “vehiculos” with only 2 people waiting and jumped in. The cost was roughly 11,000 Chilean pesos and cash only, about $18 US for the bike and me, and I pulled back into the car waiting lane to sit in the warm sunshine. I was nervous and excited, because across the Strait of Magellan lay the island of Tierra del Fuego and ultimately Ushuaia and the end of the world.

In a couple of moments a rider on a KLR pulled up beside me and a blonde haired, blue eyed guy got off, asking me with a heavy Scandinavian accent where to buy a ticket. I pointed him where to go. Shortly after one of the ferry loaders asked for my ticket and waved me forward a few cars to the front of the line. On ferries with a motorcycle, you're either always the first to board or the last to board. I sat waiting and savoring the moment, finally being signaled to ride aboard and tuck the bike under a staircase.

I headed for the top deck (I like to think of it as "top shelf") amidst hoards of backpackers and vacationers to watch the rest of the vehicles loading.

It was cold but sunny and I explored the ship a bit until an announcement was made in which I heard “problema” and for the next hour the boat stayed moored but with the engines running hard, as whatever work was being done needed the revs. About an hour past launch time we finally began to rumble backwards from the shore and slowly turn for the island on the far horizon.

Is that the boat from “Jaws”?

My back had gone wonky in Puerto Natales, having slept crooked or something and getting a severe sqwonk when I leaned over to put on my boots. The muscle kept hurting longer than usual and after 4 hours on the bike each day I was done. I still had to take baby steps when I walked and tried to act manly when I sat down, but the Advil wasn't helping much.

As we moved in the wind and water for a couple of hours, I had plenty of time to ponder things past, present and future. One thing fresh in my mind was the previous night’s encounter…

As the light began to fade, I had wandered the small downtown sort of in an emotionless state. I took old creaking stairs to a second floor restaurant to have a decent meal after so many bad ones on the trip. King crab and pasta definitely hit the spot. After, as I sat staring blankly ahead, another man at the table next lifted his beer and looked at me. I smiled back and he tipped the bottle offering to fill my empty glass. I thanked him but said no and the conversation began.

He was from the Dominican Republic, 54 years old and very curious about my travels. He asked many questions, but his first was if I traveled alone. I told him solo was the only way to fly, then he laughed out loud. He said he traveled alone as well and could never explain to those who questioned him why. I told him I certainly understood. Between bites of food he asked “and what do you think of in so many hours alone as you ride?”

My answer was "many things, but enjoying the solitude and taking in what was around me was a big part of it". He said, “I as well, but it is my time alone with God and as I go to one amazing place or another I never thought I would see, I thank him that he has honored me that I could see it.” It was my turn to laugh, and I told him I did exactly the same thing.

I said that many years ago I asked God for an interesting life, and had received it in spades, though I forgot to specify for him to leave all the bad stuff out. I had also come to the understanding that the world was made for us to enjoy, and asked God to let me see as much of it as I could before I died. He laughed out loud, toasted me and went back to his meal. I wondered that two who travel alone had met at the end of the world, unknown brothers of the soul.

As I thought about the encounter, I double checked myself and how I had spent more time complaining of my problems than I had in just being thankful at how blessed I was to be alive and able to live in moments of wonder on this trek. I needed to look at the big picture and not the details. It was a timely reminder from my constant companion...

The island of Tierra del Fuego lay ahead and I watched in anticipation as it slowly crept closer.

The trip across the strait seemed to pass quickly and before long the ferry was in the inlet, making a massive high speed (for a ferry) U turn to head onto the ramp. The race for the deck below began but I stayed up top to watch the proceedings and came down after all the cars were gone, save one. I had to wait on the bike until the pedestrian traffic was completely clear before rolling off and onto the "land of fire".

I'd read that the island of Tierra Del Fuego was so named, because when Magellan came through the waters, there were bonfires all over the island (though it wasn't known to be an island then). It was winter, and the native peoples wore no clothes, keeping fires burning continuously around the land to warm themselves as needed. Hard to imagine naked folks living in snow, however the fires were definitely written about by Magellan and others.

It was hard to believe I was on the island, heading for the gravel road that follows the coast east for the Atlantic and the town of Rio Grande. I’d decided to stay there rather than push all day to make Ushuaia, not wanting to arrive late and tired at a keystone moment. I’d had plenty of that on this trip!

The coastal road was excellent though it had plenty of uncomfortable moments of loose gravel and I really enjoyed it in the bright sunshine. It curved and wound along the coastal cliffs and rolling hills. In most places it was smooth and well packed where riding was easy, but of course had some bad sections. Still, it was a really nice ride despite some severe winds.

Eventually a freshly paved road came up and was enjoyable for a while before veering off into gravel that paralleled the pavement. Trucks and vehicles doused me with dust clouds to varying degrees depending on the winds, but eventually the Chilean immigration building came into view and I parked next to the KLR and rider I’d met in the ferry line. I guessed he had been one of the first off the ferry while I dawdled.

He had finished up his paperwork and was leaving, but asked me about his chain and how loose it had suddenly become. I told him it had reached its life expectancy and was in the rapid stretching stage. He asked if he could make it to Ushuaia before adjusting it, but I told him to take the time and do it as soon as possible, like right now. He said he would wait to find a place out of the wind and I laughed and told him good luck with that!

I exited quickly out of Chilean territory, adding my travel sticker to the slathering of decals everywhere in the place before taking a break for a few minutes. From there I crossed the border into Argentina and continued on the dusty road for quite a ways, expecting the Argentinian aduana soon after, but it wasn't even on the horizon. Ahead I saw a stopped motorcycle in the middle of the road and when I caught up, it was the Scandinavian rider. I fully expected a broken chain, but he was waiting for me and said “the Argentinian immigration is back there at the buildings for Chile! I asked a car where Argentinian immigration was and they said it was with Chile!” I wasn’t too sure about that, and having fought my way past billowing clouds of dust and gravel getting ahead of several semi’s, I didn’t relish going back a few miles only to have to pass them again. He was adamant, so I followed him all the way back only to confirm that there truly was no Argentinian immigration building there.

Back on track and heading east again in the no man's land of Argentweena, eventually the immigration station appeared and I went inside for the now routine entry process. There were decals everywhere in the place, even behind the officials on the walls. I guess if the staff stayed still enough, they’d get covered with decals as well. I was asked for the small slip of paper with two stamps I’d been given back in Chile and had thankfully kept (by the way keep every scrap of paper given you anywhere in the process even if it looks like a number tag from a counter ticket dispenser as it can be VERY important) and after the process, received two more stamps. It was to be given to the gate guard as proof so he could allow me into Argentina.

I put my title and relative paperwork back into its sleeve and into my jacket, keeping the small piece in my hand to give directly to the guard. I opened the door and stepped outside, only to be hit by a huge gust of wind which literally yanked the paper out of my hand and I watched it fly away into the sky and out over the lake. I fruitlessly ran down the road watching it blow away high in the sky. It was stupid, as if it would somehow land and wait for me in the winds. Those damb Patagonian winds are not a joke.

Craptastic. Inches away from entering Argentina for Ushuaia and my official entry papers were long gone. I walked to the guard, then did a mime routine shouting “papel” and “viento”. He looked at me for a few seconds and said “chico?” I said "si". He looked at me for a few more seconds, then said “pasar”. I jumped on the bike got the hell out of Dodge for Rio Grande before he had any second thoughts.

The gravel road continued for many miles until teeing into Ruta 3, a blacktop road that tagged along the Atlantic coast for a while. My first view of the Atlantic was yet another marker on my trek. Rio Grande was a nice, clean, modern town and after finding a hostel online while grabbing a coffee, I was happy to discover it was brand new place, a great apartment with kitchen. Since my trip was nearing its end, I was loosening up on staying in nicer places instead of trying to find the least acceptable lodging. I was celebrating and wanting to slide into the last few days enjoying the moment in decent digs.

I sat on the leatherette couch and it wasn’t long before I couldn’t keep my eyes open. The long days of riding tensely on loose gravel don't translate well into a blog, and I'm sure in retrospect much of my entries mention being tired, but it's a true outcome of this type of trekking. However, I’ve noticed that the last couple of weeks I’ve been more fatigued than any time previously. Maybe it was the length of the time on the road, or maybe it's because I was beginning to relax as my goal had finally drawn near...

The End of the World

2.26.2018

The town of Rio Grande was nice and clean and the hotel I stayed in was first rate. Got the bike loaded and plugged in my destination for the day, Ushuaia. It was a strange feeling and a bit of a rush to see it on the GPS.

Again the day was beautiful, clear and sunny but a bit brisk. I was excited and nervous as the grassy plains along the Atlantic slowly turned into rolling hills with small scrub-like trees that reminded me of the juniper trees in the hill country region of Texas. The ever present guanacos lined the roadside here and there as the rolling hills began to turn higher and higher, heading up into a mountain range with snowcapped tips.

My choice of brown motorcycle pants once again proved to be a stroke of genius, as one of the large guanacos suddenly decided to bolt across the road right in front of me, requiring full on lock up of the brakes and one of the reasons I love ABS. Of the thousands of guanacos I've seen, this guy was the only one who's actually tried to run across the road.

Despite the high winds of the early morning, they slowly tapered off as I got higher into the mountains. At a roadside stop for a photo, a Motoviajero traveling with his 17 year old daughter stopped to check on me. She loved traveling with her father on the motorcycle and they had explored much of the Patagonian region.

I was unprepared for the beautiful terrain of the area, having assumed that the town furthest south was simply on a flat coastal plain. Instead I found myself riding through "Colorado", on twisting roads through mountainsides and past huge lakes. The temperature dropped into the 40s in the higher areas and the landscape was a nice surprise for the last leg of the trip.

As I neared the town and watching my GPS to check the distance, it said Ushuaia lay 42 miles away. I glanced at my odometer which read 74,957. It dawned on me that the bike would hit 75,000 miles somewhere in the town of Ushuaia. What a coincidence!

The battery on my headset video camera was low and I wanted to make sure I recorded my once-in-a-lifetime entry to the end of my trip. I can't tell you how many times the battery had died, or the video card filled up at the worst moment, so I decided to get a couple of minutes outside of Ushuaia before recording just to make sure I could record my arrival at the gates of the city. My GPS showed 6 miles left, but when I rounded a curve to my surprise saw the twin entrance towers of Ushuaia!

Damb! The camera was off of course!

Surprisingly, there was no one at the tower taking pictures and I rolled up to the stop. It felt sort of strange and emotionless, but I pulled out my phone and shot a selfie for a record of the moment and texted it to my family. I set up the camera on my mini pod and snapped a few more, savoring the moment.

From there I continued on to a good hotel to reward myself for achieving my goal!

Amazingly, the odometer rolled over to exactly 75,000 miles as I pulled up to the hotel. Hard to explain, but somehow it seemed as if a final period to my trip.

Ushuaia! A beautiful sight to see after 6 months of travels

Reflections

2.27.2018

In my hotel room in Ushuaia, the fatigue of 7 months of travel finally caught up. I laid across the bed after dropping my gear and fell asleep for most of the afternoon. Strangely, I felt almost no emotions. No sense of accomplishment, no joy, no sadness, not much of anything. The long journey had taken its toll and I was drained.

That evening as I contemplated the day and the entire trip, I looked at my map and mileage journals and checked dates. It all added up to 16 months of riding the motorcycle and 45,000 miles to achieve my dream of riding to Alaska then south to Tierra Del Fuego. It didn't compute, seeming almost impossible to me and I couldn't believe I'd actually done it. I triple checked and sure enough, it was true.

It was only then, when I looked at the map that it began to sink in. I still felt no real emotions, just a sense of disbelief and incredulity. I felt no different inside, but the facts showed that I had done something that not a lot of people do, and something I never really expected to achieve. There was no pride or ego about it, just a sense of disbelief. It had been 25 years earlier that the idea was planted and seemed utterly impossible for so many reasons. And yet it had come to pass.

There were far more challenges than expected, and at times making it all the way didn't seem possible, but the people and sights will never be forgotten. Especially the wonderful, caring people everywhere I went.

I still had over 2000 miles to go along the Atlantic coast before reaching Buenos Aires far to the north, my final destination. After that, to plan for the future and the next challenge.

Ushuaia

3.04.2018

The town of Ushuaia was far more upscale than expected, the downtown being filled with outdoor clothing stores, a boutique Triumph Motorcycle shop and even a Hard Rock Cafe. It certainly has a lot of tourist traffic which makes complete sense of course, but it was enjoyable though expensive. It is the jumping off point for excursions to the Antarctic and research vehicles.

The hotel I chose was based on another rider who said it was nice and relaxing, and that was definitely the case. The room was nice and new and after settling in, my body began to relax and I did nothing for a couple of days other than riding to the literal end of the road for shots of the sign with Canuck Charlie.

The literal end of the road, where the Pan American Highway stops in Tiera Del Fuego National Park. Next stop Antarctica.

...and where I started at the Arctic Ocean, on the other end of the world.

The view at the end of the Pan American Highway

I had no desire to do anything but rest and be lazy. Seven months on the road and all the travel conditions and requirements had left me pretty drained mentally and it felt good to think of nothing of importance. Well, that wasn't entirely true as my mind began to look at the next phase of life, whether to continue this journey for a couple more months or to return to Texas.

As I rested, I slowly began to feel that it might be time to let this experience end and focus on the next one, rather than retracing my way north.

The relaxation time felt so good that I decided to stay in the hotel in a few days and do nothing. The decision was made to spend the money in Ushuaia, rather than on the long ferry north back to Chile and Santiago. More and more I felt that I needed to go to Buenos Aires and from there make the final decision whether to go west again or to fly home or even to another continent.

I faced the reality that I needed some downtime off the road, and to continue my travels as a photographer, I wanted to be able to face what was next with excitement and 100% energy. My combined travels from Texas to Alaska and then to South America had comprised almost a year and a half of living off the motorcycle and enduring a lot of challenges. I think that the length of time on the road had finally caught up with me.

A rider I’d met earlier who was heading back north had told me when he reached Ushuaia, he was burned out and actually took a flight and vacation before returning to get his bike and head north. Like me, he had been on an extended travel time. I could relate now.

I knew it was time to begin the 2000 mile journey north for Buenos Aires. Leaving Ushuaia the next morning, I felt some sadness at the thought of such a long anticipated goal having been achieved. As well, “normal” life now seemed so empty and shallow that I dreaded returning to it.

I cruised through the downtown and along the waterfront one more time before heading north through the beautiful mountains that surround the town. It was crisp and cold but the sunshine felt good as did the blue skies.

I decided to make for Rio Gallegos in Argentina in one long day rather than stopping in the town of Rio Grande once again. Rio Grande was only two or three hours away and I was ready to make miles and time. Ahead lay two border crossings, the final ones of my journey and I was anxious to get them over with.

The beautiful blacktop road wound its way through the mountains and morning sunshine, with the occasional herds of guanacos and a couple of foxes crossing the road.

The road slowly makes its way out of the mountains and valleys down into the rolling hills as it nears the coast and eventually flattens to a huge plane. Occasionally, I would see an adventure bike heading south with a big thumbs up or a wave. Along the highway, there would be a pickup truck or two parked on the roadside with dirt bikes and guys in their motocross gear. A dirt track lay between the fence and the highway. It seemed that guys were riding many miles along this track as if a cross country race.

As the sun rose higher and I could see the Atlantic to my right, the time slipped past until I made a left turn for the Argentinian and Chilean border that lay to the west down the long gravel road I had come previously. The clear day had brought with it high winds and I didn't relish the gravel that lay ahead for several hours. Checking out of Argentina was easy and fast and about 20 km further down the road the check-in process for Chile was similarly easy.

Despite the gravel and high winds keeping me tense, it was a beautiful day of golden fields and rolling hills. Many thoughts filled my mind between the spasms of deep gravel, one moment wondering if I should continue my trip north after Buenos Aires, and the next knowing that my goal had been accomplished and I was ready to move on. Inside, I felt deeply that the time had come and my mind was already on the return and plans I was making both at home and for future trips.

After a lot of thought and wrestling, I’d come to the decision to fly home from Buenos Aires rather than continuing through Bolivia. It was a torn decision and made me sad, because I really wanted to see the area and experience it. But the key is that I want to see it with fresh eyes and excitement, and in an honest self-appraisal I felt I’d reached a saturation level where I simply couldn’t appreciate it the way I wanted to. Like a sponge that can’t absorb any more water, my mind and inspiration were overwhelmed, and I didn’t want to go there just to take pictures as proof of my progress. I want to immerse myself and absorb the moments and culture, capturing images that excite me. It is that fact, more than any other, that made my decision. Peru and Bolivia I want to see, and see again and I prefer to return with fresh eyes and energy, delving deep into those cultures to capture photos of value. I honestly didn’t have that energy at the moment. I decided the best way to see Bolivia and Peru again is to return exclusively and rent or purchase a bike just to do those two countries.

In no form or fashion did I truly want to return to the US, but I was already looking ahead to South Africa, and a Russia / Kazakhstan / Mongolia dream that started in 2006. I would rather begin focusing on those trips, where I can hit new territory with new energy and fresh eyes. I resigned myself a while back to the obvious fact that one can’t see everything on a trip, which didn’t dim disappointment for things and areas missed, but I feel like I’ve had the true South America immersion, and so much so that it may be years before I fully appreciate everything that happened. I am so full, I can’t even begin to process it all and when looking back, it’s like looking into a huge storage room that you shoved so much into you can’t even remember what’s in there, much less squeeze anything else in. The good part of that is when you do get to unload it all, it will be full of forgotten things you loved and treasured enough to keep.

The gravel road north from the border crossing seemed to last forever as the sun got lower and lower. Ahead lay a ferry crossing, as well as two additional border posts and I knew I'd be arriving in Rio Gallegos after dark. By the time I approached the channel for the ferry, I’d had my fill of gravel roads, traveling well over a hundred miles of it in which about 25% were really bad.

The road came to an end on the bank of the waterway, and I looked for a ferry terminal to purchase a ticket. I'd looked up the price and I had just enough of Chilean pesos left to cover it as long as there were no other surprises. I had been juggling my Chilean pesos trying hard not to have to convert any more. There was nothing near but some construction containers and a lone man locking up a small shop. I inquired about a ferry ticket but he motioned to the boat coming across the strait. I pulled up to the top of a long concrete ramp and watched as the boat docked and unloaded, the deckhands frantically waving at me and the few waiting cars to quickly board.

Once aboard, I got off the bike and headed up to the top deck of the small ferry in the freezing wind. The sun had set and the sky was a dull gray. One of the deckhands climbed up and motioned for me to come down. In the moment, I had forgotten about my ticket and paid the man quickly while feeling the boat begin to make its turn for the shore. I sat on the bike while people streamed past for their cars giving me a smile or a thumbs up.

I was first off the ferry ramp to the road as the light began to disappear. It seemed a long day would never end, and when I finally arrived at the border control, I was happy to see it was a combination office for both countries. After the paperwork was done and I was on the bike, I got such a rush that I shouted out loud, knowing that I would no longer have to deal with the stress of keeping up with papers and all of the other things that accompany crossing borders. It was a huge relief after so many months.

It was dark by the time I arrived in Rio Gallegos and got into a place for the night. It had been a very, very long day.

The Final Leg to Buenos Aires

3.10.2018

From Ushuaia, I had planned to make Buenos Aires 2000 miles to the north in 4 days or so, knowing that the route was flat and desolate. Making 500 miles per day seemed reasonable enough...

After the previous long day from Ushuaia to Rio Gallegos on the Atlantic coast, the road north the next morning was barren and windswept, the famous pampas of Argentina introducing itself immediately. The landscape was flat and treeless, the winds from the west being unbroken and able to flow freely with no restraint. In short order, I was in strong, gusting sidewinds that kept the bike leaned over hard to my left, and a constant attempt to push the bike off the roadside into the gravel to my right.

The gusts swapped directions, sometimes from behind and sometimes directly from the front, but the beating and head twisting never let up. The force was unbroken except by oncoming semi trucks, the blast hitting like a hammer blow, rattling your helmet and head as if being beaten with boards for a half second, simultaneously being yanked in towards the truck and trailer by the vacuum, then thrown out again in a half second as the trailer passed and the winds hit.

The ever present guanaco herds along the roadside added to the stress, as the brief stun and disorientation of the truck sometimes left you in the middle of a herd split on either side of the road. As well as the guanacos, the small herds of emu-like rheas were present frequently and randomly.

Nearing noon and the big Beemer burning more gas than normal due to the high speeds and winds, I decided to gas up whenever I saw fuel available. The towns were very few and very far between. At my first gas stop and snack break, another rider pulled in on a new Honda Africa Twin and studied my bike a while before coming in. We exchanged handshakes and a bit of conversation. Humberto was from Spain, enjoying a few months of travel between work assignments as a television cameraman. He was heading north for Buenos Aires and then on to Uruguay. His goal for the day was Puerto Julian, a few hours south of my goal, Caleta Olivia or possibly Comodoro Rivadavia. We wished each other well and I headed on.

After a few more hours on the road, Puerto Julian came up and I pulled over to take a break. Shortly thereafter, Humberto pulled in and said he was looking for a hotel there. I’d sat long enough to realize I didn’t have the extra 3 or 4 hours of energy left to make Rivadavia. The previous day’s length and the wind and hammering for several hours had left me more drained than I realized. I headed off for the town to look for lodging as well.

After a loop through and a look at a replica sailing ship, I found myself at a small inn where Humberto’s bike was parked. We talked a bit then I hit the hotel room, eating an energy bar from the little mini-frig and fell asleep early. For the last month I’d found myself more fatigued than usual.

I woke up before daylight to the sounds of roaring winds and watched the trees on the street flailing away as if in a hurricane. I hoped the winds would die down a bit or this would be the worst day of riding yet. It was not to be, as I got the bike loaded after the ubiquitous continental breakfast. A couple of other BMW riders came out and begin loading their bikes for the day. They were from Brazil, and were heading back after exploring Southern Patagonia. I had seen a large contingent of Brazilian riders and it is a very popular destination for them.

Humberto was no where in sight as I pulled out in the gusting winds to continue north. I found gasoline and headed on, the winds noticeably worse and as the bike followed the high coast, I battled the wind and had concern for the first time. It was serious and I had trouble staying in my lane for a good hour before the worst of it faded away to the "normal" high winds. I gassed up at a lone station in a very small community, slapping a decal on the window to mark my presence.

Aside from worse winds, the day was a repeat of the previous, endless grass plains and pummeling trucks, the ever present guanacos observing me pass. They paid no attention to the cars and trucks, only the motorcycle and it’s roar. If I varied the throttle, they would begin to scatter with their loping run. I began to play games with them in my boredom, dropping or revving the throttle at different distances to see its effect on the herds. I figured since I was bored, as were they, it might add some interest later that evening as they chewed the cud and discussed the day’s events.

As the day waned I made Comodoro Rivadavia, a big seaside town lying on the blue Atlantic. It was a nice place and I found gas in my downtown explorations, stopping for a coffee to search for a hotel nearby, but most were booked and very expensive. Argentina had been far costlier than expected, despite knowing it was not a cheap country, and accommodations were hard to find due to the few towns along the route.

I finally located a reasonable place a few miles out of town and booked it online. Finding it was very difficult despite being on the main road and the gate was locked. After a while of buzzing the buzzer, it opened to a suspicious man. So many times in Chile and Argentina, hotels and hostels seemed surprised and upset at the arrival of a guest, or at least me. He finally warmed up a bit but indicated I’d have to wait to pay with my credit card when his son arrived. I got settled in and gear off, the fatigue of the day catching up to me.

When his son did arrive, his phone-based credit card reader didn’t work with my credit card or my debit card, a fault of his system, but he didn’t care and demanded cash payment. This had happened often on the trip, where a hotel or hostel had bad card readers and had no problem telling you their reader hadn’t worked in years, then demanding cash despite advertising the use of a card. I was a bit pissed off and had to gear back up completely to ride back to the main town 20 miles away.

Just before riding out, the son told there was an ATM in the nearby airport terminal, so I headed over to find the place. I had no cash at all, having used it earlier and not finding a “cajera electronico” on the way north. I had to take a ticket to park in the airport lot and upon entry to the terminal, spotted the ATM and immediately knew it wouldn’t work. I’d found that there are two basic ATM systems in Argentina, “Link” which never worked with my cards, and “Red”, which always did. This one was the former and I tried it to no avail, then realized I had no cash to even exit the airport lot. I tried to explain the situation and the attendant looked at the receipt and since it had been only a few minutes, waved me through. It was a relief, and Google showed another ATM in the neighborhood. It turned out to be in a grocery store, which of course was closed until 8 pm due to “siesta” time in Argentina. I was tired and crabby now, my tolerance for such BS having finally worn out on this long trip of similar daily routines.

I backtracked to the downtown of the city 20 miles away, and found an ATM that worked, as well as a brand new debit card someone had left in the machine. I took the card next door to the bank and of course it was closed for siesta, so I pocketed the card to keep it from being used.

As I rode back, I thought of how it would be the only time I’d get stopped and be found with someone else’s debit card. Back at the hostel two hours later, I paid cash and got resettled. The frustration of 7 months of daily stress and challenges like this were wearing on me. I realized it was a sign the trip needed to end which helped settle my mind on the matter, despite not wanting to return to the U.S.

That evening I sent an email to Dakar Motos in Buenos Aires, a motorcycle shipper with a good reputation, to ask them to begin the process of shipping for me. The owner, Javier, responded that they could get me shipped within a week of my arrival and asked for photos of my paperwork and travel documents.

On my way to Ushuaia, I'd met a mototraveler who'd also been on the road about 9 months. He was well known for his travel blog and reputation for adventure, but the evening we'd had a meal together, he told me that frankly he was completely worn out and burned out from the exercise. He'd actually parked his bike for a while and flown to another continent where he took a 2 month vacation break to regenerate. He had only been back a couple of weeks when we'd met and I appreciated his honesty, keeping his name in confidence of course, but it helped me realize that my fatigue and frustration was normal. My fellow travelers Michnus and Elsebie had been on the road for years, however they had no time limit as do most travelers, and had found a way to combat the travel fatigue by getting the longest visa possible in each country, then staying long term in just a few places. That allowed them to function almost as if they lived there and was a good solution. Myself and others did not have that luxury so the pressures of having to keep moving had their effects.

The next day was a repeat of the previous in every way except the noticeable lack of guanacos and the addition of 95º temperatures. It was an unwelcome change from the weeks of mountains and accompanying cool air. At a stop for gas, I’d received an email from Dakar Motos informing me that my Temporary Vehicle Import Permit was full of problems which had to be corrected, or the bike couldn’t ship without an expensive “tip” to the airport authorities, which wasn’t a guaranteed fix. In the email, Javier said several bikes had been denied leaving Argentina recently due to the exact problem my paperwork had. It was yet another punch in the stomach, as my final crossing into Argentina had been late in the day, and in a rush I had failed to check the document over, the only time I hadn’t checked. It was a serious issue. My VIN number was incorrect, as was most of the information and when I looked at the paperwork I couldn't believe it had been done so badly.

Worry was my companion throughout the day and I finally made the city of Puerto Madryn, frantically searching for an Aduana supposedly located in the seaport town. Luckily there was one and I said a prayer that there would be an understanding, English speaking worker there who could help. I swallowed hard and went inside. It was dead quiet and only a single worker was at her desk. I knew trying to explain the situation in Spanish and Google translate would be difficult, and I was greatly relieved when the attractive and friendly lady spoke a little English. It took an hour, but I was finally presented with a stamped and signed correction letter. I walked outside to get a better cell signal, shot a picture of the document and emailed it from the sidewalk to Javier at Dakar Motos.

As I sat on my bike in the shade of a palm tree in front of the Aduana to begin the search for a hotel, I saw a faded hotel sign directly across the street with a secured parking area and I grabbed a room.

Puerto Madryn was a nice seaside town, peaceful and serene. I walked a couple of blocks down looking for a late lunch and spotted Humberto’s Honda at a street-side cafe. He was sitting at a sidewalk table, shocked to see me and invited me to sit. He’d spotted my decal at the last gas station and laughed. The stress relief of getting the vehicle papers sorted was tangible for me and a seafood meal was a good way to wind the day down. That evening, Javier emailed me that he’d received the correction letter and all should be fine now. As it turned out, another rider a few days before, had gotten a correction letter from the same aduana office, so maybe that had been one reason the woman had been so nice to deal with, realizing it was a problem with the southern crossing. I spent the evening walking the beachside in the cool breeze.

The next morning I was heading for Bahia Blanca, the last town before Buenos Aires. The day was long, hot, and boring with temperatures of 105º much of the way. I was distressed to find that after my gas stop, both my credit and debit cards would not work at the few places I tried to buy a meal, stressing the hell out of me. Amidst my credit and ATM cards, I still had the ATM card I'd found at the bank a few days before. I'd forgotten about it, and pulled off the road in the midst of nowhere, digging a hole in the dirt with my boot heel and buried it.

Bahia Blanca was conquered late and I grabbed the first hotel I could find. I went out late after cooling down in the room and found an ATM that proved both my debit and credit cards were still working. I sat on a bench in the park that evening until late, watching the people wander past, a world of life away from me.

The next day Buenos Aires lay a very long ways away, but the city I had to reach. It turned out to be the hardest day of all, the last 200 miles being a brutal combination of heat and terrible truck traffic. On my side of the rutted two lane blacktop road there was a stream of flatbed trucks, heavily loaded with bags of concrete traveling north at about 30 mph, creating long lines of stacked up traffic. In the opposing lane there were hundreds and hundreds of semi’s returning south at highway speeds. It created very difficult passing, keeping up the brutal pounding of the passing trucks and was incessant the entire way to Buenos Aires.

The last 100 miles or so, I ran my gas tank down as low as possible, stopping to get a couple of liters here and there to ensure I didn’t overfill the tank. It added a lot of stress but the bike couldn’t ship out of the airport if the tank wasn’t almost empty. I'd been warned that the shipping facility had no way to remove gasoline or dispose if it and if they deemed there was too much in the tank, they'd refuse approval of the motorcycle for shipping. It would require leaving the terminal, rescheduling and dumping the tanks elsewhere.

The International Airport was on the south side of the city and I decided to stay nearby. Every reasonable hotel was booked and only the ones available were over $250 a night. I finally found a cheaper place with bad reviews about 10 miles away. I made the place late, in part due to a protest group blocking the highway. The hostel truly could have been called a "hostile", as it was run by a Russian family that I assume had run a Russian Gulag camp and after the wall fell, moved to Buenos Aires to open a hostel. That night, Saturday, Javier sent an email that the bike could ship out in 2 days, either the upcoming Monday, or the following day on Tuesday. I was too exhausted to make the decision and went to sleep.

The next morning I decided that my trip had come to an end, proved by my lack of desire to explore and my agitation with insignificant little daily problems. I decided to get home as soon as possible and told him to plan for the Monday shipping. I spent the day, Sunday, reducing and repacking gear that couldn’t be shipped, such as my camping fuel, lighters and such. Motorcycle gear, helmet and clothing were allowed to ship with the motorcycle but personal clothing and items, including camping gear, could not.

I gave away a few things to others in the hostel, filling one of my side case bags to use as carry-on luggage along with my camera satchel. The rear seat duffle was stuffed to use as a checked bag. I triple checked that no items I needed - paperwork, passport, etc, - were accidentally left with the bike. For 7 months I had kept certain items in certain places, and now had to tear apart my Pavlovian routine, which brought moments of panic trying to remember where my spare cash, cards, passport, dummy wallets and other pertinent things were now located.

One World To Another

3.14.18

Early Monday morning I packed and took the half-loaded bike and my riding gear north to the Ezeiza‎ airport exit, finding the Ministro Pistarini International Airport cargo terminal exit using GPS coordinates sent by Javier and his wife Sandra. They were adamant I be there by 10 am for the 4 hour process, and I was there at 9:30 am in my usual Boy Scout fashion.

A woman walked over to me as I rode up to the wait area, of course being Sandra, and introduced herself. I was glad they were already there and she took me over to meet Javier, a big, gravelly-voiced guy. I paid him the $1780 fare to Houston in cash. It felt weird handing over almost 2 grand cash in a parking lot hidden between cars in a foreign country. The next step was getting paperwork done. I’d read a blog about what copies of paperwork were required and had made them the day before which pleased Sandra and saved us an hour of time. While we waited for an official to bring paperwork allowing the moto into the secure area, Javier helped remove the windshield while I pulled the mirrors. In the past, the motos had been required to remove the front wheel, all cases, windshield and battery. Now only the windshield and mirrors were required, with the addition of disconnecting the battery once on the pallet.

The paperwork official arrived and I was directed where to ride, Sandra meeting me on the other side of the security gates. After showing paperwork, I was told to ride very slowly up to the loading area. In a moment or two I was waved inside the warehouse and followed an official to the scale for weighing the bike. After this, I was led to the crating area where several workers assisted me riding the bike onto a very narrow pallet. I disconnected the battery, lowered tire pressures, stowed the mirrors and my riding gear, jackets and pants into my now empty side case. Workers wrapped my helmet and boots in plastic and strapped them to the pallet under the bike. After an inspector looked in the gas tank, the bike was strapped in place and wrapped in stretch wrap. I was required to unlock all the cases and leave the keys on the bike, as in the past random inspections had occurred and when no keys were available, officers simply broke into everything.

After the bike was wrapped and waiting, I reached into my pocket for my phone to take a photo and realized my keys were in my pocket, a habit after unlocking the cases. I panicked but was able to work my arm between the plastic wrap to get them in the ignition just before the bike was taken by forklift to the security scanner.

It was a strange feeling seeing the bike, my daily compadre for almost 9 months, wrapped and about to disappear

Sandra had been with me the entire way through the process, discussing various things that had happened to bikes and riders in the past. We watched as my bike went into the scanner and passed through quickly, a good sign she said as that meant they saw nothing of interest. It was whisked off the conveyor belt and deposited back in front of us, where an official slapped a sticker on the plastic and smiled at Sandra. It was good to know she and Javier had such a good rapport and reputation with the customs officials and process.

Sandra told me the bike was now "official and secure", to be shipped the next day on United Airlines Cargo direct to Houston, providing a higher paying shipment didn’t bump it.

Originally in our discussions, Javier had told me they could ship it anywhere in the US, and I got quotes for Houston and Miami, knowing Miami was a very popular route for South America and personal flights were cheaper there. I’d selected Miami as it was a little cheaper for the bike shipping, but mainly because the personal flights were cheaper since it was a big hub for South American flights. The night before bringing the bike to the airport, Javier made mention that when I arrived in Miami, the bike might be two days later since it landed in Houston and would then be trucked to Miami. I was shocked to hear the bike went through Houston anyway and told him there was no point in Miami if it went to Texas. Luckily it was an easy change. I was relieved in a way, however I was looking forward to hitting Key West and then leisurely riding through the old South back to Texas from Florida. Still the expenses saved would be good for my rapidly disappearing budget.

Sandra had assured me I could leave immediately, and despite knowing the bike was cleared, I still had paranoia that some form or inspection might occur and decided to book a flight leaving the same day as the bike. In my last minute flight searches, the best price was for a next day flight, which would leave a day before the bike. I actually could have flown on the same United flight as the moto, but the fare was much higher. I booked a flight leaving the next day at midnight, flying to Mexico City for a layover then on to George Bush International in Houston.

I was in a weird state of mind. Having no bike, wondering about the process and having my little world broken up, I felt strange and disconnected. My flight was at midnight the next day, and I had to check out of the hotel by 11. I had the Russian hostel owner call a cab and I was in the airport by noon, spending the next 11 hours in the terminal. By the time Aeromexico opened at 9 pm, the line was huge and despite having checked in online, I still had to go through it for checking the bag and getting a boarding pass.

Boarding the flight at midnight felt surreal and strange. I guess there was something comforting about the BMW, like the only friend you have each day. I'd paid extra for the emergency exit row which turned out to be a smart move. The Mexican flight attendants spoke Spanish that I could almost understand and I wanted to kiss them like lost family. The 10 hour flight to Mexico City was consumed by watching a couple of movies and thinking about stuff, and though I'd been dreading it the flight wasn't too bad. I managed to stay awake the whole night and saw Mexico City glittering below like millions of diamonds and gold in the dark. It felt good to know I was about to land in Mexico, which seemed like an old friend now.

In the Mexico City airport at 6:30 am, the sleepiness hit as I went through the X-ray inspection and tried to explain the incredible mishmash of things in my GS bag when I was pulled aside by an inspector. He finally understood when I mentioned "estoy viajando en la moto a Ushuaia" and then wanted to know how expensive the motorcycle was and told his friends. Yep, definitely back in Mexico!

I was in a fog, but the layover time wasn't too long and I got checked in and my ticket to Bush International in Houston. I'd mentally written off my checked duffle bag ever making it to the US, since it had to get from Argentina and Mexico to Houston. I clung to my remaining GS bag like my guns and religion as I waited in the very last line of my trek. The gracious ticket clerk put me on an exit row and when she began using the loudspeaker, the large crowd bum-rushed the entrance. It turned out several different flights were simultaneously leaving at the same time from the same gate. Definitely back in Mexico!

The salmon-like crowd flowed down 3 flights of stairs and split several directions. Of course there was no signage anywhere. Definitely back in Mexico. I followed a couple of people from my line and went into a hallway which led to yet another inspection and X-ray process, which I found weird, but went through the routine again and fifteen minutes later stepped into the main airport lobby. What the hell??

I ran all the way back to the ticket counter again and waved my ticket frantically. They decided to tell me how to find the gate after going back down the stairs again, telling me to run, which for chunky boy meant certain death. Damn! Definitely back in Mexico! After finding the gate hidden behind a sheetrock dust covered sheet of hanging plastic (definitely back in Mexico) I found a series of empty bus lanes with one just about to pull out. Breathless and waving my arms I shouted "Houston??" He stopped and I got on board. God I was frazzled and I couldn't believe I'd almost missed my last 2 hour flight to Texas.

Once out of the bus, up the rolling staircase and on board, I found my exit row seat and started to relax. As I looked out on the wing, the flight attendant loudly and sternly announced to me that I alone would be responsible for getting the exit door off and helping everyone out in an emergency. I said "No problem", but silently thought "they're all gonna die".

As the engines started up I relaxed and the fatigue started catching up. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open... that is until take-off when there was such a loud, ear-splitting shrieking sound coming through the emergency door next to me for the entire race down the runway. I just assumed it wasn't sealed and would tear away as soon as we reached altitude. It finally stopped, but God Almighty my nerves were toast. Definitely back in Mexico!

After that I couldn't sleep and after a while eventually saw the gulf coast come below the aircraft, then the reduced engine power that signaled descent. After a very hard landing and long taxi, my first sight heading down the hallway for immigration was two fat, bearded, Texas bubbas changing a light fixture and eyeing the “furners” coming down the hall. I laughed out loud at being back with my Texas homeys.

The new customs questionnaire machines sped up the process and the officer kindly said "Welcome back" as I handed him my two forms. “Ka-chunk, ka-chunk,” the most satisfying sound in the travel world according to my friend Ken, and I was at home. The airport was clean, new, organized and sterile. I nervously waited at the luggage area for my duffle bag, and was stunned to see it slide down the belt. What a relief and I hoped it was a good sign for the bike’s arrival the next day. I instinctively avoided conversations until I remembered that I COULD actually speak the language. I turned into Chatty Cathy at the Starbucks and I'm sure it will go down in legend as the freaky, funky man who wouldn't shut up.

I needed to find a hotel and started the online booking process when it dawned on me that I could actually CALL and ask the questions, which I promptly did. The hotel clerk had a Spanish accent on the phone and instinctively I responded in grubby Spanish. I got in the hotel room at 2 pm, messaged a couple folks, and the next thing I knew, it was 5 am. I had slept almost 15 hours straight, having fallen asleep in mid conversation on WhatsApp at 2:30 pm. Hadn't slept that long in years!

I nervously checked the motorcycle tracking number online and to my relief the bike had arrived at the United cargo warehouse at 6:03 am, an hour after I’d woken up. What a relief! I realized I had no idea how the process worked and called United’s information line. I was told it usually took 4 hours to clear the TSA so the plan was to get to the cargo warehouse around 10:30 that morning to avoid waiting.

The hotel shuttle driver dropped me at the cargo terminal about 10:30, having done a song and dance with feigned "fear of being fired" trying to shake me down for extra money. I ignored him. I went in the United Cargo office and stood at the empty counter in front of a lady who didn't acknowledge me for quite a while. After a few minutes I was acknowledged, with an attitude, and then a call was made to the back. In a few minutes a guy came in and told the lady there was indeed "a motorcycle back there" but the customs inspectors hadn't come yet. Great.

I sat in a chair and watched animals being loaded at the other end of the lobby for almost an hour with no response on the bike. I'd heard the uninterested employee say she was going to lunch, so I waited until she left and her replacement came in. I then asked the new worker about the bike and she left for a few minutes, then returned and dug through a stack of papers. She then handed me a stapled group of them, saying I had to go to customs and handed me a printed address. At least she was helpful.

Customs was a few miles away and I grabbed an Uber over, then entered the building to find no signage indicating where to go. Back in the USA government world. I spotted an officer at the end of a hallway and walked down to find a glass window and a Hispanic lady standing there. Behind the window was a Customs and Border Patrol officer with the worst attitude I've yet seen, who was an absolute jerk. She barely spoke English and said she was sent there to pay a fee before she could get her dog from the airline, trying to hand him cash through the window. He stood so far back from the glass neither she nor I could hear him, and he got very frustrated, yelling at her that the fee was not paid to them but to the airline. She didn't understand and I tried to use my pigeon Spanish to tell her, but the officer got mad and demanded to see her identity, which turned out to be about two weeks past her exit time. He got very angry and questioned her then opened the door and loudly told her she was in trouble, grabbing her and disappearing down the hallway to return alone about 10 minutes later.

When he came back, he was in full tactical asshole mode and treated me like a jerk, demanding to know why I was there. When I said I was sent there with the papers by United, he cut me off and grabbed them, saying I was in the wrong place and then came out of the office, pissed and said "I'm the only person working the desk" storming off through a door. In 5 minutes he came back out, pointed to a chair and said "Sit!." He went back in the office and started his behavior on the next person in line.

I was damn tired of being treated like some piece of crap and it was everything I could do not to call him an asshole. Welcome back to the typical, condescending attitude of law enforcement I've gotten so sick of. Definitely back in the USA. After about 30 minutes, he yelled at me to come to the window and handed one of the forms back that had a signature. I bit my tongue and walked out carrying my two bags to head back for the cargo center. The Uber App couldn't find my location so I downloaded Lyft and finally got it to work. $11.67 later and a ride with Koorsoh the Persian, I was back at the cargo center. This time I was acknowledged, paid them $50 with my credit card and took my form to the dock door outside.

In about 15 minutes I heard a forklift and my beautiful beast, leaning a bit but still wrapped, was deposited near the door where I could get it set up. Damn it felt good to see it again. What a relief! It took a bit to get the net off, then the plastic wrap. I noticed the gas cap was open and realized they hadn't closed it when they inspected it in Buenos Aires. I had so little gas in the tank I worried if enough had evaporated to leave me stranded. The bike was leaning to the right side a bit but I would have to cut all the straps on the opposite side to get the kickstand down. I finally got smart and dug out two tie-downs, connecting them as a safety straps and got the bike upright and over on the kickstand so I could begin reassembly.

The battery was hooked up and then it took forever to get the windscreen back on, simply due to two locknuts that keep the adjustment knobs from backing out. Each time I ever take off the windscreen, the nuts get lost into the recesses somewhere and it takes forever to find and fish them out with a magnet. I always forget what a pain it is and made a note to add the guy who came up with the design to the list of engineer/designers at BMW I desire to harm.

Leaning a little but luckily it hadn't gone over

I fired up the bike to juice the battery a little before re-inflating the tires and a warehouse worker ran over, telling me to be careful since there was almost no gas and he didn't want me to run out before getting to a station. It was very nice of him and when I shut it down he wanted to talk about the bike. I dug all my riding gear out of the cases and began reinstalling the pads I'd removed to make the gear fold better, getting boots back on before carefully getting back on the bike.

The pallet was just wide enough to get the bike on and the kickstand had just barely caught the edge with a tenuous hold. I again grabbed my motorcycle tie downs and safety strapped the bike to keep it upright while I cut the last plastic shipping straps. There was a big gap between the front of the pallet and the steel frame, just wide enough for the front wheel to drop into and hesitate. I figured if it caught the wheel and bumped me off balance just a little it could make me drop the bike. The pallet was so narrow that a foot couldn't be put down if it started over, and 700 lbs of motorcycle and gear once off balance can't be stopped.

In Buenos Aires they were kind enough to have made side pieces for you to step on as well as a ramp onto the pallet. Also, the workers surrounded the bike in case you got off balance. Not so in Houston so I decided to play it safe, piling up the heavy shipping net to make a ramp across the gap. Getting on the bike was tricky since I couldn't stand on the edge of the pallet and my duffel was now twice as fat after the repack, but all those years as a prima ballerina with the New York Ballet paid off as I did my best ballet move and got on. I started the bike and tippy toed slowly forward with my feet between the cylinders and pegs, until the front wheel rolled off, then gunned it off the pallet. Success! And I didn't drop the damn thing in front of the watching crowd of workers.

The remaining afternoon was spent repacking my Rubik's Cube of gear. Fitting everything together for such a long trip had taken a lot of time developing a system to make it fit and I'd had to destroy it for the air flight. It took a long time, in part due to the number of people coming to chat about the bike. It was 4 pm by the time I rode out the door to find gas and head west. When it dawned on me I was in Houston on the east side, I quickly gave up on the idea of trying to get across town in rush hour traffic. I ran the bike slowly down the service road to make any remaining gas last a bit longer and made it to the gas station, used a credit card and pumped my own gas for the first time in almost 7 months. Definitely back in the USA!

I picked a hotel just a couple of blocks from the gas station. The manager was a Hispanic lady and to my surprise I recognized her Mexican accent and asked if she was from Mexico City. She was surprised, as was I, that I had pinned the accent accurately.

My room was very nice, but I felt out of place in it, as if visiting a museum or a store display. Now that my bike and gear were all accounted for, I felt in a daze, an emptiness as if I were hollow. It's difficult to explain, as it wasn't sadness for the trip ending as I expected, just a complete sense of emptiness. I didn't want to talk to anyone, see anyone, or interact with anyone.

I couldn't bring myself to write, look at photos or do anything. The adjacent Chinese restaurant was where I had my first iced tea in over 7 months and the change of food was nice. I stared out the dark tinted windows into the parking lot as customers came and went. I stared at nothing, with an empty mind and an empty heart. I guess the overload of 7 months of ingesting sights, sounds, stresses and hard physical challenges had overloaded my circuits and the body had taken control. It was determined to take a break.

That evening I lay in bed, many thoughts trying to enter my mind but each rejected. Ahead lay many decisions and directions, but now was not the time.

The next morning, I packed my gear and loaded the bike, a surprisingly comforting process since it was now a familiar routine. The sound of the engine as it lumped along trying to warm up was soothing to my ears. My jacket and pants smelled and I hated putting them on, but I had to wait until I had a place to wash my clothes. Kicking my leg over the high seat and rolling out into morning traffic felt good. As the highway opened up and my speed increased, the city, and then the world became a better, brighter place. The future unknown, the direction of life unknown, the next day unknown. Somehow deep inside I was a different man, formed over the journey just completed and now fitting into my known world even less than ever.

I still longed for new lands and new people in spite of the fatigue, and deep inside knew that this world I'd ridden out of months before would never satisfy my soul again...

Thoughts & Maps

4.06.2018

In June of 2016, my trek to ride the Americas began. Six months and over 20,000 miles were spent exploring the Rocky Mountain states, Canada and Alaska, followed by the West Coast and back through Texas. From Texas, the next portion was Mexico, where three months and 10,000 miles were spent exploring much of this amazing country.

My final quest to ride Central and South America began, leaving Texas in August and riding through Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama during the rainy season. The Darien Gap is a natural and political barrier between Panama and Colombia, a haven for rebel troops, drug cartels and bandits. It is considered "uncrossable" other than in extreme cases. This area was bypassed by putting the motorcycle on a Dutch sailing ship built in 1903, piloted by a German captain named Ludwig from Panama and sailing for 3 days to Cartagena.

Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Chile and Argentina were the countries ridden in South America, the trek requiring seven months and almost 18,000 miles.

My entire trip from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, the farthest point north by road in North America to the end of Ruta 3 in Parque Nacional Tierra Del Fuego outside Ushuaia, Argentina was seventeen months and just under 48,000 miles on the seat of a motorcycle. It was one of my lifelong dreams and now completed, I look forward to the next!

Having ridden these regions, whoever made the following map made me laugh out loud. It is so true to the thinking of a motorcycle traveler that I had to post it here. I'll credit whoever made this if you contact me.