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.
