Ah, the Carretera Austral. Ruta 7. Patagonia’s famous road trip, shrouded in an infamous past. 1200 kilometres of mountains, glaciers, temperate rainforest, and ocean fjords stretching from Puerto Montt to Villa O’Higgins.
1200 kilometres of wind and rain. 1200 kilometres built by prisoners of the Pinochet dictatorship. A road of sweat and blood, albeit far from the only road of this kind on our terrible and wonderful planet. Political geography in its truest form.
But the day I started out, the sun was high in the sky and everything was glorious. A bike path led me out of Puerto Montt, along the edge of the harbour and past the Carretera Austral Kilometre Zero sign. When the bike path ran out, I took a detour along a coastal gravel road, past fishing boats and free roaming dogs and a horse pulling a cart. I rejoined the official Ruta 7 and almost immediately found a place to buy a latte. True beauty does exist on this earth.
I really like the Chilean rainforest. It’s temperate rainforest, so theoretically similar to what you might find in British Columbia, but it feels completely different. There’s just something about it that’s more… lush. There are more flowers. Bigger leaves. Somehow, the vegetation feels more full. The air smells nice here.
My first forty kilometres went by incredibly quickly, and I got to the first ferry of the trip just in time to board. The boat put-putted across the little stretch of ocean to Caleta Puelche, and I carried on. I reached my intended destination, Contao, at only 3 in the afternoon. After looking around briefly, I decided that Contao was unremarkable and the day was young, so off I went, down the road, heading for an undetermined destination.
This was sort of a good decision and sort of a bad decision. Good because the closer I camped to the next ferry, the better chance I would have of making it onto the 10am sailing the next day (unlike Bowen Island, the ferries on the Carretera Austral do not go every hour). But it was a bad decision because I failed to understand just how many hills were between me and the ferry, or how steep they were.
So I went up and down and up and down and up and down some more, and it was sunny and hot and my sweat dripped into my eyes and the day didn’t feel quite so glorious anymore. I wasn’t sure where I was headed, but I figured a campsite would pop up eventually.
Finally, I descended a big hill into a tiny settlement called Pichicolo. I’d gone from hot and sweaty to cold and sweaty, because a mountain was blocking the late afternoon sun from the town. I rolled along the road, feeling depleted and wanting nothing more than a place to stay.
And then, on my left – a sign. “Eco Camping Pichicolo.” I was saved.
After a restful night as the only resident of Eco Camping Pichicolo, I got up extra early and headed for the ferry. This was actually a pretty big deal, because I’m astonishingly bad at getting up early and packing quickly when bike touring. Usually by the time I find my way out of my tent, everyone else is gone and I feel vaguely embarrassed by my slothishness. But on that day, I was up with the sun! A true testament to rugged determination! A living miracle!
I sped off to the ferry, and was greeted with a sight as yet unseen on this South American journey – a whole bunch of bikes. Bikes with bags. Bikes with riders in neon windbreakers and spandex shorts and ferry tickets in hand.
I had found the cyclists of the Carretera Austral.
In addition to being a legendary road trip and a dictatorial legacy, the Carretera Austral is also a famous cycling route. Cycling the Carretera Austral is not some crazy Laura idea – it’s the crazy idea of a whole bunch of people! And I was looking forward to meeting all of these people, because I really really really love meeting people. It’s one of my favourite things.
The first ferry was about three and a half hours, which gave me enough time to get acquainted with a few cyclists. I met a man in his 70s from Slovenia who had E-biked all the way from Alaska. I met Haggay from Switzerland, who hitchhiked the Carretera in his youth and has now come back to cycle it and see what has changed. I also met Tom and Brian from Washington State, two friends who go on bike tours and other outdoor adventures together, including a trip down the Baja Divide last year. And thus continued my tradition of going on bike trips and mostly meeting men over fifty. Sometimes I help them use their phones, because I’m a techy millenial and all that.
After the first ferry, we had to disembark and ride 10 kilometres to the next ferry. This was all well and good, except we only had thirty minutes to do it and it was up and down on a series of questionable gravel roads. I’m a 15 kilometres an hour kind of girl, so this was a bit of a challenge.
To start the ride, there was a rather steep incline from the dock to the main road. I was perfectly capable of it, but for whatever reason some man in the foot passenger audience decided that I wasn’t. So, as I was confidently biking up the little hill, he grabbed the back of my bike and started to push me. And he pushed me all the way to the top of the incline. And it was probably done with the best of intentions, but I found it all rather strange and sort of embarrassing, and it left me wondering if he would have done the same if I was a man.
Honestly? Probably not.
I know he was just trying to help, but it irked me. Sometimes I need help, and sometimes I don’t. If I do, you’ll be able to tell, because I’ll be crying in a bus station in rural Argentina.
After my strange little push up the hill, I launched into a speedy ten kilometres to the next ferry. And I made it! It was the fastest ten kilometres I had ever biked, which was extra remarkable because it was all on crappy gravel.
On the next ferry, a comparatively short journey of only 45 minutes, Brian and Tom told me that it was forecasted to start raining by the time we got off the boat. So I suited up in my jacket and pants. And the forecast was right – when we arrived, it was absolutely pouring. It was the rainiest rain I’d ever biked in, and all on a crumbly, gravelly, potholed road that was partially under construction. I mustered my enthusiasm and plastered a big smile on my face, because there were 15 kilometres between me and where I wanted to camp.
By the time I arrived at the campground, I was completely drenched. My jacket and pants had soaked through. Luckily, it wasn’t actually particularly cold, but it was unpleasant nonetheless. I camped with Haggay, and we cooked under a little roof at our campsite. We employed wishful thinking and hung our things to dry under the aforementioned little roof. We set up our tents and hoped for the best.
In the morning, it was still raining, albeit with a bit less enthusiasm. Nothing we’d hung out had dried, but I put my wet clothes back on anyway. Anything I wore was going to be wet soon – might as well keep the dry clothes in reserve.
There were only forty-some kilometres between me and Chaitén, the next town, but it felt a lot longer. Up and down I went on the wet gravel road, dreaming of coffee and hot showers. At one point, the sun came out for a brief moment, revealing a dramatic vista of clouds, lakes, and mountains.
When I got to Chaitén, I assume I was giving off some strong wet rat vibes. I rolled my way to Rita’s Hostel. Much like Casa Perla in Puerto Montt, Rita’s Hostel felt like staying over at your quirky grandma’s house. It was full of trinkets and wooden furniture, and there was a big picture of a mountain painted directly onto the wall. The living room smelled like kerosene. A large dog insisted on sleeping directly outside the front door, so that you had to step over him any time you went in or out.
I managed to dry out most of my things that night, and continued to Villa Santa Lucia the next day in slightly better weather. Villa Santa Lucia was beautifully located and offered beautiful lattes, so I could probably spend the rest of my life there but after one night there I decided I should probably keep going.
Two other noteworthy things that occurred in Villa Santa Lucia:
⁃ I met Edson from Brazil, who is biking South America and is sponsored by some kind of beer company – he’s visiting craft breweries all along his route and posting about them.
⁃ My kickstand gave up. One of the screws securing it to my bike snapped off, so I have an attachment point with half a screw in it and no way to remove it. I left the kickstand in Villa Santa Lucia and am now back to leaning my bike against random things. Such is life.
The ride from Villa Santa Lucia to Puyuhuapi was the longest of my trip thus far – 115 kilometres of ups and downs and sporadically wet weather. Aside from the physical realities of being constantly damp, the overcast sky was a bummer because the clouds were low enough to block most of the views. Every once in a while, I would see the toe of a glacier poking out, and be reminded that there were ice fields and craggy mountaintops somewhere beyond the verdant vegetation. The thing I remember most from this part of the Carretera Austral is the endless Giant Chilean Rhubarb, which is not actually rhubarb, but is certainly giant (and debatably Chilean, as it also apparently grows in Argentina). Some of the leaves were bigger than me.
I arrived in Puyuhuapi totally blissed out on Giant Rhubarb sightings (ha) and collapsed into bed at Don Claudio’s Guesthouse. I slept like a rock and hoped this rock-like nature wouldn’t continue, as the next day I needed to bike up Queulat Pass, the biggest single ascent of the Carretera Austral.
What would await me over the pass? You’ll have to tune in next time to meet Swamp Puppy, encounter at least one inspirational person, and burn with vicarious feminist rage. Hasta luego, mis amigos.
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