Morning in Puyuhuapi dawned dark and rainy. One could almost be forgiven for not knowing it was morning at all.
I had an important decision to make: should I stay or should I go?
On the one hand, going was unappealing. Biking through a torrential downpour, up and down over gravel roads, with nary a splendid view in sight because of the cloud cover? No thanks.
On the other hand – the next day wasn’t supposed to be any better.
So off I went. The morning blurred together. Apparently there is a rather impressive glacier in the area, but I wouldn’t know. I mostly saw clouds, fog, and Chilean Rhubarb.
When I got to the base of Queulat Pass, I was a much damper version of myself. I was wearing my yellow rain pants. I was eating squares of chocolate like someone was threatening to take them away. At one point I had almost fallen down a hill while trying to find somewhere to pee. Cycle touring is only for the most sophisticated among us, obviously.
I tackled Queulat Pass with the gusto of someone who doesn’t truly understand what they are doing. Queulat Pass is very tall. The switchbacks went on and on. The gravel crunched under my tires. Little red flowers winked at me from the sides of the road. Every time I thought I’d reached the top, I found another incline. “I HAVE VERY STRONG LEGS,” I declared to no one in particular. Affirmations are important.
But, against all odds, the sun came out – and suddenly, biking up Queulat Pass felt like true bliss. A glacier emerged from the clouds behind me. Waterfalls plummeted down mountainsides in all directions (the mountains were in all directions, the waterfalls generally plummeted downward). And when the top of the pass finally came into view, I leapt off my bike and powered through a bag of chips. I’m really into that gourmet health food kinda stuff lately.
Then it was time to descend. One of the things I love about biking is that descents are always, always so much fun. When you hike, descents are often gruelling and incredibly hard on your body. When you’re biking, they’re just the best.
And the other side of the pass was paved. Beautiful, fresh, smooth pavement. I flew down the mountain into a green valley shimmering with late afternoon light. A tailwind caught me, so strong that I kept moving even when I didn’t pedal at all. One more steep hill and a bit of toodling along, and I found myself in Villa Amengual.
I picked my way up a rocky little road to ‘Refugio Para Cyclistas’ – a barebones accommodation option for cyclists only. It’s basically a plywood room with a wood stove, and the lady who owns it lets anyone on a bicycle stay there for 5000 pesos, about $8.50 Canadian. There was only one other cyclist there that night, a Chilean who I’ve forgotten the name of (oops).
But the real event of the evening was Swamp Puppy. Swamp Puppy showed me that I’m a cold and heartless person, and allowed me to experience true heartbreak for the first time.
I met Swamp Puppy the moment I arrived at Refugio Para Cyclistas. He ran out of the neighbour’s yard and greeted me with wild enthusiasm, the kind that is usually reserved for loved ones returning from war, or celebrating the birth of a baby.
I was quite happy to meet Swamp Puppy, although I did notice that he was incredibly dirty (hence the name Swamp Puppy). He was in need of several baths and maybe a haircut.
I settled into the Refugio, and it was then that I and my Chilean roommate realized the door did not latch properly. Swamp Puppy apparently already knew this, because no sooner had we begun to relax did Swamp Puppy burst into the room.
Swamp Puppy wanted to sit on my lap. Swamp Puppy wanted to lick my face. Swamp Puppy wanted to curl deep in my sleeping bag and eat all of my food.
As previously mentioned, Swamp Puppy was dirty. Downright filthy. The kind of puppy your mother would tell you not to touch. He was also very cute – fluffy and scruffy and full of love. But neither me nor my Chilean roommate wanted to share our beds with Swamp Puppy.
So we picked Swamp Puppy up and put him outside. Swamp Puppy cried and cried. It was very sad. We barricaded the door with a small rock.
The rock did not stop Swamp Puppy. He came right back. He threw himself into the room like the Kool Aid Man. He wagged his tail, confident that he’d be allowed to curl up with one of us this time.
We put Swamp Puppy right back out and added some camping equipment to the door barricade. This wasn’t enough to stop Swamp Puppy either, and soon he was once again frolicking around the Refugio.
This went on and on with Swamp Puppy going in and out over and over again, crying every time he was put back outside. I loved Swamp Puppy the same way I love every dog I meet – instantly and deeply. But even this love couldn’t overcome the fact that Swamp Puppy smelled like Wascana Creek (a special Regina scent you may be lucky enought to experience someday).
Finally, the neighbour called Swamp Puppy into their house and solved the problem for us… but I had already learned that I am a Very Bad Person who is apparently more than willing to put a crying puppy outside on a dark and windy night. I can never see myself the same way again.
The next morning, Swamp Puppy exploded into the room at the crack of dawn and we got to do the whole thing again until we left. I headed south and my new Chilean friend headed north. Swamp Puppy stayed in Villa Amengual to await his next victims.
I did a shorter day to Mañihuales, where I found a passable latte and helped an old American man with his phone (I used my teacher voice). The following day, I zipped off down the road in the direction of Coyhaique. I was looking forward to some city living (small, somewhat isolated city living but you take what you can get sometimes).
On the way to Coyhaique, I passed not one but two elaborate roadside shrines. There are a lot of roadside Catholic shrines in Chile and Argentina, but most of them are quite small – like teeny tiny houses on the side of the road, with teeny tiny statues and maybe some flowers and offerings around. But these two were large – one was actually more like an outdoor church.
The first was a shrine to the Virgin of the Waterfall (it was beside a waterfall). A large statue of the Virgin Mary was surrounded by colourful plastic flowers. Off to the side, a covered building was full of burning candles. Further down the road was what I think was a sort of grotto – an outdoor church space with the altar tucked under an overhanging cliff. Both sites were interesting to see – the Catholicism in Chile doesn’t often stand out as much as the religious sites and culture of, say, India or Southeast Asia, but these spaces felt sacred and gave me pause. Getting insight into the spiritual heart of a country is always meaningful and important to me when I travel.
The last stretch to Coyhaique was a gruelling uphill slog on a hill that was mostly paved with bricks. I assume there is a very good reason for the bricks, but they certainly didn’t make cycling any easier, especially with a howling sidewind that wants nothing more than to push you into the ditch.
But I powered through (at least the sun was shining!) and found a hostel in Coyhaique. The hostel was filled with lovely, charming people and being there felt like hanging out with old friends. It was just what I needed after a lot of lonely days on the road.
I met Walter and Silke, a couple from the Netherlands spending several months biking around South America as a sort of extended honeymoon.
I met Ellie, a young woman from Kentucky who was in Patagonia to do a sea kayaking and backpacking course through the National Outdoor Leadership School.
I met Pauline, a Dutch woman who had scuttled her knee hiking a few days earlier and convinced her insurance to pay for several weeks of accommodation because she couldn’t continue her trip as planned (making the best of a bad situation!).
I met Alex, a cyclist from Germany who had been biking since Lima. He was lucky enough to get through all of Peru before the ongoing protests broke out.
Although the hostel was loads of fun, I spent my last night in Coyhaique at an honest-to-goodness nice hotel. Sometimes you just need a few hours in a room by yourself, with a spotless bathroom that is all your own, and a giant soft bed with no people snoring in your immediate vicinity. Treat yourself, y’know?
Before leaving Coyhaique, I joined my friends for a coffee at an excellent cafe run by a mysterious church group. You can get the best latte in Patagonia and buy a book about Jesus at the same time.
Then I set off, past expansive fields and trees that were starting to turn gold with the first hints of autumn. A few hours down the road, I ran into Dimitri from France.
I came across Dimitri a few times on the Carretera Austral, and I want to take a moment to explain what Dimitri is doing, because it’s cool and amazing and important.
Dimitri started his bike trip in Mexico City. He is biking the length of Latin America to raise money and awareness for Huntington’s Disease. He has been meeting with Huntington’s Disease organizations and people affected by the disease throughout his trip, all across Latin America.
Huntington’s Disease is a genetic, degenerative neurological condition. From what I understand, people who carry the gene for the disease will eventually start experiencing the breakdown of nerve cells in their brains – this causes symptoms like changes in behaviour, cognition, and movement. Eventually, the disease progresses to a point where the person cannot live independently and eventually they will pass away. There is no cure.
Dimitri and his family are affected by Huntington’s Disease. When Dimitri found out he had the gene, he decided he wasn’t just going to sit around and wait for the disease to come. He quit his job, sold his belongings, and started to travel the world. After a few years of travel, he decided he wanted to do something for the Huntington’s community, and that’s what inspired this trip. After he reaches Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world, he is going to make a documentary about his experiences. He also has a fundraiser, which you can donate to here:
It would mean a lot to me and, I’m sure, to Dimitri if you could donate. I think what Dimitri is doing is amazing – he really is living life to the fullest. In a few years he’s done more than some people do in their entire lives. Now, he’s doing something to support and bring awareness to a group of people who are experiencing something most of us can only imagine. So anything you can give to help out Dimitri and the Huntington’s Disease community would be fantastic. You can also follow his journey at https://instagram.com/exploreforhuntington?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=
Here is what Dimitri has to say about who he is and what he is working
Who Am I?
My name is Dimitri Poffé, I am 34 years old from France and the creator of the projet”Exploreforhuntington”.
Living with Huntington’s disease from a young age, I lost my dad from Huntington’s disease over 18 years ago. Since 12 years, my sister has also had it.
For myself, being asymptomatic until now, I made the choice, 5 years ago, to get a test and find out whether or not I carried the gene that is responsible for it. The latter turned out to be positive. I learned that I would develop the disease between 35 and 40 years old.
What is Huntington’s disease?
Huntington’s disease is an inherited neurodegenerative disease. The progressive degeneration of brain cells affects the functional abilities of the patient. Result: motor, cognitive and / or psychiatric disorders develop over the course of the pathology.
My project :
I plan to cross all Latin America by bicycle and meet all the Huntington Disease network. The idea is to get to know families, associations, doctors, specialists and connect all of them together and also with the international community. I want to raise awareness for this rare pathology and for all the people who has this condition. I also raise funds through a crowdfunding on “GoFundMe”. I started from Mexico and I will end up in Ushuaia where there’s a last patient to meet.
The second day out from Coyhaique was a part of the Carretera Austral I was really looking forward to – a ride through beautiful mountain scenery, followed by eleven kilometres of cruisy downhill from a viewpoint to Villa Cerro Castillo. Miraculously, the sun was out and the wind was minimal. I ran into Edson from Brazil, who I met in Villa Santa Lucia. The downhill was indeed cruisy and almost unbelievably long. Honestly, the biking on this trip has often felt like a bit of a slog, so 11 kilometres of barely touching a pedal felt like a well-earned reward.
Villa Cerro Castillo lies at the foot of Cerro Castillo, which means Castle Hill, although it’s actually a very large and imposing and spiky mountain. The hike up to the lake on the mountain is on many peoples’ Patagonia bucket lists. I’d only learned about it a few days earlier because my planning skills are sort of subpar, but I was all in. And luckily, it was reopening the next day after being closed for a time due to an inordinate amount of rainfall (had it been raining? Didn’t notice).
I headed out early in the morning with Dimitri and another guy, a male cyclist from Canada. The trail went up and up and up. And up some more. As we climbed above the treeline, the valley spread out below us. We could see Villa Cerro Castillo far below; the road that would carry us further south the following day; and all manner of mountains in the distance. A rainbow arched through the sky, and rain clouds gathered in the distance because of course they did.
We made it to the viewpoint at just the right moment. The cloud cover blew off, and Laguna Castillo glittered in all its psychedelic blue glory. Bit by bit, the fog dissipated further, revealing the glacier perched on the slope above. To the right, mountains stretched off into the distance. We couldn’t see the summit of Cerro Castillo, but it didn’t really matter. Talking to other travellers later, we saw more than almost anyone else who hiked up that day. Sometimes getting up when it’s still dark outside pays off.
When we got back to the village, it poured rain for a while. We checked into a hospedaje. The only bed left for me was on the landing at the top of the stairs, kind of like a reverse Harry Potter situation, but it was still warm and cozy. It had been a really, really good day.
But of course, someone had to go and ruin it. And the “male cyclist from Canada” I had hiked up the mountain with was ready and willing to take on that responsibility.
As I was settling into bed, I got a message on my phone from this guy. I opened it and found… an unsolicited pornographic video. Uh, gross. I think I am safe in saying this is something no woman really wants from a man she just met. So now I will launch into my soliloquy about travelling while female, biking while female, and just existing while female in general.
There are so, so few female cycle tourists compared to how many men there are. I’ve actually met more in South America than I did on my West Coast USA tour, but it’s still only been a handful. Like so many things in life, getting on a bike and pedalling out into the great unknown feels like entering a man’s world.
The question I get asked the most is if I am safe. Almost as frequently, I get this question’s twin – “is it safe out here for a woman all on her own?”
Sometimes I wonder if these are actually the exact same question, but the former leaves the woman part unspoken. It’s assumed by people near and far that, as a woman, I am running some kind of risk by riding a bike long distances, or travelling alone, or travelling at all.
But am I really? Is it more dangerous for me to be travelling than it is for me to stay home? Because of all the many distasteful things that have happened to me because of my gender, most have occurred at home. The first time I ever felt acutely unsafe as a result of being female happened on the street I grew up on.
So maybe I’m safe nowhere. But who is?
There are lots of dangerous things that could happen to me on a bike trip. I could crash. I could get run over. I could get bit by a dog, or get some weird disease, or get heat stroke or hypothermia or whatever, the list goes on. Interestingly, all of those things could also happen to a man. Danger and catastrophe is not unique to the female condition.
So I guess what people are really asking is if I’m safe from men. Either that or they’re assuming my incompetence based on my gender. And generally my answer would be that I’m not incompetent, and yes, I am safe, because the vast majority of men I encounter are lovely and kind and generous. I truly believe that most people are good, and that most of us are just doing our best in a world that can be a really tough place sometimes.
But there’s always a few people lurking around, committed to confirming the suspicions of all those who worry about my safety. And I guess I could stay home, but unless I never left my house again, I would encounter these same types of people no matter where I went. I would suggest that maybe crappy people should stay home instead and work on themselves in an attempt to be less crappy.
I don’t really know what my thesis is here. Maybe that crappy things happen and crappy people exist but that’s no reason to live a life ruled by fear. Humanity contains multitudes, as does the world as a whole, and there’s so much wonder and beauty that outweighs the ugliness.
In spite of people like the aforementioned “other guy,” I would say that travelling by bike makes me believe in a better world. A world where people help each other just because, and where you can see beauty in everything from the smallest cactus to the biggest mountain. Where there are big hills you have to climb and headwinds that bring you to a standstill, and that’s just life. On the other side of that hill could be the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen. There could also be another hill. It happens.
I wish there were more women out here. Hopefully someday there will be. If you’re a woman reading this, jump on a bike. Or go for a hike. Or just stroll around your neighbourhood and pick the five most beautiful tiny things. The world is not an inherently hostile place. Go outside, my friends. Everything is waiting for you.
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