The Flight of the Platypus

The Lagoons of the Santuario de la Naturaleza 2: Laguna Los Ángeles

2008-04-23T19:59:00.001-04:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Saturday, December 29, 2007

A long time has passed since the last article was published on the Flight of the Platypus.

Many things have come to pass. I've been hot, I've been cold; I've been alone and I've made friends. I missed that which is known and I discovered that which is unknown.

After many months of patient waiting, it was time to return to Chile for the holidays.

I got on a plane and left Albuquerque. I set off West.

The Coke had ice in it.

I landed in Phoenix, Arizona. More hours of doing nothing.

I took off again, headed East.

I flew over Albuquerque once more, and landed at Dallas Fort Worth, in Texas. The American Airlines people were offering $800 dollars towards flights within a year, plus a night's stay, to any who would be willing to travel the next day. No, thanks.

I woke up flying over a sea of grey clouds. After breakfast, I was able to recognize where I was.

As a matter of fact, I'm almost certain that these are the Túnel Chico and Túnel Curvo just south of Illapel. We went through them with Rodrigo headed North, and I came back alone, after the 18th of September weekend. I never published the pics from that trip.

We eventually passed by Cerro El Roble. Remember?

A few seconds later, the turnoff to Til Til from Ruta 5. How many times must I have taken that turnoff, on the way to some ride near the Cuesta La Dormida.

And the Polpaico cement plant, where Rodrigo worked for a period.

And then the road to Lampa, where I used to go to watch planes land. And now it's me that's landing.

The bike started on the third kick. I patched a slow leak in the front tyre.

Once that was done, friends were summoned, beer and completos were consumed in great quantities.

The weekend drew near, and a destination was chosen: the Lagoons of the Santuario de la Naturaleza, Version 2.0, sans snow.

In May we had tried to reach these lagoons. We made it, but there was a lot of terrain still to explore.

Our route is shown below.

You can get a better view of things by downloading the Google Earth KMZ, available here.

The yellow track is what we were able to do in May. We were forced to turn back at Laguna Coyara, since the track in the snow we had been following ran out.

The admission fee is $4000 pesos, about 8 bucks. But I think it's worth it if you make the best of it, as we did. For a picnic... not so much.

We passed by the paintball house.

Rodrigo couldn't resist Saturday Morning Fever, and launched into the Macarena.

After that ridiculous episode, we carried on up the trail.

Up and up.

Now here's something we didn't see last time: flowers!

A view towards Santiago. On the right, Cerro Manquehue.

And more flowers!

Endless kilometers of mountainsides. Remember this curve?

No? Here's the pic from last May.

Flowers!!!

And what's that up there, in the sky? The black dot is a condor. The white one...

The three of us went up and up. I parted ways with them eventually: both were going up and up in a spiral, but centered on a now-distant peak. No idea who won: condor or glider.

Rodrigo went on ahead. The bull was not welcoming. (click).

And with that, we reached the antenna/solar panel station .

I took the opportunity to change the main jet (a 135) for a 128. That day we'd be going all the way up to 3500 m.

Here's the view towards Colina. That road that you see in the distance does get to Colina, but it's property of the minera.

As we rested, we heard engines in the distance.

On a previous ride, Rodrigo had discovered an extremely long tunnel. We set off downhill to look for the entrance.

The trail–if you can indeed call it that–was covered in large angular rocks. A particularly treacherous rock managed to launch me off to the side. I landed with my full weight on my right shoulder, as if I were an american football player. Earth 1, Paul 0.

I lay there for a while. My shoulder hurt; a diffuse, general pain. The tendons had probably done their job, and absorbed a large part of the impact. I realised my right foot was still trapped under the bike, with a lot of weight on it.

With a sharp tug I freed my foot. I hadn't even used my new MX boots for more than a couple of hours, and they'd already saved me. It would be the first of many saves on this and other rides.

I finally made it down to the tunnel entrance.

This is what we saw for a full ten minutes:

It would have been nothing but pure and simple monotony, were it not for the water in the tunnel. Sometimes it was small puddles, sometimes it was large puddles. At times it was one long watery trench, some 50 to 100 metres long. It was here, plowing ahead like a tugboat, in 15 to 20 cm deep water, that the engine started complaining. I looked at the trip meter, but I was nowhere near reserve. I cranked the throttle a couple of times, but my headlight was getting dim, yellowish, and the engine sounded deeply unhappy. I downshifted. The bike was shuddering, the exhaust note because muffled and intermittent. Eventually, after a few sad spasms with a light that was no brighter than a candle, the engine shut off.

Hm. Cold water equals cold engine. I put the choke on, and it started up again.

And I finally got out of the tunnel.

... Only to ride into another one, much shorter.

When we emerged, we were on the other side of the mountain. The fuchsia track starts at the antennas, we went down heading West, went into the tunnel, and appeared on the other side.

Yes, thanks:

As a shortcut, and just for the sheer fun of a long, long climb, Rodrigo set off uphill. Audy followed, and then me.

The surface was loose, and I had to stop 3/4 of the way up. Audy got further, and Rodrigo made it all the way to the top. It was steep.

That diagonal ditch is mine. Ah, the joys of a near-bald tyre.

In the distance, cows.

And down there... what's that? A white dot on the trail.

But if it isn't Daniel, Rodrigo's brother.

One by one, we turned and came down.

We followed the main road, back towards the antennas. We met some arrieros and their horses.

And with that, they went on their way. (click)

And so did we.

The last remnants of the snow blanket that so firmly covers this region.

We finally made it to the Laguna del Viento. We had lunch. My sandwich's cheese had melted, and was foamy, from the altitude.

This is what it looked like in May.

We carried on to the Laguna de Coyara. (click)

Amazing how it changes in Summer!

The climb wasn't easy. I dropped the bike on my foot again, but it didn't hurt this time.

Rodrigo had to help Daniel up.

Looking back towards the main road.

Further on, there was no more green to be seen.

Up and up we went.

The colours! The colours!

Rodrigo decided to climb the small tower.

In the distance, looking North-East, we managed to spot another lagoon. Would we be able to reach it?

Well, we had to try, no?

But before that, we tried reaching the high voltage pylons. The main road ended in a landslide, so Rodrigo decided to see how far up the loose slope he could get. Sharp rocks flew everywhere.

He wasn't able to.

We followed another road, always on the hill's ridges. Eventually, we saw that a valley opened up on our left, to the North. We rode down to the crossroads.

A long, wide tongue of snow sat calmly in our way, licking the hills and the valley at the same time. It had been eroded by the wind, and presented us with a beautiful view of its sastrugi.

We left the road, and crossed a rock field. A year ago, this would have been pure testicular torture. Now, I had learned that the best way to confront this type of terrain is to gather speed and let the suspension do its job.

And looking back: (click)

Once on the other side, we carried on up the valley.

Another lagoon!

And these posts? Where will they take us?

Why, to the Laguna Los Ángeles!

We stopped for a rest. The afternoon sun, the hot rocks and the cool breeze were the perfect recipe for a siesta.

But the shadows were growing long, and we had to be on our way.

We took the blue track.

It didn't lead anywhere interesting, so we turned around.

The colours, absolutely incredible.

Rodrigo checks the GPS.

The usual andean afternoon clouds started to appear.

This view reminds me of the yesera near the Baños de Colina. (click)

And looking the other way. (click)

We got back to the antennas again.

As I swapped the main jet once more, Rodrigo and Daniel rested. (click)

It was time to come down again.

The ride back to the main gate of the Santuario seems eternal. I was extremely tired, to the extent that I stopped avoiding rocks on the trail. When that happened, I forced myself to stop and rest.

And we got back to the paintball house again.

It's good to be back in Chile.

Riding in Peñuelas and a Goodbye

2008-04-21T01:57:00.003-04:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Sunday, July 29, 2007

A few months ago Francisco and I went to Peñuelas. We shot a video, and after many months languishing on my external hard drive, I present it to you all, finally edited and completed.

I suggest you select fullscreen mode. You can also download the 145 MB high resolution version in MP4 format here.

I'm writing this from a borrowed computer in Albuquerque, New Mexico, in the United States.

I have no idea what the next post to The Flight of the Platypus will be like. In the meantime, there are other priorities, such as finding a house, obtaining a bicycle, and starting my time as a student and TA.

Worry not, my camera is still with me.

Saludos and good luck to you all. And to me!

d.

Race Day at Leyda 4

2008-04-18T16:19:00.002-04:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Monday, July 16, 2007

It's been a few months since I went to see Karlitos ride in the races at the Autódromo Pacífico Sport, at Leyda.

Just like past times, I took the 210 mm camera (instead of the digital), was allowed into the track area thanks to Karlitos' string pulling, and I spent the afternoon taking pictures.

On that day Will and Norm had come with me, the two fun lads doing the American continent from tip to tip on their BMW F650 GSs. I'd link to their website, but they don't have one. Oh well. We met then with Camilo on the trip to the Carretera Austral, and it just so happened that we reached Santiago before they did.

There are two reasons for not having published these pics sooner. The first is the quantity: 4 rolls of film. Eliminating the pics of low technical quality, I was left with about 100. I can't really put 100 nearly-identical pics in an article, so I went back five or six times to the collection of selected pictures over these past months, trying to whittle it down.

The other reason is that I wasn't too sure what to write about. Karlitos had provided me with some of his own writing for the previous articles, but this time I felt it wouldn't be possible to capture the style of an illustrated narration.

I leave you, then, with almost nothing but the pics.

* * *

Maestro Karlitos. And I mean it when I say maestro: not only was he the 2006 champ of the 400 cc promocional category at Leyda, but he also gives riding lessons to novice and experienced riders (when he's not working in his motorbike workshop/spa).

This was the first race D'Angelo rode the two-stroke Aprilia with its new colour scheme.

I'll never forget Oscar Tarragó's colours, who went down in front of my camera twice in one race

Speaking of going down...

A local favourite, Freddy Valderrama. See how the fiberglass cowling has been scraped away from his lean angle?

* * *

And now, the second half. I hope the noble gentlement of the 400 cc bikes will forgive me, but the bikes racing in this section are the visual candy of the article: the Superbikes category.

Concerning the track performance of the bikes, only a few riders in this category have lap times below those of the 400 cc bikes. There just isn't the drive to squeeze the lowest time possible out of the track; I would imagine it is to avoid taking excessive risks with their bikes.

And time to say goodbye, with Camilo and Cristi, Will and Norm, and Karlitos.

PD: Here's a cutout from an interview that appeared the following week in a local newspaper, El Lider.

Tweaking details on his bike and going over the straights and curves of the San Juan area track, Carlos Traub, current national champion of the 400 cc Promocional category, tells us: "I have been working on the bike in order to continue my pursuit of the category leader (Jorge Berríos), because I hope to beat him today".

Nonetheless he confessed that his goal of becoming champion once more in 2007 was not going to be easy, since "I have a lesser bike, compared to those of my direct rivals, since its engine is completely stock. They have the advantage in the straights, but I catch up in the curves, where I can put my full skill to use."

The "sporting son" of Freddy Valderrama pointed out that he enters into a state of extreme concentration as the day of the race grows near. "I take the time to go over the track and analyze braking points, so as not to overshoot. I think there has to be a union between pilot and bike in order to win a race. Both must become one," commented this lover of speed on two wheels.

El Tabo And El Sauce Hydroelectric Generating Station

2007-12-03T19:15:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Thursday, July 12, 2007

Chico had been bugging us for weeks with the idea of spending a night or two at his house in El Tabo, on the coast. He wanted to set up base there and go off to explore the area around Laguna Verde, Placilla and the rest of Francisco's territories. I wasn't too enthusiastic about it, since I could not remember a winter day on the coast that was not miserable, wet, and grey.

Chico assured me that it would be a nice day in El Tabo, and loaded down with my cold weather gear, we set off one morning down the Ruta 68, soon to turn off onto secondary roads.

And to my surprise the sun did come out after a while, and though the air was cold, it warmed you if it could see you.

We arrived in El Tabo around lunch time. Without warning Chico shot off the coast road and entered a wooded plot of land, passing between two posts and a ditch as if it were his front gate. We'll just have to follow him then.

We weren't headed to his house. As a matter of fact, I have no idea what he had in mind, because there was a small incident that kept us busy for quite a while.

On the edge of a small wooded area, under large pine trees, there was a short and steep climb, no more than 4 metres high in total. On the left, a smooth and gradual track up around it. On the right, a more interesting steep section. Chico roared up, and at the highest point, turned abruptly left. I took the more gentle slope, and stopped to have a look around. The steep climb was, in fact, no more than a large mound of compacted dirt, behind which lay an equally steep drop, and at the base, a rather large swamp.

By then Rodrigo was speeding up the slope at full speed. At the top his helmet got whacked hard by a branch, disorienting him, and he just continued over the other side, making a beeline for the muck and plants. Here's the result:

And this is what we had to do to get him out.

We hadn't even arrived at Chico's house and Rodrigo was already covered in stinking black muck.

Alternative one: take it like a real biker, ignore the smell, macho-style.

Alternative two:

We had lunch, left a few things at the house, and went out for a ride.

That day we wouldn't have time to get to Laguna Verde, so we entertained ourselves on the wooded trails around El Tabo.

Some parts were easier than others.

On the way back we stopped at the supermarket. I waited for them outside, with the bikes. I saw, though the window, how they came up to the cash register to pay, how Chico suddenly burst out laughing, how the lady blushed and looked acutely embarrassed, and how Rodrigo started making nervous gestures.

When they came out with the bags of things for dinner they were still laughing, in tears. Rodrigo had innocently asked asked the cashier for the price of a candy bar whose name can roughly be translated as "Yours". The question he posed to her was something sounding very much like "Hey, so how much does yours cost?"

Armed with chorizos, bread and the other things you need for a good asado, we set off to buy some expensive and damp firewood. Somewhere in Chico's small kitchen we found a bottle of "Ron Dorado", so-called golden rum, a substance that was probably concocted by mixing pure ethanol, sugar and food colouring.

The next day was sunny, beautiful.

We loaded everything on the bikes, since we'd be going over to Francisco's house to unload before our ride.

Francisco took us to the aqueduct and the waterfall.

A few minutes after walking through the forest, we reached the waterfall.

All of this was a sort of guided tour for Chico's benefit, since he had never been on one of Francisco's outings.

We stopped by the small lagoon and valve hut that regulated the flow of water down the pipes to the El Sauce power plant. This tunnel comes from the Tranque La Luz, and starts at the valve towers you might remember from previous rides.

Everything set to go, and I get a flat front tyre. Fantastic. See the nail?

I wonder how old this tack is?

We rode on to the Tranque La Luz, to the valve towers.

We crossed the dam wall, and continued into the eucalyptus forests.

A short distance further on, the Tranque's overflow chute. It was no longer possible to get close, since all the trees had been felled, and the slope was too slippery.

On and on we go.

And thus we reached our final destination, a place that was new to me: El Sauce Hydroelectric Generation Station.

Not so many years ago, a storm made the river overflow and change its course, undermining part of the building.

The ambiance was strange. It was the end of the day, we were surrounded by black trees, dark copses, and in the middle of the steep gully, these abandoned buildings, crumbling to pieces.

We went in.

Everything was destroyed, set in a state of maximal disorder. Nothing had been spared the fidgeting hands of the vandals and copper thieves. You might think they'd respect the instrument panels at least (possibly the same ones that were used when the Station was first set in motion, in 1909), each delicately mounted on slabs of white marble, right?

Nothing, they showed respect for nothing. The marble crunched under our boots. The human scum had destroyed it all.

The bathroom. On the ground, pieces of the mirror.

The generators, gutted for their copper.

Everything that could be broken, was broken. Everything that was not bolted to the floor, and some things that were, had been stolen. Everything that contained even the tiniest amounts of copper had had its inanimate throat slit. The human-formed rats had been here, and had done the only thing they know how to do.

Broken, everything broken.

We went outside. In there, standing beside the hulking carcasses of the generators, one felt a feeling of direct, immediate sadness. Out here, it was more a sense of sad melancholy, such as one might feel standing in the garden of someone who has just passed away.

Ironically the two orange trees were heavy with sweet, juicy fruit. They had surely not been ripe by the time the rats came to take it all away.

We climbed down to the tunnel running beneath the Station, where the water was dumped after impelling the generator's paddles.

The water that powered the Station came from the Tranque La Luz. The Tranque has three main features: a sluice gate, which we saw, and the valve towers, which controlled the flow of water into an underground tunnel, a few hundred metres long. This tunnel opened out onto a small lagoon on the side of a hill, and we had been there also. Perhaps the lagoon allows for some sediment to leave the water before the next step: if the small hut's valves were opened, water would roar down the twin metal tubes to the gully floor. It was there channelled out these nozzles and on to the Pelton wheels.

The paddles on a Pelton wheel are curiously shaped: a double spoon facing the jet of water. If they were flat paddles, the water would change its trajectory more or less 90º after impact. This would result in half the momentum transfer than if they made the water come back the way it came. The larger the water's change of momentum, the larger the impulse transferred to the wheel.

The rest of the buildings around the main generating station had been completely destroyed. The roofs, the floors, the windows, everything. It was as if the human rats had been frenzied by the smell of copper. I wouldn't be surprised if they had also tried to rip the cabling out of the walls, surely screaming like excited apes.

Gentle readers, you're just seeing the Central El Sauce for the first time, you have no point of reference. I will concede that it is an old building, but just a few years ago, it was actually operating.

As Francisco told us on another ride to Laguna Verde:

El Tranque La Luz was built by the Chilean state in the year 1907 to provide electricity to the trams and some houses of Valparaíso. It was the second hydroelectric power plant built in Chile, and the first one to use alternators. It operated until 1996, and the Tranque La Luz, and all land surrounding it, is property of Inmobiliaria Curauma, a housing development company.

I don't know who owns the actual plot of land where the Central is. Last year I decided to explore. I took some pictures, I even recorded some video. Currently it is taken care of by a solitary old man, and you can no longer gain access to the area. The machinery is in perfect condition.

The old man has gone, that much is clear. When he left, the place started being torn apart. When Francisco told me about his explorations, and how the old man didn't let people in, I felt irritated that, as explorers, we would be unable to get to know part of Chile's history. I now understand the old man's raison d'être. There was no alternative: besides curious welldoers, there were invisble hordes of human rats lurking in the shadows, stalking the buildings. They'd come in old cars, Fiat 600s, in smoking pick-up trucks, and they'd take it all, destroy it all, they'd take it back to their huts, their burrows.

I wonder if the old man dreamed of the destiny of his workplace and home. I wonder if he woke up at night, all machinery silent under heavy years of idleness, and lie there, on his back, thinking.

What was the Central like before? Francisco has pics.

Night fell, and we walked back to the bikes.

Francisco had us over for tea at his house, where we had some of his mum's fantastic home-made jam. After that, we set off home.

Despite all my cold weather gear, I froze. Something inside me just couldn't get warm.

Exploring The Hills Around Lampa

2007-12-03T16:05:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Sunday, July 01, 2007

Chico took Rodrigo and I for a spin on an enduro circuit near Lampa yesterday. We wandered around here and there.

First, a hillclimb.

And now, coming down.

Now me.

"I hope he doesn't have a fall" mumbles Chico. Thanks for the confidence buddy!

They went up the slope one more time, and I went after them, but not before having a pee. I set off with a minute or two of difference, and by the time I reached the first hilltop, they were nowhere to be seen. No, hold on– there they are! Way up there. So up I went.

I got there, and couldn't see them anywhere. Up and up I went, hilltop after hilltop, crest after crest, until I decided it would be prudent to stop. I had no idea what was up ahead, and so I turned around.

What a sight!

I called Rodrigo. They were down on the flat, and Chico said it was time to leave, since we had been admitted thanks to his winks and smiles at the girl minding the gate. Hm, this is going to be complicated. I started down, but obviously took the wrong turn. They weren't there. I rode back to the gate, and guess who was flirting with the girl again.

"Want to see an XR400 jump?" asked Chico.

That was the first try.

I kept egging him on. Come on Chico! After all, it wasn't my bike. :-)

The next pic is a still frame from a video I recorded. Note how the XR400's suspension is completely compressed. You can clearly jump on this bike, but not with factory suspension, and not in a way that will capture the public's attention and fascination...

And after that? Well Chico remembered an outing to a mine he had done a few years ago. One had to pass under some barbed wire near the foothills behind the small town of Lampa.

We rolled slowly down the paved road, looking for a way in. Finally we went off the vesy steep right shoulder, passing a pile of some fifty used diapers (I shit you not), and went through a large circular rain tunnel beneath the road. Once on the other side, we were able to continue on our way unhindered.

We didn't find the mine, but we did find a small jump, and spent quite some tome playing around, seeing who could go furthest.

Chico:

Yours truly.

Rodrigo:

And then the last remaining light faded, hunger got the best of us, and we rode home.

A Different Route To Baños De Colina

2007-12-03T00:36:00.001-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Saturday, June 30, 2007

Legend has it that it is possible to ride up past the end of Av. Las Condes, as if you were going up to the Farellones ski centres, and then buzz up into the cordillera via the Ermita de Las Condes, riding on beautiful mountain trails.

It is also said that the gate is guarded by a cranky and fickle old woman. Some bikers manage to win her over, some are sent packing.

Run, Rodrigo and his brother, Chico and I presented ourselves outside the gate one bright and early morning, hoping to be let through. A young lad came out to greet us. Despite our multi-man persistence, he did not let us pass. Well into this exchange, he revealed that the animals would be coming down the trail; they were being herded down for the winter. Rodrigo tried seducing him with promises of gold and forty virgins, but he didn't even blink.

And what to do then? We talked quite a while about alternatives. We finally decided to go to the Cajón del Maipo once more; this time we'd try to get to the Valle de la Engorda, near Baños de Colina. So we set off.

A beautiful day.

Chico loves fossils, so we stopped at a place that sold them.

A short detour to the waterfall.

You can walk behind it.

An amazing variety and quantity of moss adorned the stone wall.

And we went on our way.

Somewhere around Baños Morales we crossed the river, and bounced around the tiny gathering of houses until we spotted the old road to the Valle de la Engorda.

On the other side of the valley, Cerro Catedral.

This road was no longer in use, and you could tell.

Some of the fallen rocks were quite large.

We carried on our way, up and up, at times riding carefully alongside steep dropoffs, wondering when the snow would cut us off.

There were a few losses of balance in the snow. The longer the rider's legs are, the less falls he has in the snow. In my case, I dropped the bike only once, mere metres from the spot where we would be forced to turn back.

Rodrigo had an advantage: his bike was fitted with knobblies. He managed to break away for a while.

This snow was different to that we encountered on the ride to the Santuario de la Naturaleza. Here, it was much harder, at times covered in a thick layer of ice, and puddles were generally just flat sheets of ice.

Rodrigo's impression of Han Solo in carbonite.

It was time to stop: the bikes simply did not have enough traction in the snow. Advancing a metre or two took minutes on the ice.

I walked up ahead to see what there was. Ice, ice, nothing but ice.

Down we went, and we hooked up with the wider and newer road to the Valle de la Engorda, and that branches off the main road some 3 km before Baños de Colina.

There was a bit of light left, so we went off to investigate the plaster mine, the same one I discovered a few months ago.

The mine had ceased all operations for the winter, and the main access road had a large pile of dirt dumped across it. Covered in snow, it was hard to determine exactly what its shape and composition were.

I gathered speed, and tried getting over it. My bike got stuck halfway. Rodrigo gathered speed, rammed it, and got stuck. Chico grumbled something about this being child's play, and...

A nice set of three asshats decorating the pile of dirt and snow.

We trampled down a section, and managed to get over.

Snow eventually cut us off, so we went over to the Baños de Colina.

And there, as we chatted in the fading light, a cometocino landed on my mirror, and had a look at us.

It goes without saying that it was really fucking cold. The lower half of my jeans was stiff with ice; it felt like cardboard. When we got to the San José de Maipo petrol station, Chico pointed out my mini-stalactites.

Cold but happy, we rode home.

The Mines Of Cuesta La Dormida

2007-11-30T01:43:00.001-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Friday, June 08, 2007

The Cuesta La Dormida is one of my favourite destinations. A cuesta is a road that climbs a hill, in this case the Cuesta La Dormida is one of the few roads over the Cordillera de la Costa, the coastal mountain range, the last ripple of the Andes before the coastal flats.

Just before you start the endless well-paved twisties, theres a gathering of empanada shops. Ah, empanadas, how I long for thee. The perfect road food: hot, filling, tasty, they come in several varieties, dirt cheap (two empanadas and a can of coke will set you back $2–and have you burping onion for the rest of the day :D ), and they can be eaten standing up, in full gear. Available: most everywhere in Chile, on Saturdays and Sundays.

We stuffed a few empanadas into our face, and set off up the wonderful, wonderful switchbacks.

Before we start, here's a few words about Rodrigo, also known as Ben Kenobi on the Adach.cl forum. When I met him, he owned a VFR 400, an NC30, on which he started joining me on more and more dirt road rides. After a few months of this, he came out of the closet and bought himself a Transalp. That way he would have the best of both worlds: good power, and an enjoyable dirt experience. As time went by, our rides together became more and more infrequent: the roads I explored became harder and harder, and he really didn't want to put his bike through it. Meh. Sissy!

A few weeks ago he bought a Yamaha TTR-250 Open Enduro as a second bike, so as not to be left behind. It was about time!

A very pretty bike, in great condition. Price, state and year similar to my XR, when I bought it.

We went off to Cuesta La Dormida, with the express purpose of exploring the mines in the area.

A fantastic autumn day. In the distance, the cordillera. And what's that poking up above the horizon?

Aconcagua, South America's highest mountain.

A dude on a KLE came with us.

We reached the mine on the East side of the hill, but it had been closed off with a door and a padlock. I hiked up a short distance, and found another mine, this time no door.

I called the others, and Rodrigo scrambled up the hill.

We explored several mines, but they all came to an end after 20, 30 metres, with very few branches.

This one had caved in, and there was a busted door closing off one of the branches.

None of these mines were active, all of them abandoned.

Apparently they were gold mines: there were veins of quartz and pyrite.

After getting muddy and exploring several mines we went around to the Western side of the hill. I forgot to set the camera back to ISO 50 instead of ISO 400, and as a consequence these pics are extremely noisy.

Hey, what's that digger doing up there? It probably caused the landslide that cut it off.

At the end of the road there was a rather strange vehicle: squat and wide, an articulated body, and a big bucket on the front. It was clearly used for extraction purposes in the mines.

I climbed into the cabin. This thing's made for midgets!

We had fun throwing rocks down the hillside.

And then I went up to the digger.

Everyone else went back to Santiago, but Rodrigo and I pottered around the area. I showed him the trails I'd discovered last year. We even found the spot where I became a devout follower of the Church Of The Toilet Roll You Forgot You Had.

After that, we went back up to the top of the cuesta, and waited for the sunset.

And with that, we went back to Santiago.

The Frozen Lagoons of the Santuario de la Naturaleza

2007-11-29T15:54:00.001-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Years ago I went on an outing to the Santuario de la Naturaleza, Nature's Sanctuary, a large nature reserve encompassing gullies and valleys in the North-East foothills of Santiago. I went with a girl I had met recently. We thought the idea of a picnic sounded nice, so I took crisps, soft drinks and similar things, and she took care of the sandwiches. I would have preferred it if each brought their own food; I am usually quite finicky about this issue. We went in the car, I remember it was a nice day, though a bit cold.

I had just bought my first motorbike a few days ago and, a few days before the ride, the heavy leather jacket I'd wear for a year and a half, until I was knocked down by a floozie driving a Fiat Palio. I wore it with shyness and awkwardness, for the very same reasons that would make me very fond of it later on.

Out of the cooler came some sandwiches in whole sliced bread. Apparently they were veggie sandwiches. She had placed large, juicy slices of tomato in them. The bread was now damp and soggy, a disgusting mush in some places. Making an extreme effort, and filling my mouth with crisps to give it some texture, I managed to eat half a triangle.

That night, around 4 am, I woke up with the unpleasant certainty that I'd be puking my guts out in about thirty seconds. And so I did. I talked on the big white telephone until I was blue in the face. With white knuckles, I drove the porcelain truck. Was there no end to this?

It did end, half an hour later, when the stomach cramps started, pain that I wish for no one. Day broke. That morning, I sent the girl–studying to be a nurse–a message. Short and to the point, I told her what my symptoms were, and I asked if there was something I could take for the cramps.

That was my last communication with her. Just thinking about her existence churned–and to this day churns–my stomach.

Anyway; Chico, Run and I went up to the Santuario last Sunday. Our destination: the small lagoons some 50 km north, as the crow flies, in the middle of the cordillera itself. This was the route.

First, a view that includes part of Santiago.

And here'd the route itself. I drew it patiently by hand. You can download the Google Earth .kmz here.

José Antonio (Run) took his camera, and kindly let me include some of his pics here. You can see the rest of them on his blog.

We set off at 11 am from the YPF petrol station at the end of Av. Las Condes. Past the park ranger's hut at the entrance, and up a short dirt road on the left side of the gulley. On our right, the abandoned house used for paintball matches, and up we went, following Chico, on a road full of angular and loose stones. First stop, to adjust Chico's handlebar, and to take the otter for a walk, as a friend of mine likes to say.

I heard, over my engine's noise, that other bikes were coming up from behind. I was going slowly: the track was no more than a narrow goat path, and I didn't want to make a mistake so early on in the ride.

I went over to one side and let them pass. It was at least three large-displacement KTM thumpers. They were going at it hard, fast. Chico said they were most likely training.

We met them further on:

A while later, we reached the first rest stop.

And there we met up with two other bikes, father and son. After some pictures and stretching our legs, the KTMs roared past again:

From time to time the sun shone through brightly, and sometimes it hid behind a layer of high clouds.

I would have preferred a completely clear day, but oh well, so it goes.

And on we went, riding on narrow and very narrow trails, their surface either compacted dirt or loose angular stones.

The trail was long, very long. It followed the eternal folds and curves of the hillsides. Can you see it in the distance?

Sometimes Chico would go on ahead, and we'd catch up a few seconds later.

Despite having climbed a lot, we were still in the midst of the haze and damp seen at lower altitudes.

Eventually the show started, with some patches here and there; nothing serious at first.

We broke off from the road, following an easy trail over the hilltops.

The only difficulty was a small climb. Up went Chico, then me, and then Run, who had to do a second (faster) attempt. Finally, the father and son.

The track became narrow, with snow at either side. It was not a good place to be rolling on street tyres, particularly since we had the hillside on our right, but we passed without a hitch.

At the end of the trail, we came upon a large flat area, and then found a wide dirt road. A dirt road? Up here?

And, on a nearby hilltop, this antenna station.

You could see roads going down to the Valle Central. Over there, in the distance, is Colina, lost in the haze and smog.

Instead of taking the main road, we took a secondary one. The sign was there to announce the blast times, but it was blank.

And now the snow encroached the trail. See that dot riding up the road?

That dot is Chico.

Waiting for Run.

It was cold, and at times white wind blew across the trail

There's Run.

Beautiful textures of rocks and snow.

The sections of trail covered by snow became more and more frequent. We were able to cross them thanks to a trail of compacted snow. Perhaps it was the KTMs a few days ago.

Despite all of Chico's experience, nothing could make up for his short height and a tall XR. In snow, there is no alternative: it is absolutely necessary to use your feet constantly to keep the bike upright.

And if your feet can't reach the ground easily...

This little slope gave me trouble. I stared and stared at it. I walked the bike down, with Chico and Run's help.

The son had no problem at all.

Riding on snow is tiring. Despite my anti-fog faceplate, there were times when I had to open it, since I could hardly see a thing. Panting from the altitude and the effort of wrestling the handlebars, we crossed snow drift after snow drift, until we reached the first frozen lagoon.

On the ice, stones, surely launched by curious riders.

Father and son decided to stay, and we carried on up.

More snow, deeper, harder.

After a while Run decided to go back to the first lagoon. He was tired of the snow.

And we eventually reached the second one.

It was the end of the track in the snow, and we could go no further. It was also time to go back. The clouds were rolling in, and the patches of sunlight were ever more infrequent.

An incredible quiet. Chico's goggles knocked his gas tank rhythmically in the breeze. That, and the crunch of snow under my boots, were the only sounds in that stillness that high mountain scenes have.

We walked towards he lagoon. I stepped on snow between the llaretas, and my boot became instantly filled with icy water: under the snow, there were deep puddles. Fantastic.

Chico was eager to walk on the ice, but it would have been unwise for many reasons. So he had to content himself with a little island.

And how thick is the ice here, anyway?

Cold, after having had some large cookies, we walked back to the bikes.

Back to the first lagoon, and there was Run, huddled against a rock. He assured us that he was not that cold, and not that bored. We started our descent.

A few kilometres from the antennas, Chico and Run went on ahead. I had stopped for a picture, or something similar. I started after them, and was going at a good lick of speed, coming down a relatively wide trail, with angular rocks and mud and snow in parts. As these things usually go, I crossed the centerline, to go from the right track to the left one. I must have been doing about 30 km/h, perhaps less, perhaps more. Honestly, I have no clue. The front wheel went out suddenly. I stuck with the bike, and used it as a sled until it stopped. This is confirmed by a 30 cm ditch dug by the left handguard. Acerbis Multiplo T, I love you.

My right leg, however, was not as lucky. My trouser leg was pushed up, and when the bike and I came to rest, I realised that my calf was resting on the exhaust header pipe. It hurt, though not badly. The top layer of skin came off instantly; it looked like a large graze more than a burn. The burned are was pink, but didn't look too bad.

I took the time to remove the detached skin, take out my first aid kit (first time I had one with me, and I'll never leave home without it again) and applied burn cream that I miraculously found in there, I joined up with the others at the antennas, and we rode down.

It was a good long time before we reached the first rest stop. I put some more burn cream on, and covered it with gauze. It wasn't looking so nice any more.

After having a drink of water, eating a sandwich and tending to my burn, I felt much better. We came down fast, though it was surely slow and relaxed for Chico.

When there was no more than half an hour left 'till the Santuario's entrance, I hit a large rock head on. The front wheel came up, I flew up into the air, the bike bucked and skidded all over the place, and I just assumed I was going down. For a few wild seconds, I saw myself on a straight trajectory towards a tree, but as more and more wild seconds ticked by, I still found myself on the bike, and not on the ground. When I realised I had managed to stay in control, I was immensely happy. I looked into the wing mirror, but Run hadn't seen me, and neither had Chico. Damn it! I'm sure it looked fantastic.

We reached the YPF at the top of Av Las Condes after dark; all of us tired and dusty, me with a soaked boot and a nice big burn on my calf.

Second Mass Demonstration "For A Fair Tag"

2007-11-28T18:48:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Saturday, May 19, 2007

Last week, on Saturday, some 4000 motorcyclists met to protest the highway operator's decision to begin charging motorcycles an unfair toll to use Santiago's new urban highways.

Things didn't stop at that: throughout the week, small groups of between 20 and 30 motorbikes created wall-to-wall "plugs" moving at no more than 30 km/h, on every single urban highway in Santiago, morning and night, at rush hour. This was Thursday night, on Américo Vespucio Norte, pausing before turning around to go back the other way.

This created utter chaos. We started getting airtime on the news. Predictably, journalists did not bother to ask why this was happening, beyond a simplistic "they don't want to pay".

Neither the highway operators, the concesionarias, nor the government lifted a finger to advance the issue. A second mass demonstration was held, this time on a Friday night, at rush hour, the night before a long weekend.

We met at the same location as last time. I met Nazareo, the man that bought my XR 125 L. He has somehow fallen into the rôle of an organizer and coordinator of the motorcycle resistance movement, along with a few others chosen more or less at random by fate and a strong motivation.

When it came time to leave, the air became almost unbreathable.

Several minutes passed without incident, rolling along at a very slow speed, when suddenly we stopped. I filtered forward in the column to figure out what had happened. I saw the driver of a red car and a motorcyclist talking with a Carabinero. But why had we stopped? This should not have happened. If someone stays behind, he stays behind: the caravan must continue on its way. Instead, it seems that a club took it upon themselves to stop everyone and wait. At the head of the interrupted column, a Carabineros BMW motorcycle, stopped sideways. Was it really the club that decided to cut the column?

After a long wait, we carried on.

"TRAFFIC SLOW DUE TO MOTORCYCLISTS DEMONSTRATION"

Here's Chico. You'll remember him from the ride to Lagunillas.

I also met the same highway service crew motorcyclist that rode with us the other night. For him, it was just another day at the job. He commented that he found our demands to be reasonable, particularly those of changing the impact barriers that line the hundreds of kilometres of the autopistas, so they didn't act as guillotines in case of an accident. He has seen so many motorcycle accidents end in a very bad way that riding that big bike, for him, is no enjoyable task, no fun at all.

Most of the overhead display panels gave objective and useful information, but one of the autopistas decided to announce "SLOW TRAFFIC BECAUSE OF MOTORCYCLISTS FAULT". Quite professional, wouldn't you say?

As we rode under the billing portals, most everyone gave them the finger, grabbed their crotch or did something else.

Polo and girlfriend.

DanielR.

The next day, Nazareo told me that two guys on enduro bikes had come right up to one of the jeeps leading the caravan. "Stop! You've gotta stop!". They didn't offer any explanation, they were just very excited. Nazareo came up to them, and told them that he had realised that they were plainclothes cops. With that, they sped off, and didn't rear their heads again. This has been commented quite a bit on the forums. It has been put forth that this type of infiltration is not done without authorization from high up, from the government, which would indicate that there is no real desire to resolve the situation.

I rode ahead to film the whole caravan. First part.

Second part.

Another point where we stopped.

By then there were three groups, because the caravan had been cut in two parts. On one hand, it is a pity that people did not follow the organisers' indications. On the other, three groups create more traffic jams than just one.

The next day we found out that one asshole trying to do a wheelie in the middle of the caravan came down on another bike. As the injured party's father said on the motonet.cl forum, there are some people that have nothing but shit for brains.

This was the last total stop. By then, thanks to all our turning and backtracking and cloverleafing, I was completely and absolutely disoriented. I had no idea where I was, nor in which direction I was headed.

We went around this whole cloverleaf at least one time.

I've seen this bike several places. Last time was the Motonet.cl mass event at Las Salinas, last year.

Towards the end of the night, the idea was to ride to Mersán, a giant place that (apparently) serves as a land port and cargo storage area, and as a good place for legal sprint races and drifting. The caravan was completely fractioned, and those leading our segment carried on past the turnoff, completely lost. I followed DíasDePlaya.

And eventually we got to Mersán. Not more than 150 bikes, all parked between two large warehouses, a mobile hot dog stand, a platform with lights and a loudspeaker system and that's about it. What a depressing place. I queued for a long time to get a hot dog, and meanwhile, some did sprints, burnouts or stunts. There was even a 400cc speedbike doing a burnout in a circle of burning fuel. I'm sorry, that's just too crass for my taste. I ate my hot dog and went home.

First Mass Demonstration Against The 'Tag'

2007-11-28T02:37:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Saturday, May 12, 2007

A few years ago, construction and operation rights for new urban highways in Santiago were handed over to a few corporations. The promise to all was that traffic congestion would be reduced, travel times would be slashed down to mere minutes versus large parts of an hour, and that safety on the road would increase.

Fast forward to the present, and Santiago now sports four new autopistas urbanas, urban highways:

Autopista Central - Running North/South through the middle of the city, it's the old Ruta 5, also known as the Pan-American highway.
Costanera Norte - A ballsy project that actually worked: An underground urban highway, crossing Santiago's north end from East to West, with a large section of it running under the Mapocho river.
Américo Vespucio Norte (Vespucio Norte Express) - The northern section of Santiago's ringroad.
Américo Vespucio Sur (Autopista Vespucio Sur) - The south section.

A telepay scheme was crafted, and radiofrequency billing tags were handed out for free to car owners. Portals were set up along the highway, and users were charged according to the number of portals they crossed, the pricing of each segment, and the time of day.

The highways are indeed a pleasure to drive and ride on. They have a proper team of emergency services, emergency phones every certain distance, clear markings and (for the most part) a good design.

When the concession was granted by the government, no one thought to mention motorcycles. This is one of those typical oversights that rear their head a few years down the road when someone realises that this oversight is actually potential income.

The highway operators started making noises about charging motorcycles for using the highways. In the following weeks, a lot of FUD was spouted to eager and unquestioning news reporters about the "illegality" of bikes not paying for using the highways.

Us, we just watched it from a distance. A few forum posts here and there trying to spurr us to action were met with apathy and a "meh, it'll blow over, like everything else" attitude.

Well, it didn't. The operators began testing smaller electronic tags for motorcycle use, all the while repeating the line that "motorcycles must pay the same amount as cars".

This was the key point: while most of us found the idea of paying for the highways appropriate, it was the amount we were being required to pay that we disagreed with.

First, because not a single driver in Santiago is happy with the pricing scheme used on the autopistas urbanas. They are extremely expensive, are often the only way to get from point A to point B, a considerable number of citizens cannot avoid them when leaving or returning to their home, and there is no way of entering or leaving Santiago without paying. This applies to vehicles coming from other cities, who must buy a "day pass" or face stiff fines for not carrying an electronic tag.

On top of that, we were being asked to pay the same as a car, something unheard of in Chile. The only logic under which it was understandable was that in which milking administrative oversights for your own profits is a priority. And to add insult to injury, we were being asked to pay for the device.

So what did we do? We got mad. And took to the streets.

Saturday 12th May, 2007
23:54

By Paul Blackburn

SANTIAGO.- More than 4000 motorcyclists gathered today in a long caravan to protest against the so-called "tag", an electronic billing device, that has become an icon of the discontent caused by the urban highway operators' intentions of implementing unfair and abusive charges for motorcycles.

Their demands included a tiered pricing scheme for motorcycles, free delivery of the tag, highway emergency services that take motorcycles into account, the use of non-slip road markings and the re-design of impact barriers, currently posing a lethal risk to motorcyclists involved in an accident. This last point echoes that of mass demonstrations in other countries, such as Spain.

The caravan's meeting point was the parking lot of the Lider supercenter, at the intersection of the General Velásquez and Américo Vespucio urban highways.

Under police supervision, motorcyclists began their journey going north on Américo Vespucio Norte. The caravan stopped several times, completely blocking the passage of other vehicles. Carabineros motorcyclists forcefully freed the left lane in some segments to allow cars and trucks to pass.

Upon reaching the La Pirámide sector, they stopped again, under the curious gaze of the workers constructing the tunnel that will soon cross Cerro San Cristóbal from side to side. The motorcyclists continued up Autopista Costanera Norte, creating kilometres of backed up traffic in the underground sections. They then emerged to the surface, passed the Centro Cultural Estación Mapocho, and entered the Autopista Central, headed south.

It was here, near the Toesca exit, that all traffic was completely paralyzed for approximately 25 minutes.

Once the stop was over, they continued South once more, eventually reaching their starting point.

A grey, grey day, and air quality indicators nearly off the scale. This is where we met (clicky clicky).

There were many bikes yet to come.

There was good organization: all bikes were segregated according to style.

Jano and Kary went to get some food in the Lider, so Camilo and I re-decorated his bike.

Everyone had covered their license plates, most using black electrical tape or the very flyers that were being handed out. This, however, is probably the most original method I saw that day.

This is where we stopped. It was havoc back there. The Panamerican Highway was choked off for nearly half an hour. People looked down from street level, and said hi.

Camilo.

A Goldwing and Casi's 100 cc Hero Honda Passion.

Let us hope this achieves something.

Part two continues here.

My Camera

2007-11-26T13:27:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Thursday, May 10, 2007

One of the most frequent questions people ask about the site and the pictures is What camera do you use?

Well then, in honour of that faithful Canon Powershot A85 (4 megapixels, 3x optical zoom), I'll write this short article.

It has been with me everywhere. It has never failed, despite having ridden thousands of kilometres in a dusty pouch on the handlebars. It fits perfectly there, between the instrument panel and the throttle's cables. The panel is mounted on rubber grommets, and thanks to the cables and the pouch itself, the camera is perfectly cradled. It is not free from vibrations, however, and the polished plastic and worn markings are a testament to this.

It still has the screen protector on it, though it's peeling off. The aluminium ring around the lens is dented (my passenger inadvertently released it and dropped it onto the road somewhere in the Cajón del Maipo). I think a car ran over it or something. It still fits perfectly though.

The mode selector wheel is almost illegible now.

What is amazing is that after all this, the camera still works. After the use and abuse it's been put through, it still takes great pics.

What would I look for in a new camera? I know it's impossible: a wider lens, but keeping the same small form factor. A more sensitive sensor, less susceptible to noise. More megapixels? A few here and there, but it's not vital.

So, as you see, you don't need a wonder-camera.

Another question I get is What program do you use to process your images?

Rather than answering what program I use, it is more enlightening to show my processing workflow.

And that, then, is how I publish my pics. It takes quite a few steps, but it gets the job done.

Enduro in Lagunillas

2007-11-21T14:39:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Sunday, May 06, 2007

A few days after the previous ride to Termas del Plomo I went back, this time with DanielR on his beautiful '96 XR250R, my bike's twin. He had taken the whole thing to pieces, carefully restoring anything that needed attention, and painted it a striking bright red. It really did look very nice. On that ride, I didn't take many pics. In fact, I only took one.

There I met Chico, riding an XR400R, an enduro rider who had been a part of the Chilean pro enduro circuit for years. We chatted, and after the ride, we agreed on the possibility of going out for a spin somewhere.

And that's what we did last Saturday. The day started out ugly but improved gradually. We went up the road towards Lagunillas, and then made our way up the hillside.

After a short climb in and out of espinos, rocks and tight, tight grooved trails, we came across a dirt road. We stopped, and I took some pics.

We pushed on, following the road. It led to the first local hilltop, the first of many, many more. In the distance you can see our goal, Lagunillas Ski Centre.

There were cellphone antennas on the top of the hill. That would explain why I had great reception that other time I went to Lagunillas.

Most of the pics are of Chico on the XR400R, resting, or doing something. Besides the mountains and the hills in the distance, there wasn't much to photograph.

The route we were following would take us more or less from the low hilltops, near the antennas, to the higher ones, and eventually, to the Ski Centre.

There were flat areas, where we followed animal tracks or motorbike trails, always narrow, mostly covered with loose stones, but nothing too unpleasant. Every now and then we'd pass by large areas beside the trail that looked like they had been attacked by a horde of gophers on speed. The holes and mounds were so numerous that the ground just gave way under the bike. Luckily I only got stuck once in one of those zones.

The other predominant terrain feature were, naturally, hills and slopes. Riding up a hill on a bike is a no-brainer if you're on a nice, hard trail. Even if the surface is relatively loose, it's not too bad. But when you're above the snowline, and the whole hillside is covered in vegetation-induced ondulations (hiding rocks, loose earth and other nasties), riding gets quite hard, particularly for the off-road novice like myself.

Chico sitting on a rock, and in the distance, the trees and houses of Lagunillas.

Sometimes it was just a matter of holding on tight, and you could ride up sitting down. Most of the time, however, sitting down meant a guaranteed fall. Given the slope, the correct posture was not just to stand on the pegs, but to be positively hanging off the handlebars, since the bars were almos directly above the pegs.

In the distance, the cellphone antennas.

And if I did manage to keep my body against the fuel tank and my chest as far forward as prudent, I then had to contend with the extremely irregular terrain, what they call the calamina–transverse ripples every metre or less created by plants and endless weather cycles–and the constant tendency of the front wheel to be knocked off course, or plain launched into the air. After each uphill run I'd be left exhausted and sweating, not just from the effort, but also from the concentration and preoccupation brought on by having to face a giant and endless slope.

And if I fall? And if the bike falls with its wheels uphill, and the oil starts pouring out, like last time? What if, what if?

Chico naturally had no problems going up. I was comforted by the idea that we were riding similar bikes. His, though more powerful, had the same cycle dynamics as mine, and we were both on dual sport tyres. These similarities made clearer the differences between his experience and my inexperience. At every rest stop he'd give me tips, suggestions and comments on what was coming up.

On one of those long, long uphill runs, I dropped the bike. I lost speed. If you don't have speed, you don't have control. Some 20, 30 metres from the crest, in the steepest section, Chico got on my bike and took it the remaining distance.

It is really quite difficult to describe what it feels like to be bumping and lurching along the last few metres of flat terrain before the steep slope starts. It looks enormous, imposing; vertigo ensues. Your head becomes filled with visual calculations of "I'll make it to the top" versus "I'm going to fall over backwards". Several times I thought of turning back, considering withdrawal, defeated at the hands of a steep hill. But what the hell, that's how things are. If I fall, I fall. And so I tried. On the flats there is no shortage of bushes, ondulations, big stones; and it is quite hard to get up to the right speed needed for the climb. And even if you do make the right speed, there is no rest, there is no moment during which you are not struggling to keep the bike on course, not to be catapulted off, not to put it down, not to hit an obstacle.

After many near-falls and near-dismountings, and a few final stretches done by Chico, we came to the point where we would start following a horizontal route, winding in and out of the hill's folds.

Here, a short video of one of the tamer climbs. From a distance, and in the hands of an experto, it doesn't seem like much, but believe me that when the hill towers over you, you sweat, and not because you're hot.

And we went on.

We were now almost at the same height as Lagunillas Ski Centre. Just one more gully to cross, and we'd be well on our way.

I didn't think I could do it, and if I did fall, it would be down onto a rocky stream bed, several metres below. I gave Chico my bike.

In the hazy distance, way down there, lay the cellular antennas, our starting point.

When I saw the ski lifts, I felt happy. It was that strange mixture of feelings: wanting the hard climbs to be over, those steep ones that make that make you think twice, those obstacles that one comes across sometimes that might well convince you not to go on, and at the same time, wanting it never to end, hoping for more.

We finally reached our destination. Two legendary XRs, both of them kitted out with street tyres and mirrors, one with a rack, backpack, sheepskin and one tired novice on it, we made it.

I took a left at the fence, trying to find a high point from which to photograph the sunset.

It was very cold, and I was tired. My arms felt like lead.

And to think that down there, in that haze, that hilltop barely peeking out from behind all others, that's where the antennas are, and that we did all that cross-country, using our bikes as intended, as designed.

And with the last of the day's light, we returned to Santiago.

Embalse El Yeso and Termas Del Plomo

2007-11-21T03:52:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Saturday, April 28, 2007

Ah, where to begin. It was another ride to the Cajón del Maipo, but in a certain sense this time it was different. Most things stayed the same: I went alone, after lunch, under a bright sun and a blue sky.

Perhaps it was different because it was Friday, and not a weekend, or perhaps because the popular season is over, and the snow has started up in the high Andes.

Whatever it was, I enjoyed it a lot. I took the ride up calmly, slowly. I was well equipped: set of tools, cold weather gear, water, extra oil, tyre irons and patch kit. Also, my camera: the trusty Canon A85, worn, bashed, dented and polished from the thousands of kilometres it has spent in the pouch on the handlebars.

Here's a Google Earth KMZ so you get a general idea of where I was in the world.

The grader had been over the road up to the Embalse El Yeso recently. It was coming back down again, going over the other side of the road. I stopped to one side, and goats started peering over the ridge of a large mound of dirt and stones. One, two, three. All looking at me. They're curious beasts, aren't they?

This must be the best time to go to the Cajón del Maipo.

And a zoom of the previous pic.

And from further down the road.

The embalse was a deep and beautiful colour. I could ask for no more.

The mountains around it dusted with the first snow.

And in the distance... well, that's where I was headed.

I didn't meet anyone on the way up.

The road is narrow, firm and dusty. Nothing like hearing the XR's uncorked exhaust booming off the rock wall just inches form your head.

This is the road. Unfortunately, unless a vehicle makes its appearance, there really is no way to take in the relative scale of the vast rockslide.

In the distance, one of the ends of the Embalse.

And from that end, looking back. I decided to get off the road, and ride on the flat. Now that I thought of it, what's the rush?

I got a chance to test the stiffer front suspension, after switching from 5 to 15 fork oil. Since this was a river plain, there were rather pronounced ondulations running parallel to the river. Riding across them, I could get an idea of what had changed. Not bad. Better? Worse? I have no idea.

The colours, the colours!

I spent some time doing low speed off-roading, enjoying zig-zagging in and out of dry bushes, and sometimes over them. It was only when I was back on the road again that I realised that they were all thorn bushes. Oh well...

I went up the side of the hill, following one of the many trails that peter out to nothing, probably old mining trails.

I stopped, I didn't want to go any further. I have done worse trails, but it wasn't worth it. I'd surely have trouble turning around, and I had no desire to set the bike down again.

Right over my head flew a condor, huge, close, about 10 metres away, no more. Silent, I saw how one or two tiny feathers rippled sporadically. He flew away, following the hill's contour. He came back, but higher up. He was climbing, climbing. I wasn't able to take a pic on the first pass. I lay down on the ground in the sweltering sun, playing dead. No dice.

Oh well, I missed the opportunity of photographing a condor. Great.

But no! He came back again, though much higher.

I put my kit on once more and started turning the bike around. For a fraction of a second the sun went out. A plane? I look up, and not more than 5 metres away, a giant bird, this time brown all over, flying slowly and silently over me. I got off the bike, waited, played dead again, but no dice.

The rest of the way up to the Termas was uneventful.

Except, of course, when I came around a curve, and saw this.

Snow!

Contrast between a blue-violet sky, a yellow afternoon sun, white and radiant snow–confused, surely, not knowing what colour to reflect–and an ever reddish soil.

From here on I'm guilty of that which I have so far avoided: repetition of nearly identical pictures, or pics that vary little from one to the other. I'm sorry, but I can't help it. The scenery calls for it.

The problem with this, placing many similar pics one after the other, is that you get de-sensitized, saturated.

That's why we must place filler text between the pics. :-P

The previous picture was taken just before crossing the river. Now it was shallow, docile. I crossed it easily, getting my feet wet with gusto and enthusiasm, happy with my waterproof boots, and on I went to Termas Del Plomo.

And I got there. The place was obviously deserted.

I backtracked about a kilometre, and then left the road, before crossing the river. I wanted to see if I could come down the valley, but on the other side of the river. The stones got larger and larger, and then the inevitable happened.

But at least the view was nice.

I rode around a bit more before crossing the river again.

She's pretty, isn't she?

She's lucky to get taken out to places like this, don't you think?

Good girl!

I did warn you that you'd have to put up with repetitive pics, so don't complain.

Just before crossing the river again.

As my front wheel just touched the water, something came over me and I took a left, riding in the river itself for about 30 metres, the water up to the engine's side covers. Ah, the joy of waterproof boots. And my trousers will surely dry with the last of the sun.

I hadn't gone more than 500 metres beyond the river, when I noticed that the stones in the road were giving the front shocks a hard time. Bang... bang. I could feel it in the handlebars. Oh no, something's failed after my maintenance session, and I've bust a seal. I stopped. I looked. No, that wet stuff on the shocks is water, not oil. I carried on. More hard whacks on the handle bar.

I stopped again. I looked: Aha! That's it!

My front wheel is flat. But in such a nice place, I didn't mind.

I rolled the bike into the last bit of sun, set it on its side, and removed the front wheel.

My main discomfort was my headache, from the altitude. What altitude, you ask? Well, Googling for Termas del Plomo's altitude just gave me El Cantar de la Lluvia as first and second hits. That's no use to me! :-)

Google Earth to the rescue. 3000 metres above sea level. The puncture was a thorn. I patched it, took some pics.

I installed the tyre on the rim. I was constantly congratulating myself on being well prepared. And to think that on other rides I just carried that useless puncture repair spray.

The temperature plummeted, I put on all my cold weather gear, my hands hurt from the cold air and the cold tools. I grazed my knuckles several times wrestling with the tyre irons, but it didn't hurt. They were numb by now.

I put the wheel back on the bike. I rode home under a full moon.

Ride To Peñuelas

2007-11-20T18:37:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Sunday, April 22, 2007

The other day Octavio invited everyone on the Adach forum to a barbecue at Lago Peñuelas, about 70 km from Santiago. Those that wanted to fish could try their luck.

The previous night... well... the truth is, I can't remember what I did the previous night. But I do know that the next day I didn't get there at 10, 11 am as everyone else, but rather more like around 4 pm. After spending some time with people, I called Francisco (from Placilla; he'd taken me around the area a few times), and we agreed to meet at a spot on the lake shore.

In order to get there, I had to pass through parts quite crowded with fishermen. I got many dirty looks, even though I was going as slowly and as far from the waterline as possible.

I met Francisco, and we started around the lake. This was the hardest bit, since it was a very irregular surface of large rocks, all slanted at a steep angle, but we crossed it without incident.

And not ten metres from the end of the sloped section was a valve tower.

The tower was built in 1900.

We carried on. This was one of the streams running into the lake.

We explored a few trails here and there, and after a few hours, we crossed a large plain in order to get back to where everyone else was.

A short but fun ride!

Yamaha XT 225 Serow Valve Adjustment

2007-11-20T13:51:00.001-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Thursday, April 19, 2007

"But Paul, you have an XR, what is this XT 225 doing in one of your articles?"

Well, it's a guest, of course! This is Jano's bike, a 2001 Yamaha XT 225 Serow, a faithful and excellent bike that was ready for a valve adjustment.

Jano had noticed some valve noise that occurred during the first few seconds after the bike was started. This is normal, but he wanted to check his valve gap anyway.

He came to my house, and armed with the shop or service manual of the Yamaha XT 225 Serow (alternative link), we got to work.

First, remove the seat.

The fan is there to cool the engine, since valve adjustments should be done with the bike stone cold, and he'd ridden it to my house.

Remove the gas tank fairing, then the tank itself. Since everything is dirty down there, we must clean it.

That's what we did: toothbrushes and de-greasing spray.

With everything completely dry, and the engine at ambient temperature, we removed the spark plug. I think the mix might be a bit poor.

Then, remove the two covers on the left side of the engine. Using a socket and an extension bar, just as you do with the XR, rotate the engine in the anti-clockwise direction, until the "T" mark is aligned with the mark visible through the top hole.

The pistom must be on its compression stroke as you align the T mark. To make sure that this is the case, both valve rockers should have some play. If they do, you're on the compression stroke. If they don't, you're on the exhaust stroke, and you should turn the engine one more time.

Remove the valve rocker covers. Here's the exhaust one.

And the intake one.

Loosen the lock nut with a 10 mm wrench. It will be necessary to turn the adjustment screw. For some strange reason this piece has a square head. Yes, you read that right. I had to make a simple tool to give it the right position. You can do it with needle-nosed pliers, but you'll go insane trying.

I made the tool out of copper tube, the type you use in refrigerators, and needle-nosed pliers. I inserted one of the pliers' jaws into the tube, and thus flattened one quarter of the tube's circumference. Pull it out, rotate 90º, squeeze. You can thus make a round tube into a square profile. The ridges on the pliers help file away any irregularities. Not bad!

To learn how to correctly use feelers to set the valve separation, read the article on the same procedure on the XR. We found that the exhaust valve gap was too large, so I adjusted it. The intake one was within the range specified by the shop manual.

And thus concludes the valve adjustment of this pretty bike.

Maintaining Your Front Suspension

2007-11-19T13:47:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Tuesday, April 17, 2007

In this article I'll cover the procedure one follows to change the fork seals, oil, sliders and to carry out a general maintenance of the front shocks on the 1996 XR 250 R. The same procedure is valid for newer XRs.

The first thing you should do is download the shop manual. Don't try the things I'm doing here without having printed it out and read it a few times. Yes, I mean it.

After returning from the trip to the Carretera Austral I noticed some damp dirt around the bottom of the rubber cover of the left fork, the fork boot. I unscrewed the fork boot clamp, and found a small amount of oil and grit sitting on the fork seal. Apparently it only leaked under heavy use, like an outing to the Cajón del Maipo, and similar things.

It was time to learn how to change the fork seals. I'll confess that this process scared me a little, because of possible complications, but now, after having done it all, I wouldn't think twice before doing it all over again.

As in the article on lubricating your rear suspension, I had every single piece that you see below in my hands, as individual and separate parts.

Having done a valve adjustment and an oil change a few days ago, at 29685.1 km, I started to take things apart. I removed the seat and side panels to clean off the bloody mess I left the other day.

First, clear a large area for working. You'll need the same tools you've always used on the bike (including the Honda standard set of sockets: 8, 10, 12, 14, 17, 19, 24; plus a few Allen keys) and you'll need a few extra things: a workbench with a vice, an old towel, a ruler or vernier caliper, a metre of wire, carb cleaning spray, rust-eliminating liquid if needed and, finally, one 22 mm socket and two tools you'll have to make. More on that later.

The fork seals are easy to come by in Chile. You can get them at iMoto. The sliders have to be ordered from abroad, but I don't think you'll need to change them except in... well, exceptional situations (more on that later, ahem).

Fix the shock so it is vertical and its surface is not damaged (chrome or aluminium), and remove the rubber plug from the lower end.

Note how many clicks it takes you to get to the end, going anti-clockwise. This leaves the compression damping at a minimum.

Remove the top end. The best approach is to put the fork back on the bike, tighten the triple clamp, and then try to get it off with the 22 mm socket.

Out comes the cover, the spring, the piston rod, the lock nut and the spring support disc.

Using your hands, compress the spring and stick a 14 mm crescent wrench between the lid and the spring support disc, thus holding the lock nut tight. Use the 22 mm socket again to get the lid off the piston rod.

Carefully remove the spring. Pour the oil into a container. Pump the slider gently, being extremely careful not to pull it so far out of the outer tube that the sliders (that are inside the outer tube) come into contact with the end of the slider, which has a grooved surface– not smooth and chromed like the rest of it. This surface will destroy your slider's suface if you're not careful. Don't make the same mistake I did.

In summary, pump the slider gently, and then stick your fingers in it, grab the piston rod, and pump using the piston rod. This piece can be taken to the full range of its motion.

When all the easy oil has been drained, you'll feel the difference: all parts will move easily. If they go slow at the end of their range of motion, there's still oil in the system.

Being careful not to damage the slider's chrome surface, remove the stopper ring from the outer tube.

The sliders won't be needed yet, but keep them handy for later. Here is the oil seal and dust guard. They are sold together.

This is the tool you'll need to make, unless you can come up with another way of doing it. Don't be lazy and buy one; making it is easy.

The next step is to introduce a 14 mm Allen socket into the base of the shock, so as to unscrew the bottom plug. The problem is that the bottom plug does not connect directly to the outer tube, but rather to an inner piece that will rotate freely if nothing is done about it.

You need to get something down inside the other end of the slider. At the bottom, way inside the shock, there is a hexagonal hole, precisely the shape of a 27 mm bolt. In other words, the opposite faces of the hexagon are 27 mm apart. If you can safely wedge something in there, the lower plug can be removed.

With Octavio's kind help (and welding machine), we made this tool. It's a bolt of the size given previously, welded to a 40 cm tube.

Place the shock on your work bench. Use the vice to hold it firmly, protecting the metal surface with a folded towel.

The tool has been drilled near the end, so a screwdriver can be inserted to keep it steady. In this case, I'm using a stainless steel rod left over from when I made the support for my saddlebags. This must be held by a helper, or fastened to something firm so it can't turn.

When the lower plug comes out, this is what it looks like:

And this is what you see looking into the outer tube.

The lower plug screws onto the fork damper, and inside it goes the damper rod. Yes, the names are confusing, look at the parts diagram.

Here you can see the fork damper's large head, where the tool you made goes, and the damper rod sticking out the end.
Note the presence of rust. This must be corrected.

The widest part of the fork damper is a teflon ring.

And this is the lower end of the fork damper. A simple aluminium piece has been removed, the oil lock piece, which fits simply onto the fork damper.

So, we have: on the left the oil lock piece, then the damper rod, that has a piston and a slider on its lower end, and a small spring that prevents the piston from getting whacked by an abrupt extension of the shock. On the right, the fork damper, basically a hollow tube with some holes in it and a large head.

Now that we've removed the fork damper and the damper rod, grasp the outer tube in one hand, and in the other, the slider (in other words: the aluminium one in one hand, and the chromed one in the other), and extend the slider out to its maximum range. Be very careful when it gets to the end of its run, because of the aforementioned grooves. Don't bend the pair or subject their union to torques.

With short and firm tugs, pull the slider upwards (to separate them) making the oil seal and dust cover pop out due to the hammering they're getting from below.

This is what you'll see. Here, the oil seal, then the back-up ring, a ring that helps keep the oil seal in place, then the guide bushing, one of the two slider/bushing pairs found in each fork. This is what gets damaged easily, so be careful. Finally, the slider bushing. Here it is in its normal position, and you can see the grey colouring of its teflon coating.

A zoom of the two sliders. The guide bushing, above, has teflon only on the inside, and the slider bushing, only on the outside.

Initially I thought that the damage on the guide bushing was due to the crash, but I then figured out that it was my own fault. Don't let this happen to you!

The slider bushing.

Now that it's all taken apart, it's time to restore and clean things. Ugly, no?

Apply wet sandpaper, very fine grain, and the superficial rust will be gone. Use the rust dissolving liquid to get at the small pits and craters. Do this using gloves (nitrile gloves, for example) and eye protection. Rinse it with water and detergent, and dry it with a hairdryer or something similar, so everything dries quickly.

Now for the general cleaning procedure. With a can of carb cleaner (and using gloves and eye protection), take all pieces that are made from nothing other than metal and clean them using the spray and paper towel. The other items, like the damper rod, the lower plug and, in particular, the sliders and seals, must be cleaned using fresh fork oil and paper towel.

Here's the clean interior of the slider.

To remove the slider bushing, use a screwdriver, but being very careful not to damage the teflon coating.

When you put everything back together again, place a thick plastic bag, like a Ziploc, over the end of the slider. This is vital both for the slider bushing and the oil seal. Lubricate the piece of bag with fresh fork oil.

Put everything on the slider again, in order.

Oil the interior of the slider slightly.

And now for the second special tool: something to shove the slider bushing, oil seal and dust cover into the top of the outer tube. The simplest solution is a piece of PVC pipe, with an outer diameter of 5 cm. It turns out that the inner diameter will be exactly what is needed. Those of you in one of the three countries still using the imperial system of units (Hello to all American, Burmese and Liberian readers!) will forgive the fact that this piece of PVC's width was actually given in inches at the shop (curse your influence!), but that I erased such blasphemy from my mind as soon as I was able to. :-P

Sand the edges, leaving them smooth, regular and rounded.

As a hammer you can use a heavy object wrapped in thick cloth. Hammer firmly and gently on the end of the PVC tube. I used one of my dad's old scuba weights.

Stop when the dust cover is just below the stopper ring's groove.

Insert the stopper ring.

Introduce the damper rod in the fork damper, and don't forget the spring.

Place the oil lock piece on the end of the fork damper. What you see sticking out is the piston on the end of the damper rod.

Put a drop of Loctite on the lower plug's threads, and using your special tool, tighten the lower plug to the given torque.

Congratulations, the hardest part is over.

Now, fix the shock on to your work bench in a vertical position. Lower the slider (the chromed tube) and the damper rod until they will go no further.

Slowly pour fresh fork oil into the space between the damper rod and the slider. I suggest pouring a little in, waiting for it to penetrate through the holes in the head of the fork damper (the place where the special tool goes) and then pour in some more. Every now and then, pump the slider up and down slowly, as well as the damper rod.

Note that as the system is filled with oil bubbles will appear, and they'll come out of the fork damper head. Give them time to emerge. Also, it will get harder and harder to move the slider and damper rod. A piece of hose screwed onto the end of the damper rod help to get a grip on it, since its lowest position is a few centimetres below the lip of the slider. Doing this with oily hands can be painful. I should mention that oil goes nowhere if you pour it down the damper rod, as indicated in the shop manual. Tsk, tsk.

Keep on filling. You'll eventually hit 400 cc, and I think that's about when the oil level starts to rise. Calmly and precisely, measure and choose what depth you want.

With the oil level set, place the lock nut on the damper rod, and tie some 60 cm of wire onto the end.

Place the spring and the spring backing disc over the wire. Use the wire to raise the damper rod. This will take some pulling.

With the damper rod peeking out over the spring, compress the spring with your hands and place a 14 mm crescent wrench on the lock nut, as before. Take it to the end of its thread, the lowest point for the lock nut. Place the fork lid on the damper rod, and just like when you took it apart, torque the fork lid to the damper rod.

Now screw the fork lid on the slider by hand, and torque it once it is firmly installed on the bike.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the end of the tutorial.

Cerro Chena

2007-11-19T03:38:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Friday, April 06, 2007

Sometimes you discover you are curious about something, some activity you've never engaged in before, something you inadvertently passed up for some reason or another. And sometimes you decide to explore that which makes you curious, that which you failed to explore before.

And sometimes, said exploration reveals something new, entertaining, interesting; something that provides us with a net gain, and makes us happy for having discovered an activity which will surely provide us with much enjoyment in future.

This was not the case when I went to do enduro on Cerro Chena.

Yup, the first picture is of my bike on the ground. That was the general tone of the ride, which might be summed up in several chapters:

One, titled "Oh, this is fun, I guess this must be what enduro is like, though I must confess that my palms sweat whenever I ride on trails no more than 30 cm across, with dry grass on one side and a steep dropoff on the other; no, I'm in the clear now, seems like I'm doing fine–THUMP".

This chapter would encompass merely three or four dismountings, all of them at 0 km/h, nothing serious.

The second chapter in this series would be called "The nice guys on WRXs told me that the trail downhill was not hard, so I'll give it a try, though I seem to be gaining speed in a rather uncontrolled manner; yes, as a matter of fact, I have now lost all traction on my back wheel, and–Oh!, well look at that, I've come off the trail and I'm headed straight for a thorn bush, I'll try to force a lowside; yup, there we go, now I'm riding down the hill at the same speed but squatting on a bike that is sliding on the loose earth and dry grass, I wonder where I'll end up".

The end of this chapter would tell of the clump of dry grass that finally broke my downhill slide.

An addendum to this chapter would mention that after picking up the bike, I would drop it not a metre further on, again because of lost balance.

We would then continue on to an intermezzo, in which I rest, and watch others do what I did not dare to.

And the last chapter has no title. It does not deserve one.

I went downhill to the motocross track that lies at the foot of Cerro Chena, and rode around the easier bits. I met a couple of over-45 enduro riders, one on a two-stroke CR that smoked less than the other guy's XR. As we spoke, one of them offered me his Camelback tube. "Ya want some? I'm havin' whisky". Indeed.

They went on their way, and I continued to potter about on the easy bits. No jumps, not too fast.

There were several loops that went straight up the side of the hill. I went up one, and at the highest point, I tried turning around to come back down the way I came. I wasn't able to, so I went down the other side. It was steeper than where I came up.

The circuit continued with another loop up the hillside, too steep for my taste. I turned around, and started backtracking. This bit was steep, and the earth was loose. I eventually lost traction, speed, and everything else, and found myself pointing 20º off to the left of the trail's centerline.

The bike fell over to the left, downhill, and I fell from that height onto the same shoulder that broke my fall after the car crash.

In pain, I got up, and hurried to kill the engine and cut off the fuel.

I did not have time to catch my breath or wait for the pain to pass: I saw, to my horror, how the black oil started pouring out from under the bike. It dripped out into the upturned seat, air box, and then onto the dust below.

Having the bike fall with its wheels uphill was not a good thing: the oil had managed to leak out of the crank case through the breather tube. Either I turned the bike around right now, or I would be left with no oil in my engine, stuck on Cerro Chena, twenty minutes before sundown.

Wincing from the pain and the horrible sound it made, I grabbed the bike by the luggage rack and wrenched it around. Metal and plastic scraped against rock and dirt. This is the bike I said I'd take care of, I'd keep in good condition.

My shoulder still hurting, I raised the bike with difficulty, and walked it off the track, moving across the slope. The track was the only bare patch of earth on the whole hillside. The rest was covered in dry, slippery grass, and beneath, loose dry earth. I got on, started it, advanced 30 cm, and fell off again, once more downhill. This time no oil came out, and I didn't hurt myself.

I didn't have the strength to get it up. It was at the foot of an espino tree, the branches scratching my helmet and catching on my jacket; I was sweating, exhausted, and had no strength left.

The next 30 minutes were dedicated exclusively to pull and tug on the front wheel, scraping plastic and metal over rock and thorns, until I got it down to a flat bit. I think I dragged it some 7 metres like this, like an egyptian.

Another 20 minutes went by as I tried to get it up again. I simply did not have the strength or the traction.

When I finally did manage to right the bike, my mouth completely dry, I set off in the dark, to find the exit. Almost as a celebration of my idiocy, a band of trumpets, trombones and big thumping drums were playing in an empty lot beside the highway, as I searched for the hole in the fence.

Never again, gentlemen, never again.

Race Day at Leyda 3

2007-11-19T00:55:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Sunday, April 01, 2007

Sunday 4th of February, Summer Championship at the Autodromo Pacifico Sport, in Leyda, San Antonio. This is the third article in a photographic series about the races. 40 pictures, little to say about them. Enjoy.

It was the first time that the Superbikes would race at Leyda. They'd certainly be a change from the mid-80s and early 90s 400cc bikes that usually race here. It would also be the first race of the Copa Monomarca de la Honda Twister.

What's this about the Honda Twister Cup? From FMC.cl:

An agreement has been reached to reserve 20 motorbikes for promotional purposes. After intense negotiations we are now able to offer the bikes at below-market-value, accompanied by the following benefits for the rider:
Competition fairing,

Free sporting insurance for one year,
Free sporting license for one year,
Free participation in the 2006 championship,
ARC Pro helmet,
Kevlar racing gloves,
Riding tutorials and classes,
Regulation exhaust,
50% discount on NewArt graphics,
50% discount on Maxima lubricants.
Optionally, we can provide a full leather suit at the greatly discounted price of $ 200.000 pesos.

The 0 km motorbike is offered at $ 1.300.000 pesos plus sales tax. Cash or four cheques at cost.

Cost of the equipment and all Championship expenses: $ 303.000 pesos.

Not bad, right? Quite tempting: be a race pilot, with your kit and bike, for the price of a crappy chinese bike. Not bad at all.

Thanks to Karlitos' usual string pulling, I was allowed into the racetrack area.

That day Alex came with me. He recongised one of the Twister Cup riders as someone from our School, one Tomás Kastegl, riding on 9.

That wasn't the only non-stranger racing that day: Martín Valderrama, a friend of Karlitos and brother of Freddy Valderrama. Martín was on number 36, Juliáns bike, who was watching from the pits because of a broken ankle.

Since these bikes have single-cylinder engines, the Honda Twister CBX 250 sounds just like an uncorked XR250R.

Number 9 was doing well, but...

I wasn't able to photograph the exact moment when he lost control.

After the first set of laps for the Twisters, Tomás came up to me and asked me if I had a pic of his fall. I asked him what had happened, and he said his foot slipped off the peg. And I can well imagine it; he really hung off that bike, far more than in this pic.

Others went down as well.

And then, the Superbikes! R6, R1, CBR1000, GSXR; a beautiful spectacle.

Two portraits as they pass.

And they continue on their way.

And with that, the first set of laps was over for the Superbikes.

It was now the turn of the 400 cc bikes, Promotional and Expert categories.

From the start Freddy Valderrama, number 2, did not let his fans and friends down.

When I publish the pics from Leyda 4 you'll see clearly how his cowling is completely worn away from leaning into the curve.

This would be the last race where we would see number 90, the two-stroke Aprilia, in its old colour scheme.

Master Karlitos.

At one point there was contact between Juan Torres, Experts on 35, and Freddy Valderrama.

Luckily nothing happened. It isn't the first time that number 35 is involved in a tense situation in this chicane.

During the second set of laps, the Twisters raced alongside the 400 cc bikes.

Surprisingly, there wasn't much of a difference; both were well paired in the curves, and the 400's engine advantage was only apparent on the long straights. And with a wave from the 2006 Champion of the Promotional category,

... we say goodbye, but not before leaving you with a picture that snuck onto the end of the reel, when I took the film camera to the Cajón del Maipo.

Lagunillas 2

2007-11-18T15:57:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Monday, March 26, 2007

Sunday 25th of March, the day of Adach.cl's great ride to the Cajón del Maipo, for an asado, a barbecue, and fun.

Only I didn't get there 'till thirty minutes before everyone buggered off home, since I was recovering from the previous night.

Francisco was there, that great Placilla adventurer, and many others. With him, and Rodrigo, we buzzed up to Lagunillas, while everyone else said goodbye and scattered back to Santiago.

Up we went, passing the motionless ski lifts, and when we got to the wire fence, we turned left.

We got much further than last time.

After passing a rather challenging climb, we decided to wait for Rodrigo. His bike, larger and heavier, would probably not be able to make the climb, and he had most likely decided not to attempt it.

Since there was still a way to go, bordering the fence, I went back to find Rodrigo. This is how I found him.

No, not really. I found him at the highest part of the climb, helmet on, hands held behind his back, pacing slowly, broadcasting that body language message of "I dropped my bike and I can't pick it up".

We took a few other "still life" pics, one with him hanging like an old rag from the wire fence. As I adjusted the settings on the camera, I barely heard him grumble from inside his closed helmet hurry up, this wire is choking me. Ah, we give it all for art sometimes.

And so it was, he had had a fall. Due to the altitude, his engine simply did not have enough power to take him up.

We turned the bike around very, very carefully, with Francisco's help, and he was able to come down again. Such was his happiness, that he did a short reggaetón dance with his bike. Ew.

We carried on until we came to the end of the trail.

Rodrigo said that he'd stay down there playing around, trying to find another route, but when we came back to the ski lifts, he was gone.

We carried on in the other direction, still hugging the fence. Here, a long and loose climb.

Last time I reached a fence that was perpendicular to the one I was travelling along. There was a way to open it, but it was so tightly bound with wire that I assumed someone really wanted it closed. This time, the whole lot was just lying on the ground. I debated whether to close it after going through, but there might be a good reason to have left it open (cattle, qué sé yo).

Further on, the fence turned left, so we followed it. Going straight would have led us down a very steep drop.

200 metres further on, it was the end of the road.

The sun's last rays.

That's where we came from. According to Google Earth, we were at 2630 metres above sea level. Such a fantastic activity for a hung-over Sunday.

Here's a short video of the 360º view.

Changing The Brake Fluid

2007-11-17T18:12:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Sunday, March 25, 2007

Last night I changed my motorbike's brake fluid for the first time. It is extremely easy; an insignificant error does not cause giant problems.

Why did I decide to do this?

Let's see: My bike is a '96 XR250R, and I have no reason to believe the brake fluid has ever been changed. My objective was to achieve better braking, in case air bubbles had appeared in the system, and to change the fluid, something that must be done every now and then.

But why is this necessary?

First, a little bit about brake fluid. There are two types: glycol based, and silicone based. Glycol is what you use in your radiator as an antifreeze. It's a fluid that's slightly more viscous than water, is transparent, and is polar, which means it mixes with water.

Silicone is does not mix with water.

Brake fluids, according to the American designation, are labelled as DOT 3, DOT 4, DOT 5 and DOT 5.1.

DOT 5 is the only one of the series that is silicone based, and is generally purple or blue. The rest are transparent and glycol based.

Brake fluid transfers pressure applied at the brake pump to the brake caliper. If there were a bubble of air in the circuit, the pressure applied would be used to compress the bubble, and not to press the brake pads against the disc.

There are two sources of bubbles: air and water vapour. Water vapour is the one that becomes more relevant as times goes by, since glycol is hygroscopic, that is, it absorbs humidity from the environment.

"But brake systems are sealed!" I hear you say. This is not so: though the brake fluid reservoir has a rubber membrane (beneath the metal cover) that allows the brake fluid level to rise and fall without coming into direct contact with the environment, this piece of rubber, and all other pieces of rubber in the system, allow for a very gradual penetration of humidity. It isn't much, but over several years, it is a considerable effect.

At room temperature, the water dissolved in the brake fluid has no effect, other than to contribute to the corrosion of the pistons, pump and other elements of the brake system.

When you brake aggressively or for extended periods of time, the caliper heats up, and the brake fluid's temperature rises also.

The effect of water dissolved in the brake fluid is to lower the mixture's boiling point. Note that just 1% water by volume considerably affects the boiling point, lowering it noticeably. I won't give specific data here, but you can find it easily enough.

And what does this mean? That if there is enough water dissolved in the brake system, the fluid might reach its boiling point under aggressive braking, producing vapour bubbles immediately.

Therefore: we we wish to avoid this. This is where the DOT ranking is useful. DOT 3 has a lower boiling point than DOT 4, DOT 5 or DOT 5.1. That's why DOT 4 is better than DOT 3.

And what about DOT 5? The good thing about DOT 5, since it is made of silicone, is that it does not absorb water. And the bad thing about DOT 5 is that it does not absorb water. Yes, you read that correctly. Since it does not absorb water, any humidity that penetrates the system will accumulate into droplets, generally at the lowest point, the caliper. This will lead to corrosion, and will increase the risk of malfunction when braking aggressively.

Another negative aspect of DOT 5 is that it aerates easily. This means that if you shake the bottle, the liquid will become full of suspended tiny bubbles, which will not disappear until hours later.

Also, brake line seals designed for use with DOT 3/4 may not be adequate for use with DOT 5.

And finally, DOT 3/4 should never be mixed with DOT 5, as this would be like mixing oil and water.

And DOT 5.1? It is a brake fluid with a similar boiling point as silicone based DOT 5, but made from glycol. It is my experience that DOT 5 can be some 4 times as expensive as DOT 3 or 4.

Ok, now we know why we need to change our brake fluid every now and then, and which one we should use. In my case, that would be DOT 4.

But how do we do it?

Look at the caliper. You'll probably find a small rubber cap. Remove it: underneath, there is a nipple suitable for connecting a tube. Buy cheap fuel line hose at some home maintenance store. It should be transparent. Connect it to the bleed valve.

On the base of this nipple there is a hexagonal nut. With a small wrench, probably an 8 mm, one can open the bleed valve with 1/8 of a turn. We will do this later on.

Let's look at the brake fluid reservoir.

First, it is convenient to protect plastics, paint and rubber around the reservoir with wet paper towel, in case of a spill.

Second, remove the metallic cover, the plastic cover, and the rubber diaphragm. In my case, the diaphragm had a rather strange deposit on the inner surface.

Since we want to get rid of the old brake fluid, we absorb it all with some paper towel, without touching the brake lever.

Once the reservoir is empty it can be filled with fresh fluid. This first load will serve to purge the old fluid from the system.

Changing your brake fluid will probably require help from a friend. We'll call him B, you're A.

A pumps the brake lever a few times. On the third pump, it is kept pulled back. Say "Open".
B gently turns the nut on the bleed valve until liquid starts flowing into the transparent tube.
When A feels the brake lever give, and when it is about to reach the handlebar, say "Stop".
B closes the bleed valve nut.
A lets go of the brake lever, noticing how the level in the reservoir goes down, and pumps the lever a few times. On the third pump, it is kept pulled back. Say "Open".
B opens the bleed valve nut.
A feels the brake lever get close to the handlebar. Say "Close".
Etc.

This cycle is repeated until the level in the deposit has gone down considerably. Without allowing it to run dry, more brake fluid is added.

When there are no more bubbles or dark brake fluid coming into the tube, the bleed valve can be finally closed, the reservoir can be filled up to the mark, and the whole system can be closed up.

The back brake is easier, since the pedal and the reservoir are quite close to each other.

And that's it.

In my case, the old fluid was the colour of Coca Cola, and it was noticeably more dense than the fresh brake fluid (you could see the dark drops sinking to the bottom of the reservoir when I added the new fluid). I have read that the fluid's darkness is not always an indicator of a dangerous level of water content, but if it's dark, why not change it?

So now you know: there is no reason not to change your brake fluid every year.

Baños de Colina 2

2007-11-15T23:32:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Autumn was a few days around the corner, and I wanted to visit Baños de Colina a second time. Last time, in spring, it turned out to be quite a special ride.

The final run up to Baños de Colina. See the roads on the hill?

A bus? Here?

I rode up to the barrier. It's 5000 pesos per adult, 2500 per child. I talked to the guy in the little hut. I explained that I had come in Spring, but that I hadn't been able to go any further because of the snow. "No, it ends there" he said. I insisted a little, said that's the only reason I'd come, to see where it went; I pouted, I sighed, and finally he let me through. "See for yourself. The road ends there. I wouldn't want to deny you your dream".

And it did indeed end at the same place where it disappeared under the snow last time. It wasn't that the snow had cut me off; it was simply that there was nowhere else to go.

I turned around, and found where Baños de Colina dumps its trash. A real shame. You can even see the burnt stuff they had to throw away after the fire. Is this how you take good care of the Cajón del Maipo?

Just as I was about to head over to the entrance, I saw a different road, hugging the river closely, and I went down to have a look. As usual, I lost my balance on the large stones.

I said goodbye and thanks to the man at the gate, and headed back down towards Santiago.

End of the ride? No! On the hill you can see in the second picture (the one with the goats), there is a mine, a plaster mine, a yesera.

This is the first pit I came across. The whole road is covered in fine dirt with the texture of talcum powder: it sloshed easily to either side of my front wheel. This is the first time I lowered my tyre's pressure (to 18 psi), and I could feel the difference.

A drill for setting explosives, I presume.

Around it, on the ground, these bags. I wonder if they drilled the holes and then left them covered, ready to be filled with explosives later on.

In the dust on the ground, thousands of tiny craters: every blast resulted in a shower of rocks.

Can one go higher? Why, of course, you know how it works: I love roads that go up and up and up. So up I went.

You have no idea what the view was like up there. And everything bathed in sunset light. Indescribable.

Higher, ever higher.

Until I was able to climb no more. Walking around, I felt out of breath. Google Earth puts me at 2500, 2700 metres above sea level.

Looking down...

I turned around and rolled downhill some 30 metres, and came across a branch that went steeply up the side of the hill, probably only doable in a tracked vehicle. I left the bike and started climbing, chest heaving.

Nothing but a small flat spot, probably cleared for a future blast.

Looking towards the Baños de Colina valley. I wonder if that's Cerro Amarillo in the distance?

Time to go back.

And with that, I went home.

Carretera Austral Part 14: Epilogue

2007-11-15T22:20:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Post-trip: Spending time with Tom and Christine, and Will and James.

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A few days after returning to Santiago I got a message from Karl Heinz, a friend from Buenos Aires. He told me that Tom and Christine, whom I met at a petrol station in Coyhaique, were in Santiago, looking for a place to stay. All four of us entered into a chat session, and coordinated things.

They were staying in Las Condes, my district, a place on the road up to the Farellones ski centers. Posada del Inglés or something like that. I suggested a beer, and we set it for the next day.

I confess that I completely forgot about it, and when arrived, both bikes fully loaded, I was on my way to a ride somewhere in the mountains.

They weren't too sure where they would stay, and it was getting late, so they stayed at my place, on the living room floor.

The next day, the plan was to take one of the Africas somewhere for a rear tyre change, and to have its steering bearings looked at. Tom had been feeling a slight swaying when turning on asphalt.

The placed the bike on the centre stand, and he pulled the front shocks forward. "Look, it moves," he said, as a grind/squeak sounded with every pull.

That struck me as strange. Bearings shouldn't make that noise. I knelt down to see where the noise was coming from, and I found this:

Gulp. That is something no motorcyclist ever wants to see: the frame was split clean from one side to the other, right between the radiator panels.

The bike is a '96, and Tom bought it as a crashed bike. From there he built it up again, and it had had no serious problems until now. In the pic you can see a dent left over from the crash; clearly the frame had been left in some tensed state.

I called DíasDePlaya, and he recommended I take the bike to Bimota, and so we did.

I think it was that day that Camilo called, saying that the English lads, Will and James, had arrived in Santiago the day before. Tom and Christina decided to stay where they were, in Casa Condell, in Providencia, a great place.

In the following days, we did a bit of everything. One day we went up to Valle Nevado with Will and James.

Another day we went up Cerro San Cristóbal.

No one told me Will had vertigo.

I took a mind-numbingly standard picture of the virgin at the top of the hill, so I had to do something to it before publishing it.

Another day we went to Leyda, to see the races, and to see KarlitosGP (The Man) race. He came first in his category.

Later, off to Cristi's (Camilo's wife) house at Santo Domingo.

Another day everyone came to my house, along with Andrés, to do various maintenance tasks (oil, chain, that kind of thing). I love having people over for maintenance gatherings.

Before we left, we had to take Will and James to a café con piernas (a must if you're in Santiago), and later, we took them to a sleazy nightclub on Av. Suecia. Lively and colourful, that's all I'm going to say about that night.

Much as they wanted to stay, they had to go on their way; James now sporting some fancy new Touratech panniers.

Tom's bike was still in the shop, so they worked on Christine's bike; oil, rear and front sprockets, chain, valve adjustment.

Camilo turned up on a scooter to the delight of all. His eighty-something grandmother had won it in a prize draw at the SalcoBrand pharmacy. Brand: X-Peed.

Getting to an Africa's valves is not easy.

The next day I called Bimota. They had found that the frame was not only broken in one place, but in two more. Also, the clutch cable was three wires thick, and the back wheel's bearings had to be replaced. These are the pics of the repairs that they sent me.

The last night in town, they took me out to dinner at the Salaam Bombay, and it was incredible. Thank you Tom, Christina, Will and James for a wonderful extension to the trip.

Carretera Austral Part 13: Volcán Osorno, Valdivia and the Return Home

2007-11-13T17:09:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Days 21-22: Lago Llanquihue, Volcán Osorno, Petrohue, Valdivia and the long ride back to Santiago.

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Camilo and I had agreed to split up that morning, so he could make the best of his higher cruise speed on the highway, and perhaps stop to fish a while. We said goodbye, and I idled the 20 metres to the YPF petrol station near the main road down into Puerto Varas. I parked the bike, and went to the ATM to get some cash.

> 20000 <

Unfortunately the requested amount is not available. Please try again with a different amount.

> 10000 <

Unfortunately the requested amount is not available. Please try again with a different amount.

> 5000 <

Unfortunately the requested amount is not available. Please try again with a different amount.

> Balance Check <

Your balance is of 287 pesos.

Well, fuck.

Hola, Camilo? Have you left yet? Um.. Could you lend me some money?

With that, our separation was postponed.

It was a beautiful day, and I was surprised at how many restaurants and german tea houses there were at the side of the road around Lago Llanquihue.

I decided I'd go up Volcán Osorno. Camilo carried on to the Saltos del Petrohué.

On the way up, a forest, and after that, nothing but lava flows and volcanic sand. From the ski center I looked at the view for a few minutes, and then came back down.

I had probably gone a few kilometres down the road to Saltos del Petrohué, when I ran into Camilo, on his way back. "What are they like?," I asked. "Hm, nothing spectacular. A few nice pics, that's about it".

I gave it some thought: would I skip the famous Saltos del Petrohué, lava formations that channel the crystal waters into beautiful rapids and waterfalls? Would I commit high sacrilege, and leave this place unvisited?

Pico en el ojo, as Camilo says (and no, that does not refer to a bird's beak, should you happen to speak some Spanish). If the view from the volcano did nothing for me, then another waterfall wouldn't either. Better leave it for another day.

So our separation was pushed forward once more. We carried on around Lago Llanquihue, eerily riding together on a dirt road again, but this would be the last bit of dirt we'd see on the whole trip.

Here, Camilo performs an interpretative dance for us called "I am the volcano. I am the volcano!".

We stopped at Osorno to refuel. Hundreds of kilometres ago I had put my earplugs in. These were indispensable when riding on the highway. Stuffed well into my head, even at 100 km/h the XR's obscene noise is no more than a purr, and your breathing dominates your aural landscape. Cut off and cocooned like an astronaut, I had entered into a semi-disconnected state. Alert and awake, but watching everything from behind a thick sheet of glass. The first time I used the ear plugs, on the long way down, the effect stayed with me even after stopping for a meal at a YPF petrol station. Camilo even asked me if something was wrong, such was my lost look.

In this state we rolled in to Osorno, and loading fuel was a mechanical task, something you do impatient to get on the road again. And maybe that was the change that had come over us: we had switched, unknowingly, into return mode, highway mode; a mindset in which you attempt to cover as many kilometres in as little time as possible. I wondered if this was a reversible transformation. Everything indicated this was not the case.

Valdivia seemed a good place to stop. It was off the main Ruta 5, and as we waited for a flagman to send us on our way again at some roadworks, we agreed that everyone who had ever mentioned the city to us had told us it was one of the most beautiful cities Chile has to offer. Well, then.

Boredom. Still not moving.

We finally started moving. The street that took us into Valdivia was long, wide, industrialized and pretty horrible. That's ok; surely the nice things are up ahead.

This blemish continued eternally, 'till we reached the costanera, the road following the sinuous curves of the Río Calle Calle. Ah, yes. River, moored ships, a bridge here and there, a malecón, a coastal footpath. Ok. We stopped at the end of the costanera, and Camilo, not being able to stand it a minute longer, ran off to pee behind a modern-looking building. He came back looking distinctly un-relieved. "I think it wouldn't be such a good idea to pee on the Courthouse Building" he said, as he ran off to find a bathroom somewhere.

From there, we did several large tours of the city, all involuntary (read: we got lost), and finally found a room at the Hostal Prat, at 11000 a head per night. We put up with the high price because we were tired, and since we didn't feel like lodging in a dump like the one in Puerto Varas. At least it included breakfast, and there was a safe place for the bikes.

We went out in search of food. A nihilistic feeling came over us both, and as if to re-affirm the difference between the Deep South and this city, we ate at a McDonalds.

It was Friday. Let's see if we can end the trip with a bang, something interesting you can do in a city but not out in the wilderness, I said to myself. It was clear we had already passed the high water mark, possibly when we disembarked at Quellón.

We left the McDonalds and began riding around, trying to find some sort of nightlife district. Our wanderings took us passed bits of the city that looked like areas of Viña del Mar, seventies-ish summer beach city, but the parts that are several blocks in from where the fun happens. Other areas reminded us of Barrio Brazil in Santiago, some reminded us of Av. Irarrázabal. Chile's most beautiful city? Las pelotas que es la ciudad más linda de Chile, like hell it is.

We asked a couple if there was some place we could go for a drink and perhaps a disco. We had already found one, but as we rolled up in front, a shady character had come up and said something to the effect of sup man you gotta be goin' to dat udder place, few blocks away yo, I look after da cars dere, I'll take care your nice bikies yo, you gotta go homz. And that had ruled out both places in one fell swoop.

They suggested a certain Calle Esmeralda. Needless to say we got lost once more, and we saw more of Valdivia at night. The street turned out to be like a small Calle Suecia, a neon-lit street in Santiago you traditionally take visiting gringo businessmen for expensive drinks, a rub of the elbows with poseurs and post-twenties skanks. And they love it.

We left the bikes on the sidewalk temporarily. Camilo still had all his kit on the bike, since he refused to have to re-pack the next morning. We strolled about, looked at the bars and discos. Nothing tickled our fancy.

A Carabineros van rolled by, and simply pointed out that the bikes would be stolen if we didn't move them, not to mention that they were improperly parked.

We decided to leave them at the Hostal. We did, and walked back.

Long story short, we went into a place, and it was full of 18 and 19 year old boys and girls. "Smells like milk in here" growled Camilo. Since we looked like fathers who'd come in to pick up their kids, we did all one can do in that situation, and drank.

Bored and fed up we buggered off, and found a wallet on the ground. We swayed over to the nearest police station, and I handed it in, holding my breath.

The walk back to the hostal was a long one, because we got lost again.

The next day Camilo went off to Niebla, to have a look around, and to see if he found somewhere he could fish. I set off due North. I was now certain that the charm of the trip was over, and there was naught to be done but to return home.

I don't remember when it happened, but at some point I decided to ride to Santiago that very same day.

The 843 km I rode that day didn't offer anything interesting or noteworthy, except perhaps that I met Camilo in a petrol station bathroom (I recognized his boots and riding trousers visible under the stall door); that I miscalculated and had to get off the highway and into an arse of a town called Munchen to find gas, where a guy wanted money for having told me how to find the nearest Copec station; that I had a mote con huesillos at "El Rey del Mote Con Huesillos" which was slightly acid and made my stomach churn.

I got home past midnight, my head abuzz, and that surreal feeling again, not just from the ear plugs, but from all that I had seen and lived. Was I really in Santiago? Is the trip over?

* * *

I wake up. I open my eyes. Fresh air coming in the window. Sun! Sun is streaming in. That means today is a good day for riding. Good pictures. But where am I? This is my room. I'm in my room.

The trip's over.

Fin.

Carretera Austral Part 12: Quellón - Puerto Varas

2007-11-13T03:13:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Day 20: Ferry to Quellón, journey to Puerto Varas.

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An early rise, for today we would take the ferry to Quellón. This time we booked the trip in advance, after the near-fiasco at Hornopirén.

On the loading ramp we met with a surprise: the largest gathering of bikes we saw on the whole trip. Mine, Camilo's, a couple from California (complete with Tool and Ministry stickers on their panniers), a dude on a CRF-450 (more on him later) and a Chilean group of two Transalps, one Varadero and one BMW.

Luckily it wasn't raining. Looking back from the stern, I said goodbye to Chaitén, and to Chile's Deep South.

On board we chatted to people here and there. The guy on the CRF was american, biochemist, apparently somewhere in the middle of his second postdoc. He spoke perfect argentine spanish, thanks to having lived some five years in Bariloche with his girlfriend, a bit longer than the time she spent in the US. He told us that he had left behind a job at a good research lab, and didn't know if he wanted to go back.

He showed us his bike. With the help of a friend from the University of Texas they had made a 22 litre gas tank to replace the stock tank, which we learned could only hold 5 litres. He had also bought a giant headlight, and mounted it using a fame he'd made. He told us about the long hours he spent in the lab, poring over website after website of accessories and enhancements for the bike. He spent a year doing this: buying stuff, installing it on the bike, buying more stuff.

We were not too clear on what his route was, but he was certainly doing it fast, and in long, long stretches. His luggage? A medium-sized backpack. No rack, no panniers, saddlebags, nothing. He had left almost everything, including his tools, in Puerto Montt. His back was a wreck, he told us.

Five minutes after setting sail, I heard him cursing emphatically. He thought he had been sold a ticket to Puerto Montt, not to Quellón. As they say, se quería cortar un huevo. He needed to get to Puerto Montt in order to reach Osorno, to get to Moto Aventura. He had a problem with his back wheel, and had heard that they were the best and most complete bike shop in southern Chile, and was certain that he needed their services.

I asked if I could see the back wheel. He said it was loose, and that this was especially noticeable on asphalt. It might be the bearings, he mused. I asked him to raise the bike on the kickstand. "Cómo? Que la levante?, you want me to pick it up?". "No, no: like this". And I showed him how to use the locked front wheel and the kickstand to raise the back wheel off the ground easily.

And indeed, the back wheel was horribly loose. At the rim, it had about a centimetre of lateral motion. A guy watching all of this said: "Son los rayos, it's just the spokes that are loose." So off he went, and came back with an adjustable spanner, and everything was set in ten minutes.

I wandered around the ship a bit, trying to break the monotony of the long journey. I met a german girl, and we chatted for a while in the passenger cabin, located on one of the uppermost levels of the ship, sitting in reclining soft chairs reminiscent of those of long-distance buses.

For the first time in my life I began to feel seasick. I closed my eyes, hoping it wouldn't end badly. It was almost impossible to sleep, since the loudspeaker that was surely used for announcements and so on emitted a sanity-melting screech throughout the whole trip, audible and irritating over the hum of the ship's big engines, audible even over the constant loud rattling of some loose wall panel. Such simple things to fix, but that were left as-is, unchanged. Three points off for Naviera Austral, lose a turn, do not pass go.

My seasickness didn't end with a mad rush to the railing, but I did feel the urgent need to get out for fresh air and to stabilize myself with the distant horizon. Ah, the things we'll put up with to talk to a pretty girl.

We arrived at Quellón. Here's a pic of Julius on his CRF.

A bike-jam.

A quick look around before getting off the dock.

We rode up and down the street a bit, looking for a cocinería with Julius and Camilo. He told us he tried to have two guns shipped down with his bike, but when the customs official finally broke open the container full of traveller's bikes, he didn't let him take his guns. He said he felt naked without them. You've gotta have an edge, you never know, he said.

We said goodbye, and headed South 5 kilometres. This is where the Ruta 5 ends, and is one of the claimed endings of the Pan-American Highway.

And what about the rest of the pics of Chiloé? What happened?

Simply that we barely stopped at all. After the desolate and majestic scenery down south, now the rolling hills, colourful Chiloé houses, blacktop and traffic jarred with our state of mind. We stopped at Castro, but the plaza was being restored, frustrating any attempt at getting a good shot of the old church. And the traffic, the people, the noise, and a stomach still rolling to the rhythm of the Golfo Corcovado; all of that dissolved any desire to stop and get to know the area. As a concession, if you want to see a motorbike trip up and down Chiloé, I leave you with
La Ruta de Casi.

We reached Chacao at sunset, having travelled the whole length of the island of Chiloé practically nonstop. We buzzed straight to the head of the long column of cars, buses and trucks waiting to board a ferry. This works amazingly well: the vehicles near the loading ramp won't be left off the ferry because, as a motorbike, you skipped the line. The vehicles further back are too far off to be able to manifest their displeasure. When you board, everyone that did manage to get on is happy, and leaves it at that. Everyone else (that might possibly be mad at you) is left on the shore. In any case, we were placed in a dead space on the ferry, so we technically didn't influence the queue at all.

We saw but a couple of toninas, in the distance. Some curious seals came closer.

It was strange: we pulled back from one ramp, only to grind to a halt at another, 100 metres to the east of the first. More vehicles were loaded on.

It is amazing to see the constant flow of ferries crossing the Canal de Chacao.

In the distance, something I had been hoping to see: the cable (only one) that provides power to the whole island, according to what I read in the Turistel Sur, waiting in the small shelter at Puerto Yungay. It hangs from those two towers.

"What if we carry on to Puerto Varas, instead of staying in Puerto Montt again?" I asked Camilo. And so we did.

We got there quite late, and found a residencial in a rather dingy area. That night Camilo went off to the Casino, and I got together with a friend.

I felt a bit uncomfortable. I had become accustomed to tiny towns, hundreds of kilometres of wilderness, dense, dripping forest, windswept lakes and pampa, glaciers as common as the mountaintops they sat on, or, failing that, cities ensconced in hidden valleys or tucked up against towering rock. But so it goes, and we had to go back now. And there was still the lake district further north. I might adapt once more to those surroundings, and I might set up camp somewhere. You never know.

Next Chapter: Volcán Osorno, Valdivia, and the long ride home.

Carretera Austral Part 11: Camilo's Adventure

2007-11-12T03:13:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Monday, March 19, 2007

Days 14-15-16: Camilo's trip to Chile Chico and Perito Moreno with Tom, the return towards Puerto Ingeniero Ibáñez.

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Before we leave the Great Continental South behind, there is a story yet to be told: Camilo and Tom's adventures as I rode to Villa O'Higgins.

I now leave you with Camilo as narrator.

* * *

Just as we had been told, the ride to Chile Chico was one of the most fun and beautiful roads in the area.

I asked Tom if he had enough gas to reach Chile Chico. "Sure, it's 110 km". I looked at him. "Tom, it's more like 170 km".

We stopped at Puerto Guadal to find a bottle and a hose. To my surprise I realised that the only way Tom knew to get a siphon going was by sucking on the hose. He told me he hated to do this, since he always ended up swallowing some. I let him choke a few times, and then showed him how to use the plastic bottle as a bellows to get the thing going.

After spending half an hour transferring the 4.5 litres the KLR needed, we carried on towards the plaza, and saw the large sign of an Esso gas station. No comment.

On the road we met two English guys, Will and Norm.

We stopped for a pic. The wind was unbelievable. "Tom, your bike is going to get blown over", said I. "No, it's fine" said he.

We got to Chile Chico and found a place to spend the night. The area's microclimate is fantastic: it was sunny, and the temperature was around 24 ºC. Not willing to let a day like this go to waste, we put on shorts, tshirts and flip flops. As soon as we had left the building and advanced a few metres, the day turned foul and it started to rain lightly. We would spend the rest of the day frozen, but with our heads high.

Time to eat, so we found a place that had empanadas. From there, we managed to find the worst internet shop in the world (the girl was clueless, no devices were recognized, expensive), so we went to another one. It seems we were a little to hasty with our previous classification. This one was certainly the worst. Tom spent three hours trying to check his email, while he places his pics in a zip file for me (which ended up getting corrupted anyway).

One notable thing about Chile Chico is that the main avenue has speakers installed outdoors along its whole length. We were treated to cheesy romantic ballads all day. Tom was beyond comment.

Later we went back to the residencial, only to find that there was a pickup truck where my motorbike had been previously. I asked the owner, and he said he hadn't moved it. (Strangely enough, I too have had to face this kind of shameless lie before - Ed.).

The next day, as I was loading the bike, it fell over. The result: scratches on the top case and paint off the crash bars.

After passing through the Chilean Aduana without a hitch, we got to the Argentine one. When I was asked for my papers, I was told that I didn't have any temporary international insurance. I had forgotten to get this little gem, so I told the guy that he was right, and that I would be back in Chile the same day. He insisted, so I asked where I could buy it. "Chile Chico" came the answer. "You require this insurance and yet you don't sell it?". Back to Chile Chico.

I didn't want to do the Chilean Aduana paperwork all over again (entering the country only to leave it a few minutes later), so I sped by Policía Internacional at 130 km/h, and bought the insurance at a supermarket (and paid the price for a car since, as the clerk explained "Your bike is a Suzuki and that's a car brand").

Back to the Chilean aduana. "Was it you that just flew past into Chile?" he asked. I didn't want any more complications, so I just said it was easier to do the whole thing once. Strangely enough, the guy just laughed and said nothing.

Empanadas and pics at Los Antiguos, and on we went to Perito Moreno on the paved road. There we bought "Special Chain Lubricant", a copy of WD40 called W80. It was all we could find in the small town.

Tom went to find a place to stay (the municipal camping, probably about a dollar) and after squeezing 21.97 litres into the V-Strom's tank (since gas here is less than half the price it is in Chile, at $278 pesos per litre), I said goodbye to Tom.

I asked what the best route back to Chile was. I was told there was one that went through Río Mayo, but I saw a more direct route, via Portezuelo, and asked what it was like. I was told it was in pretty good condition, so I set off.

The road cut through pure and simple pampa, windier now than it had ever been on the trip. Some stretches allowed for 100 km/h, some less.

I soon reached the start of a grader's run. That was the end of quiet and fun riding. (This was clearly karma from setting off that other grader's alarm - Ed.)

I stopped for a pic, but the wind blew me over as I came to a stop. I tried unsuccessfully to get the bike up for twenty minutes, but it was only with the help of people in the first car I'd seen since I left the town that we managed to get it up.

There was no part of the road that was compacted or solid. Everything was loose, and the wind made riding extremely difficult.

The scenery was spectacular, but with the sun in my eyes I could hardly see anything. It started to get late, and I began to worry about the Argentine aduana being closed, which would mean having to return via the same road at night.

On an uphill curve, where there were more loose stones than was usual, I had my second fall. Luckily the last car I would see that day was passing by, and they helped me pick it up. That was at 21:00.

I called home, to see if they could call the Chilean aduana and ask what time it closes, but they couldn't get through. I finally reached the Argentine aduana and mentioned that I was surprised at how few cars used the road. In an unmistakable Argentine accent I was told "No, there's lots actually; some days there'll be five or even eight cars passing through".

I set off again, assuming that the Chilean aduana was near.

Somewhere around the tenth kilometre of "Where the fuck is the Chilean aduana?" I had a rather unpleasant fall on another rocky climb, since the road surface after the Argentine aduana was much worse than before.

Night had fallen, knowing I was the last to have come through the Argentine aduana, no strength to even attempt picking up the bike (which had fallen with its wheels up-slope), I began unpacking warm clothes and a reflective safety jacket. It was getting very, very cold.

I set several things around the bike, which lay in the middle of the road, so it was more visible and didn't get hit by a car or trampled on by some animal. I looked around for somewhere to place the tent. Not a single square metre lent itself to this task, but it had to be done.

After resting for twenty minutes, I saw lights in the distance, coming from the Chilean side. I waved my arms around, using my cellphone as a torch so they'd see me before hitting the bike. It was the Carabineros; the last car had casually mentioned that a bike was coming in behind them, and after having no sign of said bike, they set off to investigate.

They suggested putting the V-Strom in the pickup, but once they say how heavy it was, that idea was scratched. We put all the luggage in the pickup, and they drove behind me, lighting my way. Meanwhile they called the station and arranged for coffee, cookies and water to be waiting for us.

When we finally got there, after 10 km of skids and near-falls, I had coffee and rested. It must have been 23:30. The aduana was closed, but they told me to leave the papers with them and they'd get everything done.

They suggested not to go on to Coyhaique, and so began calling residenciales, all closed at this time of night, until they found one that had space. They told the owner that a very tired motorcyclist was on his way. As I came in the doorway I saw how a guest was getting shuffled out of the ground floor room and up to the first floor, all so I wouldn't have to go up the stairs. That night I watched the Festival de Viña; I needed to disconnect from the real world for a bit.

These are the two Carabineros, and I am deeply indebted to them for their help.

The next day I had a nice and simple ride to Coyhaique, with beautiful views of Cerro Castillo. On our way down it had been cloudy and somber, but now, in the sun, it was completely different.

In Coyhaique I met the English lads by chance: I had gone for a walk the second day I was there, and while I was out, they had checked in to the same residencial.

I was then treated to the horrible process that is changing the chain on a BMW F650 GS.

One thing that's worth mentioning is the excessive caution of Will and Norm: Their pan-american travel kit included two torque wrenches and a plastic tarp on which to work. Since in England you just take the bike to the service centre (and get a nice CBR 600 meanwhile), they lacked what one might call "precision Chilean mechanical knowledge": a stuck bolt resulted in several calls to BMW UK and much hesitation. I suggested a bath of WD40 and a good whack with a mallet. The official response from BMW UK? A bath of WD40 and a good whack with a mallet. It finally came off (with the help of five hammers and five large pieces of junk metal, and ample amounts of WD40).

And that night Paul called, past midnight. He had come all the way from Villa O'Higgins in one day, and his sanity seemed to have been affected by all those kilometres riding alone, at night, in the middle of nowhere.

Next Chapter: Quellón - Puerto Varas

Carretera Austral Part 10: Puyuhuapi - Chaitén

2007-11-11T03:21:00.002-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Sunday, March 18, 2007

Days 17-18: Coyhaique-Puyuhuapi, road to Chaitén.

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1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-Epilogue

Photographic Index

I awoke in a soft bed, almost too soft: an old camp bed, sunken in the middle. Last night, this crater had protected me from the cold, ensconced and safe. Now, in the early morning, it made my back hurt. I called Camilo from the depths of my nest, and we coordinated our day.

I discovered that I had lost the bolt that holds the exhaust to the frame, and that last night, when I had zippered up my saddlebag after putting the gear oil away, I had not locked the small padlock that kept it shut. Now, it probably lay open at the side of the damp road, somewhere between Puerto Murta and Villa Cerro Castillo.

I met with Camilo, James and Will. I needed a new bolt, and they needed a few things from Homecenter. For lunch, we went to the Casino de Bomberos, the Fireman's Canteen, the same place we had gone with Tom on the way down. The same woman, the same foul service, but good food. Frankly, if tomorrow the government were overthrown by a dictator whose sole fancy were to deport chilean waiters and waitresses, and import their argentine equivalents, I would not be opposed.

After much wandering, I found a bolt shop on the corner of the same block the residencial was on, bought one, and went back to install it. In the small car park under the main house I met an American man from Montana. He'd been fishing, I think the name of the river was that of some king. He'd caught a very large female salmon. He spoke almost no Spanish, and the residencial's owner, a retired Army officer who took pride in his knowledge of local fishing areas and the full service he offered his fishing guests, spoke no English.

As the American did all necessary things to the salmon, leaving a literal bloody mess on the small area of the garage floor that was not cemented over, another guest arrived. He took one look at the salmon, asked where it had been caught, and sentenced: "No, in this season the meat is bad. Bad. It's not worth fishing them," and pottered off again.

When the owner was some distance away, the American asked me what the guy had said. I told him. He remained silent a while, still working on the fish. As he removed the guts, he began telling me about the salmon's life cycle, how fresh water is the bitter end for salt water fish. "The begin falling to pieces as they swim upstream to spawn. Literally, bits of flesh fall off them". He pointed at the spine. "See this? The skin changes colour when they've been in fresh water too long. And this one is fine."

I set to work on my bolt. I didn't want to lose it again, so I decided to file a notch into the head and wire it to the frame. I asked the American guy for a file. We went to fetch it from his pickup, parked outside. I opened the sliding garage door for him, since both hands were covered in blood and gore, and one held a very large knife. On our short walk back to the residencial I did my best to hold the multitool in the most menacing way I could manage. A young couple walked past us, but didn't seem fazed. I guess this is a common sight in Coyhaique.

I had been filing and wiring for a while, when a new guest arrived, a Swiss cyclist. We chatted a while. I was surprised at his bicycle: it had no front suspension. The seat was a rather austere hard leather affair, rimmed by brass rivets. I think he hoped to attain spiritual purification through testicular sacrifice.

That night the five of us went out for pizza, and we watched how Ricky Martin gave some morena a few good dry humps on live TV at the Festival de Viña.

Camilo and I set off the next morning, after a long and frustrating search for his motorbike's keys, which eventually turned up in one of the rubbish bags that kept his luggage safe from rain.

At the petrol station we saw two loaded Africa Twins, and I went over to say hi. It was Tom and Christine, who were touring South America. It so happened that they too knew Karl Heinz.

A final stop by the D'Olbek brewery to buy another glass, to replace the one that had broken in Río Tranquilo. Tom had asked Camilo for this favour, and as we fruitlessly attempted to find somewhere to put it where it wouldn't break or fall out, Camilo and I cursed the fucking gringo till we were breathless. I finally gave in and accepted to carry it in one of my saddlebags.

In Villa Mañihuales we refueled and had lunch in Yuseff's restaurant. Tom and Christine were at the other table, but since we hadn't talked much at the petrol station, we didn't interact much. Camilo's salmon was served half-raw. "Just imagine it's sashimi" I said.

Bit by bit we neared the Parque Nacional Queulat, and the vegetation started to change.

Here, a few kilometres from Puyuhuapi.

Camilo had bought a portable fishing rod, and was eager to try it out. I walked with him to the dock, and confirmed once more that fishing is not for me. To tell the truth, I am not sure why they call it "fishing", since that is what you spend the least time doing. It should be called "attempted fishing", or perhaps "hoping for a bite" or "I am the archetypal optimist".

Obviously nothing was biting. We were told about another dock, near the mouth of a river, just outside Puyuhuapi. Camilo took the bike, and I walked along the shore.

And there, Camilo caught a fish and was happy.

No, I made that up. He didn't catch anything. Instead, he put the rod away and took some pics.

We were tired, so we made soup in the room, and went to bed early.

During the night I woke several times to the noise of rain showering against the window, and the howling gusts of wind.

The next morning it was still raining. That meant packing in the rain. There are few things more unpleasant than that. And later on, I'd find out what one of those few things was.

An hour and a half later, both of us taught and squeaky in our chicken suits, Camilo with his yellow kitchen gloves on, we set off.

By the time we reached La Junta, my hands were soaked, and it was cold. To make matters worse, the anti-fog visor insert had moved slightly, allowing condensation to form behind it.

I discovered, to my boundless joy, that some italian hijo de puta working as a helmet designer at Nolan, in Italy, had the bright idea of having the visor de-fogging air intake pointing upwards, so that it not only served as an air intake, but also as a rain intake. Rain was quite efficiently collected, channeled to the inside of the helmet, leaked out onto the inside of the chin flap, and sent trickling down my neck.

At La Junta I just wanted to take off my helmet and gloves, and perhaps sit down to eat something, perhaps with a hot coffee to wash it down. I once again pushed the remarkable supermarket's door aside, and headed towards a place with eight plastic chairs set against the wall, beside which stood an elderly caucasian woman, two small backpacks on two of the chairs. "Are these chairs taken?" I asked, placing my helmet on the one furthest from her. "Yes" was her short and dry answer. "All chairs are occupied then?" I asked, with a slowness that carried over every ounce of my displeasure. "Yes". Vieja del orto. I plodded off, swearing, to find a supermaket trolley in which to leave my helmet in a position that would help it drain.

After a lunch composed primarily of coffee and cookies, we mounted and continued on our way to Chaitén.

From out of nowhere a pudú came dashing out of the nalcas on the side of the road, missed Camilo's front wheel by mere centimetres, and disappeared on the other side.

Further on we came across roadwork. The Carretera Austral was being widened here; we weren't that far off from Chaitén. I nearly put the bike down twice due to the soft, recently-churned earth, but managed to keep it up.

In Chaitén Camilo spotted the English lad's bikes, so we checked in to the same place (which, by the way, was absolutely fantastic; unfortunately as a means of identifying it I can only say that the hospedaje itself was behind another house, though the sign was out front).

We went for a walk by the beach.

Camilo and the lads went back; I walked down to the beach.

That is the ferry that would take us to Quellón, at the southern tip of the big island of Chiloé, the next day.

It had been a while since I had seen a sunset quite like this one.

No need to describe it. You can imagine how it must have felt.

Nope, nothing I can say about it. These pics show it as it was.

Looking back towards Chaitén from the beach.

In a certain sense, this would be the end of one of the chapters of our journey. The following day we would be in Chiloé, and that same day we would end up sleeping on the continent once more. We would leave behind the tall mountains covered in dense and damp vegetation, the glaciers casually spilling over mountaintops here and there, the incredible colours of the rivers (do not adjust your monitor, this is the Río Baker), and the kilometres and kilometres of dirt roads.

I couldn't help feeling slightly nostalgic.

Next Chapter: Camilo's Adventure

Carretera Austral Part 9: Caleta Tortel - Return to Coyhaique

2007-11-08T02:54:00.001-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Friday, March 16, 2007

Day 16: Caleta Tortel, return to Coyhaique at night.

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1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-Epilogue

Photographic Index

The alarm clock goes off. It is cold. 0700 am. The neighbour's horse is still munching grass, now barely audible.

The alarm clock goes off again. I move the curtains behind my bed aside. It's still cloudy. Today will be a long and tiring day: I have just half an hour to get up, load the bike, and set off to Río Bravo. There I will take the ferry back to Puerto Yungay, and carry on North, passing through Caleta Tortel. Time to get up!

During my stay at the house I made friends with this dog. Ridiculously short-legged, initially cautious and distant, he eventually got used to my presence and greetings. He kept me company as I packed.

The night before, my hostess had made pan amasado, a slightly solid Chilean variety of bread, and she had invited me to have onces with her, tea time. She gave me a couple of loaves, enormous and heavy, so I had something to eat on my journey.

It was cold, a morning type fo cold, the cool air of a day that's just starting out. There were occasional gusts of wind.

It was interesting to see the road in daylight, because on the way here it had been dark and raining.

There are several reminders of those that lost their lives in the construction of the Camino Longitudinal Austral.

I set off at 08:20 and arrived at 10:20, cold and raining. For the first time in the trip I didn't wear the top half of my chicken suit, opting instead to put my Polo jacket to the test, and it was fine.

Luckily the tiny shelter here at Río Bravo, a 3x3 metre hut, was a lot more welcoming than the one at Puerto Yungay. I shared it with several people. Shivering with cold, I listened to the conversation of two friends that were on the way up from Tierra del Fuego with their pickup and small aluminium boat. They told us how they would sometimes lower the boat into a fjord or river, and then go and explore that which could not be reached by land. Apparently they were looking for a nice place to buy some land.

The ferry arrived, and I got on. The gentle swell required something more secure than simply leaning the bike against a wall, so I made good use of the tie-down strap that Tom gave me.

We reached Puerto Yungay, which looked completely different with the sun shining on it.

Here's the standard pic with the landmark at the end of the Camino Longitudinal Austral.

Just then I saw two motorbikes approach. It was Martin and Katya, whom I had met at the Copec petrol station in Cochrane. We had talked, and it turns out they knew Karl Heinz, from Buenos aires; they had met him personally at the December Horizons Unlimited reunion in Viedma, in Argentina.

From then on, rain and intermittent sunshine.

Bit by bit, the weather started improving.

Here, well on my way to Caleta Tortel (see this chapter's map), and a drop managed to connect with the camera lens, the only one on the whole trip. Damn.

I rolled in to the Caleta Tortel parking lot in bright sun. This is where visitors and locals leave their vehicles (if, of course, any of the Caleta Tortel residents ever were to own a vehicle), and then take one of the several wooden walkways radiating outwards and downhill.

I was too lazy (and cautious) to remove my knee and shin guards, my thermal trousers, or leave my jacket on the bike, so I hiked down the well-made wooden path in the general direction of the sea. Before doing so, I had asked people if it was ok to leave everything on the bike, and they said yes, but it's hard to leave behind city habits.

After a few minutes of walking on the uniform walkway, passing one house here, another house there, passing turnoffs to other wooden walkways, I came to a high point, from which you can see part of Caleta Tortel.

All transport is done on these walkways. The only earth that your feet will ever touch is that of the parking lot, and the sand at the beach, both situated at opposite ends of Caleta Tortel.

The main walkway, skirting the shoreline and with offshoots climbing up into the densely wooded hils, even has a tiny park, wedged against the steep hillside. There is enough room for two benches, and that's it.

The only modern elements in all of this are outboard engines and satellite TV dishes.

Perhaps due to it being Sunday, I saw only three or four of the 400 or so local residents. The Turistel guide mentioned that everyone says hello when they pass each other, and I can see why, since you will always come at least 30 cm close to anyone passing you in the opposite direction.

The clouds blotted out the sun at times, but the colours remained; particularly the deep turquoise of the sea.

One of the many promontories towards the south end of the caleta did not have a walkway the whole way around it, so I heaved up the hundreds of wooden steps to the top, passing by house after house. So tranquil, so beautiful. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was playing one of the Myst or Riven games.

Caleta Tortel's library, and another building being restored.

The sections of recently-built walkway are immediately evident. Here, one of them cuts across a short inlet, decreasing the distance between two parts of the town.

I saw a few dogs here and there, and mostly they just slept in the sun. The others I met were headed somewhere, with that very slight "I'm late, I'm late" cadence that dogs have when they're going somewhere.

Sweating and very hot, I eventually reached the other end of Caleta Tortel, the beach.

I'm not sure how people got to the beach before this walkway. Perhaps walking on the swampy vegetation?

And with that, it was time to turn back. I reached the bike feeling like rider stew. Let us not forget the waterproof riding boots, and those fucking socks that come loose and bunch up around your toes. As I walked, I made plans to burn every single pair of socks of that brand that I owned.

At the parking lot I met two germans, also touring on a bike. They were lightly loaded; I think they were staying in Cochrane.

That pic deserves a zoom:

I rode through the stunning area south of Cochrane, this time facing a crosswind.

I refueled at Cochrane and called Camilo. I said I might try to reach Coyhaique that very day.

On the way to Puerto Río Tranquilo I was buffeted by a strong crosswind, coming of the Lago General Carrera, galloping unimpeded over the short grass and bushes, its full force heaving at me broadside.

What happens then is what I presume happens to all motorcycle travellers: you shit yourself. The road generally has two usable tracks, sometimes three, but none wider than 30 centimetres, sometimes less. These tracks are lined on either side by rather deep stones, loose gravel, sand, anything that will throw a bike off course. Riding in a straight line, at 80, 90 km/h, there is not problem, but as soon as a gust blows, the bike leans into the wind. In doing so, the bike pivots about the centre of gravity, a point that lies somewhere below the seat. Whereas your torso and head move into the wind, your wheels move laterally in the opposite direction, placing them dangerously close to the edge of your track. If the gust is strong enough, there is no option but to ride up on the gravel and hope for the best.

Having a very loaded bike only makes matters worse, not only because the extra weight and a light front wheel makes keeping the bike stable on gravel exceedingly difficult, but also because the centre of gravity is higher than normal, and therefore the lateral displacement of your wheels, in case of a gust, is larger than with an unloaded bike.

And let's not forget that gusts disappear as suddenly as they come, leaving you leaned over and with nothing to counter your inclination.

The last picture of the day. Later on, as soon as the sun set, the temperature plummeted.

And does this day's narrative end here? Upon refuelling at Río Tranquilo I considered it. I knew the town, I knew where I might stay. But it would also mean unloading everything, and then packing the bike in the morning, not to mention the tedious routine of getting your things out of your bag, sleeping, showering, finding food, packing again. And more money, and more wasted time.

So I passed by a family-run general store, bought a packet of ramitas, biscuits and a diet coke. That was my lunch and my dinner. I put on all the cold weather gear I had with me, and set off North.

The wind got stronger. Ironically, night fell at exactly the same point as it had on the way South, travelling with Camilo and Tom, at Puerto Murta. My main headlight, useless as ever. 35 Watts lighting up nothing in particular, perhaps the branches overhead, thanks to my (solidly-founded) unwillingness to adjust its position.

I was soon back in the jungle. I say jungle, because the word forest does not capture the density of the trees, the undergrowth, the nalcas, thrusting into the road, the enormous silhouettes of the trees jutting out against the stars, the moon behind some solitary cloud.

Coming up a steep slope, I noticed a rhythmic metallic screech. It was obviously coming from the chain. I made a mental note to find a place to stop, somewhere I might oil the chain again, though I had done just that before leaving Villa O'Higgins.

I reached a short cement bridge, a bridge over a roaring river beneath, somewhere below the dense vegetation. I stopped there in case another vehicle went by, to be as far as possible from the middle of the road.

I won't deny that I was scared to be there. Completely alone, strange noises going on around me. Birds, animals, the wind in the trees, insects. I just took my gloves off. My helmet stayed on so I could avoid re-adjusting my neck warmer, and in case I had to start off in a rush (yes, I was that spooked).

I oiled the chain with the syringe again, put everything back in the saddlebags (blessed be mine saddlebags, blessed art thou among all my luggage, for allowing me quick and easy access to frequently-used items), and I set off again.

The accumulated dust on the inside and outside of my visor was lit up by the light coming from my illuminated front mud guard, making seeing extremely difficult. Things got better if I tilted my head back slightly, which I did for several more hours. It goes without saying that this is not too comfortable.

I find it hard to communicate what it felt like to be there, at night, completely alone, alert to any more strange noises my bike might make, switching between mental calculations of estimated-time-of-arrival and cruise speed; and possible mechanical problems and their consequences.

To get an idea, take a look at the mini map in this chapter's header (it's a link to a larger map). Look for the bit between Río Tranquilo and Villa Cerro Castillo. See what there is to either side of the road? Precisely: there is nothing there. For over 100 kilometres of jungle, I did not see another soul or trace of human presence, save for the road, the road.

Slowly, slowly, because of my horrendous light, I made progress. I met no more than five vehicles on the the whole trip. When two cars passed me, both going at a ridiculous speed, I got behind them, trying to make the best of their light. We soon reached the end of the damp compacted road surface, giving way to dry, dusty dirt, and I was forced to retreat, and to resume my slow puttering.

The hours passed by, and I was tired and cold. In these situations, some riders begin doing strange things. Some whistle, though they may never whistle in daily life. Some sing into their helmets, tone-deaf as they may be. Others chant like a Tibetan monk. And there are those that make up a radio drama, act out the voices and sprinkle it liberally with ludicrous elements. I did all of this, and more. Anything to break the monotony. I you think about how the privacy of a shower will bring out these flights of dubious virtuosity, imagine what it's like in the privacy of your own helmet, where the closest spectator is a pudú nibbling on some berries some thirty kilometres away.

The vegetation became less dense, the road became more dusty and more stony. I was approaching the Cerro Castillo zone. It was the only bit of the trip that had been cause for concern before I set off from Río Tranquilo, because I knew I'd have to do it at night. There is a lot of loose stuff on the road surface, and it is very windy.

And so it was: I now rode on a mountain trail, facing a relentless, chilling wind, and beyond the feeble yellow light cast on gravel, washboard and stones, was the sky, fuller of stars than it has ever been; and in front of me, towering over me, Cerro Castillo, the waning moon behind it, a cutout of black-on-black, and the most stunning part of it all: clouds forming from the peaks and needle spires of Cerro Castillo, as if I was watching it all on time-lapse video.

I stopped, just before a long winding descent, on the side of the hill, with nothing but rocks and stubby grasses around me, the wind tugging on my bike, my helmet. In the distance, far, far away but offering me a stunning spectacle nonetheless, was the the moon, and the clouds. It was the most spectacular view on the whole trip.

When I saw the few lights of Villa Cerro Castillo, I knew the hardest part of the journey was over. From then on the road was paved, and I just had to deal with the wind on the plains south of Coyhaique. In total, I had done 600 kilometres, 500 of them on the dirt.

I rolled into Coyhaique in a daze and sporting questionable sanity, some time around 01:00 AM. I called Camilo. "Mi nombre es peliiiiigroooooooooooo" I croaked, perhaps revealing too much of my temporary loopiness. "You son of a bitch, you're in Coyhaique!" was his answer. I giggled like a boy who had done something naughty, but who regretted it not.

Camilo was having unreasonable amounts of beer with the English lads, whom I'd meet the next day, and he told me to go to his residencial, one with a strange name on Calle Simpson, further up the road than where our favourite hag spun her web.

I rode up to the place, visions of soft beds and hot showers dancing in my head. I looked for a doorbell. No doorbell. I called Camilo. "No, you have to knock on the door. Go through the metal gate and knock."

I rang the bell, but that acheived nothing. I head someone moving on the second floor, and waited 10 minutes for something to happen. Nothing did. Pissed off, I decided to leave.

I got on the bike, started the engine, and revved it hard a couple of times. Have you ever heard a completely uncorked XR250R revving hard at 01:00 AM outside your window? :-)

Round and round I went, unable to believe that the promised land of Coyhaique was turning out to be an extension of the desolation of Cerro Castillo. I eventually found a residencial with a light on outside, and the owner opened the door for me. He had a room out back, in a small two-storey house behind the space for the cars. On the first floor, a sofa, a table with a used ashtray on it, some chairs, and in the corner, some boxes full of toys and other random crap. It looked like the last stages of a move. He showed me the room, the bathroom. Perfect, I'll stay. And I did: I threw everything to the ground beside the bed and jumped in.

The last thing I remember thinking before falling asleep, still feeling the effects of Cerro Castillo, was I bet this house is haunted and I'm going to wake up with something profoundly nasty standing at the foot of my bed.

And with that, I fell asleep.

Next Chapter: Puyuhuapi - Chaitén

Carretera Austral Part 8: Villa O'Higgins and the Fiesta Costumbrista

2007-11-08T02:54:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Thursday, March 15, 2007

Days 14-15: Villa O'Higgins, Fiesta Costumbrista, Bahía Bahamóndez

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1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-Epilogue

Photographic Index

I woke up pleasantly late and had breakfast in the kitchen. I was quite surprised to find that the girl that was staying in another room was a friend of Fiji's. This is a guy that I met way back in my first year of physics at the Universidad de Chile. He then went down to Temuco, found physics wasn't his thing, and has since made a name for himself as an upcoming short film director. Fancy that.

There was free internet at the public library, housed in a nice wooden building. I was asked to register as a user of the network of Chilean public libraries. The desktop interface was button-based, uncluttered. Not bad at all.

Over the mountains surrounding Villa O'Higgins there were scattered clouds, but over the valley, it was sunny! I walked around town, taking a look at the ordered and tidy streets, the separate houses, imagining myself staying here for the winter. The plaza even had roofed-in walkways.

From vialidad.cl, here's Villa O'Higgins from the air. That tiny blob at the foot of the hill.

Before the road reached the town, supplies were brought in from Argentina, sailing in on the bi-national O'Higgins/San Martín lake, and people flew in via the small airstrip.

I walked to the Fiesta Costumbrista, the traditional fair.

Music, a cool breeze, people walking here and there. And on the other side of the road, horses and ponies.

To the sound of chamamé, the chilean gauchos did their best in the competitions.

The first one to mount the untamed horse was a certain Claudio Guzmán, quite young. He held on well, but fell off the horse, flat onto his back. People rushed over to see him, and he stood up, his hand on his back, but then lay down two metres away. A minute later, after being surrounded by a circle of concerned gauchos, he stood up again, and he even had enough left in him to twirl his leather fusta above his head. A real macho.

And the competitors came and went, one after the other. They hailed from Villa O'Higgins, they hailed from Caleta Tortel, they hailed from as far North as Coyhaique. I spent quite some time on the bleachers, visitors and families all around me. Sometimes the wind blew cold, and I put up the hood of my rain jacket; sometimes it didn't and I had to peel off layers in the hot sun.

Each competitor rode a different horse. It was trotted out from the other side of the dirt road, guided by two gauchos on horseback. It was carefully tied to a post, and more carefully still, its eyes were covered. Then came the special saddle.

And as soon as the judge gave the signal, the horse was set free from the post, and the rider clung on for dear life. After some ten seconds a bell was rung, and a second rider would come up and help him off the bucking horse. Sometimes this was successful, sometimes not.

In the background, Glaciar Mosco.

One horse, upon having his eyes blindfolded, decided that it was all quite too much for a decent horse to take in this life, and collapsed to the ground, motionless. A few good kicks got him back up again.

I wandered over to the crafts and food stalls, talked to the RV couple from Coyhaique, ate sopaipillas at 100 pesos each (delicious), and then bought the worst mote con huesillos I've ever had in my life. A good mote can save a hot summer's day, even though it looks like a pair of mummified testicles floating in submerged rice krispies. But this one wasn't good at all: the wheat had been boiled in plain water, with no sugar, and the sun-dried peaches' syrup was not enough to sweeten the whole deal. Bleargh.

I chatted to the creator of some nice hand-carved keychains he'd made out of horn. It was his daughter that was riding around on her little bike, showing off her Sunday clothes. I promised to send him the picture, so he gave me his other daughter's email. It bounced :-(

I watched this game for a while.

This asado had being going on since the previous night, tended to by a local family. That's a whole cow, son.

It wasn't ready yet.

I decided to go back for the bike. Bahía Bahamóndez was calling, telling me that I wasn't there yet, that there were a few more kilometres to go.

So I went. It was a scarce 8 km, but I did them slowly, to save fuel. There's no petrol station in Villa O'Higgins.

And I'm there! The most southern point of the Camino Longitudinal Austral, despite the fact that it ends officially at Puerto Yungay. This little loading ramp. This is it.

This ferry moves the animals around different points on the lake shore.

Following a narrow trail, I reached a small hydroelectric station.

You can't see Villa O'Higgins, but you can see Cerro Santiago, the wooded hill behind it, where families go for walks and hikes on weekends.

And here's the picture that (to me at least) sums it all up.

I went back to the fiesta, this time on the bike. I parked it and shortly thereafter met an Englishman from Canada, riding on a grey KTM Adventure, as well as a German girl travelling with two Belgian guys, all of them nice people. As soon as I sat down on the ground, the old man in charge of the asado offered me a big hunk of meat. "Here, please, help yourself". No, I'm sorry, I don't have any money for this, I said. "No, please, help yourself". I am very picky about how I like my meat, and I was worried I'd have to chew making a happy face and supressing a gag reflex.

On the contrary: best damn piece of asado meat I've had in a long, long time. And sitting there on a log, watching the long late afternoon shadows grow even longer, eating from my hand with my swiss army knife, chatting in English, French and Spanish, I was happy.

A while later a drunk came up to us. It all started because he wanted to take a group picture of us all with the cow over the embers. He was so drunk he couldn't work the camera. I went over to help, and it turned out that 1) The autofocus was set to macro and 2) The batteries were almost dead.

The then proceeded to dar jugo with the German girl. This chilean phrase refers to completely pointless and non-constructive banter, most often broadcast by people who are drunk, stoned, or both. A friend once told me it originated from Chilean jails, where inmates might have the choice to do labour outdoors, or do nothing. Those that refuse to play along do nothing, and sit in the sun in the patio, sweating profusely. Hence, they give juice, they sweat. Dan jugo. Bear in mind that whenever I've mentioned this story to any other Chilean, I just get weird looks. Anyway.

Our friendly drunk was dando jugo with the German girl, and we thought this was hilarious. One of the Belgian guys, whose job was to travel all over the world, coordinating trips for the wealthy, was a first class fire stoker. "Go on, tell her what you think of her!" he urged the drunk guy.

So our friend gathered courage. "You... you are... zhe mosht beautifull... girl in the–" and he turns to me and says "Awwwwwww! But what can I shay to her!? Shhhe's a goddessh!"

I shrug. He turns to her again, and starts over: "Youre... you are... zhe mosht..." and so on a few times.

"Go on, give her a kiss!" shouts the Belgian.

Another cheers, another cup of wine for our new friend. His face changed suddenly; he stumbled over to a fence post to support himself, and we though he was going to have an out-of-stomach experience. But no, he didn't. Instead, he lowered his zipper and began peeing erratically, splashing this way and that.

"Friends, friends" I said, invoking a closed conference. "The situation is critical. Our friend the drunk enjoys shaking our hand and hugging us. Such things are, from now on, strictly prohibited!" I said, pointing discreetly at his clumsy act of urination.

Our friend returned, with refreshed love for us all, and something akin to an adult game of tag ensued. Poor man. He became sad, and his friend came over, slightly less intoxicated than he, to take him away. They pottered off, one pulling the other by the arm, the other wrenching his arm away in an effort to preserve a what little dignity he had left.

That night there was a party at the Municipal Gymnasium. I went for a while, watched how an old man and his twelve year-old apprentice played a few chamamé songs, I watched how boys danced with girls, lads with lasses, husbands with wives.

On the gym's walls, above the bleachers, were a set of murals, each about three metres wide, all done in what I might call the hip hop graffitti style. Now you'll have to pardon my ignorance, but I can find no better way to describe the large, illegible writing and the set of silly child-ized characters, generally depicted smoking a joint. Each mural paid homage to a specific institution, among them Carabineros de Chile. If only you could have seen the portrait of the XR-mounted Carabinero! Normally the police take the image and presence of the institution extremely seriously, and I would have paid money to see the face on the invited brass at the gym's inauguration ceremony...

The next day would be a long one, so I soon went back to bed.

As I lay in bed in the dark, I hoped for good weather. I calculated how much fuel I had left, and added up the distances in my head. It would be tight.

There was no wind that night, and everything was perfectly still. Well, not everything. I was kept awake for the longest time by the sound of the neighbour's horse munching grass.

Next Chapter: Caleta Tortel and the Return to Coyhaique.

Carretera Austral Part 7: Cochrane - Villa O'Higgins

2007-11-06T02:54:00.000-03:00

&otOriginally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Monday, March 12, 2007

Days 13-14: Puerto Río Tranquilo -Cochrane - Villa O'Higgins

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1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-Epilogue

Photographic Index

Breathe deep; this is a long one.

I woke to the sound of Tom quietly packing his kit for a hike to the Glacier. Today I'd be setting off down South, to Villa O'Higgins. I wouldn't be seeing him again for a while.

We said a short goodbye, as goodbyes always should be, and off I went.

I tried using my foam ear plugs (sanity-preserving on the highway, without a doubt), but every bump and vibration of the dirt road was like a dull and wet sound inside my head, which quickly made my eyes water. Out came the ear plugs.

The Lago General Carrera in its full glory.

The road was dusty and occasionally winding, but it was a thousand times easier during the day.

Eventually I reached the lake's outlet. I left the road and rode towards the shore. Before I knew it, I was over the rims in soft, dry sand. I kept that back wheel spinning, and it was only thanks to the ridiculous load on the rack and my frantic frog paddling that I was able to get back onto harder stuff.

I passed through Puerto Bertrand, a minute group of houses and pretty residenciales, on the shore of Lake Bertrand.

Several kilometres down the road, I was following the Río Baker, that same incredible turquoise colour that the Lago General Carrera had, thinking about how hot it was (I was in full cold weather gear, anticipating the worst), avoiding large pick-ups coming swaying at me down the middle of the road, driven by rich lunatics, when I noticed something strange about my gear shift pedal.

There was a strange sound coming from down there, and it was hard to shift gears. I looked down as I rode along, and saw this:

The front sprocket cover had come loose. I immediately understood why this was: a few days before leaving Santiago I had stripped the upper bolt's thread. Mea culpa, mea culpa. I parked the bike, rear wheel facing into the steep slope at the side of the road (the only way to park a loaded bike on the entire Carretera Austral), took off the thermal kit and walked some 250 to 300 metres back up the hill, looking for the bolt. Obviously I never found it.

I took the cover clean off, and with it, the steel case saver that went underneath it. Now, if the chain were to break, it would slice through my engine and leave me stranded. Not nice. Anyway, onward we must go.

The road to Cochrane is beautiful.

The vegetation is almost like that which lies a few hundred kilometres North of Santiago; the heat and dry air were most familiar and comforting.

I rolled in to Cochrane, and checked in at the Residencial Lat 47 Sur. 8000 pesos a night, and a wonderful homely atmosphere. It was just what I needed after Puerto Río Tranquilo (where I managed to completely trash the residencial's bathroom upon attempting a one-leg balancing act to put on my jeans without letting them touch the wet bathroom floor; scratch one curtain rail, shower curtain and lamp/lampshade combo for extra points).

In this series of articles I don't make many specific recommendations, but I do recommend this place. And the owners are very nice.

Checking my mail in Cochrane's cyber café, I received an email saying simply that I had been accepted at the University of New Mexico at Albuquerque. It was a strange feeling. Maybe I'll explain it some day.

I bought two 5 litre plastic containers, and filled them with fuel. More weight on the bike, more farting around when it was time to pack or unload it. Indeed, allow me to illustrate my point: Going from a completely naked bike, with my luggage all set neatly beside the bike, and myself in street clothes, to a fully packed and ready bike, plus a fully kitted and ready rider took about an hour, sometimes more. A real hour, those real hours that lie hidden behind two fifteen-minute tasks. This was frustrating and tedious, but not all of us can afford nice panniers (and I wanted my bike to be as crash-resistant as possible).

That night, I chatted to the residencial's owner as we watched the Festival de la Canción de Viña del Mar, a rather big affair done once a year in the summer. She told me about the low, low levels of crime in Cochrane. People live in a special atmosphere, apparently devoid of the socioeconomic divides that pervade the rest of chilean society. The prevailing feeling is that everyone is there under harsh conditions, and that everyone is doing their part by populating the area, when they could just as easily live in a more accessible area, with a better climate and more opportunities.

I also learned about the bonificaciones the government gives people who work in these areas. We chatted until late, as we watched Tom Jones do his thing for the Festival's audience, sometimes called El Monstruo. More than one well-known contestant has been reduced to tears at the monster's whim.

An early rise, for today I would set off to Villa O'Higgins. As I packed I remembered a conversation we had with Tom, sitting on the beds in our room in Puerto Río Tranquilo, sharing Hermanos Carrera white wine from a box (so bad, yet sweet and delicious to this ignoramus). I wasn't sure if I should go to Villa O'Higgins or not, if I'd have enough petrol to make it, if it was worth it. Camilo had declared that he was happy with his progress so far, and that he was perfectly content to turn back now and carry on up, doing things we missed on the way down. Tom drank from his D'Olbek glass, purchased as an addition to his collection back home, and which would break the next morning after a fall from the bedside table, and said: "I think you'll make it. Yes, I think you'll get to Villa O'Higgins". Sometimes an innocent comment is that grain of sand that tips the scales.

Around Río Vagabundo, the last segment of the Carretera Austral to be completed, I met this huemul, unfortunately now nearly extinct.

As I mentioned, this is the last stretch of the Carretera Austral to be completed by the Cuerpo Militar del Trabajo, in March 1996. There were two CMT teams working on it, edging closer from Puerto Yungay and from the North.

Again from vialidad.cl:

In this area five soldiers lost their lives to a landslide.

I was extremely surprised to receive a message on the Adach.cl forum from Luis Alberto Cabezas. He told me that he was one of the young lads that worked on this segment of the Carretera Austral. As a matter of fact, here he is:

He tells us:

We worked our fucking asses off. We risked our lives every single day. I secured my rope to the rock and went down on my own. Down on the 80º incline we'd set to work, drilling with the guagua and packing the hole with explosives. We'd then detonate them, and the whole side of the hill would fly off into the opposite hillside, and into the Río Vagabundo, rocks the size of houses.

In March '96 we made our final blast, the one that joined the two ends at Río Vagabundo. We went from here to there, and they came from there to where we were, blasting and smashing mountain rock, 200 metres in one year: that's what was left. And after that last blast, everyone ran across the rubble and met in the middle, met all the other soldiers... that was a historic moment.

A few days later el tata ("grampa", Augusto Pinochet - Ed.) landed in a Puma helicopter. Us 15 soldiers at the Vagabundo —there weren't many of us—, all standing in formation on the top of that mountain. He came and shook our hands, all of us. I still remember his blue eyes. When he asked where I was from, I answered "FROM LA CISTERNA, MI GENERAL!!!!"

From there we went to a celebration in Puerto Yungay, with lambs on the spit. At the ceremony our commander finished it all by saying to el tata, hand on his cap in military salute: "Accomplised; The order you gave twenty years ago, mi general, the order to have the Carretera built. Accomplished". I remember this and my hairs stand on end. You know? "The order you gave twenty years ago is now accomplished, mi General".

It started to rain. I had to reach Puerto Yungay before 12:00 because if I didn't, I'd miss the ferry to Río Bravo. I stopped, and it took me a few minutes to get the rain suit on. It started to rain harder. It was cold. Mud is almost nonexistent on the Carretera Austral, so I kept up a good speed. And by good speed, with a ferry to catch, you know what I mean.

I didn't even have time to stop and check my watch. I was just trying to get there as soon as possible.

Finally I reached Puerto Yungay, and as I skidded to a halt at the loading ramp, I could clearly see that I was too late. That dot on the horizon was the ferry.

It was raining. There was not a soul in sight. The next ferry left at 18:00. It was 12:11.

In the tiny shelter, which can just be seen behind a post, I placed the bike across the opening to cut the wind. It would be a long, long wait.

And hanging over it all: "Obstacles are there to be overcome".

And here's the landmark at the end of the Camino Longitudinal Austral.

It was cold.

I remembered the sheepskin, and made a monoslipper to keep my feet warm.

I read the Turistel from cover to cover. I ate a few things I had brought with me. I had a pee.

Rain. On the small shelter large drops occasionally fall, with a rap of tin. Here, on the lakeshore, there is nobody. The tiny kiosk is closed. Campamento Puerto Yungay lies silent, save for the distant hum of a generator. On the wooden bench beside me: my helmet, my protective gear, the open Turistel, face down. The bike shares the shelter with me: there's just enough room for both of us. It will be a long wait.

I reached Puerto Yungay a few minutes after Padre Antonio Roncci, a Ministerio de Obras Públicas, Dirección de Vialidad ferry set sail. The rain, the boarding ramp, the grey lake, the horizon barely distinguishable. In the distance, a tiny orange dot.

A few hours later, vehicles started arriving. One of them, a pick-up truck, rolled down the window and said hi. They asked me about something. We started chatting. They were forced to rent the pick-up in Coyhaique because their RV had gone bust. Wait... RV? Coyhaique? It was the same couple! I didn't recognize them and they hadn't recognized me. We chatted about many things. He was a retired rally racer, and they had done a few of the more northerly sections of the Carretera Austral sometime in the early nineties.

After a very long wait, it was time to board. The ferry is free.

At times it rained, at times it didn't. I stowed the bike as best as possible, leaning it against a wall. The high centre of gravity and long suspension were a recipe for disaster.

Did you know that when it rains on a lake, some drops land on the surface and stay there, like tiny bright pearls? Well, I didn't. And that's what I'm seeing now. The six hours of waiting now feel neither too long nor too short.

I think of the pride that the CMT soldiers must feel. I see the cold jungle on the hillsides and I think what a penetration road might look like, hugging the hill's folds like a long, lazy snake.

The faintest hint of sun comes through the clouds; enough to cast hollow shadows on my paper. It smells like churrasco. I'm hungry.

And this is why the ferry got its name:

PADRE ANTONIO RONCHI B.

Born February 1930 in Bálsamo near Milano, Italy,

Died in Chile, December 1997.

Came to Chile in 1961, to Puerto Cisnes along with Father Francisco Belotti, developing his evangelizing mission and his help for the people of the Region of Aysén. As a missionary he helped the people of Chilean Patagonia and in particular those of the Capitán Prat Province. He left a legacy of evangelization and public works in the communities he helped: chapels, ships, gymnasiums, schools, art centers, paths, settlements, radio and television stations, wood mills and electrical generating stations.

His life and work were guided by the phrase "The mother of the Divine Providence has helped me in all difficulties".

Author: Antonio Horvath Kiss

Winner of the contest "Name the Ferry"

Puerto Yungay, December 2005

Time to make landfall at Río Bravo. 120 km still to go to Villa O'Higgins, and it was already 19:00.

A short while later I reached a steep climb (photo from vialidad.cl)

My chain started making an unpleasant sound, barely audible over the engine and road. I hadn't oiled the chain in a while. I had long ago run out of the sticky PJ1 (black label) lubricant I normally used, and I was just using my reserve of 80W90 gear oil. It doesn't attract as much dust and crud as the stickier stuff, but it is washed away almost immediately if there is any water flying around.

I stopped, dismounted, and applied the last of the sticky stuff, plus some drops of 80W90 oil with the syringe. That cost me another 15 minutes.

Somewhere along the way I was suddenly hit by doubts about my fuel calculations, and started riding in the most economical fashion I could manage. This also happened to be extremely slow.

The last pic that day, well into the sunset.

I got to Villa O'Higgins around 22:30. I rode around the tiny town in a daze, looking at the very spaced-out houses, the empty lots, the regular grid, feeling happy to have got here at last. I was cold and tired.

I searched for lodging, but nothing caught my fancy. One I did like was closed, no signs of life. I asked at a general store. No, no cabins, but let me call a friend. The thing is, she said, that everyone's full up for the fiesta costumbrista.

Fiesta costumbrista? Well now that sounds interesting.

The friend she called turned out to be the same person I questioned on the street not five minutes ago. She offered me a room at 5000 pesos a night, and I accepted, a little uneasy at the way this might turn out.

The house was quite new, and surprisingly comfortable. Ample, finally a ceiling that didn't threaten my head constantly, a large bathroom, a kitchen and living room area. It was certainly a nice surprise.

And with that, I flopped into bed, exhausted.

Next Chapter: Villa O'Higgins and the Fiesta Costumbrista

Carretera Austral Part 6: Puerto Río Tranquilo and Surroundings

2007-11-05T02:54:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Thursday, March 08, 2007

Days 11-12: Camino Coyhaique-Puerto Río Tranquilo, Catedral de Mármol, Glaciar Exploradores.

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-Epilogue

Photographic Index

During the first half of our newly-arrived Tuesday afternoon we carried out necessary errands and chores: Camilo had his tyre properly patched, Tom and I answered emails and unloaded our cameras. I put my pics on a CD using a glacially slow computer running Windows 95, and then shipped it via Chilexpress to Santiago.

By the time we set off, most of the day was gone. Sadly we left behind the wench on Calle Simpson and headed down towards Puerto Río Tranquilo, on the shore of the vast Lago General Carrera.

The first bit of the journey was on paved roads, winding through the Reserva Nacional Cerro Castillo. Cold like we hadn't felt before on the trip, and some speech-impeding scenery.

Shivering in my complete set of cold weather gear, we stopped at Villa Cerro Castillo, just before the end of the paving, the last I'd see 'till I reached the quiet streets of Cochrane. A churrasco and a café con leche were a must.

Tom gazes at Camilo, lost in thought.

And on we go. Those clouds were forming behind the peak at a very noticeable rate. Disturbing, almost.

The dead forest, which came to be when the Hudson volcano erupted in 1992.

I usually rode about a minute or two in front of the two larger bikes, and I took advantage of this to ride off the road and out onto a stony bank by the river. They never saw me.

Passing through a wooded area, I was now behind them, and I saw Camilo and Tom's bikes stopped at the side of the road. I killed the engine and immediately heard an extremely loud beeping sound, rather like the one trucks make when they back up. Camilo claimed he had just leaned against the grader and the alarm went off. It was only when we exchanged pictures after the trip that I realised what had really happened:

Somewhere around Puerto Murta night fell, and we rode under the trees, occasionally emerging into dim, dim twilight, and a crescent moon coming up over the snowy peaks. I rode on ahead, riding hard, because I wanted to use as much of the remaining light as possible. My head light, a single 35 watt bulb, was aimed quite precisely at a spot no less than five degrees above horizontal, due to the weight of my equipment. Adjusting its position on the XR is a process so tedious that I never got around to doing it.

The final run into Puerto Río Tranquilo was done in complete darkness, at 30 km/h, passing over sections that sometimes were rim-deep in loose round stones and dust, sometimes washboarded in a way that made your molars hurt.

After a long dose of this I reached the sign welcoming us to Puerto Río Tranquilo, and waited for Camilo and Tom. Ten minutes later they rolled in, Camilo the colour of the road we were riding on. It seems like they stuck close together, and just put up with choking on each other's dust.

We found lodging and for food, well, a lousy empanada de pino. And dessert? An apple empanada. That was a first for me. It was literally just the apple slices inside the empanada dough. No cinnamon, no syrup, no extra sugar. No love.

The next morning we did the five short kilometres to Puerto Mármol, and took a boat out to the marble islands on the Lago General Carrera.

Over the next few days and in the strangest of places, Camilo and Tom would run into the man in the moustache several times, to the mystification of all parties involved.

We visited three formations: The Chapel, The Cathedral and The Caverns. It's all done by boat, getting close enough to reach out and touch the undulated surface. Everything is done slowly, slowly, so as not to hit the rock.

And on top, plants and bushes.

Underneath:

Once the tour was over, we stopped briefly at our residencial and then went in the opposite direction: away from the lake, up a valley, towards the Exploradores glacier.

On the way, this waterfall.

And now, a picture that is now a must for the people from the Adach.cl forum:

It all started last year, when Francisco Rivero, the same guy from the rides to Laguna Verde, went down south on his Honda AX-1. Of his many pics, this one was particularly popular on the forum:

And this year, Rodrigo did the same trip on his Transalp and took the same picture, so Camilo and I did the same. And as you can see, it's inevitable for some pics to repeat themselves on a trip like this. Here's Francisco:

The trailhead to the glacier is only a few kilometres before the road comes to an abrupt end. Eventually it will be extended out to Bahía Exploradores, and then getting to the famous Laguna San Rafael will just be a matter of doing the last 60 or 70 km by ship. That will have a tremendous impact on the tiny town of Puerto Río Tranquilo.

There was a sign near the trail offering a sendero interpretativo, a self-guided path. We had consistently derided these on the trip, but this time we went and had a look.

It turns out that they were charging 2500 pesos per person to access a lookout point from which you could see the glacier. 2500 for a view? We asked how far the glacier was, and if one could get up close to it. I almost decided to stay, due to the high price.

The trail winds through the forest, and soon starts climbing steeply.

Once you've cleared the trees, it's time to clamber all over giant rocks. Only then are you at the top, and here's the view facing back where we came from.

And in the other direction, facing west:

Camilo and Tom mulled over the possibility of doing a full tour of the glacier for 22000 pesos the next day. I decided not to, and instead make my way down to Villa O'Higgins.

As they set off towards Puerto Río Tranquilo, I continued on to the end of the road. I dodn't know what to expect. What would the end of one of the many branches of the Carretera Austral look like?

Well now you know. Like this:

And immediately after that log, a 3 metre drop, a stream, and thick undergrowth. That was all.

Here's a few pics from Camilo and Tom's outing to "Brokeback Glacier" the next day.

The guide, whom they had at their whim and mercy: they were the only ones taking the tour that day.

Touring boots with crampons... ?

Ah, these gringos... you've got to watch your back.

Next Chapter: Cochrane - Villa O'Higgins

Carretera Austral Part 5: Coyhaique and Surroundings

2007-11-03T02:54:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Thursday, March 08, 2007

Days 9 and 10: Puerto Aysén-Coyhaique road, my birthday, Valle Simpson, a flat, Lago La Paloma.

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1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-Epilogue

Photographic Index

I woke in a nice wooden room with sun occasionally illuminating the yellow frilly curtains. I could hear Camilo moving around in his room next to mine. The ceiling was a scarce few centimetres above our heads while standing, and the floor sounded hollow and creaky underfoot. The bed was warm, the air was cold. Something about last night... a dream? Something bugging me. Suddenly I remembered: I had been woken by a long, strong earth tremor.

Little did we know it, but that was the start of a long and intense period of seismic activity that would eventually build up to several strong temblores every night. At its peak, there were about a thousand strong ones per month. Eventually this all led to the 6.2 Richter-scale earthquake of Puerto Aysén on the 21st of April, 2007. For months on end the whole town scarcely managed a full night's sleep, and when the television crews went down there to see what was up, you could see it in their faces, in the way they spoke. Things started getting a little loopy down there. Eventually the big one hit, and a few hillsides slid down into the fjords, something that is generally quite bad for those living on the shoreline. Luckily the landslides happened in scarcely populated areas, but the whole affair did lead to the loss of lives.

I got out of bed and saw that Tom had disappeared. I found a scribbled note saying that he had gone to get some money changed.

Upon his return, he brought back a tale rivalling the antics of The Big Lebowsky, and breakfast. We ate, packed, loaded the bikes, and as I threw my leg over, I left a lovely streak of dog shit on the seat. Puerto Aysén was saying goodbye.

The road between Puerto Aysén and Coyhaique gets more and more attractive as you push on.

Windy, very windy. We came around a curve, and met these beauties.

We stopped. I was thrilled! And from the viewpoint overlooking Coyhaique. It's strange: pictures just don't do this city justice from a distance.

We rolled into town and found the tourist information office. From there, we scouted a few places to stay, settling eventually for one on Calle Simpson, around the 500s.

The place was nice enough. Think of a house, complete with frilly curtains, a living room with dark furniture, creaky floors, a pendulum clock on the wall and the owner lady... Oh god, where do I begin?

The front door was opened by He-Man's mother, from whom he clearly inherited the bowl-cut blonde hair, but not the sagging double (should I say triple?) chin, not the overwhelming girth, not the scratchy and unpleasant voice nor the habit of speaking with her head thrown back. Concerning the pompous antisemitism I cannot be sure, for I don't remember any israeli backpackers in the cartoon series.

We didn't have much trouble with her, save for the clear and detailed explanation that, of course, since she was offering lodging at a reduced price, it was not in good manners to request a towel. And so on. No, we had it easy, basically because we did not hail from a dusty country called Israel.

We worked this out while overhearing how she spoke to a bunch of israeli backpackers (including a couple of the hottest girls we saw on the entire trip). They came in to have a look at the rooms, and seeing that one of the girls would have to sleep upstairs, she went up to have a look. One of the guys started up behind her, curious to see where his friend would be sleeping. "ONE AT A TIME!" she screamed in chilean spanish. "ONE only!". They explained in crude spanish that they just wanted to see what the room was like. Grudgingly she accepted, mumbling to herself. They later discussed some other issue, backpackers looking at each other when they did not understand her unforgivingly fast chilean accent, and Camilo managed to hear her say "Ya! No te hagai el weón, si yo sé que me entendís"; come on, don't act stupid, I know you can understand me perfectly well.

Some time later were treated to her lecture on the inappropriateness of leaving socks to dry in the bathroom, since clearly this was not a laundry shop (all of this through a closed door). And so on.

Once the luggage was unloaded and stuffed in our room we set off to the Reserva Nacional Coyhaique, something that you really should not miss if you're ever down here. It's also very close to the city.

Before that, however, a small detour to satisfy Tom's suspension bridge fetish.

Up and up we went; again Tom got placed between us at the entrance to the park. Face plate down, chin peeping out from under the largest helmet he managed to find after the crash, garish colours ablaze in the sun, his travel-weary KLR looking like nothing that might roll back to a chilean garage at the end of the trip. And in we went, paying three local fares.

I love this city.

Coming up the access road, dusty but solid, I noticed an oil trail. Further ahead, it got more noticeable. And soon it became an all-out spray of oil in the dirt. Ahead, an RV was slowly rolling up the road. I got ahead of him as soon as I could and waved him down. I told him he was losing oil. Oh, said he. Down on my hands and knees, and the engine is coughing oil and white smoke onto the dirt. I went back down to the park ranger's hut, and all the way back to the main road, in case I found the oil plug. I obviously never found it, but I wouldn't find out until much later exactly why I never found it. It is sad to see a motorist confronted with the realisation that he may have had an engine meltdown.

There are several small lagoons in the parks, and paths that go around them. We took one of these paths on foot. Some people were camping in a zone with a few picnic tables, under large conifers, overlooking the lake. Further on, we disappeared amongst the bushes, trees, reeds and long grass.

And in the middle of it all, a beer can. How unpleasant. Bloody hicks; can't get away from them.

Came around the corner and what do we have here?

Ah. That would explain the beer can. Nice ass-burn you're going to have, buddy.

Sap.

On we clumped in our riding boots and the surroundings turned gradually into a thick fores of tall trees, but little undergrowth. The light came down in golden shafts. Every here and there we'd see barely-visible tracks going out some 100 metres to the side, and they would always peter out to nothing, leaving us all alone in a tall forest, rich and spongy soil underfoot. So beautiful.

We emerged at sunset.

Tom had the bright idea of finding out where there might be a local brewery, and he was given directions to D'Olbek beer.

A set of large and beautiful wooden houses set amongst a few conifers here and there, something reminiscent of the area around San Martín de los Andes or Bariloche, in southern Argentina (and by extension, I suppose, reminiscent of villages in the Alps). This is where the D'Olbek family live and make their oh-so-good belgian beer.

We got a tour of the process, and as we chatted, more and more family members appeared. Would you like to try some? Why of course! A large glass, cold and refreshing, straight from the stainless steel tank. Another glass, perhaps? Why I couldn't say no!

We left happy and content. If you ever see D'Olbek beer, grab a bottle. At that time, it could only had in Santiago via special order, boxes of 16 bottles. Camilo and I might order one, when we get nostalgic. I took a bottle in my saddlebags from Coyhaique to Santiago, the label by then no more than a vague shadow of paper on the brown glass from the vibration, but a few hours in the fridge and I was brought right back to that evening at the D'Olbeck brewery.

Out to dinner we went, and... well, another Dinas. This seems to be a chain down here. Less solitary drunks this time.

Early next morning, I wanted a shower. Tom was a brave man and just took it cold. Before doing so, however, while his sleepy heart still held hopes of bathing in warmth, he popped his head out of the bathroom window and asked the owner lady if there was, perhaps, a problem with the hot water. He was treated to a lecture about the perfect functioning of hot water in the house, and that one would have to be mentally sub-par in order not to know that the right-hand tap controlled the flow of hot water. Knowing that simple things were no longer simple in this house, I knocked on the kitchen door, behind which lay the beast. She emergd. "Excuse me, but it would seem that there is no more hot water. Is it, perhaps, a hot-water tank, or..."

Ah, the power of the ellipsis plus a fixed stare. "No, it's a gas heater, I turned it off". Feigning the most genuine surprise, I asked "And why would you turn it off?". Her face shimmied under the many layers of cheek blush, mascara, glitter and eye liner, and adopted an expression of complicity. Through the heavy kitchen door, which had so far served as a visual barrier from the israelis hanging out in the living room, she pointed with her thumb. "I turned it off because of them!". "And why them," I ask. "Because they're israelis", she sentenced in a tone that left no doubt about the fact that her last utterance had been constructed with impeccable, perfect logic. "They're so unpleasant to people!".

After a warm shower (warm surely only because I concealed from her the fact that I was born in Perú) we took the unloaded bikes and set off to see the areas south and west of Coyhaique: Valle Simpson, Lago La Paloma and surroundings.

We stopped at a place with a sign outside that said simply "QUESO". Cheese. Cantalicio Millar and Juana Navarro were the couple's names, and they made the cheese it right there, in a cool and tiny edifice behind their house, using perforated paint buckets and other clever things.

They were accustomed to selling whole cheeses, but Tom didn't want a whole one. What with all this fussing about cutting a big one, the cost and other things, Sr Millar said "Ok, ok, I'll give it to ya, take it", and handed Tom a half-cheese they had for visitors. It was a strange combination of exasperation and generosity. Boy, that cheese was tasty.

Our idea was to go to Lago La Paloma first, and then to Lago Elizalde.

On the way, this large casona, with a waterfall behind it. Can this area be more beautiful?

La Paloma lake is a special place. Transparent water, boxed in by tall hills. Those bundles are stuffed with freshly sheared sheep's wool. A guy was bringing them in threes from the other end of the lake, his small boat moving heavily through the water.

Camilo felt like a swim. Tom and I thoroughly enjoyed tossing stones into the water around him, since he chickened out and never went in above his knees.

As Tom and Camilo skipped stones on the lake for half an hour (yes, I too find that hard to imagine. Who throws stones at a lake for half an hour? The next morning both were complaining of a sore arm. Hmmm...), I escaped through a closed gate and up a trail on the hillside to see another lake. The road gave a good view of where I had just been.

The lake turned out to be less interesting than I had imagined, so I pushed on, until I considered that I had gone far enough.

And so off we went to Lago Elizalde.

It was then that Camilo got a flat rear tyre. We stopped, plugged the hole with a rubber stopper kit, and he set off, trying to reach Coyhaique to get it fixed before it went flat again.

I set off after him, and what would you know, two minutes later I suffered the same fate. Witness the culprit:

Happy birthday to me. I used the flat tyre spray, and it didn't work. This is the third or fourth time that crap has failed me. Different brands, always used as per instructions. Happy birthday. I got one kilometre down the road before it was completely flat again.

Tom and I set the bike down on the grass and removed the rear wheel.

At least we had a nice day.

And with that, we rode back to Coyhaique. That night we passed by the supermarket and bought every ingredient you can think of that ever went in a sandwich, and had a banquet in our room at the crazy lady's place, one eye on the door in case she barged in, like schoolboys.

The next morning, before I set off, Tom discovered a rather interesting surprise in the bathroom. Someone had left a most inspired and artistic shit in the toilet, as if it were first prize at a contest of yuck. He also commented on its amazing adhesive properties. Camilo and I denied authorship of this masterpiece, which left us with no option but to conclude that one of the israelis left it as subtle sweet vengance. Not bad, not bad at all.

Next Chapter: Puerto Río Tranquilo and Surroundings.

Carretera Austral Part 4: La Junta - Puerto Aysén

2007-11-01T02:54:00.000-03:00

Originally posted to El Cantar de la Lluvia on Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Day 7: La Junta, Reserva Nacional Rosselot, Parque Nacional Queulat, Ventisquero Colgante, Piedra del Gato, Puerto Aysén.

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1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-Epilogue

Photographic Index

We left La Junta at the usual time, around midday, and made our way towards Puyuhuapi. Here we bought expensive petrol from a very grumpy man. Camilo made some inquiries at the tourist office while I looked at the things pinned to the walls of the nice wood building. Children's drawings celebrating Puyuhuapi's anniversary, the reproduction of an interview with one of the last surviving original founding colonists.

There were three of them, from Sudetenland, seeking new opportunities. At some point they settled at the end of a long fjord and installed a carpet factory. In the middle of scarcely-populated, densely-overgrown Southern Chile. Sounds like something Douglas Adams would have made up.

A view of Canal Puyuhuapi. That's salt water, son.

We set off again, having decided not to purchase a carpet.

The memories I have of the Parque Nacional Queulat are of dense vegetation, pervasive damp, green mountains with caps of snow and blue ice, almost like Machu Picchu's surroundings (sans ice and snow). And in the middle of it, the Ventisquero Colgante, the hanging glacier. There are three paths, the longest one takes you a few hours and leads right up to the lake where fresh ice crashes down occasionally onto the floes below. That's the best one, said the park ranger. We looked at each other and decided to take the 10 minute path instead.

During this exchange, Tom still had his helmet on, and was sitting between us on his bike. This was to avoid the higher price for foreigners, a policy Chile's national parks have recently instituted. There's a lot to say in favour and a lot to say against this, so I'll just leave it at that. But Tom just nodded away at our fast chilean chattering with the park ranger, and when we went through the gate, I blocked the view of his license plate.

This is the foot bridge that leads to the longest trail.

Camilo and Tom.

More dead trees. You'll be seeing more of this as the trip progresses.

On the way down to yet another waterfall in Parque Queulat.

And as we went up and up and up a switchbacking climb, this is what was on the other hillside, facing us.

And further on:

Ah, yes, La Piedra el Gato. Cat stone. Beneath the bridge you can see part of the original road.

Another picture from Vialidad.cl, that shows the initial construction work taking place in 1979. Originally, the idea was to make a semi-tunnel.

The quality of the rock determined that the best alternative was to make an open cut. One can see construction work in the highest part of the cut. The height of the cut was 120 metres and it was 200 metres in length. This task presented a very large risk to workers; four lives were lost. (Source: Vialidad.cl)

See the little people on the dark, slick rock?

We stopped on the bridge to wait for Tom. We were hungry. Camilo had one of those emergency ration gels, I think it was called Power Gel. He declared it disgusting. I decided to try it. It was like concentrated banana yoghurt or something. Before giving me the whole pack, he ate some more of the paste, and retched a few times. "You really find it so unpleasant?" I asked. "No, it tastes like milk, and I'm lactose intolerant" said he. Hm....

Further on, more dead trees.

Waiting for Tom again.

We eventually reached this strange sign.

Right at the fork to Coyhaique and Puerto Aysén some pink sunset clouds reared their fluffy heads in the West. I imagined a port, with a few fishing coves, seagulls, a beautiful sea sunset, a rest from all these grey clouds, perhaps some cheap seafood, and a warm bed. That's what I imagined when I thought of Puerto Aysén, so we turned right.

What greeted us was a miserable town, grey, full of traffic, stop lights, and no sea! A horrible cold wind, a large bridge over a wide river and no sea. We pouted and kicked stones by the bridge for a bit, and then went round and round looking for a place to stay, and everything was full. We finally found this place.

Since we were concerned about the bike's safety we were offered the shed in the back garden, where they kept firewood. The problem is that there was a rather large beam at floor height crossing the door from side to side. This would make it difficult, it not impossible, to get the V-Strom in. While Camilo and I tried to push it in anyway, Tom was accosted by a drunk that talked to him about god and other similar things, if I'm not mistaken. After much farting around, and so as not to stretch the patience of the hostel owner's family, we desisted: the bikes were to sleep outside.

The ground was soft, damp and covered in long grass, and we spent another five minutes searching for something that would take the weight of the kickstand. I left my bike unattended as I searched in the dark grass for something hard and flat for the other two heavier bikes. My back turned, I heard a great crash of tin sheeting, metal and tinkling glass. That was my bike going over into Tom's, sending his bike into the shed wall. As a result, my new left hand mirror was shattered. Nice.

We went out for food, and the lady warned us about the large amount of drunks that wandered aimlessly through Puerto Aysén. As if that weren't enough intoxicated people to deal with, Lucybell had just put on a free show in the main plaza.

We ended up in a place called Dinas, packed with an alarming number of solitary men sitting at small tables, nursing a large mug of beer.

The menu, very fancily stuffed with clipart and laminated in vinyl, was in English on one side and Spanish on the other. Much to our linguistic horror and delight, we realised that they had just popped the Spanish menu into an online translator and pasted the result in the English section. It was then sent off to be printed in colour and laminated for posterity and glory. A lomo a lo pobre became "to the poor one", para picar became "in order to itch"... the waitress could not understand why this trio of dusty gringos in motorcycle gear were wiping tears from their eyes, laughing hysterically. Ay yes, what a night.

Next Chapter: Coyhaique and Surroundings