The Road at the End of the World

Darwin travelled these parts long before the automobile, when time and nature stood their ground. His observations gave us an outline to nature´s never-ending story. If he returned today his book might be titled ¨The Decline of the Species¨. The first half of the road across Tierra del Feugo is idlylic - through ancient beech forests with meadows and trout streams. The second half is across bare wind-swept steppe through an oilfield. The road is wide enough for two trucks to pass, but not two trucks and a bicycle. The constant noice of wind whistling thru the bike helmet drowns out the sound of trucks approaching from behind. The slipsteam of the passing truck sweeps you forward on the gravel shoulder, like a wave carries a surfer. The vacuum as the truck passes sucks you back on the road, only to be buffeted by the full force of the wind. Usually I stay upright, but not always. The landscape is dusty and featureless except for the oil pumping stations, with their nodding heads they are like a remorseless mechanical god. The road, the trucks and the oil exist for each other. I am an outsider. It is like being in the post-apcocolypse movie- Mad Max. Existance is reduced to juggernault trucks riding an endless highway through desolation.
Earlier in the trip time and distance were measured in horizons. Each horizon was about 50km apart and each day had two, maybe three horizons. Then, biking through the mountains, one eye scanned the the maze of U-shaped valleys for a gap. while the other watched the road immediately in front for rocks and holes. Now my head is bowed and I stare three feet head in front to avoid the rocks and wind. Long forgotten lines from Bob Dylan surface. To remember this trip I will not use photos or my scribbled notes , but rather put old Dylan vinyl on the turntable and smile. The trip will have been a success if for no other reason that I belive I now understand what Bob Dylan was writing about in the 60s.

At the End of the World

I peddled into Puntas Arenas two days ago, the last town on the mainland. To avoid biking the sam e road twice I took a bus to Usuhaia and will now slowly bicycle north around Tierra del Fuego and up the Atlantic coast. With a fishing lisence in my back pocket I plan to stop at every trout stream along the way. Barilochi to Puntas Arenas took only three weeks and two days, which is perhaps crazy fast, but some days I had little or no food or water, other days I kept going because the weather was perfect and I loved biking though the desert and wilderness surrounded by dramatic scenery. 160km (12 hours) was the distance for the last full day before Puntas Arenas. Ushuaia is a colourful town built on the side of a steep hill and takes full advantage as the town at the end of the world. Bought another camera as the other one has digital dilemmas so there could be photos to come.

Flying Through Far-Flungery

Three weeks on the road and I´m on the Pacific coast at Puerto Natales. The last three days cycling across the scrub desert from Chelten, thru El Calafate and across the border. Odd sight this morning - a Hereford bull standing in a minefield beside the road. I was pushing the bike at the time when the bull began to walk. The thought of that bull and the lush grass of the minefield stayed with me for awhile. Stopped at a roadside waterhole three days ago. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid stopped here after a bank robbery. I went into the bathroom to fill my waterbottles, glanced in the mirror and Butch Cassidy, bearded, sunburnt and dusy stared back - and grinned. The emptiness of the first two weeks has changed, now it´s filling with the wilds of Patagonia as the bike and I become part of the everchanging landscape. El Calafate and Chelten were like an adventure clothing convention In Beverly Hills. Mainstreet packed with tourists dressed in latest line in Goretex shouldering monster packs. They are bused in by coaches that are like cruise ships - videos, meals on trays and fully reclining seats - and then harvested by tour operators. Great comraderie amonst fellow cyclists. There is a Jack Kerorac (spelling?) love for the open road, cheap red wine and good stories. We get to experience what others may only see.