The Streets of Ushuaia

I roll over sleepily and see a faint outline of mountains through my window. It’s just after 4 a.m. Dawn comes early this time of year when daylight lasts for nearly 18 hours.

Downstairs in the dining room, I linger over café con leche with a few early risers before striding off toward town. Outside, I’m greeted by a striking blue sky that’s streaked with a sweep of cirrus cloud like angel hair.

My first stop is the cementario municipal on Av. Malvinas Argentinas. Michael spotted it from our taxi yesterday and I instinctively knew I had to pay a visit.

The cemetery lies behind thick plaster walls bordering the street. I pass through the wrought iron entrance to the other side where the rush of traffic is replaced by a high-pitched buzz of whippersnippers; grounds staff are going about their quotidian duties.

It’s like a small enclave, one that seems to be sharing the same inexorable fate as its residents. There are above-ground plots of disintegrating cement and weather-beaten crosses tilting at precarious angles. Small wooden enclosures that resemble infant cribs huddle together.

They recline amongst ornate mausoleums that dwarf them like high-rise buildings. Their windows are full of flowers and photos. A smattering are painted a fading green or pink or blue. Others are white-washed and brilliantly reflect the early-morning sun.

What touches me most are the words inscribed on one of the vaults: en el de quienes nos aman no es morte (Loosely translated, it means: Those we love are not dead.)

I move slowly, carefully amongst them all, these souls who have slipped the surly bonds of earth (1.), and then emerge back into the world of the earth-bound.

Malvinas Argentinas eventually becomes Av. Maipu. The thoroughfare is intersected by avenidas with patriotic names and punctuated by plazas of equal importance.

The history of Argentina can be found in the street names: Don Bosco, Brig. Gral. J.M. de Rosas, Eva Peron, San Martin, 9 de Julio, 12 de Octobre (the latter marks the date in 1884 when the city was officially founded).

Near the 25 de Mayo Plaza, I encounter four members of the Policía de la Provincia de Tierra del Fuego. They’re smartly dressed in crisp blue serge uniforms and carry bayoneted rifles. One of them hoists the Argentine flag.

An officer who wears a distinctive yellow belt around his jacket and holds a silver sheathed sword approaches me. "I am inspector Aguilar," he offers in halting English, then asks if I can take their picture and send him the photos. Surprised and delighted by the request, I readily oblige.

I decide to follow them as a small crowd of citizens, dignitaries, and members of the military assembles for a formal ceremony in the plaza across the street.

There is much pomp and circumstance as speeches are made. Stirring anthems, including the Marcha de Malvinas, are played on a portable sound system.

I don’t understand a word they’re saying, but it’s all quite sobering. I discover later that it’s a tribute to Lebanon’s (El Libano) independence. It’s part of larger efforts between South America and Middle Eastern Arab states to forge closer ties.

This plaza holds particular significance for the event. It was almost 200 years ago, on May 25, when Spanish rule of Argentina ended and was replaced by civilian authority.

When the ceremony ends, I walk down the first sloping street to the port, following the sound of drum beats. I discover another show of solidarity. Only this time, it’s being staged by port workers demonstrating for higher wages.

Protestors, many of them aboriginal, are standing outside the entrance to the pier that’s fenced off and patrolled by Ushuaian police.

I aim my camera in their general direction to get a flavour of the action until a female cop on the other side of the closed gate yells something at me in Spanish. From the look she gives me, I guess (correctly) that she’s not extending salutations of the day. I start walking in the opposite direction, just in case.

Up on San Martin, the downtown shopping district unfolds for 14 blocks. It’s a melange of restos, businesses, and retail stores that sell anything from Patagonian wool to leather gaucho hats.

There’s also one too many ‘souvenir’ shops – the scourge of any town that caters to tourist dollars. On the plus side of the ledger, it doesn’t spoil the ambience of Main Street.

Just past the noon hour, the streets are alive with traffic, tourists and townsfolk. And then I spot Eduardo. He’s standing on the sidewalk outside the Banco Patagonia, holding court with a small audience. They’re admiring his vibrant Sunset Yellow and Black Satin BMW 800 GS parked at the curb.

A middle-aged man with a bushy salt-and-pepper moustache and matching well-coiffed head, you can tell he’s enjoying the attention. His machine looks immaculate. It’s like a magnet and I can’t resist the pull.

In fact, the brand new bike is only a week old, Eduardo informs me. He bought it for ARS$15,000 (roughly the equivalent of just over CDN$5,000) from a dealership in Ushuaia.

It’s a big saving, he confides, especially since no tax is charged between here and Rio Grande. He could have paid $19,000 for it in Buenos Aires, he says. I express my amazement at this since a new 800 GS sets you back double that amount (before taxes) in Canadian dollars.

I take to Eduardo’s easy-going manner and his English is good. He tells me that he’s lived in Ushuaia for 15 years and that the city is very safe. He feels that the increasing tourism is a good thing, too. Employed in the transportation industry, he’s seen the changes up close.

“In the mid-’90s, there were only two flights per day into the city. Now there are 20 per day. There were almost no cruises here 15 years ago, but now there are at least 200 every 3-4 months.”

And there are many more motorbikes, too. I spot a good share of Transalps and Falcons among other singles.

I run into Eduardo again late in the afternoon, still making the most of his day off from work. This time his son, Matias, is with him. He’s a good kid with a sense of humour and we banter back and forth.

He almost immediately informs me that his name is pronounced Ma-TE-us, not Ma-TI-us. He hates to be called Ma-TI-us. It isn’t a blunt correction; it’s just that the mispronounciation sounds ridiculous to his 20-something ears.

Matius rides a Honda NX4 Falcon that he inherited from his father. It’s a good bike for dirt and highway alike. He points out a long scrape on its right side panel and fuel tank. It was caused by a fall when he was charged by a mongrel on the street. There’s a scrape on his helmet from the same accident.

I ask him about learning to ride. A motorcycle license costs 50 Argentinian pesos (CDN$16) for five years, he tells me. It can be renewed for a minimum of one year.

“You just have to take a written test and then ride around town,” he continues. An instructor does not follow you to assess your street skills, he adds. “If you come back – meaning if you survive the traffic and crowds and dogs and all the rest – you get your license!”

We all break up laughing at the absurdity of it. There are also motorcycle helmet laws in Argentina, but they are rarely enforced.

Mathias and his father want to start a motorcycle tour business and are keen to hear more about my riding adventures. The afternoon has quickly slipped away and there are still things to see. Mathias recommends a good place to eat and we say our goodbyes, promising to keep in touch.

I find the town’s main correo further up San Martin. The outside walls bear images from an earlier time when the settlement was a penal colony for Argentina’s most notorious criminals. They resided in the infamous Presidio off Av. Yaganes at the edge of the current downtown.

Construction of the prison began in 1902 and inmates spent much of their time cutting wood in the nearby forests – the ‘tree cemetery’ in Tierra del Fuego National Park is a stark reminder – and building the town. They also built a railway. These days, the so-called Tren del Fin del Mundo runs as a tourist attraction.

In 1950, then-President Juan Perón closed the penal facility. A naval base was established on the same grounds to support Argentina’s claim to Antarctica (today, Ushuaia is capital of Tierra del Fuego, Falklands Islands, and Antarctica).

I hike the final few blocks to Yaganes and luxuriate in the regenerative warmth of the southern sun. I pass the entrance to the naval base and circumnavigate the old Presidio. It’s now a museum and also houses maritime artifacts, but is still as forboding as it must have been so many years ago.

Among the fruits of the day’s exploration, I discovered the town’s only theatre that shows English-language films. It’s a traditional corrugated and wood structure called Cine Packewaia. I arrive early for an 8 p.m. viewing of the just-released James Bond movie, Quantum of Solace.

As luck would have it, this is the movie’s final showing in town. But besides that, it’s especially fitting that it’s being screened here on the grounds of the old Presidio, where so many of that dangerous ilk lived out their tortured days.

Among the petty thieves and swindlers were savage killers who committed unspeakable acts. They showed no mercy, there was no quantum of solace for the loved ones of their victims.

It’s after 10 p.m. when I walk back through town. The sun is nearly down, leaving a growing twilight in its stead. It softens all the hard edges and begins turning the bay to ink. Light spills from restaurant windows along the street.

Inside, there are smiling faces, hands gesturing, teeming plates of food and clinking glasses. And wine. Yes, plenty of wine. And the sound of voices, celebrating. Celebrating life here at the end of the world.


1. From the poem High Flight by John Gillespie Magee.

Fin del Mundo

To the visitor’s eye, Ushuaia is an amalgam of corrugated roofs and wooden architecture that’s splashed with colour, quaint, and rugged.

Behind the city of 60,000, the snow-drifted Martial Mountains rise to jagged peaks in the immediate north. You can take a shuttle to Martial Glacier, not far from town, to ski and climb.

Ushuaia rings the sparkling Bahia de Ushuaia. It was named by the native Yámana and means 'the bay that penetrates to the West.'

Stacks of multi-coloured containers sit near its main pier, cargo that testifies to the fact that Ushuaia is the second largest port in Argentina after Buenos Aires.

Anchored out in the bay this morning are ever-present catamarans and a luxury liner, a freighter and tugs, skiffs and sail boats, even naval ships. They resemble a small invading flotilla.

This is a favoured final departure point for adventure-seekers who come here for a cruise to the ultimate end of the world, Antarctica or the ‘White Continent’ as it’s known, 1,000 kilometres distant.

On our first full day here, we board a catamaran to tour Beagle Channel. Several kilometres out, the boat pitches and rolls from choppy swells. Gathering cloud at times spits a fine rain.

Weather doesn’t seem to bother the sea lions gathered on the rookery known as the Isla de Los Lobos.

Harems of females lie languidly on the rock, their great masses of sleek blubber packed side-by-side, eyes closed, and backs to the visitors. It’s birthing season; the males stand guard, their barks carried by a gusting wind.

A little further on, at Isla de Los Pájaros, we bob on the water as the skipper angles the boat to let passengers photograph the hundreds of birds.

Mostly black-and-white Imperial and Magellan cormorants, they share the island with many other bird species. At a glance, they resemble penguins (which we didn’t get to see).

Another highlight is Les Eclaireurs lighthouse, situated about five nautical miles from Ushuaia.

The conical, windowless brick structure stands out sharply against the encroaching mist and low cloud, its bands of weathered crimson and white rising from the ochre and deep green moss-covered islet.

First lit in 1920, it’s one of the most-photographed lights in South America. Les Eclaireurs is commonly confused with the San Juan de Salvamento faro further east. That one was made famous by Jules Verne in his novel ‘The Lighthouse at the End of the World.’

Back on our GSs in the afternoon, we head to Tierra del Fuego National Park, Argentina’s only coastal national park. The park covers 63,000 hectares and is filled with inaccessible valleys created by the mountains that run northeast to southwest across the archipelago.

It’s a short ride, about 11 kilometres from the city. We gather at Bahia Lapataia for a group photo around the famous sign that marks the official end of Nacional Ruta 3 (The highway starts in Buenos Aires, 3079 km to the north).

Beyond the marker lies a lookout, surrounded by lenga forest, that offers a panoramic view of the bay. It’s the perfect place to contemplate our collective feat.

We’d ridden 3,500 kilometres, travelled across some of the bleakest and most beautiful terrain in the world, and challenged our riding skills on some tough road without serious physical mishap.

Perhaps as importantly, egos never got in the way during the entire three weeks, due in no small part to everyone’s sense of team spirit and generally upbeat attitude.

The motorcycle gods and Mother Nature were on our side all the way.

Land of Fire

We’ve reached the ‘Land of Fire.’ The English translation of Tierra del Fuego is a misnomer, of course. It’s anything but tropical here.

Magellan named the archipelago for the fires he saw along the coast. They were lit by the indigenous Yamana to keep warm against the subpolar conditions.

There’s the usual banter and focused, excited energy as we leave Cerro Sombrero. But today’s different: today, we will arrive at our ultimate destination after riding a final 420 kilometres. Anticipation runs high.

Soon we’re back on ripio that will lead us 125 kilometres to the border with Argentina. The wind is calm; the sun is gathering strength. As we ride, we’re flanked by hilly pasture that’s populated by sheep and goats and the occasional guanaco.

What we do see for the first time are more trucks, almost like small convoys. They’re big 18-wheeled tankers labelled ‘liquido flammable’ or ‘aqua,’ and trucks that carry loads hidden under giant canvas tarps. Their drivers always wave or flash their headlights at us in greeting.

At one point, Jerry pulls a can of gasoline off the trailer and tops up my tank. A trucker stops to ask if we need help. They know all too well what it’s like to travel this road here at the end of the world. With a friendly ‘Adios!’ he continues on his way.

As we get nearer the Atlantic Ocean, it appears as a slender, silver strip on the horizon. The water dazzles under a pale blue sky strafed by white cloud. The wind is restless; our reprieve is over.

I take a quick look at the ambient temperature that’s risen to a balmy 17 degrees celsius. Phil passes me, looking like the Michelin Man. He's still wearing all the extra layers he wore yesterday, including his electric vest. We’ve all been duped by the changeable climate.

An hour before noon, we enter Argentina at Paso Fronterizo San Sebastián and join the legendary Pan-American Highway (Ruta Nacional 3 in Tierra del Fuego).

“We’ve crossed the continent!” Michael rejoices. Indeed we have. Within metres of where we stand, the Atlantic’s frothy surf laps the shoreline.

Uncharacteristically, I’m the first to break ranks. Usually it’s Simon who leads the way, then quickly disappears. He’s gained our admiration with his display of ballsy riding on the tour.

Just across the border, a sign reminds visitors that ‘Los Malvinas son Argentinas’ (The Falklands are Argentine).

For many Argentinians, the islands rightfully belong to their country. Bumper stickers celebrating the war’s 25th anniversary in 2007 partly testify to that. But even more significantly, it’s enshrined in the country’s constitution.

The battle was a sorry case of failed bravado. In the end, Margaret Thatcher was re-elected, while it hastened the downfall of Argentina’s military government.

From here, the highway parallels the ocean, although the water is obscured a lot of the time by low hills. Without second thought, I take a rutted trail just off the highway. It runs along a ridge overlooking the ocean.

Below, the water courses through inlets and channels and changes from blue to emerald. I fix my gaze on the horizon and inhale the ocean: bracing, primitive, and full of mystery.

Back on the Pan-American, the two-lane bitumen is good quality. The faded yellow centre line appears here and there as the road alternates between straight pavement and gentle curves.

Roughly 48,000 kilometres in length, the Pan-American Highway is the world’s longest “motorable road,” according to Guinness World Records.

It starts at Prudhoe Bay, Alaska and ends at one of three terminals in South America. One of them is the port city of Ushuaia (oo-SHWY-ah).

The bike is running well. The detuned parallel twin greedily gulps the sea air. As exuberant as a colt, it wants to romp in the sun. So I let it go.

The speedo kicks up until the GS is in full stride on its knobbies at 150 kph. Prevaling westerlies threaten to lift the bike right off the ground. I duck behind the flyscreen, hold fast and enjoy the rush.

Oil derricks scattered either side of the road come into view. They seesaw with a fluid motion, steadily, confidently pumping oil from the barren steppe. Earlier, we’d passed kilometres of natural gas pipeline that parallel the highway.

The town of Río Grande sprawls next to San Sebastián Bay 80 kilometres from the border. Pastel casas fronting the bay seem out of place in this industrial, oil-and-sheep town.

At the corner of Avenidas Jorge Luis Borges and Santa Fe, stoic soldiers symbolically lay claim to the Malvinas. While a graffiti artist a few blocks away declares his passion on a playground wall for a pierced and pupil-less niña.

The vegetation starts to change as the Pan-American sweeps southwest toward the fin del mundo. I leave behind plateau grasses and enter subantarctic forest.

Knarled southern beech dominates the landscape here. I’m surprised by wood smoke that wafts from a campground off the roadway. Campsites are visible among the trees for a couple of kilometres.

I park the bike on the gravel shoulder to photograph twisted limbs and bent trunks. They look almost prehistoric. A lone guanaco, standing on a nearby knoll, watches me. It lets out a whinney that's almost a laugh, then withdraws into the trees.

I'm careful getting back onto the road. There’s more traffic now than at almost any other point along our entire 3,500-kilometre ride. And more motorcycles, too, I notice. I give a rider-friendly wave to all that pass.

Approaching Tolhuin, the temperature quickly drops six degrees celsius. It had reached an unexpected 20 degrees today, here on the edge of summer in South America.

The town lies at the eastern end of Lago Fagnano. The immense glacial lake, second biggest in Argentina, fills this basin and possesses its own unique climate.

It’s the beginning of 100 kilometres of scenic mountain road and one of the most enjoyable stretches on our route.

I angle off the highway at a mirador before crossing the Andes at Garibaldi Pass. Nestled far below in a cradle of mountains, Lago Escondido mirrors a sky of puffy white clouds. Beyond it, Lago Fagnano is clearly visible.

It looks idyllic, but the ecosystem here has been drastically changed by the introduction of Canadian beaver five decades ago.

The flat-tailed rodents were brought here to start a fur trade industry. Instead, they multiplied with a vengeance (the population is estimated to be 50,000) and dammed up waterways.

At 430 metres, Garibaldi Pass is the highest point along the route. The road descends from here. It carves its way around steep mountain slopes and through glacial valleys where russet-coloured carpets of peat separate tracts of dense forest.

And then there’s Ushuaia, at last.

Letting out our collective breaths, we arrive at the entrance to the southern-most city in the world and pose for ‘victory’ photos. A short time later, we’re relaxing around the patio behind our inn.

It’s a bittersweet moment. Simon puts it best when he says to the group, a little forlornly, “It was a bit like watching a good movie. I didn’t want it to end.”

Improbably, we’ve arrived near the end of a heatwave. On the way to dinner, our taxi driver informs us that the city basked in 28-degree celsius weather only a few days before (a precursor, perhaps, to Argentina's worst drought in 50 years in January, 2009).

We can’t believe our good luck. Being this close to the southern pole, Ushuaia’s average maximum temperature in December is just 13 degrees.

Tonight we celebrate on Avenida San Martin, and overindulge in a smorgasbord that features plenty of red meat. That’s because Argentine cuisine is heavily influenced by an Italian, Spanish and French flair for food.

Our grill chef is enclosed in a glassed-in room where flames from red-hot brasa furiously burn beneath a large grill. We line up to place our order.

What will it be...sausage? beef? lamb? Beef, I decide. The chef deftly skewers a sizeable chunk, swivels around to a large wood block, and precisely severs a well-done portion with a flourish.

He transfers it to my plate with eyes and teeth flashing, trim moustache dancing. The asado criollo is not merely a barbeque; it's a culinary performance, and the man clearly enjoys his station.

Argentinian wine is served, swished, smelled and savoured. The viniculture’s Malbec grape is the star of the Argentine wine scene abroad, I discover after returning to Canada. Were it only this affordable at home.

Estrecho de Magallanes

Amazingly, the next morning I hardly feel the strain of the day before. Maybe it has something to do with the anti-inflammatory I took last night, I joke at breakfast. Whatever the reason, I’m ready to go. So is the group.

Good thing, too, because the weather doesn’t look promising. Overhead, gray clouds smudge a milky sky. The temp gauge on my bike tells me it’s only 8 degrees celsius. But that, at least, is an improvement over the damp night air.

Ripio takes us out of the park, then through rock cuts along twisty road. Some are easily 20 feet high, blasted to a sheer face. Many have blind corners. There are a number of turnouts with magnificent vistas along the way.

Signs at these lookouts use the word ‘mirago’, I note. In the weak morning light, sky, water, and land are dramatically monochromatic, almost intangible. That is surely what they are, I conclude: mirages.

The dirt’s in good condition. After 100 kilometres, through mostly flat wilderness, we hit bitumen. By stark contrast, Ruta 9 to Puerto Natales is perfectly smooth and unblemished slate-gray pavement. Brilliant yellow stripes that border the roadway converge somewhere in the distance.

I fly down the straight, long, and rolling surface of this landing strip of a highway until I reach the port city itself. A service station on the edge of town is our meeting point.

I’m one of the last to arrive, with the exception of Jerry, Sue, and (usually) Carmine in the troopy. They act as sweep in case there's ever a problem.

I haven’t been able to resist the incredible photo opportunities on this ride, and there have been many. I've developed a routine by now and it seems to work quite well:

Stop, open the top box, grab my camera, toss my eyeglasses into the camera bag, shoot, reverse the whole process, then get on the gas. "It takes you 27 seconds!" Sue says, laughing. "I've timed you." Even I'm impressed.

Except for the time that I didn't follow the routine, and stepped on the glasses that were blown off the saddle when I wasn't looking (sigh).

Puerta Natales is a rapidly developing tourist town. It looks out over Última Esperanza Sound (Last Hope Sound), so named by Spanish explorer Juan de Ladrillero in 1557. He'd given up hope at this point in his search for a western entrance to the Strait of Magellan.

It’s also not far from the caves where the hide and bones of the extinct Mylodon darwini were discovered in 1896. The Giant Sloth, a herbivore that once inhabited the primeval landscape, was the inspiration for Bruce Chatwin’s travel opus, In Patagonia.

By early afternoon, the skies turn to drizzle. The temperature had valiantly risen to the low teens, but windchill easily drives it down to the equivalent of low single digits. By the time we've reached our destination today, it will be the farthest we've ridden in colder weather.

I stop to put on my winter riding gloves for the first time. Together with the heated grips, my hands are toasty. So are my feet. They're well-protected by my lined and waterproof Allround boots. I still feel the dampness through the layers under my jacket, though, and curse myself for forgetting my fleece.

How far I am from where the group is supposed to meet, I’m not exactly sure. My GPS is having one of its on-again, off-again days. The preprinted map we were issued shows only a straight stretch of uninhabited road.

I'm concerned about getting tired from the cold and stop at a roadside restaurant. There are two BMW 1150 GSs parked outside. Inside, it's cozy and Christmas music is playing. For a moment, it takes me by surprise until I remember that it’s almost December, after all.

I’m welcomed by a friendly server with a German accent. She offers me a large, ceramic bowl of seafood consommé. Instinctively, I cup my hands around it when she brings it to my table. The steaming broth revives me and my fingers start to relax from their tight grip on the handlebars.

The owners of the Beemers are the only other customers. Father and son, it turns out. They’ve come down from Brazil and rented the bikes in Punta Arenas for only a week. The weather has been like this, all except for one day, they say.

It reminds me of the Belgian couple on BMWs we’d met near Lago Cardiel in Santa Cruz province. They’d started off in snow in Ushuaia, not so long ago. I shiver at the thought.

At Ruta 255, I catch up with the rest of the group for a late lunch inside an old service station. The buildings have suffered from neglect, and years of abuse from the weather, I speculate.

Still, it's shelter and there's even a fire to warm ourselves. We all attack the food laid out by Jerry and Brendan with a ravenous appetite that comes from riding in elements such as these.

Afterward, we ride southeast together to Punta Delgada, passing the ghostly buildings of an abandoned estancia at one point. The cold drizzle doesn’t do anything to uplift the spirit. It just emphasizes the desolation here at this southernmost tip of South America.

Punta Delgada is a headland where the ferry will take us across the Strait of Magellan at its narrowest point, some 4 kilometres from Tierra del Fuego. A faro, or lighthouse, still keeps watch after a little more than 100 years.

Portugese explorer Ferdinand Magellan was the first European to navigate the strait in November, 1520. It would become an important passage between the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. It was, and still is, considered a difficult route because of its narrowness and the inhospitable climate.

Being here brings to mind Keith Reid's lyrics from A Salty Dog:

'All hands on deck, we've run afloat!' I heard the captain cry
'Explore the ship, replace the cook: let no one leave alive!'
Across the straits, around the Horn: how far can sailors fly?
A twisted path, our tortured course, and no one left alive.

It seems only appropriate, somehow, that we’re here in the same month Magellan and his men first sailed these waters. I think about this as the ferry steers across the strait under an intermittent light shower.

From the upper deck I hear a commotion as passengers crane to watch a pod of Dusky Dolphins. They frolick in the ferry’s wake, shiny black backs contrasting with white bellies, as they entertain yet another captive audience.

In a few minutes, the show’s over. The ferry docks, and the wind blows us the final 30 kilometres to warm, comfortable lodging at Cerro Sombrero.

The Climb

Our first full day at the campsite is a free day and everyone scatters to explore the park or just relax. Brendan works on the bikes, methodically changing oil, adjusting or tightening where the bumps have jarred things loose.

Feeling the need to walk, I set out in late afternoon in the direction of the park’s Visitor Centre. By the time I’ve reached a wooden bridge spanning the narrow neck of water at the south end of Rio Paine, I need to take a break.

I sit on the river bank in silence, gazing at the massif in the distance. Not a soul around, only a large bumblebee that buzzes loudly as it goes about its business. Not long after, Phil rides by in the opposite direction. Ten minutes later, he’s back.

“Guess what?” he asks with a tone of disbelief in his voice. “They just closed the road and aren’t letting anyone by until 1 a.m.”

I’d passed a construction crew earlier and it looked like they were getting ready to leave. No such luck. They were going to dig up and move a culvert.

It’s only after 8. Fortunately, Phil had discovered a small hosteria a couple of kilometres down the road. We decide to go there for dinner.

At 11 p.m., power in the hotel is turned off (not an unusual practise in these parts) and we wait in the semi-darkness of fireplace embers. We’d been promised a big campfire that night at our tent site. This would have to do.

Several hotel staff soon join us, stretch out on the floor and worn couches, and chat in animated Spanish. It has the air of a slightly surreal sleepover.

A cold drizzle falls as we ride two-up back to our tents. No sign of the road crew; only a steamroller lights up the gravel near the construction site.

Back at the campsite, Sue’s booklight is fixed to the troopy’s trailer. It welcomes us like a tiny, penetrating beacon in the pitch black. In only three hours it will be light again.

Next day doesn’t start out very enticingly. The air is damp and cool and the far peaks are covered with thick cloud. There’s a report of snow falling in the mountains.

How reliable that is we don’t know. It’s not deterring the group of German hikers who breakfast at the tables near us in the restaurant.

We down our watery scrambled eggs, toast, jam, fruit, dry cereal and instant coffee to fortify us for the climb. In the end, it’s just going to be two of us. Our photographer, Carmine, and I will make the 8-hour roundtrip hike to the Torres mirador.

Carmine is compact and muscular. He has a mischievous grin that reminds me of a garden gnome without the beard. His unbounding energy has earned him the awe of everyone in our group. “He’s a machine!” Jerry says in a near-reverential tone.

Jerry drives us to the drop off, about an hour from our campsite near Hosteria Las Torres. It’s 10.30 by the time we start up the trail.

The Paine massif is a small mountain system that’s independent from the Patagonian Andes Range. The central massif itself rises to an altitude of 3,050 metres.

The first half-hour is difficult as we adjust to the incline. Carmine is carrying at least 60 lbs of photography gear. We’re both sweating before we get far.

I remove my Firstgear Rainier jacket and strap it to my waterproof backpack. I’ll need it at the end of the trail. I’m down to my long-sleeved hemp shirt and a smart t-shirt developed by Tilley Endurables for NASA.

As we climb, I appreciate the flexibility of their loose-fitting zip-off pants, especially the elasticized waistband. Even my hiking boots are comfortable, despite only moderate duty since I bought them.

A wide-brimmed Tilley hat keeps off the sun. The hat was a revelation. I’ve never been a ‘hat person.' But after trying on one of their stylish (and very functional) Airflo models, I was soon converted.

I’d fastened it to my head with only the rear draw string to (successfully) ward off stiff winds as we climbed. To my amazement, the sweat literally pours from the hat band when I bend down to swing off my backpack.

A Chilean on horseback surprises us as he deftly passes on the narrow path. A young woman, accompanied by two male hikers, gingerly steps by us using metal crutches.

She’s Israeli and explains that she fell heavily and fractured her finger. She seems in a lot of pain and wistfully adds that she never got to the mirador.

We continue as the sun gets higher and warmer on this side of the mountain. At one point I look back toward where we started. The plateau spreads out expansively below us and disappears far into the distance.

Ahead, the gravel trail winds along precipitous grades that drop deep into a river canyon below. We soon reach the cover of sun-dappled old growth forest. Wooden foot bridges carry us across clear, fast-moving mountain streams.

An hour in, we stop only long enough to buy some chocolate and bottled water at the first área de acampar. “I’m sorry, mate, but I can’t stop here,” Carmine says. “The best time to shoot up there is before noon.” We’re already behind schedule.

I understand. The man is on a mission. Like a pack horse on steroids, Carmine strides ahead under the burden of his professional tools. It’s the last I see of him until I reach the summit around mid-afternoon.

The final hour is the worst. Emerging from the trees, I look up to see a disheartening slope of scree and talus before me. I’m dumbstruck. Worse, I can’t climb any farther. Muscles below my waist have abandoned me, stretched beyond their limit.

Seasoned hikers are coming and going in their all-weather gear, testing the sedimentary debris with their walking sticks. There are Brits and Aussies and South Africans. Voices waft by me speaking in precise, clipped German and pitched Japanese.

I stop, my head down to somehow summon strength. I’m saved by the voices of angels -- other climbers who, like characters in Wender’s Wings of Desire, are compañeros. They lift me with encouraging words: “You’re almost there! The view is worth it!”

Indeed, the view is worth it.

Clambering over the top boulders, I find a wedge of rock to shield me from the chilling wind, and collapse. For some time, I look long and hard at the three granite towers facing me: Torre Norte, Torre Central and Torre Sur.

They loom above a perfect turquoise lake like incisors, stubbornly resisting the erosional forces of nature, tearing the gauzy white fabric of cloud around them.

And then I’m brought back to earth when Carmine announces, far too soon, it’s time to go.

The Road to Torres del Paine

Another day in paradise. Today, the magnificent granite towers of Parque Nacional Torres del Paine (TOR-ehs del PIE-nay) beckon us. It will be a 287-kilometre ride to our destination, Brendan informs us at our breakfast briefing.

South along Ruta 40 at Rio Bote, I catch up to Michael. He's standing near the river, contemplating what happened here almost 200 years before. This is as far as Darwin and Fitzroy made it on their exploration inland from the Atlantic Ocean, he explains with a trace of awe.

The east-flowing current of the Rio Santa Cruz was so strong they couldn't head any farther upstream. According to journals, their three boats were "bound together, prow against stern; two men remained on board, while the other ones hauled them from the river-bank."

At El Cerrito the road branches southwest, changing to ripio for the next 66 km. As if to emphasize the barrenness around us, the sky is cast the colour of slate; a lone condor swoops low scavenging for carcasses.

Rounding a corner, I startle a lamb that runs to its mother's side furthest away from the road. Sheep along this track are abundant and fat. Unfortunately, intensive sheep farming continues the desertification of this already fragile interior.

A few kilometres along, a sign warns: despacio! guarda ganado. There is a series of metal pipes spanning the roadway that prevent livestock from crossing. We’ve seen many of these on our travels.

Except, this one raises a smile. A scarecrow outfitted in a purple floral dress is lashed to a post at one side of the crossing. It wears white gloves and tattered white pants. Above the featureless face is secured a kind of stylish paja capó.

The scarecrow stands steadfast and mute, mocking the hardscrabble conditions it surveys, unbending in the whistling wind. I can’t resist taking its picture.

By the time we reach the crossroads at Tapi Aike, we’re ready for a scheduled fuel stop. For awhile, there's just us and the wind at the remote service station. It's part of a 60,000-hectare ranch that's existed since Santa Cruz was still a national territory.

The main building’s framed glass door and windows are adorned with a melange of tour company decals, like sticky calling cards, left by adventurers who have come this way before us.

Inside are neat couplings of wooden tables and chairs beneath framed maps and photos of sheep herds. Behind the counter are bars of Butterfingers, Toblerone, and Hamlet chocolate. The former two are rare finds in such an isolated place.

Beyond the sentinel-like gas pumps lie the Sierra Baguales. The highest mountain range in the area, it forms a natural division between Chile and Argentina.

In the 16th century, wild Spanish horses roamed these mountains. You can still see herds of their ancestors as they cross the range between the two countries.

On this day there are no such sightings; only images of the last horses on our way to Calafate: a buckskin and a black mare, standing together on the plain, heads down, while a dappled gray warily watches my approach before acknowledging its trust by ignoring me, too.

And the sound of galloping hooves in the still evening air, like drum beats on the dry, tight earth, as the setting sun bathes the near range with precious golden light.

The pavement resumes and the wind bears down on us again. It doesn't seem to bother Phil who's ahead of me. He steers his Azure Blue GS in lazy curves, back and forth, back and forth, in a mesmerizing motorcycle ballet. Then he straightens up, rolls on the power, and is gone from sight.

It's not long before we arrive at the Argentine resguardo frontieriza at Cancha Carrera. With its posters of fugitivos, it has a sombre, spare interior that’s just crowded enough that we have to briefly join a line outside its entrance.

Two kilometres away, on the other side of a no-man’s-land near villa Cerro Castillo, is the Chilean customs outpost. As we enter, I spot a large, flattering portrait of president Verónica Michelle Bachelet Jeria.

The pediatrician and epidemiologist is the first woman to hold the office. A moderate socialist, she campaigned on reducing the gap between rich and poor, said to be one of the largest in the world.

Labour protests for higher wages had temporarily closed the border to tourists only days before, we are told. Spring seems to have brought a season of discontent in Chile. Lucky for us, we managed to dodge the border problems this time.

And, with some relief, we also pass inspection by an official with Chile’s Agriculture and Livestock Service (SAG). He’d checked the troopy for banned fruit, vegetable and animal products. The Chileans practise a policy of zero tolerance and will levy a hefty fine, even if you’re caught unawares.

Close to Torres del Paine National Park, we’re greeted by herds of guanacos. They tamely graze the grassland for several kilometres. We get our first real view of the towers, off in the distance, blankets of snow shining under a struggling sun.

Torres is Chile's premier national park. It was created in the late 1950s. Twenty years later, UNESCO declared it a World Biosphere Reserve.

Anxious to get to our destination, we make a brief stop at one mirador (lookout) to photograph the incredible turquoise waters of Lago Nordenskjold. Nearby Lago Sarmiento, with its shoreline ring of calcium, rivals Nordenskjold.

The gravel takes us the rest of the way to our campsite at Lago Pehoé where we will stay for three nights, sharing spacious geodesic dome tents. Torres Range rises, craggy and cloud-beset, on the opposite side of the cold-blue lake.

Unpacked and refreshed by 10pm, we head from the onsite restaurant to our tents as twilight fades. There's an ominous roll of thunder from the Torres Range. Overnight, I wake to hear a soft rain falling, but the patter quickly lulls me back to sleep.

Calafate and Perito Moreno Glacier

Calafate is named for the thorny shrub with yellow flowers and dark blue berries that is common in Argentina. Its fruit is made into a tasty jam that we are sometimes served at breakfast.

The town is located on the southern shore of Lago Argentino, the biggest lake in the country. It serves as a hub to a variety of destinations in the area, especially Moreno Glacier in Parque Nacional los Glaciares. The park is home to 47 glaciers, but Moreno is one of its star attractions.

Tourism is the main industry here. According to a recent estimate, the local population has exploded from 4,000 in 2001 to its current 22,000.

Walking down Avenida del Libertador General Jose de San Martin in the sunshine, I notice the number of upscale shops and restaurants flanking the main street.

Mid-way down del Libertador, smooth stone walls of the new casino rise, pretentious and fortress-like, from the street. The sign suspended above the street simply says 'Casino.' As I pass, I make eye contact with one of two agentes de policía who patrol the entrance. It makes me feel uneasy somehow.

The only other times I've noticed security have been while visiting a bank or casa de cambio to exchange money. Entering or leaving a town, we also encountered carabineros at checkpoints ostensibly set up for traffic control.

Otherwise, Argentina remains one of the safest countries in South America for tourists. Outside big cities, serious crime is rare.

I find a bench on the grassy middle boulevard to eat an empanada. A mutt wanders into the street nearby. It stands belligerently in the middle of the road and snarls at a passing car. Strays are a real problem; not just here, but in South America. Many are not sterilized.

I haven't felt threatened by them; they seem all bark and no bite. Although, one afternoon a pair of mottled strays appeared like apparitions out on the steppe, kilometres from any civilization. Separated by fencing, they sprinted alongside us but soon gave up.

The highlight of our two-day visit here is Perito Moreno Glacier. We leave our hostel by 9 a.m. and ride the bitumin 48 kilometres to the park gate. Jerry takes care of the fee (40 pesos or about USD$10 per person) when we reach the park gate and we file in behind the troopy.

For the next half-hour, we ride twisties all the way up the mountain past forests of lenga, cypress, and alerce. Chilean fire bush is in bloom, brilliant red flowers against a backdrop of greens and browns. By the time we reach it, the parking lot at the top is almost filled with cars and squadrons of tourist buses.

I'm not prepared for the sheer immensity of the glacier or blueness of the ice. Rising 60 metres from the surface of the water, it stretches more than five kilometres wide and 30 kilometres long. The unworldly colour of the ice is the result of intense reflection from water and sky.

As we stand on the viewing deck, there's a distant thunder to our right, followed by what resembles a crack of lightning. The glacier calves in spectacular fashion, losing a massive chunk into Canal de los Témpanos below.

The crowd reacts with audible appreciation. This is what we've come to see: a geological entity so incomprehensively old and always, inevitably, moving, that still has the power, by its very nature, to strike us with awe.