Patagonia On 2 Wheels

The Streets of Ushuaia

2009-03-26T13:15:00.044-04:00

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 (early December) 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 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

2009-01-20T15:24:00.028-05:00

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

2009-01-18T11:35:00.059-05:00

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

2009-01-16T17:11:00.051-05:00

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

2008-12-29T11:03:00.020-05:00

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

2008-12-20T21:50:00.058-05:00

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

2008-12-16T16:27:00.039-05:00

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.

Fitz Roy and the Gaucho

2008-12-14T20:38:00.011-05:00

It's Sunday, a welcome day of rest for us. Michael, Cate, and Brendan have come down with nausea and other unpleasant symptoms that will also hit Simon and Sue for at least two or three days. Phil has been sucking back lozenges to soothe his sore throat. The mood of the group is subdued.

But it's difficult not to be awed by the sight of Cerro Fitz Roy (3,405 metres) and Cerro Torre (3,102 metres). The twin spires are clearly visible through the expanse of window enclosing the hostel's diningroom.

Daunting, they loom like towers of a Gothic cathedral. They sit astride the disputed Argentine/Chilean border, rising from the largest ice field outside of the polar caps.

El Chaltén is at the foot of the Fitz Roy Range, planted in a pretty river valley within Parque National los Glaciares. Chaltén is a young village, founded only in 1985, that has firmly established its reputation as the 'Trekking Capital of Argentina.'

On the cusp of summer in the Southern Hemisphere, we've arrived at the start of high season along with the first waves of hikers and climbers.

Experienced climbers come to challenge Fitz Roy. The ascent is arduous and technical, because of the treacherous weather and the mountain's sheer granite face.

Fitz Roy was named for the equally stormy captain of H.M.S. Beagle, Robert FitzRoy. He explored much of South America with Charles Darwin. Their voyages make fascinating reading.

Brendan is surprised by how much El Chaltén has grown in the last half-dozen years. I take myself on a walk around the small tourist village on this bright, blustery afternoon, first up one street, down the next.

It's still very much a work in progress. There's a certain frontier charm about it, more mountaineering base camp than tourist trap like, say, El Calafate 220 km to the south.

A gaucho on horseback suddenly comes clop-clopping down the street. His brown mare has a closely-cropped mane and blunt black tail.

Sitting tall in the saddle, his face is slightly sunburned beneath a round-brimmed sureño. He speaks no English. I motion with my camera and he faintly smiles and nods.

"Gracias," I reply. He gracefully slides down from his horse and tethers it to a post outside the bar where I'm standing. A seniorita in a crimson dress emerges from the side door of the white plaster building.

There are horizontal iron bars across the windows and the plain curtains are tightly drawn. The couple warmly and wordlessly embrace, aware of the stranger in their midst. They disappear through the side door.

The wind gusts grow stronger as I draw my jacket collar closer and start back for the hostel.

El Chaltén

2008-12-13T21:08:00.004-05:00

Next morning arrives sunny and blue, but the wind hasn't abated. It drives the lone wind turbine behind the house with a frenzied pitch that sounds like the blap-blapping of a dirt bike.

We ride the 4 km back to Ruta 40 from the estancia. On the way, I manage to avoid a pair of fleet-footed European rabbits that zig-zag across my path. The genus is considered an invasive pest in both Argentina and Chile.

The ripio is a little deeper here on 40. It's a challenge to keep the bike upright as we head into strong gusts from the SSE. I have to lean in and tighten my grip for most of the first 100 km. Before long, my upper arms are feeling the strain.

The only respite this morning from the featureless arid plateau is a dazzling strip of impossibly blue water called Lago Cardiel. It's located in an ancient basin that stretches off toward the distant cordillera.

By the time we reach the junction of Ruta 40 and RP23 in early afternoon, the sky turns threatening. We're heading for the village of El Chaltén. There's 125 km of some of the best paved road we'll ride ahead.

I tuck my helmet as low as I can behind the bike's flyscreen and slide down the chute at 120 kph, through sweeping 's' curves and down long straights.

Stunning Lago Viedma soon arrives into view on my left and stays in view for the next 90 km. The lake lies near the border between Argentina and Chile.

Formed from melting glacial ice, it's now primarily fed by the Viedma Glacier at its western end. Land around the lake holds very little vegetation, the result of scouring by retreating glaciers.

The area is known for its unpredictable weather and quickly changing conditions. It doesn't take long before it begins to drizzle lightly. The temperature drops precipitously within the space of 20 minutes.

I watch the bike's temp gauge fall 8 degrees celsius until it levels out at a damp and chill 4 degrees. I flick on the heated grips for the first time and hunker down into my Rainier jacket.

The air 'warms' back up to 11 degrees and stays there the rest of the way into town. The drizzle persists and low clouds have descended on the peaks in an almost 360 degree panorama. The extraordinary towers of famous Fitz Roy Range are somewhere underneath.

We arrive at our hostel after a relatively short 315 km. Everyone's happy to get there after what seems like a long day in the saddle.

Estancia

2008-11-25T19:35:00.004-05:00

Back in the saddle today. You just gotta get back on the horse that throws you.

I woke up a little stiff and sore, and already a bruise longer than my hand is making itself known down the back of my right thigh. It's a hideous shade of black and purple. But I'm ready to take on the road once again.

We jump back on Ruta 40 and the smooth asphalt soon runs out: fin de paviment. It's back to ripio, but this time it's finer with hard-packed ruts to follow. The group spreads out, riding at their own pace. All I see is their dust in the distance.

The gravel twists and turns and there are more than a few signs warning 'perito' (danger) and 'precaucion.' I'm not going to hurry. Just when you think you're doing alright and flying along the gravel at 80 or 100 kph, it can suddenly change without warning and things can happen mighty fast.

The landscape is still stunning, more for its pure desolation than anything else. The rock suddenly turns to pinkish red, reminding me of iron ore deposits. There are some 15 mining operations in the area,we're told, including gold exploration.

As I round a corner, Phil is stopped ahead and points to my left as I approach. A couple hundred metres off the road, a pack of guanaco starts into a trot.

From my quick count, it's a herd of about 30. They retreat to a safe distance, but not out of camera range, and stand looking back at me, posing.

It's our first sighting of this relative of the camel family. The guanaco is on the endangered list -- their coat is even more prized than alpaca -- but they're protected by law and have been seen in growing numbers in Chile.

Before long, we ride onto the 20,000 hectare Estancia La Angostura, a working sheep station where we're promised a traditional asado (BBQ).

The main house is large and comfortable. The property belongs to Antonio and Maria Angostura. It has belonged to the Angostura family since 1916. The estancia has operated as a guest ranch since 1992 and welcomes 1,000 guests over a six month period every year.

Alfredo, the estancia chef, walks by carrying a freshly slaughtered lamb over one shoulder. We gather to watch as he prepares it, stretching the carcass over a rack in a large fireplace.

Alfredo has dressed for the occasion. Soon he's posing for photos, looking not unlike a suave Latino movie star in his traditional beret.

Simon notices a small animal skull on a table near the blazing fire. In Spanish, Alfredo tells him that it is the head of a puma. Pumas have made themselves unwelcome on the estancia. Alfredo then pulls out a cell phone and flips up the cover to play a video.

It is a short clip, maybe 20 seconds long. There is a puma, clearly in distress, fighting off a pitchfork and a furiously snapping dog. Unseen in the video is Alfredo, who is holding the pitchfork. As we gather around, captivated, he explains how he killed the puma.

It's quite a feat, but I can't decide which is more incredible: the fact that he actually killed the puma almost bare-handed, or that he had a presence of mind to pull out his cell phone and record the incident at the same time.

Riding The Ripio

2008-11-24T19:21:00.019-05:00

Today I´m a passenger. Brendan briefs the group as usual about the day´s ride and we´re away by 8 am. It will be the group´s longest scheduled ride so far, 550 km from Esquel to Perito Moreno on the Patagonian steppe.

The first 100 km along Ruta Quaranta (Ruta 40) is dirt, that is, unsurfaced gravel. In Spanish, it means ripio.

National Ruta 40 is a legendary road in Argentina. It´s the longest road in the country, stretching more than 5,000 km (3,125 miles) from north to south.

It's also the road that Che Guevara travelled on his Norton 500 in 1952. He documented the now-famous trip in his book 'The Motorcycle Diaries.'

I climb into the Toyota Landcruiser, affectionately called the 'troopy,' with Jerry and the always-perky Sue. Sue is the only other passenger because she doesn't ride.

She's been diligently improving her Spanish from a phrase book she brought along, and her conversations with Jerry who's fluent in the language.

I'd given myself a crash course in Spanish during the weeks leading up to my departure, squeezing it between writing projects, gathering documentation and medical preparations for the trip, and correspondence with sponsors.

It was woefully inadequate, I knew. But I lived in hope that I'd at least mastered all the essential phrases: "No hablo mucho español." (I don't speak much Spanish); "No entiendo." (I don't understand); and, most importantly, "Dónde está el baño?" (Where is the bathroom?)

As Jerry expertly guides the troopy and its trailer out of the YPF service station, things just don't feel right. I should be out there on the GS and I get a little pang as I watch the others ride off.

Then we hit washboard and plow through heavy gravel with large stones and we´re bouncing like rag dolls, despite our seat belts. My tender ribs remind me that it was a wise decision to sit this one out. Although, the alternative doesn´t seem much better at this point.

The bikes have already taken a beating from the gravel. New bash plates protecting the engines are dented on most of the bikes. BMW has sent out a notice about faulty radiator mounts on the 650 GS. It has Brendan closely watching for potential trouble, especially because of the road conditions.

So I sit back and watch the countryside go by. The road passes endless estancias. Flamingos suddenly come into view, standing in a pond far off the road, pink against the brown scrub.

Herds of wooly sheep, goats, and cattle are contained by fences running the length of the ripio. Mid-morning we spy nine condors gracefully riding the thermals overhead, their fringed black and white wing tips like fingers. Andean condors like these have wingspans of 9-10 feet.

Ruta 40 turns to unbroken two-lane. Markers by the side of the road count the kilometres from Buenos Aires to Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, our final destination. Only 1540 km to go!

The fuertes vientos (strong winds) have picked up since yesterday. We start seeing road signs that show a tree bending in the wind. It's an unrelenting force that makes you want to shout, "Stop already!"

We catch up with the group and stop for lunch, surrounded by poplars just off the road. We're largely sheltered there, and better able to enjoy the groaning board of food that Jerry and Brendan assemble to sustain us.

Yesterday we were riding through heavy forest and mountain lakes. Today, it's desolate plains. A switchback shows us a vista of wilderness that stretches what seems like hundreds of kilometres.

"Now you're seeing the real Patagonia," says Jerry with an excited smile as we reconnect with the ripio.

Before we arrive in the remote settlement of Perito Moreno late that afternoon, Cate takes another fall on the gravel. This time it's worse than last. She does a highsider and lands on her back. The top box shatters with the impact. She arrives at the hotel in the Landcruiser and looks like hell. But she's young and tough.

So is the bike. But Brendan has another long evening ahead of him.

Crash

2008-11-24T14:57:00.009-05:00

We´re greeted by sun again and it quickly warms to 26 degrees celsius. Everyone´s ready to ride after the rest day. It´s 320 km from San Carlos de Bariloche to Esquel.

Not long after departing, we´re navigating mountain switchbacks and twisties that descend and climb through valleys. Posted signs warn `curva peligrosa´ (dangerous curve) and `despacio!´ (take it easy!). In between are straight stretches across open range.

A detour along Highway 15 takes us across gravel that´s chunky and challenging on our way past the small town of Cholila.

Back in 1901, Americans Robert Leroy Parker and Harry Longabaugh, better known as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and Sundance's girlfriend, Etta Place, settled in Argentina's Cholila Valley after fleeing Pinkerton agents.

I stop briefly outside a rundown house made from bricks and a rusted tin roof just off the road. There are no windows or entrance door, only openings for each. The owner acknowledges me with an `Hola!´ and a wave of his hand from the doorway.

His four emaciated mongrels lie just outside, motionless in the heat of the day. From somewhere behind the house, a horse neighs and snorts. All goes quiet again except for the sound of buzzing flies.

The gravel road winds through Parque Nacional Los Alerces. We´re rewarded with spectacular views for all our hard work. The park has the largest forest of alerce trees in Argentina. Some of them are up to 3,000 years old.

By late afternoon, we reach bitumen again and then a last stretch of gravel. We´re less than 10 km from our hotel in Esquel. I'm looking forward to getting a glimpse of the Old Patagonian Express. The legendary 'La Trochita' shuttles by steam between Esquel and Nahuel Pan.

I start descending a particularly nasty corner but my concentration has waned. The front wheel pulls right, then to the left, as I desperately try to correct course. It´s no use. I lose my balance completely, the gravel like roller bearings.

And then I´m down in a cloud of dust, the bike landing on my right leg, the engine still running. I feel pain in my elbow, ribs, hip, and calf. Nothing seems broken, as far as I can tell. I´m a little disoriented from the bounce my helmet took from the impact, but alert.

The bike, I think. I manage to switch off the ignition, but don't have energy to inspect the damage. The rest of the group comes running and I'm given water as I lie on my back at the side of the road. Soon I'm bouncing around in the Landcruiser as Truman rushes to our hotel.

A doctor is summoned and he arrives quickly to check me out. Through my haze and pain, I somehow can´t help thinking about the Cheech & Chong bit called Brave Motorcycle Rider. It makes me laugh and wince at the same time.

Dr. Gustavo Vidal is a kindly and soft-spoken man. He prescribes anti-inflammatories and says I´ll hurt for the next three weeks. The bike sustained some scuffs, a cracked side cover, broken signal lens, and bent right peg. The handlebars are twisted out of alignment. It could have been worse.

If you have to crash, what better place to do it than Patagonia? Later that evening, we relax and reflect on the day's ride. Phil sums it up best with a revealing comment: "I'm workin' the gravel, and then next minute I look up and think, oh yeah, this is Argentina!"

The Border

2008-11-18T11:52:00.005-05:00

We meet another member of the Compass team once we get to Pucón. Brendan Barbetti is an experienced traveller and rider.

On this outing, he´s our resident expert mechanic and guide. With his sharp humour and easy-going demeanour, Brendan gets us oriented to BMW´s new F650 GS on gravel roads around Pucón.

The 650 is nimble and light with tall gearing and knobby tires, perfect for the conditions. There are some challenging stretches of deep gravel and one or two arroyos along our test trail.

Cate goes down on the return run. The result is a nasty bruise on the inside of her right calf, but she´s uninjured otherwise. Full of pluck, the next day she´s proudly showing it off. She´s earned her rite of initiation already.

Our first full day on the bikes and we finally get on the road to Argentina. We get an early start in cool air under a bright sun. The group is pumped, and we make 75 km in good time.

The trail to the Chile/Argentine border at Mamuil Malal Pass is about half bitumen, half gravel. We soon leave the town behind and people who have stopped to watch us pass. They mostly stand with unexpressive faces, except for the kids who smile and wave back.

The rocky road snakes through alpine pasture and dense forest amidst snow-blanketed peaks. It´s soon littered with signs that warn ´hielo sobre calzada´(ice on road in winter).

The wake of dust is heavy as we make our way. There´s a thick layer of dust on everything that isn´t covered. Readouts on the instrument panel are indecipherable.

Almost at the border, a black SUV travelling in the opposite direction stops next to me. Its Danish driver rolls down his window and informs me that the border is closed indefinitely. The Argentinian public service is on strike.

The Waiting

The mesmerizing peak of Mount Lanin volcano (3,747 metres) comes into view as we approach the border. When we reach it a few minutes later, we´re forced to join a short queue.

Nothing else for us to do now but wait and wonder in the sun that has grown warmer in the cloudless morning sky.

There´s no movement at all for hours, except for a dust devil that spews dirt in all directions from its whirl and expires as quickly as it forms. A gray fox, lean and unafraid, pads by along the side of the road and disappears.

I take advantage of the unexpected delay to take photos of the monkey puzzle trees in nearby Parc Nacional Villarrica. I double back to shoot a towering tree that's firmly planted in the middle of the road we´ve taken.

Monkey puzzles are Chile's national tree. They grow to a height of 40 metres and the species is so old that the trees are often referred to as living fossils. They have nothing at all to do with monkeys. In fact, the name of the tree is said to have originated from its early cultivation in Britain in the 1850s.

Later, a friendly Chilean who wears a t-shirt and frayed ponytail wanders over to us from the truck ahead. He´s a home builder. When we´re done with introductions, he tells me in Spanish that he was trained by a Canadian from Ontario a dozen years ago.

He says with some pride that he and his crew of five can build a two-storey wood cabin-style house 150-170 metres large in 60 days. In Chile, such homes sell for US$50,000, he says.

We hear rumours of ´replacement´workers. Exactly at 5.10 pm, an SUV rolls past us to the sound of a cheer from the gathered crowd, including a busload of tourists. They´ve arrived!

That´s followed by almost two long hours getting across the border, lining up first at the Chilean inmigración and aduanas (customs), then the Argentinian. There´s some frustration as a few of our group don´t have all the proper papers.

We give each other quizzical looks at the sight of a female official holding a syringe. They´re giving vaccinations against an outbreak of rubella. Two members of our group have to roll up their sleeve. It´s the law.

On to Bariloche

We still have a good five hours of riding ahead of us. But once on the other side, the road is smooth asphalt. We all roll on the throttle and quickly put the border behind us.

Scenery is spectacular. Brown rolling hills in the near distance are caressed by clouds scudding overhead, their outline on terra firma traced by the softening sun. Several Patagonia ostrich hurry away from the road as I pass.

To make up time, we take an alternate route from Junin de los Andes to the famous Ruta 40. The land here transitions to mesas and scrub that reminds me of riding through the American Southwest.

Strong easterly winds descend and threaten to push the bike over. It´s only a brief taste of the notorious winds that hold Patagonia hostage starting this time of year. I hold tight to my iron horse, much like the trio of gauchos I see riding the fence line in the opposite direction.

As nine o´clock approaches, the sun sets, leaving a warm glow outlining the distant mountain range. Then out of the corner of my eye, movement. Three wild boar are trying to outrace me on the plano. Just as suddenly, they change direction in a cloud of dust and I lose them in the growing twilight.

On Ruta 237 to San Carlos de Bariloche (bä-rē-lō-chā), I pull off the bitumen and kill the engine. Silence, except for an eerie call from night birds I can´t see.

Closer to Bariloche, the road becomes a camino sinuoso, a series of sweepers that demand daylight to fully appreciate. As the road descends a lago lies to my left, luminescent in the fading light.

I watch the bike´s ambient temperature gauge drop from 20 degrees celcius to 16 then back to 20 in the changing night air. I´m snug in my new gear. The Who´s 'Goin´ Mobile' blasts through my ear buds, propelling my brain like Pete Townsend´s windmilling, for the last few kilometres.
I catch up with the rest of the group just outside town. It´s late and we´re all tired. It´s been a full first day.

Seven Lakes Drive

San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina is a tourist town of about 100,000. It´s located on the south shore of Nahuel Huapi Lake in the Andes Mountains. It´s also the gate to Argentine Patagonia.

We arrived last night in the dark, but in the daylight, we see the rustic beauty of the cabanas where we are staying for two nights.

On the evening of our second night, I decide to head out to see some of the famous Seven Lakes district that we´d missed because of the border problems. In the distance over Lago Nahuel Huapi, a storm system turns the sky into a dramatic study of contrasts.

I ride through short-lived, light cloud bursts on this side of the lake. Once out on the steppe, the sun breaks through the turbulence and bathes the pre-cordillera in the northeast with its warm light and a full rainbow. It is heartbreakingly beautiful.

I jump back on the bike and resist the temptation to put a knee to the smooth, twisty asphalt that wiggles through the hill country. I spot a toffee-coloured palmino grazing in a valley. There are yellow poppies growing in the roadside rocky debris. I park off the road and listen to the lulling rhythm of the river below.

There are few other vehicles to mar my enjoyment of Ruta 231. Until the impatient driver of a Petrobras tanker decides to overtake me around a semi-blind curve, crosses the double yellow and is gone. It reminds me of Spielberg's 'Duel.'

It´s not the first time that´s happened. Both Brendan and Jerry had warned us about aggressive Argentine drivers. Best to just get used to it.

Saturday Night in Chile

2008-11-16T19:52:00.002-05:00

What do you do in a tourist town on Saturday night?

On this mild Saturday night in Pucón, Hispano-Chilean song has lured me to a side street.

Performers in traditional costume from the Universidad Mayor are assembled on an unlit stage behind the parque de bomberos, the town fire hall. They don't need light; they throw off enough energy to start a spontaneous combustion.

The large crowd, both young and old, is sitting in white plastic chairs and raptly singing and clapping along to the guiterras.

During the performance, a father stands nearby holding his tired three-year-old. The child looks up from his father´s shoulder and spies me eating my trail mix with an unrelenting, wistful stare.

I give in and gesture to his father for his okay to offer some to the child. No sooner has he eaten it, than a huge, spontaneous smile spreads across his face. Ah, satisfaction.

When the finale comes, the revellers break into an impromptu conga line that snakes past the front of the stage. They clap and laugh long after the group leaves.

The Volcano

2008-11-15T20:38:00.013-05:00

Yesterday, the group that signed on to Compass´s tour of Patagonia met for the first time. A distinct air of anticipation prevailed as we gathered in our hotel for our first briefing from tour leader Jerry Truman Cook.

Including myself, there are seven of us in the group: oil patch manager Phil and his wife Sue, who works for a therapeutic drumming business; newlyweds and adventure-seekers Cate and Simon; Michael, a semi-retired lawyer; and a professional photographer named Carmine.

With the exception of me, Phil and Sue, who are Canadian, everyone else is from Oz. It prompts Cate to launch into a promising joke: "Three Canadians and four Aussies walk into a bar..." We all fall out laughing, in search of a punch line.

Jerry had forewarned us that our first day would be long. We leave early in the morning by public bus that takes us from Santiago to Pucón (POO-kon), some 789 km south of the capital.

It´s a gruelling trip that takes us nearly 12 hours to complete. I'm still not recovered from a debilitating cold that hit only days before. Fortunately, we travel the Pan American Highway which is well-paved, double-laned, and fast-moving.

My seatmate, Michael, is restless. For him, the destination is the journey, he confides. Being a lawyer and former judge, he has an opinion about most things, which he enthusiastically shares with me. We talk about politics, jurisprudence, and Fitzroy and Darwin's journey to Patagonia. The kilometres quickly pass.

Sue observes early on that the buses seem to run very efficiently. Her point is well-taken at one of the few stops along the route. As I wait at the snack bar for my much-needed aqua, I turn to see the conductor (buses here are manned by a driver and conductor who collects tickets and refuse from passengers) hanging out the door of the bus. He's looking in my direction as it slowly backs out of its parking spot without me.

As we head south, the land transitions to broad farms and lush pasture that raise sheep and dairy cattle. Buildings marked with Dole and Del Monte signs pass by, as do expanses of vineyard. Santiago is a large producer of grapes from which the best Chilean wines are made.

All along the route the coastal mountains are to our right while the Andean foothills rise to the east. Closer to our destination, a surprise: tracts of forest appear, rich and rolling.

With only an hour of daylight left, the majestic snow-capped peak of the Villarrica Volcano stands singular and softly glinting. Pucón, one of the main tourist centres of the Chilean Araucanian Region, lies at its feet some 2,850 meters below on the shores of Lake Villarrica.

Villarrica is one of the ten most active volcanoes in the world. For proof, you only have to look high up at its permanent fumarole. This evening, as we stand in the parking lot of our hotel in Pucón, the volcano is smoking.

South American Sunrise

2008-11-13T14:34:00.016-05:00

6.28 a.m.

Across the wing of the LAN 737 is a fabulous band of tangerine melding into another of yellow and another of pure azure, like some kind of exotic celestial shooter that spills the width of the horizon. The unexpected dawn display suddenly jolts me out of my bleary-eyed half-sleep. Welcome to South America!

A few minutes later, the plane is hovering over crenellations of the coastal mountains. Peaks and thin lines of snow seem so close you can almost touch them.

We descend into heavy cloud and then break through, revealing stretches of arid and rocky land. Santiago spreads out below, a capital city of 6 million and 5th largest in South America.

Chile is a boney finger of a country. At 4,300 km (2,700 miles), it´s the longest country in the world. At its widest, it´s a mere 240 km (150 miles). Santiago is at the northern tip of a long river valley that is marked by vineyards and prosperous farms.

At the airport my driver, Patrice, picks me up in an expensive-looking Peugeot and whisks me away to my hotel on the Avenida Libertador Bernardo O´Higgins. It´s central, only a few blocks south of the city´s main plaza, the impressive Plaza de Armas.

It won´t be the first time I see this street name in towns and villages we pass through. O´Higgins was a revered revolutionary and first Chilean head of state. He commanded the forces that gave the country its indepence from Spain in 1818.

By mid-morning, the sun has burned off the humid haze but there is a lingering trace of pollution in the air. There´s a rush of people and traffic everywhere. Teeming throngs of Latino and indigenous faces pass me on the street.

There´s a riotous mix of well-dressed businessmen with determined brows and laughing flocks of uniformed school girls. Two beggars with no legs lie prone on their stomach, waiting for passersby to drop pesos into a straw basket at their chin.

At the corner of Paseo Ramon Nieto and Paseo Estado, just a few blocks from the Hotel Libertador, is a block-long parking lot for bikes and scooters. It intersects with another street filled with them. For 150 pesos (about U.S. 22 cents), you can park for 60 minutes.

Most are single cylinder, mostly commuters. They have unfamiliar names like Lifan, Takasaki, Euromot, Honda Falcon or Tornado. I glimpse one or two exceptions: a newer Harley 883 here, a Yamaha Star over there.

Constant movement keeps the yellow-shirted-and-capped attendant on his feet, hand outstretched to collect another payment.

Outside my hotel window, the cacaphony is dominated by a constant chorus of shrill whistles and horns. They´re blown by a group of young men and women who are picketing a technology business in the nearby shopping district.

The sidewalks around them are littered with shredded paper resembling so much confetti. It´s almost a festive atmosphere. At the same time, there´s a surreal feeling to this transition of time, space, and cultures.

I´m here at the offer of Mick McDonald, one of a group of four Aussie blokes who operate the motorcycle touring company called Compass Expeditions . Mick´s asked me to come along to experience their 17-day tour of Patagonia, South America.

This is the perfect opportunity to test some new gear, too. My thanks go also to the companies that have generously provided the things I´ll need. They include:

Rainier jacket/Escape pants/Basegear from Firstgear USA ; Allround boots and gloves from BMW Motorrad Canada ; Outlast Short T-shirt/Different Drummer Legends Field Commander zip-off pants/Hemp Get-Away shirt/Fast-Drying Travel socks/Coolmax briefs/LTM6 Airflo hat from Tilley Endurables ; and Fast-Track Rolling Duffle/Seal Line Urban Backpack from Mountain Equipment Co-op .