6th, Chile Chico, Chile, Stop: March 29th, Comodoro Rivadavia,
Distance: 4229 km, Total
Distance: 47466 km [Map]
Patagonian winds blew us east to the Atlantic again before we headed south
until, finally, the road stopped. Cold nights and cold days mixed with
fantastic national parks in perfect weather, before we entered the infamous
Ruta 40. The adventure wasn't over just because our compass had turned
I held out my hand only to feel absolutely no wind pressure. The speedometer
showed 120 km/h, which according to my quick calculation meant that we
had 120 km/h tail wind. It was incredible. I had never before heard the
engine so clear in this speed, and Bente asked over the intercom whether
it sounded more noisy than normal. We were on our way east over the Argentinean
pampa and had left Lars, Tini and Gerald the same morning in a little
village called Perito Moreno, a little east of the Chilean border of Chile
Chico. They were going south on Ruta 40, while we took the easy and fast
route along the coast.
A lunch break introduced us to the Argentinean meat and prices. An incredible
Parilla, a dish that consists of different barbequed meat, proved that
the rumour about high quality meat in this country at least was true up
until now. It was more tender and tasty than any meat we could remember.
"We don't feed our animals with concentrated fish meat like you do
in Europe", said another customer when asked why the meat was so
good. "On the pampas we have plenty of room to let the cattle eat
naturally. Cows were never meant to eat food from the sea!". Then
the check came and equilibrium was reached once again. People said Argentina
was expensive and they were right.
A familiar ocean
We reached the coastal Highway, Ruta 3, by way of a sixty kilometer gravel
road, at times difficult because of the high heaps of loose gravel separating
the wheel tracks combined with strong winds. On each side of the many
bridges it was loose across the whole section of the road, and we had
a few laughs mixed with high pulse as the bike floated in all directions
and we ended up in a different track.
"These nerve cracking hairpin
turns. I got to have a cigarette." Crossing the pampa.
Southbound on the Ruta 3 there was nothing to see, so I opened up the
throttle and leaned into the wind. The helmet was twisted to the left,
and after a few hours I got tired in my right arm from fighting the gale.
Communication was impossible, and given up when a few futile attempts
only resulted in a screaming "WHAT DID YOU SAY?". We kept on
going though, and even though the 25 degrees we had had over the pampa
was reduced to only 12-13 by the time it got dark, we decided to go on
for another hour.
The moon was almost full, and for a while we had it right behind us,
mirroring itself in the slightly wet pavement, thus creating a image of
a ships wake. I had a sort of deja vu but couldn't quite put my finger
on it at first. I was back on a ship, sailing over the Atlantic or working
in the North Sea. Then it struck me. It smelled ocean, but not just any.
For the first time in more than nine months we smelled the Atlantic again.
I don't know, but it seemed different than the Pacific. It reminded me
more of home and work. It smelled good and when we entered the municipal
camp ground in San Julian and saw the moon over the Atlantic, I felt good,
almost at home.
More hickups and bike work
After an hour's ride out of San Julian I saw oil on my right boot. The
engine temperature was higher than normal. "What is it now, Rocinante?",
I said and pulled over. Oil was leaking from the cylinder head gasket.
Worst case scenarios seems to be the way of thinking these days, so I
kicked some stones far into the pampa and let out a few loud and unspeakable
words. Bente looked at me instead of the machine and concluded that either
I had gone over the edge or Rocinante had finally given in. I believed
the head gasket was broken, from my little experience a serious matter
for any engine, especially in a place so far from Triumph country as this.
We had to continue though, but before we did I tightened three bolts on
the cam chain side of the engine, wiped off the oil and smeared dust over
the remaining slick layer to easier see if it was still leaking on the
next check. We rode into Piedrabuena and settled in outside a Locutorio,
a phone center, where I called my dealer in San Diego. Mark's unworried
voice in the other end of the line was comforting. After all, he was the
one who put this engine together, and when he wasn't worried, I brightened
up. I hadn't checked the coolant level in a few weeks, and now I found
it to be low, from what reason I couldn't say, but I filled it up again.
The oil leakage was stopped by tightening the three screws. All back to
Tierra del Fuego, it was a dusty ride.
But this incident made us make one more decision. We would go straight
to Ushuaia instead of meeting Lars, Tini and Gerald in Calafate. We wanted
to be sure we got there and rather see Torres Del Paine and the Perito
Moreno Glacier on our way north. In Rio Gallegos we stopped for three
days, though, to do a valve clearance check on the engine. In case the
valves needed adjustment, I had to order new shims from Costa Rica or
San Diego, and rumors in town said that sometimes foreign mail could take
forever to get to this far away corner of Argentina.
The check revealed that six out of twelve valves needed new shims, so
I prepared an order and then we headed for Ushuaia, the ultimate goal
of the trip. After a short ride on pavement south of Rio Gallegos, gravel
took over. But it was straight and firm and maintaining a speed of almost
three digits was no problem. The border control was quick and easy, then
we were back in Chile and soon we saw the Magellan Straight.
Land of Fire
Something was missing though. The sun was shining and there was no wind.
When we left on the short ferry ride across the Primero Estrecho, the
sea was like a mirror. For months we had feared the Patagonian winds,
and now where was it? Dolphins followed the ship and for a while two of
them did synchronized swimming, jumping and, it seemed, smiling. I shot
picture after picture of them, but as always, none came out good. It is
virtually impossible to catch these animals using a slow digital camera.
But seeing the black and white bodies jump out of a mirror flat sea in
this part of the world will stay in my memory forever.
We were off the pavement again. The road from the ferry terminal to the
Argentinean border was about 140 km of gravel, most of it good. The winds
kept away, and it was like a miracle to see the flat but fascinating Tierra
Del Fuego in such good weather. Maybe the Triumph God made good again
the small unpleasant moments I had had lately. But it was dusty, and the
clouds didn't disappear from the cars ahead of us until the dust had settled,
no movement in the air whatsoever. In a small restaurant outside the village
or oil base Cullen, the owner agreed that it was a miracle. Only a week
earlier they had experienced winds up to 170 km/h.
Throwing a discus, like my brother once tried to teach me or warming
up again after a very cold ride towards Ushuaia?
Tierra Del Fuego is split between Chile and Argentina. On the north-western
Chilean side there are almost no people, while the Argentinean side has
two main cities, Rio Grande and Ushuaia with a population of around sixty
thousand. Both of them are "new" towns. Ushuaia was established
more than one hundred years ago, but it wasn't until the Argentinean government
made the island a tax free zone and offered financial support to people
who started their own business in the area, that the towns started to
grow for real. There's not one single pure indigenous left on the island,
and more than 80 percent of the people are first or second generation
islanders. Actually, most of Argentina descents from recent immigration
from Europe, an influence easy traceable in the accent. People from Buenos
Aires that we have met speak Spanish with an Italian sound to it, while
all the Y and LL-sounds are turned into a SH-sound, distinctly identifying
every Argentinean as an Argentinean. The country is the richest in Latin
America, and are several steps ahead of even Chile. The prices are of
almost Norwegian standards, but in exchange we have found most hotels
to be heated, the showers to be excellent, the bread good and most important
of all, the espresso coffee abundant and fantastic. This last is quite
obvious in a rich country with Italian and Spanish heritage. People here
look more like southern Europeans than their mixed blood neighbours in
the north and north-west. They are friendly and easy to get in touch with,
and remind us not just a little of the people in southern Spain.
After another easy border crossing we were back in Argentina and made
it to Rio Grande just after dark. A man we met in the street recommended
a hostel, a recommendation we would be grateful for. In Hotel Lago Argentino
a middle aged woman greeted us with hugs and asked if we wanted to share
in on the dinner. For two dollars each we ate a fantastic pasta with day
fresh mussles and drank as much wine we could get down. A pleasant evening
in the company of very hospitable people was the result of a chance meeting
in the streets of this wind-blown oil town.
The end of the road
The end of the road. Bahia Lapataia, Tierra Del Fuego
On the 13th of March, the 293rd day of our trip we started our last leg
south. The ride was partial pavement and partial gravel, and as we got
closer to Ushuaia, it got colder. We had to stop outside a closed restaurant
and jump around like idiots for twenty minutes to be able to continue.
It was early afternoon when we rode into town. After a quick coffee break
- where we discussed our next travel on a motorcycle, maybe around the
rest of the world, but more about that another time - we headed 18 km
further south-west towards the "End of the road" marker like
every motorcyclist and probably everyone else coming here does. At the
marker the wind was blowing while we shot picture after picture of ourselves.
I was running to and from the camera and sometimes catching the heel of
my foot or ending up in an awkward and stupid looking position when the
timer ended and the shutter sounded.
We had asked eachother how we felt about being here. When we entered
Ushuaia we had planned to exclaim our joy about reaching this place with
a scream. But in Ushuaia we agreed the feeling would come when we were
at the en of the road marker. Now we were here. The truth was none of
us felt that this was so special. Don't get us wrong, we felt good, but
compared to the feeling I had in mind months ago when Ushuaia was just
a name and far far away, this was bleak. OK, we were here, it was cold,
the town was nice, the mountains spectacular, but the great feeling of
achievement wasn't present. We discussed it for a while and finally agreed
on one thing. We hadn't walked barefoot to the South Pole or climbed the
Mount Everest. We had just ridden a motorcycle for a while. "Riding
a motorcycle around the world is as easy as riding to the closest pub.
It just takes longer", someone said once, and it's true, give or
take. But either way, it was time for a little statistics. It had taken
us more than nine months and 45000km to get to where to road ends, to
the southernmost town in the world, from 50 something degrees north to
54 degrees south. We had used almost tree thousand liters of gas, broken
engine mounts a couple of times, had an accident that took some time to
get out of our heads, met many interesting people and seen fantastic nature
and beautiful cities. And we had learned that a trip like this was relatively
uncomplicated to see trough. The trip was far from over, but as we got
on the bike and turned north towards Ushuaia, it felt right in many ways
to know that we were now heading slowly towards home.
We found a room for the night, ate a nice celebration dinner and drank
two or three cognac too many. On our sinuous way back to the hotel we
stopped at a game center and drove model car race for an hour. Bente won
every time, since I was too drunk and drove off the track in every turn.
It was almost light when we went to bed, unsober and happy.
Boarding the ferry that took us over the Magellan straight.
Rocinante still needed new shims for the valves, and in town I found
an excellent high precision tool shop where we filed down the shims to
the correct size. It was a lot easier and cheaper than to wait for new
shims from the States, or go to another town and follow up the lead I
had that Toyota used the same shims.Then we stayed in town long enough
to let Lars, Tini and Gerald catch up with us. We also met Bernie, an
German American we had met in Nasca, Peru who had driven a Toyota Landcruiser
from the States. Quite naturally that meant another wet night, and so
we ended up five people driving model cars in the game center, with most
of us chasing around to get stranded cars back on track. They also brought
news about the Ruta 40, which according to them wasn't so bad after all,
and no section was as bad as the last stretch we had done towards Chile
Chico. To me it was good news, since I really would like to do this road
on our northbound course, if not for anything else so to avoid riding
the same stretch of boring coastal road as we did southwards.
After another couple of days we headed north. The day started reasonably
warm, but slowly degraded and it got colder and colder. When we got back
on the bike after a lunch break on a YPF service station in Rio Grande,
the winds had really picked up and my thermometer showed five degrees
celsius. Another 90 kilometers and we were shaking through the border
process. Why we decided to go on instead of seeking shelter I don't know,
but we did. The sun set and the temperature sank another three degrees.
It was blowing hard from the west as I tried my best to keep the bike
in the wheel tracks and avoid the loose gravel between them. The cold
crept through the layers of clothes and settled in our bones. From time
to time I could feel Bente shiver behind me. We aimed for the little restaurant
outside Cullen, but had forgotten it was Sunday. It was closed. Bente
hammered on the door and shouted that she just had to get in. There was
nothing in town and on the gas station the small cubicle only had room
for the attendant. We had to go on. Cerro Sombrero was fifty hard kilometers
away. Since there's nowhere to hide in this area and since the wind was
howling, we drove the last stretch in one go. When we came to the only
hostel in town, we were colder than we had ever been on a motorcycle.
But inside, the rooms had heating and the showers were simply the best
we had had, far better than even the showers in Hotel Radisson in La Paz.
I must have stayed under it for forty-five minutes. A bottle of cognac
we bought in Ushuaia was quickly reduced to half as we passed the night
by the radiator and prayed for better weather.
Finally an open restaurant along the road. This typical tough biker
loved the size of the stove. We're on our way to Puerto Natales.
When approaching Puerto Natales the next night, we were almost as cold
though, but again we found a hostel with heating. After a fantastic salmon
dinner made by the owner and a good night's sleep we prepared for the
leg up to Torres Del Paine. Bente met a guy with a motorcycle jacket in
the reception and asked him if he was travelling on two wheels. He looked
at her and replied, "Is your name Bente?". He was Chris Bright,
an English motorcyclist who after doing Africa on his BMW 100GS had started
from New York at about the same time as us. We had been following each
other down the continent, sometimes him leading and sometimes us. Lars,
Tini and Gerald had all travelled with him for a while, but we hadn't
met before. His bike, according to him a troublesome one, was parked somewhere
up on the Ruta 40 while he was waiting for a friend to come over from
England with a new rear shock absorber. We talked for an hour, exchanged
e-mail addresses, and then he had to run to catch the bus to Punta Arenas,
where they would meet up the next day.
From Puerto Natales the road turned to gravel again. It was firm and
the going was good. After only a few kilometers a fully dressed dual sport
bike came towards us, and we pulled over. An American in his fifties greeted
us. He was on his way back from an attempt to ride the Ruta 40. An accident
had resulted in a badly twisted left foot, so he backed off and decided
to take the boat from Puerto Natales to Puerto Montt instead of taking
his chances on the deserted Ruta 40 and later the Carretera Austral. His
bike was a BMW F650, and the luggage was bigger than ours. A flag pole
in the back was used for different purposes. He had made one flag that
stated his start end end points of the trip - he was on his second leg
of a trip from somewhere up in Alaska to Ushuaia, and one flag that said
"No Choques", meaning "No Collisions", written in
bright red letters and used in big city traffic to draw attention to himself.
I bet it worked. We wished him all the best and a quick recovery for his
foot, then sped it towards Torres Del Paine.
Torres del Paine national park. Nature at its best.[Large
The park was marvellous with white peaks in every direction, guanacos
grassing everywhere and the towers themselves visible from the road. The
road through the park was excellent; firm gravel and twisty. Glacier water
lakes surrounded us, flamingoes waded in a small lake, the weather was
nice and sunny, and it was simply one of these fantastic days.
We spent the night in the cheapest hosteria in the park, but almost regretted
it when paying 35 dollars for a lousy room in a very cold house. We cooked
on the floor in our room, and burned up as much wood we could fit into
the fire place in the reception, played cards and quickly escaped the
It was another fantastic day, and after enjoying more of the views in
the park, we left for Argentina again. Our last border crossing between
the two countries was just as easy and fast as all of them had been. We
entered the Ruta 40 and turned north towards El Calafate. The road was
good and after a little over a hundred kilometers we were back on pavement
and rode into town in the setting sun.
We quickly found the hostel we had been recommended and unpacked everything
on the bike. The next morning we mounted a light weight Rocinante and
headed towards the Perito Moreno glacier. The eighty kilometers road was
not only gravel, but very bumpy gravel, and for more than an hour we shook
and vibrated our way towards the park. A few kilometers before the glacier,
Rocinante started running poorly. Both recognized the behaviour from the
incident in Chile, and both swore and begged the stubborn horse to make
it out there before shutting down. She did, and when we entered the parking
lot black exhaust smoke disturbed the peaceful national park. Rocinante
was left to regret the wrongdoings while we walked down to take this vast
mass of ice in closer view.
Perito Moreno letting go of some of its load.
Perito Moreno is an arm stretching from the great Campo de Hielo Sur
into the Lago Argentino. It advances two meters a day and calfs continuously
into the lake. The amazing thing is not the glacier itself, but the fact
that it pushes towards a penisula in the lake, but never quite makes it
over. Sometimes it blocks the flow over water between the two sides, but
this only lasts until enough water pressure has built up to burst through
the ice dam. The result is that people can stand on the edge of the peninsula
and watch a calfing clacier a hundred or so meters away. From the upper
view point we could see the glacier stretch for fourteen kilometers before
it split and integrated with the main mass of ice. Neither of us had ever
seen a glacier this close, and we stayed for several hours and saw plenty
of small and medium size calfings. It was undoubtedly one of the most
spectacular views we had seen.
Before we left the glacier we took off the tank and checked cables and
connections for damages. I didn't really think this could be the cause
of the stuttering, but without proper tools, it was all we could do. Finally
we started up, prayed to the Triumph God and headed towards the hotel.
It was eighty nerve cracking kilometers. Not only did Rocinante threathen
to stop all the time, it also consumed gas in a very high tempo, adding
to the doubt we had about making it back. But we did.
The next day I checked all the answers we got from people on the Triumph
Tiger mailing list and from our mechanical advisers at Rocket MC in San
Diego. Then we cleaned and oiled the air filter, replaced the spark plugs
and started up again. After an initial period of stuttering, the bike
ran fine again. We quite naturally shared a beer and a cognac while I
drew my conlusions. Two times this had happened, and both times it was
fixed by cleaning an air filter that didn't look too dirty. The answer
was simply to clean it more often from now on.
The infamous La Quarenta
Ruta 40, or La Quarenta, was waiting for us. Bente had agreed to take
this road after all, since the wind had been fairly low lately. I had
argued that this was a man's thing. Everybody we had met had mentioned
Ruta 40 with some kind of awe or at least letting out a little air at
the end. I never insisted on taking it, I just looked into the horizon
with dreaming eyes and tasted the name. We men are like kids. We never
grow up and have to continue the who's-the-strongest game we played in
the schoolyard into adolescense. Different name, same game. I would have
felt a little bad about not taking the infamous stretch of road, but now
I got my will and we were on our way.
A few kilometers outside El Calafate the road left the pavement. The
quality varied but for the most part that day it was easy. The exception
was the last thirty kilometers before Tres Lagos, where the gravel rider's
enemy number one had passed over the day before, the road worker. On this
road the loose gravel piles up in heaps between the tracks, sometimes
more than thirty centimeters high, leaving the track narrow but firm.
This is why the road had a bad name, because combined with strong winds
it's very hard to keep the bike in the track. But when the road worker
decides to fix it, he spreads the gravel and pulls up the firm layer beneath.
Then he leaves it to the traffic to make it firm again. Because traffic
is scarse and we arrived the day after they had destroyed the road, we
were riding on a ten centimeter loose layer of gravel and dirt. It was
slow going and Bente sat stiff as a pole behind me, from time to time
releasing a sound exclaiming her fear. She admitted she still had an exaggerated
fear of falling, exaggerated because the speed was so low that had we
fallen, no damage would happen.
La Quarenta - Ruta 40, long and straight,
at times good, at times bad.
When we turned north again from Tres Lagos, we entered the longest stretch
of uninhabitaded land we had passed through. The wind was moderate, and
after one hundred kilometers we came to Lago Cardiel where an estancia
- a cattle farm - offered accommodation. This was late in the season and
most places were about to shut down for the winter. We hadn't met a single
vehicle since Tres Lagos, and on the estancia we were the only guests.
We quickly declined the offer for a room because of the high price and
chose to camp outside. When the owner, a middle age man with a french
beret and a silk scarf around his neck, turned off the generator silence
took over and a million stars looked down upon us and Rocinante.
After a late start we were back on the road. The surface changed around
every turn. It reminded me of cross country skiing. The tracks were deep
and sometimes the only places we could switch to the track next to us
was at cattle guards or in turns. In every turn the tracks vanished and
was replaced by a semi soft layer that we traversed slowly and carefully.
Sometimes the tracks were wide and we could keep a high speed, but other
times it was narrow and required first gear riding. The Cordillera
- the Andes Mountains - was always looming to the west of us, while the
barren pampa dominated the east. For hours we rode alone. Not a single
human being or a house disturbed the peaceful landscape. Sometimes guanacos
crossed the road, eagles were looking for pray and once we saw a condor
high above our heads. I loved it. Bente accepted it. When she shouted,
"I love this" on a completely different subject, I was quick
to steel the expression out of the context and thank her for enjoying
the ride as much as myself. She started to protest but I turned off the
After three hundred kilometers that day - we met five cars - we had passed
Bajo Caracoles with it's one hundred inhabitants and stopped at the Estancia
Casa de Piedra. They offered camping and rooms, according to our guidebook.
The place seemed deserted, but after a little while a gaucho -
the Argentinean cowboy - walked over. Luis was about fifty years old,
bow-legged and wore the standard beret and scarf. He told us the house
had closed down for the winter but that we could camp if we wanted to.
An open shelter had a fireplace and was available for cooking. When the
owner of the estancia came a little while later we arranged for a horse
back ride the next day to the Cueva de las Manos. A seven hour ride awaited
us, and I couldn't help worrying if our bodies would handle it.
Norwegian cowboys - and girls
We sat by the fireplace in the morning, trying to build up some heat
from the cold night we had spent in the tent. By the time we mounted the
horses and rode into the pampa, the sun was out, the wind gone and the
warmth crept slowly into our bones. It was my forth ride ever, and although
Bente had worked with horses in her youth, she was more or less as unaccustomed
as me. Our last ride in the States had been slightly boring because of
the restrictions. All we were allowed to do was to walk slowly on paths.
This was totally different. Luis let us do whatever we wanted to, and
it didn't take many minutes before I kicked my overeager stallion into
full gallop. I was thrown up and slammed down, up and down, until I slowly
tipped sideways towards the point of no return. When I pulled the bridle
the horse slowed down to a fast trot, which only made it worse. Finally
it came to a halt so I could straghten up again. Puh, this would be a
After following a canyon for a kilometer or so we climbed up onto the
open pampa. As far as we could see in every direction we were alone. No
roads, houses or power lines disturbed the fantastic rolling hills coloured
yellow and golden from the sunshine. Bente had started rather slow because
her horse just didn't have the energy or was too tired to do anything,
but after an hour it woke up and both of us were galloping from time to
time. I was getting the hang of it I thought, which probably only meant
that if you had seen me you would have laughed out loud but not died from
Luis, a proper Argentinean gaucho.
Luis seemed to belong in his saddle, and he told us he had worked as
a gaucho his whole life. In the winter he was the only one living on the
farm, caring for the cattle and the horses and maintaining the property.
He was living alone and enjoyed it, he said. When he stood next to the
horse and rolled a cigarette from tobacco he fished out from a leather
pouch, his beret at an angle and his knees far from each other, the image
of the gaucho was fullfilled.
After two hours we entered the canyon that would lead us up to the caves.
We had been warned that the descent was so steep we had to dismount and
walk the horses down. But we felt in control by now, and Luis just shook
his shoulders and told us to ride down if we wanted to. It was a fun ride.
The horses were sliding a little, but with four legs they are more stable
than one can imagine. If I let the horse decide his own route and avoided
the temptation to lean toward the canyon wall, he was in total control.
Bente smiled after a while as well, and soon we were by a river. We crossed
the river numerous times and then arrived at the cave.
The Cueva de las Manos is a cave full of hand prints. The oldest prints
have been dated ten thousand years back, and they look like someone has
put his hand on the rocky wall and used a spray can over it. The spray
can of those days was the mouth and a straw. The hundreds or thousands
of hand prints were probably a homeage to the gods. Every visitor left
his print on what the experts believe was a sacred place. Also guanacos
and other animals were painted on the walls.
We stayed an hour before starting the return trip. This time we galloped
a lot more, and as we got closer it felt like my intestines would come
out my mouth. Bente's back was on it's way up through her neck, while
Luis looked like he was in his armchair watching his favorite tv-show.
It wasn't the galloping that tired me out, but the trotting. I tried to
listen to Bente's advise and ride "english", ie sit down in
every second trot, but never found the rythm of the beast. But when we
galloped I could stand up and enjoy. It was fantastic to race across the
pampa in the low sun, feeling in control of this incredible animal. Bente
was one big smile. We arrived in the late afternoon, thanked Luis and
pretended to be only slightly tired. The picture of the cowboy came to
mind when I looked down and saw the distance between my hurting knees.
I was turning bow-legged.
While sitting by the fire and enjoying a well deserved beer we saw the
owner outside with a freshly slaughtered sheep, and soon he had made us
a few steaks we barbequed over the fire. He fished up a bottle of wine
to go with it. I felt like the last cave man as I tore off pieces of meat
with my teeth, eating dry bread at the side. When we went to bed the temperature
had sunken drastically, and soon it was below zero outside. We slept with
all our clothes on but froze even so. Minus three degrees was way lower
than we were equipped for, but by the time we left the next day the sun
was back and had warmed us up again.
We did the last seventy kilometer to the village of Perito Moreno and
then turned east. This was the road we took when we entered Argentina
and after a few hours we were back at the Atlantic coast. We said goodbye
to Patagonia and headed north.
Now we're in Comodoro Rivadavia, an oil town on the Atlantic coast. We
will head towards the Valdez Peninsula tomorrow to search out penguins
and whales, then slowly and randomly continue north. We might go to Iguazu
Falls and maybe even the southern corner of Brazil and Uruguay before
we cross the ocean towards home. Europe and Norway isn't too far away
now, but not quite yet, please.
Herdling sheep on horse back is a
common sight around Torres del Paine.
The Perito Moreno glacier
Colorful hand art from thousands
of years ago in Cueva de las Manos, north east of Bajo Caracoles on
The gravel tracks of the Ruta 40.
Born to ride. Luis the real gaucho
in the background.
The distances as the crow flies from
Ushuaia to the rest of the world.