At the Los Libertadores International Pass, at the top of the mountain, we checked-out of Argentina and entered Chile. Behind the immigration kiosks, young Customs ladies in hi-vis jackets, and a dog, wandered from vehicle to vehicle opening trunks and boxes. Chile is picky about protecting its agriculture from foreign contaminants but being fruit, nut and honey-free, we were released out into the snow. It was 4:15 PM and the sky was already turning an ominous grey. After leaving the border buildings, a steep descent begins and the road follows a long series of switchbacks to the bottom of the mountain. It was hard to believe but this was the main route between Mendoza in Argentina, and Santiago. There were more trucks than cars and with no guardrails it was slow going, but who’s going to rush with that kind of view below? We were just glad we’d got out while the daylight held.
Santiago turned out to be a nice social stop and a harbinger for our entire stay. We met with the son of one old friend, the daughter of another, and a colleague I’d met so long ago that he somewhere along the way, had morphed into a friend too. Before leaving town we managed to get our annual Covid and Flu vaccinations, spending a pleasant hour with babies and toddlers, all waiting in a happy state of ignorance, for their childhood inoculations. The drive south from the city wasn’t overly inspiring but we had nice stops in Talca and Los Angeles. The dry, dusty mountains got greener with every mile and in Villarrica we stopped to visit the father of yet another good pal back in California. We were given the cabin at the bottom of their garden and woke-up each morning to the snow-covered, and very much active, Villarrica volcano. Sitting outside that first evening, the warm air declared a jubilant arrival of summer. The blue skies and warm weather continued in Puerto Varas which sat on the shores of Lake Llanquihue. The city was pristine and dazzling with its German-style buildings and the snow-capped volcanoes Osorno, Calbuco and Tronador. Behind the touristy lakefront restaurants, we found local diners with friendly faces and cheap “Plates of the Day” consisting of meat stews with beans and floating corn-on-the-cobs. And not a chicken claw in sight. Thank God for the First World.
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We’d reached Patagonia but on the first day of our foray into the deep south, the weather changed. On a busy street in dreary Puerto Montt, a not-so-very-large sign announced the starting point of the Carretera Austral, or Chile’s Route 7. This road began as almost completely unpaved and even now it was far from being finished. For over 1,200km it meanders south, a mixture of asphalt, dirt and gravel, to the small town of Villa O’Higgins, named after Chilean independence leader, Bernardo O’Higgins. (Coming from Ireland, this was a name we thoroughly enjoyed seeing on street signs and statues all over South America. Local Boy Makes Good, we enthused.) But I digress. A large part of this road is ferry services, because unlike Jesus, the Southern Highway cannot walk on water. From here on down, this is a land of dense forests, steep mountains, fjords, glaciers and countless islands, all within a very narrow space, and becomes even more rugged and fractured after Coyhaique. In the old days, you had to cross into Argentina first, and then back into Chile later, to get further south. The only other options were to travel by sea or air but the weather down there was, and remains, unpredictable and extreme.
South of Puerto Montt, we caught our first ferry. We loaded first with a Colombian couple also on a motorcycle. It was raining and the scenery wasn’t looking its best but we were excited anyway. Little ferries do that to you. After 40 minutes we offloaded and we continued on our way. Stopping to fuel outside Hornopirén, we met Needham, a Texan travelling with everything but the kitchen sink; it was a challenge to find his bike under it all. Two solo riders who’d hooked-up temporarily, from Colorado and England respectively, arrived shortly after. We bumped into each other later and got better acquainted over several beers. This was the first time we’d spent more than ten minutes with fellow motorcyclists and it was great. The next morning Fran and I were down at the small port at the crack of dawn. It was just us and two beat-up old pick-ups. The three boys arrived much later and there was a fizzle of childish excitement and anticipation in the air.
The crossing brought us through 110km of narrow channel between the mainland and the islands, navigating south between fjords, snow-capped mountains and flat calm waters. Families inside occupied themselves with the ceremony of making and drinking Maté, while those outside had for once put away their phones in favour of a view that, for a short time at least, made one at peace with the world. After five hours we disembarked and drove about 12km to the next boat. More green fjords, and so many trees, not a bare patch to be seen on the hillsides. After 45 minutes we docked at Caleta Gonzalo, at the end of a small landing ramp. Even though the few motorcycles on board were waiting at the exit doors, the trucks came off first. With gears grinding, they climbed the short hill and disappeared round the corner. After the last truck, we were allowed off. It was a bit of a shock. A dirt and gravel road met us, not small gravel but smooth, round river stones, and bordered by high ferns and trees, creating a dark green corridor. We were in the Pumalín Douglas Tompkins national park, named after its founder “Mr. North Face”. The other bikers, experts in this kind of driving (standing tall on the foot rests) forged ahead, while we began the slow, slippery slide over the uneven surface. The air was filled with the silver-grey powder kicked-up from the trucks and it blocked out the sky. It’s Miss Havisham’s wedding breakfast, I thought, because every leaf, branch and vine was shrouded in dust, like the lace cobwebs of that jilted bride’s hopes and dreams.
As the afternoon moved wearily into early evening, sunbeams slanted their way through gaps in the trees but the dust merged with their rays, muting their brilliance so it remained impossible to see more than a few meters ahead. The potholes and ditches were filled with stones that parted like the Red Sea under our weight. We fell off of course, it was inevitable, driven into a ditch while trying to pass a truck which turned out to have a double trailer. Fran’s leg and ankle were caught under Bolívar but both were undamaged once they got upright again, with the help of the occupants of a pick-up truck coming up behind.
It was the longest 57km. Eventually it did end and we reached Chaitén only to find the road to our cabana was not a road at all, but a wide lane of river rock. Three times Fran attempted it and got no further than a quarter of the way up. He fell off again during the second try. What a day. I finally found the owner at the top of the hill, hidden in a copse of trees, and told him we couldn’t get up his driveway. “It’s not my driveway” he said, “that’s a public road”. We had to cancel our reservation. There are few hotels down this end of Chile but everywhere there are cabanas for rent. After finding one in town, across from the Gulf of Corcovado, we relaxed for the first time since arriving in Gonzalo. The evenings were long at this time of year and the sun was still shining by the time we went in search of dinner. Finding Needham, Fin and Mark, wisdom came with hindsight and more than a few beers, and we all agreed that the last leg of our journey could have been much less dangerous if only the ferry crew had let the bikers off first.
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The weather was becoming very fickle; the waters beyond the saltmarsh turned grey and the horizon disappeared. Though this was the beginning of summer, Chile’s south is one of the rainiest regions in the world. Leaving Fin behind, we four continued south. It was a gloomy morning with a heavy mist. The road was often dwarfed by high, dense vegetation and heavy clouds reduced the mountains to half their normal height. But the monotony was broken when the trees opened up to reveal a river, a waterfall or a lake. We reached Puyuhuapi, a village with a harbor on a fjord. Not that we saw much of it. In a small hotel Fran and I were quoted a decent rate for a “Matrimonial” room only to find out later the price was double because we were two people. Sheesh! The rooms had no heat, and the salmon pink bath’s water was no more than lukewarm. However, downstairs was a large black stove where the four of us huddled for hours in a semi-circle around the small window of flickering orange flames, thanking God for small favours.
We gave up waiting for dry weather. The boys were getting comfortable but the minute the rain eased, I announced we were leaving. I refused to spend another night in a cold room that cost the same as a one -bedroom apartment 1,000km further north. Fran and I prefer to ride alone at our own pace so arranged to meet the others further down the road. Not far out of town, the highway turned to dirt. I assumed it was roadworks. We left the channel behind and headed into the mountains but the asphalt didn’t return. This was worse than the road to Chaitén, this surface was nearly all large stones that separated when driven on, and it was switchbacks all the way up. We met hardly any other vehicles, which was both good and bad. It was very lonely. I seriously wondered if we should turn back (I’ve no idea what Fran was thinking, probably wondering if we’d make the next bend). But there was the possibility that there was less of this misery ahead than what we’d already left behind, so we stuck at it, zig-zagging our way up in slow motion. Most of the time was spent in first gear and Fran explained later that with two-up and our bags, we’d had just enough power to get out of the potholes and over the next hill, but with not even a grunt to spare.
Coyhaique is the largest city along the highway but it felt more like a medium-sized town. Similar to all other settlements in Chile’s south, its rustic, wooden buildings had an air of the Last Frontier. A cold Wild West, but with one difference. Instead of feed stores and saloons, there were North Face, Patagonia (as in clothing, not the place we were in), J Crew and Timberland stores, and multiple ferry booking offices. The restaurants were expensive but on the plus side, the tourist season hadn’t quite begun so the streets were empty. But it rained, and it rained. Then came two days where the sun shone, then back to a forecast of wet for the next ten days. We’d planned to drive to the end of the paved section of the Austral Highway, somewhere near Puerto Río Tranquilo, which was 200km and five hours south (if you’re not on a Bolívar). Beyond that it was another 340km to O’Higgins and quite literally, the end of the road. But even though the drive to Río Tranquilo is considered “paved”, it still had long sections of gravel, and a high pass which Needham, now gone on ahead, had reported had snow at the summit. We checked the forecast again: another ten days of rain. Coyhaique was not at all pretty, we didn’t need another $12.00 plate of pasta (sauce extra), and for us Patagonia was a place, not a fleece-lined jacket. The mountains had disappeared again in a cloud of ……..well, cloud, and it was beginning to be not fun anymore. With its jagged coastline and rough terrain, I imagine there are many places where Chile can end, all dependent on the endurance levels of those who find themselves down there. After much deliberation we made the decision, our south would end here, and with it came a certain relief. So, we turned around, and for the first time in over 4,300km, found ourselves once again facing north.
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