Chapter 4 Dale dale Argentina
Día 21-23: The best 3-day route in South America? (192km)
This post retells our journey from San Carlos de Bariloche to San Martín de los Andes. 192km over 3 days.
Día 21 Seven Sumptuous Lakes (1/8)
5 hours, 85km, 840m elevation (GPX)
A veces el fin de un camino es el inicio de uno nuevo
Sometimes the end of one journey is the beginning of another
Bariloche is a Swiss influenced skiing town, famous for its chocolate and its powdered slopes. It’s situated on Lake Nahuel Huapi, and marks the start of the Seven Lakes tour, one of the headline acts of our months-long pedal festival.
We spent un día tranquilo there. Our 2nd rest day in succession after a bus trip over the mountains from Chile. It’s important to rest. Partially because it was a rare chance to delve back into civilisation, and partially because cycling in that forecast would have left us wetter than a a pair of otters who’d thought it wise to dam up near Boscastle in mid-2004.
I’m not sure what the town did to deserve such punishment, but the streets became rivers as the sky was emptied of all its liquid. We sat around, read, wrote, drank coffee, discovered you can order empanadas by the dozen, and stared out of splattered windows. Reveling in our comfort.
I got my hair cut into the hint of a mullet to rival Jake’s ‘Grealish’, and added an earring to my vacant lobe.
You can’t stop me.
The ability to see loved ones so easily puts a pin in any homesickness. I video call my sister. It’s so good to see her face.
But she doesn’t rate the mullet.
A day later and the skies have cleared. The sun has risen. The day is set. We’re ready for those lakes.
We slide down to town and witness an early calamity when a car snaps the wing mirror off another as it races past us. Fortunately we aren’t blamed in the aftermath (the two drivers go at each other instead), but it does set the tone for the day.
The first 15k we fly. The freshest converts to the Double Rest Day Sect. But the reason for our barnstorming pace quickly becomes apparent when we hit Dina Huapi and turn north west. The infamous Patagonian winds batter us silly. The kms tick over painfully slowly on a highway that seems to attract bad Argentinian drivers like mozzies to a head-torch.
Perhaps they’re still watching World Cup highlights beneath their steering wheels. Their overtaking is messi to say the least. (I’m sorry).
One consequence of this terrible driving is that I’m now quite good at swearing in Spanish. Luckily the winds whip away my slander before I need to explain myself.
Not for the first time, I’m overawed by what we are witnessing. The curves cut into mountains around the lakeside make my eyes water. It must be the wind.
What a journey. And how unbelieveably lucky we are to live it.
Read on for Día 22/23 >
Día 22 Ski-slope touring
3 hours, 50km, 780m elevation (GPX)
A series of Alpine ski towns line our route; after Bariloche comes Villa La Angostura.
“I love to watch it from behind the windows, it’s genuinely beautiful from inside,”
says Claudia wistfully, the owner of De Luz y de fuego (From fire and light), a varnished wooden dream of a coffee shop were we sip banana milkshakes from handcrafted ceramic mugs. Her cafe’s aubergine baguette is one of the more unique meals we’ve tasted. Chile wasn’t exactly inventive when it came to vegetarian food.
“But then you have to go out in it, and I’m less keen. It makes it harder to get to work, and although they clear it quickly, it’s just so cold.
It’s way too cold to camp, even now!”
We beg to differ.
The Nahuel Huapi Park was created in 1943 and its principal lake is equivalent in size to the city of Buenos Aires (the Argentine capital of 3 million people).
It’s coasts stretch 357km and it reaches 64 metres at its deepest point (incidentally this is identical in height to the biscuit pile we’ve swallowed in the last 3 weeks).
Meanwhile, the roads are becoming steadily more majestic. The views are slightly subdued by fog, but every now and then we get glimpses that suggest great things lie ahead. It all feels very Canadian.
After a relative splurge of 3 straight nights in beds we agree to set up camp in the middle of nowhere tonight. It’s proper snow country now. Luckily we’re nipping through in autumn before winter sets in for good.
The geographical diversity here is obscene, I think, as I go on a slow jog dodging rabbits in the valley basin.
“This valley is beautiful. The snow gets to a metre deep and stays all winter,”
agrees Cristian, a park ranger who has the dream job of any nature-loving introvert: his temporary home nestled into the side of a steep mountain valley beneath Cerro Falkner and Cerro Michinieo.
“I’ve stayed 2 years and my time is done. The maximum you can stay is 4. I’m leaving in May and moving to a new post near San Martín.”
He’s from Mendoza, an arid, dusty land to the North we’ll get to late next month.
“If you need Wifi or anything else, just ask.”
Cristian’s not aware we’ve brought our own entertainment for an internet free night under the peeping stars: 1 x bottle of whiskey, 1 x bottle of coffee liqueur.
The pasta is a valiant support act, but listening to the profound absence of sound is another experience entirely.
At least I think it was, but I did finish that whiskey.
100 hours of cycling (COMPLETE)
20,000m of elevation (COMPLETE)
Read on for Día 23 >
Día 23 Chef’s Kiss
3 hours, 57km, 790m elevation (GPX)
Jake is, by all accounts, a maverick at the chef’s table. He dreams of his own cafe on the Pembrokeshire coast. The waves lap the glimmering shores as glasses chink and homemade delights are served on rustic boards.
He’s an experimentalist at heart, and, like every convincing chef, frequently tastes his broth, and pauses, before launching in spices to divert its course. But his family & friends may not have seen this Blumentinian blossom coming.
He arrived at university fresh from his father’s pasta boiling tutorial. As anyone who’s spent time around him recently knows, these dark days belong to another lifetime.
Today is his chance to demonstrate how far he’s come.
The chef’s table? A wooden bar, wedged lengthways between two stone pillars.
Utensils? A small red penknife.
The meal? Mashed avocado rolls with tomato, basil, pepper, chilli, aioli and, the clincher, salted peanuts.
His fingers dance down the production line, tweaking the final piece, grin plastered across his face; an artist1 until now denied his stage.
The success of this meal, which is consumed atop a glorious mirador (viewpoint), was reflected in the day’s quite frankly, insane beauty.
At dawn, frost had immaculately carpeted our two wheeled warriors, tents and assorted bags. 11am came and went before the sun banished those pirouetting ice dancers from our beleaguered belongings.
A leg warming hustle out of the valley yielded Lago Escondido before two more of the seven lakes, first Villarino and then Falkner burst into view.
I’m not exaggerating when I say I felt physically overwhelmed at that natural beauty. An unseen force pushed me from my bike. We were 40mins into the day and I’d have happily set up camp again.
The aforementioned lunch spot overlooked Lago Machónico. A retired Brazilian commended us on our ‘great courage’ to cycle the continent, and an excitable Argentinian bounded over and declared without irony, ‘I want your lives!’
Sometimes our smiles hit different.
The afternoon brought a steady climb towards Lago Meliquina where one stream becomes two; Arroyo Hermoso hurries off to the Pacific whilst Arroyo Culebra makes haste for the Atlantic.
Then, a descent to remember. If Carlsberg did downhills, they wouldn’t have a clue how to make one this good. TEN miles of yellow ribboned, curvaceous, autumn-blooming, heart-singing splendor. All preceding the final entry into San Martín de Los Andes. If Rivendell wasn’t based on this place then Lord of the Rings missed a trick. It’s jaw dropping.
In a cafe on the shore, savouring the last of the golden rays, our two bikepackers share a meaningful hug. A day to remember.
The Arsenal fan deliberately didn’t look at the score to avoid a downer that would have derailed the seven lakes delight. Now he has a peek.
Half time: Arsenal 3 Chelsea 0. They raise hissing bottles of corona to toast the day, and look out across the bay at yachts rolling gently in the breeze.
Chef’s, salty, fingered, kiss.
For a short film of this MAD 192km route through the Argentinian lake district, click here. For more photos, scroll down.
It is not, however, an unblemished record. On Día 2, our humble maverick served up raw gnocchi with cold water and tomato sauce. Unlike today’s rural banquet, it would be not at all innacurate to say that it tasted utterly woeful.
See you next week!
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