High Plains Drifter

Home Humour Essays Travel Images

"My girlfriend's bike." A name that didn't seem to fully encompass the raw natural beauty of the thundering waterfall across the ravine.

We had, we discovered in a dictionary session later, been mixing our pidgin Spanish and pidgin French. El velo de la novia meant 'veil of the bride', and was not in any way cycling related. This, coupled with the fact that our bikes were lovingly stuffed away in the bodega of a crumbling hostel 300km away, and our current mode of transport was the locally favoured 2.4 litre pickup truck, marked this out as a low adventure, low culture moment. Drive to waterfall in cloud of red dust, kick about a bit, show ignorance of native lingo, leave to find well-appointed hostel with well-stocked bar. These are not the activities that adventure travel writers fill their inspirational journals with, but I'm including this small snapshot so you can put away that image of sinewy, focused super-beings, man and machine in perfect harmony. That's not us. This is the tale of two men who didn't cycle the length of Chile.

Starting to go downhill
The length of Chile. That was the original plan, much discussed on long wintry nights poring over strange, exciting maps laid on kitchen tables. And the further the talking went the shorter the biking became. After one particular planning session with Juan Manuel, our Chilean contact, during which his frantic circling in pencil of all the must-see sights obliterated a fair proportion of the mapped area of the country, a new agenda was decided upon: go to Chile, cycle about a bit, have some fun, don't rush.

Our first taste of 'fun' was getting off the bus at Chucuyo, Chile's most northerly border post with Bolivia. Breathless at 4600m, we stumbled amongst the rundown, squat shacks, the altitude making our legs feel as if someone had turned the gravity dial up to 11. After a freezing, sleepless night in the back room of the shack that passed for the restaurant, with heads pouding like those machines they use to pack tarmac, we set off on our first real day of cycling under the gaze of curious camelids and 6000m volcanos. As jetstream winds slowed our progress to a painful crawl, we were re-evaluating the merits of starting really high to get some free downhill time. But the last hour of sunny, sandy switchback into Putre restored our faith in our plan. And the next day the road dropped in style through the strangle biblical scenery of the high Atacama, sweeping along arid valley floors under the gaze of giant, weathered cacti and jagged, dusty peaks. It was a case of sit back, freewheel (up to 20km at a time) and enjoy the view, the best of it coming on the last downhill stretch which dropped breathtakingly down a huge sandy outcrop through a series of hairpins to the valley floor, unnaturally green against the arid hills.

The wilderness weeks
Deserts, majestic though they may be, are boring to bike through. When you're trundling past sand at 14kph for seven hours a day it's not long before you're wishing it would stop. We even discussed the purchase of a length of butcher's grass to lay outside our tent every night, just so there'd be something green to look at. And this was no flat desert -- the Atacama, reputedly the driest place on the planet, is bisected by some extraordinarily large ravines cut by rivers so feeble they dry up before they even reach the sea. Great going down, but a steady gradient up the side of a gorge, under the cruel desert sun... had it not been for the man in the hut at the roadworks inexplicably selling ice lollies, we might not have made it. Three hours later at the top, cowering in the minimal shade of a rocky outcrop, we both agreed: "That's less fun than being at work."

Significantly more fun that being at work, however, was the 27km freewheel into the next gorge, a kilometre deep. After assuring the man at the fruit checkpoint that we were fruit-free, we camped and cooked up a feast, debating whether our red pepper was contraband. At dawn we turned our chins to the wind, saddled up and rode off. To the checkpoint.Where we flagged down a bus to take us the next 150km. That day we learnt that two hours on a luxury coach cost about the same as our chocolate ration for a morning, and came with complimentary tea and cheese sandwich. And that the driver doesn't give you that semi-incredulous, amused look you get in blighty when you turn up with wheels, he just bungs it in the hold and off you go. Our penance for our cheating was a six hour, 80km slog against the incessant coastal winds to Iquique, a curious wild west town with huge balconied wooden houses from the days when Chile nicked Bolivia's coastline and got rich on nitrate mining -- with the help of the English, of course. From there it was either back up the 500m cliffs (not discussed), or along the coast road which purported to offer (And I quote) "fantastic views of the rugged coastline and tiny fishing communities". Rugged it may well have been, but that's not high praise in itself. Quarries are rugged, and you could have pretty much replicated our next three days by sitting in one on an exercise bike with a postcard of Felixstowe glued to one side of your head. And a fan blowing in your face. On full.

I think I'll pass
Guide books are often culpable in this way, because they're obviously not written by cyclists. Whereas they would (and did) say "it's 96km from Calama to San Pedro de Atacama," my entry would be more like "it's 96 km to San Pedro. The first 60km are a hellish grind in the barren desert, not steep but constantly uphill, a 1200m climb. Even after the paso Barros Arrana at 3350m the road keeps going up for another 2km. Under no circumstances attempt by bike." It was worth the six hours of pain though, for two reasons. First, we conquered a pass significant enough to have a name, which would give us something to brag about without the need to scale any of the terrifying 4500m+ killers over into Argentina. Secondly, we experienced the finest tarmac downhill anywhere in Chile, 20km of steep drops and wide fast bends, and speeds in excess of 85kph. Now that's fun. Almost as much fun as the week-long, high octane Bolivian Jeep adventure we rewarded ourselves with, before returning to sip complimentary sweet coffee while the next 400km of parched Atacaman plain slipped by the coach window at a steady 95kph, bringing us ever closer to Antofagasta, Independence Day and the promise of unadulterated merriment. It was, it turned out, an empty promise. Independence day in Mejillones, where we wound up, was about as much of a party as a Tuesday night in Oswestry. "Oh, we have our own festival day in October," explained the locals. "It's not such a big thing for us." Just our luck.

One more bus ride, two days' riding and 2000m of climbing brought us to Copiapó, the magical point where the desert officially became 'semi desert'. Enjoy the desierto florido, said our two-man roadie escort as they paced us for the last 25km into town. And don't worry, the road to Vallenar is pretty flat. We'd been caught out here before, as people who drive around in mountainous countries tend to have a different concept of 'flat' to our own. But this was cyclists talking, and cyclists know what flat means. And the transition to semi desert could not have been more pronounced: the desert plants, which flower only once every few years, were in full and spectacular bloom after a particularly wet winter. Our longest day, at 155km, was a tailwind-assisted romp through incredible carpets of colour, a fitting farewell to the Atacama and welcome to the Mediterranean climate of central Chile.

Let's off-road
Northern Chile, with its huge swathes of rainless, uninhabited desert, doesn't require that you leave the tarmac to get that wilderness feeling, unless you want a wilderness feeling that includes imminent danger of dehydration and death. Middle Chile has more of everything -- people, towns, roads -- but it's still possible to cycle for a whole day and see only a handful of cars. Our off-road adventures started in earnest in the Elqui valley, famous for two reasons. Firstly, it boasts some of the clearest skies on the planet, and is home to several huge telescopes, and one little one up at the municipal observatory that you can actually get to look through without an astrophysics PhD. Secondly, and more importantly, it's the home of Pisco, the national liquor, and naturally we deemed it necessary to pay our respects in full.

It was easier to lose the crowds than the hangovers. Most road traffic going from one valley to the next simply buzzes back down to the coast, along and back up again. Chile is so narrow that there's no great benefit in paving the sinuous passes that run through the horizontal ranges, and these tracks are a cycle tourist's dream. Best of all was Vicuña to Hurtado, 70km of blue skies, cactus fields and tortuous rocky hairpins, with 1500m of climbing thrown in to keep things interesting. Down in the next valley things took a turn for the worse when we found that the road was being 'improved'. The unfinished work had improved it to the point where it resembled a shingle beach.

Our good spirits were resurrected early the next morning, though, on meeting the dinosaur sculptors in Pichasca national park. Later in Ovalle, with the expert and animated help of the friendly local cyclists who ran the internet cafe, we plotted our route through sleepy valley towns, over dusty passes and through spooky tunnels to La Ligua where we aimed to bus into Santiago, buy ice creams, hire a vehicle with an engine and take a long, petrol-fuelled tour of the central valley and the beaches. All went to plan, with the exception of a pair of bulls who took exception to our campsite one evening. Two hours of night time navigating on washboard roads later, we finally hit the main route, only to be defeated by another tunnel, this one much too frightening to ride through, especially at night. When day broke we hitched through on a lorry, rode to the bus stop and finally on arrival in Santiago we completed the first half of our sub-epic journey with our most blatant bit of cheating so far; a bus ride up to the top of the 2885m Paso Los Libertadores so that we could buzz back down the 28 hairpins to the town of Los Andes. Highly recommended.

And then some more
After nearly three weeks of truck-driving, pie-eating, waterfall-name-misunderstanding breaktime fun, our second leg opened with a train ride to Temuco, nimbly skipping another 700km in the process. On arrival the first task was to re-assemble our steeds, which we'd had to practically take hacksaws to in order to squeeze them into the carriage. Then it was time to start clocking up the kilometres again, and 86 smooth, flat, sunny ones later we arrived in Villarica in the shadow of its namesake volcano. We retired to a hostel to cook unhealthy amounts of salmon, tortilla and apple crumble with various other assembled gringos (crumble was, of course, the English offering), and still a bit bloated the next day we just managed the 25km to Pucón with Brian and Emily, our new American riding partners. We wished them happily on their way up the 1200m pass to Argentina while we scanned the high street for cake shops. Sadly, in the three days we stayed, the weather didn't break to allow us to scale the volcano and gaze into its still active crater, and, disappointed, we headed off to the lakes.

Lakes, due to gravity, are flat. However, roads along the sides of lakes, due to the whims of engineers, need be no such thing. The journey from Panguipulli to Neltume was a rain-soaked rollercoaster ride, on surfaces of bike-devouring volcanic grit, which in the wet turns into a sort of component exfoliator. Thankfully the downpour held off for the 30 minutes we spent riding the next morning, to the ferry across Lago Pirehueico. And luck was on our side when we asked for directions too:

"Where's the ferry?"

(Points to lake) "Over there." (Points to basket) "Want some pies?"

After pie-munching and passport formalities we left the lake at an altitude of 650m and climbed steadily to the pass into Argentina at an altitude of, oh, 650m. Whilst cringing in a corner as showers swept through we placed bets on how many people would give us a hard time about the Falklands in the four or five days we were likely to stay. And right enough the very first person we spoke to in Argentina managed to call us "the Hitlers of the Malvinas" whilst charging us over a quid for a can of coke. It turned out, though, that he was the only one. And I lost the bet. On arrival at the Swiss-cottage-twee town of San Martin de los Andes we ran straight into Brian and Emily again, who'd been delayed by the abundance of ice cream parlours. The four of us set out together the next day, legs heavy from too much pizza, up the 20km climb into the beautiful Seven Lakes region. The scenery was breathtaking, and as the tarmac ran out it all felt very windswept and wild-frontierlike. We amused ourselves along the way by teaching Emily the most important British-English words: trousers, oodles, shopping trolley, tracksuit bottoms, pavement, trainers...

Getting back to Chile meant a 16km climb up above the snowline to paso Puyehue, a steady grind punctuated only by gravel punctuating my leg as I wiped out on the only downhill bit. Tarmac service was resumed at the border, and down we flew past giant rhubarb and roadkill tarantulas, finishing the day at the literally named Aguas Calientes and its very welcome thermal spring. Our luck began to run out the next day: Sam's front pannier rack gave up the ghost at the bottom of a 10km dead end we'd taken by mistake. We tried to get it fixed at the mechanic back in town but everyone was at a funeral. We toasted our bad luck with plenty of Pisco that night, and it continued, this time in the form of rain. By the time we'd got to Frutillar, within 50km of Puerto Montt, the choice between an 80p bus ride and three hours of soggy, dreary main road was not a hard one to make. Happy times followed: The weather cleared, and an elderly mechanic made us a whole new set of front pannier racks from car body panels and steel wire for a fiver, equipping us for our final leg to Coyhaique.

Go south, young man
A strange night in a ferry passenger lounge resembling a Seventies youth club took us to the uninspiring port of Chaitén. after considering the purchase of talking watches, magic trees and angle grinder blades in the randomly-stocked shops we finally exhausted the possibilities of entertainment and headed off down the Carretera Austral, General Augusto Pinochet's legacy to the south. Before the Austral was built the only way to many towns in the far south of Chile was through Argentina and the road, it seems, exists as much to prove that Coyhaique and Villa O'Higgins are part of Chile as for what traffic there is to trundle along it. Most of the towns along its route have only existed these last 20 years, though quite what incentive was given to rational people to move to the back end of beyond is anyone's guess.

We set off and managed a hearty 24km before we were enticed by the promise of the very hot thermal waters of Amarillo, and we sat around and got lobster pink in the hotter of the two pools (a choice of too hot or not quite hot enough) until it was time to camp. To make up for our slovenliness we spent a cathartic afternoon in the rain the next day, trudging up and down assorted hills to Villa Santa Lucia. 70 flat kilometres along the ripio the next day brought us to La Junta, and our party now numbered six: we had picked up Ellen and Amaury, who both reinforced our theory that all Belgians speak embarrassingly perfect English, and reinforced our wine and Pisco stocks to the point where drinking it all in one night would be dangerous. We drank it all.

The rain revisited us the next day, and made the 40km to Puyuhuapi through the start of the Queluat national park a soggy, if beautiful, affair. But the morning broke fine, and we stomped off along the edge of the fjord up to ventisquero colgante, the hanging glacier, to gaze in awe as house sized blocks of ice disintegrated as they tumbled down the 800ft cliffs to the valley floor, filling the air with a deep and ominous thunder-like rumbling. So inspired were we that we flew up the 16 hairpins of the 500m pass through the park, relatively speaking. And what joy was ours when after 24km of our seventh day on the Carretera Austral we reacquainted ourselves with tarmac, with the end of the adventure in sight. It rained, but for the first time that didn't matter, because there'd be no getting up in the morning to ride some more. The road wound up and over big hills, but it just meant that we'd be going downhill to finish. It was with a sunny disposition that we rolled into cloudy Coyhaique. We felt decidedly less jolly when we found that our hostel, run by Santi and Chus, who we'd met in Bolivia, was up the steepest, bumpiest hill we'd seen in our entire trip. It was only 200 metres, but after 3610km it took all my remaining energy to winch my bruised and battered bike and body up to the front door to collapse in a heap on the porch. The end of the road.