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Crossing Tierra del Fuego

By Chris Thompson - 2008-12-25

We left the border station after midnight, crossing into the 14 kilometers between Chile and Argentina. The border guards seemed nonplussed at the four bikers getting their passports stamped in the middle of the night, dressed in neon colored jackets, wearing headlamps and bicycle helmets. Just another day in the life of an Argentinian border guard. Only 14 kilometers seperated us from Chile, but the night seemed to drag on forever. First the roads, fifty meters after leaving the border station of San Sebastian, the wonderful paved roads ended, dumping us into a sliding mix of golf ball sized rocks and deep sand. Our friend Angelo told us that these roads were fixed, not ripio! With only the pale white beam of our headlamps to guide us, every moment required total concentration just to keep from wipping out. We were all starting to doubt the wisdom of trying to beat the wind by traveling at night. It had worked so well coming from Rio Grande to San Sebastian. Just as we thought things couldn’t get worse, the trucks came. A seemingly endless line of great rumbling, clanking, earth shaking, dust raising death machines grinding past us in the night. Wonderful. With every truck that comes around the corner, the four of us come to a sliding, gravely halt, pulling off the road to let the metal beasts past.

After five kilometers, I’m sure we’ll never get to Porvenir. "Maybe we can get a ride?" someone says. It seems so tempting and easy, after all, it’s only a few hours drive. We take a break by the side of the road, huddled around a bag of peanuts on the ground in front of us. It’s the last of the food we need to finish before entering Chile. No meats, fruits, vegetables, plants, milk, and honey, definetly no honey. All we have for the next three days is dried pasta, polenta, a few sauce packets, and bags of cookies. We were told that there was places to buy food in San Sebastian. It turns out there was just a little store who let us raid their pantry for some food. The prices were outragsous of course, but hey, what are we going to do? "Do you think we have enough food to make it across?" "Not if these roads don’t get better".

We keep pushing, and eventually the lights of the Chilean border crossing are below us, like a small island of light in the sea of darkness surrounding us. We pull into the station, and file inside, eager for some paperwork, and even more eager for some heat. By the way, if your ever planning on being outside in Tierra del Fuego at night, dress warm, it gets cold. Really cold. A few degrees above freezing cold. It seems the main intrest of the Chilean food official is stopping the flow of honey accross the border. The man who stamps our passports seems to be watching a movie on his computer while he processes us. I think we are asked about a hundred times, before and during the search of our bags, about honey. No honey. We’re good, and we’re off.

By now, there’s a faint blue glow on the eastern horizon. The horrible roads have turned into hard packed earth roads that we can fly over. It’s almost as good, or maybe even better than the paved ‘Ruta Nacional Tres’ that we road up from Ushuaia on. We’re in ‘el campo’ or the country now! We pass ranches, or estancias, and endless fields stretching off into infinity. As it gets lighter out, it seems to get colder, and soon we find ourselves huddled in a small hut next to a corrall. Some bunk beds, and little stove, and table, if there were two more bunks this would be allright for some bicycle guys I know…for now, it will have to serve the gauchos, or cowboys, who must use these shacks when they’re out working the range.

As the dawn slowly breaks over the plains of southern Chile around me, I’m treated to a spectacular sight. The rolling grassy plains stretching out around us, and the grey dusty road stretching out before me. There isn’t a lot to see, but it’s beautiful in it’s harsh barreness. It reminds me of the vastness of North Dakota, mixed with Kansas. Maybe thats what Oklahoma is like, but I’ve never been there, so I won’t hazard a guess. The sun warms us up, and cheers us up. The slowly breaking dawn, and the big sky above us spur us on.

Of course, when your on a bicycle, the one thing you need to learn is patience. As we’re thinking about the miraculous tailwind we have, and how many kilometers we’re going to put behind us, Dan’s rear wheel looses three spokes. Three hours later, as horses prance across the road from us, we’re still trying to true the tire. It’s nearly 11 in the morning, and we’ve been up since 7:00 the night before, and covered 10 more kilometers than our goal for the day. We decide that it’s time for sleep. As we begin to setup camp, the wind shifts 180 degrees, and begins to build, blowing from the west. The gentle winds from the east are gone. We all fall into a deep sleep, waking up occasionally to cheerfully take note of the intensity of the wind and rain, dry and warm in our tents. We planned to get up at 11PM and set out, usually the winds die down at night. Not this night. The storm keeps up until the early morning, and we sleep until 7:00AM. Rejuvinated with sleep, we set out again.

The next day, we find ourselves beset by wind and rain again. Our pace slows to a misrable 10 km/hr, as the hard packed dirt turns to mud, and the rain stings our faces like needles. We can’t go on, the ratio of energy output to distance covered is almost wastefull. Disheartened, we spot a rusting collection of tin sheds. They are houses for the fishermen who fish off this coast during their fishing seasons. Taking shelter in one of the more open and unlocked huts, we marvel at the spartan conditions that these men live in. However squalid and dirty they might look, they sure beat freezing in the rain, so we decide to hunker down and try and wait out the storm. The more we explore the little village, the more we’re amazed by the who must live here. It’s like stepping back in time, except for the direct TV satalite dish on the roof of that hut over there, the one with the plastic walls…

The storm continues to build, and we arre wet and cold, so we decide to take shelter in the hut for the night. We lay a tarp down over the dirt floor, and proceed to stuff ourselves like sardines into the shed. At first, I can’t help of thinking of all the mice, rats, and strange South American diseases that no doubt lurk within the rusting shed. One look at Wallace snug within his sleeping bag dispells all my fears, and in a few minutes, the four of us are huddled together in our damp bags, talking about the precise foods we plan on devouring when we reach the fabled city of Porvinir. The night passes and the shed resists the super nightmare winds one more night.

The last day is our final push towards Porvinir, and some respite from the westerly winds. We cook a simple breakfast of polenta and sugar, and set out into the wind once more. We’re almost out of water, so we stop at one of the ranches, or estancias, that dot the country side. Their colorful entranceways and buildings stand in sharp contrast to the bleak and windswept country side. We’re greeted with smiles and waters from the Gauchos at the ranch. The father tells us about sheep shearing, "Siempre mucho", there’s always work to be done, while his son, maybe our age, goes into the house with our small army of water bottles and brings us back several armfulls of life sustaining water. The ranchers son is wearing a jaunty hat, almost like a wool beret, and a pair of dusty, worn cowboy boots. They live in an entirely different world than us it seems, but they have the same smiles, and they give us water without a second thought. We need it. We wave goodbye, and they get back to work. The water is brown and cloudy with sedement, but it’s cool and refreshing.

Our last day is long and gruelling, but we know if we’ve come this far, we can get to Porvinir by the night. As the mountains press up against the coast, the gently rolling hills of the last two days are replaced by gruelling climbs up and down the sides of cliffs along the water. By the time we reach the last hill overlooking Bahai Porvinir and the fabled town, we are exhausted, but triumphant. Our first major challenge of the trip is behind us. Four days, and 150 kilometeres later, we’ve crossed Tierra del Fuego. Now, we’re waiting for the ferry to Punta Arenas that leaves in a few days. We met some friends at Club Croata, a resteraunt in Porvinir. They’re letting us sleep in an outbuilding behind the restaraunt that looks like it serves as the kitchen. We’re really living it up here!