Rio Grande to Wild Horses

Still not feeling rested, we packed up slow. Today wasn’t about distance, it was about finding quiet.

One blessing of staying put was Gracia helping us reroute. Instead of the main coastal road, potential wind hell, we’d take a back road. Less traffic. More trees. Allegedly.

Our final Rio Grande mission was supplies. Once sorted, we decided the supermarket foyer was as good a lunch spot as any, it was sheltered and sunny. Shoppers got a free show as we picnicked on the floor.

Just in case we were getting cocky, the first hour delivered a headwind. A gravel road skirted the outskirts of town before connecting back to seal, and once southbound the wind eased into something more cooperative, still side-on, but I’ll take it.

The landscape reverted to its usual theme: barren and rolling. I got carried away on a downhill and missed our inland turn. My reward? A headwind slog back uphill. Lesson noted. Not learned.

The inland road was gravel, rolly, still bare. Where are these wind-blocking trees you promised, Gracia?

Herds of guanacos watched us pass with confused expressions, bemused witnesses to two humans voluntarily doing this.

Eventually we found scattered trees on a rise off the road. Just enough. We claimed a grassy patch amongst them, brewed hot tea, and exhaled.

No revving cars. No city noise.

Just the wilds doing what they do.

Our grassy patch above the road was blissfully quiet, way better than Rio Grande and better than Puerto Arenas.

Mental note: is a hot shower ever worth a shit sleep?

Sheltered, the sun warmed our waking bodies. The moment we rolled back onto the gravel, the icy wind punched us square in the face.

Another headwind. Not savage, just persistent. Enough to gnaw at my soul!

The prairies softened into rolling downs, scattered with bush. When Gracia said trees, my brain pictured Milford Road, dense beech, ferns stacked thick, sheltering everything.

Reality? Short, stumpy trees, like alpine beech at 1500 metres. These trees liked thier personal space, there were vast gaps between each.

The best wind break came when the road cut through a knoll, granting brief mercy.

I bitch about the wind a lot. It deserves it. It drives me absolutely senseless.

Let’s talk about something cute instead, the foxes.

These cute inquisitive creatures pause, assess us then, I think, ecide we’re not worth their time. They skip away, frolicking, almost. No fear. Just polite disinterest.

Today our final destination isLago Yawen.

A detour led us to an abandoned hotel squatting on the lake edge like an 80s B-grade horror set. Creepy. Sad. But it is a spectacular location.

We explored, finding old picnic tables and fire pits tucked along the shore. We picked a spot with tree cover and water views and claimed it.

A van dweller arrived, then a few cars of families. Friday night picnickers.

We drifted off knowing tomorrow we’d do nothing but be.

“That fucken music.”

That’s what dragged me from the dead. Maree exiting the tent, wild-eyed, bladder and her screaming.

Somewhere nearby, a full-blown doof-doof party had materialised overnight. Music blasting. Yahooing. No mercy. We lay there wondering when they’d run out of steam.

For once, the weather backed us. Around 8am the wind arrived, hard. funneling straight down the lake. Rain followed.

The party exited stage left!

But the wind, with its job done was no longer our reluctant ally, it turned bully again slamming our tent relentlessly.

Maree had had enough. She went wandering and came back skipping, she’d found salvation.

A sheltered glade, tucked inland, surrounded by trees.

We relocated camp in record time. Once sorted, I tested my eyelids. Maree, still delirious, chose to explore.

With a fire pit at hand, toasties were the obvious lunch choice. Fire is always Maree’s love language.

We have a friend here, maybe one, maybe many, a wee fox that patrols camp like security. Circuits. Calm. Watching.

Another group are camping nearby, a family, they're quiet, keep to themselves. Apart from them day visitors drifted in and out.

No doof-doof tonight.

The sun slipped behind the hill and the cold crept in. Sleeping bag time. No arguments here.

It felt apocalyptic when we wok, absolute stillness.

Something rarer than hen’s teeth in Argentina.

No other campers stirring. Just us.

I’ve noticed this, others rise late, well late in my books. I’d be starving to death by then.

We had no urgency, we had pressed holiday mode.

Maree read by the fire while I lay in the tent listening to podcasts.

We wandered the lake edge throughout the day. Sunday BBQers arrived in clusters.

The lake sits in a wide grassy glade dotted with skinny, spindly trees. Across the water, the land lifts into rolling hills, backed by familiar granite giants, snow-capped just like we saw on thebCarratera Austral.

I get why they built a hotel here.

Why it died is another mystery??

Our fox continued its rounds, expanding patrol to include BBQ zones. We spotted it more than once trotting off with a stolen morsel.

By afternoon we were twitchy. Rest complete.

Tomorrow we ride.

I sat at the abandoned hotel, staring at the lake, letting my mind drift. Something felt, unfinished.

The plan had been to continue south, hit the main road eventually, then detour to the coast for a few beachy nights.

We rolled off down the road. Wind blowing. Guanacos stared. Same routine.

At the crest of a small rise, I slammed on the brakes.

“That’s it.”

Maree pulled alongside.

“I need to finish.”

I needed to touch Ushuaia. To reach the end of the Earth.

Then I could relax. Explore. Wander. I’m a finisher, incomplete tasks itch at my soul.

Maree felt the same, she wanted to touch the sign.

New plan: straight to Ushuaia.

140km.

That night we wild camped on the side of this back road, near the main road turn.

Why is Maree talking to herself?

Why does she have a deep man’s voice?

Why does this farmer sound American?

Turns out three American bikepackers had chosen our exact wild camp. What are the odds. Sleep now, I'll chat tomorrow, if theyre still here when we rise.

Night, boys.

I peeked across the road when I rose — tents still zipped. Not the dawn missioners I expected.

Once packed, I wandered over. They were from the US, doing a short mission, Porvenir to Ushuaia. We wandered over to say hi. Chat came easy, they were in no rush, niether were we. We then rolled out leaving them to still breakfast and pack.

Tolhuin towncame quickly. We did our usual supermarket raid then opted to lunch outside the turismo office as it offered power to charge our phones,, WiFi....freeloading bliss.

After an extended lunch we hit the road and headwind returned for its usual cameo.

We found Lago Fagnano Reserve, bush-lined road, picnic pockets. We found a spot that had a steep path to water. Perfect.

Sheltered among trees, the evening sun wrapped around camp. We ate in quiet.

Today I was emotional.

If all goes to plan, tomorrow we reach the end of the Earth.

The end of South America.

The end of this long, mad, beautiful ride.

As we rode, motorcyclists, overlanders, cars did their usual honk, waved or thumbs up. Today it felt like celebration. I kept choking up.

The landscape shifted, rolling bush gave way to a granite valley. The climb felt like Nelson Lakes back home. Steep forested sides. Scree slopes where trees gave up. Below us, a lake shimmered under a moody sky.

At the top, a mirador. We stopped. Took it in.

On the downhill hoon we stumbled upon a café and gin distillery.

We looked at each other, we must celebrate.

The distillery guy gave us a free gin taster but zero enthusiasm. We migrated to the café instead. Cervezas by the fire where we soaked in the warmth and the couch.

Reluctante to leave.

We rolled on a little further and found a picnic area for the night.

Wild horses grazed nearby, I like these majestic curious neighbours.