Puerto Arenas to Rio Grande

We had a ferry to catch today, but not until 5pm, which meant the morning could stretch our paid accommodation luxereries a bit. No alarms. No rush. Patagonia on slow simmer.

Right on cue, the rain arrived just as we were about to pack up. Fair enough. Another coffee by the fire was clearly the correct response. We sat inside, damp gear draped everywhere, chatting with a German woman traveller while the rain drummed outside. Those unplanned conversations are half the magic of the road.

Once the tent was finally dry and we were buzzing nicely on caffeine, we loaded the bikes and then, priorities, made ham and cheese toasties. Hugo, the hostel owner, was chill, zero stress about us loitering, using the kitchen, spreading our lives everywhere. The place itself was rough around the edges, but Hugo’s generosity filled the cracks. Big heart, loose rules.

On the way to the ferry we ducked into a massive outdoor shopping complex. My actual nightmare. But we needed gas and chocolate, so sacrifices were made.

The ferry crossing itself was calm, eerily so. Glassy water, barely a ripple. A very different beast to our last ferry ordeal. Nearing the dock, we spotted a lighthouse headland and exchanged a look. That could work.

Turns out it worked beautifully. A few easy kilometres along the coast and we were camped up, watching locals pry limpets off the rocks. Empanada filling, Maree discovered.

As the sun slid into the sea and the sky dimmed, Maree ducked off to find a loo. Naturally, that’s when a pod of dolphins swept in, jumping, slapping the water, pure theatre. My own private show. When Maree came back, I told her.

She thought I was full of shit.

I lay smug and warm in my sleeping bag while she peered hopefully out the tent, waiting for an encore.

No such luck.

We woke to a rare gift: no wind. Calm sea. Blue sky. One of those mornings that feels like it’s holding its breath.

What started as a light, lazy conversation drifted into deeper waters, travel, partnership, how we move together, how we rub, how we grow. The good stuff. Honest stuff. The kind of talk that only seems to surface when life has been stripped back to tents, bikes, and each other.

Naturally, the cure for emotional openness was more coffee.

Late morning, borderline lunchtime, we finally turned the pedals. First stop was Porvenir for eggs. Somehow ice cream also happened.

We rolled inland toward the opposite coast, the road undulating gently, no pressure to be anywhere. When the seal gave way to dust and gravel, that familiar feeling of remoteness crept back in. I breathed easier.

We stopped at a cluster of old fishing shacks for lunch some might say afternoon tea! Weathered, leaning, half-forgotten things tucked into the cliff, sheltered from the wind. Prime real estate once upon a time. The ocean stretched endlessly, fading into white-capped mountains on the far horizon.

Lunch quietly turned into why don’t we just stay?

Tent up. Camp made.

We shared the same view those old fishermen once had, the ocean doing its slow, hypnotic thing. I find the sea soothing, so long as I’m not on it.

The evening drifted past gently, broken only by the occasional vehicle humming along the road above us. We kept an eye out for dolphins for Maree, but once again she had to settle for seaweed imposters.

There’s something about sea air, it settles me. My nervous system is still rattled from those savage headwinds heading into Punta Arenas, but this place was easing the edges.

We lingered in the morning, soaking it in, before packing up. The road took us briefly inland, up a small rise, then dropped us back down into another cove. Naturally, we stopped. Of course we did. Who cares if we’d only been riding an hour?

We sat by the water, Maree squinting at every ripple, convinced it was marine life. Dolphins. Whales. Seals. Hope does funny things to the eyes.

The, like an old mate who never knows when to leave, the headwind arrived. Rolling hills became a grind again. The afternoon asked for effort.

Along the way, small herds of guanacos dotted the landscape, some with babies wobbling alongside them. They stared at us like we were deeply confusing, two strange, silent creatures rolling past on circular legs with no engine noise.

We found a Refugio… which, once again, had been thoroughly mistaken for a toilet. Honestly, people disgust me sometimes.

But across the road stood salvation: a single, broad, macrocapa-looking tree—the only tree we’d seen all day. Behind it, sheltered from road and wind, a perfect little pocket of peace. And best of all, no shit.

There we stayed. Tucked away in our tree sanctuary, wind howling somewhere else entirely. A small, perfect paradise.

I woke with a gurgly tummy and a bubbly bum. Not ideal. And with no water nearby, staying put wasn’t an option.

Because our tree sanctuary had been so sheltered, we hadn’t realised just how wild the wind was until we rolled back onto the road. But today, oh today, it was on our side. Full tailwind. Absolute weapon.

We flew along the gravel, the landscape opening out like prairie with a sea view.

Not long in, we hit roadworks where the seal had been laid, but vehicles were still forced onto the gravel. Apparently bikes don’t count. We hopped onto the fresh blacktop and absolutely sent it. Road workers grinned and waved as we sailed past. Royal treatment. No hi-vis authority figure bothered telling us off, so we stayed kings of the road.

Forty kilometres in two hours. Barely broke a sweat.

We stopped at a Refugio for lunch and only then felt the true strength of the wind—face-on, it nearly knocked me over. Bloody hell. Thank god we weren’t riding into that.

Inside were a young German couple, still debating what to do with their day. Heading north. In that wind. If I were them, I’d keep debating until bedtime.

We jumped back onto our wind-powered conveyor belt. Another Refugio in 20km. Argentine border in 40.

Because we still had fresh veg, we decided to stay one more night in Chile. This Refugio was old and unreachable by vehicle, which meant it hadn’t been too trashed.

I lay down to rest my queasy guts and promptly fell into a deep sleep. I woke to the smell of curry.

What country am I in?

Oh. Just Maree cooking dinner.

Tomorrow is our final bike border crossing.

Today marks exactly one month until we fly out of Ushuaia.

Time is absolutely flying now.

Yesterday’s gurgly stomach and bubbly bum turned out to be a false alarm. I pedalled all day without incident and thought I’d dodged a bullet.

Today?

Absolutely not.

I woke bolt upright and sprinted across the paddock like my life depended on it. Flat country at least gives you no options, so I ran toward the horizon until I figured the passing motorists wouldn’t quite piece together what I was doing. Found a cow pat that had already lived a full life, lifted it, squirted out my own offering, replaced the cow pat and strolled back to the bikes like nothing had happened.

This process was repeated, several times

while heading toward the Chile–Argentina border.

I was quietly hoping I could hold myself together long enough to clear immigration with a shred of dignity intact.

Chile waved us out without so much as a glance. Argentina can have you, smelly cyclist, I swear I read on the border guard’s face.

Between the two countries sat a 15km no-man’s land where sheep rule supreme. No fences. No shelter. Just woolly witnesses.

Argentina’s checkpoint was slick and efficient, no questions, no fuss, just a stamp and a smile. They even had a warm room for cyclists, which we gratefully claimed for lunch before launching ourselves into the Argentinian pampas, sea views included.

Our mate the wind, who had politely pushed us to the border earlier, turned feral again, now slapping us from the side, just to keep things spicy.

Wild camping options were non-existent, so we bashed on until we spotted a bridge beside an older, sadder bridge. A goat track led down to the river and a patch of vaguely flat ground. Not ideal, not hidden, but it would do.

By this point I was running on fumes, minimal food, maximum output, if you catch my drift. I literally sat down beside my bike and fell asleep where I landed.

Maree, absolute legend, set up the tent, laid out my sleep kit, and eventually nudged me inside. I feel like I’m scraping my way through this last month. First the wind tried to end me. Now it’s my own arse staging a revolt.

We woke to rain gently caressing the tent

roof. I took that as a sign and immediately fell back asleep, only waking myself later by sucking back drool. Glamorous.

We decided to wait it out. Only about 20km to Río Grande and a solid plan at the other end, Gracia, a woman with a wee bike-camping setup in her backyard.

The ride in was a slog for me. No energy, no spark, no rhythm. The wind wasn’t vicious, just persistently annoying, like a fly you can’t swat.

Rolling into town, we stopped at the supermarket for supplies before hunting down Gracia. She greeted us like old friends, warm hug, kind eyes, instant safety.

Her backyard was sheltered and tidy, complete with a small bathroom block. We had access to her kitchen, her lounge, the works. Absolute luxury.

I melted into the couch and didn’t move again for the rest of the day. Warmth. Quiet. Stillness.

After weeks of being battered by wind, weather, and my own insides, it felt like being gently caught.

The neighbourhood came alive in the night.

I’m convinced every car around here has intentionally drilled a hole in its exhaust. Revving. Backfiring. Showing off. It’s like the wind has subcontracted the job.

So much for resting up. The body’s horizontal, sure, but the mind? Wrecked.

Today’s mission was simple: convince my stomach that food is, in fact, a friend.

Victory came in a small but meaningful way, a solid poo. I’ll take it.

I put a lump of meat on early, buried in tomatoes, red wine, and whatever nourishing magic I could throw at it. A slow-cooked stew felt like just the medicine I needed. Something to soak into the cracks.

In the afternoon we wandered along the waterfront, ignoring the pesky wind, it was actually... pleasant.

Rio Grande is a strange beast, industrial, oil-soaked, fishing-town tired. Everything looks weather-beaten, like it’s been sandblasted by decades of bad decisions and worse weather. Housing jumps from crumbling estates to neat suburban blocks to beachside cribs without any logic.

We found a wee beachfront café and splashed out on cervezas, sitting by the window watching murky waves slap the stony shore. No drama. Just watching the world churn.

Back at Gracia’s, the stew did its work, absorbed into every corner of my body. We shared it with our host, who, while warm and friendly, absolutely blindsided me with what she charged us to stay.

Not sure she deserved my stew!!

As we crawled into our backyard camp the rain began to patter on the tent lulling us to sleep.

And then… the revving cars again.

Kids yelling. Over and over. Like they’d lost a dog. Or their minds.

"Let’s get back to the wilds tomorrow, babe?"