Route x50 to Abandoned Shack

I woke around 6am needing to pee and braced myself for more rain, but when I opened the tent, the sky was only overcast and a gentle breeze was blowing. Hope!

I sleepily hung all my wet cycling gear on tree branches, praying to the drying god then snuggled back into my sleeping bag. Maree wwas already brewing coffee, she knows how to make a girl happy!!

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She must’ve sensed my reluctance to face cold, wet clothing. We lingered in the warmth. Then, miracle, the sun poked through the clouds.

Maree lit a fire for breakfast while I spread every soggy item over rocks. The riverbank looked like our tent had exploded. But slowly, as we ate and sipped coffees, our clothes dried.

Today was another rolling-undulating day, following a river wrapped in lush bush that rose into cliffs. If I were a climber, I’d be fizzing.

Patagonia serving up its usual magic, hanging valleys, waterfalls, lush bush and a sprinkling of farmland.

Lunch was in a bus shelter, no poo for once. A genuine win.

In the afternoon we pedalled through Reserva Nacional de Simón. Strange here: you can’t camp in conservation land unless it’s a designated site, but you can drive straight through it.

Late afternoon the sky darkened again and rain threatened.

And so, once more, we are trolls under a bridge. This one has a grassy glade beneath it, and the view is extraordinary. The rhythm of tyres clanking above us will be our lullaby.

We are dry.

We are fed.

We are exactly where we’re meant to be.

We rolled out this morning with absolutely no idea how far we were from Coyhaique or what kind of terrain was waiting to chew us up. Classic us. We just shrugged, loaded the bikes, and pointed south.

The world felt muted, like Patagonia had wrapped us in a grey wool blanket. Not gloomy, more like a calm inhale before the day began properly. We pedalled, watching the clouds threaten rain but never fully committing. The road rose in long, steady climbs that didn’t break your soul in one punch… more like a slow choke-hold that wore you down over hours.

By the time we reached town we were cooked, ready for a feed and a supermarket frenzy. I was fizzing l, we’d been told this was the big supermarket of the Carretera Austral. Visions of gluten-free heaven danced in my head.

But nah. It wasn’t Puerto Montt-level glory. A few token gf bits, but not the lush spread I’d built up in my imagination. At least they had gf bread, and honestly, that alone resurrected my ham-and-cheese-toasty dreams.

We bought a hot chick and annihilated it outside a gas station because we’re the epitome of romance. Grease dripping down our fingers, bikes leaning against a wall, Maree ducking inside for a loo stop.....soooo romantic!!

Just as I was feeling the day drift into a nice lazy finish, Maree pipes up at 2pm:

“Let’s cycle to El Blanco.”

Thirty-eight kilometres.

Mostly uphill.

After we’d already done 25km.

So there we were, pushing off again into rolling green farmland framed by distant mountains, the wind swirling around like it couldn’t decide whose day it wanted to ruin. We made it, eventually, swooping into the tiny village of El Blanco on a fast downhill.

We pulled into the camp site. And then… bikepackers. Everywhere. Where had they all been hiding? Out of nowhere the campground looked like the Tour de France had vomited tents. Even Antonio was there.

We ended the evening at a long table with Aussies, Dutchies, and Frenchies, swapping road stories over wine like old mates. Laughter, shared misery, big yarns. The kind of night that fills your cup without you realising how empty it had gotten.

I woke and all I could think about was having a cheese toasties. I had scoffed 3 the night before but I still had the craving. While Maree brewed our morning coffee I tended to my craving in the camp kitchen. I snuggled back into the tent with coffee in one had and a toasties in the other. I was living the dream.

Eventually zips started unzipping, cars starting, voices calling across the campground. Everyone else was packing up. Everyone but us.

We stayed cocooned in our tent, watching the whole place evaporate like a pop-up village dissolving back into the mist. Within an hour it was silent. It felt like we owned the place.

After lazing around we set out to do our chores, we washed our clothes, which at that point could’ve walked themselves to the creek. After that, bike maintenance. The poor things had been hammered by days of rain, gravel, and river grit.

Then toasties… followed by rest… followed by toasties… followed by more rest. Honestly, it was a toastie-based religion by midday.

In the afternoon I got a message from Chante and jumped on a call. Hearing her voice, hearing home — it was exactly what I needed. Gave me the warm fuzzies in places I didn’t know were cold.

The evening rolled in quietly, mountains standing sentinel around us, camp empty except for the two of us. We just rested. Properly rested. The kind that seeps right down into the bones.

This is the new biking regime: slow and relaxed.

So relaxed, in fact, that even when we consciously tried to cruise the pack up, we were still on our bikes a only thirty minutes later than usual.

Today was uphill. A gentle-ish gradient stretched over 40km, climbing about 800 metres. The last big one of its kind on the Carretera Austral. Don’t get me wrong, there’ll still be hills and undulations, but nothing worth writing home about. Apparently.

Then suddenly we were surrounded by lycra. So much lycra. Turns out there was a triathlon on.

What cracked me up was this: sure, they passed us, but they didn’t gain on us that fast. Well, except the front runners. I’d love to see one of them try it on our fully loaded beasts and see how they go.

They all had support vehicles, which meant as we climbed we got cheered on by people parked along the roadside waiting for their rider. And for once, the sun was out, bleeding down onto the climbers. Us included.

We stopped for lunch in a pull-off and cheered riders as they grunted past. It was actually pretty fun.

By early afternoon we reached the top of the first climb, though we knew better than to celebrate. A downhill was coming, followed by another 300 metres over 15km.

Nestled in the saddle sat a lake and a campsite. We pulled into its wee café and, because we’re in our taking our time phase, flopped onto bean bags outside and treated ourselves.

After being sucked into our bean bag bliss for what seemed an eternity it hit us: we could stay.

The lake was stunning, but what sealed it was the trees, eech trees, or their Chilean cousins anyway. So why not?

We checked in, found a nice spot among the trees, and wandered down toward the lake. On the way we passed two campers.

“Hola.”

Turns out it was the woman we met at our very first camp, the one whose son lives in New Zealand. She, her husband, and two friends are Brazilian. They offered us seats, beers, and sausage. We talked for ages, as best we could. They had life sorted: cruising around in thier campers, drinking wine mid-afternoon, laughing a lot.

Eventually we said our goodbyes and continued wandering through the trees to the lake. We watched water birds for a while, then drifted deeper into the bush, just feeling the place. Letting it soak in.

Slowing down and actually checking things out feels right.

I could get used to this.

We couldn’t put it off any longer, we still had the last 300 metres of that 800-metre climb to finish. This would be the final time in Chile we’d be above 1000 metres.

I kept waiting for the grunt, but the climb was steady and oddly relaxing. We even stopped for a brew by the river, sitting in the sun and absorbing the rocky, mountainous surrounds.

Near the top, the valley opened up. Huge scree slopes spilled down from steep, jutting mountains, dragon-tooth ridgelines with glaciers cradled in their basins or tucked deep into narrow ravines. It was breathtaking.

So was the downhill.

It swept us into a wide valley rimmed on both sides by jagged mountains, complete with glaciers and endless scree.

We made the most of the sunshine again, pulling up by a creek for a lazy lunch.

Then, as we rolled into the village of Villa Cerro, the wind arrived. At first just teasing gusts. Then, as soon as we started the climb out of town, it turned feral. The headwind definitely has anger-management issues.

What should’ve been an easy afternoon climb became a battle of wills. The wind was strong and gusty, but hey, so am I.

At the top, the headwind demanded we pedal downhill.

Over it.

We eventually found a massive rock to camp behind, big enough to block the wind, the rain and the road. The headwind hadn’t just knackered me; it’d done Maree in too.

The rock didn’t shelter us from the sun, but nearby bush did. We spent the early evening slumped in the grass, shaded by trees, basking in the day we’d just had.

Over morning coffee in bed, we talked about home.

What next?

What are we going to do?

I feel a bit lost. There’s nothing on the horizon that revs my engine. No clear direction. Drifting. I think I felt this before leaving New Zealand, but for a year, biking was the direction. Now… WTF.

Eventually we got up to pack. That’s when the sky opened and sent us scrambling back into the tent.

Breakfast in bed it is.

More coffee in bed it is.

The rain played games all morning, pretending it’d stopped, waiting until we made noise about moving, then hammering down again. Bloody hilarious.

At some point you have to choose: harden up and ride, or snuggle down.

Today, we snuggled.

Even when the weather eased around lunchtime, we stayed put. Hugged our rock camp.

Later, after spending way too much time in my own head, I cracked. I went crying to Maree. Sniffed and unloaded the lostness, the anxiety about going home with no clear outlook. More tears. More hugs.

Late afternoon, the wind finally found us, after howling down the road all day, it eventually worked out how to turn corners. And just for shots and giggles every now and then it would slam us.

We said goodbye to our rock and rolled straight into a climb. Nothing serious, just enough to wake the legs and remind them they’re still healing, whether they like it or not.

Somewhere up the hill, the seal disappeared. Gravel replaced tar. Just as the map promised: gravel roads for the rest of the journey.

There was plenty of truck action too. They didn’t slow down much, but they sure fed us dust.

Then I saw a grader ahead. My heart sank, graded roads are brutal to bike. But to my surprise, he was grading off the road, leaving behind a slick, rideable surface. Cheers, Mr Grader Man.

We cruised through a glacial river valley—bush climbing steeply on one side, jagged, snow-capped mountains with glaciers on the other. Familiar now, but still powerful.

Lunch was at a bus stop, sheltering from the rain.

Later, the landscape shifted into something that made my heart sink: pine plantations. Acres of them. Just like New Zealand. Don’t even get me started!!!

I pulled over to wait for Maree and spotted a bloke having a pee. Still a good place to stop.

He turned out to be Israeli, traveling with two mates. He was fizzing about what we were doing. Out of his ute came cheese, olives, chocolate, and water, gifts for us. His excitement was infectious.

Soon we were back in native forest, cold and wet, hunting for shelter. Then—bingo—a derelict building beside a glacial river. Signs other cyclists had stayed.

As we settled in, more riders appeared. Neil, an Englishman with a dry sense of humour. A big hairy German bloke. Then Johnny—quiet, English, two years into a world bike tour, but looking like he wasn’t enjoying a minute of it.

We ended up with a fire going outside, cooking, sharing space and stories. It was cold, chaotic, and oddly perfect.

That night, all the tents packed tight inside the building, I expected a symphony of snores.

Surprisingly, it was quiet.