Lago Sophia to Puerto Arenas

I must’ve time-warped in my sleep because I woke up in a new year!

Our camp felt like a deluxe suite. Morning sun. Barely a breeze. Five steps away, though, and the icy wind tried to rip your face off. Other campers popped out, snapped a quick Insta, and fled.

We stayed put. Coffee in hand. Soaking up the sun. Letting the new year arrive properly.

Then reality intervened.

Maree had left our sausies in the freezer back at camp in Puerto Natales.

Our lifeline. Our protein. Our fat.

So… back we went.

Luckily the wind was mostly up our arse, making it feel like we were riding e-bikes. Back at camp, Lindy and Ali were surprised to see us. New Year hugs all round. They were planning to head to the national park the next day, we gently broke the news about headwinds and closed supermarkets being new years day and all. They disappeared into logistics mode as we yet again rode away from them.

We noshed down our picnic lunch in the town square, then we turned south toward Punta Arenas.

Tailwind bliss. Mostly. Occasionally it came from the side, and Maree found endless joy in watching me ride with a full sideways lean, like a sailboat tacking into the breeze.

Tonight’s luxury accommodation: 20 metres off the road, under beach trees, nestled into ground cushion plants. Hidden by a massive dirt mound from old roadworks, now fully reclaimed by nature.

The wind had a bedtime tantrum, flapping the tent dramatically.

I ignored it and did what I do best.

Sleep.

I woke to quiet.

Proper quiet.

The wind had finally worn itself out and collapsed somewhere in a corner. Inside my snug cocoon, all I could hear was a wee woodpecker — tap… tap… tapping away at breakie.

I lay there soaking it in, my mind finally not under attack from constant noise.

Then we packed up and hit the road.

At first I thought, This is perfect cycling weather. Grey sky, no wind, no blazing sun.

Then the rain arrived.

Not polite rain. Icy in your face rain.

We pedalled through what felt like a Chilean prairie, gently rolling land stretching forever. No trees. No cover. Just us, the road, and cold water sneaking down our necks.

Bus shelters saved us again. We lunched in one while Maree nearly nodded off. She claimed sleep deprivation or was it hypothermia???

With the thoughts of a soggy cold night giving us more shivers than the icy rain we decided to push on to an abandoned house 40km away. So much for taking it easy.

Just before our luxury accomidation a café appeared like a mirage. We dove in, thawed out by the fire, and seriously considered never leaving.

The abandoned house was… sketchy. Leaning. Tired. One strong gust away from giving up. We pitched the tent inside it, even our standards weren’t low enough to ley directly on the bare floor.

I just hoped the place didn’t collapse overnight.

Hands down, the sketchiest wild camp of the whole trip!

Cars kept pulling into the roadside pull-in beside the abandoned house. Doors opening. People getting out. Probably just for a piss, but in the dark, in the middle of nowhere, it messes with your head.

Sleep was… minimal.

Morning came slowly. Breakie. Packing. Sun out. Wind back. Tailwind? We dared to hope.

Back into the Chilean prairies, rolling roads and endless paddocks. Like the Mackenzie Country on steroids, minus the wilding pines.

Then I saw it.

A strange, adorable bird, ostrich-like but smaller, almost cartoonish. When it ran, it looked permanently off-balance, like it might go arse-over-tit at any moment.

As we rode saw more. Plus a few guanaco (llama-ish creatures). Distractions were welcome, because that “tailwind” was a lie. We were grinding into it again.

We found a roadside refugio, probably used by musterers. As we pulled up to investigate, a police ute arrived. Friendly officers. Curious. Happy to chat. Happy for us to stay.

Sold.

After lunch, we called it. I was wrecked from the night before, and the wind wasn’t going to play fair.

And then what sealed the deal… the bed.

Two sets of bunks. Actual mattresses, not to skoddy either.

I hadn’t realised how much I missed a bed until I lay down. That was me for the rest of the afternoon… and night. I did get up briefly to cook dinner, but otherwise?

Horizontal.

Grateful.

Done.

We need our heads read.

Honestly, why, when you’re getting absolutely slammed by wind, would you turn down a Refugio?

The day didn’t start that way. It started tranquil. Almost suspiciously so.

I wandered out of our Refugio to visit the long drop and felt that unmistakable prickle between the shoulder blades, the feeling of being watched. I looked up and there, across the road, stood a guanaco. A Chilean llama. Staring straight at me.

We just… existed together for a moment. Two beings sharing the same slice of Patagonian nothingness. Then it turned and began to wander off toward the horizon. The brown landscape stretched endlessly in every direction, and after a while the guanaco seemed to perform a quiet Houdini, dissolving into the land so completely it was hard to believe it had ever been there at all.

The wind lured us into a false sense of security with a gentle breeze to start our days ride. A trap, obviously. It didn’t take long for it to start twisting the dial. Coming from the right. Then the side. Then side–back. Then side–front. Gusty, unpredictable, spiteful.

Still, for a while, it helped more than it hindered. We made decent kilometres, momentum building, confidence creeping back in. See? We’ve got this.

We pulled up behind a mound of dirt on the side of the road to escape the wind’s constant whining, just long enough to eat lunch and settle my head.

And then came the moment that confirmed we are, in fact, idiots.

Shortly after lunch, another Refugio appeared.

“Nah,” we said.

“It’s only 1pm.”

Off we pedalled.

About 100 metres down the road, a gust of wind hit me so hard it physically lifted me and bowled me across the road. No warning. No negotiation. Just wham.

And that was the afternoon.

The wind singled me out like a bully in a schoolyard. Relentless. Targeted. Every pedal stroke was a negotiation between staying upright and moving forward. There was nowhere to hide. No trees. No shelter. Just open land and a sky that didn’t care.

By late afternoon we rolled into a service station with a shop and absolutely inhaled food like the Hungry Caterpillar on crack, chippies, chocolate, fizzy, ice cream. Boom, baby. Survival fuel.

A bit further down the road, a dirt track led to a lake. Locals were scattered around, picnicking, kids running about, families enjoying the day. We asked a woman if we could camp around here.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” she said.

Once again, we used the remains of a building as a wind break and settled in. Not long after, the same woman returned, carrying cooked spuds, a lamb chop, and bikkies.

So bloody kind.

Windblown, wrecked, and full of unexpected generosity, sleep claimed us fast. The kind of sleep that comes not from comfort, but from sheer, earned exhaustion.

“Give us a break,” I screamed at the wind.

Not quietly. Not politely. Full volume, teeth bared, proper feral.

The gusts were random, erratic, mean. The kind that don’t just push you, they ambush you. One second you’re riding straight, the next you’re being flicked sideways like a rag doll. Forty kilometres into Puerto Arenas didn’t sound like much on paper. But Patagonia doesn’t give a toss about paper.

By twenty kilometres in, I was cooked. Properly beaten. My legs were still turning, but my head had checked out. Then, like a gift from the gods, a wee picnic area appeared, complete with a shelter. We dove for it like survivors crawling onto a life raft.

Billy on. Hands shaking.

I felt like a beaten dog, hunched and quivering in that shelter, knowing deep down this was only temporary safety. The wind howled outside, impatient, waiting for us to step back into its playground.

The final stretch into town was pure edge-of-the-seat stuff. Main road. No shoulder. Traffic blasting past. Gusts slamming me sideways without warning. It’s not fear in those moments, it’s hyper-awareness. Every muscle tight. Every second demanding attention. There’s no room for error out here.

When we finally rolled into town and into a paid campground, I was done. Wrecked. My brain was fried, my body not far behind.

Fuck showering. Fuck socialising. Fuck anything that required effort.

I crawled into the tent like a wounded animal.

WTF. Leave me alone.

But the wind didn’t give a shit.

It battered our tent, and everyone else’s, relentlessly. Gust after gust. Canvas snapping. Poles flexing. The noise was relentless, invasive, impossible to ignore. By around 1am, I cracked. I couldn’t take it anymore.

I dragged myself into the communal building just for some peace. Just to exist somewhere solid, quiet, unmoving. I sat there longer than I realised, letting my nervous system slowly unclench.

Eventually, I crept back to the tent. The wind had eased, not gone, just softened, enough to let me close my eyes.

A sleep-deprived H is not a happy girl.

I am an eight-hours-minimum kind of human. Normally, once my head hits the pillow, that’s it, lights out. The world could collapse, alarms could scream, governments could fall, and I’d still be gone. Sleep has always been my superpower.

But not on this last stretch.

Feral dwellings. Cars pulling in and out at all hours. And the wind, that relentless Patagonian bully, throwing itself at our shelter, banging and flapping and roaring well into the early morning. Eventually, I waved the white flag. Defeat accepted.

Today I am a shell. A husk. A body being carried around by muscle memory alone. Feed me. Burp me. Let me lie in the sun and be quiet.

The wind, mercifully, is only breathing softly now. Just a gentle, cool breeze. I tuck myself into a sheltered patch of sunlight and sit there like a lizard on a warm rock, soaking it in. No thoughts. No plans. Just stillness.

Some days aren’t about moving forward.

They’re about not falling apart.

Maree’s feeling it too. The wind has worked us both over, not just physically, but mentally. Over breakfast, the decision comes easily.

We stay.

One more day.

We use the morning to restock supplies. It still amazes me how, every time we do a full food haul, I look at the pile and think, there is absolutely no way this is fitting on our bikes. And yet, like the bloody TARDIS, it all disappears into bags and nooks and impossible spaces.

We buy more days of food than we technically need. A buffer. A hedge against the wind throwing another tantrum. If it does, we want the option to hunker down and wait it out rather than be bullied down the road again.

We’ve got just over a month until our flight out of Ushuaia. In bike days, that’s probably two weeks. But we’re in no rush now. We want to linger. To savour these last spins of our wheels in South America.

Thinking about what comes next is… heavy.

I want to go home. I love New Zealand, my people, my places, the wilds that shaped me. But stepping back into the real world? That’s a whole other terrain.

For now, I push the thought aside.

One day at a time, eh?