Puerto Yungay to Lago Sophia

“Merry Christmas, babe,” we giggled.

Not under a tree. Not in a house. But stretched out like slugs on the concrete floor of the ferry waiting room at Puerto Yungay, cradling mugs of instant coffee like they were sacred objects.

Breakfast was a weird little Christmas miracle: canned peaches, yoghurt, Rice Bubbles, washed down with Pisco Sour. I’d been hoarding like gold.

Santa didn’t find us, but that was fine. We were already living inside the gift.

Our ferry had quietly arrived sometime before dawn.

“That’s it?” I said, squinting at the dock.

I’d clearly built it up in my head as some kind of cruise liner. Instead, it looked more like a stubborn wee barge that had seen some things and didn’t feel the need to impress anyone anymore.

The port slowly came alive. Overlanders rolled in one by one, vehicles stacked with spare tyres, jerry cans, stories. The Puerto Yungay–Río Bravo run was busy, and we had nowhere to be except exactly where we were. So we sat and watched the chaos unfold like the Queen’s Speech—observant, mildly amused, unmoving.

At around five, boarding began. Vehicles first. Then us. The four bikepackers. Bottom of the food chain as usual.

Once onboard, I was surprised. Clean. Warm. Actual seats. Assigned seats, even. No fighting for scraps like feral dogs.

Dinner, however, confirmed my suspicions. I’m fairly sure the National Party had a hand in the catering budget.

When it came time to sleep, Maree curled up on the floor in front of our seats, peaceful as a womb-bound baby. I took the seats, which sounds like the luxury option, but instead contorted myself into something resembling a stale pretzel abandoned behind a dumpster.

Christmas Day, nailed it.

I woke around five, body stiff, calves cramping, spine questioning every decision that had led me here.

Coffee. Now.

I crept down to the galley while the rest of the ferry, somehow, slept, moving like a guilty thief. For hours after, I sat staring out the window, slowly sipping instant coffee and forgetting, briefly, about discomfort.

Outside was Patagonia in full flex.

Granite walls exploded straight out of the water. Trees clung on like limpets, defying gravity and common sense. Waterfalls tore themselves down the rock faces, born from clouds that looked heavy with secrets. It didn’t feel real. It felt staged. Like nature was showing off just because it could.

Meals were served in waves. We were Group 4 of 5.

Breakfast exceeded my already subterranean expectations: one ham-and-cheese sandwich and two small muffins.

I gave Maree my muffin and bread and savoured the ham and cheese like it was fine dining. Experience has taught me never to rely on ferry food, so I quietly topped myself up with peaches, yoghurt, Rice Bubbles.

The weather was foul, but it only added to the drama. We popped up onto the deck now and then, getting blasted by wind and mist, just to remind ourselves this wasn’t a dream. When it got too gnarly, we retreated back inside and watched the scenery slide past the windows like a slow, relentless documentary.

Lunch, six long hours later, was a genuine surprise. Rice and chicken. A decent portion. Not enough to fully fend off hangry Helen until dinner, but enough to stop me fantasising about stealing food from the scraps bin.

The legs were confused. They liked the rest but kept twitching, as if asking, 'Why aren’t we moving? What’s wrong?'

Dinner arrived. Same routine. Same slop-adjacent vibes.

Then it was back to pretzel time.

This ferry?

Good call.

The sleep is rubbish. The food is… let’s say “functional.” But what we’re seeing out here? Unreal. Properly, deeply unreal.

The weather stayed moody, and honestly, it suited the place. The fjords felt darker, heavier, more dramatic. Like nature had turned the contrast dial all the way up. These weren’t just mountains, they were cathedrals carved by glaciers with a serious god complex.

Our bodies loved the rest. Our minds? Less so. We’re not built for sitting still. So we wandered the decks, stared into nothing, felt small in the best possible way.

Around three in the afternoon, we entered the harbour for Puerto Natales. Or tried to.

The wind was ferocious. Absolutely feral. No docking. We just hovered in a sheltered bay, close enough to throw a rock at town, but completely unreachable.

People started getting anxious. Muttering. Pacing.

We didn’t. We had nowhere else to be.

Seven pm rolled around. No announcements. No explanations. Just… dinner. The same white-bread ham-and-cheese sandwiches that screamed this is not the plan.

People were pissed.

We just laughed. Because honestly, what else do you do?

At 1am, an announcement crackled through: we were staying put for the night.

Really? No shit!!.

I had bailed on the seats and rolled out my sleeping mat on the floor. Anything was better than another night as human origami.

Morning came with coffee, delivered by Maree like a saint, and better sleep in my bones. The ferry finally docked before nine. No breakfast sammies. A small but important victory.

We disembarked with one mission: food.

The town was dead. Closed. Silent.

“What day is it, babe?”

Sunday. Chilean Sunday. Pre-90s New Zealand vibes. Nothing open.

With hunger circling like a shark, we found Millie’s, a tiny food bar and absolute lifeline. She fed us properly. Real food. Life returned to our eyes.

From there, we took a punt on Yellow Plum Camp. Knocked the manager out of bed. She barely blinked. Told us to make ourselves at home and sort payment later.

Hot shower.

I could’ve cried.

Clean, fed, human again, we walked to the supermarket to stretch our legs and restock. The afternoon disappeared into sleep debt repayment.

I woke to Maree holding a plate of nachos. Life is good!!

My wee body is cooked.

This is the most muscle ache I’ve had on the whole adventure.

Being cramped on that ferry for days, barely moving, twisted into pretzel shapes, it’s made everything seize. Even sleeping hurt. I woke up feeling like an old gate hinge that hadn’t been oiled in decades.

After breakie we decided movement was the only way through it. Nothing heroic, just a gentle walk along the waterfront to remind our bodies they still worked.

And far out… what a place to do it.

Granite giants stood guard across the water, dark and solid, glaciers draped over their shoulders like lovers refusing to let go. The sea was alive, whipped into white caps by the wind. The sky hung low and moody, the kind of grey that makes everything feel heavier and more dramatic.

With the mandatory stretch-and-grimace session out of the way, we settled back into camp as the rain settled in too. proper steady, no rush, just here-for-the-day rain.

That evening, the door swung open and two new bikepackers wandered in: a mother–daughter duo from across the ditch. Lindy and her 19-year-old daughter Ali. Aussies. Fresh off completing the Carretera Austral.

Instant connection.

Stories flowed, laughter followed, and before long we were taking the piss out of each other in that easy Kiwi–Aussie way that needs no warming up. It had been a while since we’d properly spoke our language. I didn’t realise how much I needed it until it happened.

We ride today.

Or… maybe not.

I checked the weather.

40-knot winds. Heavy rain.

We rest today.

Decision made.

The morning drifted past easily with Lindy. Conversation flowed without effort, sliding from adventure stories to real life, the good bits, the hard bits, the truths you don’t usually share unless you’re sitting still long enough to let them surface.

In the afternoon, Ali provided the entertainment. Front tyre puncture. One of those stubborn tyres that refuses to cooperate no matter how polite you are to it. I watched her battle it with determination and patience well beyond her years.

Eventually she had to abandon the mission — movie date with her mum trumped tyre warfare. While she was gone, the tyre fairy (also known as H) arrived and finished the job.

Some days are about kilometres.

Some days are about staying put.

Today was the latter.

Casual pack-up this morning. We were on the move again.

The plan was a gentle 30km north to Lago Sofía. Maybe spot some condors. Maybe not. And get out of town and the mayhem that was about to erupt. It was new years eve.

More good chats with Lindy and Ali before hugs and proper see ya later. The kind where you mean it.

We followed the shoreline for a while before the road peeled away, and then the wind arrived. A proper side wind. The kind that grabs you without warning and throws you around like a ping-pong ball. I was riding at a permanent lean, fighting to stay upright.

We hit the turn-off to the lake and started a small gravel climb. Nothing outrageous… except the wind made it obnoxious. Every “easy” section became a negotiation.

We stopped where a track led up to the cliffs, a chance to stretch legs and scan the skies for condors. No birds, but the view made up for it: the lake tucked deep into a glaciated valley, framed by mountains that looked like they’d been carved with intent.

A short ride later we reached the lake itself, where the wind ruled supreme. But Patagonia gives and takes, we found a tucked-away spot, sheltered enough to call home.

Tonight is the last night of 2025.

Tomorrow is a new year.

Out here, with wind whipping down the lake and mountains standing witness, it feels like anything could happen.