Santiago - Chaiten

Our little Santiago break with Lynley flew by. This morning the taxi rocked up at 9.30. Big hugs all around — especially between Maree and her mum. Lynley was sad to go, but ready for home. Less than three months and there’ll be more hugs anyway.

Maree headed straight off on the final tent hunt while I stayed behind to dress the bikes. I crossed everything I had that she’d return with a functional tent.

Three hours later, there she was, grinning, tent in hand. Absolute relief.

While I was outside fiddling with the bikes, a local guy, Pedro, wandered over for a yarn. He told me about a bike track that’d take us all the way across town to the central bus station. Legend. That meant avoiding the hell streets of traffic, Laura and Murray could stay far, far away.

We set off through the city on our shiny new rides. Smooth, calm, easy. Once near the station we hit the central markets for lunch, then found a guy with a pair of clippers and decided to refresh the mullets. He clearly couldn’t use scissors, none were in sight, so he just zipped the sides off and called it a day. Rough but effective.

While Maree guarded the bikes, I missioned to the supermarket to grab picnic food for ourbus ride. Finally — finally — we would be prepared for a bus trip. No more hangry disasters.

We had loads of time, so packing the bikes into boxes was a relaxed operation. Then more waiting. Our 8.30pm bus rolled in at 9.10pm!

As soon as we were moving, out came the picnic. Food first, sleep second. I slept like a rock and woke up actually feeling pretty good, hungry, but good. Morning picnic sorted that.

Stepping off the bus in Puerto Montt, we were in miles better shape than previous arrivals. Sunshine, ocean breeze, good omen.

We grabbed a hot chicken and some snacks, then rode to the waterfront and had a picnic in the grass looking out at the sea, sailboats, and seagulls. Bliss.

Then… the thing I’d been avoiding: the dentist. My bck tooth had been giving me grief.

I found Sophie, English-speaking, great sense of humour, and working beside her identical twin, which spun me out a bit. Quick drill, no drama. Didn’t even cry.

Tonight we found a camp spot just outside Puerto Mont, basically someone’s backyard, but right on the water with a cracking view.

We sat there sipping beer, buzzing for what’s next.

Patagonia… here we come.

I felt properly relaxed this morning in our rustic backyard camp. Even with all the bike rest we’ve had lately, we haven’t had our own space. Here we do, just us, no other campers, no chatter, no chaos.

After a cruisy brekkie and the sacred coffees, we did the classic pre-mission audit and headed into town to stock up. I’d clocked yesterday that the local supermarket had a decent stash of gluten-free goodies, and today I was going in hot. Full goblin mode: activated.

First mission though — gas canisters. The outdoor store was in the mall.

The mall.

Noooooo.

And not just any mall, this one was a labyrinth designed by someone with a dark sense of humour. To get to the outdoor store, we needed the fourth floor… but every elevator smirked and dumped us nowhere near where we needed to be. We hunted. We cursed. I contemplated living there forever.

Just as we were about to give up, we accidentally found the bloody store. Honestly, it felt like a test, if you can’t navigate the mall, you shouldn’t be in the outdoors I think was the life leason here.

Gas bottles: tick.

Then came the supermarket raid. And I went rogue. Pastas, dehy spuds, snack bars, speciality bits. Everything my GF heart desired. We emerged absolutely loaded, wondering if we should’ve bought a trolley to wheel it around.

Back at camp, we smashed corn chips, guac, carrot sticks, capsicum sticks and cream cheese, sitting in the sun staring out over the sea.

Patagonia is close now, the big finale. And we’re buzzing.

We rolled along Puerto Montt’s coastal promenade this morning under a moody sky, wind whipping the sea into chop, clouds bruised and heavy. It felt like heading into the wilds. And the further south we go, the wilder it gets.

Once out of town we ditched Route 7 and stuck to the tiny coastal road, potholed, gravelly, and absolutely perfect. Sea air. Big views. No cars. Just the soundtrack of tyres on grit and gulls complaining overhead.

Eventually we rejoined Route 7 and undulated along the shore before spotting another rough-as route and veering off again. What we found felt like a time warp straight back to 1970s–80s Aotearoa. Ramshackle baches with strange add-ons, fishing shacks, old boats beached like whales drying in the sun. Pure nostalgia.

We crossed water on the ferry from La Arena to Caleta Puelche, a 30-minute Fiordland-feeling float through steep green hills and deep grey sea. Bloody magic.

Tonight we’re camped at a little place run by a family. Kids tearing around barefoot, parents chatting, drinking and toking, Latin American music drifting through the dusk. It’s Saturday. Everyone’s relaxed. We sit on the edge of it all with a home-brew in hand, smiling.

The day started with yarns with the camp owner. I asked him about a tree with bright red flowers. “Native fuchsia,” he said. “We’ve got one like that at home,” I replied — and just like that we were deep in Gondwana chat. Gets me fired up every time.

He showed me more native plants and told me the big ancient trees here, kauri-like giants, were logged and shipped to America for boat building. Only a few survivors now. Makes you wonder how much the land remembers.

We set off along a coastline that could easily be the secret love child of the West Coast, Ōkārito to Haast, and the Kaikōura coast. Dramatic rocky shores on one side, steep bush-clad slopes on the other. And again the little 1970s baches popping up where you least expect them.

The headwind found us, but he was calmer today, carrying the smell of salt rather than pure aggression.

We had lunch tucked behind some seats, hiding from the wind while the sun hit our faces.

Then along came Peir, a 60-ish Chlian dairy farmer out bikepacking for a week. He was determined to ride another 30km to Hornopirén for the ferry. We toyed with the idea… but then we found the sneaky camp spot. Absolutely perfect. Hidden from the road. Right on the beach. A small grassy patch for the tent and a rocky surfy coast metres away.

We watched the waves for ages before Maree went fossicking and I accidentally fell asleep on my mat. She woke me with “Babe, dinner!” Love that woman.

After eating, I went looking for mussels, not the big green-lipped beauties from home, but small blue ones. We cooked them on hot rocks in the fire. Smoky, salty, heavenly.

As we drifted off to the sound of the sea, I realised how far we’ve come from the deserts. A whole different world.

I woke, peeked out of the tent… and stared straight into a wall of gorse. For a hot second I thought I was home. Bloody invasive weed follows me everywhere. And why was I staring at gorse instead of the ocean? Because my honey insists her head must always be higher than her feet, so the tent faced inland.

I crawled out to find four cows staring right at me.

A lot of staring going on this morning!!

We cruised along the coast, past more old settlements and beached fishing relics. Then, as Maree had her pants around her ankles, mid-squat, two bikepacking lads rounded the corner. They got the full moon rising. They did not stop to chat. Possibly traumatised.

We hit Route 7 again and climbed a couple of cheeky undulations before stopping by a river for lunch. This is where we met Antonio from Spain, an older bikepacker doing his best with the hills and the heat. Good bugger. We shared some broken Spanglish and rolled out together until he faded behind us. We’ll see him on the ferry tomorrow for sure.

Then — HOLY.

We rounded a bend and there they were. Massive mountains. Stark, rocky, ice-capped. Like someone had casually dropped the Southern Alps into Chile. Breathtaking.

We bought our ferry tickets in town, grabbed a few snacks, then went hunting for a legend named Dave who apparently lets cyclists camp on his property.

We found him — rustic, rough, brilliant. Free camping, a South African bikepacker already set up, and one of Dave’s Venezuelan mates hanging around. Yarn city.

I tapped out early, lids dropping.

Tomorrow: another ferry, deeper into the wild.

We were up early, packed fast, and down at the ferry ramp for brekkie, fruit, yoghurt, coffee, and actual toilets (a strong improvement over Dave’s setup).

Sea mist curled off the water, birds were waking, and the mountains behind us stretched toward the light like giants getting out of bed. Pure poetry.

And then — the bikepackers. Ten of us all up, including Antonio who rolled in puffing but proud. The rest were fresh-legged Carretera Austral dreamers talking up 100km days. Good on ’em.

The ferry took us down a fiord that looked straight out of Jurassic Park. Granite cliffs, glaciers hanging like frozen waterfalls, deep dark green everywhere. I slept for two of the four hours, but trust me, I absorbed the vibe.

It was a two-stage ferry mission. Ferry 1: four hours. Then a mad dash over a short mountain pass. They let cyclists off first, so for a glorious moment we led the convoy like champions before the cars overtook us one by one.

I would’ve camped in those trees, they felt like Fiordland forest cousins, but camping was banned. So over the pass we went… just in time to miss Ferry #2. No worries, it shuttles back and forth. We sat in the sun with the other stranded souls and waited.

Once that ferry dropped us off, the fresh riders bolted toward the next town 50km away. We did the opposite. We just meandered.

And then — jackpot.

A roadside hot spring. Just sitting there like a gift from the gods.

We stripped to our smalls and slid in. Absolutely magic.

Take that, 100km-a-day crew.

Tonight we’re camped at the start of the Laguna Negra track with a handful of overlanders, a couple of bikers, and Antonio tucked away nearby. We’re hidden among the trees, wrapped in birdsong and damp forest air.

My heart is humming.

We took a slow morning stroll up to Laguna Negra, letting the bush close in around us. This forest hits the same part of my heart, lush, green, dripping with life. Ferns curled at our ankles, sphagnum spongy underfoot, and a mix of native shrubs and trees hanging over the track like old souls with stories they’re just waiting to tell.

The lake was still, wrapped in morning mist, mirroring those deep green slopes like a secret keeping its breath.

Back on the road, I thought we’d left the dirt in my teeth days behind… but nope. Gravel again. And a parade of vehicles, yesterday’s ferry crowd, plus today’s. Some eased past with care, slowing to avoid dusting us out. Others, probably fresh off the Great Wall production line, blasted by like they were in the Dakar Rally.

We also had a good run of motorbike packers. Honestly the friendliest bunch, waving, smiling, or possibly flicking us off. Hard to tell through tinted visors.

We knew Patagonia was going to be a hilly, gravelly rollercoaster. But when the scenery is punching you in the heart every two minutes, you hardly notice the grunting. Well… you notice it. But you don’t care as much.

Just before lunch the gravel magically turned back into seal — a pure gift. We pulled into a classic roadside bus stop and just as the coffee finished brewing, Pier, the Chilean bloke from days back, rolled up grinning. We handed him a cup and caught up like old mates.

Pier pushed on, and we followed… catching him again lying half-naked on a beach like a lizard in the sun. Good man.

Chaitén came into view later that afternoon, abeach town, a few shops, a vibe that felt both remote and lived-in. We did our usual supermarket sweep and then headed to the river mouth to look for camp.

And would you believe it?? The gorse and broom became our allies. A sheltered spot right amongst them, hidden from the wind. Million-dollar views over the water. A volcano watching from the far distance like a quiet guardian. Behind us, bush-clad hills that sharply rose into hanging granite valleys and snow-capped peaks.

This is a whole different South America than the one we’ve been riding for months. And I’m moulding into it like it’s where I was meant to be.