Bush Rio Camp to Puerto Yungay

Morning arrived softly. No rush. No engines. Just the muted hush of a road that clearly didn’t see much love anymore. Only one vehicle passed while we pottered around our little riverside bush camp, steam rising from the water and breath hanging in the air. This stretch of the Carretera Austral felt forgotten, like it had slipped sideways out of time, and I loved it for that.

We rolled out slow, tyres humming quietly, following the river as it snaked alongside us. Trees pressed in close, their branches dripping mountain mist that seemed to reach out and brush our shoulders as we passed. Everything felt damp but alive. The kind of morning that doesn’t ask anything of you except to be present.

Then I saw them.

Two figures ahead. Bikes. Panniers. My people.

I caught the back rider first, a woman, Canadian, chatty in that easy, open way travellers get when the road has already stripped away small talk. We pedalled side by side, stories tumbling out between breaths. Her partner had stopped up ahead to wait, and soon Maree joined us and suddenly we were a gaggle. Four bikepackers rolling together, laughing, swapping fragments of lives lived elsewhere.

I rode alongside her partner for a while. She worked in environmental policy, and our conversation slid quickly into the big stuff, broken systems, climate grief, the strange hope that still survives in people who care enough to keep fighting. It felt grounding, talking about the world while being so deeply inside it.

At the turnoff to Tortel we stopped. Lingering. None of us in a hurry to end the moment. The mist thickened, turning to rain, and eventually we hugged, waved, and peeled off in our separate directions. That’s the thing about road friendships they're intense, beautiful, fleeting. You carry them with you long after they disappear around the bend.

Then came the hill.

The kind that doesn’t ease you in. Straight up. A proper grunt that made our already overcooked legs scream in protest. The road clung to a steep gorge, carved into granite like a stubborn afterthought. On one side, a sheer drop into a roaring river. On the other, a vertical wall of rock and trees clinging on like desperate climbers refusing to let go.

At the top, the world opened.

Alpine magic. Waterfalls cascading down dark ravines in silver ribbons. Rolling scrub glowing softly beneath low cloud. The giants were back, jagged, snow-capped peaks standing watch, glaciers tucked into their folds like secrets. We stopped. Ate lunch. Barely spoke. Sometimes awe demands silence.

Of course, the downhill was a lie.

Down… then up. Again. And again. Tease and punish. Rinse and repeat.

By the time we rolled into Puerto Yungay, our legs felt hollowed out. There was already a Danish couple waiting for the ferry, quietly settled into road life. Another couple on bikes arrived, less chatty, eyes turned inward. A few vehicles pulled up. We all waited together, suspended between places.

When the barge arrived, we watched it unload in slow motion before rolling aboard ourselves. I didn’t realise how tired I was until I wasn’t pedalling anymore. Just sitting. Letting the scenery slide past as we crossed to Río Bravo, water stretching wide and grey beneath us.

But because we are who we are, we didn’t stop there.

At four in the afternoon, when sensible people put the kettle on, we decided to smash out another 20km. Including, naturally, another bastard of a hill. Camp roulette was on, and failure was not an option.

We found it just in time.

A big pull-off on the side of the road. Not much cover. No real hiding. But there was a river. And a fire pit. And the overwhelming relief of being able to stop. Our legs were on the brink of mutiny, but we’d won the day.

As the evening settled, I felt that familiar gratitude seep in. For tired bodies that still move forward. For strangers who briefly become friends. For wild places that give and take in equal measure.

This is the life, I thought.

Even when it hurts.

I woke to the softest tapping on the tent, the kind that barely registers at first.

“Babe… is it raining?”

It was. Sort of. A brief, half-hearted visit, enough to make itself known, not enough to boss us quietly back into our sleeping bags. The kind of weather that tests intent rather than stops movement.

Our legs were tired before we even swung them out of the tent, but they knew the drill. Coffee. Pack. Roll on.

The map suggested one decent hill to kick the day off, then flat. Cute. I’ve been playing this game long enough now to know maps lie, politely, but consistently. Patagonia doesn’t do “easy days.” It does undulations disguised as optimism.

And sure enough, the road rose and fell like a slow, relentless breath. Nothing brutal. Nothing kind. Just enough to wear you down.

At the top of one climb sat a lonely picnic shelter, perfectly placed, like it knew we’d need it. And there they were, the two bikepackers from yesterday. Unchatty, we’d called them. Today they talked. Swiss. Easy smiles. Quiet strength. We shared a few words, a few laughs, and without any formal agreement, became a loose convoy.

Tag-teaming the day felt right.

The landscape stretched wide and open, an alpine wetland unfurling below us, silver and green and alive. Sometimes we rode beside it, sometimes above, looking down on water threading through grasses and scrub. Giant granite formations framed everything, solid and ancient, like they’d been waiting centuries for us to roll through half-broken and wide-eyed.

By afternoon, we were cooked. Proper last-legs stuff. The kind of tired that lives deep in the joints, not the muscles. And like clockwork, the day before a rest day always seems to demand the most. One final offering.

We rolled, just, into Villa O’Higgins in the early evening, relief washing over us in quiet waves. Refuge Paraíso was waiting, calm and low-key, a soft landing. A few travellers scattered about, but mostly stillness.

First mission: supermarket crawl. Dinner supplies. Breakfast for tomorrow. Future us would be grateful.

Then the decontamination. Hot water. Road dust. Sweat. Days worth of Patagonia rinsed away and pooled at our feet.

Beer in hand, we finally exhaled.

Two days of rest ahead.

Just stopping, recovering and letting the body catch up with

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I lay there for a moment, half asleep, mildly annoyed, trying to work out who the hell was doing DIY at sparrow’s fart.

Tap… tap…

Curiosity, and a bladder under pressure, won. I crawled out of the tent and wandered across the damp grass toward the toilet block, weaving between scattered trees still dripping from the night. And there it was. The culprit.

A wee woodpecker, hammering into breakfast like it owed him money. Head bobbing, beak rattling, completely unbothered by my presence. Mystery solved.

Our clothes, however, were another issue. Somewhere along the Carretera Austral they’d crossed a line from “dirty” into genuinely offensive. Hand-washing on rest days had kept us barely on the right side of civilisation, but it wasn’t cutting it anymore. So, with a bit of shame and zero pride, we handed our bag of stench over to the camp manager, who calmly organised a proper laundry wash like this was an entirely normal thing to do for two feral cyclists.

Refugio Paradiso lives up to its name. Quiet. Still. The kind of place where the mountains feel like they’re leaning in rather than looming.

Later in the day we connected with an Israeli couple travelling with a rooftop tent, warm, generous souls. There was also a solo Israeli woman on a motorbike and a young German bikepacker who rolled in looking equal parts wrecked and hopeful.

Because there were only a few of us, the Israeli couple decided to cook dinner for everyone. Just like that. No fuss. No expectation. Food appeared, chairs got shuffled, laughter found its way in.

It’d been a while since we’d really connected with people, not just shared a campsite, but actually shared a night. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed it until I felt it again. Patagonia has a way of stripping you back, then quietly giving you exactly what you need.

Today we earned a certificate. And honestly? It felt bigger than a piece of paper.

We cycled the 7km out to the official end of the Carretera Austral, hugging the waterfront as glaciers stood sentinel across the water, silent and ancient. They didn’t cheer exactly more but they bore witness.

At the end of the road sits a big wooden sign, bold and final. Fin de la Carretera Austral. We leaned our bikes against it, took photos, then stood there a bit longer than necessary. There was a weight to it. A pause. This wasn’t just a road ending, it was a chapter closing.

I think we were both a bit emotional. Not sobbing, not dramatic, just that quiet internal swell that comes when you realise you’ve actually done the thing you said you’d do.

Back in Villa O’Higgins we marched into the info centre with our photographic proof and were issued official certificates of achievement. We were absurdly stoked. Like kids being handed gold stars.

That night, because it was just us and the Israeli couple at camp, I cooked dinner for everyone. Good people, those two. Mathis and I share the same slightly warped sense of humour, which makes conversation effortless and dangerous.

I rang Dad and Annie to say Merry Christmas early, knowing we’d be out of range on the big day once the cruise starts. Patagonia doesn’t really care about calendars, but it felt good to connect to home before heading further into the wild.

We started the day with good intentions. Slow intentions. We’d promised ourselves we’d ease up from here.

And then Patagonia laughed!

Leaving Villa O’Higgins after a food restock, the weather looked manageable overcast, a cool bit of breeze, nothing dramatic. We rode for an hour to the lake edge and stopped for lunch. Windy, yes. Cold, sure. But still enjoyable. Mountains reflecting in steel-grey water, sandwiches eaten with numb fingers.

Twenty kilometres later we reached a roadside picnic shelter by a waterfall. It was 3pm. Light drizzle. The odd icy gust. We could have stayed.

But we’d remembered there was another shelter by a lake.

“Only 7km away.”

Cwe the Tuis ad, 'Yeah right!'

It was 17 we worked out later. And every one of those kilometres came with a headwind sharp enough to cut skin. Rain turned heavy and icy, driven sideways into our faces. The granite walls around us exploded with fresh waterfalls, newly born from the storm, beautiful in a way that didn’t give a damn about comfort.

Trees blurred past. Fingers went numb. My face lost all sensation. Time stretched.

When we finally hit the lakeside shelter, we moved like emergency responders. Wet gear off. Dry layers on. Tent up fast. Maree reheated last night’s leftovers while I stamped life back into my feet.

Once the blood returned, we could finally appreciate where we were. The lake. The mountains. The wild contradiction of suffering your way into somewhere breathtaking.

We woke to horizontal rain hammering down the road like it had personal beef with cyclists.

No rush today. We stayed buried in our sleeping bags, sipping coffee, watching the storm throw itself around.

When it eased, we packed up. Only 20km today.

Let’s not jinx it by calling it easy.

Fresh snow dusted the granite giants above us, the air sharp and clean. We’d learned our lesson from yesterday and layered up properly, which creates its own problems. Climbing hills turns you into a human sauna. Descending turns you into a Wim Hof experiment.

At lunch we stopped at a small shelter just as the weather cleared. Clouds lifted theatrically to reveal a massive glacier, glowing quietly like it knew exactly how impressive it was.

Back on the bikes and, of course, the weather folded back in. Frosty rain. Violent gusts. I started riding on the opposite side of the road because the wind kept shoving my bike toward the edge. On one side: a steep drop into nothing. On the other: potential overlanders.

Which would I prefer? Cliff or car? Patagonia keeps you sharp.

That night we camped at another covered picnic shelter, tucked into trees at the top of a hill. Protected. Safe. Fire lit. Life good.

Then a small dog appeared.

Then another.

Then another.

Then two bikepackers arrived, a Spanish couple travelling with three dogs. Absolute legends. The dogs were calm, gentle, well-trained. Better behaved than most humans I’ve met on the road.

We shared stories, laughter, and the kind of warmth that only comes when strangers meet after hard days and realise they’re speaking the same language.

Our tent became a petting zoo overnight.

First, one of the Spanish couple’s puppies wriggled its way into my sleeping bag and decided this was now its home. No arguments. Just acceptance.

Then, while packing up, I pulled Maree’s sleeping bag out and a tiny frog hopped free. How long it had been in there? No idea.

We said goodbye to our five new friends, they headed south, we headed north. The morning was icy but dry. Strong gusts still throwing their weight around. We climbed our final hill under fresh snow-dusted peaks before dropping back into bushland toward Río Bravo, where we’d catch the ferry to Puerto Yungay.

On the ferry, we felt like royalty because we were the only passengers. Crowns promptly removed once we hit the open fjord. The wind tore through us with zero mercy. No shelter. Just us huddled in a corner pretending warmth was a concept that still existed.

At Puerto Yungay, the café lady spotted us immediately. Two soaked, shivering targets. She charged us a small fortune for hot chocolates and we would’ve paid double. Worth every peso.

That night’s accommodation was a small waiting room. Three overlanders were parked up for the next day’s ferry, so we shared wine, stories, and laughter until the rain returned and chased us all indoors.

We set up camp inside the building, sleeping area, kitchen, the works. Not glamorous. But dry. Safe. And exactly where we needed to be the night before boarding our Christmas cruise.