Chaiten to Route x50

Waking up to beachfront accommodation, even if it’s gorse-framed, slaps a smile on your face before you’re even fully conscious.

We hit the road, rolling through deep green bush with everything smelling alive after the cool night. Didn’t take long before Patagonia gave us another smack in the gob! We rounded a corner to see a massive granite mountain looming in the distance, with a glacier stuffed into its ravine like someone had wedged it there during construction.

And that pretty much set the tone for the morning. More slap-after-slap glacier views. Every corner: boom. Another monster.

We arrived at an orange one-way suspension bridge and crossed over the tranquil river. On the other side, we followed a 4x4 track down to a perfect picnic spot. Maree, in all her wisdom, decided this was the moment to “freshen up.” Glacier-fed water. I watched her backtrack her confidence in real time. I stuck to bathing in my own sweat, warmer, familiar, less traumatic.

The arvo had us cruising through farmland pocketed with native bush. Finding a sneaky camp here takes work, unlike home, forest here is fenced and very much private.

Eventually we found a small flat spot halfway up a grunt hill. A wee plateau tucked into the roadside bush, just enough space for us and our sanity.

As we settled in, I noticed a giant cliff across the river staring down at us, striped and layered like an ancient seabed frozen in rock. This place is a geological amusement park. Every corner, every valley, something wild is going on.

We climbed away from that ancient seabed this morning, legs already grumbling before breakfast. As soon as we rounded the first bend, another granite giant slapped us 'good morning', glacier included.

At the top, we snaked along the hillside in stunned silence. Then we saw it, a slow-moving avalanche in the distance. Just a gentle slide, eerie and but beautiful. Like nature shrugging her shoulders.

Later I got the sads thinking we were cycling through a huge deforested area… only to realise it wasn’t logging at all. A massive chunk of mountainside had given way sometime in the past, probably a lake bursting through and annihilating the valley below. Nature’s version of redecorating.

Patagonia is an undulating beast, and our tired legs have started their own little protest. Groaning on the ups, whooping on the downs. Proper emotional support legs.

By afternoon we rolled into more farmland bordered by thick bush stretching right up the mountainsides. Another orange suspension bridge appeared, and another 4x4 track delivered us to a brilliant camp spot by the river. A few locals were hanging out enjoying the last sun of the day, and none were bothered by two cyclists setting up shop.

Then the police arrived mid-dinner. My heart sank, but they were friendly, chatty, and just wanted our passports. They told us everything was all good. Later, around 11pm, they drove by again, not to move us on, just checking we were safe.

Can’t complain about that kind of neighbourhood watch.

This morning was a first for the entire trip, waking in a tent to actual rain. That soft patter on the fly. God, I love that sound.

We’d decided tomorrow would be “Jesus Day", it would be Sunday after all. So today we packed up in the rain and pedalled the 2km into La Junta. We found a pergoda in the main square and brewed up breakfast like a couple of damp strays.

By the time we finished, the rain had eased, so we hit the road again toward Puyuhuapi, only 40km away but with enough undulations to remind us who’s boss.

Cycling out of La Junta felt exactly like riding the stretch between Whataroa and Franz Josef, farmland giving way to thick West Coast bush with giant mountains pushing up behind it.

The highlight of the day was riding beside Lago Risopatrón, a long misty lake sitting in wetlands, wrapped in bush and those trademark granite monsters. You couldn’t script it better.

We rolled into Puyuhuapi and found a campground run by an elderly couple. Each tent site had its own covered shelter, absolute luxury. We picked the best spot: tucked in the corner, just a short step into the communal kitchen shed complete with bathroom. Basically motel living… sort of.

Everyone else had wandered to the back camping area, leaving us with a quiet wee realm of our own.

Now it’s refuel time. My hunger has reached full hungry-caterpillar mode. On the road you ration, but on rest days? You feast. And I intend to eat my way right through tomorrow.

There’s something about the sound of rain on a tin roof that settles my whole body. That’s how I woke this morning—rain gently strumming a melody on the roof of our tent shelter. We’d already decided this was a rest day, so I silently told the sky, *rain away.

I got up and made us coffee to drink in our warm slumber. No rush. No schedule. Just the delicious permission to be still.

I’m a morning person though, and after a while the twitchiness set in. Maree kept snoozing, so I wandered off to do some diary work. Even though I write daily, it still takes time to make it readable and get it online. With no WiFi for well over a week, I had catching up to do. The WiFi here? Think 1998 dial-up with a Chilean accent.

I started my day of eating with canned peaches, yoghurt and rice-bubble-lookalikes, followed by boiled eggs. I’d had my heart set on cheese and ham toasties—dreams of melting through a loaf of GF bread—but all three randomly stocked food markets yesterday betrayed me. I was teased in Puerto Montt with a GF loaf, and now here I am… toast-less.

Our ramshackle shed makes the perfect lounge. We sit, watch the slow street theatre outside, pat the local cat, and eat like hobbits.

We talked about the trip—laughed, romanticised, and then played the honest cards. We need space sometimes. Not a break, just the normal life stuff real couples get—time in separate rooms, separate interests, a breather. Ten months of being together 24/7 means we pick at each other now and then. Nothing bad. Just… human.

Our bodies are tired too. Even after days—or weeks—off, the fatigue sits deep. Lucky we carved out enough time here in Patagonia that we don’t have to push too hard. Touch wood.

We ended the day with nachos, and I fell asleep with a belly full of warmth.

Today felt different right from the start. A lot of this adventure I’ve been the driver—the motivator—pushing us toward the numbers we need depending on terrain and weather. Maree can pedal hard, but I’m the one who tends to set the pace.

But now that we only need around 35 km a day to reach Ushuaia—something we do in our sleep—I decided to kick back. More stops. More “owh, look at that!” moments. More being.

And it’s like the universe said, “About time, love,” because within the first hour we rounded a bend and saw dolphins. Four of them, playing in the water like it was all for us. So of course we stopped. You can’t pedal past dolphins.

Later we pulled into a wee rock beach for a snack. A salmon farm sat offshore with a big beast of a seal posing on it like the world’s laziest supermodel.

Cold day. Rain threatening. But by lunchtime the weather settled into that perfect grey Patagonia mood. We left the fiord and followed a clear river that beckoned us to sit beside its bushy edges for lunch.

We had a pass to climb, but Maree’s knee was yelling at her. We’d hit 40 km anyway, so we rolled down the road and found a bridge over the river.

So tonight? We’re trolls under the bridge again—this one with a flat platform high off the river where the tent fits perfectly. A bit of shelter from the rain coming in. The trucks and buses will clank overhead, but they’ll fade at dark.

The trolls were a bit miffed when they woke under their bridge this morning—both of us weirdly weary despite yesterday’s dozing.

Coffee and breakfast sorted us. Our bridge did us proud; it rained through the night and into the morning, but we stayed dry in our 5-star concrete accommodation.

We rugged up and cycled straight into the hill we’d camped beneath. Cycling uphill in rain gear is brutal—you turn into a mobile sauna, but stripping layers means you freeze instantly. Pick your misery.

Maree’s knee hated the climbing, so she soon switched to pushing. I stayed in the saddle, stubbornly pedalling even as snails overtook me.

I pushed ahead, but not wanting to get too far away, I eventually stopped under a tree—pretending it sheltered me, even though it didn’t. After too much shivering, I decided walking back to Maree was the only way to warm up. I dumped my bike in the ditch and wandered downhill until I found her still pushing.

“Knee sore, luv?”

“Only when I cycle,” she grinned.

I gave her chocolate and took her bike for a push. A white ute rolled up—French couple. I waved them down.

“Are you alright?” the woman asked.

Explained the knee. Asked if Maree and her bike could get a lift to the top.

And that was the last I saw of Maree…

Well, until twenty minutes later when I reached the top and there she was, smiling like the Queen of Patagonia.

The descent was slick but stunning. Waterfalls spilled out of places that definitely don’t have waterfalls when it’s dry. Bush gleamed in the rain. Everything felt alive.

Then came lunch.

Shelter #1: poo in the bus stop.

Shelter #2: poo under the bridge.

Shelter #3: poo in the roadside picnic hut.

People. I swear.

The picnic-hut poo was dry and crusty. Maree gagged. I still had gloves on so, with the precision of a bomb technician, I picked the chod up and lobbed it down the bank. I just wanted a dry place to eat my sandwich.

The afternoon gave us confusing wind, occasional showers, random sunbursts. Then the scenery turned wild again—dragon-toothed rock peaks on one side, distant granite mountains with glaciers clinging to their flanks on the other. My senses couldn’t keep up.

Tonight we’re camped by a lake at a picnic spot. Fire going. Looking across steep green bush-clad slopes. My heart warm—and not just from the flames.

I’m starting today with a rant because this has been building. Yesterday wasn’t the first time we found human poo in shelters or left out in the open. Who does that?

You wouldn’t go wine-tasting and take a dump in the vineyard gazebo.

You wouldn’t poo in a wedding reception marquee.

You wouldn’t crouch in the town bus stop and drop a log before catching the 9:45.

So why do it in the wilds?

The lake we camped beside yesterday was stunning—breathtaking, even—and the loo paper trail was insane. People need to learn how to poo outside without leaving anything. The Carretera Austral is littered with toilet paper confetti. Same problem back home.

I’ve cycled across South America for ten months. You’ll struggle to find my poo. I’m proud of my poo care.

Anyway. Change of topic.

More dragon-tooth peaks today—this time looking like the dragon cracked open beer bottles with its molars. The Carretera Austral is endless undulations. Yesterday was the steep stuff. Today was gentler rolling hills—downs that cruise you halfway up the next up.

We just rolled with it.

Ten kilometres out of Villa Manihuales I waited for Maree. Should we eat at the bus stop or roll into the village for a proper treat?

Village treat, obviously. Except we couldn’t decide on a place, so we ended up buying picnic food and eating in the bus stop anyway. Classy girls.

Then the rain came properly—cold, heavy sheets. I enjoy this kind of weather; it activates the part of me that loves a challenge. The “we keep going until we find a spot” instinct.

After 20 km of wetness we found a rough 4x4 track down to the river—willows waving, lupins everywhere. Perfect.

We got the tent up, changed into warm clothes, and spent the afternoon making dinner, drinking hot drinks, and listening to the rain hammering down.