Ushuaia is the southernmost city in the world, wedged between the mountains of the Magallanes–Fagnano fault and the Beagle Channel. We arrived early on a Monday morning and built our bicycles outside the airport terminal. It was an Argentinian public holiday and we watched a military parade in the centre of town.

The next few days were spent collecting supplies, checking the bikes and exploring Tierra del Fuego National Park.

Lago Roca in Tierra del Fuego National Park

Lago Roca in Tierra del Fuego National Park

Departing Ushuaia, we passed through industrial areas of little scenic merit. At the edge of the urban zone, we passed through a police check point and then a series of roadside shrines. Then there were no more buildings and the mountains opened up before us.

On Ruta 3 from Ushuaia

On Ruta 3 from Ushuaia

I soon caught up with a couple of cycle tourists who had also commenced their trip that morning. Facu and Lau from Buenos Aires are cycling the length of Argentina’s Route 40 (https://www.facebook.com/suenosruta).

Facundo and Laura

Facundo and Laura

We cycled in a staggered progression to Garibaldi pass and then descended together.

The peloton swells

The peloton swells

Searching for a place to camp, the banks of lago Escondido were boggy and full of scrub. I pulled into a roadside restaurant to ask for recommendations and Pedro recommended we camp right there by his lake, “Es muy tranquilo”.

The peloton camps with a vista tranquila.

The peloton camps with a vista tranquila.

Day two, destination Tolhuin. Jesse told me that this town had a casa de ciclistas located inside the town bakery.

I rolled into town, eyes open for a bakery that looked like it might house cyclists. Almost immediately, a man hailed me over and asked if I wished to stay the night. Emilio ran the bakery and was the patron of the casa de ciclista. He passed me to Sebastian, a German who had cycled from his home country to Indonesia and then from Buenos Aires to Ushuaia. He had been at the bakery for 7 months, making bread and practicing Spanish.

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Sebastian the baking German

I wheeled my bike through the store room, bags of flour stacked above my head. The walls of the bedroom were covered in messages from years of touring cyclists. There was a closet of abandoned gear to sift through and drawers of maps and hand written notes. We sat in the bakery and filled up on empanadas and Budweiser.

Staying in a bakery

Staying in a bakery

The notes left by previous cyclists provided hints for places to stay north of the bakery. We left Tolhuin and headed for a camp ground half way to Rio Grande.

The mountains had faded away and now, in the pampas, we were at the mercy of the strong winds of Tierra del Fuego. Towards the afternoon Jesse hitched a lift in Fernando’s truck.

Jesse escapes the breeze

Jesse escapes the breeze

It was tough cycling while fighting the wind, but I had not yet decided whether I would cycle the continent or accept lifts along the way.

I arrived at the campground – the private property of an interesting individual called Mario. The house and yard were built by his hand, a two story tower to survey his land. I saw a skinned fox hanging in a tree, it may also have been on barbecue.

I pitched camp and it was good to be out of the wind.

Camp at Mario's

Camp at Mario’s

We departed early the next morning, intent on avoiding the worst of the wind. Our efforts were in vain.

For long stretches of the day I was reduced to walking my bicycle on the side of the road. At times the gusts were so strong, I could not even manage that. It was one of the hardest days of cycle touring I’ve experienced to date.

In the afternoon, I noticed several mountain bikers on the parallel dirt track. Ahead I saw their support vehicles on the side of the road, hazard lights flashing. I had inadvertently joined a bike race and it gave me to motivation to push hard to Rio Grande. A support vehicle pulled up alongside me and handed me a chocolate bar.

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Joining the race

Mercifully, I turned towards Rio Grande and had the wind at my back for the last ten kilometers. A hostel in town offered us a 4 person room at dormitory price and we were only too happy to accept.

The wind did not let up the next day and we decided to take a rest until it subsided. We were invited to join the hostel owners and some of the guests in a great cook up, we spent the night consuming excessive amounts of asado and vino tinto.

The Argentinian and Brazilian family

The Argentinian and Brazilian family

The next day we were on our way to the Argentina – Chile border. The wind had dropped to nothing and we were powered by the previous night’s feast.

Lonesome

Lonesome

We made the 80km quickly and installed ourselves in the waiting room of the border checkpoint for the night.

Sleeping at the border

Sleeping at the border

We had our passports stamped the next morning and headed towards the Chilean control point. The road was unsealed and trucks rumbled past, covering us in dust.

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The guards on the Chilean border were friendly, not bothering to search or scan our bags and even giving Jesse’s horn a honk. We were somewhat disappointed when we realised that the dirt road would continue all the way to Porvenir, some 150km further.

The skies were clear, but the scenery dull. Regular guanaco and fox sightings kept us entertained when we weren’t honking our horns at sheep and cows.

Breakfast of the fox

Breakfast of the fox

Guanacos

Guanacos

It was a long day, we cycled until after sunset and travelled almost 100km on dirt roads. Jesse was out of sorts from such an innings, so I cooked us dinner to try and smooth things over.

Our accommodation for the night was a cosy bus shelter, a yellow Tardis. We squeezed in together and my feet stuck out the doorway.

We all live in a yellow submarine

The banana stand

The following morning, I used the last of my water in my breakfast muesli. To get more I would need to visit an estancia, hail down a passing car or purify water from one of the creeks running through a paddock. It wasn’t a pressing issue and I set off for the day.

Nearing the twenty kilometer mark, the road passed close to Estancia Draga and I rolled the bike over the stock grid and up to the main homestead. The estancia was a scattering of white washed cottages and sheds with red roofs. There were plenty of sheep and dogs about but no people.

Eventually I saw a figure in blue coveralls appear from behind a cottage, walking towards a shed. I hailed him over, bottles in hand and asked for a drop of agua. He looked at me suspiciously, then took me to the back side of the cottage where he had been digging a trench. It was full of brown water which he pointed to and said ‘agua’.

Luckily this was just his work for the day – a pipe had burst and he was conducting repairs. He took me into the kitchen of the spartan cottage and loaded the stove with wood. He placed a kettle and large blue casserole dish on the stove and we sat together, discussing farm life in Tierra del Fuego and many other topics that I could not comprehend with my lacklustre Spanish.

The soup was clear with noodles and mutton fresh from the farm. There were bread rolls and instant coffee. We fell into an easy silence, looking out the kitchen window over the paddocks and across the ocean to snow capped mountains.

Juan

Juan

Juan's stove, oveja sopa and trying Felix out for size

Juan’s stove, oveja sopa and trying Felix out for size

I bid farewell to Juan and cruised along the coast with a big grin. Three sheep ran along the road and I herded them for several kilometres.

herding

The road dropped down next to the ocean and from a shack, a bearded figure called out “cafe y comida?” Not five kilometres had passed and I was going to have my second lunch for the day!

Carlo the fisherman

Carlo with the catch of the day

The walls of his cottage were lined with tools and books. He had diaries full of entries from touring cyclists that he had met and fed over the years. For me he cooked chicken soup, pan fried eggs and a couple of coffees.

Carlo's stove and eggs

Carlo’s stove and eggs

I saw his nets, lines and crab traps. He fished the ocean for kingfish now, but had spent time on the rivers of Tierra del Fuego searching for trout. He had been a footballer in Porvenir, but at 66, his boots now hang unused on the wall. There were vegetable gardens and a cat called Mio.

When I got back on the bike, the sun was shining and the road hugged the edge of the coast. Sheep and guanacos ran before me, to my left was the ocean and snow capped peaks beyond. Music blasted in my headphones and I stood on my pedals as I flew down hills and yelled at the sky.

sweep

Hugging the coast

The bitumen roads at Porvenir were a delight after 150kms of vibration. Searching in town for unprotected WiFi, I caught up with Jesse who was out on a stroll. He had organised to stay at the local firehouse (bomberos) and we set up our tents in their backyard.

Staying with the Bomberos

Staying with the Bomberos

The fire station was manned by three volunteer firefighters, who managed three engines and an ambulance between them. Not surprisingly, there was a burnt out building one block down the road.

We spent our last evening drinking cerveza and tinto while watching a football match on TV with the locals. The next day, we loaded our bikes and headed out to port. A short ferry trip later and we arrived in mainland South America.

Ferry

So ended our time in Tierra del Fuego. We began our journey at the end of the world and now the entire Americas lie before us.

The route through Tierra del Fuego

The route through Tierra del Fuego


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