One method of reaching the southern terminus of the Carretera Austral is well known in cycle touring circles. It involves catching separate ferries across Lago Desierto and Lago O’Higgins, with a challenging overland trek in which the bike cannot be ridden.

Our bikes were strapped to the back of the small boat and we set out across Lago Desierto. I became alarmed midway through the voyage when I looked out the window to see we were headed directly towards the cliffs that border the lake. Turning to the captain, I saw that he was busy capturing a ‘selfie’ with some other passengers and had neglected to notice the boat’s new trajectory.

The only signs of civilisation at the north end of the lake are the border control building and a few huts that service the caretakers and gauchos. We had our passports stamped out of Argentina that evening and pitched our tents with a great view of Fitz Roy.

Next morning, we passed the few huts and immediately the climb began. The trail is a U-shaped trough which is barely wider than the panniers on either side of the bicycle. We alternated between pushing, pulling, lifting, grunting and swearing.

We were enjoying a nice view of Lago Desierto when several horses came thundering down the trail, followed by a cursing Gaucho and his dogs.

We lunched at the top, took our standard photos at the actual border and then rode down the gravel road that commences in Chile. The views here were also stunning.

After passport processing, I headed towards the campsite near the ferry terminal at Lago O’Higgins. Justa (the estancia matriarch) made me tea while she chased chickens out of her house and waited for her son to return from work. When Ricardo Gabriel did arrive, we went back to the campground and he went into the bushes near our tents.

I heard the sound of a ratchet emanating from the bushes and alerted the other campers to the enormous skinned cow that Ricardo was lowering from a tree like a spider on its web. We gathered around in awe as he expertly carved the animal into familiar cuts and threw scraps to his dogs.

We helped to hang the meat in his shed, and then he sold us six kilograms at A$4/kg. The fire was lit quickly and between the three English, French Greg, Jesse and me, there was not a scrap left.

We laid about the next day with nothing to do but wait for the afternoon ferry across Lago O’Higgins. It is a scenic voyage and afterwards, a short ride to Villa O’Higgins where we would commence the Carretera Austral.

We joined the Carreterra the next morning, and I was immediately impressed by the abundance of pristine rivers and cascading waterfalls that pepper the road. It is impossible to exhaust the novelty of stopping at the side of the road to fill your bottles from a waterfall, with no concern for purification.

In the evening, I shared a refugio with a cycling couple from Australia and read scribbled messages from previous cyclists by the flickering firelight.

The next day had two sections of hill climbs, a ferry crossing and fantastic scenery. I hit a soft section of road, falling off my bike and was later chased by dogs.

After almost 100km, I found a campsite and rolled in. I didn’t feel much like paying to camp, but the adjacent river and two month old puppy swung it for me. Vicente then invited me into his house and served me a tremendous meal of spaghetti and steaks from his farm.

The puppy was evidently being raised as an ‘outside dog’ because after I invited him into my tent, he did not leave me alone for the rest of the night or following morning.

Now the road meandered through forests and across bridges, but the corrugations were rattling my bike apart. I had broken one bottle cage already, and on this day a pannier fell off and spokes on my rear wheel loosened.

The Poms, French Greg, Jesse and I were all reunited this day in Cochrane. The English bikes had suffered worse than mine, and they had to bus ahead in order to get spare parts and repairs.

I continued on to Puerto Bertrand the following day and scouted for a place to camp. A rafting guide told me I could camp right by the lake and, upon seeing the cask of vino tinto strapped to my bike, told me to come around later for drinks.

After a dip in the lake, I headed over to the guide’s house and met some American ranch workers and friends of the Chilean river guides. They cooked us fresh salmon over the coals and the wine made the rounds.

I rode to Rio Tranquilo the following day and the brilliant scenery was in stark contrast to my gloomy hangover.


I was tired again the next day, but had a hard time determining if it was from riding too much or eating too much. Truly a tough life.

A French couple paused for a chat and told me that they had stopped earlier in the day at a house for coffee, but had found the people a bit strange. Some sort of cult they said. When I passed the hand painted sign saying ‘Jesu Christo’ and saw the man yelling and beckoning me from his balcony, I waved and pretended to not understand.

I found a nice spot to camp by a river and had a beer and fire.

Much of the Carretera Austral is undergoing significant roadwork and there were large sections of broken surface with trucks and excavators on the way to Cerro Castillo. Southbound cyclists had told me that they were stopped for hours while the road was dynamited, but since I was passing on a Saturday, there were no blasts.

Fortunately the scenery was still lovely.

In Cerro Castillo there was a party vibe; children wandering the streets, BBQs, live music and painted cars. It was day two of the Teletón, a Chilean fundraiser for children with disabilities.

I pulled into a campsite and was enthusiastically directed to some cordero asado al palo before one of the workers prepared a wood fired shower for me.

From Cerro Castillo, there was a rapid ascent up a series of switchbacks, followed a long descent out of the national park.

The wind picked up seriously for the first time since before El Chalten, and I laboured without enthusiasm until Coyhaique.

In Coyhaique I took a rest day to have my bike serviced and catch up on admin. Jesse arrived and we over-indulged in pizza and cervezas.

Did not start until after midday the following day. Just out of town, a ute pulled over and we got to chatting. Juan Claudio was a local fisherman, who invited me to visit his house for tea and fishing. I said I would arrive the following day, but was regrettably unable to find him.

I stopped at a café in a bus to quench my thirst, and the diminutive proprietor shook hands with me out the front.

The sun was burning and I stopped at a bridge to cool off in the river. On seeing a farm with a hammock between two trees, I immediately requested to camp.

Later in the evening, three men came near my tent and began butchering two sheep. I watched in fascination as they hoisted them over a branch and prepared them for the parilla.

When they had finished, I was invited into the house to eat with them. On the table was a tray full of fresh sheep blood. It had congealed slightly into a wobbling, jelly like mass and had been garnished with herb and lemon.

They tucked in with gusto and indicated for me to join them. Not wanting to be rude, I spooned a few gelatinous slabs onto my plate and ate them with a good squeeze of lemon. Needless to say, I won’t be rushing to try raw blood again.

When I returned to my tent, I found that the dogs had spread the contents of my panniers across the lawn and stolen my food.

The next day was spent meandering along rivers below the towering mountains around me. I pulled into a disused campground at about 7pm and was shortly joined by three other tourists from Germany, Italy and Montreal.

We had a swim in the lake, then set ourselves up in an abandoned cabin for the night.

Stefan was carrying a kilogram of fresh salmon (with cream). He truly knows how to live.

I bid farewell to the other gents the next morning and set off into an overcast day. There was a very steep pass in the afternoon and it began raining when I reached the top. My progress down was halted by roadworks and I was forced to stand in the rain until the reopened the road.

After descending the mountain, there was a camp by another lake, which turned into a stunner when the sun returned the next morning.

I stopped at a town called Puyuhuapi to get some food. My Carretera Austral notes indicate that this is a nice German heritage town that was good for a rest day. I found a deteriorating town by a lake you cannot swim in due to the dumping of sewage.

Actually, my perspective may have been skewed by a weird encounter with a local. As I left a shop he came up to me and spoke loudly, very close to my face. He had a wild look in his eyes and I couldn’t make out almost anything he was saying except ‘gringo’. Eventually he extended a hand and said ‘buen viaje’ but after I offered mine, he did not let go. We stood there clasping hands for more than a minute while he yelled undecipherable words 30cm from my face.

The sealed road started again about 30km from La Junta, and I shared dinner and drinks with other cyclists in the camp ground.

From La Junta, I will travel a little further north in Chile to the mighty river of Futaleufú, then cross the border once again to Argentina and head towards San Carlos de Bariloche.