Having shared the ride across Tierra del Fuego, Jesse and I now said (a temporary) farewell and left each other to ride at our own paces. He was held up in Punta Arenas for a few days while organising replacement parts for equipment that had failed on the bumpy roads, so I forged ahead. The hostel supplied a frankfurt-filled breakfast burrito for sustenance.

Immediately out of Punta Arenas, the scenery was uninspiring. I passed by minefields that had not been cleared and took refuge in bus shelters when they appeared. I camped on the side of the road one night, on a river by a Carabinero station the next. In the shallow lakes I saw my first flamingos and gauchos patrolled the perimeters of their estancias on horseback, dogs orbiting excitedly.

On the third day to Puerto Natales, the wind picked up to a gale. Several climbs and over 100km of riding would be required to reach town in one day. At 70km, I decided to push all the way and was rewarded with a big descent from the pampas to the coast. I was rewarded again with a dorm room to myself and a queen bed. In typical fashion, I over-indulged in empanadas.

Took a rest day in town and bought a week’s worth of food to take to Torres del Paine. While shopping, I became light headed and felt like passing out; the wind had really exhausted me. I offloaded more weight in Puerto Natales – books to the hostel and clothing to charity. I think by the time I reach the Andes, I will have reduced my baggage to a space blanket and toothbrush.

The road was sealed out of Puerto Natales until a left hand turn took me into the dirt and views of snow topped mountains. The road wound through these picturesque mountains and valleys; I didn’t have enough arms to hold all the cameras at once. A wooden bus shelter appeared, the inside of which looked like a chalet you might find in the European Alps. I filled my bottles at a nearby stream and settled in for the night.

Despite the shelter’s nice appearance, it was a fairly sleepless night on account of the howling wind and lack of door on the shelter. The small sign in the shelter that provided information on the Patagonian puma only contributed a little to the sleeplessness.

The following morning, the scenery improved with each kilometre. On every climb, I could see more of Torres del Paine looming in the distance and it was spectacular.

Once inside the park, the roads became very corrugated and upon arrival at camp, I spent some time tightening nuts, bolts and spokes. Tony from Canada and Roland from Germany were also cycle touring in the region and shared some tips for the road ahead.

Again I found that I was exhausted from the ride, so I spent a day walking in the park and even indulged in a siesta. On the following day I rode east through the park to the campground at the start of the walk to the famous Torres del Paine. For once the wind was behind me, but the road was of such poor quality that it was still difficult to remain upright and not roll off the edge. Herds of guanacos watched me stumble and fall over.

I negotiated with the campground staff to leave my panniers in their hut while I walked up into the mountains to camp. The bike would stay outside, locked to a tree.

The walk up to the base of the torres crosses rivers of snow melt, suspension bridges and rickety wooden constructions. Tracks are cut across wide sections of scree and tourists on horses barge down the narrow trail, threatening to knock you over. I saw a kaleidoscope of travellers in shiny new adventure clothes, buffs and trekking poles. #adventure.

I pitched my tent at Campamento Torres, which was truly serene. Cleared spaces for tents set amongst the trees, a stream ran through the centre of camp. The forest cut the wind to nothing, but it was pleasant to hear it whistling in the branches above, while the stream babbled nearby.

Most of my gear was left in the tent; I took on the essentials to the top – cameras, rain jacket, water bottle and a tin of beer. The trail traversed a large region of boulders, and it reminded me strongly of the ascent of Cradle Mountain in Tasmania. The view at the top has been extensively photographed and I present only this uninspired photo of my beer. It tasted pretty good after chilling in the glacial pool for twenty minutes.

Returned to camp and spent a challenging afternoon alternating between reading, eating and napping.

The following day, I returned to the bike and spent the afternoon giving it some TLC. I would need more food before El Chalten (a 3-4 day ride, more if bad wind) and the poorly stocked park kiosks were charging $10 for a loaf of bread. Roland and Tony (those other bike tourists) had individually told me that there was and was not food available at the border town Cerro Castillo.

I decided to gamble, and headed to the border anyway. At worst, I would just ride or hitchhike back to Puerto Natales and spend a day or two in the process.

There was no wind on the day I left the park, which made an immense difference. I could make my normal distances again with little effort. I saw multitudes of guanacos, a rhea ostrich sprinted past me and I glimpsed my first armadillo.

There is not much roadkill in this part of the world (relative to Australia anyway), but there are regular sightings of poor guanacos that didn’t quite make the jump.

I arrived in Cerro Castillo and the gamble paid off. Store called ‘El Pionero’ with everything I needed at reasonable prices. I rode into town and camped in a backyard with a dog and a couple of cats.

After crossing the border, I eventually re-joined Ruta 40; a sealed road. The kilometres fell away and I stopped at a bus stop and had lunch with a teacher and students that were leaving an estancia. I met an Aussie couple in a kombi and left my sticker amongst the multitudes.

Ahead was a remote dirt road shortcut with nothing on it, so I loaded with water and headed out into the blazing afternoon sun. I could see strange bicycle tracks in the dirt; there appeared to be two wheel marks in parallel, rather than two in series.

Eventually I saw a figure in the distance, but could not quite make out what it was. As I drew nearer, I could see a man walking along with a cart trailing behind him!

Masahito is walking from Ushuaia to Ecuador and has already walked some 50,000km all around the world. Truly an inspiring dude.

I rode a bit further and camped in an grim section of old road works. The next morning, the cart’s wheel tracks were already laid out and it was about 20km before I caught Masa again. It is my impression that he walks for at least 12 hours a day.

I stopped at a road maintenance building when I re-joined the sealed road and although it had been a slow morning, Mario encouraged me to get to El Calafate in one day (90km further, 1230pm at this point). His vigorous hand gestures and blowing wind sounds hinted at a rapid and lengthy descent, so I turned the hams into high gear and went for it.

I rolled up and down the hills until I came to a very promising sign.

It was glorious. Winding descent at 60km/h with Lago Argentina and mountains growing larger before me. I shouted hello at a cyclist struggling up the hill, but did not stop. Some days you’re the bird, some you’re the worm.

Pushed and pushed and managed to arrive and set up my tent in El Calafate just before the rain kicked in. Hot shower, excessive quantities of food, beer and WiFi was a great reward for some 126km.

Day spent completing life administration and another day spent visiting the Perito Moreno glacier. I opted for the (expensive) bus in lieu of cycling 160km there and back, but the glacier is truly a remarkable sight and well worth the luxury of a bus trip.

I stared at the ice for about five hours, adjourning to the café only briefly to have a whiskey over glacial ice.

Back in town, I met Benoit from France who had departed Ushuaia on bike at a similar date to Jesse and I, but had yet to run into us. He mentioned that he had seen either Jesse or I passed out on the side of the road somewhere on a day he hitchhiked due to wind.

As I was leaving the next morning, four other touring cyclists appeared. Actually turned out to be Morgan and friends from the UK, who I had been in contact with before the trip.

Ride out of El Calafate was with the wind, but instantly became difficult when I turned North towards El Chalten. Passed Kate from the UK and Jeremy from France both heading in the other direction and probably enjoying the tail wind.

Spent the night on the river by an abandoned restaurant.

On the second day from El Calafate, the scenery was fine, but the wind had returned with a vengeance. The last 80km to El Chalten is directly into the wind, with no protection or relief.

At 6pm I stopped at Estancia Santa Margarita and filled my water bottles. The men sat around the kitchen in faded corduroy and berets. They took on a serious demeanour when I entered the kitchen in my khaki shirt and unbelievably short AFL shorts.

Bernard let me camp across the road in a horse pen. The hay and horse manure made for very comfortable ground to sleep on, but I was kept awake by the adjacent kennel of dogs which barked and howled all night.

The sun came up at 6am and with it, the wind. I knew it would be a tough day of riding, but I had no idea how tough. Although I only had 46km to ride, it took me close to eight hours to arrive in El Chalten.

The day started with clear skies, and in spite of the sunscreen, my legs got burned. Next the wind kicked up a dust storm and I had to pull my buff over my mouth and nose to breathe, but my eyes suffered in the grit. The skies darkened and I felt drops of rain whip me at tremendous speed. For a time I rode in rain jacket and gloves only, as the rain was refreshing on my sun burned legs. Soon the temperature dropped dramatically and I wore waterproof trousers also.

When I arrived in town, I was shivering heavily and could not feel my fingers and toes. At the hostel, I removed my boots to find my smaller toes a waxy white and it took some time for blood flow to resume.

Some days you’re the bird, some days you’re the worm.

I will spend some days relaxing and hiking in El Chalten before the famous border crossing to Villa O’Higgins involving two ferries and pushing my loaded bike up a difficult walking trail. From there I will cycle the legendary Carretera Austral and make my way North in Chile.