The cordillera turns off the
water. The pampas begins without apology. The guanacos roam freely and run alongside, leap fences
and moan like donkeys. The wind begins but embraces you as a great friend you
had thought dead and so in relief you ride in the wind in a new comfort, you
sleep well as it shakes your tent, you know how to hold your belongings lest
this new resurrection take what probably isn’t yours anyway.
Past Lago Viedma, past Lago
Argentina, aside Rio La Leona at camp one night, aside Rio Santa Cruz next to
an abandoned home the next, and in Calafate, where after a thorough searching
by the police, we arrived in a tranquil town, empty of tourists. We fix our bikes and dry our clothes. We look
at the map and see the ripio ahead and the river crossing for water. Food will
be easy, and we each carry 4 days of food and plenty of fuel for the stoves. We
may well sail easy to Rio Gallegos across Ruta 40. Yet Ruta 40 heads to La
Esperanza and then back west over Ripio to Rio Turbio and there will be wind
and it will be pushing us back. From Rio Turbio it should push at our backs
over ripio to Rio Gallegos, yet over this stretch we will need to carry 3 days
of food and use the rivers for water as it is desolate.
We rode through dry and
sunny pampa that day and the sun shined on the golden, dry terrain. There were
barren rolling hills and some mild climbs. The river and wind had eroded sides
of the mountain and the shapes were soft. I didn’t mind what many call the
monotony of the pampas. But I was torn and frustrated by the monotony of the
riding—the pavement allows a man to worry about things that didn’t matter in
the ripio—his back, his neck, his gear, the remaining distance, what he will do
when he arrives, his lack of money. In the ripio I was happy when my bicycle
and body survived each day. Perhaps the jolting ripio massaged the neck and
shoulders and body and it could sleep soundly each day after the massage.
Perhaps there was more beauty and wonder amidst the ripio.
At Rio La Leona I climbed out of the
tent and made yerba mate for myself and bid Carlos good morning and told him
there was hot water for the morning mate, but he wanted to sleep. I spoke with
the Czech cyclists about food and wind and water South, and gave them advice
about riding North. One of the two had broken a bolt on his rear rack on his
rear dropout. I told him he could temporarily repair the bolt with zip ties and
string but he would have to drill out the bad bolt in Chalten and replace with
another bolt and locknut. It was wise advice given to me from a great and wise
explorer. The two Czechs had mountain bikes with suspension but had too much
gear. What was worse, they had all their gear on their rear racks. This is the
strange tradeoff with front suspension—less pounding on the ripio in front, but
disaster in back. Better to distribute the weight.
We stopped for tortas fritas that morning and the two of us finished 4 of them and spoke to the
woman and she explained the Parada La Leona had been around for 100 years,
Butch Cassidy had stopped by nearly 100 years earlier, and that the name came
from the puma who had attacked Franscico Perito Moreno. There is a famous
glacier named after the man, as well as a pueblo. Ferrari, the great climber
who first ascended the Torre peak
of Fitz Roy, lived nearby
at Punta del Lago.
cooked spagetti and drank yerba mate and the
sky never faulted light and the moon quickly rose in a large stare over the
tents. I awoke at 2:30 that morning to look outside. I saw the yellow leaves
shining white and thought it odd that it had snowed and I had missed it. Yet I
looked above and the moon shone brightly above, its light reflecting off the
white stone of the abandoned house and the pale yellow of the leaves covering
the ground. I didn’t need light to read, yet I went back to sleep. Soon I awoke
again and was too warm. I took off the thermal pants and the thermal shirt and
opened up the side window vents and took off my wool socks. Soon after I was
cold, closed the window vents, and cinched up the top portion of my sleeping
bag. Every night I am humbled by the elements.
I arose from my tent at 8:20 and put on the
thermal pants and thermal shirt, thermal hat and balaclava. I took photographs
over the next two hours of the sunrise and the river and the rolling hills with
the small tufts of grass. Carlos began to sing Elvis “We can’s go on together,
with suspicious lies,” and I remembered the day he played Elvis from his
speakers on the Carretera Austral. He said he used to whistle at work, and they
asked him if he was from the campo. In the campo, the people whistle, there is
music in their hearts.
“El oro es la plata, juevon.” Carlos was right.
The Spanish came for the gold, as the gold was the money. They didn’t come for
a new culture or to learn a new trade. The came for the thing they could use to
buy other things and control power by using gold or money. Money doesn’t just
separate men from other men, it isn’t used just to gain distance from or
advantage over other men—verily, it is also used to kill other men. It is a
reason to kill other men and a great palliative in the act of murder.
The sun shone strongly and heated the air and by
10:30 it was warm again. I cooked oatmeal and powdered milk and Carlos prepared
hot water for the yerba mate. I washed in the river. Later I washed the pot in
river and filtered two liters of water from the Rio Santa Cruz. There was a
dirt road along the river and there were a few trees and I followed the road
and walked along the river and it ran strongly in a murky emerald.
Then it was a short 40km ride to Calafate, a
stop for food and repairs only. An old toothless man spoke about the new
world boxing champion, Maravilla, how if you looked at the men in Argentina,
there would always be a world champion.
