The thin curtains that covered the dorm window were glowing bright and translucent.Thats what we needed to see.

Seconds later and we’d practically jumped out of bed and were throwing on our walking gear. We had no idea how long this bright spell would last and desperate to walk to the Fitz Roy…we wanted to take full advantage.

Extra layers, water bottles and provisions got thrown into small ruck-sacks and with two strong coffees swiftly downed we were off, with the hostel door still swinging behind us we headed for the hills and the start of the trail only 500 metres up the track.

The Sun was still coming up and hadn’t yet cleared the highest peaks. Soft morning light was turning the under-bellies of the few lingering clouds a delicate pink. This is exactly what we’d hoped for. Wet but firm muddy ground squelched under-foot as we entered the forest and made our way up the hillside. Bloody hell we’re so unfit. Within minutres we were puffing and panting like asthmatics on Everest. “Legs keep moving, legs keep moving”.

The large weather hewn mountain side made an impressive sillhoutte against the brightening skyline.

An hour later and we’d reached the first lookout. Scattered rock littered the hillside and aged-contorted silver barked trees stood like sentinels in agony. The snow covered peaks of the Fitz Roy were being illusive and after 45 mintes still hadn’t broken the petticoat covering of cloud that was skirting their knees.

To our left arm copper coloured forstation stretched out to ther nextsla of rock and mountain. A scene right from JR Tolkiens lord of the Rings Trilogy. Colour and texture in every direction. We ridden a long way to be here and were falling in love with the place and the whole experience. An ancient glaciar was snaking its way down from the peaks through an impossibly deep gulley and down to the lake edge, we could see in the distance. Time to move on.

Under the canopy of heavy limbed branches, the forest floor was covered in a brown-blonde carpet of corn flake confetti as the dark tree line shed it’s more delicate leaves.

After 3 hours of slow walking and picture taking, we’d skirted small lakes, tramped through rusty red forest and had at last reached the base of the Fitz Roy peaks in all their glory. Stubborn cloud was still clinging to the tops of the mountains teeth. We’d hoped for clear blue but actually…the cloudline just made the imagery all the more dramatic. The view is hypnotic, like watching the flames of a fire, always changing, contrasting shadows constantly moving over the harsh edges of the mountainside. We could have walked closer…but why? And so with a place chosen we slowly ate our packed lunch and snapped away with the cameras, hopeing vainely to capture the essence of the view in front of us. But like other views from our trip we knew no matter how many photos we’d take none would do this landscape justice.

With the setting Sun for company we made our way slowly back to world.

Back at the hostel and over coffee we rushed to download the photos to the laptop, excited to see if any of the images we’d taken did the Fitz Roy proud. You be the judge.

We’d been exceptionally lucky with the weather and knew it.
As eveningbecame night we got our gear together and sorted our kit ready to leave tomorrow.

Wow, what a great day!

By 11:00am we’d said our farwells to El Chalten with more than an occasional look over the shoulder as the unmistakable outline of Fitzroy’s jagged heights disappeared into the background. I’d spent 30 minutes checking overt the bikes and had battled with Lisa’s bike nuts and bolts trying to tighten a chain that is obvously ‘giving up the ghost’, we have to hope it makes Mendoza.

With our tyre pressure lower we’d hoped for an easier, or at least a more contolled ride back to the main Ruta 40, the ride into El Chalten on heavy, loose ripio had taken more concentration than it should, as we´d ridden with road pressure tyres.

With the exception of a 5 km stretch running into Tres Largos we’d been taken pleasantly by surprise with the very new shiny asphalt. Even the wind hadn’t got up to it’s normal gale force 9, that said, by the time we’d reached the YPF gas station we were both in need of a hot drink as we brought frozen hands back to life cupped around the streaming brew.

The 5 minutes pit-stop ran to 30 minutes as we´re both of a little anxious as to what lies ahead. We knew the upcoming section of South America’s infamous Routa 40 was one of the worst, the snow that had began to fall as we pulled into the YPF wasn’t helping our mindset.

With coffee’s and empanadas downed there was no more putting off and so we began our battle with already damp kit and sticky mud-laiden winter riding gloves. We were off.

We were battling in minutes. As if sliding about on the thick deep ripio wasn’t bad enough, we were now having to battle with visibility. The earlier snow had now turned to freezing rain; glasses and visors were steamed up and lifting the visors to clear them only resulted in our cold red faces being stung by the falling rain. Oh shit, we’ve got 400 plus km’s of this. It was going to get worse.

An hour later and we’d travelled a dis-heartingly short distance, rarely getting out of 2nd. The day was already getting long and painful and we’d only just begun. As the rain eased, our problems continued. The thick ripio had disappeared, much of it washed away by the water. The bikes were getting harder to control, front and back wheels sliding about in the clay-like mud that had now become the norm. Much like our experience in the Amazon the wheels were locking up simply due to the amount of mud that had compacted hard inbetween the tyres and the mud-guards. The only difference being that this time we were having to deal with freezing cold disfunctioning hands. Last time we had ony the problem of humdity, well, that and the fact that I’d broken my neck, but hey, I din’t know it at the time.

The dark heavy skyline was threatening more rain. That was the last thing we needed. And so the day continued…by late afternoon changing gears had become a mission with frozen water-laiden socks, squelching around inside heavy mud-laiden motor-cross boots. The front ends of the bikes were feeling looser than a whore in a monastery and clumsy hands battled to pull in clutch levers. There seemed no end. The Routa 40 simply slid into the distance; we were getting tired and making life hard for ourselves.

The Sun was setting and the day was darker than normal due to the thick cloud, we were going to have to start thinking about stopping and putting up the tent by the side of the 40. We’d come through 3 hard stages of long deep mud that had grabbed the wheels and done it’s best to pull us off the bikes. Here finess, experience and motorcycle savy all mean absolutely ‘diddly squat’, nada. This was the 40 and right now it was getting the better of us. Stabbing feet were shooting out desperately to find any kind of purchase as our heavy bikes moved in unnatural directions underneath us. I’d ridden several sections for Lisa, with her shorter legs she’d have had little chance of getting through the bad sections without the bike going over. I’d only managed to get by due to my height. The last thing we wanted was to have to pick up the kit-laiden bikes in the slippery mud.

The small white sign for ‘Estancia La Siberia’ was a glimmer of hope in what had proven to be a long, cold, dark day. I’d shouted over the intercom to Lisa and a few minutes later we were sliding down the short track to the Estancia. Estaban had heard the noise of the bikes and was waiting to greet us. Some 20 minutes later we’d agreed a price of 50 Pesos for a room and parked the bikes in the barn.

What a day. Right now we’re Estaban’s small kitchen, heat is slowly returning to our limbs and we’ve even managed to re-heat the stew we’d been carrying as left-overs from last night supper. Yet again in moments of difficulty we’ve lucked out and enjoyed a great evening with new friends. A very different end to the day than the one we’d imagined.

We stayed at:Estancia La Siberia
Near: Lago Cardiel
Our host:Estaban.

Notes: 92km north of Tres Largos on the R40

KM 2436

Conatct: Estrada 368
Rio Gallegos – Santa Cruz
02966 426972
02966 15555308
Lasiberia2436@yahoo.com.ar
www.lasiberia.com.ar

With an early start, we’d said adios to Estaban and prepared ourselves for another day of sliding mud and general grief.

To our surprise and delight the heavy rain from yesterday had held off and in turn the mud laden Ruta 40 had had a chance to firm, a little. We were still going to need to concentrate but compared to yesterday, it was a huge relief.

By late afternoon we’d managed to ride 234miles and had reached the small town of Perito Moreno. The rain had held off and with a stiff breeze most of the day the 40 had continued to dry out and firm up.

We’d spent much of the day waiting for the ‘catch’. We’d understood that this was meant to be the worst section of the Ruta 40 but to be honest it had been pretty straightforward. Deep ripio covers much of the 40 but with enough speed and tons of concentration we’d managed to follow the narrow tracks cut into the ripio by the trucks. We’d had a few slidey moments but in general had actually really enjoyed the ride. Our impression of the Ruta 40 has changed pretty radically from yesterday when we were cursing every centimetre of the dam thing. So why the reputation…? We think like other famous/infamous routes the Ruta 40 has gained a reputation not because it’s so fantastically tough to ride or for that matter wonderfully enjoyable or easy, but more because it has the power to elicit so many emotions, not just from day to day but hour by hour. From the often tricky surfaces to the incredible barren but impressive countryside to the incredible light show at the end of a long day, the Ruta 40 does have a magic. It effects each rider/driver differently and hence it‘s reputation. Well…that’s our take on it anyway.

We’d not seen fuel on the 40 since Tres Lagos. The info Lisa had gathered prior to our ride North was proving to be accurate. We needed to make sure that we could at least reach Bajo Caracoles if we needed fuel. Our only option if we became really desperate was to detour off the 40 heading out to Gdor. Gregores on the 25. We’d already been told by Estaban that the 25 was a mud pit.

Our long range fuel tanks were again proving their worth. Our lack of traction on the slippery surfaces had taken their toll on our fuel consumption but we’d reach Perito Moreno and fuel without any scary moments. The new black asphalt which started a few Km’s outside of town was an added bonus and just another surprise the 40 had in store for us. This was where we’d planned to cross into Chile from Los Antiguos to Chile Chico….but with the problems with the bikes, especially Lisa’s chain…..this was just not a good idea. Another time maybe…?