There were over 1,500 miles to go with four more border crossings en route to the Antarctic Islands of Tierra del Fuego, but spotting my first signs for Patagonia still felt like an arrival of sorts.
Having been in survival mode for so long across thousands of miles of desert wilderness, I was mostly just glad for access to water. The restorative penumbra of blues and greens I hadn’t seen since the Peruvian Andes. Radiant shades of sapphire in all directions, with the lightest throws of snow atop the mountains. Clear rivers packed with so much glassy ice that they rang with a metallic chime when I dipped my bottles in for a fill.
Through Junin and San Martin, then Villa La Angostura and Nahuel Huapi. I serviced the bike’s drivetrain in Bariloche and followed the Old Patagonian Beer Trail west, a busy lakeside drive lined with a dozen or more small breweries and taprooms.
I was looking for a small harbor to begin the Cruce Andino, part of Che Guevara’s epic Andean traverse that connects three compact ferry hops with a wild backroad marathon between Chile and Argentina. Biking between bars until sunset, I guerrilla camped behind an old church while waiting for the first stage of boat crossings.
I’d been alone for so long that simply to be in the presence of people again felt preternatural. There were coffee bars and bakeries where I found the best baguette since southern Ecuador [a French expatriate in Vilcabamba]. I filled my panniers with as much bread and coffee stouts as I could carry, carb loading for more gravel ahead.
by donivanberube