Chile: Wow & Ow (Day 14)

Norte Patagonia 

I woke up in the dark to the sound of a Ford 150 truck spinning out at regular intervals the room over. The man who had come in with his wife carrying motorcycle helmets. Adventurers. A rolling over and then a large resistant zipper was being noisily drawn up and down…. I stuck earplugs into my brain and amazingly fell asleep again. 

We were staying at a nice lodge in Enseñada, at the edge of Lake Llanquehue, and road signs were now saying “Patagonia Norte”. When we had arrived yesterday at the lodge, we were spoken to softly in English, were requested to take off our shoes, and were given squishy crocs to wear. The floors were gorgeous wood. The lodge keepers all had intricate forearm tattoos or were wearing drapey sweat pants. What was included in breakfast? “Coffee, eggs, bread, and jam. The jam is from the plums from our tree, which we make ourselves,” they said with great import and reverence. Jen and I made our way to our third-floor room, all slanty ceiling and tree-house, past hallways of inexplicable art made from sticks, wool, and other natural materials, and giggled to ourselves that we were probably joining a cult. “Next you’re going to help make the jam, and you’re going to LIKE it” Jen said, and we kept laughing.  

[The wonderful thing about Jen is that we are laughing every day. Especially when things don’t work. She says something descriptive and light and we just laugh. For instance, with two loud barking dogs, “that one dog is yelling at the other dog, ‘you can’t poop there!’” Or, when her chain falls off, “well the good thing is that didn’t happen on a hill!” Or when we’re low on food, “well, the good thing is my panniers have so much space for when we get groceries next!” Many sentences start with “the good thing is”. She’s a very healthy influence for me.]

The reason this soft-crocs-wool-art place stood out is because it’s the first time that we’ve heard perfect English this whole trip. It felt surprising. And the first time there were other non-Chilean family tourists, like the motorcycle adventurers. Also an aloof German couple drinking wine, wearing superior quick-dry clothing and name-brand sandals. 

It feels like we have crossed a border into a new realm, leaving the family lake beaches and ice cream time of the Lake District and entering something more rugged, upscale, and adventure. A realm with volcano climbing opportunities, huge shiny Ford trucks replacing rattling chipped Toyotas, and high-end adventure tourists seeking skiing trips or road-tripping to the deep windy south of true Patagonia. 

After breakfasting with that reverent plum jam, our ride went south from Enseñada along a mostly-quiet paved road through boulevards of bamboo and tall trees, the road a shady tunnel. On climbs, I kept awkwardly looking backward on the bike to take in the majestic and gobsmacking volcano Osorno behind us, looming huge and white-capped and unbelievable. I leaned my bike up against a roadsign that read “Patagonia norte” for a photo, and got chills for the sense of place. Dipping somewhere that you’ve heard about and has had a mystical, far-distant sense to it. Patagonia! I was here! 

[Aside: deep in Patagonia there are mega winds, few services, and wild mountains; we are only going one millimeter in before turning back up north] 

Then we continued to ride inside a Fjord. I learned there are only a few countries with fjords, and Chile is one. Tall cliffs bordered bright blue water and the road curved deliciously up, down, around and we swooped along it. Pointy peaks, square peaks, snow-covered peaks, there was just so much glorious topography to take in. 

We found a closed cafe with covered outdoor picnic tables next to the fjord, and set up our picnic lunch station. Shade! Views! A cilantro-cheese-mustard-honey sandwich! [they get weird, okay? but they’re amazing] How is this day so good! I had an unplaceable itchy little feeling that this goodness was too much and how could I possibly take it all in? 

WELL. 

After lunch the beautiful smooth pavement turned to gravel. I love riding gravel. But only on a proper gravel bike with wide, low-pressure tires and non-twitchy handling. Greenie Meanie, my ever-suffering steel touring bike, did NOT fit those qualifications. The gravel was big and loose as grapes, with many plums as well. Front wheel would hit a rock, you’d jostle sideways, right yourself, try to point straight, and the bike would jump from under you again. The butt and hands take many abuses as you jar along. 

The One Good Line was right down the middle of the road. The sides were steeply cambered with all the loose rocks gathering on the edges in fluffy piles, and without great concentration and luck you’d slide sideways into a sea of stones. 

The problem was: all those fancy adventure tourists with their Ford trucks and capacious car-top carriers were driving on this road. Swirls of dust rose behind the cars and covered us; we had buffs pulled over our mouths for breathing. I sneezed like a cannon three times, the kind of sneeze where you buzz for a bit after. That night I was rolling brown goo from the innermost part of my eyes. 

I let a little air out of my tires to attempt to be less jittery. This actually helped a bit, going from Awful to only Bad. With the increased confidence, I was able to descend a little faster on the loose gravel. 

Car appears, you clatter out of the middle, sometimes fully stopping till the swirls of dust subside and you can see again. Progress was achingly slow. 

Then on a loose slope, the bike sliced sideways out from under me and I crashed landing hands and knees. People immediately stopped, rapid-fire Spanish, someone pulled the bike off me, another guy poured a bottle of water on the cuts and scrapes on both legs. The water was running into my shoes which was not what I wanted but the dust came out. And this is one reason why you wear bike gloves! I still had whole palms. My right knee was pretty banged, but the rest was only scrapes and bruises.  

Then began one of the longer 10 miles I’ve ever ridden (I’ve lived long enough and done enough of this crazy stuff that it takes plenty to set a record). I grimaced along with the knee rotating grumpily with each pedal stroke. Now fully dismounting for every car passing, standing dejected roadside over my bike. 

I guess this is a Patagonia adventure, huh? epic and rugged with some rocky dirt in your leg. Ow. 

Eventually and gratefully we made it to our cabin, which was perfect, and directly under this amazing glacier. I stacked a pile of pillows on the couch (yes glorious couch!) and with the large door open, sat there with frozen mixed veggies on my knee, admiring the glacier and feeling deliciously relieved to be Arrived. 

I heard faint footsteps outside, and with little hesitation a chicken walked into the cabin. How bizarre and wonderful, all of this! She inquired behind the chair, poked behind the couch, and pecked about under the table. Then she saw herself out.  I laughed the whole time. 

Our cabin was on a large flat river plain area near the fjord, with wind and empty scapes. Felt a bit Wild West. A guy rode by on a horse, staring at his phone. (Don’t text and drive!) Cattle in pastures. Down a dirt street, we found a poorly stocked grocery store crowded with people, with flaccid carrots and wizened avocados.  We bought eggs—which come in any quantity you want to put in a baggie— and with our good smoked cheese from previously, we had an incredible cabin-cooked meal. With some nice defrosted and cooked mixed veggies too. 

The next morning, the sun breathed pink on the glacier and I put on my thick hat and puffy coat. Amazingly, my knee was doing well, for having stumped me around all lame yesterday. I could pedal without pain! But I still had to be careful. With the stunning mountains and the enormous sense of place, and with some healthy imperfection, the day felt quite correct indeed.