Earl Grey with a Twist

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Day 100 - Sunday, February 9th
Las Grutas to Peninsula Valdez

The Birthday Boy

The only early excitement was a brief photo stop at the Antoine de St. Exupery Airport outside of Las Grutas. Gary really enjoyed that one, imagining the celebrated author of ¨The Little Prince¨ actually flying out of the small, windswept airfield. How many times had the brave pilot and author wondered if he´d make it to his destination in the unforgiving pampas? Things were a little easier for us, but the spirit of adventure lives on in any era.

We met an intrepid trio living the true spirit of adventure at our first gas stop. These hardy young Argentinians were driving from Buenos Aires to Ushuaia in a 1920´s era roofless jalopy. Their gear covered the car like the mumps, bags of all shapes and sizes strapped to the sweeping fenders, wheel covers, sideboards, hood and trunk. When we pulled up to the pumps, they were busy wrapping everything in plastic, including themselves, in preparation for the rain. Hadn´t these guys heard of Aerostich jackets and Sealline bags from Cascade Designs?

We chatted for a few minutes and learned that one guy´s father had driven this car around the world many years ago. Wow! Ushuaia should be a breeze for the car even if it wasn´t for the drivers. We wished each other good travels and ducked into a restaurant across the street to satisfy our grumbling tummies.

While chowing on delicious gnocchi and brisquet (not as good as yours, mom), Alex slyly interjected into the conversation that it was his birthday. Of course David and Gary had known his birthday was February 9th; what they had forgotten was that TODAY was February 9th. David got the waitress to bring a piece of cake with a candle in it, and we heartily sang Cumpleaños Feliz. We also realized today was cause for another celebration - our 100th day from leaving Los Angeles. Will wonders never cease?

The day outside got a little better while we ate too much cake and flan con dulce de leche. In true pampas (pompous?) fashion, the clouds moved off abruptly, exposing a deep blue sky that stretched from horizon to horizon. It felt like we were riding in an inverted blue soup bowl, an analogy Gary once heard about sailing across the ocean. Except this was an ocean of tall horsegrass, and the marine life were half-ton hooved mammals.

Occasionally we caught a glimpse of more exotic ¨fish.¨ Strangely shaped, large flightless birds called ñandu, close relatives of the rhia in Brasil, ran across the wide expanse in their funny gait. Guanaco, related to the llama and alpaca, roamed in small herds, unfettered by the endless barbed-wire fences, leaping the barriers with ease and running off at our loud approach. The occasional fox could be seen dashing across the road in search of the unseen multitudes of rodents, and we even sped by a couple tarantulas and turtles, narrowly missing them as they enjoyed the warmth of the asphalt. And of course, the flying fish overhead; hawks and other birds patrolled the pampas from their lofty paths in the sky in search of prey or flying in arrow-straight formation from seasonal home to seasonal home.

But for all the wildlife we glimpsed by chance, we knew that our destination for the day would offer up many more. The Peninsula Valdez is famous for the hordes of marine life (real marine life) that cluster its rocky shores and swim in its sequestered waters. We were too late for whale season, but when the time is right, there is no better place in the world to see right whales up close and personal.

Punta Piramides
Instead, we watched a flock of seals (group, school, throng?) relaxing on the rocky shore below the overlook. Birthing season had obviously been recently; young pups swarmed over the rocks, playfully fighting with each other, clambering over the female adults in search of a nipple, and running from the immense bull seals that reigned supreme over their herd (aha, that´s it! or is it?). Occasionally, a seal would appear out in the cold water on its way back home and work its way with strong, surprisingly tactile flippers up the slick walls to the flat perch.

At the overlook we ran into Carolina who ran the campgrounds in town in between studying for a degree in marine biology, and she consented for some photos with us wild and crazy bikers. Unfortunately, none of the seals were as easy to convince. She couldn´t join us that night to celebrate Alex´s birthday, she had to work the night shift, but she gave us some suggestions for where and what to do in the one-horse town of Punta Piramides.

This tiny town is really nothing more than a starting point for further exploration of the peninsula with about a dozen restaurants and hotels, two campsites, one gas station, and about a hundred souvenir shops. In whale season, the town is packed with tourists vying for space on the whale-watching boats, but now, nearing the end of summer and the weather getting colder, the town was maybe at half-capacity, and all of them seemingly at the crowded campgrounds.

A little offroad recreation above the town

But most of all, Punta Piramides is surrounded by.... DUNES! We unloaded the bikes at the campgrounds, Gary took off his cases, David emptied out his, and we took off in gleeful abandon across the huge mounds of sand. The steeper climbs we left to the quad-runners scrambling around like ants and concentrated more on the narrow trails through the rocky terrain. David attempted a couple tricky traverses and was rewarded for his efforts by falling over and over again, each attempt progressively more difficult due to the ground getting rutted by his tires. His bike took a beating that day to make up for staying mostly upright the entire trip.

Worn out and hungry, we went down by the water to a quaint little restaurant for burgers and beer. The beer came compliments of the house, and they didn´t even know it was Alex´s birthday. Do we just reek of charity or what? Gary and David got involved in a pretty heavy discussion (too heavy to relate in these lighthearted tales but suffice it to say that it had to do with accomplishments, confidence, faith and karma), Alex zoned out in his chair.

We did more of the same at the one open bar in town until staying awake became an exercise in futility. Even a game of foosball couldn´t shake the sleepies from David and Alex. Fortunately we´d taken the time to at least set up the tent earlier, and crawled in half-asleep. We were fully asleep before our heads hit whatever it was we were using as a pillow.

Miles - 220

Carolina

We goofed around the campsite in the morning with Carolina and some of the other employees. We'd had a lot of fun in this tiny town and planned to return one day soon to watch the whales (though Southern California is not a bad place to do that either) and cruise the dunes. Carolina may try and work in the oceanographic field in the United States so maybe she'll see us first.

David trips 14,000

As we drove south, we grew more eager by the day to just put in a mega-drive and go all the way to Ushuaia (not possible this far away actually). But a few developments with the bikes persuaded us to not attempt this. Alex's oil leak that he discovered in Buenos Aires was not getting any worse, but he was still going through a quarter liter every 100 miles or so. David began to notice some oil loss as well, though less severe.

Gary's bike, on the other hand, which had been running great, developed a strange engine noise all of a sudden as they drove off the peninsula and back onto Route 3 south. David was at a loss to offer an explanation. Compression was good, torque was good, oil level was constant and gas mileage continued to be excellent. What gives?

By coincidence, Comodoro Rivadavia was the destination for today, and there Jim had recommended we visit an excellent mechanic and all-around great guy he met on his way back up from Ushuaia. We decided we'd drop by for a diagnosis on all the bikes.

But before we could do that, we had to get through over 300 miles of pampas, hoping we'd make it at all without a breakdown. We made a detour (us, make a detour?) to check out the highly-recommended town of Gaiman, one of the few towns that maintains its Welsh flavor; most of the pampas was settled by Europeans generations ago who saw the openness and freedom as preferable to the crowds of Europe, and the Welsh chose this particular region to concentrate in.

Gaiman lay in a range of green hills 20 miles west of Route 3, past the city of Trelew. Not much was happening in Gaiman as we drove through its deserted streets. The architecture and flavor of the town was a little atypical of Argentina, but it didn't scream "We're Welsh and We're Proud!" Still, we kept combing the streets for one of the infamous tea houses serving authentic British High Tea with all the small cake trimmin's.

We gingerly stepped inside the beautiful interior, trying not to mar the waxed wooden floor with our soiled boots. The look of surprise on the manager's face was evident as he watched three grungy bikers enter his cherished tearoom, a place where even Princess Diana of Wales has visited. We smiled as prettily as we could and were dutifully seated at a perfectly set-up tea table for four.

Our calm demeanor seemed to melt the ice a little, or maybe the manager was just relieved that there were no other customers present. Our server, a very Welsh looking older woman, practiced her English with us as she poured our tea. Her grandparents had come to Argentina long ago, and England was now as foreign to her as Eastern Europe is to David and Gary. Still, she had plans to visit and study English.

The manager came over to chat; he too felt more comfortable talking in Spanish. Soon, he knew all about our trip and our technology. David ran around taking digital pictures, and it must have been David's enthusiasm to capture the Princess's visit in digital that won our hosts over completely. When we went to pay for the $14 per person tea and cakes, stunningly delicious by the way, he refused our money and wished us a happy journey. Yes indeed, it sure was!

Sipping high tea and munching on perfect little cakes and pastries can really slow down your day. We pulled into Comodoro Rivadavia too late to visit the motorcycle shop. We had dinner at a pleasant parilla (meathouse eatery) downtown, and afterwards, as we stood by the bikes parked at the curb, many motorcyclists drove up to check us out.

They all knew and raved about Enrique Vicini, the mechanic Jim recommended to us. Feeling good about where we'd ended up for the night, we inquired as to a campground - 12 km south in the city of Rada Tilly - and headed there straight away for the night.

You've made your bed, now you have to lie on it.