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Off the Beaten Track in the Land of Fire
Day 104 - Thursday, February 13th
Busy morning. We had a lot to get done in order to make our noon departure time. Quique did his part, completely putting The Virgin (Gary´s bike - don´t ask) back together again. The battery couldn´t be brought back from the dead, so Gary had to buy a new one. He also purchased a spare set of rear brake pads, a little Kawi bag for his tools, and two tires - one rear dual-sport and one front knobby. These would be for his trek back from Ushuaia on roads that didn´t sound too good from Jim and Jay´s journals. To make room and lighten his bike for all the new stuff, Gary removed his Pelican cases once and for all (gasp!). He will be forever grateful to them for carrying his personal gear and gear for the group for so many thousands of miles, through heat and cold, rain and dust, and for providing a buffer for his bike during its many falls and tumbles. But since he was soon to be on his own, Gary needed only enough stuff for himself, and with all the bad roads ahead, he could use his rear to be lightened up a bit (couldn´t we all). In slippery situations, the cases had also wiggled so much as to exacerbate any loss of traction in the back end. He is sure this contributed to a few of his falls, but overall the pros outweighed the cons. For the next trip, he would surely do something similar, but with smaller cases that were more rigidly attached to his bike like David's. Thank you a million times, Pelican Cases, for your contribution to our ride, and to Elco Welding in Venice for attaching the cases. See you on the next one. Everyone took the time to refresh their oil and oil filters, tighten their chains and clean their air filters. When Quique saw the state of our air filters, he almost had a heart attack. According to our specs from K&N, they were within tolerance levels, but barely. Shaking his head, Quique was sure that herein lay the clue to Gary´s problem. Sand as recently as just the other day in the dunes of Peninsula Valdez might have snuck past the dirty filter and into the engine. Even just a few grains were enough to pollute the delicate environment of the inside of the engine, causing erosion of the metals. Quique tore apart Gary´s old oil filter and found a heap of metal scrapings. David and Alex did the same to their old oil filters but did not find anything similar. Quique didn´t feel Gary would make it much past Ushuaia after seeing the metal in his oil filter, but hey, ¿quien sabe? The total bill for all of Quique´s work was sorely insufficient for the time and energy he had put in. In special thanks, Gary presented his Polaroid camera and two extra packs of film; with these, Quique could use them for his special album of motorcycle travellers. In this simple spiral notebook, riders who had stopped in for either repairs and parts or just to say hello had written their name and address along with a nice note. Most had sent back a picture of them with Quique at a later date, but now with the Polaroid, Quique was sure to get his shot. We glanced through the album when we had a little free time. People from all over the world had visited Motoport, some in large groups, many alone. Jim´s info was in there accompanied by a photo of him doing his trademark handstand at the sign at the end of the road in Ushuaia. Jay had also come through and met Quique, but there was no photo. Gary and David were surprised to see a photo of Helge Pederson, one of the most famous and seasoned off all motorcycle adventurers. And he´d been there only last year. Figures he´d done Ushuaia. (What about you, Andy Goldfine?) Food, final e-mail, and fuel delayed our return to the open road. At 2:00 p.m., we finally saw the city in our rearview mirrors and the vast nothingness of the pampas in front of our Scott goggles. But something was different about this nothingness. It looked the same, smelled the same, hammered us with the same wind, but it was easier to get through it, dare we say even exciting and beautiful. If it wasn´t the pampas that were different, then it must have been us. Yes, that´s it. Things were different for us now. We had moved through a tough patch with more resolve than ever. We were firm in our conviction to make Ushuaia, and nothing - not bad crankshafts nor pistons, not high winds nor ripio, not hell nor high water - would deter us from our goal. 750 miles. Ha! We could do that in our sleep. We had picked no destination for the end of the day´s ride. We would just go until we felt the time was right to stop. The weather was perfect for riding, not hot and not cold. The road curved more gracefully than it ever had before through the pampas, arching up over gentle hills and past broad canyons. The wind was now like a strong friend than a bully, as often at our backs giving us a push as at our sides and front. When the sun neared the end of her journey across the sky, some celestial force reached out its hand and slowed her descent to a mere crawl. The magic hour lasted over two, an orange glow permeating the heavens long after the burning orb had finally passed below the distant horizon. Even a short rain couldn´t diminish the joy of the ride.
Miles - 342
This thought crossed our hungry minds, but Gary was the voice of reason. We knew from Jim and Jason that the last couple hundred miles were primarily ripio, the Spanish term for gravel roads. And if the temperature dropped and the wind climbed as much as it had for our successful compatriots, it wouldn´t make for a very glorious arrival to Ushuaia. We should learn from their experiences. Besides, we were mentally prepared to spend another day on the road if need be. Though Alex was so charged up to ride it all in one day, we all agreed to see how the day went; most importantly, when push came to shove, everyone promised to not try and be a hero and cajole the others into going the distance. We got on the road early for once and made Rio Gallegos by noon. So far so good. Gary´s motor was still holding together, although his steering nut had loosened up (no connection whatsoever with his engine problem - unless there was added vibrtion, of course). Alex needed an infusion of oil, and David´s chain had strangely become like so much slack rope hanging off his sprockets. We had lunch in a nice restaurant, a kind of semi-celebration of our last night on the road and did our repairs curbside. David purchased some clear packing tape and made wind barriers for his hands by taping from the mirrors down to the existing Meier Guards. An effective improptu creation it was, but not the most aesthetically pleasing thing ever jury-rigged on a KLR. As we ate, we watched through the restaurant window as the wind tried desperately to knock our bikes over. They wobbled and shook, but never toppled. But to even move the bikes was quite a feat. So this was the wind we´d been waiting for all this time. Up until now, even a heavy gust hadn´t been enough to push us too far over on the asphalt roads, but what would happen once we got on ripio? Jim and Jason neglected to mention that bit. We didn´t leave Rio Gallegos until almost
3:00 in the afternoon. And still over 300 miles to Ushuaia. The
fierce looking wind really wasn´t so bad once we got moving,
and when the pavement ran out 20 miles outside of town, the trusty
Trailmax tires, balding in the rear again, held us upright. The
weather was dry, if a bit cold (understatement), and the gravel
road was solid and mud-free. We held our speed to the 60 mph limit
Quique had imposed on Gary (a speed which had made each day take
a bit longer but left us less whipped at the end of the day). For all intents and purposes, they hardly do regulate their portion of Patagonia. We were in and out so fast our heads spun. Was there a form we had to fill out? Yeah, I think there was. Unfortunately, we didn´t get a stamp to add to our collection in the passports. They gave some lame excuse about being in transit, but David persuaded one official to stamp his book on the very last page in an ¨unofficial¨ part (as if that makes a difference). Alex tried next, and got a stamp on his vehicle registration papers. Now that is original! I'LL take the high road, YOU
take the low road, and I'll be in Ushuaia before usted.
Now there is ripio, and there is RIPIO. Ripio (lower case) is a thin layer of gravel over a hard-packed dirt road. The tires grip the dirt, using the rocks for added stick, much like using a piece of rough cloth to open a jar lid. But RIPIO is a thick layer of gravel like giant grains of sand, in which the front tire has a tendency to plow and the back tire can lose all traction and spin in place. Have you ever opened a jar lid with a fist full of marbles? No, didn´t think so. Well, the unpaved lane was RIPIO and moving into it to pass was a precarious feat. A bit of bad timing with an oncoming car, a slow moving tractor in his own lane, and a big rock sent Alex into the ripio then off the other side into the grass. He bounced around, fishtailing from side to side, catching a bit of air in the rough scrub, and finally got back onto the road. Thank God he learned how to control his bike so well off-road on this trip. One day away from the finale is not the time to wipe out. (Jim, we are so glad you were okay after your crash. Good job, buddy.) The Stait of Magellan, that fabled stretch of
water that united the whole world over 3 centuries ago, appeared
before us at the hamlet of Punta Delgado. A ferry traversed the
waters every hour and we lucked out, arriving ju
There was no nervous little man on this ferry to lash our bikes to the bulwark. Anticipating a rough crossing, we found some blocks of wood and propped the bikes up as best as possible. During the half hour trip, our 5th and final boat, we looked out to Tierra del Fuego and smelled victory in the air. David brought out a special treat from his bike, a vacuum-sealed bag of salmon jerky that he had brought all the way from the United States. Nothing ever tasted so good. The entire crossing we stood up on the upper deck, gripping fast to the railings as the boat pitched and rolled. The crisp clean air, the icy blue water, the fast approaching shore to this almost prehistoric land - there are very few moments in life that are as satisfying and we were savoring every second. Welcome to Tierra del Fuego
The boat ran aground on the far shore, and we
disembarked with rapidly beating hearts and lofty spirits. It was
truly a surreal experience to realize how close we now were. We
knew it was too far to make it by the end of the day, and we definitely
didn't want to do what Jim had done and put in a marathon session,
only to get in to Ushuaia late at night. But something about being
so close made us beg the question - could we make it before the
end of the day? This had to have been the question Jim had asked
himself, and with true Moonrider chutzpah, he'd gone for it - and
made it! It was only when we remembered there was still a border
crossing to go - back into Argentina - that we admitted it would
not be today.
We needed to honor our passage in Chile with some more significant activity than just driving, so we stopped in at a border-side restaurant for dinner. (Eating is always significant.) We struck up a conversation with a friendly older couple from northern Argentina. They were so impressed with our accomplishment, they gave us their niece´s address and number up in the Bay Area (San Francisco). Now that is significant! Satisfied with Chile, we went to check out of the country. The customs office was so casual there was a ping-pong table set up right in the middle of the room. Unlike most other borders we´d crossed, this one was open 24 hours a day, and these lonely guys needed something to do in the middle of the night. After this muy rapido session in customs, we left Chile and crossed from country #14 back into country #13 (that´s a weird one). 100 yards ahead was Argentina's border outpost, and the last one we would have to face before reaching Ushuaia. Piece of cake. Oops, spoken too soon. Alex had been right. In order to properly reenter Argentina, we still needed that piece of paper taken from us by the young custom´s official earlier in the day. Terror spread across Gary´s face. You mean we have to go all the way back and get it? Say it ain´t so, Jose. No sir, you don´t understand, we are the Riding to the Moon team. See, here is our fact sheet conveniently translated into Spanish. Isn´t there something else we can do? Fortunately, this entire conversation was only in Gary´s head. Frowning at the prospect at actually having to do some work, the customs official reached for his pad of forms and tore off three, handing one to each of us. We could fill it out for him. How convenient. He looked over each to make sure we had done it correctly (hey, after 14 borders, we know how to do this) then gave it his signature. Gracias y adios. The sun was now gone and no one wanted to drive at night, not on ripio and not through this beautiful countryside. Besides, Gary´s headlight had been knocked out of operation on the dirt roads. Good excuse to stop. Alex and David found a good place to pitch the tent behind the gas station at the border while Gary replaced his bulb with David´s spare. Last night on the road. Wow. Tomorrow we drive into Ushuaia, right? Riiiight. What´s that red glow way out on the horizon. Big fire, it looks like. That´s not Ushuaia, is it? Nope, wrong direction. Good. Good night, Gary. Good night, David. Good night, Alex. Miles - 333
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At 10:30 p.m., we turned off the main highway
and down a gravel road to the municipal campgrounds at Piedrabuena.
About 10 kilometers outside of town, the campgrounds were situated
on a lush green island in the middle of a narrow river. The friendly
caretaker showed us around the grassy site. There were many vacant
spots to choose from, a restaurant and store, and unexpectedly a
large cage with 4 pumas. A baby puma was kept on a leash in the
front office. La Isla de Pavon, as it was called, is also a center
for sportfishing and hunting, but this late in the season, we had
room to spread out and be in relative solitude.
The obligatory
party of youngsters was going on in the back corner, and David and
Alex, always the social ones, joined in for a while, playing a bit
of midnight vollyball, shredding rotisserie pig with their bare
teeth and sharing the ever-present maté with the group. Gary,
emotionally exhausted from the past few days, declined the party
and went right to bed.
The border with Chile came up out of nowhere. The young Argentinian
customs official disappeared with our passports and we wondered
what we´d done wrong, but he soon returned and gave them back
in exchange for our vehicle papers. Alex wasn´t sure this was
right; in just a short while, we´d pass back into Argentina,
but who were we to doubt Aduanas. The many kilometers to the Chilean
entrance was the longest no-man´s land we´d yet encountered,
making us wonder if Chile even manned this remote portion of their
country. Eventually, the customs building came into view.
st
as the vehicles began loading. Across the strait lay the north shores
of La Isla Grande de la Tierra del Fuego, the Island of the Land
of Fire and on its southern shores, the city of Ushuaia.
The Road les
Travelled