Patagonia! Finally!

We all dream of places. I'm not one to have a bucket list, as they like to call it. But there's nothing wrong with honing in on a destination that somehow has caught one's eye. Many (maybe just several, but it feels like many) years ago I read an article in Outside magazine about hiking in the Bariloche area in Argentina, and that article has stayed with me ever since.

The idea of hiking from refugio to refugio, hut-to-hut, was rather appealing. But then I flew to Mendoza last April and rode in the Argentine wine country, and a new idea was hatched: Let's ride through the Lake District to which Bariloche is the gateway.

The shortest river in the world, Rio Correntoso, connects two huge lakes over the course of 200 meters

The Ritchey and I in front of Lake Correntoso during an unloaded afternoon excursion

And so here I am. A week ago I boarded my first flight for 2018 in Lubbock, bound for Santiago and then the 2-hour hop across the Andes to Bariloche, epicenter of a tourism phenomenon that I had not anticipated. Down here it is summer, and everyone is on vacation. And if there are any worker bees left in Buenos Aires to run the show, well, it can't be very many. All of Argentina is in the Lake District, and please add to that the Chileans and the Uruguayans.

It could be Mallorca or the Riviera Maya ...

Hordes of `16-to-25-year-olds are en route with backpacks, trying to hitchhike, or atop iffy mountain bikes that are loaded with precariously overloaded panniers (plus: the guys always shoulder an extra load via a huge backpack, to ease the pain for their girlfriends who are wobbling along with their helmets daintily cocked to the side). The rest of the world speeds by in tiny cars or SUVs with kayaks and huge loads of baggage on the roof carrier. The European and American backpacker crowd barely registers.

One of the many beaches around Bariloche, the ski resort

One week post departure, I have arrived at what will be my northern-most outpost, San Martin de los Andes. I have been traveling on the Ruta de Siete Lagos, an asphalted road that connects seven major lakes in this region and that serves as the crown jewel of the entire area. I flew into Bariloche, which is my southern-most point. Bariloche is situated about 80 miles east of the border to Chile, and it is a well-respected ski resort—but in the summer it teems with tourists thanks to its location on Lake Nahuel Huapi, a body of water that's quite, frankly, huge.

Panoramic view of Lake Nahuel Huapi from the Circuito Chico

Being the old fogey that I am, plus a worry wart to boot, I had set up an Airbnb in Bariloche ahead of time; Gabriel, my host, had agreed to keep the case for my Ritchey and my behemoth Northface rolling duffle that contained everything else but the bike. Airbnb is about as good as it comes—so far I haven't had a sub-par host yet. Gabriel had communicated with me and set me up with his personal remise driver, a sort of unregistered taxi driver. Antonio was waiting for me at the airport when I arrived, and I was treated to my first 30 minutes of unequivocal Argentine hospitality.

Who wouldn't love an Airbnb like this? Gabriel rents his for about $30.

I spent two nights in Bariloche, at Gabriel's double A frame. He's a rocket scientist, seriously; he is a member of the Argentine space program, part of which is located down here. His English is impeccable, and he was a great source of information. The at-home-dinner that he treated me to was, well, exceptional.

Switzerland? The Dolomites? Simply wow.

My first day of packed touring brought ferocious winds and some clouds

After covering about 50 miles on my second day in town on what's called circuito chico, I was ready to start exploring the region. From a cycling standpoint, I have set my expectations low on this trip: Because of the nature of the terrain and the distances between the few towns 30 to 40 miles will be all that I will strive for, and the first week of riding bore that out. Actually, Day 1 out of Bariloche was rather miserable with truly brutal head- and cross-winds that were in the 40+ mph range. That was hard, and I was glad when I finally arrived at my first night's target, Camping Don Horacio.

I still think I have it

One-burner stove, soup, wine—what more could you want?

My campsite at Don Horacio

See, I haven't camped in years, and I wasn't even sure whether I could get up in the middle of the night to take a leak. Seriously. But it all worked out. I had a nice and quiet little spot, with a picnic table and even a water faucet, there were bathrooms and showers, and my Argentine backpacker neighbor Ezequiel even played a few songs on his beat-up half guitar. Add to that the location on the lake (don't ask the name—lakes seem to be like caves: see one and have seen them all) and it was a perfect first day to be truly on the road.

My next stop was Villa la Angostura, the first hamlet and services since Bariloche. (Well, almost, since three camping areas had small proveduras, mini stores where one can buy essentials such as bread, beer, and wine.) My Airbnb hosts were Flavia and Americo, two wonderful people who continued the stream of friendliness that had been flowing my way ever since my arrival.

I spent my off-day in Villa la Angostura by taking a seven-mile hike in Los Arrayanes National Park. It is located on a narrow and long peninsula that is connected to the mainland by a 200-meter wide land bridge. The park's claim to fame is its forest of arrayanes trees, which are indigenous to the region and reminded me a bit of the common madrone trees we find in the southwest and Mexico. It was a beautiful day of hiking, and the boat ride back gave me another angle of view of this part of the world.

The old Brooks superlight racing flats are almost like hiking boots ... 

Just two days ago I left my comfy Airbnb for 40 miles of ups-and-downs on the way to Lake Falkner, where my next campsite was located. I lucked out in that I found a private spot, with a nice area for the tent, away from some of the generators and screaming children—plus next to a group of Argentine friends (two male adults who'd been buddies for a long time and one of whom had brought his three kids on this trip, ranging from 13 to 22) who would later invite me to their communal tent for an evening of imbibing and practicing my Spanish for a few hours. Wonderful!

Lake fly fishing at Falkner

Yesterday morning I packed up at a civilized time—that means about 10 am or a bit later down here—and started my last 30+ miles to San Martin, where I am spending the next three nights. I am in a small hotel that is charging me $50 a night, about twice what the Airbnbs cost but so much cheaper than essentially every other place in town. (It's not uncommon to pay $200+ a night here—no kidding!) The owners, Roger (from Austria) and Sylvia are super nice, but the place is a dump, plain and simple. The internet doesn't work, the electrical outlets are from the 19th century, and old skis are being used to keep the ceiling in place, but what the heck: It's my birthday, and Sylvia showed up with a wonderful b'day cake from a place called "Unser Traum," apparently a German-speaking chocolatier's lifelong dream come true.

I had reserved a room for one but received 7 bunks

The ceiling, from below

San Martin de los Andes will be my northernmost point of the trip

I can attest that their concoctions are dreamlike

My birthday cake. Thank you, Roger and Sylvia!

For my birthday I went on a boat trip to Quila Quina, a tiny hamlet on the shores of Lago Lacar. but I won't go into any details, or won't cover the eepah (IPA, as they pronounce it here) at the local cerveçeria artesanal, Crux, as I really, really want to finally get this blog update posted, and who knows when the internet crumbles once again. Enjoy these last few pics from today, and I'll find a restaurant befitting the day! 

Feliz cumpleaños!

Jürgen