Top: Near the Salto Chico waterfalls in Torres del Paine, guanacos have free reign. These wild cousins of domesticated llamas were nearly hunted to extinction.
Motoaventura, for instance, a small Chilean outfit comprised of Baum and Sonia Dvorachuk, regularly stages this 16-day ride through the beautiful lands straddling the Andes. The husband-and-wife team specialize in motorcycle tours through Chile, Argentina and Peru, and will soon add Brazil to the menu.
My tour traveled northward from Punta Arenas, Chiel, into the Torres del Paine National Park, and from there looped south to Tierra del Fuego and land's end in Ushuaia, Argentina. The loop then doubled back north, skirting the Moreno Glacier, crossing over the Andes and winding up in Chile's lush Lake Districkt. It's an adventure tour by default-the mostly gravel and dirt roads require riders who possess off-road experience, even though some pavement does exist near major cities. That said, there aren't many major cities in this part of the world.
Into the Mystic
Our first overnight was at the homey Tres Pasos Hostería, a combination bed-and breakfast/ranch adjacent to Torres del Paine, a spectacular mountain range framing the park of the same name. Patagonia is bursting with excellent national parks, and Torres is the most famous, perhaps the premier nature destination in all Chile. And at Tres Pasos, we were right in its backyard.
The hosteria was the perfect transition into a wild new land. Before we could say buenos dias there was a plate of warm empanadas in front of us and cold Pisco Sours in our hands. (Pisco, in case you're wondering, is the national drink of Peru and Chile made from Muscatel grapes.) The food was hot and fresh, the dring satisfying. Our excited conversation completed the mood. The fire crackled. Life was good.
The next morning, our chilly ride to the jagged formations of Torres del Paine proved relaxing-we didin't pass another soul on the winding entrance road for hours. But the arid landscape freequently came alive with a welter of wildlife. Brown foxes darted across our path and agile packs of thin-legged guanacos (wild cousins of domesticated llamas) scattered before our bikes, spooked by the buzzsaw sound of high-piched engines.
As we rounded a bend in the road, the celebrated Torres - a trio of inmense vertical towers of stone- could be seen rising from a glacial lake, clear against a crisp cerulean sky. The gothic, giant fists of basalt punched skyward, imposing and impossibly stark. A sinuous glacier oozed between the rocky fingers, dribbling icy strands into the turquoise water. We joined several mesmerized hikers staring at the majesty of the scene in silence. The only sounds? Moving ice.
Along the empty road, the fabulous geologic freak show of spires, fissures and glaciation kept repeating itself. Calling Torres del Paine impressive is an understatement-it's on the scale of Yosemite in size an scenic treasures. Eerywhere we looked, icebergs floated on steely gray lakes and snow rested atop lava rocks under a canopy of blue. Just a few days into the tour. I was already numb from the sheer number of visual e-ticket rides.
Southboung
A couple of hundred kilometers through relentlessly wind-harassed plains and harsh grasslands eventually deposited us at the hamlet of PUnta Delgada, an access point to the Strait of Magellan, the fabled water passage that united the world more than three centuries ago. Here was the Pataonia buffeted between sea and sky that has fascinated explorers and writers for centuries. We could feel we were headed for a different kind of isolation.
We angled the bikes onto a creaky old ferry packed with diesel strucks and chugged over the one-mile channel to Tierra del Fuego. Disembarking in the foggy stillness felt surreal, and as we crossed the border into Argentina we could sense out destination: Ushuaia, a fishing port and military outpost that's (reputedly) the southernmost city on the planet.
On Tierra del Fuego, the wind-strafed ferry road merged onto unending Route 3, and we passed numerous estancias densely stocked with grazing sheep and cattle, a testament to the island's number-one economic activity. The Land of Fire offered a greater number of hills to break up the flat plains, and the grazing lands were covered with soft, short grass instead of the mainland pampas' spiked horsergrass. Still, there was plenty of ripio in these parts - thin layers of gravel over a hard-packed dirt road. In theory the tires grip the dirt, useing rocks for added traction, but we'd find theory wasn't our best companion in Patagonia - our tires would invariably spin and plow half the time. From the sandblasted steppes, Argentina´s longest road snakes through the icy Martial Mountains before rolling into Ushuaia, which, judging by the T-shirts we spied, is indeed the City at the End of the World. The half-dozen tour buses stacked along the Beagle Channel confirmed the town's touristy reputation, partly made by Charles Darwin's exploration of Pataognia in the 19th century.
If you want to find the honest-to-goodness end of the road, at least the southern bit, this town is pretty much it. You can't ride farther south than Ushuaia without getting on a ferry. Walking to dinner that night, we were reminded why winter clothes are mandatory and heating systems are on all year long-the temperature read 3 degrees Celsius (37 degrees Fahrenheit).
Baum reminded us that here meat is the name of the game. The culinary wonder of Patagonia is asado, or traditional barbecue. The classic version of the recipe incorporates a cow, or more specifically every part of it. When properly prepared, the meat literally falls off the bone without cutting.
Asado fueguino is a bit different from the classic version; seems lamb is much more popular down here where the pampas are browner and sheep are the main livestock. The animal was strung up on an elaborate rack by an asador - a barbecue master- then placed vertically into a specially built fire with a custom grill and cooked to order. Thirty minutes later, we feasted like kings.
And yes, it was succulent, but I found myself more enamored of the traditional chimichurri that accompanied our asado - a pungent, heavily garlicked condiment resembling a thick salad dressing that livened up everything it touched. We finished it all off with a classic mate, the Argentinian equivalent of high tea, but with about three times the octane of regular leaves. At this point, down at the bottom of the planet, we felt pretty high indeed.
But two days in Ushuaia were enough to remind us of the evils of tour buses; we pined to be back on the open road, alone. Packing up the bikes, we headed back to the Strait and my afore-mentiones revelation with the Moreno Glacier.
Clear warm skies found us near El Calafate, the closest town to Moreno. From there, the only path out of Argentina was the infamous Ruta 40, and we plunged in like the naive optimists we are. The horror of the Ruta became apparent within a few miles: fenders cracked; Baum's rear taillight shattered, sadlebags popped open, spewing contents; filling rattled. Baum muttered, "I hate this stupid road. It's hard on the bikes. But people hear about it and want to ride it for some reason." Reality hammered into our handlebars and arms, and our martinis were definitely shaken. When the next stop, Los Antiguos, finally came into view, the whole party breathed a sigh of relief.
Unfortunately for me, I had to split from this fantastic tour early, just as we began to explore the complex Chilean rainforest on the winding Carretera Austral. Professional responsibilities would not allow me to complete the entire 16-day adventure, so I reluctantly made may passage back to North America.
On the plane to California, taking stock of the whirlwind tour I'd just experienced seemed almost daunting; the starling contrasts and extreme beauty of the place had jumbled my senses, making intellectual categorizations impossible. Patagonia has so many faces it almost defies description, and even though it was discovered 400 years ago, it still felt unexplored. It that unchaging vastness I wondered how early explorers faced the overwhelming evidence of their own smallness. Still, I thoughtm it was nothing the taste of a warm Argentinian asado couldn´t overcome.
