West to Las Altares

January 24, 2011

Looking ahead after crossing the bridge in Las Plumas.

The road accends up from the river and curves round passing through rocky hills.

Today has finished again after sundown and me feeling totally exhausted. I now write at eleven o clock. I've had supper of bread, cheese and wine. I feel the effect of the wine which is nice, but I think I am going to have to wait before I can write today's happens. A short summary now though. The day started good and remained so until early afternoon when the wind rose. The afternoon has been one of battling hard against cross and headwinds depending on which way the road had swung on it's meandering path West up the Chubut valley. Soon, the wind had blown-up a brown haze of a sandstorm, which would last all afternoon in the desert away from the river. But I'm tired and most lay-down and sleep now.

It has now gone six the following morning as I write. Yesterday I left Las Plumas at nine. The village's name translates as "The feathers" as lots of feathers were always found here because it was an important ceremonial meeting place for the Indians before colonisation. When the wagon-trains of settlers began to wear down a trail they forded the river at this point on makeshift rafts. Soon a permanent boat-service was organized and today there's a bridge, which is the only point Route 25 crosses the river, and therefrom follows near the river's southern bank for the next 150km.

Once across the bridge the road rises up away from the river and Las Plumas on the opposite side with it's red rock cliff backdrop and lines of tall popular trees planted for shelter from the omnipresent wind. The road curves up and through rocky hills and past red rock escarpments, and there's a rock formation off on it's own looking like a motorbike stunt jump-ramp but it was actually once part of the cliff by the road, a big gap being corroded away by yonks of strong wind.

This was taken on another day. The rock looking like a ramp.

Westwards the road remains quite a distance from the river, where greenery can be seen at a distance along it's banks. Except for one point where the river does meanders close to the road, the first 40km are across arid plain it's path up and over many folds. There's a turn-off, a dusty stony track through the scrub, that splits off at an angle to an eccentrically named place, El Sumbrero, The Hat. Eventually, I was glad to see ahead and then reach, Canadon Carbon, The coal gorge.

The gorge, I wish I had words to describe, other than for quite a few kilometres I cycled near by the willow tree riverbank of the meandering river, the gorge a few hundred metres wide, which is enclosed by high cliffs, screed-slopes and freestanding rock on either side. I stopped to take photos which is as well so the readers can see it themselves. The last photo I take is of a free standing column, and then a kilometre farther I stop to eat lunch in the shade of a willow tree by the riverbank. The wind was now getting up and so it was difficult to shade the stove in order to boil water to make soup as that was the only way I could eat the bread I'd bough on arriving in Dolavan Saturday evening. Butter would've turned to liquid so soaking it in soup was the only way.

Setting off again, I felt the benefit of an hour and a half stop, but it wasn't going to be easy as the wind was now blowing hard and ahead as the road left the gorge and went back out to open desert, I could see it blowing a brown haze, as earlier-said, and I's hoping the sandstorm would remain off to the side of the road. Some how, as I progressed slowly, my prayers were heard as indeed the sandstorm was to remain off to the right obscuring the view in that direction, though there were occasional drifts which crossed the road blowing-up a hail in my face as I past through them.

The rest of the afternoon and into the evening, the wind had that suffocating feeling when it blew hard in the face making breathing not so easy, and the nose was stuffed with sandy snaut. I stop one more time to drink water and rest, as the wind also blows hot-air parching the lips, where the road once again passes by the riverbank. I notice here the tap water I got in Las Plumas is quite drinkable, unlike the water the day before from Las Chapas.

And there was one other stop to take a photo even-though the sun would soon be going down. It was of a sign with the Welsh Red Dragon flag on it, with the inscription "Rocky Trip". This is where the early wagon road went up a steep bank and a lot of care had to be taken to avoid mishaps.

I arrived in Las Plumas at nightfall. Knowing the village from previously passing through, I knew where the small family run corner-shop is. And it's wonderful how these shops work out so mush cheaper and agreeable than supermarkets, as you only buy what you need and the person behind the corner is always welcoming. The municipal camping-site, known from before, has lighting as it was now dark, good picnic tables and shelter from the wind which by the time I'd eaten had settled.

Today's ride: 105 km (65 miles)
Total: 9,526 km (5,916 miles)

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