November 29, 2015
Road Grapevine: Route 237, km1341 to 1505.
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The road works last less than a kilometre, where big square holes the width of the road have been dug out, wherein is concrete with reinforcing rods protruding. The temporary road to the side is firmly packed and the few cars that pass this early, slow as not to leave me in a wake of dust.
I arrive in the village of Picun Leufu, a few kilometres further shortly before eight. The place is deserted except for a man starting up an old sixties Ford pickup truck; it splutters at first as the engine turns over, before setting into a steady noisy hum, the exhaust silencer long broken.
I stop because there's an interesting old steam traction driven baler on the grass to the side, put there by village authorities as a memorial to the village's pioneer pass, after an Indian War won by the Argentine military opened up the Patagonia river valleys to immigrant settlers. It is a usual sight here upon the grass dividing a village avenue; most often there are original horse drawn covered wagons donated by grandchildren of people that made the long wagon trek out here around nineteen hundred, but also farm implements and this old baler, I thought is a gem.
Leaving Picun Leufu behind and soon too farms with tall popular trees as the road stretches straight and far off across steppe to a raised horizon. The sky cloudless. I progress well until the rise, a tabular hill were I'd hoped the road would swing left toward the river and around the hill, but presently see it go straight up.
I pace myself well climbing and count six kilometres when passing kilometre marker boards from where the road begins rising until I reach the crest, whereupon there's a layby I pull into for a break where I sit on my pannier and am pinched by a large fly. Another I get in time. It falls to the ground and squirms it's last life after the pinch of my fingers. Then an orange, black spotted butterfly lights on my still finger, flutters it's wings slowly a moment before taking off again.
Where the road starts to go down, there's a sign by the side "Bajada Colorada", meaning the low point back down in the valley I descend rapidly into with brownish barranca cliffs off to the left rising to a level horizon, below which is the barely visible cut of the river, the road having swung right as it bottoms out to follow parallel and stretch off dead straight to the next rise.
The wildlife is sparse like the low thorns to the side. There are brown and white feathered hawks hovering and roosting on fence posts and I see a fox slowly cross the road with it's nose to the road before seeing me approach, where it scampers off toward the fence.
The traffic is an occasional truck or bus and quite a lot of cars speed by; up ahead though, a car has stopped on the gravel shoulder to the side. When I get as far it's occupants are out and wave me to a stop. A rotund man in his sixties and his wife, they ask me jovially usual questions, where I've cycled from and where to. They mention two cyclists two days behind me, they stopped to talk to too. I ask were they Japanese. Yes, from Japan. They cycled from Canada, answers the man. I don't doubt that car drivers driving back east have talked with these cyclists and told them of a cyclist two days ahead of them.
I reach the next rise coming up on one o'clock and looking forward to reaching the next place, Piedra del Aguila, for a lunch stop. On the approach the climb is a straight run up, then staggers off to the right, then up again over the lower shoulder of the hill. The slope is steeper than it appears and I struggle in a slow laborious grind with sweat running into my eyes. When I reach the part staggering off to the side, which I thought would be some relieve, it is actually steeper. And beyond what I could see from below, it goes up for quite a way further.
On the run down the other side, I pass a big green and yellow Petrobas sign, for a petrol station with restaurant, wifi and other services picture icons, 7 km, placing it in the next town, which I reach shortly, the way all downhill.
Never was a cold beer more refreshing. I take a can of Quilmes from the fridge on entering the restaurant, a large windowed wood cabin to the side of the petrol station forecourt. The waitress hands me an ice frosted glass to pour it and I ask for a card to see what's on offer, but there is none. She suggests "hamburgesa, milanesa, lomito en sandwich". I settle for the later, a steak sandwich and ask the price. Ninety pesos, she replies, which is a little steep.
I take one of the few seats remaining and have drunk the beer in minutes. I open my netbook and find the wifi doesn't work, so edit photos.
When the waitress come with the sandwich, it is surprisingly small, being a square toasted sandwich size, instead of the more usual meal size big baguette. Anyway, I eat and it just about fills me. I continue editing photos and at some point, feeling drowsy, my eyes close and I sleep for what must be five minutes. Waking, my legs are burning with pain. It isn't normal to have ridden a hundred and four kilometres before lunch. The thought of stopping for the day crosses my mind, but I would like to reach Bariloche tomorrow, while it is looking hard that I'll be able to ride anywhere this afternoon.
I pay the bill and buy a cold bottle of coke and go out where the sun is uncomfortably hot out of the shade on the forecourt, so retreat to the shaded green garden to the side and rest sitting on the grass while savouring my cold drink.
I eventually set off again at four, passing car mechanic garages, a supermercado and excursion tour company, passing through the remainder of town. Not far on, the way goes up again. And the road surface is deformed by tramline ruts left by trucks climbing the hill, so its difficult riding on the white line on the edge, where I wish to, safely in out of the way of passing cars.
The road goes up and up. At one point there is a short descend followed by a few kilometres across plain to yet another climb ahead. And traffic has built to the usual Sunday evening rush home, almost constant oncoming. About half give me a friendly hoot. But there are also idiots that can't wait behind another car and overtake, inches from hitting me head-on as I struggle uphill.
Toward the final crest as the sun slips behind the hill, the view opens up to the right across steppe bordered on the far side by snowy peaks of the Andes. What a view to have if I camped here. Then just ahead, an opportune campsite offers itself, when there's a clump of pine trees up a bank to the fence on the left. On checking it out, I find it level by the pines and well hidden from the road, so I haul the bike up and pitch the tent.
Today's ride: 164 km (102 miles)
Total: 1,735 km (1,077 miles)
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