March 29, 2016
Waiting For The Sun: Lago Villarino to San Martin de Los Andes.
I was cold during the night, not uncomfortably so, just not my usually toasty self when in the sleeping bag. Suffice to say, I wished I'd kept my clothes on, while lying during the waking hours with arms folded to conserve body heat. Then eventually with daylight it is the time I instinctively look at my watch and see 07.52. I unzip the sleeping bag and quickly pull on my warm clothes against the chill outside the sleeping bag. The tent soaked with condensation, but it isn't cold once I've been out and stretched my legs by the lake. Its another delightful morning pre-sunrise.
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Back in the tent I use the last of blackberry jam from a satchel to sweeten my porridge and wish I had milk. The weather has been too warm during the afternoons of late to carry milk, though. The sun is a long time in lighting up things. When I look out again, a thin vial of cloud has obscured the sun. The tent's still wet. Looking across the other two tents' occupants aren't in any hurry either. The cyclists about two hundred metres away are sat out on the grass enjoying the ambiance lakeshore. I decide to do likewise. Why hurry. I've only fifty kilometres cycling today to reach San Martin de Los Andes. So I'll wait until the tent is fully dried out, as it'll be a couple of days packed away inside the bag before I use the tent again, having decided on stopping a day or so in the beforementioned town.
I sit out on the grass too a few metres from my tent, determent to plough through five pages of my book, At Home With The Patagonians; densely packed text without paragraph spaces to pause; and taking up lots of space in the pannier as well as being heavy, so I'd like to finish it soon and get shut of it. Though interesting all the same, as it gives insight into the view of the Englishman author traveling across Patagonia with the Tehuelche Indians in 1870. At this point the nomadic inhabitants of Patagonia had already been decimated from disease through contact with Europeans and had a growing love of grog, a word not much heard outside Australia nowadays, though common in England in author Muster's day, or strong rum; also, Tobacco, yerba and sugar, acquired through barter from Argentine coastal stations and Carmen de Patagones, one of about only two white settlements at the time. He also mentions barter in the Welsh settlement in the Chubut valley, or Chapat, as he calls it, the Tehuelche word not yet corrupted to its present Chubut. Other place names he mentions, which the Tehuelches call Esgel, surely today's Esquel. And further north they stop at Cushamono, at a stream they believe to be the head waters of Rio Chapat. There is a place and department today called, Cushman. Generally, it is interesting seeing inside the mindset of a historic traveller. He mentions the conventional attitude prevailing then that his fellow travellers are uncivilised savages, but having been with them for over a year, finds them well organised and meticulous tidy and respectful. He mentions often the negative effect caused by intoxication after acquiring grog. And touches upon talk of hostilities between the Northern Patagonians and white settlements.
By half ten there's intermittent weak sunshine and greyness, but the tent has dried out, so I break camp. The others can be seen doing the same. I ride back along the sandy track through the sheep pasture field to the road, turn left and cross a bridge over the lake's outflow river which opens into another lake on the right side of the road enclosed by steep wooded slopes, called Lago Falkner, where there are lots of cars parked on the layby access, also an excursion minibus with lots of excursion goers on the lakeshore.
The way on a climb but gradual, unlike the extremely steep gradients in Chile. Through a valley with rocky hills either side, their steep slopes carpeted with stunted forest showing red and brown tints of Autumn up to bare grey escarpment. And further skirts high above seemingly bottomless lakes mirroring the wooded hills to the side, as the road continues consistently up and down.
Although continuing grey, within an hour, on the climb back up after a very steep descent, the kind which you'd be glad not to be riding the other way, it has warmed enough for me to stop and remove my warm top and leggings. On and on I climb gradually until a final long spiralling descend to Lago Lacar, followed by the last six or so kilometres of road carved into the precipice lakeside hill to San Martin de Los Andes, at the head of the lake.
With not having eaten much this last couple of days, my first thought is food and on the street up from the lake fortunately come upon a rottisaria selling empanadas. I have five for lunch with crisp pastry and meat chunk filling. Then using my wisdom from my previous visits here, easily find my way to La Puma hostel. The price is 230 pesos (£12) for a bed in a dorm. But as I'm set on a day off here and I've been saving money by most of the hostels I've stayed in recently offering camping, I check in for two nights.
Today's ride: 49 km (30 miles)
Total: 7,476 km (4,643 miles)
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