When I returned from the lakeshore yesterday, the anglers that were there earlier had left and a new group that had arrived in a car were struggling to put up a tent.

I say struggling. Talk about too many cooks in the kitchen. It took three about fifteen minutes pitching a small tent.

Me. I put my tent up every day single-handedly. I have a good routine. I've even eliminated through good practise over stressing poles to the point where they snap.

The anglers that had left, left a two litre bottle of drinking water by my tent, that was good of them; but also, all their plastic food packaging and sweet papers, that had blown in the breeze over from their tent place to mine, making a right mess.

I don't understand. There are signs everywhere telling people not to throw rubbish around. Take your rubbish home, don't they say.

So you find in serene countryside a picnic area that can often look like a rubbish dump because of others thoughtless disregard... Anyway, I'm going off topic, I know. But its annoying.

I am on the road shortly after nine. There's a westerly wind, though not too strong as I pass the last of the lakeshore to the right of the road, heading toward a hump of a hill, part of the view from the campsite. Further rising over the shoulder of the hill to drop down the other side, to cross a bridge over a fresh water stream.

The stream bank would've made a good campsite, and would have been my plan B, if the campsite back at the lake had been too rowdy.

Here I stop to take a photo. Damm! What the... The memory card is locked. So there is not going to be any photos today, nor tomorrow. Not until I reach Junin de Los Andes, the next town. Shi..hit.

The road climbs away from the stream's other side, leveling out with mountain tussock grass blown in the wind either side. Continuing for about 10km until a long winding descend into a deep valley, bridging a river at the bottom. Then does a sharp right and follows the valley upstream. Eventually climbing up a longish pass; each bend turned revealing yet more uphill, with a fall down into the upper valley on the right, looking over at great pink and brown rock strata rearing up the opposite side to a clifftop, over which rise snow blanketed mountain.

Its here I miss the camera.

The final rise crested reveals a long, long descent. The road visible as a line along a slope across a valley way below.

Which would eventually take me down to a pale green valley with a lone farmhouse in a block of elm tree windbreak. And further down to a ribbon of willow trees enclosing a river, contrasting with bare brown slope barrancas. The road at last skirting said river. Its a sunny Spring day with yellow dandelions spreckled new grass.

There's the Taura, a commom hawk size bird of Patagonia, with grey plummage, a menacing screaming call somewhat like "vivian! vivian! vivian!" And I see Bandurias, a big light brown ibis bird walking in pairs through the grass, or flying overhead with a duck like call "Pike. Pike. Pike."

Thus the road continues gently downhill with the river through a narrow valley closed in by barrancas either side, until a road turns off on the left, with a sign "Ruta40 41km" Here the tarmac ends both ahead and turning left, which I turn on to.

The first few kilometres are good, being free of loose stones. Then it deteriorates to a mix of washboard, scattered stones, and short sections of sand.

Then it climbs up the valley side, following the willow enclosed river high up the hillside. When I feel that familar rim bumping on the ground. The back wheel is flat.

Once I've unload the bike, fixed the puncture and reloaded up again, Las Coloradas just downhill by the river is a pleasant if remote village. Having come this way in 2004, I camped where the road bridges the river ahead and, is where I'm heading for this evening. Its quite a bit further than I remember twelve years earlier. The loose stony surface slow going.

At last I'm glad to see the ribbon of river willows meet the road ahead and continue off to the right, with the bridge just ahead. The riverbank is unfenced, so a legitimate place to camp. There's even a track down and a barrel down there to put rubbish in, provided by the local municipal. But by the bridge is too exposed to the wind. The tailwind I'd all afternoon, so I ride along a car-track further in along the river to shelter of a bank with level grass at the bottom and pitch the tent.

Today was long. Too long. The un-tarmacked road and the puncture delaying matters, so I didn't get to where I now camp until an hour before dark.

With the sound of the river, this is one of the better campsites.

Tomorrow there's a hundred K ahead of me to Junin de Los Andes. Lets hope the wind behaves.