Sat 8th Oct: 19 < Las Lajas to Zapala

October 8, 2016

Rio Agrio, from the bridge into Las Lajas, the next town 143km on from Chos Malal.

The signboards with distances to places are often widely inacurate here. Yesterday leaving Chos Malal for instants, I passed one sign "Zapala 194km". Then not more than a kilometre on there's another sign, this time its "Zapala 207km". How's that?

In actual fact the real distance from Chos Malal to Zapala is close to the first number at 196km. But first there's the small towm of Las Lajas, 155km according to the sign leaving Chos Malal. But counting the kilometre marker boards, Chos Malal is at km2626, and I reach Las Lajas at km2483. Easily calculated that the real distance is 143km. Kilometre boards are accurately placed I'm sure, at a thousand metres, a kilometre apart.

When I came this way ten years ago with Oliver, we'd rode the whole way from Chos Malal to Las Lajas in a day. A tough day because the wind rose in the afternoon, making the last 60 kilometres really hard going riding into a headwind.

This morning I had a short ride of little more than twenty kilometres from where I'd camped to Las Lajas, where I've found a small family run supermercado. Outside of which two dogs obediently await their masters to return out. One a Collie sits so contently. The other a big brown and white Lassie dog with tung hanging out panting, has an expression on his dog's face as if to say "Its barely worth my while waiting for my owner. They're only going to bring me out the same old dry dogfood."

In any case there's a great bakery inside where I buy crusty bread rolls and two slices of apple-tart. Then it is good to have a park a block along to sit down to second breakfast-early lunch.

There was a great family run supermercado in town, with a nice park across the way for late breakfast/early lunch.

I have to ride around town before finding the way back onto 40. Fine with me as I discover quite a pleasant small town with large plaza full of trees, a childrens' playground. A good place to have reached and to relax in with all services.

Up the hill to the south of town I stop at the YPF petrol station to fill up on water. There I recieve more attention, but from a couple who are also cyclists. Today though they are driving to a weekend running race.

At the petrol station leaving town, I employ this dog to watch my bike when I'm in the shop, but I had to let him go. Sack him for sleeping on the job.

Elms trees provide windbreak enclosed pastureland.

The road on is both route 40, and route 22. The later called a "Bio-oceanic", a lateral road from the Atlantic on the east side of the continent, to the Pacific in the west.

Whatever it is, two roads in one, the traffic has more than doubled. Further exasperated by it being a Saturday. Lots of weekend drivers with only a couple of days to get to some event and back home for Monday. So they drive as if the accelerator pedal is welded to the floor.

There's a long hill away from Las Lajas, up out of what is locally called "Bajado Agrio" bajo meaning low, a deep hollow or valley of the Rio Agrio with pasture enclosed by tall elm tree windbreaks. The road climbing up to bare ochre hued hills. At this point I can look across at where I'd camped last night, the road having turned back on itseft the opposite side of the valley, until I've passed over the hilltop and disappeared down the other side. A dead straight downhill levelling into a deep depression followed by a straight uphill ahead.

About now the wind begins to blow, with a sudden strong blast. But as I'm facing southeast and its a kind of northwest, it can be called a good tailwind. Though over the hilltop to begin another long downhill there's periodic sudden blasts to my right side, making for wobbly nervious going.

The road looks like its going down into the ground, the sides enclosed by vertical sidings. Then it opens into a narrow valley with a fresh-water river at the bottom, which the road eventually drops down and crosses upon a long bridge, climbing up and out the other side of the valley. Cresting to what looks to be open pampa ahead, with the road dropping steadily into a fold and going straight up a rise ahead. Ridiculously steep.

No joke. I hunour myself that the engineer on this road project had to be Chilean, as they build ridiculously steep roads like this in Chile. Perhaps sacked afterwards for the road's audacious steepness.

On cresting a level horizon hilltop, reveals the same again, a continuous dead straight uphill to a level horizon further ahead.

While climbing, I hear a truck labouring up behind, slowly gaining on me. So when the truck is just behind me, I move off onto the gravel shoulder to let it pass. Then having passed, I drop in behind. Taking advantage of its shelter and draughting to take a lift. I just ride in behind the trailer in the draught, the air that pulls me along with it. The truck draughts me all the way up the hill.

Eventusally over that rise, the city of Zapala comes into view ahead.

The city appears ahead as a motely scattering of varied coloured boxes, green, yellow and orange, as if dropped from the air upon the pampa. Though nearer they take form into highrised tenantment blocks.

I find the municipal campsite easily, following signs. Called "Los Pinos" the pine-trees, a pine forest plot half a kilometre double-back into strong headwind from a roundabout on the edge of town.

I set up camp. Shower. Haven't had one of those since Sunday in Malargue, incredibly rereshing it feels. Wash clothes. Then set off cycling into town with two empty rear-panniers to shop for three days.

Circa 1900 English style railway station.

At the supermercado check-out I spent a new high, five-hundred pesos. Twenty-five pounds.

Then with panniers full and bike very heavy, I ride back against an icy cold headwind, with the sun having just set. Funny how time flys, having left to shop two hours earlier in afternoon sunshine, and now the sky is deep blue with pink afterglow upon a few thin clouds as night closes in.

Monument to the town's first pioneer inhabitants who settled here after a long arduous journey from the east.

It was a windy freezing cold evening, making me think what an absolutely dreadful existence those pioneers led.

Back in the warmth of the tent, dinner is boiled potatoes, steamed veg and steak fried upon the Trangia stove. With a celebratary drink of wine, accompanied with cheese and green olives.

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