November 3, 2016
Thu 3rd Nov: near Gobernador Costa to La Laurita abandoned roadhouse
You kind of become disinterested in the wind here after a while. Yesterday it blew hard, but was manageable. Mainly because I was cycling predominately east. Mind you, it would've been impossible to turn round and cycle west. So far I've not had a day where the wind has been so bad, it's been impossible to cycle. On this trip anyway.
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I was awake this morning listening to rain patterning on the tent; thinking, oh no, not another wet day. It had stopped by the time I looked at my watch, seeing: 6.52. And looking out, the rain had moved on east, leaving blue sky in it's wake: the sun breaking on the horizon, through the trees by the river.
There is a steep gravel track up from the riverbank where I'd camped to the road where, the gear-cable snaps with a clunk as I change down to the lowest gear to pedal up, so l'm stuck in the biggest gear, having to get off and push the bike out to the road. By now the wind is getting up, north-westerly like yesterday. But, as the road on is a straight stretch going south-east-it's directly behind me. So being stuck in the biggest gear due to a broken gear-cable isn't a problem with a powerful tailwind pushing me along. I have a spare cable in the bag, but do I remember whether it's a gear or brake-cable. Lets hope it's a gear so I can fix it in shelter when I get to town.
Gobernador Costa: a timeless frontier town, service centre, cowboy town. Many of It's houses are boarded up, such as the two next the bus shelter where I pull in to sort out my gear problem. I find I've both types of cable, gear and brake. A little further along the street, there's a panaderia where I buy bread and a big bag of fracturas. Then at the petrol station fill up on water before heading south out of town.
The plan today is south on Route 40. Hopefully I get as far south as the road for Alto Rio Senguer. A right-turn, something like 70km ahead. The road on west drops down into the Rio Senguer valley, at which point there's likely a stream where I can camp. But I'll have to see will I be able to get that far. The wind is already stronger than this time yesterday. Behind me for the moment. Further, the road veers right, the wind now midway between tail and crossword. It blows in gusts pushing me along without pedalling, followed by periodic gusts pushing me out across the road. There isn't too much traffic thankfully, but what traffic there is, are mainly trucks. I have to pull in to the side and stop when they come along for fear of being blown into their path.
The wind pushes me along rapidly to reach Nuevo Lubeck by lunchtime.
The story here is one of a German entrepreneurial pioneer. A man, wanting to built a city named for his wife's native Lubeck. However, the plan never got off the ground and today, the only building is a derelick stone estancia house. You have to think though, it would've cost a lot to quarry, built a road and haul all that stone out here into the desert, to a location that has nothing such as hills for shelter from the ever present strong wind: there isn't even a river anywhere near; it is open, dry and exposed to the Patagonian wind which today is whirring up a cloud of dust behind the house. While the tall elm trees at the front of the house are swaying over with such force, the wind sweeping through them, the loud swish in the upper branches and creaking stems which sound though they will break any moment. It sounds like, to tame nature, and build a city here. One man's arrogants doomed to fail.
The wind looks to have got worse while stopped to eat, and I question the wisedom of going further. Would it not be better remaining here in shether, sat against the garden wall. But there isn't much here to remain for, so I take my bike and head out into the gale.
I soon regret going. Having left the refuse of Nueva Lubeck; it would be impossible to turn and go back, as the wind has blown me down the road. Away. Blown all over the road.
A few kilometres on, large orange signs advise of roadworks ahead. And on getting as far, I see the road closed for resurfacing. There is a diversion left-to a tempory soil and stone graded road alongside the left-side fence. I can continue nevertheless-on, on the road itself, upon black, freshly laid smooth tarmac, all to myself. The wind though makes me slalom all over the road. Really. If you've ever seen dirt bike racing on TV, where the motorbike's rear-wheel is sliding sideways, while the rider's boot trails through the dust, that's me. I have to brake to stop being blown away, too fast, out of control: the rear-wheel locking while braking desperately to slow-down. The bike's rear-end-slaloming and I put my left foot down to save myself. As a gust pushs the bike uncontrollaby across the road to crash into a ridge of earth left by the grading machine: the bike and me thankfully unhurt. It's then a hard push against the wind, picking the bike up and pushing the bike back across the road to start anew. But not for long. The gale from behind again blowing me along too fast and out of control. More than I can do to hold on-while braking hard to save myself. Whereupon, a big gust hits side-on, the bike with me on it powerless to do anything as smooth oily tarmac like a wet painted floor, slippery as an ice-rink under the bike with me slaloming across it into the ditch. This time crashing hard into the ridge. Reflex cause me to jump free of the falling-bike. The wind nonetheless blows me on further. Think me, the rider being blown off the bike, over the ridge and running down the bank the other side to fall on a pile of soil. Unhurt. And once recovered from the shock, I get up and scramble back up the bank into wind pressing me backwards, to rejoin the bike.
In the end it's near impossible to stand up, never mind ride. Somehow, I struggle on, to a place with a grassy layby and lay down. I must've remained there lain on the ground a couple of hours. My head propped up on a pannier as I look south, not able to see more than a few hundred metres because of a brown haze of dust that has enveloped the ultimate nothingness. Nothing out there but dead flat with pale green and grey scrub bushes.
Shortly after six: the brown haze dispersing and it seems not to be blowing as hard now, so I continue. The wind again blowing me forcefully along, with periodic gusts from the right side forcing me across the unopen new tarmac, and I've to brake a lot in order to not be blown away out of control and possibly crash into the earthen ridge on the left side. Though not as bad as earlier. With care, I soon reach the end of the roadworks, where I sit down a while in the shelter of a roller before facing the open road on, and danger of oncoming trucks. At this point too I'm anxious about reaching somewhere for the night. Somewhere sheltered for the tent.
The airborne haze has now cleared enough that I can see two semetrical round hills ahead that I remember are around ten kilometres pass the old parador-La Laurita: an abandoned roadhouse. The wind havimg eased somewhat more, seeming more normal strong tailwind, as I'm blown along at speed without pedalling. And the two round hills ahead bigger as I'm rapidly bowled along, until a great depression opens up between me and them. Which the road descends into, to a broad valley at the bottom; five kilometres across with the shell of parador-La Laurita on the right, tucked into the sheltered barranca valley-side.
.
La Laurita, like Nueva Lubeck used to warrant a circle on the map: a petrol pump, cafe and shop: a place to pull over and rest. But the old couple that ran it when I first passed this way twelve years ago, have since retired and moved to the city, leaving no one to follow on the business. The story of Patagonia: there's less people living out here far from anywhere.
I settle in for the long Spring evening, with the tent pitched in a well sheltered spot in the garden.
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