Wed 19th Oct: km2081 to Bariloche

October 19, 2016

Incredible what a nice warm bed can do. Well, warm sleeping-bag in this case, one that can be closed up snugly.

You wonder what I'm on about, don't you? I am talking about the zip that closes my sleeping-bag. It's been broken for ah? nearly a week. I've been unable to zip the sleep-bag closed, so it has been cold at night. Not anymore though, as yesterday when I'd nothing to do, I managed to stitch the zipper up. It is now closed permanently, so it is like getting into a sack. A small hardship in order to be warm at night.

I was out of the tent this morning as soon as the sun broke from behind the hill. There was still big dirty rags of cloud, but a fair amount of blue sky and sunshine. It was looking like a good day.

I spend less time than usual musing over coffee, anxious to pack up camp after a day of inactivity yesterday. I take the time to spread the sleeping-bag out over a bush to dry in the sun, nevertheless. I also turn the tent up on its side to let the sun at it...

Approaching the junction of route 237, the road I's on last November.

The sky has darkened now about half ten. There's no sign of rain, I'm hoping. The clouds have closed in and it's murky.

The countryside now open and treeless brownish pasture with a range of hills off to the left, dotted with pine-trees on the lower slopes with fresh snow higher up, while the road skirts low bumps of hills on the right, climbing up and around them.

There's quite a bit of traffic this time of day. And there's that awful car driver entitlement complex going on, well, as I see it from riding a bike. Namely, they think you shouldn't be on the road. The road's for cars and cars only. Or, I should be cycling on the rough loose stones that make up the shoulder to the side, not on their precious road.

What do I know what they think? What I do know, they drive their two tonnes of metal straight at me with foot full down on the pedal and just miss me by inches. Even when there's no oncoming traffic whatsoever they pass without moving out to give me space. The worse are the big tourist excursion mini-buses, ugh. They act as though you're not there. One passes me on a bend with another tailgating, its wheels on the white-line on the edge of the road. It just happened there is about a foot wide on the inside of the white-line. It's just as well I'm good at holding a bike steady and riding in a straight line, cause a wobble or deviation at that moment, I would've been a goner.

Eventually, there's a long straight gradually downhill section to a range of hills ahead. Vehicles can be seen moving across from the left and passing through the road up ahead. It's the other road where I will turn right. Left goes to Neuquen. The same road I was on last November.

A long shot across the lake at the city of Bariloche.

Having turned right, a few kilometres on, I crest a rise and the lake comes back into view. Then down the hill in off the road on the right above the lakeshore, there's a memorial to Perito Moreno, dated 1976, commemorating something that happened to the famous nineteen-century explorer on the lakeshore here a hundred years earlier in 1876, during his four-to-five year adventure in Patagonia.

I stop here as I need to readjust my clothing, ie, pack away warm gloves, wool hat and raincoat. No sooner have I stopped than a car pulls in off the road to a halt and car doors open as it's occupants all jump out and straightaway start taking photos of the lake and themselves with the lake in the background. At this point, I take a photo too. The father of the family asks do I want my photo taken with the lake, to which I say no thanks. I have to ask, what is this obsession to have yourself in every picture. The thing of interest as background.

Further, I cross over Rio Limay, the river that drains the lake, Lago Nahuel Huapi and the other side of the bridge enter the province of Rio Negra, on from which is the outskirts of Bariloche.

Cycle-path toward the city, though it come to an abrupt end a kilometre on.

Railway station in a very 1930ish style.

Though the urban approach is green with lots of trees. The traffic is heavy now, though forced to travel slowly by shear weight of vehicles.

I look across to my right and see a whole family, a young couple with a youngster in a trailer and an older child on a child's bicycle cycle touring, cycling out of the city on a cycle-path. I wave and the parents wave back. On the cycle-path? Haven't seen that before. Why am I cycling on this busy road for?

I crossover to the cycle-path, which continues for about a kilometre before coming to an abrupt end. Though, I'm able to continue on an old grass in the middle track either side laneway about half a kilometre that ends on a riverbank. The only way across the river is back up to the road. Luckily the bank up to the bridge isn't too steep to push the bike up and there's a space at the end of the metal crash barrier to pass through.

Having been in the city a few times previously, there is no fuss finding my way round and a place to stay. Actually, riding around town is very pleasant. I pass the cathedral, a neo-gothic grey granite built with pleasant green in front; where, I think to have lunch, but need to visit La Anomina to buy food. The hostel though is in the next block up upon a steep incline, so I think rather than leave the bike unattended outside the supermercado, I'll go and check-in to the hostel first.

So after lunch back at the hostel, I work on my photos, uploading them to the computer. It takes too much time and when I've finished, there is just time to get out and have a look around town before dark.

As is the municipal building in the main plaza. Even in Bariloche, Patagonia, Argentina, they'll, keep the red flag flying here.

They all hate this man on a horse, General Roca, who instigated "The Campagne of the Desert" the war against the indians in the 1880s, opening up Patagonia for European settlement.

Okay, the highrises look like there emploding, but on the corner, the log-cabin design jumps out.

I especial wanted to get to the main plaza, with its 1930s architecture. When I get there, there is a demonstration, marchers with placards protesting about some social issue, assembled as a speaker gives a speech.

It was weird earlier on the way into town seeing the Bariloche founded in 1902 sign. About the time Butch Cassidy moved in just down the road in Cholila. Then a few years later had to flee when the Pinkerton detective agency from the States, learned of his whereabouts and were on their way to apprehend them. Sundance Kid his old partner in crime and Etta Place had joined him by then. His little family as he referred to them in a letter home.

Incidentally, it was via Bariloche that they escaped to Chile.

You could well reconstruct the dialog going on between them before they set out.

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