Wed 2nd Nov: near Rio Pico to near Gobernador Costa

November 2, 2016

It's hard to say what it'll do today by looking up at the sky. There's a great midnight blue, almost black cloud over the hill to the west, and the rest of the sky is uniform grey, except for one small blue patch. I'm expecting rain. Once I've done with my morning coffee ritual, I quickly pack panniers expecting to hear rain drum on the tent any minute. But I get the tent down dry and all loaded on the bike ready to go and it hasn't rained yet, nor does it look like it will rain any longer.The dark cloud has blown over and off to the east.

Once on the road, I continue downhill and out of the sheltered lea of the hill where I'd camped. Where strong wind comes round the side of the hill at my rear right corner. Further the road veers right where it changes to a powerful tailwind. The road however has deteriorated from improved grey gravel back to brown stones, ripio as It's called locally, making progress slow and laboured.

And I'm lucky I stopped and camped where I did yesterday as there is next to no other stream, or even hidden spot to pitch a tent approaching Rio Pico; It's all fenced in estancia pastureland.

A shop from Rio Pico's hayday as a German immigrant village.

Another relic of Rio Pico's early years.

In Rio Pico, I find a pleasant town. Its perhaps because the sun is now shining. Nevertheless, it continues to blow a gale, like in The Wizard of Oz, before the hurricane that blows the house and cycling witch through the air.

The writer Bruce Chatwin (In Patagonia) discriped staying in a hotel here: a poison blue colour. I look out for this hotel, but after forty years, it probably is no longer there; or, repainted; or, most likely, he made it up.

In the morning Chatwin goes to pay the bill. He writes: Then I had a bloody arguement with the jewish woman (the patron).

How much do I owe?

Nothing.

Nothing? Come on, surely I owe something.

No, nothing. If you hadn't come along, nobody else would have taken the room.

What about the wine, how much do I owe you for the wine I had?

Nothing. We give wine to all travellers.

And the mate, how much for it?

Nobody pays for mate. She sneers.

Well, there must be something I can give you for my stay...

Yes, the cafe latte. That is a gingo drink and I'll make sure you pay for that.

The land to the east, charactoristic of Patagonia, with an "Arroya" or stream, a valley of lush pasture, and barrancas, dry slopes up either side to desert.

At the tourist office, I get a map for the province of Chubut. The woman there gives me useful information on route 64, the right turn off 11km to the east of town, going south to Adea Apeleg. Which will save me riding all the way east out to route 40. She says, there are lots of river crossings, but nothing you cannot get through. Take all the food I need, as there is nothing until the village of Alto Rio Senguer, 217km away.

Once I've eaten lunch in the shelter of a wall, the way on from town is wide open pasture valley with barrancas rising to the south to a level pale brown horizon. The road now tarmac and the wind bowling me along without the need to pedal.

I come to the turn off: provincial route 64, a grey gravel road where the wind turns to crosswind, though still mostly to my rear, so as not to be much of a hindrance. I pass pasture with rust coloured white headed cows with their calves stirring out at me from behind the fence. Then a meandering stream enclosed in pale green willows, by which is a derilick farmhouse. The way fords the stream, though there's a narrow concrete bridge to the side, so I avoid getting wet feet. Then a short way on I come to a padlocked gate across the road.

It wouldn't have been a problem to unload the bike and lift bike and all over the gate and continue, but the road beyond the gate turns straight into the wind. And about a kilometre on, the road can be seen winding up past a quarry in the barrancas. It doesn't bare thinking how exposed it would be up there on such a windy day such as today.

I return back to route 19, the tarmac with the wind pushing me along, riding out to route 40 after all.

Wild horses and the wild countryside near Gobernador Costa.

This evening I'm camped on a riverbank below a bridge on route 40. Tomorrow morning I should reach Gobernador Costa, where I'll be able to stock up on food.

Well, finished writing; its 8.36; it won't be dark for another half hour. I have company: a car has drove down on the other side of the river.

I like being creative with whatever is about where I camp. Here I construct a picnic table with stones in the outer tent.

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