"Hiya doin? Ya-vacationin bud?" said one of the locals in the crossroads shop near Cholila. "Well yes. I'm riding a bike." I replied. " Yeah you come to the rite place. Moved here four years now. Hey, there's horse racing next Sunday if you're still around" he went on. I finished my purchase and got away. I put the plastic bag with the bread, ham, cheese, tomatoes and an apple in the Bob-bag and cycled on; three kilometres to the farm campsite on the far side of Cholila village. It was still only half two and after eating a ham sandwich for lunch, Is looking forward to a relaxing afternoon. The place was deserted though. There was nobody in the house and the water was turned off, plus the campsite looked to have had no customers since last January, most likely the site was closed until the new season starts. I couldn't stay anyway as there was no water. But after eating I remained sitting at the picnic table and began reading my book. Maybe some one would return later I though and turn on the water and allow me to camp. Meanwhile the sheep were up at the fence at the back of the house and there were lots of new born lambs doing a lot of bleating. I read until quarter past four which was enough reading; still no sign of anyone, so I decided to leave.

I cycled back past the crossroads and turned off along a track signposted: Lago Cholila 17km; perhaps there'll be a nice place to camp there Is thinking.

It had been dull overcast weather since leaving Trevelin Friday, but a few kilometres in on this track the sun broke through with a play of light on the reedy bog the track was now skirting along with steep hillside on the left. It became extremely rough and I'd to ford many big muddy puddles as the track continued through willows along a water channel. Then the way ahead turned out across open pasture bound by woodland either side. There were plenty of good places to camp but there were: No Acampar, signs all along. A little further, when it was looking as though I'd already done a lot more than seventeen kilometres, I came to a gate with a camping sign pointing straight on. I openned and passed through the gate, shut the gate and continued on for about a kilometre alongside a fence on the left behind which cattle stopped and stared as I passed. Then I came to the farmhouse which was set in behind clumps of trees to the left. A dog barked as I appoached and a man stood in the doorway calling the dog back. Another sign led me to the campsite a few hundred metres further. But this place too hadn't openned for the season yet, so I ended up wheeling the bike in through an orchard and out to the lake shore and camped there.

Nov 16, Monday: The dull overcast sky continued this morning. It actually looked like rain as I cycled the seventeen kilometres or so back to the road. I turned left at the crossroads and cycled six kilometres, arriving at Butch Cassidy's cabin round twelve, where I ate what was left of yesterday's sandwich, then took a few photos just as the rain began. At first it seemed that it would only be a light drizzle which would soon be over. But it rained and rained, becoming heavy and persistant. The unpaved road became muddy. After twenty kilometres I reached the tarmac road as I turned onto Ruta 40, where there came a steady flow of passing trucks covering me in spray. And I froze as it was all freewheeling downhill to El Bolson, my gold for the day. The rain eased off five kilometres before town and the valley filled with small whisps of mist, and there was a noise, a click click from the rear hub which developed to an unbearable racket. Seemed I'd be finding a bike-shop to get the hub serviced.