From: Kirstie
and Stuart
Subject: The Long and Incredible Story of the Boy from Cochrane
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Date:
January 2000 (we've lost track!)
Place: El Calafate, Argentina (at last) |
Dear all,
You haven´t heard from us for a while...thought we were lost
or dead? Well, not quite although it was a close thing at times.
Fattened and freshened by our Christmas break, we left Coihaique
to complete our journey to reach Villa O Higgins at the very
end of the Carreterra Austral and hopefully to travel beyond
by boat into Argentina on our journey ever South towards Ushuaia.
This is uncharted territory for cyclists since the final section
of this amazing cul-de-sac has only been open for three months.
Everyone knows how to get in to Villa O Higgins but it is not
quite so obvious how to get out without retracing your steps.
Villa O Higgins is the Nowhere at the end of the Road to Nowhere,
a tiny village bounded by a lake and mountains, the other side
of which lies Argentina. No-one knows much about what goes on
there but everyone we met seemed to have an opinion or some
information to offer on how to get out of there. Everyone we
asked told us a different story and we asked a lot of people.
From our research, we knew there was a boat out which cost either
$10 or $1000, ran once a week or only on council business, and
either did or did not have permission to cross the border to
Argentina. We also knew there was a horsetrack which was either
passable or impassable by bicycle. Those who believed it was
passable told us the story of a Boy from Cochrane who either
took a day, six days or a month to cross it and had an excellent
time or the worst experience of his life but definitely made
it out alive although he may nearly have died trying. So, we
set off with some trepidation, the encouraging words of the
Chief of Police in Coihaique ringing in our ears, "If your
plan works, then excellent. If not then you will just have to
pedal all the way back again." Well, it didn´t work, we
didn´t have to pedal all the way back, but it was excellent.
For a Road to Nowhere, a lot of things happened along the way.
We hooked up with a couple of Swiss cyclists, Sandra and Phillipe,
who had become equally intrigued by the conflicting stories
of the Boy from Cochrane and equally determined to find out
for themselves just what was fact and what was fiction. Meeting
this couple was like looking in the mirror and seeing how you´d
like to be... fitter, faster, funnier, speaking Spanish fluently
and with a camp pizza oven. They had cycled 25,000km south from
Alaska making our six month journey feel like a day trip to
Windsor. We travelled with them for three weeks and when anyone
asked where we´d come from, they would say "Alaska" and we would keep quiet, eat another slice of
Pizza and bask in their glory.
This section of the Carreterra Austral is extraordinary for
its remoteness and untouched beauty. With only three cars a
day able to pass onto it by the ferry, passing cars were an
event. It´s an incredible experience riding past the icy fingers
of the Southern Patagonian Glaciers where they reach down to
almost touch the road in front of you: testing your strength
against the elements and the relentless rise and fall of the
Southern Andes. This
must be one of the most beautiful, challenging and unknown bike
routes in the world.
Into
the wilderness
|
Our objective: Villa O'Higgins, end of Road to Nowhere
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Stone age baking keeps us supplied on road
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One day, when
riding against the clock to catch the daily ferry, Kiirstie
reached her limit before she reached the ferry. One of the three
cars heading South to catch the boat that day kindly offered
her a lift. As Kirstie and her bike sailed past on an Army truck,
she waved from the front where she was seated next to an important
looking official. As Stuart struggled up the hill she cried,
"Don´t worry, I´ll try and hold the ferry for you. Don´t
be too long though!" By the time Stuart had cycled the
10km to the ferry, cursing his wife for her good fortune, Kirstie
had already had two cups of coffee with the army Major, who
wás on tour visiting all his troops stationed in the Region.
But 40km after the ferry, Stuart was praising his wife for her
foresight in befriending the Major when he came out from one
of his Army Campamentos to invite us for hospitality in his
Camp. "You will have a hot shower, a hot meal, bed and
good conversation."
Kirstie took her shower last, in ice cold water, in one of the
coldest, dampest places on earth. Oustide, unbeknown to her,
the Major´s troops were trying to change the gas bottle to restore
hot water for the guests. Word went around the Camp that the
English woman was "tough stuff" who preferred a cold
shower to waiting for hot water. Meanwhile, in the shower, Kirstie
shivered miserably and dried herself thinking how tough life
is for troops in the Chilean Army. After some hot bean soup
and making up a bunk in the troop´s dormitory, we were happily
settling down in the mess to watch a pirate video of "Seven"
with the soldiers when the Major halted proceedings to escort
us off to his private cabana for an evening of Pisco Sours and
Spanish practice. We nodded wisely as the Swiss and the Major
conversed on many topics and smiled with pride at any mention
of Alaska.
One thing the Army couldn´t keep us supplied with was our daily
intake of bread. Expending so much energy cycling the difficult
terrain was requiring several kilos a day. And with up to five
days between towns we had to use our own resources and initiative
to maintain stocks. Stuart enthusiatically took on the role
of Baker, despite his lack of experience or any knowledge of
how to make bread. It was a difficult learning experience for
us all as we chewed our way through his early attempts. Over
a period of days he grew in both skill and confidence and moved
on from doughy, charred flatbread to produce ever more complicated
and edible delights... oatbread, fruitbread, nutbread, nan bread,
pitta bread, shortbread, scones and other floury treats. For
once the Swiss were impressed with the Brits and particularly
enjoyed his breakfast of homemade pancakes served with a coulli
of hot freshly made wild Calafate berry dip. Pizza was passe.
Charged with this massive intake of carbohydrate, we arrived
in Villa O Higgins in just 12 days. As we cycled into the village,
most of the locals looked on disinterestedly and continued their
everyday business. But a small, slightly greasy man came purposefully
over to meet us. A poor man´s Julio Iglesias, dressed in slacks,
a pale blue open neck shirt and a pair of brown scuffed Hush
Puppies, his black moustache twitched as he addressed us. "
I am the Alcalda here. Welcome to Villa O Higgins, this most
special and unknown place. You are only the 4th, 5th, 6th and
7th cyclists to ever reach us. Welcome. You will enjoy your
stay." The Alcalda was an ambitious ex army man who first
came to Villa O Higgins to help with the construction of the
road. At the peak of construction there were some 300 army personnel
stationed there, outnumbering the local population of 112 by
three to one. Enchanted by the place, he stood for election
as mayor and was swept to power by the 300 army votes with little
support from the locals. When the road was finished, the army
left and so did his power base. Now, unpopular with the locals,
he courted tourists as the only people who would listen to anything
he had to say... and he had a lot to say.
He ushered us through the settlement past rows of slightly delapidated
but brightly painted tin houses, while proudly pointing out
all the improvements he had initiated for the benefit of tourists...
bright new wooden road signs, painted bins, a radio station
(on which he had a weekly show) and a gleaming mirador high
above the town. As he took us into the shabby municipality building
beside the new plaze, complete with its mini performance arena,
he told us of his plans for a campsite and swimming pool. "Tourism
is our future" The locals looked on disinterestedly. In
his mayoral office, he ordered his secretary to stop typing
and excitedly opened a fresh page in a slim Visitors Book. "This
is a great day for us all. A historic moment.. You are cycling
pioneers of the Carreterra Austral and your arrival must be
recorded for the history books." He ceremoniously presented
us with the book and invited us to sign our names against the
numbers 4, 5, 6 and 7 while his secretary took photos of the
momentous occassion.
With the formalities complete, we left the Mayor to
go and find Umberto Pizarro, a man we were told would be able
to help us find a way out of Nowhere. Umberto was the community
activist and busybody, a man who had no job but always had work
to do. He lived in the only house painted red in the village,
the walls covered with pictures of revolutionaries. A community
man, he invited us to camp for free in the chicken shit in his
small back yard, an offer we felt obliged to accept. He was
quick to fill us in on the local political situation. "The
Alcalda is just a potato chip." Umberto was something of
a local hero for his own political action during the election
of the Alcalda where the villagers votes were clearly worthless
against the might of the army. The locals candidate stood no
chance. In protest, he took a group of 50 villagers on a day
trip to Argentina and was imprisoned for three days for interfering with
fair electoral process. These were the only people we had ever
heard of who had successfully got to Argentina from Villa O Higgins, apart from the Boy from Cochrane.
We were sure we were in the right place. Umberto organised a
boat for us to cross to the Argentinian border post but warned
us we would need to arrange for a special permission to actually
cross the border. The police advised us this was impossible.
The Alcalda grandly announced that he had friends who could
sort this out. "Dont worry. I will organise this for you
and have the permission waiting for you at the border. Go ahead."
As the boat dropped us off at Candelaria Marcilla, a policeman
stood threateningly above us on the upper deck of the landing
stage, his khaki pants and sleeveless kacket flapping in the
wind. Behind us the boat sailed out of the bay on its two week
journey around the community settlements of the Chilean part
of Lago O Higgins. As we stood on the jetty, now littered with
panniers, bicycles, tents, rucksacks, helmets, spare tyres and
other touring debris, we wondered whether the Mayor had delivered
on his promise and our permission to pass had arrived.
" What do you want here?" the policeman demanded
coldly. "We wish to cross to Argentina" we replied. "There is nothing here but a
police station. You cannot cross to Argentina. There is no pass. You will have to go back."
The policeman informed us. "But the Alcalda has organised
us a special permission." we informed him. "Permission
from Santiago would take at least 90 days and besides that is unheard
of. The Alcalda is a potato chip. Like all politicians he is
clever with the truth. You will have to go back." We stood
in a forlorn, silent standoff for a few minutes. With the boat
gone there was no way of getting back to Nowhere. Candelaria
Marcilla was like an island, a small piece of Chilean territory,
landlocked by the Argentinian border on one side and cut off
from the rest of Chile by Lago O Higgins on the other. Eventually the policeman shook his head
and sighed. "You will have to come to the Police Station
then. Get into the tractor." We loaded all our belongings
onto a trailer and then the procession began. A dinky red tractor
chugging painfully up the hill, the hefty policeman perched
precariously on the tiny drivers seat, a trailer full of baggage
clattering along behind and a single file of four mourning cyclists
processing solemnly at the rear. And at the top of the hill,
we arrived at what must be one of the most beautiful police
stations in the world.
After a short period of consultation with his colleagues, the
policeman reached a decision about our fate. "You cannot
pass here and we will organise a police boat to take you back
to Villa O Higgins. It will pick you up from here in six days
time. You will have to stay here until then." Our faces
must have betrayed our disappointment and misery. And then,
with a little smile, he added, "We can put you up in one
of our police houses" and pointed .to one of six beautiful
white wooden cottages, their balconies reaching out towards
the cliffs high above the bay. Inside ours we found three little
bedrooms containing six neatly made-up beds, a country kitchen
warmed by a wood stove and a dining room with a wooden table
dressed in a fine white lace tablecloth and a magical view over
the lake to the peaks and glaciers of the Campo de Hielo Sur. "Feel free to explore. You can get great views of Fitzroy and Argentina from the top of the hill but you must not cross the
border. If you cross the border we will arrest you. And if you
get bored come and join us to watch some TV. We have 140 channels
of SKY digital television ... oh and a game of table football.
If you need anything just ask" Our misery began to lift.
The next five days were like a holiday. Exploring the countryside,
relaxing by the lake, sunbathing on the police helicopter pad
outside our cabana. The evenings were spent at the cinema...
well watching movies in the police lounge, although we were
never allowed to select for ourselves. An unseen policeman kept
a firm hand on the remote control as if to remind us who was
in charge here. And over the coming days the initial cold reception
melted into warm hospitality and we were made to feel very welcome.
On the third day we were summonsed to the border post to meet
the Chief who wished to ask us some questions. For a few brief
hours as we walked to the border we convinced ourselves that
our luck had changed and the Mayor had proved himself to be
more than a potato chip and different to other politicians.
When we arrived, the Chief opened the door, shuffling towards
us on pieces of rabbit skin strapped to his feet, designed to
protect the polished wooden floor. "Let´s have some cafecita"
the Chief said, "and then I want to ask you some questions."
He showed us to a hard wooden bench opposite a big TV screen.
The four of us sat down on it in a line. Then, on cue, shuffled
in two police officers, ´Little´ and ´Large´. Little looked
about 17, slim built, smiling widely, he chewed gum as he skidded
to a halt before us on his police issue rabbit slippers. The
second was a giant in rabbit shoes, flip-flopping in awkwardly
on his tiny skins. Little lifted over a heavy wooden table and
placed it down in front of us, while Large put a well ironed,
red checked tablecloth neatly on top of it. Little returned
to the kitchen and came out laden with plates, cups, saucers,
knives, spoons, coffee, tea, bread and honey. Large went to
a cupboard, took out a selection of paper napkins and made a
delicate napkin fan for each of the guests and the Chief. He
then opened the tiny sachets of Nescafe for each of us and poured
them carefully into our cups while Little shuffled around lugging
a massive kettle filling all of our cups. While all this was
going on, the Chief proudly demonstrated his new SKY digital
TV system and gave us a sample and running commentary on the
merits of each of his favourite channels. The two helpers then
stood to attention, one either side of the Chief and the Chief
announced "Now we have tea and then the questions."
As we sipped our tea, he sympathised with our predicament. "It
is not logical that you should have to cycle in a circle for
600km to get to a point you can see from here, just 30km up
there." he pointed to the border. "It is not logical,
it is political. This is a disputed border, a political hot-spot,
a delicate situation. It will be some years before things have
cooled off sufficiently for anyone to cross here. I am sorry
for you. Your best bet is to cross to Argentina on the horsetrack at Villa O Higgins. That can be done.
A Boy from Cochrane did it and had a lovely time. But don´t
believe the stories you hear about him biking it, he and his
bike went on a horse. Now, I have those important questions
for you" We sat in silent anticipation.
"What is groovy? Is it the same as a foxy lady and is a
foxy a small fox? I heard that George Michael is going out with
one of the Spice Girls. Can this be true given the stories about
him and the toilet?" We began to suspect he had been watching
too much television. The remainder of the afternoon was spent
answering his many questions triggered as a result of the arrival
of digital television at this remote outpost. After tea we were
escorted to the border line, the planned end of the Carreterra
Austral in years to come. "You know, you are the first
cyclists to ever reach here" the Chief said. We were now
truly cycling pioneers of the Carreterra, numbers 1,2, 3 and
4 to complete the road before the road was even completed.
A few days later, the police returned us to Villa O Higgins
on their boat. The Road to Nowhere had led nowhere. To avoid
further nights in chicken shit, we sought permission to camp
in the village park, the site the Mayor had in mind for his
dream camp site. There we met Fransisco, the park warden. He
had heard of our plight and was quick to offer to sort us out
with horses to make an escape on the infamous horsetrack. Conveniently,
his father in law owned almost enough horses to carry four people,
four bikes, 16 panniers, 3 rucksacks and a guide. "We will
put out an appeal for the other horses on the radio tonight.
Why don´t you drop in a say hello... my show is on from 10.00"
Unsurprisingly, it turned out that despite his big claims the
Mayor had nothing to do with the radio station apart from having
a show once a week on it. It was funded by the church as a community
project and had been going a month. It was a wooden hut with
two rooms, the booth (a table with two microphones) and the
control room (a table with two cheap cassette decks and a box
with four faders on it). A cupboard in the control room contained
hundreds of home recorded cassettes of music from around the
world. Fransisco´s show seemed to consist of an argument between
him and a young man with thick lensed spectacles about the merits
of traditional Chilean folk music interspersed with distorted
tracks from a cassette of Abba´s greatest hits. We arrived during
"Knowing Me,Knowing You" and were quickly ushered
into the booth. We pushed Sandra into the only chair available,
in front of the microphone as Fransisco signalled the end of
the music and the beginning of an interview. "And now we
are live on the radio for an interview with our cyclist guests
who you have all heard about." It appeared that everyone
in Villa O Higgins knew our story already, everyone except the
interviewer who was flummoxed, to Fransiscos obvious delight.
"What am I going to interview you about?" the thick
spectacled boy asked Sandra live on air. "How about my
journey from Alaska to Villa O Higgins" she suggested. At the mention
of Alaska, we smiled with pride. "Tell us about your journey
from Alaska to Villa O Higgins" the interviewer prompted Sandra.
At this point, Fransisco made an editorial intervention on the
other microphone, "Now we will have some more Abba and
when we return you will have thought up some new and better
questions for our guests" he scolded his bespectacled anatagonist
live on air. A version of "Dancing Queen" tried desperately
to make its way through the clogged heads of the cassette machine
to the Villa O Higgins audience, now on the edge of their seats.
Half way through Dancing Queen, the studio clock struck twelve.
The studio was plunged into darkness, the Dancing Queen was
stopped in her tracks and the interviewer was put out of his
sweaty misery. The show was over. The interviewer deftly lit
a match, and in the brief glow of matchlight we could see the
obvious relief in his face as he led us out of the studio onto
the darkened streets of Villa O Higgins. Every night at 12 the
Mayor turned off the electricty supply to the village to conserve
fuel and save money. It was the only time we saw the Mayor wield
his power over the community with any effectiveness.
The horse appeal had been a success and the following
morning ten horses were being saddled up just 200m from our
tents. The riding team were a mixed bag, the Swiss with 15 years
each of horse riding experience, and the Brits who had never
even sat on a saddle and had just 15 minutes to prepare themselves
for a two day horseride to Argentina. The bikes were stripped down and the various parts
strapped onto the back of a pack of horses in a haphazard fashion.
Then it was time for the riders to mount. Kirstie was first
up and with a leg up from the guide threw herself wholeheartedly
onto the horse, like she´d seen in the movies. She ended up
sitting squarely behind the saddle, looking pleased to have
even got that far. The guide roared with laughter "It´s
going to be an interesting trip!" Stuart meanwhile was
given a horse about three sizes too small for him and was nicknamed
´Don Quixote´by the Swiss. The horse was more interested in
munching than moving and totally ignored the demands of its
oversized cargo. It did its own thing... mostly nothing. The
experienced Phillipe knew the cure for this one and with a large
whip whacked the horses rear causing it to stop grazing and
start galloping, leaving Don Quixote bouncing high and low in
the saddle. As he passed Kirstie, now the right way round, Stuart
shouted "I think I´ve just found second gear. I´m not sure
I like it"
The two days riding was like trying to master Nintendo´s Super
Mario Brothers. It started easy but just as we´d negotiated
one set of obstacles the going got tougher... and tougher...
and tougher. Level 1 - trotting on flat road became Level 2
- forest ride,up to Level 3 - up the gravelly hill. By the end
of our first day, six hours in the saddle, we´d reached Level
6 having mastered riding in the rain, simple river crossings
and beach galloping. The next morning we rose at six for another
8 hours fun taking us to new and terrifying levels - teetering
along cliff top paths, sliding down slippery slopes, persuading
tired horses up and down steep narrow gullies, forging crossings
through deep, fast flowing rivers. Throughout all of this we
kept in mind the instructions we were told would see us through
anything.."Pull left to go left, right to go right. Pull
up to stop and kick the horse to make it go" By the time
we made it to the end we felt as if the Grand National would
be a trot in the park. "If that had been my first time
on a horse I´d have died of fright" Phillippe congratulated
us as we dismounted in the middle of nowhere...... another Nowhere,
with nothing in front of us but a tiny, delapidated plank bridge
across a raging river... oh and 4 bike frames, 16 panniers,
8 wheels, 8 luggage racks and 3 rucksacks. As the guide rode
off into the sunset, his wallet fattened and his horses in tow,
he shouted to us "The road to Argentina is that way" and pointed across to the collection
of planks and wire now blowing alarmingly in the Patagonian
wind. It took us three hours to get all our belongings across
the bridge no more than one person and one bag at a time...
and a further three hours to reassemble the bikes and repair
the damage inflicted by the 16 hours on horseback. It took a
lot more than 16 hours to repair the damage to our arses. What´s
more there was no road to be found. Exhausted we all slept by
the ´bridge´.
The following morning Stuart found a pedal clip while going
to the toilet and Phillipe convinced himself the Boy from Cochrane
had passed this way and began a search for his tyre tracks.
An hour later he convinced us all he had found a faint impression
of a track in the wasteland and persuaded us to follow it. For
three hours we followed almost imaginary impressions of track,
along pebble river banks, through wide open prairie, across
bogs and rivers, building bridges out of drift wood where none
existed and wading through up to our waists where there was
no other option. Miraculously, after all this a road appeared
which finally took us to the Argentinian border post. The border
policeman took our passports to give us an entry stamp and quickly
spotted we were English. "We have never forgiven your country
for the Malvinas but you have my total respect for Benny Hill"
and in a further bizarre moment of camaraderie and a release
of days of built up tension, the policeman led us all in a rendition
of the theme tune from the "Benny Hill Show"
Then, just when we thought it was all over, we found ourselves
on Ruta 40 and met the full force of the Patagonian wind. All
the guidebooks warn you to stay away from it, describing it
as the worst road in the world, through the bleakest and most
desolate landscape. We had tried to bypass it via Villa O Higgins
but now there was no way of avoiding it. It was theonly way
South from the border. And it was worse than words can describe.
In the rare moments the wind was behind you there was no need
to pedal. You were forced along needing all your efforts and
concentration to stay on your bike and keep it upright in the
deep, gravelly grooves left by passing cars. And when it was
in front, it could be forcing you backward at up to 90km per
hour while you struggled to pedal downhill and make any progress
at all. And when it was from the side, and it was often from
the side, it pushed you across the deep grooves to force you
onto the Pampas. And if you got clever and tried to beat the wind by
leaning sideways into it, it would suddenly stop and you would
fall over into the gravel. Alternatively it would pretend to
stop and then sneak in one last great gust, leaving you and
your bike upended on the other side of the groove, doing a close
up study of Argentinian Pampa.
One afternoon, exhausted from picking ourselves out
of grooves, we stopped for a sandwich. As we ate, the wind gathered
speed ready to continue its´ game with us. Sandwich over, we
put back on our battledress - windproof pants and jacket, gloves,
balaclavas and sunglasses. As we got back on our bikes a bus
drew up and tourist paparazzi hung out of the windows and started
taking photos. The bus then stopped and people poured out to
shake our hands and take photos. As we peered out at each other
through darkened lenses, bemused and confused by our sudden
fame, we realised the spectacle of an alien beekeeper and Darth
Vader falling off their bikes and crawling along gravel grooves
in gale force winds was probably worth a photo and a handshake.
After an afternoon of being blown sideways and falling over
we realised it was impossible to cycle any further. The wind
was just too strong. We were 100km from any habitation in a
landscape resembling the desert, totally flat with no shelter
whatsoever. A tent would have blown away to the West at 90km
per hour before we´d have got a single peg in the ground. Then
the Swiss spotted a concrete drainage tunnel under the road,
a metre high by a metre wide, just big enough for two sheep
to pass through side by side. "We read a book about a cyclist
who spent the night in one of these" Sandra said brightly.
A moment later without a further word, we had all sized up the
tunnel and were jostling for position in it. Fortunately, it
was just big enough to sleep four. We sealed the ends with bikes
and groundsheets to keep the wind out and did our best to make
it like home. Phillipe got a stone and began to bang in any
protruding nails. "Can you leave one as a picture hook
for the map?" Meanwhile Sandra worked on lighting, placing
an old candle on another nail to give the tunnel an atmosphere
of a cosy crypt. And Stuart and Kirstie set up a small soup
kitchen, making garlic bread and spaghetti bolognese for the
cyclists who had survived the wind but had been finished off
by an hours unplanned DIY. After dinner we played ´Twister´
as we tried to find a way of laying out four sleeping bags and
thermarests without touching each other. After half an hour
we found the magic combination although Stuart´s feet were in
an ants nest and Kirstie´s head was poking out of the tunnel.
She was told it was her job to monitor the wind situation and
wake everyone should it drop of change direction. As we lay
waiting for sleep to come, Stuart filled the small box with
a cheery goodnight thought.."It´s like sharing your coffin
with three cyclists" And each time someone drifted off
to sleep, Kirstie would twitch and offer an unwelcome alarm
call, "I think the wind has changed, let´s pack up and
get back on the bikes" The others would chorus wearily,
"Shut up Kirstie and get back in the coffin."...in
a canon which eventually lulled everyone to sleep.
Three days later, at a campsite in El Calafate, we met the Boy
from Cochrane. Well actually he was a 37 year-old, strapping
Belgian bloke who was the first to cycle to Villa O Higgins
and escape. He didn´t come from Cochrane but he did start his
holiday there. He did go on the horsetrack but he didn´t cycle.
He did make it out alive but his bike suffered more damage than
he wished to discuss. He was pleased to be reunited with his
pedal clip. What´s more it took him seven days in total, he
got lost twice and was abandoned by his guide after being charged
$200 for the privelege... But we were able to confirm, direct
from the horses mouth, that contrary to popular opinion, he
did not have an excellent time, he did think he was going to
die and indeed, it was the worst experience of his life. We
were obviously luckier. All this just goes to show that there
is often more than a grain of truth in the stories pèople tell
you.
And, whatever else happens in our long journey South, there
are two things we can be certain of.... life is full of adventure
if you open yourself to it.... and it will continue to be windy
in Patagonia.
Love to you all
Kirstie and Stuart
"No importa la lluvia ni el frio
Porque esto es un trabajo espirituale
Y por eso siento orgulloso"
Or in English: "It doesn´t matter about the rain,nor the
cold
Because this is a work of spirit
And for that I feel proud"
Inscription on the rock face of the Carreterra Austral dedicated
to the pioneers who gave their lives building this extraordinary
road.
With tantalising views of Fitzroy
