After a rest day visiting the penguins on Chiloé Island, we continued our ride up north along Lago Llanquihue and up into the Chilean countryside. This part of the route wasn't very planned, drawn out using a mix of Google Maps and RidewithGPS navigation. Long stretches of road, colourful farmhouses, a drying climate. 300km of road relief after a hectic amount of gravel.
At this point our rental bikes were suffering, gears slipping like a toddler on an ice rink. Spokes popping out like champagne corks on New Years Eve. We were unsure about whether they'd make it back to Bariloche.
A long day came to an end in Lago Rinihue. A small group of houses perched up on a steep lakeside with views of Volcán Mocho. Felt so good to finally get back into the mountains after a long stretch of flat riding. The town is tiny, perched up on a steep lakeside with views of Volcán Mocho. We opted in for a homestay here as the municipal campsite was as expensive and we had no energy left to go hunting for a hidden wild camping spot.
Dinner was on the municipal lake beach. A hamburger each, an extra hotdog for me and a hefty portion of chips from the food truck up the road. It wasn't gourmet but it's what we needed.
The next day we got some of the most stunning gravel riding of the trip—crystal clear lake down below, a bluebird day, rolling hills of champagne gravel on a freshly built road all the way to the town of Choshuenco where we met back up with the main road to the border.
Chile is relatively expensive. At this point we were relatively accustomed to a Chilean off-licence lunch situation. Packet of ham, packet of cheese, some of our takeaway mayo that we'd carried over from our days in Argentina, packet of crisps, bag of yogurt drink—this time chocolate flavoured. Hopefully a few thousand calories later, we hopped back on the saddle to climb up to Puerto Fuy where we'd take our final ferry toward the border. UV 12 and 3pm heat meant the 400m climb stung more than I would have wanted but we made it up right in time for the 5pm ferry to Pirihueico.
On the boat we caught the eye of the boat captain as we had been labelled as 'los franceses'. The 90-minute long ferry blasted through as we discussed life in Europe, the recent election in Chile, and beers to try, specifically Guinness and splitting the G.
In his captain spirit, our newly made friend had ordered a few cars to mention that two French riders were on their way to the border, hoping that they wouldn't shut before we arrived. All worked out fine and we crossed back into Argentina on time, much easier than our previous border crossing.
My bike was in bits, from one to two to six broken spokes. My buckled back wheel was so wobbly I felt like my hardtail mountain bike had become full suspension. It looked like it was better off exposed in a modern art museum than being ridden for the next couple of days. We needed to sort it out.
We watched the sunset on Lago Nonthué and camped nearby. The next morning we headed up a dusty track toward San Martín de los Andes with hopes of fixing the bikes and a wild Argentine New Year's Eve.
I had read about San Martín in Che Guevara's The Motorcycle Diaries. His impressions were critical. He found it to be an artificial, overly manicured place that catered to wealthy tourists, a "chocolate box" village that felt more like a manufactured Swiss alpine resort than an authentic Argentine settlement. Nothing has changed. Still upscale, nice restaurants, tourists from Buenos Aires driving down the infamous Ruta 40. The saving grace of the mass tourism was the abundance of bike shops. However, none of them wanted to help us. Too busy, no time, already celebrating NYE with their families. I shrugged it off and assumed that if I had made it this far I could probably get back to Bariloche without an issue.
Argentinians don't celebrate NYE like we do in Europe. According to a quick Google search, they tend to stay at home with family rather than party all night with friends. Bars were shut. Only a handful of restaurants open. The streets were empty, no cars, no noise, no people. The crowded tourist hub a day earlier had now become a no man's land.
After an uneventful night we set off to tackle the last segment of the trip, crossing my fingers that my back wheel wouldn't break. The second we left the city limit, Charlotte calls me over telling me she can't downshift. Her gear cable had snapped. With no open bike shops and no spare cable we had limited options.
After an hour on the side of the road, trying to fix her bike, we called it. We hailed down a bus to Bariloche and begged him to let us shove our bikes and panniers in the hull. A cash payment and a handshake later we were sat driving down the road we had planned to cycle. We were crushed but it was the right call.
Some extra days in Bariloche to look back at the crazy ride we had just experienced.