South American Explorer

Photojournalist Jeff Bartlett and his new wife Romina discover the hidden corners of the Ruta 40.

 

Suddenly, my wife, Romina, shoots past me. Screaming speed pulls her downhill, while the brakes keep her knuckles squeezed white. Her bike wheels, locked solid, skid left and right. The steep switchbacks, rife with washboard, rob her of any sense of control. Queue the blood; she’s going to crash.

 

“Let go of the brakes!” I scream. “Hang on and let go of the brakes!”

 

It’s no use; she can neither hear me nor react quickly enough. In a fleeting instant, all the positive memories of our trip will be lost in a soon-to-be crumpled heap of bicycle, luggage and newlywed wife. I close my eyes and sigh.

 

The idea to spend our honeymoon traversing Patagonia by bike came long before the wedding plans were finalized. While Romina kept busy arranging flowers, being fit for a dress and dealing with the caterers, I studied maps and planned a route.

 

The in-laws never understood my romance with such a punishing honeymoon. Even Romina, who had never cycled outside the confines of her hometown, had doubts whether the trip would be full of fun or suffering. The looming crash seemed to favor the former, despite the fact we’d enjoyed the rest of the long ride.

 

We’d spent time in the Lakes district before, so we opted for the less-traveled roads of Neuquén.

 

We bid farewell to Bariloche and dodged cargo trucks along the shores of Lago Nahuel Huapi until Villa La Angostura. From there, the rough seven-lakes road guided us to San Martin de los Andes. And finally, we hit Ruta 40 in Junin de los Andes and followed the fading sliver of national pride north for 1000 km.

The short descent to Rio La Rinconada marked the distinct landscape change we expected. By the time we huffed our way up 20km of switchbacks, Patagonia had transformed itself. The forested valleys and blue lakes that make the region famous unfolded behind us, while a dry and barren world loomed ahead.

 

We camped our first night in the desert-like atmosphere behind an abandoned gas station.

 

We rationed dinner to preserve our water and crawled into bed as the sun sank behind the lurking Andes. Summer arrived late in 2010, but autumn couldn’t be slowed. By the time Romina crawled out the tent early the next morning, searching for a drink, our limited water supply was frozen solid.

 

Hours later, I sat down at a table built for kids. It was much too small for my lanky Canadian frame. Romina’s small Argentinean physique didn’t suffer the same problem. Thankfully, the soup warmed our wind-chilled bodies and erased any awkward feelings about our elementary-school surroundings.

 

“Do you want more mate?” asked the young school keeper, eager to keep us talking. “I can heat more soup or get some tortitas, too.”

 

“Gracias,” Romina said, breaking the awkward silence. “but we need to go.”

 

Our surprise visit to the roadside boarding school provided the school keeper a welcome break from her routine; she normally deals with a room chock-full of competing ten-year-old students fighting for attention. Unfortunately, with our water bottles re-filled, we started eyeing the exit.

 

The tumbleweeds are headed north and our bikes are facing the same direction, but our destination is still 70 km away.

 

The stiff breeze propelled us along at a quick 30km/hr despite the rolling terrain that, when coupled with our heavy loads, would normally punish our legs. As darkness descended upon the Patagonian steppe, we flicked on our headlamps and pedaled onward. Only 15km separated us from cold beer and pizza in Zapala and that tasty promise kept our legs spinning.

 

As the days blended together, the weather remained predictable. From Zapala, the road to Las Lajas dropped as quickly as the evening temperatures. The ride to Chos Malal remained painfully dry but flat and the afternoon sun left our limited water supplies dripping from our pores. Days later, a herd of chivos ran us straight off the road. Gauchos, riding horse-back, ignored the traffic laws and herded chivos through the police checkpoint, down the highway, and across the narrow bridge that spans the Rio Neuquén near Chos Malal.

 

After all, livestock takes precedence from cyclists in this isolated corner of Patagonia.

 

After Chos Malal, the road that linked Buta Ranquil, Barrancas, and Ranquil del Norte took a dramatic turn towards the sky. We climbed along Volcan Tromen for two days, crossed the Rio Barrancas celebrated our arrival in Mendoza. The final grind left us at the privately owned Laguna Coipo Lauquen without a campsite.

 

Moments later Emeterio Sepulveda materialized from the nearby brush. Walking with a noticeable limp, the easily-in-his-60s farmer hauled an axe on his shoulder and a bundle of firewood in his arms. The wood served two needs: fuel for cooking and heat for fending off autumn. Several other cyclists passed his home throughout the summer, but we were unexpected late arrivals. Emeterio’s stories of raising 10 kids without the help of running water or electricity poured out as he guided us to a dusty campsite reserved for cyclists.

 

We awoke to hammering and sawing sounds, and crawled out of out tent to meet Emeterio’s son, Ramon.

 

 Of the 10 kids, only Ramon remains on the family farm; his siblings have all left in search of jobs. He’s building his own house and he’s eager to complete it before winter. Meanwhile, his young son played nearby and kept a keen eye on us, the odd visitors.

 

After tearing down camp, we bid farewell to our friendly hosts and pedaled 5km before the pavement ended. Thankfully, the bikes gained speed down the gravel track and our narrow road tires plowed through any loose sections. The Sepulveda homestead stands at nearly 2000m, the peak of our ride.

 

From there, the road twists, turns, and descends into the Payunia region of Mendoza. Volcano craters dotted the landscape and dust-filled winds gust every afternoon. We soon crossed the Rio Grande, which guided us past La Pasarela to Bardas Blancas and back to the pavement.

 

The descent continued to Malargue and El Sosneado, where the road turned east towards San Rafael.

 

Our route took us via El Nihuil and the steep descent into the Canon del Atuel, where Romina began her out-of-control skid that would, undoubtedly, leave the in-laws questioning my cycle-touring honeymoon decision for years.

 

But when the expected crashing noises never reached my ears, my eyes pop open. Romina rounds the next curve and continues towards the canyon floor. She’s the model of control. All my fright evaporates instantly, as I realize this final tense moment will easily slide into memory.

 

A couple hours and two wrong turns later we arrive at our final destination, San Rafael. On the outskirts of town, we spot a rare English-language sign that reads: Free Champagne Tasting.

 

What better way to celebrate the final moments of a honeymoon in Patagonia?

 

 

Jeff Bartlett is a freelance photojournalist with two homes: British Columbia, Canada and Mendoza, Argentina. When Jeff isn’t traversing the glove with his wonderful wife, Romina, his work focuses on adventure sports, environmental issues, and social problems. To see more of his work, please visit www.photojbartlett.com