Paso Roballos
Days 30 - 32 8th to 11th February
The prospect of three consecutive days of driving was not particularly appealing as we pulled away from the tranquility of the small town of El Chaltén that we had taken to our hearts and once more we were puzzled by the seemingly random nature of the route that had been planned for us. The aim was, it seemed, to get back over to Chile and onto the famous drive of the Carratera Austral and upon further investigation it was apparent that the pesky mountain range of the Andes made it quite difficult to get back across to the neighbouring country. The nearest crossing point North is the Reballos pass, renowned for its spectacular beauty and remoteness as well as for being shut a lot due to the road being washed away. We knew already that if this pass is closed when we try to traverse it then the next is a full eight hour detour further north to Chile Chico. This knowledge does little to bolster our enthusiasm and a quiet day in the car ensues.
On the face of it, there didn’t seem to be a lot going for the next night’s stopping point in the middle of nowhere other than it broke the journey of the ten hours or so left on the RN40 but at this stage in the proceedings, we had little choice so pushed on.
We knew that the RP23, (confusingly signed as the RN40 even though it was clearly a branch off the main road), was all paved so at least the first hour or so of driving would be on a paved surface and we were further pleased to find that the first section of the main road was good too. This, however, was short lived and we soon understood very bone shakingly clearly why the average speed for the day was predicted to be no more that around 35mph.
Two hours of washboard road followed as we contemplated the uproar that would occur in the UK if people were expected to drive even a few yards on a similar surface especially when you take into account that this is one of the only roads in the state of Santa Cruz.
We remind ourselves that it is as much about the journey as the places that we are travelling to see and make the most of it. Even though, we are still both silently dreading the night ahead in this barren landscape.
There are so few roads here that it makes route instructions very very basic and today was a great example of this: ‘ leave Chaltén on the RP23, take the first left after 87km onto the RN40, take the next left after another 150km onto RP29 ⚠️Parts of this road may be closed at certain times or days⚠️. Take the first right after 37km and your destination will be at the end of a 4km track’.
Frustratingly, the gravel road ended in exchange for a nice paved surface about 100m before the turning onto the RP29 which was, of course, gravel!
The designated distance to the last turning of the day was pin point accurate but was this really going to be a rural tourism highlight or a night in a deserted desert dust bowl?
At the very end of the 4km mark we turned a corner and realised that we should trust in Ed as a beautiful green oasis opened up before us with the farmstead that would be our stay appearing as a welcome sight to our jiggled eyes and jaded travel spirit.
We were warmly welcomed like long lost friends by our host Maria. We instantly fell into a relaxed state of comfort as we were brought tea and cakes as we sat outside in the warm afternoon sun. Cats and dogs filled every corner of the garden and they all gave us a friendly welcome too.
The humbly rustic accommodation matched perfectly with the setting and it was easy to imagine the consuming passion that the early pioneers must have had when setting up the farmstead in the second decade of the twentieth century. Maria, who is the third generation of the family that established the settlement, speaks with earnest joy of her life here and her love of the natural surroundings.
It is hard to imagine how this place in the middle of nowhere is found and booked for stays but once found, there is no reason on earth why you wouldn’t stay here.
On the night that we were here, there are two other couples and we all have dinner together in the big house. There is no choice in the food but this is fine because it is a wonderful spread of locally grown or local caught produce. To start we have a hare stew with carrots and peas with salad, baked aubergines and home baked bread. The hare stew is served cold which may sound unappealing but was delicious and the meat very tender.
For the main course we had another stew, this time hot, of lamb with potatoes and pumpkin. Followed up with fruit from the garden with home made ice cream. We felt spoilt and happy with the world.
Of our fellow guests, the Chilean couple from Santiago said little and seemed quite keen on going outside and smoking a lot. They were less enamoured with the rustic food and ate little. The Swiss couple who were probably around ten years older than us were, on the other hand, much beter company and we enjoyed recounting our respective trips to date which had followed a pretty similar path. Alois took particular pleasure in going through in fine detail every landing point that they had made in Antarctica which he had immaculately marked on his very fine map with his very finely engineered metal barrelled propelling pencil. Wonderfully precise in a very Swiss way but also modest in delivery which made the story telling endearing and interesting.
We all talked through what our journeys held for the next few days of travel and it soon became clear that the smokers were intent on blasting through the task whilst Alois and Margret were heading on at a similar pace to us. We agreed to meet with them again at the next place.
The evening wildlife kept us entertained and gave me the opportunity to try and capture some of it on film.
We set off again the next morning on the gravelled side road to join back onto the RN40 which turns out to be blissfully enjoyable section of paved surface. It is interspersed with random short sections of ‘batches’ (stones loosely arranged to form a temporary road surface) which, if nothing else, serve to keep you awake at the wheel.
There is promise of fuel being available at Bajo Carcoles which is of no odds to us as I know that we have a full can of Super in the boot which I need to transfer into the tank before we get to the border. For our Swiss friends though things are a little more desperate as they seem to have hired a gas guzzler of a motor. They pass us by with a wave as I fight with the ubiquitous wind to avoid pouring petrol everywhere and we don’t see them again until the fuel stop an hour or so later.
There is fuel but only diesel and this is no good for the groups of worried looking motorists that now don’t have much option but to sit it out and wait for the next tanker to turn up. The twelve year old boy that seems to be in charge of the, what loosely might be referred to as, service station for the day may well know when this relief might arrive but if he does, he is keeping it a secret.
Alois does some calculus and considers that it should just be possible to get to Las Posadas with the fuel that we have left so we head off in tandem with the plan that, if they do run out of fuel, we will ferry them to that destination to fill our Jerry can. A plan that will work brilliantly as long as there is some fuel at our destination.
At least some of the people waiting for fuel had a bed for the night if it came to it.
The gravel road towards the border is a good one and the scenery wasn’t that bad either!
We made it to the one horse town of Las Posadas and checked into our architect designed hotel which did have an exceptionally nice lounge area with loads of interesting books and cold beer but our room had a tiny tiny bathroom that had clearly slipped through the quality control net when it came to ergonomics.
Nursing a sore knee which had been hit by the door whilst I was sitting on the toilet, we went the very short distance to the centre of town where a happy Swiss couple were sitting in the service station eating empanadas and looking through the window at their now full of fuel car. We filled up to on Super and empanadas much to the joy of the proprietor who must have thought that Christmas had come early. Two cars to fill and eight empanadas to put on plates. Boy would he have a story to tell his mates this evening.
The skies turn dull in the afternoon and following an unsuccessful trip down a dirt road to find some cave paintings that our host promised would be easy to spot, we did very little for the rest of the day except to hope that the pass across the border would be open tomorrow.
It was sunny again the next morning as we set out on the RN41 for the border crossing called Paso Rodolfo Roballos. It has only been open for a little over twenty years and still isn’t very busy. The condition of the X83 that cuts through the national park was surprisingly good but it was clear to see how it could easily change in bad weather with some sections being made up of little more than packed down mud as the road weaves across the beds of dried up lakes. Nevertheless, we both silently wonder whether we will have to turn back and retrace steps due to some moment where the road might fail.
The scenery is stunning as we continue our journey and this is definitely the most exhilarating part of our road trip so far.
Happily, we make it to the sleepy border station on the Argentina side and wait patiently as a very nice man meticulously hand writes our details into a huge ledger, gets his colleague to come and check who then gets another colleague to come and stamp our passports. There is a check of the car ( I am particularly pleased that the Jerry can was checked for being empty) and the question ‘any fruit or vegetables?’ I resist asking if this includes bananas and say no. It occurs to me that should one be into drug trafficking then this would be the border to choose…
7km of no man’s land to check point Chile where an altogether different demeanour exists. The three guards on duty were gleefully giving a Brazilian family a hard time about something which I didn’t understand but could see how content they were in their jobs. It came to our turn and we duly filled out some forms. Denied of a huge x ray machine, the inventive fellows here had opted for a much simpler way of impeding the fast progress of transiting tourists and that was to make a little pile of documents like passports and filled in forms on their desk and wait for twenty minutes before going back to it. Whether they hope that you are going to crack and suddenly admit that you are still digesting a hurriedly eaten banana or that you do, in fact, have two kilos of cocaine stuffed down your pants, I don’t know. We didn’t have either so eventually after much muttering and looking at mobile phones, we were allowed to pass. Any disappointment that the Carabineros may have felt at letting us go so easily was soon overcome as next in line for the waiting game were two Australian girls in a hippy van. For all I know, those poor girls are still at that border point forlornly looking through the glass at the pile of passports and worrying about the hash stash at the bottom of their ruck sacks.
Surely one of the most remote landing strips on the planet.
The sun had left us now and steady rain had set in. We took pity of a lone hitchhiker and gave Yana from Innsbruck a lift to Cochrane bus station about 90km down the road. In what seemed Like a crazy mad thing to do, she had been hiking across the wilderness for three days and nights, fording rivers and finding her way with little more than a compass. I’m never going to moan about getting lost on the Ashdown Forrest again!
We are pleased to have finally joined the Carratera Austral in Chile but disappointed to find it to be a road in such poor condition and just when we thought it impossible for the surface to be worse than anything encountered to date we discover road type 5 which consists of a corrugated ridge pattern spaced at the perfect distance apart to maximise wheel shake. There is no way to drive on these roads without large amounts of discomfort.
With 5km to go, we reached our first proper queue of traffic and a somewhat baffling sign. Yana could speak Spanish well so enquired with the driver of the red truck in front of us. Tronduras means blasting and it turns out that attempts are being made to widen the road ahead using dynamite. The time shown for the work is 1pm til 5pm. It was now just after 2pm…
Thankfully at 3pm we were let through to Cochrane and a welcome end to a long three days of driving.