A short diversion along Ruta 1

On the recommendation of several friends who had driven this route before us, we diverted away from the Ruta 3 onto the Ruta 1. It may have been a gravel road, but we heard that what we might lose in speed would be made up for with points of interest—something that is somewhat lacking on the Ruta 3. We left the tarmac behind at the small village of Balneario El Cóndor. We stocked up on a few basics from the tiny shops there, but we didn’t stock up on the one thing we really should have: fuel. At that moment though, we didn’t really think about it, and we left the village, hitting the dirt road with half a tank and without a second thought.

The first point we aimed for was the cliffs just a few kilometres outside of town. These cliffs were famous for their colony of burrowing parrots. We parked in a generous lay-by on the cliff top and watched the screeching birds filling the air around us. There must have been thousands. They lined every cable, every nook in the cliff, and wheeled around us in the sky. We sat outside, eating our dinner at the table looking out over the sea and its beautiful view. We were also rewarded with a glorious sunset.

The only downside of being parked by a bird colony was the noise. They started at dawn, which in the ever-lengthening summer days here was around 5:30am. It was an early start for us, which took a bit of adjustment along with the long, light-filled evenings. We had been in the habit of cooking dinner when it got dark; now that was pushing 10pm, and we had ended up eating nearer midnight a few times as we lost track of time.

As we sat drinking our morning coffee, Lee set up the camera on the tripod to try and catch some footage of the pod of dolphins that had appeared in the sea in front. As he came back towards the camera for a second, I glanced out. I was just in time to see the camera and tripod fall over the cliff. This had been an investment for us; we had recently bought a new lens and got the body cleaned up in the UK. The idea was to better capture the amazing wildlife and landscapes of Patagonia. Now the camera had just been blown over a huge cliff by Patagonia’s famous wind and smashed onto the beach below. I made a kind of pathetic little scream and pointed. Lee looked confused for a second, then realised what had happened.

Morning coffee was forgotten. Lee began walking down the path to the beach to retrieve it. I looked over the edge. It was a long way down—at least 50ft. The beach may have been sand, but rocky cliffs jutted out. There was no way it had just landed softly. I remembered back to our first weeks in the US, where I had managed to drop my camera on the beach (still in its case, I might add) and had been forced to fork out $100 to clean sand out of the lens. Still, I didn’t imagine there’d be much left to clean after this. No way it survived that fall. I stared gloomily out of the window and tried not to cry. We didn’t have the money to replace it or fix it. We were about to see all these fantastic landscapes and wildlife and we’d have to make do with my old iPhone now.

I watched Lee make his way back up the road holding the twisted remains of the tripod. He arrived at the door. I looked up.

“Well?” I said.

“I think,” he said tentatively. “It might be OK.”

“What?! How can it be OK?!” I demanded.

We inspected the camera. At first glance, it looked mainly fine. Both the lens and screen were unbroken. It turned on. It took a photo. We were pleasantly surprised. It seemed to be nearly undamaged. It did have a crack on the body and the viewfinder no longer worked, but it focused and it took photos. It was some kind of miracle. We were still annoyed it was damaged, but it wasn’t all over yet. We breathed a sigh of relief and drank our cold coffee.

I didn’t really fancy another night full of noisy parrots and so, with the wind picking up, we headed further down the coast. Dolphins and parrots were not the only wildlife here. A little further down is the tiny village of La Lobería. Just before it, with nothing more than a small museum and some wooden viewing platforms, this place is home to the largest sea lion colony on the continent, with over 4,000 inhabitants increasing up to 6,000 during breeding season. Whales can also be spotted here in season, which we had missed by just a few weeks. Still, we wandered along the cliffs watching sea lions dominate the entire bay below.

It was a nice day and the wind had abated somewhat. We decided to find a nice spot to camp. Many of the spots were directly on the road, which is not our favourite option. Despite the fact it was a gravel road, it was in good condition and the odd car that did pass was going fast. In the end, we opted for the end of the beach at Bahía Rosas. The hard-packed gravel meant we could drive out onto the beach itself and get away from the road a little. As the wind had now gone, we decided to have a fire and cook outside. The cats ran around briefly, realised there were no trees, and sulked inside. They weren’t going to enjoy this part of the trip it seemed.

We cooked our kebabs over the fire and watched the first stars of the night appear in the still air.

We were about to discover a pattern here—and of course, it was wind related. Frequently here the strong winds fade away at dusk. This is pretty common. We’ve had many windy spots that calm down later on. The difference in Patagonia is that at around 3am the wind comes back—twice as loud, twice as strong. It batters the pop-top canvas while the van rocks and we lie in bed muttering to each other.

“Well, it’s not that bad, I mean I don’t think it’s actually going to break it…”

“Should we drop the roof, do you think…?”

“It’ll probably stop soon though…”

Then the thunderstorm started, and we lay in bed with all hope of sleep gone. At around 7am, just when you think you may as well get up, it stops. You fall asleep and wake a couple of hours later feeling horrible because you went to sleep at the wrong time. Nothing for it but to get up and make coffee, while lamenting how expensive coffee is here. The day begins and you vow that tonight you’ll find a spot without wind.

We packed up and continued south. We passed into Bahía Creek, a small village that seemed almost buried under sand. It had one tiny shop where we bought a few drinks. “Shop” is generous—it was a fridge and a counter in someone’s living room. It was nearly the last of our cash. Then we realised we didn’t have much fuel. It was unclear whether we had enough to get out; the fuel gauge was being unreliable. We asked around and eventually managed to buy 10L from a local who kept it for his motorbike. We handed over the last of our cash. Good job we hadn’t bought anything else from the shop. We would have to hope it was enough.

We continued on, wind blowing sand across the road and kicking up dust until we could barely see where we were going.

After our previous night, we scoured iOverlander for somewhere with “wind protection” and found one likely place. It was a 14km diversion. We weighed up the possibility of a good night against the risk of running out of fuel. Sleep won, and I attempted to freewheel wherever possible on the way there. We stopped at Pozo Salado. Here was a tiny guard’s house (not entirely sure what he’s guarding) and a scattering of other houses. Even calling it a hamlet would be generous. Despite not being much, there was what looked like a failed campground project.

We parked in an overgrown field with concrete grills haphazardly dotted around. At the back was a shower and toilet block with the water turned off—you can imagine the state of it, and neither of us went near it. It did have several giant water tanks, though, which still had water in. While a strong breeze blew across the field, we sat sheltered from the worst of it behind the dunes.

We used the rare wind-free day to record some videos and go for a walk on the beach. We were mainly alone. The beach was wild and barren, sand stretching as far as the eye could see.

Another camper stayed one night, parking a few feet from us despite the fact there was an entire field. Then a local family came with their tent. The whole time we barely saw Lexi; she had discovered an abandoned bus and disappeared into its ruined skeleton. We heard the jingling of her bell but had no way to retrieve her until she eventually gave up hunting mice and came home for dinner.

After ignoring our fuel issue for two days, it was time to see if we could make it out or whether one of us would be on the bike with a jerry can. It was about 130km to the nearest YPF fuel station. I calculated that the spare 10L would do 60km, depending on the wind. We set off. The kilometres slowly ticked down. Once we reached 50km remaining we could relax a little—if we ran out now, we would make it.

Once again we got lucky with our lack of planning. In fact, it was with only 12km to go that Ruby coughed and died. This didn’t worry me; what I didn’t like was the noise. The engine suddenly sounded loud. For a second I panicked we’d somehow damaged it by running out of fuel. Then, as I was at the back refilling, I noticed the exhaust hanging off. The dirt road had been the end of it. We completed the last few kilometres to the town loudly, but successfully.