Lago Epecuen
We had initially planned a different route south from here, sticking to the east side of the country and the Ruta 3. However, our friends had told us about this unique salt lake that lay further west, so we opted to change our plans a little and head over there. It was quite a drive, so we left the laguna and drove several hours across the nondescript countryside to reach the small town of San Carlos de Bolívar. Here we stayed in the local park so that the cats could finally enjoy some proper freedom. It was free; all we had to do was register and share a reasonably sized parking area with a few other campers.
This was the halfway point, and so the next day we pushed on to arrive at the lake. Our friends were camped at a spa in the town and asked if we wanted to join them. We went to have a look; it turns out the spa offers 48 hours of free camping to people using the iOverlander app. They only have one spot though, and as our friends were already using it, we left them to enjoy it and decided to head out and free camp at the lake instead. We opted to stay in a quiet spot on the shore. We were surrounded by the skeletons of trees and long grasses, while out in front of us flamingos stalked through the shallow waters.
The season was changing and the weather ranged from cool and windy to blisteringly hot and stormy. We decided we’d hang out here for a few days and then head back into town and try to blag the free camping. We had opted to stay right down on the beach and realised we had inadvertently parked next to a partially submerged hose that a local water truck used to routinely fill his tanker. He told us that he would be coming to this spot throughout the night. He said rain was predicted and that he wouldn’t be able to get down to the beach if it rained, so he had to fill up while the good weather lasted. He recommended that we move up slightly onto the small cliff behind so that he didn’t disturb us during the night. Of course, if it rained hard we too might struggle to leave the beach.
It remained dry throughout the night, but the next day it poured—and it poured. The water level rose and we were glad we had moved away from the beach onto something firmer and higher. We waited out the bad weather and were rewarded with an absolute scorcher the following day. It was hot and humid after the storm—perfect for a dip. We decided to try out the lake. We had already spotted that a little further down there were some showers. The salt content here was ten times higher than the sea, so a shower would definitely be needed.
We picked our way down the beach and out into the water. You had to be careful stepping around submerged concrete and bits of metal sticking out of the mud—the tragic backstory of this place. The water was so shallow that you barely got off the bottom anyway. But even in just a few inches of it, we could float. It did little to cool us down though; being so shallow, it was already pretty warm.
As soon as we emerged from the water, we instantly turned white and crusty. We decided to take our bikes down to the showers in order to spend less time covered in salt. The visitor centre was fairly empty. A couple of shipping containers had been converted into toilets. The showers were outside on the sand, fed by large black tanks on towers. At least they were a pleasant temperature. We began washing off the salt—but it didn’t last long. The shower coughed, spat, and stopped. It seemed the problem with visiting out of season was that the water hadn’t been topped up. To make matters worse, the water in the bottom of the tank was full of plastic sludge. So now we were still salty, but covered in tiny pieces of black plastic.
Luckily, the toilets were still running. The water was clearly fed from somewhere else and was surprisingly cold. It was also awkward to use as it was in a small sink, but at least no one was around, so we took off our swimming stuff, filled an empty shampoo bottle, and did the best we could without flooding the container. Eventually, we were mostly clean of salt and plastic, so we headed back to Ruby. Despite our efforts, a proper shower still sounded appealing.
Now that we knew our friends had left the spa, we headed around to try our luck again. They confirmed that no one was using the spot and we could stay for two days. Perfect. It turned out even better than expected because the next day was miserable again. Being able to hook up was great on such a wet day. I made the most of having hot water to wash all our clothes, and then we headed inside to check out the salt pool. If anything, it might have been even saltier. While it was the same water, being indoors and heated seemed to intensify it. We bobbed around on pool noodles until every little scratch that Aimee had given me became too painful and we got out. At least now we could have a very clean, very hot, very good shower—all for free. We were pretty smug.
Once our two days were up, the weather had improved again. We decided we needed to head back to the lake and do the “proper” touristy stuff we had missed. We cycled out to the small museum about the 1985 flood that had turned this once-popular destination into the ruins it is today. Back in the day, a small town had sprung up around the lake’s shores. Hotels, pools, and spas lined the waterfront. People believed in the healing properties of the water and families came to relax in the pools filled with lake water. Then it all went wrong.
A period of heavy rain caused a breach in the nearby dam; the water rose and rose and the town disappeared completely. When it receded, corroded and broken remains were left behind. Now, for a small fee, you can wander the ruins instead of enjoying the therapeutic experience people once came for. At the pool, a tower still marks the height the floodwater reached.
Other parts were also damaged, including some wealthy holiday homes, now broken and inaccessible. One place you can still wander through is the old matadero, or slaughterhouse. Notable for its architect, its broken walls still stand. Outside, a woman sells jars of lake mud and trinkets from a table, and every now and again a minibus passes through as visitors wander its empty rooms and graffitied walls.
Despite its sad ending, we thoroughly enjoyed this stop. It gave us quiet, peaceful nights camping on the shore, as well as a few nights somewhere far nicer than anything we would have paid for. The clock was ticking though, and we needed to put some miles between us and the north of the country. Nothing in Argentina is close, though—we’d need another couple of stop-offs to reach the coast.
Firstly, we passed through the small village of Sierra de la Ventana. All of a sudden we were driving through farmland, wildflowers, and picturesque hills. We didn’t stay longer than a night, but it was a scenic drive and the village sticks in my mind because we finally bought our “Argentinian” knife, as well as some rather nice pesto cheese for a very reasonable $15. We would have stopped to hike to the actual ventana—a window in the rock—but for some reason the park was shut on the day we arrived, and as nice as it was, we didn’t feel like hanging around. On the way out, we stopped for a quick photo outside the cemetery. It’s of particular note because of its architect and engineer, Francisco Salamone, who also designed the slaughterhouse on the shores of Lago Epecuén.
We headed on the next day towards our final stop before hitting the coast. It was nothing particularly notable—a small lake, Laguna La Salada. Google took us on the fastest route, which is always a bad sign. We ended up crawling along a dusty, corrugated back road that no doubt took three times longer than sticking to the main road. While I was irritated at first, there was an upside: beetling across the road in front of us, we spotted an armadillo. The only other time we’d seen one was a fleeting moment in Bolivia, and this time we were lucky enough to get much closer.
After our unexpected wildlife sighting, we finally arrived at the lake. We drove around a little until we found a grassy spot all to ourselves. After a short while, a ranger turned up but only wanted a quick chat and to tell us we were welcome to stay. We kept an eye out for Carlos and Marce, whom we had bumped into in the supermarket in Bahía Blanca and who had said they were also heading down here, but we never spotted them. There were, after all, several other places to stop. I’m sure that as we all headed south on similar schedules, we’d cross paths again soon anyway.
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