Reaching Boiling Point in San Juan
Before things got too remote, we needed to address our front tyres. When we left Paraguay, the front set hadn’t looked too bad, but now it was another story. It seemed we’d thrown out our tracking on a nasty pothole somewhere in the north, and consequently, our tyres were severely worn on the inside edge. A matter of time before the canvas started showing. Considering we were about to drive some of the most remote roads in the country, this was probably not advisable.
My mum had not been impressed by the state of our tyres — to the point that she’d sent money along with strict instructions to sort it out NOW. While this removed the financial hurdle, it didn’t change the fact that we were in Argentina, and Argentina doesn’t carry tyres in our size.
Before leaving Mendoza, we decided to try getting the alignment tracked; that would at least stop the wear from getting worse. However, after visiting several garages, they all told us their computers lacked the data for our car and couldn't help. By the time morning rolled into Satuday afternoon, everything shut down. Not wanting to wait around all weekend for places to reopen, we headed out of the city to the beautiful reservoir at Potrerillos to spend the night. Despite it being Saturday, it was cold and out of season, making for a fairly peaceful evening.
On Sunday, we kept moving. We drove up into the foothills of the Andes, retracing the road to the Chilean border that we’d driven many times before. Once we passed the village of Uspallata, we’d be on brand-new roads. Previously, we’d only ever driven through here in sweltering heat, but now it was snowy and in the middle of ski season. We remembered this small village as a sleepy rural outpost, but now it was a completely different beast: people bustled down the streets, and seasonal shops were open renting snow chains and ski gear. We filled up with fuel and left the bustle behind. Instead of turning left towards the border, we continued straight on towards the great Argentine north.
Almost instantly, we were alone. The tarmac ended, leaving the snow-capped mountains as the only constant on our left as we pushed forward.
With cool temperatures, a warm sun, and clear skies, it was perfect hiking weather. We had planned to stop near a national park for a walk before continuing on to camp at Cerro Siete Colores. By the time we arrived, however, it was a bit too late to start a trail. Instead, we decided to camp at an enormous dry lake bed nearby. Apparently, in season, you can hire land yachts and race across it. Happily for us, there wasn't much wind at this time of year.
We drove in and parked a short distance from the car park on the wide expanse of dried mud. It reminded me of the Salar de Uyuni, with the sunbaked mud cracked into an enormous mosaic. We’d only been parked for a few minutes when a woman with a clipboard approached to tell us we couldn't stay there.
She motioned to the dry, cracked ground. "It’s too wet," she said. "You have to move."
Reluctantly, we drove back to the car park area. Leaving Ruby there, we went off for a walk across the still very dry lake bed.
We did find one car sitting completely alone in the middle. Long, dried-out dirt ruts led up to its wheels, making it look like it had gotten stuck and been abandoned. It seemed a little over the top since it wasn't deeply bogged down and the ground was now dry, but I could understand their desire to protect the terrain.
The area had been marked as a wild campsite online, but there were new signs prohibiting camping, and I imagined Clipboard Lady would return. Not wanting to wait until dark to see what happened, we decided to find a different hike and head up to our original spot for the night.
We arrived just before sunset, giving the cats time to run around. The silence was absolute—no traffic, no animals, no wind. I was genuinely excited to sleep.
I’ll probably remember that spot for years to come for its sheer tranquility. Living in a pop-top means you’re always at the mercy of noise, and I fondly treasure those perfect nights where nothing disturbs us. They are a rare treat.
In the morning, we had a little more time to appreciate our surroundings: the beautiful pastel colours of the hills set against a bright blue sky.
Despite the glorious morning, the weather was forecast to turn that afternoon, so it seemed like the best plan of action would be to fit in a quick hike in the good continue driving as it started to turn later. We retraced our steps a short distance back to the last village and went for a quick hike up the riverbed there.
Despite the evidence on the rocks of strong water, it was hard to imagine it ever being that way. Everything here was so dry!
Once we got back to Ruby, we set off for the town of San Juan, hoping to have another go at finding tyres and getting the tracking done. This is one of the last proper towns before you get much, much further north. I knew we probably wouldn't get exactly what we wanted, but we had to do something.
It was a three-hour drive winding up over a small mountain range that separated us from the town. The cold air meant Ruby easily handled the steady ascent. She had been struggling a bit with temperature lately—running far too hot for the conditions, with the radiator fans permanently running while we cruised on the open road. I assumed our cheap thermostat was on its way out and ordered a replacement to be sent to my parents in England. We only had to make it to Salta for my parents' visit for it to be sorted, and fortunately, the low ambient temperature meant it wasn't a huge issue for now.
The huge issue hit us as we descended towards town late in the afternoon. I am fairly obsessive when it comes to checking my gauges, especially when the engine is running warm. Now that we were practically freewheeling downhill, there should have been nothing to worry about. That was until I casually glanced down and saw the bright red warning numbers on the temperature gauge reading a staggering 120°C.
It took me a second to process this very unexpected situation before instinct kicked in: I swore loudly and killed the engine immediately. I didn't know how long it had been that hot — probably not more than a few minutes, but that's plenty of time to cause serious damage. Keeping the van in gear, we freewheeled downhill so the engine block cooled rapidly into the 90s, pulling over to the hard shoulder to figure out what on earth had happened.
The problem was immediately clear: the bleed pipe for the radiator had somehow worked itself free, and even stranger, it had lost the bolt clamped into the end of it. That’s one quick way to dump a massive amount of coolant - you know, that brand-new stuff we’d just put in! We cut off the damaged end of the pipe, prepped a fresh bolt and a Jubilee clip, poured in the remains of our drinking water, and braced ourselves to deal with an enormous air lock.
For the next half an hour, we limped into town. I’d drive for a couple of minutes until the coolant temperature spiked, at which point I’d cut the engine and coast down the hard shoulder until we rolled to a stop. We’d pop out, top up the header tank, and repeat. After four or five attempts, we finally purged the air from the system and reached the town centre. We decided to stay at a campsite that night; we needed more drinking water, and a hot shower wouldn't go amiss.
The campsite we chose wasn't the nicest. It sat right alongside a loud, busy dual carriageway and we were also informed there were no hot showers available. On the plus side, it offered some shelter from the wind and had potable water. We were exhausted from the stressful afternoon and didn't feel like driving out to the exposed free-camping spots around the lake. At least this central location provided a practical starting point for tomorrow's tyre search.
After the utter tranquility of the previous night, this was the exact opposite. Cars, motorbikes, and lorries rumbled past well into the small hours, leaving us with only an hour or two of relative quiet before it all restarted again at 5.30am.
The next day, our goal was to get everything sorted and get out of San Juan. I also desperately hoped we hadn't blown a head gasket. Since we were within walking distance of a few tyre shops, we walked over first to ask about stock. They had a few options that were okay, though not ideal, but at least we had a backup plan. Since we had the whole day ahead of us, we decided to drive around the city to see what other options existed. The first garage had also mentioned they couldn't do our alignment, which was a major roadblock — there was no point fitting new tyres without rectifying the alignment first.
On the way back, we bought a couple of litres of antifreeze to replenish the engine. Back at the campsite, we added it to the cooling system, refilled our water tank, and prepared to set off. There was no telltale white smoke coming from the exhaust, and I relaxed a little. We hadn't lost all our original coolant, so two extra litres of antifreeze should be enough to protect the block in the mountains.
We must have visited at least five tyre shops, but none carried a size better than what we’d found at the first shop. None of them could perform the tracking alignment either. It became clear we needed an old-school garage that tracked wheels manually, as modern computerised 4-wheel alignment systems lacked our vehicle's specific geometry specs. Fortunately, the final shop phoned another garage on our behalf that could do it manually. We felt a bit guilty leaving without buying tyres from them after they’d been so helpful, but their tyres were £50 more expensive per tyre, so we decided to return to the first shop for the cheaper set.
We pulled up to the first shop with Ruby, and several mechanics immediately gathered around the van. I told the head mechanic I wanted the 195/80/14 tyres.
For anyone who doesn't want to understand tyre specs, skip to the next paragraph! Our usual size is 215/75/14. That means the tyre is 215mm wide, the sidewall height is 75% of that width—161mm—and it fits a 14-inch wheel. It’s a bizarre mix of metric and imperial units before you even factor in sidewall percentages. The 195/80/14 tyres meant our front suspension would sit roughly 5mm lower, which was manageable. The upside was a narrower profile, making the manual steering lighter. The mechanics, however, weren't buying it.
Granted, one side of Ruby was sitting pretty low. Our front air shock had a bad leak, so we lacked proper ride height, which made the new tyres look deceptively large. The mechanics were convinced they wouldn't fit. One held the unmounted tyre up against our spare wheel for reference.
"Look, it’s bigger," he insisted.
"Well, it is if you don’t hold it level," I countered.
He walked around to front wheel and putting the new tyre next to it on the floor, pointed out how much taller it stood. I tried to explain that this wasn't a fair comparison: our current tyre had no tread left — a loss of nearly 20mm in height — and comparing a worn, inflated wheel on a heavy van to an uninflated, unloaded loose tyre just doesn't work.
"You need 185/80/14," he insisted. "That will be much better."
"No, it won't," I said, whipping out my phone calculator. "The ones I want have a sidewall height of 156mm." I showed him the calculation. "My original factory specification is 161mm, and you’re trying to sell me tyres that are..." I tapped away. "...148mm. I don't want tyres that lose me 13mm of ride height"
Looking thoroughly disconcerted, he shrugged. "Well, you’re paying for it, so it’s your decision," he said uncertainly.
"I’ll take the 195s, thank you," I insisted.
After this, I'm sure it was no surprise to them when I later insisted refused to let them use their air gun and insisted on torquing my own wheel nuts.
By the time the new tyres were fitted and paid for, it was nearly 4:00 pm. While it was getting late, the timing was actually ideal: it meant we could head straight over for the tracking. Being Argentina, everything shuts down for siesta between 12:00 pm and 4:00 pm anyway.
We pulled up at the garage recommended to us by the previous shop. After a brief discussion, they confirmed they could do the manual alignment — well, I hope so, since you already said yes on the phone, I thought. We drove Ruby onto the ramp.
The mechanic performed the quickest wheel alignment I’ve ever seen. He used an adjustable metal trammel bar — a long pole with a smaller sliding rod inside. He extended it so it touched the inner rim of both front tyres at the 9 o’clock position. Pinching the bar at that length, he moved it to the 3 o’clock position on the front of the tyres. The bar no longer touched, demonstrating that the wheels were toeing out. In a matter of minutes, he adjusted the track rods and rechecked with his bar until he was satisfied. The whole process took barely 10 minutes and cost us £10.
I was skeptical about how accurate his rudimentary bar system would be, but as we drove out of town that afternoon, Ruby tracked perfectly straight down the middle of the road. There was no pulling whatsoever as we resumed our journey north — engine crisis averted and mission finally accomplished.
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