Darien Revisited?

Wednesday, February 08, 2006 12:30 a.m.

Camped across the road from a small hotel and bar somewhere out in the middle of nowhere on Ruta 40. Traveled maybe 20 miles today. The most difficult conditions since Darien, Panama, and very similar in ways.

When I was ready to leave my campsite just after noon today, I saw a couple vehicles go by and water seemed to be splashing. I had figured this relatively light rain would have just soaked in, but driving over to the highway, I could see water pooled up ahead and soon found out that just below a layer of gravel, the road surface had turned to a slippery mud.

About ten miles down the road, with Bajo Caracoles in view just up ahead, I was slipping and sliding. I fell down and could not lift the bike, so all the gear came off. A policeman had just passed, but was too far beyond to notice me.

Refueled in Bajo Caracoles and continued south, trying to gingerly pick my way, as traffic during the day had created ruts in the mud. I tried everything: riding in ruts, riding on the shoulder, paddling the bike through the mud (which I did for miles) and taking off into the pampa (which is sandy and not as slippery, but very rough due to bunch grasses.)

I lost track of how many times I fell, but I clearly set a new record today. The fourth or fifth fall had me worried: the right pannier landed on my lower leg, twisting my knee. If it remained, it would be bad. But when the bike came to rest, it lifted up slightly, allowing me to free my leg. I was “fed up” at this point. “This is hopeless!”

I photographed the bike in the road. I didn’t want to unpack everything again. Then, in the distance, I saw a motorcyclist heading south, slowly making his way along the shoulder. At first, I thought it was the Japanese fellow, then I realized it was a much larger bike – in fact, just like mine. It was Sacha Beriro! The last time we had seen each other was in Anchorage, Alaska! His timing was perfect.

He helped to raise the bike, while we caught up on each other’s adventures.

Mud was building up under my front fender, just as in Darien, which made it impossible to ride. I used a tire iron to dig it out. The mud was so impacted that it was hot from the friction and blackened with tire rubber. It was wearing down my front tire, acting as a brake. When the front tire isn’t cooperating, the rear simply wants to go around it. The next thing you know, you’re on the ground. Sacha was not experiencing this at all. (He has a Michelin "Anakee" on the front. I have a "Tourance". Possibly a factor.)

I tried to follow him, but the build-up forced me to keep stopping. Eventually, when we reached a particularly muddy area, I suggested he go on. If I couldn’t get through, I was going to camp. Paddled along at a few miles an hour and was almost through when I went down again. I couldn’t lift it, so off everything came.

There were a few more dicey areas, then I was able to get up some speed: 30 or 40 mph. Climbed up out of the flatlands and around a bend. Ahead I saw a building with Sacha’s bike parked out front. It was a small hotel, “El Olnie”.

“There IS a god!” Sacha said stepping outside to greet me. They had a room we could share, but being the infamous snorer, I said I would camp. There was an area sheltered by trees across the road that would suffice.

Hung out at the bar drinking warm Coke and watching the local characters.

Set up the tent. Sacha said they were evidently preparing dinner for us. Sat down to a long table in the kitchen with other travelers and our host, Señor Manuel Perez Andare. Fresh greens from the garden and roast lamb (I think). (Earlier today, while I was playing in the mud, I saw the slab of meat pass by in the bed of a pick-up truck. The truck was now parked at the hotel.)

A bus stopped and the passengers crowded in for drinks and snacks. They were coming from the south and had been traveling for 20 hours, just from El Calafate. Road conditions are bad, and several vehicles got stuck, blocking traffic, they said. The bus got stock and had to be towed out, after a six- or seven-hour wait. "Crap!" We thought it might be easy sailing from here, but further trials await!

Up past midnight, visiting with travelers.

Neck sore, left calf banged up, back strained from lifting the bike so many times, but the right knee seems okay! (I have a feeling this is how football players feel all season long!)