The final segment of our bike journey in South America is a 700-mile stretch through the flat lowlands, or Pampa, of southern Patagonia. It is desert-like and barren. There are no trees, only small, hearty shrubs and grasses. The only people we ever see are those in vehicles whizzing between Torres de Paine and Glaciers National Parks. Aside from the hundreds of hares that can be seen darting across the road every couple of miles or the sheep grazing on the endless ranches, the only other wildlife we've seen are guanacos (deer/lama-like creatures), armadillos, rheas and a variety of other birds. There is not much to stop and see, yet the void of the Pampa is beautifully fascinating. And windy!



Mike on the Pampa 

Permanent bad hair day.

The wind here is unlike wind either of us have ever experienced. I find it difficult to actually call it wind as it's more like a violent, relentless monster who you can hear howling across the plains and who's voice is a deafening whistle that reverberates in your head; not even ear plugs can block the noise. There are times when it's actually manageable, but it never stops blowing and it will fight and rip you to shreds if you think you can beat it. When it's at your back, life on a bike couldn't be better. We don't have to exert an ounce of energy, yet can cover huge distances in no time. At one point we stopped, sat on our bikes without taking a single pedal stroke and before we knew it we were cruising along at 25mph. It takes a mighty strong wind to accelerate and push a 225-pound object at that speed. Once we began pedaling again we were flying up hills at unbelievable speeds and coming down at 45mph. It was thrilling and fun; if only it could always be that way.

However, it's inevitable that the road eventually turns and we find ourselves riding straight into the monster or having it attack us from the side. When it's blowing straight on, we can be in granny gear pedaling our hearts out, going downhill, and brought to a dead stop. If we stop pedaling for a second we'd be sent backwards, right back up the hill. The force is unfathomable. But the worst, by far, is when there is a side wind, which unfortunately is the majority of the time. We learned a lesson about battling a side attack our first day on the Pampa. There is no way to win.

First there is the base wind speed that blows constantly. It's cold and not fun to ride in, but it's possible; we just have to lean into it. Typically we only lean that far when we're going around curves and it feels (and looks) very unnatural to ride down a straight road in such a manner. If the wind would stop blowing for just a second, we'd probably topple over, but we don't have to worry about that. But what so often makes the side winds unrideable are the gusts. They hit you like a tidal wave and in less than a blink of an eye we find ourselves in the lane of oncoming traffic wondering what happened. It's impossible to stay in control and ride a straight line; our panniers are like sails and the wind grabs them and forces us to go wherever he desires. Not only is it frustrating and scary, it's stupidly dangerous as well.

Therefore, we've spent a fair amount of time walking our bikes, attempting to hold them upright with all of our strength while torrents of wind pummeled us with skin-piercing grains of sand, all while searching for a rare-to-find place to hide. Drainage ditches, huddled up next to ranchers' houses or tucked away in sheds have been our wind refuges on the Pampa, although even those places sometimes can't protect us. The wind tends to swirl around the buildings and even on the leeward side the simple act of setting up a tent is more like battling a giant octopus with the 8 guy lines used to stake down our shelter thrashing about madly in our faces. Two people are required for this task as one of us sprawls out over the tent making sure to keep a death grip on the tarp, rain fly and tent which would undoubtedly be ripped from your hands and 50 miles away in a matter of minutes while the other gathers the largest rocks they can find to hold us down our fort.
Mike trying to hold up his bike against the wind.  Notice the yellow tent string on the back of his bike! 

A shed we called home for a night.

We have spent many long days hanging out in our tent, waiting for the wind to ease, which generally only happens at night and then picks up again at 4:30 AM just when the sun begins to rise, and riding whenever possible. We set alarms for all hours of the night, check the wind when the buzzer goes off and if it's rideable, pack up camp, turn on all of our blinking lights and ride, regardless of the time. Despite the difficulties of staying awake, it's actually quite pleasant cycling at night; there is very little traffic and we can see it coming from miles away, we don't have to worry about being thrown off of our bikes and we can move along at more than a measly 3mph. It's not such a great way to see the scenery, but at times it's the only way that's possible.



The Carretera Austral dead-ends at Lago Villa O'Higgins. At that point you have a choice to either turn back north, backtrack 185 miles to cross into Argentina and then head south again or take a ferry across the lake and attempt a 15-mile border crossing over a mountain pass without roads that is a test of brute force and sheer determination. This is a fine route for hikers and is very beautiful, but with fully-loaded, 100-pound bikes, it felt like some sort of brutal military-type training course. It was quite the kicker after just finishing the Carretera and we voted it as definitely the most challenging day of this entire trip to date.
The road ends here.  On the ferry crossing Lago O'Higgins.

The first 10 miles of this border crossing were in Chile and though they were slow and difficult, they weren't terrible. Immediately after getting off the ferry we had a 3-mile straight uphill hike on loose, lemon-sized rock. It was impossible to ride our bikes, so we pushed them, grunting, groaning, constantly hitting our knees on our pedals, feet on our panniers, sliding a half step backwards in the gravel for every step we took forward all while trying to control a bicycle that always wanted to slip sideways out from under itself. It was a lot of work, yet at the same time kind of fun muscling our way up the side of a mountain. The last 7 miles of Chilean territory was a nice, wide, undulating trail that was mostly rideable. There were several times where we had to get off the bikes to push them up steep, sandy sections or completely unload them to carry them over fences or dilapidated bridges, but for the most part, it was an enjoyable segment of the crossing. Mike couldn't believe it when I, who had been hating the bumpy roads we'd been riding for the past 3 weeks, admitted to actually liking this mountain biking part. This off-road section wasn't nearly as bumpy as the on-road parts of the Carretera, so how could I not like it?
A troubled bridge over water...Simon and Garfunkel had it all backwards. 

Mike carrying his bike over a fence.

The going got extremely difficult when we reached the Argentine border and the last 5 miles of the border crossing nearly got the best of us. Suddenly the wide trail we had been on disappeared and turned into a muddy horse trail. There was no longer even the slightest option of riding, so for the next 5 hours we attempted to push, pull and carry our bikes over a trail that was usually too narrow for a bike to fit through and definitely too narrow for a pannier-packed bike and a person to squeeze through side by side. 

I enjoy playing in mud like the best of little kids and it was actually a lot of fun for the first half a mile, but then the novelty wore off.  Mud was up to mid-shin, river crossings were freezing cold, our feet were soggy and many times we nearly lost our shoes in the mud.  There were several sections that were too steep or too narrow to lug our loaded bikes through so we had to unload our bikes to carry our panniers first and then double back to retrieve our bikes.  This trail has clearly been heavily used by horses and hikers as parts of it have narrow, waist-deep ruts filled with mud and horse poo that were impossible to fit our bikes in.  We had to wheel our bikes up on the ledges and attempt to steer, brake and control them while slipping and sliding down in the rut.  Then there was the constant battle of panniers getting hooked on rocks, tree stumps and the bramble-like shrubs that lined the path, all grabbing our loads and causing us to wrench our backs as we tried to control our bikes that were being suddenly stopped and jerked at weird angles.  About halfway through, Mike's bike got snagged first on a rock, followed immediately by a bush and he was unable to regain control as he stumbled and we watched as his bike rolled sideways down a cliff.  At that point Mike was screaming in furry and I was positive we were done for the day and that this border crossing would likely be the end of our bike trip.  But we managed to keep plugging away at a whopping 3/4 of a mile an hour, every part of our bodies aching, just wanting to be done that day so we wouldn't have to be miserable the next day as well.  
Cari crossing a river/mud puddle. 

Mike in the mud...not having much fun anymore.

 A bike stuck in the mud.

A muddy mess.

We eventually emerged from the trail at the Argentina Customs station on Lago del Desierto, tired, cold, wet and muddy, with aching knees, backs, shoulders and necks, feeling like we had just been in a major car wreck.  What a long day it had been; certainly one we will not soon forget. 
Mike giving our bikes a much-needed bath before getting on the ferry.

Cari at Lago del Desierto, waiting for yet another ferry.


Chile's Carretera Austral, a 740-mile stretch of road from Puerto Montt to Villa O'Higgins, is one of the World's most famous bicycle touring routes. We rode 600 of those miles, cutting off the most northern segment and riding through a spectacular National Park-laden section of Argentina instead, but I think we still qualify as officially riding the Carretera. We experienced it alright, and are quite happy to be done with it. Any time I complete something that was a major challenge for me, it typically takes a few days for the miserable memories to fade before I'm left with only the fond memories and the desire to take on the challenge once again. It's been more than a few days since we finished the Carretera, but I think once was enough for this one. If there's ever a “next time” I will surely be riding a horse instead of a bike.

We don't regret making the decision to ride that route and the scenery was utterly breathtaking for most of the miles. However, the roads could not have been any more horrible and frustrating than they were. To put it nicely, they were shit and took a lot of fun out of the riding. Pedaling 600 miles of continuous gravel washboards and river rock protruding out of cemented mud makes for a painfully bumpy ride. Out of the average 40 miles we rode each day, we could actually sit on our bike seats for, collectively, maybe 5 of those miles, our hands were constantly going numb due to the vibrations and our eyeballs bounced up and down in their sockets like a cartoon character that just got bonked on the noggin for hours after we stopped riding each day.

Every once in a while we would run into other cyclists heading north instead of south and we'd inquire about the road conditions along the next stretch. Almost always their replies were, “it's bumpy like this for a little bit more but then it gets much better and is good road until such-and-such a town.” Our hopes would skyrocket that we'd actually get a good road for a few miles and we'd take off anxiously awaiting the corner we'd turn and find different conditions. But it never, ever happened. If anything the road would worsen and we'd find ourselves at camp each night growing more and more frustrated with the roads as well as the the false information we were constantly receiving. Now maybe we're just a couple of road snobs who don't know the meaning of good, but I don't think so. I feel like we have a fairly standard definition and there must be some taboo that we don't know about in telling fellow cyclists that the road flat out sucks! Well, I'm not afraid to tell any bike tourers who might read this before riding the Carretera that the roads are not fun so be prepared for a long and painful ride. And don't let anyone you meet try to convince you that there's good road up ahead...because there's not.


We took a days' detour from the Carretera Austral to visit a small, intriguing fishing village we had read about in our guide book.  Caleta Tortel, which has only been accessible by road for the past 6 years turned out to be an interesting and worthwhile side trip.  We arrived at mid-day to a somewhat ghost town feeling, right in the middle of siesta when everything is closed, which we always seem to do whenever we need to buy food, so we had a few hours to wander around the deserted village before we could run our errands and move along.

The town itself was situated on the side of a cliff and is a major exporter of lumber to Punta Arenas.  They have done an excellent job of making use of their resources.  The entire place was made out of wood and it reminded us very much of where we lived in California before we left on this trip.  We called our home "The Treehouse" and it felt like we were wandering throughout an entire city of treehouses.  The houses were all wood, built on stilts into the cliff.  They had no lawns, only decks built around them and lush, wild bushes and ferns growing in all of the open spaces.  There were no roads, only a complex network of wooden boardwalks zig-zagging up and down the hills and in between the buildings.  The boats floating along the shoreline were all wood and even the playground was entirely made of wood.  A wooden slide seemed a little bit sketchy to us and we were both too chicken to give it a try!



Ever since we left Santiago, people have been telling us that the scenery gets more and more beautiful the further south you go. It turned out to be true. Every day of riding grew increasingly more spectacular and I often wondered if it could possibly get more beautiful. I am positive that we have now reached the natural beauty threshold of this planet because Mother Nature couldn't come close to topping what we've been riding through these past few days. The area around Lago General Carrera is breathtaking.

The land is virtually untouched with little more than a few quiet gravel roads passing through. There is no garbage strewn along the roadside. The air is fresh and clean. The rivers are so crystal clear that it's like looking through a newly washed window; you hardly notice it's there. Around every corner is a new set of mountains; jagged and magestic, covered in glaciers, weaping with thousands of waterfalls, uninviting to human beings yet daring someone to try to conquer them.

Mike and I often stand in astonishment overlooking the water of this lake and surrounding rivers and can't think of a color to accuragely descrive them. Maybe teal, turquoise or electric blue, though none of them seem to be quite right. We utter a few short, mindless comments regarding the beauty of the place, how we've never seen anything like it and how these are the exact reasons as to why we're willing to endure endless hours of tabanos, weather and horrible roads. We tried, and failed, to capture this unbelievable place with our cameras, but the colors, the grandness and the beauty could only be etched in our memories. Mostly we have been left breathless and speachless with no words powerful enough to descrive what our eyes are seeing or our souls are feeling. It's a place one must see for themselves to believe.


STOVE – Our alcohol-burning stove we made a few weeks ago has proved to be an awesome contraption. It took a few trial and error burner models to get one that worked perfectly, but I think we've got it figured out now. The heat distribution is much better than our previous purchased stoves, it doesn't use much fuel and it has been holding up nicely in the wind. A winner all around.

WATER FILTER – We had been boiling all of our water up until about a week ago when we bought a water filter. Although it was painfully expensive, it was much lighter than carrying extra fuel, much faster (10 minutes to fill all of our bottles vs. 90 minutes to boil it all) and much more enjoyable to drink fresh, cold water instead of, often times, hot, plastic-tasting, floater-filled water. It proved immediately to be a worthwhile investment.

WARMSHOWERS – We stayed with our second warmshowers.org hosts in Coyhaique, Chile. Once again we found ourselves surrounded by a welcoming family who showed us their town, their lives, shared a common passion for travel and bike touring and spoke English yet encouraged us to practice our Spanish (which is a good thing). We have come a long way with our language skills since we arrived in South America but we rarely get the chance to have conversations with people who are patiently willing to let us stumble through what we're trying to say, speak slowly to us and explain in English when we don't understand. It would be nice to meet more people like this on this trip. We also got to do a much-needed load of laundry, our first since Santiago, and I was happy to once again have a pink cycling jersey instead of a brown one. Thank you all for your wonderful hospitality!
Diego, Shayen, Rafael, Cari and Mike 

Diego, Mike, Cecilia, Ayelen, Chago and Shayen

DRIVERS – They are still annoying, as 95% of them refuse to slow down when they pass us on these gravel roads, leaving us choking on their plumes of dust, unable to see and dodging the pebbles that they kick up into our faces. Fortunately, we're quite a ways out in the middle of nowhere, so there's not a ton of traffic but the occasional truck that passes still thinks it's a fine idea to honk right next to us. I'd like to stand them on a gravel road, go roaring by and simultaneously take a blow horn and blast it right in their ears and see how they like it.

TABANOS – The monstrous horse flies that we were introduced to in Argentina are still bombarding us in full force. They are literally driving Mike to insanity as I watch him slap himself on the head about a million times a day trying to kill them. We probably succeed close to 50 times a day...and only have about 19 zillion to go.

FISHING POLE – Mike's $14 fishing pole turned out to be just that...a cheap piece of equipment that craps out after a few uses. He's snagged quite a few nice trout with it and it has entertained him for hours at camp, but the reel turned out to be garbage. He spent an afternoon modifying it with a piece of wood and a bunch of duct tape and to his amazement it worked. He's a happy camper.
Mike's newly modified fishing pole.

GRAVEL ROADS – We got a wonderful 2-day break from the gravel roads and it felt so nice to ride on pavement again. I loved every second of it. After that, the roads returned to potholes, washboards and loose gravel and it seemed like every time I started getting the hang of it they got a little worse. After a solid week of practice, my fits of rage and outbursts of tears went from daily to almost non-existent and we reached a big milestone the other day when I made it up and over a really shitty section of road without falling over or walking. It would be a complete lie if I said I now actually enjoy these roads, but it helps that we have seen other cyclists pushing their bikes (I'm not the only pathetic one out here) and I have finally accepted that some parts of this road are just too crummy or steep to ride. I think I might actually make it to Ushuaia without any broken bones!
Oh sweet pavement...we never knew how much we loved you! 

 Just another crummy road.

Cari pushing her bike up one of many insanely steep sections of road.



Our night in Puerto Puyuhuapi, a quaint little German fishing village on the deepest inland reach of a fjord, turned out to be much more eventful than we anticipated. We arrived late on a Sunday evening to a nearly completely shut-down town. Unless you're in a big city, that's how it is in South America on Sundays; stores have their roll-down doors closed, restaurants aren't serving food, the streets are empty and all is quiet. We saw a woman playing with her kids in their front yard, so we pulled up and asked if she knew of a place to pitch a tent for the night. There were several hospedajes (small hotels) and campgrounds in town, but we're always searching for free places and after a minute of thought she recommended the beach. She proceeded to ramble off a whole story, of which all I caught was something along the lines of don't camp right next to the water because the tide comes in. Oh of course, that's common sense when you sleep on a beach. This turned out to be one of those situations where I really wished one of us was fluent in Spanish.

We hauled our bikes down to the beach and walked along a grassy little path on the bluffs until we found the perfect spot. There was a nice flat area for the tent, a bench, a bridge that crossed over a bunch of rocks that clearly turned into a stream leading to a nearby pond when the tide came in. We set up camp right on the walking path. The water's edge was a good 50 meters away, we were at least 8 feet higher than sea level, we were clearly located in a spot which typically wasn't under water and there was no doubt in our minds that we'd stay dry there.

It was a drizzly night so we cooked our dinner and ate in the tent. Afterward, I got out to brush my teeth and though it was pitch black outside, I could see the water had covered the entire beach, was splashing up against the cliffs we were camped on and was rapidly gushing under the bridge into the pond. But still we had no worries; we were at least another 3 feet above the water. We confidently crawled into bed and listened for a few minutes to the soothing gurgle of the ocean around us. I love sleeping by water, it's so relaxing. Then suddenly the splashing against the cliffs and the rushing river stopped. There was silence. We commented about how maybe that meant it was officially high tide, the moment the water stopped rising and began heading back out to the sea.

Good night. Sweet dreams. Mike was sawing logs within minutes, as usual and just as I was drifting off to sleep I heard a noise outside the tent. It sounded like one of our water bottles fell over, but there were 4 of them sitting on uneven grass, so it wouldn't be unusual for one of them to topple over. I thought nothing of it and a few minutes later I heard the clanking sound again. I grabbed my headlamp and as I sat up I put my hand down on the tent floor between us. “Holy shit! Mike! There's water under our tent! It feels like we're sleeping in a waterbed!” I unzipped my door to find our water bottles and my flip flops floating in 3 inches of water.

I immediately grabbed my sleeping bag and a handful of stuff, jumped out of the tent, sloshed through the water to the nearby bench and piled our things on top. I returned for another batch of stuff, at least our sleeping bags and down jackets were safely on the bench, but before I could get to the tent for my third load, Mike was frantically hucking things out the door. The water had just crested the 5-inch high water proof barrier of the tent floor and was pouring through the mesh sidewalls. We suddenly found ourselves at 11:30 pm with all of our belonging piled on a 3-foot by 5-foot piece of dry ground, our tent full of knee-deep water and a tide that was still rising at an unbelievable rate. We stood there and laughed because there was nothing else we could do. The whole situation was simply unfathomable.

An eventful night. 

We didn't have long to laugh, though, because it was clear that we wouldn't be safe from the water for more than a few minutes. We hurriedly stuffed everything into panniers to make it easier to carry, started running loads along the narrow piece of land that remained above water and stacked everything into yet another pile where we knew it would be safe long enough for us to disassemble our tent and figure out where to go next.

We found another spot along the walking path that was sill several feet above water. There was nowhere else to go without pitching our tent on one of the town's streets and the water had already risen at least 10 feet; it positively couldn't rise another three. To our luck, the rain ceased for a while, long enough for us to drape all of our soaking wet belongings over a fence, wipe them down with our towels and let them dry a little in the wind. In the meantime, we counted our losses (Mike's iPod and our portable speakers were toast as they both were completely submerged for some time) and then returned to scope out the damage at our former campsite. We were in awe to see that the entire area was under water, including the bench and the bridge. This had to have been one of those freakishly high tides; there's no way this happens everyday.

After several hours of craziness and a hefty swig of wine, we finally got settled back into bed hoping for no more excitement that night. Fortunately there was none and we awoke in the morning to a huge beach separating us from the sea and aside from the line of debris washed up on to the grass by the tide, everything looked just as it had the night before.



Best wishes to you all in 2011!
Cheers to the New Year! 

Since we were nowhere near a town for New Year's and couldn't buy ourselves any treats, we fried up some hard, stale bread we were carrying in our panniers and added cinnamon and sugar on top.  It made us very happy and we've named our creation, "Fried Cinn."  

Not a bad way to start the year.  I think it's going to be a good one.


To say that I hate mountain biking might be the understatement of the year. Me riding 1,500 miles on a fully loaded touring bike on steep, bumpy, loose gravel roads is comparable to a tropical islander driving in a Midwest blizzard. I know how to ride a bike well, but I'm a roadie who loves to ride fast and far on smooth roads and doesn't know how to ride in these conditions. I'm tense, nervous, feel like I have no control, have a death grip on my handlebars while holding on for dear life, tight shoulders, clenched jaws and it's no wonder why I arrive at camp with a headache every night. It feels like the big rocks on the road are grabbing at my tires and constantly throwing me off course into the loose gravel or sand so I slide out of control. The roads are continuous potholes and washboards that steel away my momentum and my vision is like watching a home-made video done by a 6-year-old who is running and spinning the entire time he's filming. I find it impossible to focus which makes it extremely difficult to dodge obstacles in the roadway and I wonder which will happen first, my bike will break or I'll end up in a full body cast. It drives me crazy that we have to go so slow and it takes us literally all day, from breakfast to dinner, to ride 50 miles. I get frustrated very easily and at least once a day stop, on the verge of tears, to scream at the top of my lungs, cursing the road and wanting to quit. Sometimes I think Mike is going to leave me on the side of the road. And I wouldn't blame him.

You may be asking yourself why in the world I would want to ride down here, then, if the majority of the roads over the next month or so are going to drive to me insanity. For the first few days of crummy roads I was wondering the same thing. But then one morning as I was sitting in the tent, drinking my tea and not wanting to get back out on the road, I looked at the quote on my tea bag and it rung a bell in my head. “Our patience will achieve more than our force.” I will have to go slow until I get the hang of this (which thankfully is getting better every day), and even after I do get the hang of it I'll probably still have to go slow and will probably continue to have occasional wipe-outs. I will have to walk some sections where the road is just too bad to ride and if no one picks us up to give us a lift and we have to spend all day walking 20 miles, then so be it. But patience will get us to our destination and I might as well relax, slow down and enjoy the ride through Patagonia, what is turning out to be one of the most beautiful places on Earth.


Both became very high up on my list of “undesirables” during our time in Argentina. As soon as we crossed the border, the big shoulders we had been riding in disappeared and at the same time every driver on the road suddenly had a major sense of urgency and jerkish attitude about them. Apparently they think it's a good idea to drive like maniacs, never use their brakes, honk when they were right next to us rather than a fair distance back so as to make us jump instead of give us time to move over (and at the same time make us deaf in our left ears), pass each other on tight corners, when there's a bike coming from the opposite direction and pretty much any time there's a solid yellow line. However, as soon as they found themselves sharing a lane with a bicycle, it seemed as though it was a capital offense to cross that center line and give us some space, regardless of whether it was solid or dotted. We were run off the road by more trucks and buses, which were some of the most considerate drivers in Chile, more times in our week in Argentina than we have been on this entire trip. I don't understand their way of driving and the riding was a bit tense at times.

Then there were the ginormous horse flies with their big, green bug eyes and torturous bites who relentlessly swarmed us at camp and buzzed circles around our heads while pedaling down the road, driving us into an aggravated, dizzy anger that often sent us into hysterical fits of helpless annoyance. I'd often see Mike riding down the road with his head shaking from side to side and his arms flailing wildly to keep the flies away. I sometimes think he spends equal amounts of energy swatting bugs away as he does pedaling his bike and I don't know how he manages to not crash with all of those spastic movements going on. Any time we stop moving, the horse flies tend to swarm, but if we have enough patience to let them land on us, they're quite easy to catch. The problem is, though, that they are tough little suckers and a good solid swat won't kill them. It only sends them into a dizzy spiral down to the ground where they shake their wings for a moment and then fly away. If someone were to watch us at camp, they'd think we were a physically abusive couple, constantly slapping each other full force on the arms, back, legs and head. We may have red welts all over our bodies, but we also have hundreds of dead horse flies laying around, which is very satisfying.
Look at the size of these things!

Despite the horrible drivers and annoying flies, our week of riding around the lakes district of western Argentina, mostly within the limits of Lanin and Nahuel Huapi National Parks, was spectacular. The weather was predominantly nice, camping was easy to find, there were pristine lakes and rivers where Mike got to get some use out of his $14 collapsible junior fishing rod we bought him, beautiful wildflowers, snow covered mountains and numerous little mountain ski towns with their trendy shops and upscale markets that reminded us of any number of ski resorts in the U.S. We've started to see quite a few other bike tourists, which is fun and encouraging, but up to this point, most of them have been heading north instead of south. Next we'll be heading back into Chile to ride the infamous Carretera Austral and are anticipating meeting up with many other cyclists en route to Ushuaia.