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A few of you probably remember me posting this rather long, photo dense post about beautiful and breezy riding through the Chilean Patagonia and Carretera Austral. And in the next post complementing the tale of endless waterfalls and lush scenery with pointing out how those scenic shots from cycling paradise didn’t exactly paint the whole picture.

This post is sort of doing the same job. Because yet again, did I leave out a few details when scribbling down my last entry from and about some of the dreamiest mountain weeks I have experienced in my life.

Along Carretera Austral it was rain.

Along this one particular ride up and along the puna in the high Andes – it was some seemingly never ending stretches/days of exceptionally crappy roads.

I won’t dwell on it, as reading about someone pushing a fully loaded bicycle at 5 kph.. 4.. 3.. and at speeds too slow for the odometer to even register any movement at all.. is about as good of a time as actually doing that pushing.

Anyways – every single word in the last post still stands. This is just me adding some (way too) deep gravel to it.

Probably no speed records anytime soon..

If nothing else – soft ground offers super comfy sleeping!

Alright. Confession session of the day – done. Let’s pick up where we left off.

Coming up to a good couple of weeks off the grid, climbing pass after pass and free wheeling along some of the biggest volcanoes on the continent, my spirit was still that of a kid who’d just cashed in her golden ticket to Willy Wonkas chocolate factory. The cries of my protesting body though, was steadily increasing in volume.

Happy! At Laguna Verde.

With legs about as alive and kicking as this guy.

It was about midday.

‘Come on now. You’ll get to be lazy all you want in a little bit..! Just not yet.’

The headwind was a joke. And the panoramic volcano views that otherwise would have been my companions of the day were hidden behind the thick grey storm clouds, seemingly mid mission of suffocating the whole world. I felt the ice crystals crack open my completely dried out lips as I was silently pleading to my numb legs to stop messing around and get a move on. Simply because the weather didn’t leave stopping as an option, I kept peddling up the intensifying hail storm to what was both the highest, and very last mountain pass of my little Andean getaway.

It sucked, but it had to be done as options were few to none. Paso San Fransisco, 4767 meters above sea level.

Early afternoon, I climbed those very last meters and was – DONE.

2 long weeks in some of the most spectacular environments I’ve ever had the privilege to find myself in. Environments who’s inaccessibility make them a rare sight for those lucky few with an adventurous mind and a sturdy high clearance 4WD. Or in my case, an extensive dose of selective ignorance and will to let body pay the price for the enjoyment of the mind.

In any case. This was the end of the road. Or I guess to be more exact – the beginning of it. A 3000+ meter altitude drop on silk smooth tarmac lay ahead, ready to lead me straight back into civilisation and that oh so dreamy variety of ice cream flavours that are only to be found in Argentinian heladerías. Warm showers, soft beds, crystal clear (erhm, not really..) Skype calls back home. It was all waiting, and I could literally feel those familiar butterflies once again coming to life in my belly.

All that was left was (again, not really).. one last pedal stroke, and some steering while letting gravity lead me through those 200 km all the way down to the longed after township of Fiambála.

Done, in every sense of the word.

Though for the 3rd time in this post – not really.

This was my first ever actual sight of Volcán San Fransisco. The 6000 masl piece of earth that I’d set my mind on months earlier, while drooling over Andean maps and altitude charts. The one that I don’t ever how many people along my way north had told me would be another mission impossible to even consider. Summiting was out of question.

Explanations had been ranging from everything between everything from lack of gear, an apparent lack of sanity to the more obvious – lack of oxygen. Though whatever reason of choice the common message was clear – DON’T.

I do hear people out. Everyone, always. I promise.

What I don’t always do though – is listen.

Apart from having their apocalypse visions in common, there was one more important common element to every single one of these oh-so-knowingly advice givers. Not a single one of them had even seen, let alone climbed the mountain they were referring to. Not one.

In other words, not too unlike the in-numerous people who a couple of years ago told me this whole journey in itself was nothing but a well packaged death wish.

I’m quite glad I didn’t listen to them either.

Still hauled over my bike on the top of the pass I was looking up the only so visible volcano reaching up towards the dark sky. I was smiling. Once again repeating some alternative words of advice I this time had chosen to let drown out all other voices from the past months.

‘San Fransisco is your perfect spot for a few first breaths above 6000 meters. A simple and straight forward pile of gravel with spectacular views. Enjoy!’

The message had been simple, and the words rang clear. Partly because they were exactly what I had wanted to hear. But more than anything else because they came straight from no-one else than Janne Corax, one of Sweden’s most experienced mountaineers and the one person I give credit for some of the best months in my life back in China and the Himalayas.

These were from someone I would not only hear out. They were from someone to whom I would listen. And fortunately, they were conveying precisely what I had been hoping for. Spending the previous evening chilling out at Laguna Verde, picking the brains of an acclimatising group of climbers heading for the crown jewel of the area – Volcano Ojos del Salar – had not only provided some truly valuable advice on the volcano itself, but also some new hope that the weather could or might actually open a window of opportunity to head up high.

Food wise I could still afford to stick around for a couple of days, waiting for a clearance. And patience wise, that was probably were I would have draw my limit anyhow. Because funny as it might seem, the call of that ice-cream I mentioned was seemingly just about as strong as the one of the mountain.

Turning my face straight into the roaring winds, I looked up the mountain one more time. The hail was gone. But the whole place still felt about as hospitable as the imaginations of all those people telling me I was better off duck taping myself to closest railway.

‘I’ll give this one day. Then I’m out of here.’

It was still early afternoon when I hauled my bike into the small ‘refugio’ built on top of the pass. A weather change seemed way off, but so was the mere thought of continuing without even trying. I closed the door behind me, crossed my fingers and didn’t as much as peek out the window until the following morning.

Mountain pass refugio. What a DREAM!

Hotel room as good as any.

A good while before sunrise the alarm clock went off. Already wrapped up in most of the clothes I carry with me, I opened my eyes, quickly zipped up my sleeping bag and headed for the door. I opened.

And saw.. STARS. Millions of stars and a cartoon sized moon beaming down, painting big shadows on the ground long before there were supposed to be any.

Jackpot. And go time.

One massive bowl of oatmeal and yet another couple of layers later, I found myself by the very foot of the mountain, hiding Mr. Bike behind a big rock and finding my way to the rather suddle 4WD track leading up the first part of the volcano. From here there was just one thing to do – walk.

Let’s keep it short. An hour or so in I was already on 5 000 + masl, breathing the thinnest air of life. Slowly I was gaining altitude and watching the snow steadily increase, hand in hand with the suddle acceleration of my beating heart.

This is what it looked like.

Homemade Sea to Summit backpack – approved!

Rocky terrain after the end of the 4WD track

First views of the peak

A bunch of hours later. I could feel my heart pounding through three layers of clothing. In a good way. I was actually up high now – and feeling absolutely great. Taking those last steps to the cross marking the very top of the volcano I was already laughing. Not knowing what one really is ‘supposed’ to do on the top of a mountain, I found myself just standing there. Taking in the panorama with every cell of my body.

Gazing out, letting the sun warm my face and breathing big – I smiled. Just like I 24 hours earlier had done in that raging storm, looking up the very peak on which I was now standing. With my sloggy oxygen lacking mind thinking of how Mr. Bike absolutely would have loved to see this too. The dizzy clarity I was experiencing was intoxicating. And I stood there, with a whole new personal definition of Euphoria.

Yet again, the words rang crystal clear – playing in my head like a new favorite tune.

‘San Fransisco is your perfect spot for a few first breaths above 6000 meters. A simple and straight forward pile of gravel with spectacular views. Enjoy!’

Thank you Janne. Enjoy it I did.

Volcán San Fransisco summit, 6018 masl

Until next time,

Fredrika

Leaving the shady avenues and bustling city life of Mendoza behind I felt like a mad woman on the run from a mental institution. A full week of rest had come and gone since arriving in the fruit and wine Mekka of Argentina, and it was high time to move on. Regardless of how great big hostel hangouts, even bigger glasses of Malbec and water melon enough for a lifetime can be – I not only wanted – I needed out.

Nope. Not even you can make me stay one more minute.

Out. Fast. And after rolling through those few rough neighbourhoods that everyone had made sure to warn me about – I was.

Urgent pedal strokes gave away my impatience. I was still far from where I wanted to be. But more than anything they were proof of a massive dose of excitement. Because I knew I was getting there.

The original plan of crossing the Cristo Redentor pass into Chile (which no doubt had been great too) had been scratched to give place for a new one. A far greater one. One to the starting point of which I simply couldn’t get to soon enough. Though unfortunately one that I still had quite some riding to get to.

What is worth mentioning though, is that the ride there turned out to be total a gem in itself. And no doubt the best ‘warm up’ possible, with just enough switchbacks, shitty road surface and ‘people-lessness’ to get legs and mind ready for what was about to hit them.

Days came and went. I wasn’t far now.

High. Rough. Remote.

Pure.

Hopefully more so than ever before.

It was time to hit the Andes.

And kickstart these South American adventures for real.

Until next time,

Fredrika

1st of January.

It really is one of those dates, isn’t it? One which we can ask anyone about at any time, and know that they will be able to recall just what they did that day. Where. And with who.

I can too. Though not necessarily because of it being just New Years. Maybe a little bit because I started it in the comfiest bed in history. But more than anything, because I was literally pulled out of it at bloody 5 o’clock in the morning.

…!

Let me explain.

–

Two years back I spent a crisp New Years Eve at my friend’s house back in my home town. Standing next to her, ankle deep in snow I was watching fireworks light up a pitch black sky, thinking of nothing but how this was my last Swedish New Years in forever.

I was wrong.

Exactly one year later.

New Years Eve again. Surrounded by my whole family, I was burying my toes in the wet sand of the crowded beach in tourist mayhem Hua Hin, Thailand. I was watching fireworks just like the year before, with the main difference being that time also while trying to avoid getting set on fire by any of the way too many burning lanterns other Scandinavian tourists were miserably failing with getting into the air.

Like so many times before I spent the first trembling minutes of the new year watching the sky. Silently laughing to the memory of my aching heart from the previous year. Thinking how this was probably my most cliché Swedish New Years ever. Following the shrinking light from a one of the hundred lanterns drifting further and further up in the sky, I started playing with the thought of how in the world I would be spending the next one. Where? And with who..?

Not in a million years, would I have been able to guess.

But to no one’s surprise but mine – did also this one end up being Swedish. (I’m rapidly going all international though, adding a dash of Norway this time..!)

–

5 am.

The New Years party is still in full swing. And the streets of El Bolsón, Argentina are filled with beautiful people in all ages and levels of intoxication more or less consciously making their way into 2017. We all know how more or less how these things go, right?

The air is cool but comfortable enough even for the girls in the very shortest dresses. The backdrop from the still open nightclub is sending physical pulses through the air of the entire town. Upset voices of an arguing couple are being drowned out by the ecstatic laughters of that big group of teenage girls who’ve probably all been best friends since before they were even old enough to know their own names.

Someone’s lying passed out in the grass on the town plaza. Next to him, sits someone mid-mission of rapidly stuffing his face with a massive pizza. Because in practice it still sort of is 2016 – right? That whole get thin thing doesn’t really start until after you wake up on the 1st. Everyone knows that. Right..?

Dawn is on a slow, but steady approach. Crashing in with just enough light for people to slowly start realising that it might actually be time to head home after all.

There is one thing though, that doesn’t make any logical sense whatsoever, this particular new years morning in El Bolsón. And that is a dumb ass Scandinavian group of lycra dressed cyclists rolling through town like a not-even-funny mirage made up by someone on too many hallucinogens.

And in the middle of it – is me :-)

Though there are a million things to be said about the week I ended up spending as the Bariloche adoptive daughter of Laban, Bebben and Holte, I’ll keep it short. In practice it consisted of one day of cycling together, and then me recovering from a way too persistent sickness that these lovely souls for no reason decided to give me the circumstances and support to finally get well from.

Finally feeling well physically was great. Emotionally though, this week was something I didn’t fully grasp until afterwards how much – and desperately – I had actually needed. Sure, these 3 mad men were just as new in my life as any- and everything else I fill my days, weeks, months and years with. But still they gave me a sense of familiarity and being home that I honestly can’t even remember when truly experiencing last.

This boosted my spirit. On a level that still today – a good month later – is sinking in a little more for each passing day. Like I said, I needed this. I needed these people.

And they were totally worth getting up at 5 am for.

Thank you. All three of you.

Thank you for everything.

I don’t need to write here what that everything means. You know already. Probably still more so than I do myself.

And just in case you’ve had time to forget it until then – I’ll make sure to remind you of it when we see each other back home again.

Och Holte:

– Man må jo gå for drømmen sin, ikke sant?

Tack för allt. Era fina jävla människor.

Until next time,

Fredrika

Since the very beginning this has been like clockwork. The more intense this journey gets in real life, the further behind is this digital attempt of making a bit of sense of it all. Sitting down I realise that though the last post was published a week ago, the events in is actually took place a good two months earlier.

This is why I figured it’s time to play a game of Catch with reality, and quickly speed though this chunk of Patagonia that I in all honesty don’t really know what to say about anyways.

So, in the name of speed – I…

1) Made my weirdest border crossing up to date.

Lago del Desierto between Argentina & Chile

The oh so shy peak of Mt. Fitz Roy

2) Once again, found myself in Chile.

3) Hit the legendary Carretera Austral.

Carretera Austral.

I’m not the first, and far from the last cyclist to dream about this place. Or stretch of road – to be more accurate. Around the globe there a few of these routes that for whatever reason have gained an absolute legendary status within the bicycle touring world. There is the Pamir Highway in Tajikistan. The Karakorum Highway in Pakistan. On a more accessible note there is is the EuroVelo 6 along the Danube. And then there is this one. Carretera Austral, in Chile.

Renowned for it’s ever changing scenery where dramatic mountains, crystal clear rivers and epic waterfalls are as given part of any day as the steep gravel hills you need to climb in order to earn them – this one is a must for anyone traversing the continent by bicycle. And it is the one and only destination for countless two wheeled travellers who each summer are flying across the world just to ride it.

And oh yes indeed – is this place beautiful. Mindbogglingly so.

For me personally though, these 1000 something kilometers were one slow realisation of just how messed up this life of the road have made me. This was 3 weeks out in the open. Through and along this otherworldly scenery in which Disney simply haven’t come around to set a movie yet. On a quiet road that seemingly carries more fully loaded bicycles than cars. Up and down the rolling hills connecting the small countryside villages along the way.

Freedom, right? For all I know this should be the very definition of that.

Still I couldn’t help but to feel absolutely trapped.

I don’t think I need to tell you guys that I am absolutely spellbound by spending loads of time inside dramatic postcard scenery. With living life with the sky as my only ceiling. With meeting likeminded people out and about on their own travels. I’m forever and truly in love with all of that.

Predictability though?

No. Not at all.

I ask myself how exactly this came to be. I ask myself when. Sometimes also what it will mean once I finally park up Mr. Bike, back home in Sweden and the end destination of this journey. More often than not while deliberately avoiding to answer that last question.

For now, I’ll just settle with stating the fact;

Predictability has become my kryptonite.

Every inch of this road is neatly documented online. The road which is getting sealed as we speak. Apps are pointing out GPS points to ‘secret’ camp spots. I bumped into more cyclists during these 3 weeks than I have during the rest of this almost 2 year long trip combined. And the locals are about as surprised to see us as they are to see the sun rise in the morning.

Though obviously meeting cyclists is always awesome. More the merrier :-)

Don’t get me wrong now. Carretera Austral – by definition – is a bicycle touring destination of utter world class. But that’s my whole point. This is the cycling world’s equivalent to a classic case of natural-masterpiece-ending-up-in-Lonely-Planet. And I simply got to it way (way, way) too late.

–

Since I know a bunch of people reading this are either heading to, or daydreaming of hitting Carretera Austral in the future, I feel like I need to make a bit of a disclaimer before closing. This place is amazing. It is everything you’ve read about it. It is exactly that.

Choosing destination for your bicycle touring holiday?

GO! Go, go, go!

Adventure? In any way, shape or form?

Unfortunately.. This is not where you find it.

Until next time,

Fredrika

Without a care in the world we were sitting there. After a few days of rest and and glaciers, me and my newfound riding pals Greg and Moritz had gladly let what started as our last tuna sandwich session in El Calafate turn into an evening of wine and campsite BBQ.

We were happy. Well rested. And absolutely clueless of what we were in for the following day.

Skip forward 12 (or was it 36?) hours.

Crazy winds can be fun..! Even when you’re on a bicycle. And even when they’re throwing themselves straight in your face. It is all about perception, really. Trust me. After having cycled Tierra del Fuego from south to north quite recently I feel like I know what I’m talking about.

However. There is a limit.

And on this particular day, we all reached it.

There are headwinds. Big headwinds. And then (apparently) there are ‘downhill-on-smooth-tarmac-and-yet-you’re-pushing-in-4 km/h’ kind of headwinds. Winds that can be described in many different ways. Though certainly not with the word fun.

With nothing (except a whole lot of nothing) around we had absolutely nowhere to hide. The force of the wind made anyone attempting to mount their bicycle look like an absolute fool and the deafening howl of it stole the sound of our shouting voices even before they’d even left our mouths.

Physically we were still together, but since making that turn straight into the wall of wind we were all on our own. Pushing. Getting onto the saddle only to get thrown straight off the road. Pushing again. Going nowhere.

Until a few hours later when we finally found our salvation.

Signs sent straight from above.

For the average person I think drainage pipes might not be the most appealing hang out spot in the world. Ask me in a different situation and I’d probably agree with you. Then and there though, this cylinder of bliss were no doubt the best thing that’d ever happened.

Mr. Bike playing hardcore as always.

For a good 12 hours we were hiding under the road. Munching chocolates, laughing at each others’ attempts on the ukulele and simply sitting around in each others company. Times like these there’s no denying that the good old Swedish proverb ‘Shared joy is twice the joy, shared grief is half the grief’ is as true as it’s always been. And evidently also highly applicable when it comes to spending the night in drainage pipes.

4.30 am our alarm set off. The familiar tune from the iPhone softly echoed through the pipe in which we were all laying cuddled up in our sleeping bags.

‘Can you hear that..?’

This was a hoarse voice of equal parts drowsiness, excitement and relief.

‘It’s quiet..!

One second. Two seconds.

The sound of three zippers simultaneously being pulled open.

‘Let’s do this.’

Minutes later Moritz was the first one on the road. This was it – our window of opportunity. A chance to beat the winds and make those last 50 odd km to El Chaltén before they’d have us in a new chokehold.

We were quick. But luckily relaxed enough to realise that this wasn’t merely early. This was one of the most beautiful morning rides any of us had ever experienced.

…followed by what was no doubt our most picturesque cycling yet in South America. And oh yes. This piece of road was just as absurd as the photos tell you. The day before we’d been smacked in the face by winds from hell. This day – by something else entirely.

Breakfast on the go

Then – before the winds – we did make it.

We were in El Chaltén! Happy. Clueless. Yet again about to make absolute fools out of ourselves.

In the next one, I promise to tell you all about it.

Until then,

Fredrika