Carretera Austral Day #13 Tortel to Rio Resbalon
January 10, 2020
Tortel to Rio Resbalon 82.09 km
Ride Time: 8:55:00
Pedal Time: 6:29:16
Tour Total Pedaled 1107.86 km
I slept reasonably well at Tortel Camping hemmed in between three other tents on a wooden platform situated above a stream. There was a canopy above us that kept our equipment reasonably dry. It wasn’t raining at 7:30am when I awoke. I packed my tent before the others got up to create some space. I put on fresh underwear and clean socks and then packed my panniers. I transported my bags followed by my bike in two trips up the hundred or so stairs to the kiosk at roadside. I was ready to go by 8:47am.
Caleta Tortel is a labyrinth of slippery wooden stairs, boardwalks, and planks that connect the town’s buildings to the sea and the road above. It’s tucked into a deep fjiord where the mountains meet the Pacific.
It was cold and drizzling and we were looking for food. Everything was closed. One place wasn’t quite open yet, and told us to come back in an hour, so we continued looking.
We walked along the water and then doubled back up along the steep hillside and then back down to the water.
When we returned, Cipresal Restobar was open. I had an
amazing breakfast of scrambled eggs with tomato and avocado along with meat dishes, bread, marmalade and two cappuccinos. On the TV they were playing the same Carretera Austral video that we’d seen countless times.
The friendly proprietor thought we were Italian. I’ve been butchering the Spanish language by accidentally inserting words of Italian. We signed their guest book and told them it had been our favorite breakfast of the trip.
The proprietor was proud that his establishment would be listed in an upcoming Patagonia tour guide. We asked him about the lack of tourists, and he said it was a result of the political uprising in Santiago. We’ve noticed very few Americans traveling in Patagonia. Most of the travelers we’ve met have been French.
It was 182 steps back up to the parking lot where my bike was waiting. These were big steps, not the American standard.
Caleta Tortel is a special place. There are no cars, and people get around by foot or boat. Small streams trickle down the slopes, joined by black plastic water and sewer pipes that workers seem to constantly be upgrading.
I had noticed at the campground that the water was yellow and was warned that it was not potable. A cyclist had recently gotten ill from it. We were told to filter our water in the whole region.
The forecast called for rain showers. We had an 11:15am start.
It’s interesting to note the sprinkling of English names around here, like Rio Baker and Villa O’Higgins.
I was having a difficult time dictating or typing while cycling on the road because of the potholes and gravel. Everytime I went over a bump my phone thought that I wanted to undo.
On the ripio, potato size rocks repeatedly ricocheted into my pedal cranks, bottom bracket, and front chain rings. My poor bike has certainly taken a beating.
Scott had said that yesterday was the worst day of his life. The headwind made it feel like an uphill the whole 124km. I recounted a Muhamed Ali story, whereas he used to do so many sit ups that he could taste blood from his lungs. That’s when he said his workout would begin. Sometimes on strenuous uphills I get that taste of blood.
The ride back to the intersection of highway 7 was easier than yesterday and seemed to go faster. I took advantage of the cell phone tower that had Movie Star service. I then began a ridiculous steep uphill. There were two French cyclists ahead of us, one of whom was walking his bike. He had a broken front rack tied to his rear. We continued by cutting through a deep gorge with a roaring stream to the left.
The loose gravel was hazardous, and the traps on the shoulders needed to be avoided. It was difficult to get started again after a foot down on an uphill. The road was too narrow to start by going downhill and then making a U-turn. It was best avoid stopping.
It was drizzling and I was wearing my long sleeve cycling jersey. My rain jacket would have made me too hot. The uphills really heat me up. The wet rain doesn’t bother me. It’s a matter of staying warm.
I looked up at one point and saw some twenty waterfalls streaming down the side of a mountain like a network of veins.
The pouring down rain was fine as long as I was moving, and staying warm. I would heat up on the uphills and freeze on the downhills.
It began raining really hard. There was a steep downhill coming into Puerto Yungay. I don’t smell burning brake rubber when I descend steep hills in the rain. 
I was soaking wet and my feet were frozen. There was a queue of motor vehicles at the ferry launch, and we cut straight to the front.
Another touring bike was sitting out front the small cafe, where I ordered an empanada al horno and hot chocolate. It was fantastic to be inside where it was warm and dry. The French cyclists eventually arrived, and sat down with the other cyclist who was also French.
The proprietor told me there would be no more services heading south until Villa O’Higgins. She said the terrain would be similar to what we had just rode, meaning some serious uphills and downhills.
We boarded the ferry with the three French cyclists. All of the motor vehicles had to back onto the ferry and a van towing a trailer was having difficulties. There were many European travelers including a group of Swiss riding in a fancy bus. I found a heater on board and clung to it attempting to dry and warm myself.
It was still raining on other side of the crossing. The French cyclists decided they had had enough, and sought refuge in an information kiosk. Scott and I continued south. After about thirty minutes Scott’s crappy front rack broke again. He wasn’t able to fix it so he strapped the pannier atop his rear bag.
It cleared up at 5:30pm. Patches of blue sky and sun came out for a moment, and I was delighted to briefly see my shadow. It didn’t last long, and it started drizzling again.
I climbed a crazy meandering switch back to go up over a pass. I overheat on the uphills. The streams were tinted brown.
The second pass was a long stretched out go of it that could be seen far in the distance. From the lookout up top I could see a confluence of two streams called Entre Rios. The Rio Bravo at this point cuts through a narrow gorge, forcing the road to climb up and around. A tailwind generously helped me over the top. I could see a rainbow in the valley to the west.
My water bottles were getting empty, so I refilled them from a stream. The water would need to be filtered. I was approaching the end of the day’s ride.
We called it quits at 8:15pm. We were in a valley besides the Rio Bravo at the confluence of the Rio Resbalon.
We hopped a fence next to the Puente Resbalon and found a place to stealth camp.
It was extremely windy and cold, and it was hard to set up my tent. I had to stake it down before I could erect the poles. I weighted some of the stakes with heavy logs. I was worried the wind would snap my poles. The most level place I could find was in the mud. Scott set up his tent under a big old partly fallen tree. It made me nervous and was bad Feng shui. I crawled into my tent where I cooked pasta on the front porch. The roar of the Rio Bravo was loud. I heard popping from my Thermarest as cells opened up. That sleeping pad cost me $200 and It’s been used on two tours, probably a hundred nights. Expensive camping gear does not last very long. It still held air, but if I end up having to sleep directly on the ground it will be the end of me.
Tortel to Rio Resbalon 82.09 km
Ride Time: 8:55:00
Pedal Time: 6:29:16
Tour Total Pedaled 1107.86 km
I slept reasonably well at Tortel Camping hemmed in between three other tents on a wooden platform situated above a stream. There was a canopy above us that kept our equipment reasonably dry. It wasn’t raining at 7:30am when I awoke. I packed my tent before the others got up to create some space. I put on fresh underwear and clean socks and then packed my panniers. I transported my bags followed by my bike in two trips up the hundred or so stairs to the kiosk at roadside. I was ready to go by 8:47am.
Caleta Tortel is a labyrinth of slippery wooden stairs, boardwalks, and planks that connect the town’s buildings to the sea and the road above. It’s tucked into a deep fjiord where the mountains meet the Pacific.
It was cold and drizzling and we were looking for food. Everything was closed. One place wasn’t quite open yet, and told us to come back in an hour, so we continued looking.
We walked along the water and then doubled back up along the steep hillside and then back down to the water.
When we returned, Cipresal Restobar was open. I had an
amazing breakfast of scrambled eggs with tomato and avocado along with meat dishes, bread, marmalade and two cappuccinos. On the TV they were playing the same Carretera Austral video that we’d seen countless times.
The friendly proprietor thought we were Italian. I’ve been butchering the Spanish language by accidentally inserting words of Italian. We signed their guest book and told them it had been our favorite breakfast of the trip.
The proprietor was proud that his establishment would be listed in an upcoming Patagonia tour guide. We asked him about the lack of tourists, and he said it was a result of the political uprising in Santiago. We’ve noticed very few Americans traveling in Patagonia. Most of the travelers we’ve met have been French.
It was 182 steps back up to the parking lot where my bike was waiting. These were big steps, not the American standard.
Caleta Tortel is a special place. There are no cars, and people get around by foot or boat. Small streams trickle down the slopes, joined by black plastic water and sewer pipes that workers seem to constantly be upgrading.
I had noticed at the campground that the water was yellow and was warned that it was not potable. A cyclist had recently gotten ill from it. We were told to filter our water in the whole region.
The forecast called for rain showers. We had an 11:15am start.
It’s interesting to note the sprinkling of English names around here, like Rio Baker and Villa O’Higgins.
I was having a difficult time dictating or typing while cycling on the road because of the potholes and gravel. Everytime I went over a bump my phone thought that I wanted to undo.
On the ripio, potato size rocks repeatedly ricocheted into my pedal cranks, bottom bracket, and front chain rings. My poor bike has certainly taken a beating.
Scott had said that yesterday was the worst day of his life. The headwind made it feel like an uphill the whole 124km. I recounted a Muhamed Ali story, whereas he used to do so many sit ups that he could taste blood from his lungs. That’s when he said his workout would begin. Sometimes on strenuous uphills I get that taste of blood.
The ride back to the intersection of highway 7 was easier than yesterday and seemed to go faster. I took advantage of the cell phone tower that had Movie Star service. I then began a ridiculous steep uphill. There were two French cyclists ahead of us, one of whom was walking his bike. He had a broken front rack tied to his rear. We continued by cutting through a deep gorge with a roaring stream to the left.
The loose gravel was hazardous, and the traps on the shoulders needed to be avoided. It was difficult to get started again after a foot down on an uphill. The road was too narrow to start by going downhill and then making a U-turn. It was best avoid stopping.
It was drizzling and I was wearing my long sleeve cycling jersey. My rain jacket would have made me too hot. The uphills really heat me up. The wet rain doesn’t bother me. It’s a matter of staying warm.
I looked up at one point and saw some twenty waterfalls streaming down the side of a mountain like a network of veins.
The pouring down rain was fine as long as I was moving, and staying warm. I would heat up on the uphills and freeze on the downhills.
It began raining really hard. There was a steep downhill coming into Puerto Yungay. I don’t smell burning brake rubber when I descend steep hills in the rain. 
I was soaking wet and my feet were frozen. There was a queue of motor vehicles at the ferry launch, and we cut straight to the front.
Another touring bike was sitting out front the small cafe, where I ordered an empanada al horno and hot chocolate. It was fantastic to be inside where it was warm and dry. The French cyclists eventually arrived, and sat down with the other cyclist who was also French.
The proprietor told me there would be no more services heading south until Villa O’Higgins. She said the terrain would be similar to what we had just rode, meaning some serious uphills and downhills.
We boarded the ferry with the three French cyclists. All of the motor vehicles had to back onto the ferry and a van towing a trailer was having difficulties. There were many European travelers including a group of Swiss riding in a fancy bus. I found a heater on board and clung to it attempting to dry and warm myself.
It was still raining on other side of the crossing. The French cyclists decided they had had enough, and sought refuge in an information kiosk. Scott and I continued south. After about thirty minutes Scott’s crappy front rack broke again. He wasn’t able to fix it so he strapped the pannier atop his rear bag.
It cleared up at 5:30pm. Patches of blue sky and sun came out for a moment, and I was delighted to briefly see my shadow. It didn’t last long, and it started drizzling again.
I climbed a crazy meandering switch back to go up over a pass. I overheat on the uphills. The streams were tinted brown.
The second pass was a long stretched out go of it that could be seen far in the distance. From the lookout up top I could see a confluence of two streams called Entre Rios. The Rio Bravo at this point cuts through a narrow gorge, forcing the road to climb up and around. A tailwind generously helped me over the top. I could see a rainbow in the valley to the west.
My water bottles were getting empty, so I refilled them from a stream. The water would need to be filtered. I was approaching the end of the day’s ride.
We called it quits at 8:15pm. We were in a valley besides the Rio Bravo at the confluence of the Rio Resbalon.
We hopped a fence next to the Puente Resbalon and found a place to stealth camp.
It was extremely windy and cold, and it was hard to set up my tent. I had to stake it down before I could erect the poles. I weighted some of the stakes with heavy logs. I was worried the wind would snap my poles. The most level place I could find was in the mud. Scott set up his tent under a big old partly fallen tree. It made me nervous and was bad Feng shui. I crawled into my tent where I cooked pasta on the front porch. The roar of the Rio Bravo was loud. I heard popping from my Thermarest as cells opened up. That sleeping pad cost me $200 and It’s been used on two tours, probably a hundred nights. Expensive camping gear does not last very long. It still held air, but if I end up having to sleep directly on the ground it will be the end of me.
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