Beyond the Road:

 

Recollections From a European Cycle Tour.

 

Part One:

A week ago, I boarded the overnight ferry from Saint-Malo to Portsmouth. This marked the end of a two-month European cycle tour. I visited eight different countries, and cycled a total distance of 4,562 km. It seemed fitting somehow to finish the journey in Portsmouth. The last time I was there was at the end of a quite different voyage. In the March/April of 2021, I spent 5 weeks aboard a ship travelling home from Antarctica. I’ll never forget seeing a pod of dolphins as we entered the English Channel. There were no dolphins this time. But there was a cold, crisp dawn. And there was the same quiet joy and deep contentment that can only be felt on returning home after having been away.

Dolphin in the English Channel 

The past two months have been spent in near constant motion. And despite my intentions, and despite what I thought might have been the case, I found it near impossible to quiet my mind and find the headspace to sit down and write while on the road. But there are other things now. There is the chance for stillness. There is the time and the space for recollections and memories. Not that I need to search very far for the words to describe the overall experience: It was incredible, it was more than I ever imagined it could be. Even the bad moments, and the bad days don’t seem that bad now. It all contributed to the richness of it. There can be a temptation to rush headlong into the next thing, but I believe that reflecting on an experience such as this can be as valuable as the experience itself. And while I appreciate that the interest in this probably doesn’t extend far past myself, I wanted these reflections to be shared, just as I shared parts of the trip itself. To do this, I feel that I need to start at the beginning. And the beginning was the moment when the possibility of this journey first emerged.

Portsmouth sunrise

Usually, I’d be heading down to Antarctica in October/November time. But this year it won’t be until early January – a chance to spend Christmas in the UK for the first time since 2017. This opened the possibility of a long cycling trip, from mid-September after finishing a summer of work in the Lake District. A vague route came together in my mind during those months spent in Eskdale. The initial dream was to cycle La Route des Cols – from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean over all the mountain passes of the Pyrenees. This was all because of a postcard a friend had sent me a few summers before. But, as other ideas and possibilities emerged, this route became a tagged on ‘maybe’ at the end. I never did reach the Pyrenees, but it was the dream that led to other dreams (and I’m very grateful to AR for that). I decided that first, I wanted to visit my eldest brother who lives on the German/Luxembourg border. I have three brothers and a sister. It is one of the greatest joys in my life that we all get on so well together. But life being busy for all of us, means that opportunities to meet up must be created rather than simply stumbled upon. The idea of cycling to his house made me smile then, and it still makes me smile now. This became a reoccurring theme of the trip – the feeling that it’s more special somehow if you reach a place under your own steam. Obviously though, some kind of mechanised transport would be required to start things off. I was not planning to swim across the North Sea. I would take a train to Hull, and from there a boat to Rotterdam. I didn’t want to fly. Partly for environmental reasons. But mostly because it’s too fast. My thoughts can only move at snails’ pace, and I didn’t want to leave any of them behind.

La Route des Cols postcard

In these early stages of planning, I still had it in mind to reach the Pyrenees. As such, it became a case of plotting a route that would take me there from my brother’s. I decided that I would follow the Rhine cycle route until it became the Rhone cycle route in Switzerland. But rather than following the Rhone down to the Mediterranean, another possibility emerged: The Route des Grandes Alpes. 700km of mountain roads from Lake Geneva to Nice. It would involve over 18,000m of elevation gain, and take in some of the Tour de France’s most iconic climbs, the Galibier, the Col d’Izoard, and the Col de L’Iseran, to name but a few. This suddenly became the main goal, the Queen section of the whole route. I had no idea if I’d be able to do it, but I knew that I wanted to try. 

Route des Grandes Alpes map

I’d only been on one cycle tour before. The previous year I’d spent 3 weeks cycling through Wales and Ireland. But this new venture felt like a whole other level of undertaking. There were just so many variables. I was conscious that, although I had a route plan in mind, I wanted to keep a high degree of flexibility to the trip. There were an un-named number of things that might result in a delay, a change of route, or putting a stop to the ride altogether. What I wanted to keep first and foremost in my mind was that this was something I was doing for fun. If it ceased to be an enjoyable endeavour I would reevaluate my plans. I knew that there would be moments which would feel distinctly unenjoyable, but I also know that such moments pass. I did not want to give up on something the moment it turned hard. The challenge, both mental and physical, was very much part of the appeal. I knew that there would be many days when I wouldn’t feel strong. I knew that there would be many days when I would feel so very tired. But it was only if those things became enduring that it would be a problem for me, or if the weather conditions made it unsafe, or if I was no longer able to find any joy in what I was doing or lost the wonder at where I was. If there was an overriding motivation for the trip, it was a simple one. I love riding my bike. I love riding familiar routes, and I love riding in new places. I think it’s the best way to travel and to see the world. It’s slow enough to take things in, but fast enough to get somewhere. Another motivating factor I’ve already mentioned – I wanted to visit my brother. And there was something else. There was a desire to expand my comfort zone. While we all seek comfort in our lives, it’s easy for comfort to become a habit and we stop searching out new experiences, we stop learning things about ourselves and about the world.

Ireland by bike 

Initially, this whole trip was planned as a solo venture. But, when describing the route outline to my mum, she mentioned that she had always wanted to cycle along the Moselle River to Rob’s (my brother). In a matter of minutes, it was decided – she would join me on her electric bike for the first 750km. And so it was, that on the 17^{th of} September both me and my mum cycled off the boat in Rotterdam.

Mum in Rotterdam! 

 

 

En Patagonia: Chapter Twelve

 

I caught an early bus from El Chaltén– the first of three buses that day. I got a great seat – top deck, front row. I watched the landscape change – from Patagonian Forest to Patagonian Steppe. We’d pass the occasional heavily laden cyclist. I’d spot the occasional Guanaco – sometimes in the distance, sometimes dead in a fence near the side of the road. The first leg of the journey was a three hour hop to El Calafate with a fairly quick turnaround at the other end. Enough time though to check-in - the second leg to Puerto Natales involved a border crossing - and to use the facilities. None of the toilet doors had locks, and they were too far away from the toilet to hold closed with a foot. It really wasn’t the best of times to be on my period. I explained the situation to the person behind me in the queue - a woman with a European accent and a shaved head – she kindly stood guard for me.  

Cycle Tourer 

The second leg of the journey was the longest of the three – just over six hours from El Calafate to Puerto Natales. It felt quite a bit longer. I was sat next to someone who seemed incapable of sitting still. She talked to herself as well. I was irritated from very early on. My headphones did little to block it out, and I was too irritated to fall asleep. I happened to glance across at her phone for a moment and saw that she was applying different filters to selfies she had taken at a beach somewhere. She was giving nods of approval or clicks of disapproval to each one. This particular sound reminded me of someone I had worked with back in the Lakes – her jaw used to dislocate when she ate. I don’t know whether my bus companion detected my frostiness towards her – but that began to thaw when she offered me half of her sandwich. We also started talking to each other. She suddenly seemed a lot less annoying. Plus, I had been hungry, and the sandwich was really very good. This leg of the journey encountered a few delays. Firstly - we were pulled over at a military controlled check point and armed officers boarded the bus and asked to see everyone’s passport. They also looked in a bag or two. I had to explain what a tub of O’Keeffe’s moisturising hand cream was for. The longest delay by far though was at the Argentine border crossing. It was not the same border crossing that I had come through when entering the country. This one was much busier. But much as before, they merely glanced at my passport and handed it back without a word.

Queuing at the Argentine border

By the time we had got through the second border control – to enter Chile, I knew that I was unlikely to make my connecting bus in Puerto Natales. And all doubt was removed when, not 100 metres further on the bus pulled over, switched off the engine, and proceeded to sit there for the best part of an hour with no explanation or apparent reason. There was nothing to be done about it apart from to hope that I could catch a later bus back to Punta Arenas. Failing that, I reasoned that I could try hitchhiking or simply cut my losses and find a place for the night in Puerto Natales. But neither option was necessary. There was a bus with Punta Arenas lit up on its front when we pulled into the terminal. I hastily bought a ticket, and even had time to use the toilets (which had the great luxury of a locked door). It was just before midnight when the bus pulled into Punta Arenas, and I wandered through the dark and rain drenched streets to the hotel I had booked for a couple of nights. There were few people about. Perhaps they had all gone to bed, perhaps a few were still up in late-night bars. I passed a father and son chatting happily to each other, and I saw the bin truck moving noisily through the streets collecting black bags from the crates that serve as roadside bins. It was not a cold night, but the hotel reception seemed bright and welcoming. I spoke in Spanish, and a Canadian man who was propping up the reception desk commented on how funny it sounded to hear Spanish spoken with a British accent. I got the impression that the two women behind reception had grown a little tired of his presence there. But I, unlike them, had the option to leave. So, I hastily made my way to the room and gratefully got into the shower. I had spent the last sixteen hours on buses, and it was bliss to wash away the sense of griminess.

The Border Guards! 

I had a couple of days before my flight home to the U.K. I didn’t do much. I went to favourite cafes. I tried to bring a degree of order to my packing. I hung around gazing out to sea. Two of the BAS Twin Otter planes were making their long journey north to Canada – and they were in Punta at the same time as me. It was wonderful to catch up with the pilots and crew – we enjoyed evenings out at a steak house and a French restaurant. It was a perfect sort of end to the trip - sitting around, eating good food, and swapping stories with Callum, Ian, Tim, and Jen.

Last days in Punta Arenas 

I’d booked a taxi to the airport for 6am. The sun had not yet risen over the Strait of Magellan. The airport at Punta is small and uncomplicated. I checked in and dropped off my bags with plenty of time to spare. I got some breakfast. I sat people watching. I sat reading a bit of ‘In Siberia’ by Colin Thubron. At Santiago airport I found a quiet space to sprawl out and write a postcard to my friend Saz. On the first leg of the journey home, I listened to a Podcast that she had featured in. There was a delay at Sao Paulo airport – possibly the worst airport I have spent any length of time at. I once kissed a guy I knew in the disabled toilets there. It does not go down as one of the most romantic encounters of my life. But no such carry-ons this time. I quietly ordered a latte from Starbucks but was handed a milkshake instead.

I messaged my brother to let him know that the plane was going to be late into Heathrow – but he already knew. He had been following it on live departures or something. I found that I wasn’t all that bothered about the delay – it just drew out the excitement of heading home. I managed to watch about half of Oppenheimer on the plane before falling asleep. I still haven’t watched the rest of it. I was so happy to see my brother. I bought us some coffee. I posted the card I had written in Santiago airport. We listened to Simon and Garfunkel as we headed north on the motorway to visit our mum. It really is the best feeling in the world; to be known, to be understood, to be home.

Posting a letter at London Heathrow 

Postscript

I’ve been sitting on this final chapter for a few days. The Wi-Fi at the hostel rarely works well enough to upload a blogpost with photographs, and I haven’t felt in the mood to wander down to the Woolpack Inn to use their far superior internet. I’m grateful though that these things have stopped me from rushing. I’ve made several changes to it since I thought it was finished. It has been a good reminder to let things sit for a while. It has also given me time to savour the near completion of this ‘project’. There were moments when I nearly gave up on the whole thing. I’m so glad that I stuck with it – the writing, and the commitment to writing has brought me great satisfaction, and it has firmed up so many wonderful memories from the trip. I might read back on this in years to come and cringe at some of the things that I have written, but for now at least it is something that I am proud of. I hope to get it published someday – because having something that you can hold in your hands is always going to be better than something you read on a computer screen. That said, I am happy that I have been able to share it in this way. Thanks to those who have read bits of it, and thanks to those who have read every word of it. Thank you also for the comments, kind words, and encouragements along the way. It has meant more than I can say. All best wishes, K x

 

 

 

En Patagonia: Chapter Eleven

 

I had one last day planned – one last thing on the list that I had made at the start of my time in El Chaltén. It had all passed by, not in a rush, but with a fullness and a gentle experience of the passing of time. I was not engaged with that most fruitless of pursuits – that of trying to hold back time. The weather had been kind – it was only a matter of weeks before thick clouds descended and covered the higher trails with snow. I saw some photographs that looked unrecognisable to the places that I had been. I had experienced what I craved the most after the white world of Antarctica – a warmth, and a land of abundant green.

Land of abundant green

I hired a bike again – this time it was fleet number 17. The pedals were reassuringly less wobbly than those on the previous steed. I took once more to Ruta 41. But for a shorter distance this time. I cycled to the Reserva Natural Los Huemules – some 16km north of El Chaltén. There are a number of trekking trails within the reserve, and in order to reduce the impact of tourism only a certain number of people are permitted on the trails each day. There was also an entrance fee. As a result, it was perhaps the quietest of all the days I spent out walking. Because of this, because of the scenery, and because of a deep sense of calm, it was possibly my favourite day of the entire trip. This, and the day that I saw the 4,000-year-old cave paintings at Punta Walichu. I took the trail to Laguna del Diablo – the lake of the devil. The path wound its way up through luscious woodland following the course of the Rio Diablo.

Rio Diablo 

Every now and then you would come to a gap in the trees revealing a vista of magnificent peaks, some adorned with patches of snow.

Reserva Natural Los Huemules

The day was delightfully warm, and I spent a while at the viewpoint beyond the Refugio Cagliero – the furthest extent of the trail. There was no one else about and little to disturb my revery. I was utterly mesmerised by the world. 

Viewpoint beyond the Refugio Cagliero

This was essentially an out-and-back trail, but with an option to take a shorter looped trail to Laguna Verde and Laguna Azul as you neared a return to the Ranger’s Station.

Laguna Verde

After having visited the lake of the devil, I questioned the slight lack of imagination in the naming of these two lakes. However, when I caught my first glimpse of Laguna Azul – the blue lake – I laughed at my thoughts. There was nothing else in the world that you could have possibly named that lake. I do not think I have ever seen such a blue. It was as if someone had dumped several tons of food colouring into the water and waited for it to be stirred by the wind.

Laguna Azul 

I returned to the Ranger’s Station and began my cycle back to El Chaltén. A short distance along – where I had hitched a lift from on a previous day – there were three guys with enormous backpacks sitting by the side of the road. They saw me coming, smiled, and stuck out their thumbs. I stopped and apologised that I could only take two. They laughed, and not wanting to leave a man behind they declined my offer, and I cycled on.  

Entrance to the Reserve 

I dropped the bike back into the Patagonia Travellers Hostel – they stored them, unlocked, on a rack outside. There was an American couple stood nearby on the pavement – I sensed that they were wondering about hiring bikes themselves. We got chatting, and I told them how the bike hire worked, and some of the good places to go. After a few minutes, the man said to me, “Do you work here? You speak very good English?” Well, I wasn’t in the mood to turn down a compliment, so I thanked him very much but couldn’t quite resist from telling him that I was from England. He seemed delighted by this. He told me how much he loved my country, and how he used to be an airline pilot and had flown into London Heathrow several times. “London Heathrow is great.” He gave no indication that he had visited anywhere else in England other than Heathrow. While I thought it an odd choice – to base a love of an entire country on a busy airport – I didn’t question it. But I did marvel at it for a while after. Perhaps he genuinely thought that it was an incredibly fine airport, or perhaps it was simply a connection of sorts to a stranger, a sense of familiarity in a land that was a strangeness to us both.

The outflow at Laguna Azul 

I wandered through the streets a while; I wandered down to the river and sat for some time. I was enjoying the moment, and I was reflecting a little on what had been and began to look to what was next. A friend had messaged me – she suggested that Eskdale would seem flat, would seem small in comparison to Patagonia. But to me, Eskdale would seem better than ever. I think size in this instance can only be measured in how big it makes your heart feel. Besides, it was more than a question of landscape alone. These travels in Argentina had been nothing short of fantastical, but rather than throwing everything else into the shade through tedious comparisons, it had increased the wonder of all things. I have been fortunate enough to experience this perspective on a number of occasions – the first of which was when I crossed the Ellsworth Mountains in the co-pilot seat of a Twin Otter plane.

Crossing the Ellsworth Mountains in a Twin Otter plane

That was a three-day trip with legendary pilot Ian Potten - we were inputting Andy and Ed for their deep field science project. 

Andy and Ed with all their field kit 

We saw Mount Vinson – Antarctica’s highest mountain – clear, out of the clouds. We saw the Ellsworths stretched out for hundreds of kilometres, and beyond that we saw an endless, flat, white.

Twin Otter and the endless flat, white.

And yet, when we returned to station, I found that even cleaning toilets had taken on a new enthusiasm. And much the same could be said for this latest adventure – there was a certain beauty to the M25 and the Manchester Ship Canal that I had never appreciated before. And then there was Eskdale. A world entirely set apart in my mind.

Eskdale

It was not quite the end of this South American adventure though – I still had to get back to Punta Arenas to pick up my flight home. I had factored in a few extra days to allow for delays of one sort or another. But the days of cycling and walking out amongst the mountains and the Patagonian Forest had reached their conclusion. It was more than I could have possibly imagined. And not simply in terms of the trails I walked and the sights I saw, but in all that this land had made me think, and had made me feel. 

 

 

 

 

En Patagonia: Chapter Ten

 

The date was February 12^th – it was a few days after my cycle ride to Lago del Desierto. While the pedals did not fall off, it felt like my arms and legs had. The palms of my hands were blistered, and I was left with an even greater admiration for the riders of Paris-Roubaix. Overall, it had been an incredible day, but the last 10 kilometres or so were tough.  Holding onto the handlebars was painful – El Chaltén couldn’t come soon enough. Our memory for such things is usually short, but I wouldn’t contemplate going out on the bike again for at least a couple of days. I turned instead to rest, and then returned to the hiking trails.

A return to the hiking trails

The day had dawned calm and grey. But the cloud was high – the peaks unobscured. I was glad of a day of cooler weather – the skin on my legs felt pretty raw, what with the sun, and with the relentless wind blowing dust and grit everywhere. I decided to head up Loma del Pliegue Tumbado – a mountain standing some 1490m above sea level. While higher than any mountain that the U.K. has to offer, here, this peak was dwarfed by its neighbours. I set off mid-morning, and after walking a kilometre or so beyond the visitors’ centre, I found myself alone on the trail. Even though this route cumulated in an actual summit, it was evidently less popular than the Fitz Roy trail and the trail to Laguna Torre. In many ways I could understand why – the forest was less dense here, there were no blue green mountain streams tumbling by, and there was a barrenness to the landscape the higher you went. I found it all incredibly beautiful nevertheless – perhaps we need that sense of desolation from time to time. Maybe on some days it better suits our mood and gives us permission to feel a certain way. And perhaps I was feeling it all a little too much – it was the only day of the whole trip (save for the bus journeys) that I put my headphones in for a bit. I listened to a Podcast for a while – listened to Ned Boulting talking about a bike race in a far-off land. It felt like company of sorts. But then the headphone battery died, and people had started appearing in dribs and drabs from the other direction. These were the early risers, the early starters, making their way back from the mountain’s summit. I didn’t like to have headphones in if there were people about - feels like you can’t give or receive a proper hello.

Up above the trees

I was out of the trees now and into a rocky landscape. You could see the path zigzagging its way up the hilltop in the distance. It seemed quite far away, and I felt that it might take me several hours to reach it. But that wasn’t the case at all – I think it was hard to judge anything like that here. It was possible to find marine fossils that were hundreds of millions of years old – distance and time were slightly skewed; it was difficult to know which sort of world you were walking through. And then amongst all that, impossibly, you’d see these brilliant dashes of colour. A wildflower growing in the shelter of a rock. The best of all was a variety of the Lady’s Slipper – it was as if I had discovered the world’s greatest treasure. My face lit up. 

Lady's Slipper 

I was amazed, and never cease to be amazed at the places in which life can flourish. Plus, it struck me as a metaphor of sorts – that beauty can endure in a world where it doesn’t seem possible at times. Beauty as a flower, or as a kind word, in a world beset with wars so complex as to ever fathom. Even if it were simple, would we have the answer? How did we get to this point? What had we let in the front door as we sat, sleeping, ensconced behind our television screens? But in that moment, up on that mountainside, the beauty of the flower struck with wonder rather than with horror, and I carried on about my day with hope. Anything else felt so far from this place. I was lucky. There was no two ways about it. Any low mood I felt earlier had shifted. 

A wildflower on the steep scree slopes of Loma del Pliegue Tumbado 

There were a number of folk – about ten in total – on the summit itself. It wasn’t confined to one small space; you could wander about a little. People were taking photos, people were eating some lunch, people were sat quietly taking it all in. There was no doubt about it – the views were spectacular. I could see a few of the places I had walked to on previous days, but it was hard to truly recognise them – the world looked so different from up here. I didn’t linger all that long, but neither did I rush.

Summit views and the path back down the mountainside 

On the way back I jogged a little, and slowed right down here and there to take photographs of flowers. I was in a happy sort of mood now. My unregulated pattern of movement through the landscape probably looked a little peculiar, but I was not encumbered by self-consciousness that day. At one point I caught up to a man and a woman, and I struck up a conversation with them. They told me that they were from America, although neither of them had been home for a couple of years. “Is that because you’ve been traveling, or are you in fact, fugitives?  Don’t worry if you are, I’m not going to say anything to anyone. I wouldn’t even know who to tell. You both seem like nice people – I’ve got no beef with you at all. It’s only Donald Trump I’ve got a problem with – he built a golf course in Aberdeenshire and completely ruined an SSSI. Anyway. I’m going to run for a bit – I want to get back to El Chaltén and buy some orange juice. Nice meeting you both. Goodbye!” 

Back amongst the trees 

I followed the trail as it re-entered the trees, and it occurred to me that perhaps I had gone a little too long without having had a proper conversation with someone. I decided that once I got back down, I would give my mum a call. After buying some orange juice, that is. 

 

 

En Patagonia: Chapter Nine

 

I hired a bike for a couple of days. A hardtail mountain bike from The Patagonia Traveller’s hostel. I handed over my passport and cycled off. My aim on the first day was to cycle northwards – to Lago del Desierto, located at the end of Ruta 41. This would be a 75km round trip, with an additional 5km hiking to Laguna y Glacier Huemul. The wind was fairly calm, and the sun was bright and warm in the sky. The bike I had been given was fleet number 16 – it had a certain character to it; it felt a little bit like one or both of the pedals might fall off. But the possibility of that sat with me as an amusing thought rather than a dark cloud on the horizon. I had a quiet confidence that I would cope with any such situation if it indeed developed – I trusted myself, and I had already experienced the kindness of this land. And so, I rattled along – the 500 metres of tarmac that led out of the village abruptly stopped and turned to gravel. A little further on there was a single-track bike trail loop which provided wonderful views of Fitz Roy – I took this before rejoining the road.

Views of Fitz Roy

Cycling on Ruta 41 proved to be an interesting experience – the road was potholed and strewn with small rocks. I have since likened the size of these rocks to the size of a baby’s head – I was sure that this was a commonly used unit of comparison, but judging by the reaction I got from friends I think I must have been mistaken! Although, I’m sure that you will now have no problem in imagining the exact size of some of the rocks that both cyclists and cars encounter on Ruta 41. The cars on the road caused another challenge – not because of their number or because of reckless driving (the cycling always felt really safe in that regard), but because each time a vehicle passed you it would kick up a huge cloud of dust leaving you unable to see for a couple of minutes, and making the one thing I needed to do more than usual – breathing – quite an unpleasant experience! I would try to hold my breath for as long as possible, but I think that only made it worse – I would just take in a fuller lungful of dust when I had to breathe again. Thankfully though the road was not too busy, especially once I’d got past the parking area for Chorrillo del Salto – a waterfall some 3km outside of El Chaltén. I had walked there earlier in the week, on a rest day of sorts. As waterfalls go it was pretty nice. And as I was headed back along the trail to El Chaltén I was stopped by a man who, in Spanish, asked me what the significance of this waterfall was. Rather than dodge the question I answered with all the confidence I could muster in my limited Spanish. This is a big waterfall. This is a tall waterfall. There is lots of water. This is not a small waterfall. I tried to look suitably awestruck as I walked off. This was not the first time that I had been stopped and asked a question – if not about waterfalls, then for directions or for route information. I wondered why this was, given the abundance of other people around to ask. I didn’t look in the least bit South American with my pasty white legs (soon turning to bright red sunburnt legs), and I doubt I could have passed for being from any other Spanish speaking nation. One thought I had was that perhaps I was easier to approach as I was by myself rather than in a big group, and perhaps there was an assumption that because I was by myself that I knew what I was doing, and that I knew the answers which would reveal the mysteries of Argentine waterfalls.

Chorrillo del Salto

I was in dreamland as I cycled along, surrounded by trees, mountains, and with the Rio de las Vueltas running next to the road. Every now and then the road would cross one of the many streams or rivers which were tumbling at pace down from the mountains. These bridges were little more than a metal structure lined with a series of wooden planks – the gaps between which felt alarmingly wide at times. I wasn’t concerned because I had seen plenty of cars going over these bridges, but I did feel slightly vulnerable when I looked down and saw the rushing water only inches below my bicycle tyres and knew that the gaps in the bridge were more than wide enough to lose a whole leg down!

A bridge on Ruta 41

I later learned that it was at one of these same bridges that friends of mine had encountered some difficulties the year before. Nadia, Sam, Matthew, and Jon had set off from Punta Arenas after their winter at Rothera and were attempting to cycle all the way north to Santiago. I was in awe of their journey at the time, and I was even more so now as I cycled along the same stretch of road that they had. I was finding it hard enough, and my bike wasn’t loaded up with panniers, and I hadn’t cycled many hundreds of miles already to reach this point. But this comparison did not devalue my experience – in fact, I think it enhanced it. I thought of them every now and then as I made my way on Ruta 41, and it made me smile to think that people I knew had already been on this road that I was now travelling on. I posted some photos at the end of the ride, and a good few weeks later Nadia sent me a message telling me about their mishap at the bridge. The bolt in Sam’s pannier rack had exploded and sheared off inside the bike. They tried to hit it out with a hammer, but it didn’t work. Sam had to put all the contents of his panniers into a rucksack, and cycle with that on his back for many hundreds of kilometres on gravel roads. I had already left Patagonia at this point, but I found it interesting that hearing someone else’s stories from that road added clarity and meaning to my own adventures there. I think that we are always looking for those connections – perhaps an innate need to celebrate the things that we have in common. How odd then that on a broader level we so often let our focus rest firmly upon our differences. I wonder if this is in part due to a change in the way we communicate – opinions formed from afar on social media, and a decline in long-form and face to face communications. I also wonder if there is a time coming when, with a growing dissatisfaction with the way things are, we will revert more to this – to find the truth and our humanity in the places where it has always been found – with what we can see with our own eyes, and with what we can hold with our own hands, and with a slowing down of words so that our thoughts might have chance to catch up.

Views from the road

As I continued to follow the road northwards the nature of things began to change somewhat. I was deeper into the forest now, and the rivers were an impossible turquoise green. I couldn’t quite believe that I was actually there – on my own, on a bicycle, travelling if only for a day, in that moment, through a landscape if you’d asked me to dream up would not have matched the reality. I do not know at which point along the way through this life that I was living, that I found the confidence to head out by myself and do such things. I suppose it is something that comes to us gradually, and I was certainly finding that action breeds confidence and the limits to what you once thought possible slowly fade away. And it wasn’t just this. Other things fade away, too. And maybe it is in part the product of getting older – but you start to care less about what others think of you, and you stop comparing yourself to others as much (or to a version of your past self). Everyone is different, everyone has different dreams and different adventures. You can either be inspired by them and encourage them, or you can allow yourself to be reduced to obscurity even in your own eyes. It’s easy to fall into this way of thinking – to devalue our experiences if they do not match up to the things which society seems to value above all. But one thing I knew for certain – I was cycling along with a smile on my face, and I was having the best of times. In that moment there was only this. There was nothing else.

Peaks, forests, and turquoise streams.

I reached Lago del Desierto in the early afternoon – I had reached the end of the road. From here it was possible to get a boat across the lake and cross the border into Chile. This was the route that my friends had taken the previous year. 

A boat on Lago del Desierto

But I was to simply return to El Chaltén the same way that I had come, although not before taking a hiking trail to see the Huemul Glacier. I sat down by the lake for a while and ate an apple. I also watched an Ibis perched on the branch of a tree. The day was beautifully warm – the sort of temperature that is absolutely perfect for sitting on a warm rock and observing the scene.

Ibis 

It cost 7,000 Argentine Pesos to take the trail up to the glacial lake – I paid the fare and left my bike propped up behind the ticket office. The path rose steeply through the trees, and although it wasn’t all that far I found myself wishing that I had put a spare pair of shorts in my bag – ones that were not padded cycling bib shorts. Note to self for future bike-hikes that I had planned. The trail topped out above the shores of Laguna Huemul – a turquoise lake sparkling in the sun with the Huemul glacier hanging above it. There were stunning views back down the valley, back in the direction I’d soon be headed. Sometimes when we are faced with a scene of utter beauty, we almost expect that we should feel a certain way, or that we should be having some sort of significant thought about the place or about life as a whole. But more often than not, I think we actually experience a sense of nothingness – a mind empty of all thought, and of all worry, and if we had to put a name to it, then that name would be calm.

Laguna Huemul

 

 

 

 

 

Everyday Things at the Bottom of the World: Part Three

 

The one item of clothing that I was most glad I decided to fit into my personal kitbag for Antarctica this season was a pair of cycling bib shorts. At first glance a strange choice, perhaps. Antarctica is not a place you typically associate with going for a bike ride. In fact, in previous years I have reluctantly all but given up any ideas of cycling when at Rothera. I’ve reverted to running, or at least tried to – those comical first weeks of the legs trying to remember how to run again after a summer in the Lake District attached to a bicycle. Each year I have all good intentions of trying to keep up some cycling fitness, but there are only so many times you can bear to sit on the Watt Bike in a windowless, sweaty gym and do a virtual cycle up Box Hill (even if there is a poster of Mont Ventoux on the wall). I find exercising indoors to be largely soulless. I’d always much rather be out in the elements. In fact, my favourite conditions for runway running at Rothera are the snowy and incredibly windy days. It’s the most immersed in the landscape I feel when I’m down there. It can all seem a little too far out of reach on a perfectly calm, blue-sky day. But when the wind blows, it feels as if the continent itself reaches into the depths of your soul – and you experience the full wonder of life flowing through your veins. Although, I must admit, that if I were to go cycling in similar conditions it would feel utterly miserable and deeply cold. My hands and feet, while able to stay toasty warm when running, become like blocks of ice in no time at all on the bike. Which is why, despite there being a selection of hardtail mountain bikes and fat bikes available for recreation on station, I have largely avoided it in the past (save for a couple of laps of the runway in good weather).

Snowy runway running 

Something had changed though. My love of cycling has become almost insatiable over the past few years. I no longer consider myself a runner or even a footballer. And my big dream of this season was to cycle around the flagline on a fat bike. The flagline is a 13km loop on a snowy expanse up above station. The flags indicate the area in which it is safe to travel – outside of the flags lie crevasses, yawning, ice blue beneath a thick covering of snow. A few years ago, I got the opportunity to explore a crevasse on a rec trip. My imagination had not conceived just how vast and scary they are – I was at genuine risk of pooping my pants when I stepped back and abseiled over the edge.

Abseiling down a crevasse 

But, despite the hazards that lurk just beyond, the flagline is a place of wonderful escapism, safety, and solace. It is a chance to step away and to float above the busyness and intensity of station life for a while. Even just making it to the top of the ramp and looking back down on the clutter of buildings and human activity puts an interesting perspective on it all. You can suddenly see the entirety of your world from the outside, and you marvel at how that which so often seems everything now just features as a small part of your vision as you take in the vastness of the sea and the mountains that surround. From the top of the ramp, you travel along a corridor of flags known as the Traverse. To your left is the rocky and dragon like outcrops of Reptile Ridge, and to your right the snow drops away to ice cliffs and the sea below. I had run along here many times before, and had sometimes gone on Nordic Skis, but I had never taken a bike.

The Rothera Traverse 

After a while the corridor of flags opens out and you reach the start of the loop known as the flagline. If I were setting out to attempt the full loop, I would always go in an anti-clockwise direction. There is no rule about the direction of travel around the flagline, only the habits we develop and then impose upon ourselves as the most unbreakable of rules.

Out on the Flagline. Between heaven and earth. 

The early season brought with it the tail end of winter storms, and it was a while before the conditions were anywhere near safe or favourable enough to head round the flagline on a bike. From a safety point of view, you needed to have, at the very minimum, a six-flag bubble of visibility – you must be able to see three flags in front of you, and three flags behind. There was also a wind speed limit to going up the ramp and beyond. In terms of favourable conditions for cycling – you wanted the snow to be as firm as possible, and the best time to go would usually be early morning after a night where the temperatures had remained below zero. You also hoped that a skidoo might have recently headed up the hill so as to compact the snow. As the summer progressed and the daytime temperatures rose above freezing, sometimes to as much as five degrees, the snow would become slushy and practically unrideable. On one such occasion I found myself running and slipping along the Traverse whilst pushing my bike until sense overcame my stubbornness and I gave it up as a bad idea. I needed to be patient, and I also needed to be committed to getting up early enough to make the most of the best conditions. This was not always possible depending on which shift pattern I was working – quite often my working day would start at 7.00am. However, if I happened to be working the nightshift week, it put me in the perfect position to go out on the bike. Not only was I finishing work by about 06.30am, I had also been up all night and been able to monitor the overnight temperature and wind conditions. This became a bit of an obsession, and an obsession which was then picked up by my friend Dan who started joining me on these biking adventures. Initially though, and occasionally after that, I would go alone.

Early morning round the flags on a dingle day

On these solo jaunts I would sometimes listen to music or play a pre-downloaded episode of Never Strays Far (my favourite cycling Podcast). But more often than not I would simply listen to the world around me – listen to the sounds of that frozen land. Once you were along the Traverse and out of sight of station you found that you also left the noise of that place far behind. The constant hum of the generators, the bleeping of reversing vehicles, and the chatter over the hand-held radios. Instead, your ears would be full of the sound of your own breathing, and of your heart beating with the effort of making forward progress in the snow. And there was the almost squeaking sound of the bike tyres as they slowly turned in this crystalline land – tyres which would virtually be deflated to flat on days when the snow was soft, or for going fast on the downhills. And there was the involuntary whooping as you sped along on pristine snow with the mountains of the West Antarctic Peninsula stretched out before you, and the vast and sparkling sea. And then there were the sounds beyond – beyond our human presence there. And even on the calmest of days there was never nothing - our ears would attempt to interpret the divine silence which occasionally graced this most remote of lands. Perhaps it was the wind from many hundred of miles away, reaching us now only as an echo, softened by a hundred snowy peaks. Or maybe it was the ocean far below, a small iceberg teetering slightly in an otherwise millpond bay. Many and varied are the emotions of those who spend any length of time in Antarctica – there is camaraderie and there is loneliness, there is unbridled joy and there are moments of despair, there is resilience and there is the crumbling of the spirit, there is the feeling of permanence and there is the awareness that all things – good and bad – shall eventually pass. And yet, there was no thought or no word what we ourselves did not bring here – our fears and our doubts, our hopes and our dreams were our very own. We gave this land its mystery and we found that this land neither gives nor cares. And perhaps this is why we were all drawn here in the first place – to a world where we can feel the fullness of our humanity with both its insignificance and its strength. To stand in that incredible wilderness and feel so small, and yet to have overcome everything we thought to be impossible by simply standing there at all.

The most remote of lands 

As much as I loved the contemplative state of mind that solitude brings, I equally enjoyed the many times that I went around the flagline with Dan. His enthusiasm and love of cycling matched my own – we spent one morning drinking coffee and recounting every puncture we’d ever had. Another morning, we had a long, and frankly fascinating conversation about curtains – this was not a friendship built on cycling alone. Dan is one of those people with infectious good humour – even on the days when the conditions were so bad that much of our progress was in a falling off sideways direction, I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed so much on a bike (and cycling is one of my favourite things in the world). Perhaps we actually laughed the most on those days. On a particularly soft downhill section, Dan declared that he needed a mud guard fitted to the bike to stop the snow from going down his bum crack. Dan did not bring cycling bib shorts to Antarctica.

Dan and I.
(Photo credit: P. Shroff) 

The return to station from Skiway Col (the highest point on the true flagline) was always such a thrill. Even if the snow conditions were slightly sub-optimal you could still get up a good amount of speed if you were prepared to go for it – brain off, brakes off was the mantra. And I actually found that this was also the best way of staying upright. After getting back to station after one such ride, Dan said to me, “you have a specific smile for when you’re going fast on a bike. It’s different to your other smiles – I’ve never seen it before.” I don’t find it easy to adequately express just how much joy riding a bike brings to me, and it made me happy to know that this was not simply something I felt, but also something which could be seen. And for it to be seen meant that I was sharing this experience with someone – and it has undoubtedly been one of the greatest delights of this Rothera season, going on lots of bike rides with my friend. And every ride we went on felt different – the weather would be different, and we would talk of different things. One day we stopped and made snow angels, another time we went to say hello to Vicky (the deputy chief pilot) who was up at the Skiway in VPF-BB, one of our Twin Otter planes.

Red bike. Red plane.
(Photo Credit: D. Price)

I would however repeatedly tell Dan that cycling back along the Traverse was just like cycling on the Cinder Track with a road bike. The Cinder Track runs along the Cumbrian Coast between Seascale and Sellafield. It is mostly gravel, but there are these occasional sections of deep sand – blown by the west wind onto the cycle path. It was a route I sometimes took with my good friends Ali and Ian (who are largely responsible for kick-starting my cycling obsession). In order to get through the sand traps on a road bike you simply had to go for it, and hope that you had enough speed and enough nerve to get you through. And that was the similarity to the Traverse at Rothera – unless the snow was really firm there was very little chance of getting going again if you lost momentum or slid to a stop. I loved getting into that headspace – of being so focussed and feeling confident. Every time we arrived back onto the ramp, I would invariably mention the Cinder Track, even though I knew that I had told Dan about it every time before. I even created a twinned Strava Segment in its honour – The Cinder Track of the South.

Ian riding the Cinder Track

My last weekend on Station brought with it a fresh dump of snow. This was not what you wanted for cycling, and so I had all but put the idea of it out of my mind. However, it was my last weekend, and Dan was coming off the night shift week, so his sleep pattern was still all over the place. I woke up on the Sunday morning to find that I had a string of WhatsApp messages from him that started at 04.00am: The temperatures were good; a skidoo had been up there yesterday evening; Barry had headed out for a run and seemed to be moving well along the Traverse; the temperatures were still good; I’ve drunk five cups of coffee now and eaten three slices of toast; I’ve been reading an essay about Chile, Argentina, colonialism, imperialism, and Antarctica – it has more than 10 references, and I can tell you all about it if we go for a bike ride; okay you’re coming or okay please stop messaging me about cycling; wahey! And that was the dialogue which provided the backdrop to the last ride of the season. I was very tired, and I had reached the point where I was ready to leave, and yet when it came to it, when all thoughts had turned northwards, I could not resist the call of the sublime. The conditions were terrible though, and we very quickly gave up the idea of cycling the full flagline. The snow lay untouched there, and I don’t think I made it even two metres before the bottom half of the wheels had completely disappeared from view. But we did make it to the Caboose (a basic, container-like shelter with a stove, and a seating area covered in sheepskins) – by following the tracks left by a skidoo from the previous evening. We had fun trying to take a timed photo of ourselves with our bikes outside the Caboose. We both had the same strange thought that it had similarities to the iconic photo of Christopher McCandless in front of the ‘Magic Bus’ from Into the Wild – in so far at least as it was the presence of humans and a metallic, inanimate object in a landscape that perhaps neither had any place in being. But there we were, and it was not without thought, and it was not a reckless, hell-bent desire to feel like we had conquered something or some land. It was ultimately an incredibly humbling experience to be there, and while it was undeniably one of immense personal gain, it was also a chance and an opportunity to be involved in a line of work that may well contribute an awful amount of good and worth to our beautiful planet, our only home, and one that we have been far too careless about for far too long.

Dan and I at the Caboose

And of course, the only intentions and motivations we can speak of and lay claim to are our own, and so I have been speaking here of my own, and of my own thoughts and experiences of living and working at Rothera. It was easy to get so absorbed in the busyness of work here that you forgot to take a step back and look at the bigger picture, to remember why we were there, to remember all the science projects that the Station was enabling and supporting. And even being the smallest of cogs in this process, life here gave you an incredible sense of purpose and a sense of worth because you saw that however small the cog, they all matter, and we all make a difference in the end. And it wasn’t just this. There was something much more. These free-time adventures on the bike gave not only a healthy perspective on work - they also gave me an important perspective on life as a whole. It was a reminder to do the things that make you smile differently, and to spend time with good friends in whose company you could laugh or cry just as easily. We do not get forever. And having an urgency for life is not the same as leading a reckless life. We do not exist in isolation, and the preciousness of life belongs to all. And there are as many different lives as there are as many different humans – and so it was, in my own way, I had reached the end of another Antarctic summer with a full heart and a head full of new dreams for what lay beyond.

Chilling out on the ramp after the last ride of the season.
(Photo credit: W. Thursfield)