Leaving Chaiten

“How far are you going today?” the cyclists always ask each other. The hitchhikers too. In Chaiten my answer was a shrug, followed by, “Hasta que me canse” — “until I get tired.”

In fact, I was hoping to camp with two of the guys I’d met at the hostel/campsite, but I got the impression they were in better shape than me, so I really wasn’t sure I could keep up.

In fact, I could have, but I stopped after just a couple of hours at a swanky (for the region) hotel, where I sat inside, drank a Coke, read a little, charged my devices, and otherwise hid from the hottest part of the day.

I set off again around five. Around 7:30 I texted Antonio and it seemed they were only an hour or so ahead of me, which was totally doable — but 45 minutes later I was doubtful. I had made little progress; everything had been uphill and my knees were killing me.

Then I saw the perfect campsite — a little flat bank off the side of the road, above the river, partially concealed by bushes.

I considered my options. My knees were unhappy, I’d started pushing my bike uphill instead of pedaling, and I had no idea how far I was from reaching the top. If I kept on, I might not find a campsite as convenient and lovely.

So I stopped. It was the thing I’d been most afraid of when I learned I’d be going alone — pitching my tent by myself in the middle of nowhere — but I really didn’t see a better option.

I did have cell reception, so I posted my location on Facebook, and somehow that made me feel better. Like at least if anything happened to me, the police would know where to start looking — not actually that comforting of a scenario if you think about it logically, but comfort is not a logical thing.

Not that I was terrified — it definitely felt much safer than when I’d been worrying about it at home; my biggest concern was that some official would kick me out and tell me it’s illegal to wild camp in national parks, and then what would I do? Pack up and start biking in the middle of the night? I didn’t actually know whether or not I was in a national park; my map was kind of vague.

I waited for the sun to set a bit so I would be less visible. I put my bike under a bush, completely hidden from the road, and locked the wheel to the frame, with the cord running through all of my bags. My tent was a foot away so if anyone messed with anything I would hear them.

The night was peaceful; nothing happened. I couldn’t cook because there was no safe way to get down to the water, but I had bread and ham and cheese, plus that bag of cookies. And I loved drifting off to the sound of the rushing water below.

The next morning I had a rough 20 minutes or so of climbing, and then it was all downhill to Villa Santa Lucia, where the guys were camped, less than an hour away.