I’d heard rumors of a Casa de Ciclistas in Villa Mañihuales — a free place for cyclists to crash — but no one had ever been there, and, as the cycling trio pointed out, even if it did exist, there probably wouldn’t be any space left. I asked about it at the tourist office when I got to Mañihuales, and I was told, no, it’s gone now.

So I was skeptical when, halfway in between Mañihuales and Coyhaique, I met some cyclists who had stayed at such a house, not in Mañihuales, but in Coyhaique. But no, they told me, we just came from there, here, let me give you the number.

Sure enough, I found the house (thank you, Google maps; Coyhaique, like Puerto Montt, does not have an abundance of street signs), and, though the owner is out biking for a couple of months, a friend is looking after the house while he’s gone. It’s a tiny place but there’s a bathroom, a kitchen, and space in the yard for camping. There’s a jar in the corner where you can throw in a bill or two to cover gas and electricity or whatever, but no one’s ever even pointed it out to me; it’s strictly voluntary. And, according to Matias, who was at the table when I came in, there’s a whole network of Casas de Ciclista throughout South America. (He would know; he started in Mexico. He basically travels for years at a time and only goes back to Germany to save up money for his next trip. He also travels with a full-size guitar, which I find impressive.)

When I walked in, Matias was in the house along with another guy, and, since the owner’s friend was still at work, they gave me the layout. I asked if the bathroom was free, and a voice came from inside of it: “Ask if her name is Katherine!”

“How did you know that?” I shouted.

“Because I’m Samuel!” he said — Samuel who I biked with along the coast my second day back on the Carretera. He had recognized my voice.

“Oh my God,” I said, “this is the best day ever.”

Samuel had been traveling with the other two guys for several days, and I was kind of envious — they had all sorts of inside jokes and stories, and seemed to get along really well. Mostly, of course, the jokes were about misadventures — Samuel had once commented that at least no one had broken a spoke or a bike rack, and the next day, both happened. After a similar comment about the great weather, they saw a week of rain.

Most recently, Samuel and one of the others drank from a river without using a filter, and both wound up in the hospital. They were still recovering when I saw them. They left the next morning, and I was the only cyclist left in the house, but at night, two more groups showed up — and one of them was people I had met before (including the guy who made his bike panniers out of recycling bins).

Coyhaique is an actual city, not just a pueblo with four or five streets. I had to run some errands (find a cash machine, look for postcards) so I biked a mile or two to the plaza — but without any of my bags or panniers, which was incredible; my bike felt so light it was almost awkward.

Tomorrow I bike to the coast and then on Friday I catch my ferry, this time a much bigger boat, with beds and everything. It’s a 24-hour trip and I’ve been told that around 3 or 4 in the morning, I should expect some serious rocking.

After that I think I’m going to keep biking; there’s a lake north of Puerto Montt that would take a few days to bike around, and then I can catch a bus north to Santiago and, if I have time, bop over to Valparaiso for a day or two before my flight home.

So that’s the plan. Though today, I must confess, my legs are still sore, even after a rest day; I think I need a rest week.