My Mythical Ruta 40, Argentina

Recollections from the Bottom of the World

On November 8th, 2012 I left Toronto, Canada for a solo motorcycle journey to the “bottom of the world”. Fin Del Mundo, Ushuaia, Argentina. The most southerly city on the planet, still accessible by roads.

For this 5 month trip I purchased a second hand 2001, single cylinder, BMW F650 GS and bolted all manner of accessories to make it overland worthy. I christened her Angelina, (my angel) and started heading south. By the time it was over, I added 32,000 kilometres to the odometer.

Here is one of many tales from that trip...

February 25, 2013. After my first 3 months of essentially solo travel from Toronto to Chile, I grew tired of my own company. Now in Santiago, I decided to share the road with a fellow long distance overlander; Carlos Posada. Originally from Colombia he now lives in Panama and runs a guided motorcycle touring company there called Moto Tours Panama.

The most difficult part of the journey, the famous Ruta 40, a 1400 kilometre treeless gravel road in the far southern pampas of Argentina is ahead of me. Having the company of a more experienced rider will help me physiologically tackle the challenge. Not to mention it will be safer.

We discuss our strategy: having both been solo riding for months, neither of us suddenly wanted to be doing a group ride.

He suggests that I ride at my skill level and he will ride his. Being faster he is likely to disappear over the horizon before long. We make a deal. He promises that when he loses site of me in this mirrors he will occasionally stop and have a cigarette. Once he spots my headlamp he will pull off again or, if a few hours pass, he will wait for me and have a brief social. If I don’t show up, he will return to find out why. In the end, he only came back for me once when there was some ambiguity at a fork in the road.

Interestingly enough that is all I need to rid myself of the extra anxiety of Ruta 40.. It seemed the best of both worlds.

It’s hard to describe the feelings I had those three days of the journey. With Carlos, the more experienced rider there to give encouragement and some basic guidance, I pushed the limits of my motorcycling to strange new levels.

Southwestern Argentina’s road systems are mainly long stretches of rough gravel tracks. Ruta 40, famous for its exposed, windy, lonely expanses of terrain does not disappoint. In fact I am so thrilled I had a chance to really be in one of the last known remote places in the world.

Several sections require bringing two extra containers of gasoline to make the 450kms between towns with small gas pumps. It is a wild feeling to ride on gravel until the engine sputters and quits in the middle of nowhere; then to get off the bike and fill the tanks from plastic containers, all the while the wind and rain is beating against me and the machine. A haunting quiet in the vast landscape. Strange the relationship with this combustible liquid and its lifeline to more chances for warmth and safety.

After a short paved section, Carlos and I start the off road portion of Ruta 40 in the pouring rain. The winds are minimal but this rain has been going on for several days. The result is that the deep loose gravel road in now paved with slippery stones and bone rattling ruts interrupted by deep puddles 30 feet across while some as deep as 2 feet.

The funniest part about crossing these large slippery mud puddles was that I did not know the best technique. Carlos was already quite a distance ahead of me and I didn’t have an example of how to do it. So, as I approached the first monster puddle I just gunned the throttle and sprayed my way through… covering my bike and body with cold muddy water. The force of the liquid pushed my boots off the pegs and they just slapped the surface on either side of the back tire. The machine was slipping and sliding on the large pebbles and muddy bottom, always on the edge of wanting to topple. The front wheel trying to wash out and dump me. My limited off road training kept reinforcing the point that if things feel dodgy, just add more throttle. I know it works for riding on sand, but on water?

Without exaggeration there were hundreds of thick muddy patches and huge, deep puddles. Between the puddles, the loose wet gravel created a constant struggle to maintain control. Most of the time I was standing on the foot pegs to make it easier for the bike to bounce around underneath me, with small corrections on my part, but otherwise just letting the machine do it’s thing.

The last puddle before high ground was a monster, 100 feet (30 metres) across with a LandRover already stuck in the middle of it. Carlos, was on the other side of it, smoking a cigarette showing me with hand signals to chose the centre line. Like all the other crossings I felt nervousness, yet with excitement I gunned it across. This stretch was so long and so deep, my speed increased. So much water enveloped me and the machine that I was completely covered in the brown goo: head to toe.

At one point I became completely blinded by the muddy water but pressed on, my stomach in knots, knowing the only out of this was forward!

Once I reached the other side, I pull up along side Carlos and stopped. Laughing, he thought my performance was intended to impress him. When I explained I was crossing all the puddles this way, he laughed even harder.

“Tranquilo senor” he said, his boots barely wet. I am performing water crossings all wrong.
What I did not learn until that moment, was the craft is all about crossing water very slowly. First gear, second gear at the most. “Put your feet down if you have to”, he said still giggling.

After that stretch of gravel we were back on a short portion of paved highway. Now my problem was wind chill riding at 120kms an hour in the freezing air. With water in my boots and my arms soaked to the elbows from the overzealous puddle jumping, the highway speeds sent me hypothermic. The rain stopped and the wind was minimal but the air was so very cold at speed, I was not having a good time. There was no choice but to press on as I was still very far from the next town , gasoline and a hostel. The hot shower that evening was a life saver.

Next morning, another 180kms off road were on the menu. I woke up feeling nervous. Reports from other overlanders described the next section of Ruta 40 as literally impassible. Apparently the water and mud was as deep as 4 feet and even 4×4 vehicles were unable to cross. The mud, I was told, was relentless.

We took a detour that put us on a different road but would push the limits of our gasoline supply. The “good” road was reported to have less water but a lot of deep mud, much softer and very very slippery. After some 100kms of paved highway, we came to the next off road portion of Ruta 40.

When I hit the first patch it was thick, wet terra cotta mud. At one point the front end washed out, slipped and weaved to the left, then the right so violently I felt the bike was certain to topple. My foot pegs were submerging in the clay! In the heat of the moment with no other choice, I just gunned the throttle and ended up over the embankment and onto the super soft, wet sand of the Pampas. I knew that if I stopped, I’d be stuck for a long time so I just kept the throttle high, leaned back and tried to make my way onto the gravel road.

I made it and somehow I didn’t drop the bike.

Now on the other side of fate, once again I find Carlos smiling, with advice at the ready. He tells me to stop panicking and take the mud patches more slowly as well. My off road lessons were all arriving late. It made me laugh too.

Taking his advice, I found I had much more control. The bike still slid around but small inputs of power kept it more or less on track. I started to do much better.

After a while the sun came out and the road started to dry. Dust, dirt and gravel seemed so easy compared to the wet stuff. Now our speeds increase and the bone rattling began in earnest. Yet somehow I started to understand how and why off road riding is so joyful.

Wild llamas grazed to the left and right of the road while enormous ostriches, running at full speed crossed in front of me.

Quiet feelings of humility and gratitude defined my spirits that day; riding Ruta 40 in the glory of nature, under the blue sky and sunshine.