^My first encounter with Patagonia was in early 2022, rounding off a 2-year motorcycle journey from New York to southern Argentina. The area's untouched wilderness and sheer vastness seized my attention immediately.

When I met Marcela later that same year, images of Patagonia still echoed in my mind, and I vowed to go back—this time, with her. After discussing the idea together, we booked flights to return later in the year—planning to explore the region this time by car. But a week before leaving, inspiration struck. "What if we did the trip by bicycle instead?" I threw out the idea. "Everyone I've waved seen bikepacking looks like they're having a great time!"

Marce's response was skeptical but not a complete "no". "How's the weather down there?" she laughed. "Well... extreme." I said, starting to realize the insanity of my suggestion.

But when we woke up the next morning, the tone had changed. She looked at me and said "Let’s do it." She had called my bluff, and the sheer scale of the challenge I had impulsively proposed started to dawn on me. We promptly canceled our car reservation and turned our attention to bicycles.

Patagonia is the region spanning the southern extremities of Chile and Argentina, defined by its stark and varied landscapes. Here, glaciers sidle up against deserts and flat plains suddenly erupt into towering peaks. The human footprint here is minimal but culturally rich, marked by native tribes and later, European settlers.

Marcela had some prior cycling experience, but nothing long-distance or gear-heavy. As for me, my biking background was limited to New York City’s 1-mile Citi Bike commutes. A stark contrast to the undertaking ahead.

After 24 hours of frenzied research only a few days before our journey, our itinerary was set. We'd start in Puerto Varas at the northern tip of Chilean Patagonia and finish in Puerto Natales, near the southern border and gateway to Torres del Paine National Park. Our estimated distance would clock in at about 1,300 km, covering a spectrum of terrains. Single-suspension mountain bikes and capacious packs to self-sustain for up to five days appeared to be the required setups. And renting this gear at a shop (instead of buying / selling it ourselves) seemed the wisest choice, affording us the flexibility to conclude our trip with minimal fuss. We found a local rental shop with all the gear we needed in Puerto Varas, we were off.

Landing in Puerto Varas, we were greeted by clear, albeit chilly skies—a reminder that winter was yet to fully retreat. After a half-day of curious bike assembly and gear-packing, we hit the road.

We pulled out of Puerto Varas with our precariously full bags (our bikes nearly tipping back from their weight) but with big smiles on our faces. An initial downhill stretch boosted our spirits even more. That encouragement was short-lived. Just 5 km in, we veered from the decline, facing our first formidable climb. As we caught our breath at the peak, we shared a momentary, wordless exchange. Both sets of eyes reflecting an unspoken mix of awe and trepidation. Puerto Varas so near behind us, and ahead we saw only hill after hill. “One less” I said, in between deep gasps for air. And so it went on…

Ferries

The Carretera Austral (“Southern Road”) is an engineering marvel, threading together disparate patches of habitable land along Chile's elongated southern region. Sandwiched by the towering Andes to the east and the expansive sea to the west, this land beyond Puerto Varas primarily consists of isolated fjords. The road's existence itself is a testament to human ingenuity and audacity. Built under the auspices of Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet, the Carretera Austral was only completed in 2000. The road has thus recently stitched these remote areas into the global fabric, accentuating the frontier-like atmosphere of the region.

Many parts of the road are only connected by ferry, so our biking routes were interrupted with occasional water crossings. Our first encounter with this mode of travel came just a day out of Puerto Varas. Initial hecticness—tying down bikes and gear—soon turned to routine. These fjord crossings transformed into brief rests, marking the conclusion of one arduous chapter of our trip and the onset of another.

After about a week of cycling, we were at an all time low. A small pain in my right knee from the first day and grown larger and larger (lingering injury from a previously torn meniscus), and was now at the point where I could barely place force on it while pedaling. Meanwhile, the climbs where getting larger and larger, and our bodies - which had never cycled the distance we were now going each day - were falling more and more into tiredness, instead of recovering. 

One day, we left the town of Chaiten to begin our pedaling early, but were confronted with a small mob of angry locals who had blocked off the road with chains and a bonfire of burning tires. Their protest was one to get the government to make updates to their local medical facility - which was the only one for hundreds  of kilometers. These types of protests are common in this area, and because there is only one road connecting this entire region of Chile, and road blockage leads to an entirely closed economy. We empathized with their cause, but there was only one bridge leading out of the town, and we were eager to get moving. 

Luckily, we explored the outskirts of the town and were able to find some men in an old military 4x4 vehicle who are crossing the river into a nearby forest. They offered to take us in the back, so we threw our bikes up and made the crossing. From here, we side-stepped another blockade by crossing our bikes through an abandoned airport and out through the forest on the other side. Our feeling of freedom was short-lived, however, when we were confronted with another blockade, just slightly further down the road. We weaved our bikes up to the front of the line of parked cars, and I stepped under the ropes to approach the protesters. I asked calmly who the leader of the group was, shook his hand, and spent time learning everyone’s names and asking them about their stories. They were rightfully upset with the situation, and although I disagreed with their method of evoking change, I empathized deeply with their cause. After a while, I asked the leader kindly if the two of us could pass, which they agreed to. We were finally on the road again.

We gained two things from this: first, a better understanding of the struggle facing the people of this region every day, and second: with all other people on the road being held back, we had a completely empty road to ourselves for the next two days. We rode down the middle enjoyed the sounds of nothing but our wheels turning on the road and the wildlife around us.

Sleeping

One incredible part about the Carretera Austral is that, despite the remote land it ties together, there are settlements at least every 200 km along its length. This meant that our longest gaps were three to four days cycling. These towns are often very small, but will have a tienda to restock basic food items and usually at least one homestay/guesthouse where one can find a dry place to sleep. When we reached a town, we had an opportunity to restock our food, have a warm night of sleep, and usually connect to the internet to check messages and look at the upcoming route.

The hostels and guesthouses were one of the highlights of our experience. These places are usually family homes with elderly caretakers who have seen the recent emergence of tourism in the area as an opportunity to sustain their lives in new ways. They have cleared out bedrooms in the house and hung a "hostel" sign out front, making the places easy to find. For less than $20 per night, we were able to get a room in these homes, which usually were heated, had a hot shower, and offered a basic breakfast in the morning. Even though the breakfast was usually just some instant coffee and bread (pancitos), we came to really cherish them as a break from our camp meals, and moreso, the conversations we had with the hosts.

On the nights we did not stay in hostels, we camped in the wild. The space and wilderness of Patagonia is unrivaled, so finding a secluded spot is easy. My old, 2-person backpacking tent from Nemo accommodated us very well, although we soon discovered its shortcomings in the Patagonian winds. After a few nights of no sleep under an ever-collapsing tent, we began to get very strategic about where and how to reinforce the tent with nearby rocks and fallen trees. This became one of my missions for the day. (We'd highly recommend anyone bringing a more durable, 4-season tent if attempting this trip in the future.)

Food

Given the remoteness of this trip, we didn't have high expectations for our diets. Food options became limited after Puerto Varas; all produce is shipped into the towns as nothing can be grown locally. Our diet turned into a combination of eggs, local bread to make avocado ("palta") sandwiches, and our camp meals: a mix of chickpeas, lentils, and pasta cooked up with instant soup powders. (For all you mountain people… if you know, you know.)

A few of the bigger, more touristy towns we crossed along the way, such as Puerto Natales and El Chalten, offered opportunities to splurge on larger meals. (This included a 1kg lasagna plate after our time in Torres del Paine.) The infrequency of these special meals made them incredibly memorable.

Arriving in the town of Coyhaique marked a significant shift for us. Located roughly 680 km into our journey, it represented the halfway point of our trip. By this time, our bodies were beginning to adapt to the physical strain and the new routine, reinforcing the idea that this audacious plan of ours might actually be possible. This realization began to ease our minds. Despite knowing that the remainder of the journey would grow increasingly remote and challenging, we found ourselves with a newfound sense of confidence.

As we continued south from Coyhaique, the changing latitude and geography became increasingly evident. The lush rainforests that had accompanied us for much of the journey began to give way to expansive, exposed plains. The winds picked up, and the skies cleared to reveal towering mountains on the horizon. The road conditions also took a turn; what had been around 90% pavement up to this point deteriorated into deeply washboarded gravel tracks with significant ruts. Naturally, the riding conditions grew more arduous.

Our daily average distance dropped from 60 km to 40 km. On some days, the wind was so strong that we had to pedal even on downhill stretches just to make forward progress against the relentless headwinds. This felt particularly demoralizing after the long uphill climbs, during which we often had to get off and push our bikes.

Almost a month after we had started pedaling, we finally arrived at the end of the Carretera Austral, in the quaint settlement of Villa O'Higgins. While this spot might be summed up as little more than a small town and landing strip, for us, it marked a monumental accomplishment. Over 1,300 km cycled, more than 10,000 meters of elevation gain, and all while battling the rain, wind, and a brutal stomach bug that hit Marce towards the end.

At this point, it was time to change our mode of transportation. We had negotiated with the bike rental company to pickup our bicycles in Villa O'Higgins, so we simply transferred our gear to our backpacks. We hitched a ride to the nearby fishing village of Tortel, where we caught a ferry threading through the fjords to the south. Two days later, we found ourselves in Puerto Natales—the gateway to Antarctic Chile and the launchpad to our final destination: Parque Nacional Torres del Paine, which we had been eagerly awaiting.

Torres del Paine is one of Chile’s most celebrated national parks, and Patagonia's crown jewel: a breathtaking tapestry of glaciers, mountains, and lakes that's become a Mecca for mountain explorers worldwide. The only way to access the best parts of Torres del Paine is through treks: the most popular being the famous “W” or “O” circuits. Because the camping spots are reserved and limited inside the park, most people who plan to visit hire private agencies to book their trips over one year in advance. But because we were so uncertain about our arrival dates and likelihood, we did what we do best: showing up with no planning and figuring things out on the spot. We packed our bags and headed into the park with no prior reservations.

Arriving to Torres del Paine was like a spiritual pilgrimage for us. This was a place that we had always dreamed of coming, and arriving here after such a long bicycle adventure made it uniquely special. I was unable to visit Torres del Paine in my previous motorcycle trip across the region, so the place was untouched for me as well. We headed off on the 5-day “W” trek and were lucky to find extra spots at every campsite we stopped at. The weather throughout the trek was very changeable: sometimes bright sun, sometimes snow and rain, but this all added to how incredibly photogenic the place was. We felt at home here, in the mountains. 

On the last day of the trek, we had already hiked over 80 km through the mountains and our feet were tired and wet from the last days of walking in the rain. We thought that we would fly through the trails after gaining so much strength from the cycling over the past month, but we were unpleasantly reminded that hiking requires completely different muscles than cycling, and we were exhausted all over again.

Marcela had long mentioned a recurring dream she had had, as a photographer, to me: shooting the sunrise at Las Torres (the main, notable mountain peaks in Torres del Paine) at sunrise. But now, we had arrived at our last camp of the trek - and our only opportunity to do so, exhausted. If we wanted a chance to see the sunrise there as she imagined, we would need to wake at 3:30AM to begin the 4-hour trek up the valley to the location. The weather had been particularly overcast, and we knew that—even in the best season—the conditions required to get the shot she wanted were very rare. We checked the forecast over our camp dinner and saw more clouds and rain for the next morning. The effort to go up and risk being disappointed at a non-occurring sunrise seemed too daunting. We sat across from each other, eating our dinner in silence, both thinking the same thing.

We tucked our exhausted bodies into our sleeping bags in our tent, faces towards each other before dozing off. I broke the silence: “So… we’re going for it, right?” I said, jokingly. Again, she called my bluff. “Sure,” she said. Shocked at the conclusion we had just arrived at, I set our alarm for 3:30. We were going to give it one last try.

In the morning, we woke anxiously. How miserable would our cold, rainy hike be… all just to be disappointed in seeing our dream not pan out at the top? Still, we walked on, our headlamps illuminating the dark trail ahead of us, and the rain somehow seemed to hold off. Nearing the top, the trail climbed steeper and steeper until we were scrambling over small boulders. Meanwhile, a miracle began to occur over our heads: the dark skies that had been our ceiling were clearing away to reveal the stars overhead. Then, those same skies began to glow a faint purple, then red. It was happening. I couldn’t believe it. We sprinted up the final 500 meters of the trail to arrive at the alpine lake resting under the dimly lit peaks of Las Torres. Marcela set up her tripod, and sat nearby in a state of bliss.

It was the perfect conditions for her dream shot. The sun rose, first painting the peaks in a pink haze, then in a growing sharp, red light. Every moment was cherished: it felt like the longest sunrise of our lives. We returned and finished our full trek later that morning. The rain had then started, but I don’t think our smiles left our faces once.

After over a month in Patagonia, we returned to share the stories of this adventure with our families in the US and Mexico. Aside from having gained much stronger legs, we also gained some valuable lessons on this trip.

1. Traveling with different modes of transportation, and at different speeds, provides a completely different experience of a place. For me, the shift from motorcycle to bicycles, ferries, and foot travel made the traverse of the Carretera Austral a completely different experience. Pedaling slower forces one to slow down, to focus more on the surroundings rather than just the road ahead. I feel grateful to have experienced this magical place from two entirely different perspectives.
2. The second lesson was about adopting a "one hill at a time" mentality. Focusing on the sheer challenge of all that lay ahead of us was overwhelming at times. It's easy to reach the top of a long climb, exhausted, and immediately calculate how many more climbs lie ahead. However, these estimates are rarely accurate, and they are never helpful. Instead, we decided to focus on one irrefutable fact: there was now one less climb to tackle than before. Looking at things this way made the journey feel much more manageable.
3. In Patagonia, there's a saying: "El que se apura, pierde su tiempo." ("Those who rush, waste their time.") It's impossible to cross this beautiful place and not feel the reality of this and to contemplate its relevance to the rest of our lives. Sometimes, the best thing to do is to slow down.

I hope you enjoyed this story and are perhaps even inspired to step outside your own comfort zone. Maybe you'll be encouraged to travel somewhere new, or maybe you'll choose to revisit a familiar place but with a new mode of transportation. Whatever you decide, I encourage you to seek a new perspective—there’s always one to be found if you pay enough attention, wherever you are.