December 28: Ushuaia It Is!
Four border control and immigration stations, one ferry, multiple stretches of road construction and lots of wind later I was elated to finally reach Ushuaia, the extreme southern end of South America, after years of dreaming of making the journey. It was even more thrilling than I imagined.
Leaving Rio Gallegos in the early morning heading south on Ruta 3 I had no idea what the word “Baches” in black letters on an orange sign meant. But I got a quick education when I hit loose gravel at 60 miles per hour. Thankfully Adventure Baby has great tires, and I remembered to use my back brakes, allowing us to exit the zone unscathed after a rather bumpy start.
Making my way to our first border checkpoint between Argentina and Chili, the early morning sky was filled with beautiful baby blue and light pink clouds, a cheerful contrast to the arid dark brown landscape on both sides. I passed a sign with a silhouette of a tree bent over by the wind and thought to myself, “I don’t need to speak Spanish to get that one!”
After providing documents, getting papers stamped, and filling out forms at five different desks in two different buildings, I made my way south on route 257 to the ferry terminal for the Strait of Magellan crossing. There I rode down a steep dirt and gravel incline onto a bumpy steel ramp, parked the bike, and enjoyed the sea views during our short water journey.
Continuing south in Chili, the wind really picked up as is often the case as the day progresses. Leaning the bike almost 45 degrees to the right, the pressure of the air and helmet being pressed to my face felt like someone was clamping my jaw with their hand. The air was so filled with white and grey dust clouds from the chalky earth that I could taste the grit in my mouth and it looked like I was riding through a heavy fog.
After stopping for gas in Rio Grande, it was almost impossible to exit the dirt and gravel lot without the wind blowing the bike over as I got up to speed. Reminding myself that the gusts were forecasted to die down further south, I soldiered on.
Reaching the foothills of the Fuegian Andes, the air became colder and calmer, and a magnificent view appeared before me of the deep cobalt waters of Lake Fagnano layered underneath the blue band of mountains and the azure, cloud dotted sky above.
As I twisted and turned through the pass, my hands became numb and snow began to fall. Stopping at the southern end of Lake Escondido, I stood next to the bike with my heated gear on high, bringing some warmth back to my torse and fingers.
When I finally rounded the corner to see the iconic stone pillars at the entrance to Ushuaia, my heart fluttered with joy to find the familiar rust-colored signs with white lettering that up until then I had only seen in other bikers’ pictures. It’s hard to believe I’ve now ridden solo in all six rideable continents, less than six years after first setting out on my own.
