Walking a Bike

I get out the door as early as I can muster to walk into town. I pass a group of gauchos on horses gathering in the parking lot wearing traditional garb for a parade I have to skip in favor of adventure. I'm outfitted with an old orange GT mountain bike and a bag, but no map. I find an outdoor shop that sells a good one with icons to indicate mountain biking trails.

I ride towards Cerro Catedral, this time bypassing it to circumnavigate a sizeable lake, Lago Gutierrez. I find a dirt road aside the lake that passes campsites before climbing towards the village of Cerro Catedral once again. I pass wild apple trees and encounter a couple with a child taking a walk. A truck fishtailing wildly passes me, but nothing else does until I enter the village. I eat my lunch and determine the rest of my route, unsure of which road I take next. I spot a group of bedraggled trekkers head up a dirt road and that’s where I go. I find a narrow path of smooth singletrack and follow it. I cross a stream over a precariously angled log with my bike shouldered. The mountain streams by this time become more frequent and are filled with spring melt. The trails are barely maintained and often washed out and I spend much of my time pushing my bike up and down steep banks. I reach a brisk, but somewhat narrow stream with no bridge and I have to get my feet wet. A trekker on the opposite side helps me across the icy flow by grabbing my bike.

From then on, I’m mostly walking. I reach a washed out stream and lug my bike on my back, and tossing my bike on the bank while I climb. After a few kilometers of this, I find the junction, to my relief, leading downhill to, I’m hoping a level and smooth path around the rest of Lago Gutierrez. There are precious few more opportunities to ride. I pass a couple of more mountain bikers, a guy and his frustrated girlfriend and I soon find out why the consternation. At the bottom is a lengthy string of deadfall and overgrown trail, icy stream crossings and a trail that undulates up and over cliffsides. The map lied. This is not mountain bike territory no matter the skill level of the cyclist. I struggle through bamboo stands. I say a little prayer before I balance the bike on my back and cross a narrow log above a turbulent river.

The trail ends at the base of a spectacular waterfall cascading in several stages off a mountain face and I hear the distant shouts of people swimming in a lagoon too far away for me to see. But I’m tired and its getting late and I press on along the edge of the lake. The highway and some cabanas come into view at long last.

I reach a dirt road, but I am disheartened. The lawns look too freshly manicured to be public. I soon spot fences and private property signs and I tense in anticipation of the imagined guard dogs, but they never appear. I’ve reached the grounds of exclusive cabanas which I find no apparent way around. I finally decide to crawl beneath the fence balancing on the narrow strip of rocky beach aside thorn bushes that border the fence. I am forced to wade through frigid streams and to step into the equally cold lake several times. I follow a group of Argentinians ahead of me to a road where the fence finally ends. The road leads to a packed campground and I continue until it leads me to the highway.

I wearily pedal against the wind, even small hills testing my endurance. Ordinarily this highway would be a magnificent ride along a white capped lake and a horseshoe of snowy peaks. I have just over an hour to arrive back in Bariloche, but the missing variable is the distance. I’m not sure where I am. I grab handfuls of wheat crackers and press on, refusing to check my clock again until I reach town. I finally do with fifteen minutes to spare before the bikeshop closes.

The bike shop clerk asks if I’m alright. Where did I go? I show him and he congratulates me. With dirt smeared shorts and abrasions covering my shins and calves, I return, in the dark, up Cerro Otto. A wave of fear comes over me as three dogs seem poised to attack me, and bark in warning. I hold my breath and the dogs let me pass, all bark after all. I soon reach La Morada and a crowd eating dinner at 9:30. After a rejuvenating shower, I cook a big meal and I relax before getting some richly deserved sleep.