Another letter to Sandy

Sandy,

Arrived back in Buenos Aires at 7 am this morning after two days of overnight train and bus
trips. We took the one train per week trip from Jacabacci to Viedma which was 14 hours
overnight. Upright seating and packed with school kids. After an elegant lunch in a river
front cafe on the Rio Negro we spent the rest of the afternoon walking and snoozing in a
beautiful park. That evening we boarded our ´´Executive Suite´´ bus to BA. Full reclining
seats and meals. Good to be back at the Don Telmo Hotel and in familiar territory.

The second half of our railbike adventure was incredible. Unfortunately it is all blending
together in our memories and will take reviewing of our photographs to sort much of it out.
Dick and I are trying to piece it together so we can have a accurate accounting day by day.

The last week of riding took us away from the higher peaks of the Andes and into high
desert environment. The land is so incredibly expansive it is overwhelming, with vistas
that go on for ever. We had good weather for the entire trip except for periods of strong
wind.

The wind when gusting from the side was frightening. The railroad is often build on high
dirt fills that drop off 100 to 200 feet on both sides. The track is only 2 feet 6 inches wide
and the ties don't extend much beyond the outside of the rail, and many times the dirt
had eroded from under the ties, leaving the ends suspended in the air. Any derailment
would send you crashing down the steep bank. I had many uncomfortable moments.
The ties are mostly hand-made irrugular round tree trunks whacked off on the ends by
what appears to have been done with a hatchet, and the spacing of the ties is very wide and
irregular, all adding to the feeling of insecurity.


Many of the bridges are also frightening. They are not exceptionally high or long, its just
that there is virtually nothing under the tracks, and no walkways or guardrails. With the narrow rail width and wide spaced ties you are looking straight down to the rushing rivers
below. You are sure you are going to be blow off or derail and fall. It took all the control
I could muster to talk myself across the bridge outside of El Maiten.

Morgan left us the morning we departed from El Maiten to pick up the car. He was to meet
us when we arrived that afternoon in Norquinco. We had planned to leave our bikes there
and Morgan would drive us back to El Maiten so we could sleep in beds for one more night.
However, we arrived at 4 PM and Morgan was delayed until 10 PM. We spent the entire
time playing with the local boys who lived in the old railroad station buildings. There were
no cars in the village. All the kids rode horses and we were amazed at their horsemanship.
Dick had brought a frisbee which occupied us for several hours of laughs. Dick also
befriended a very old man who gave him a dried Armadillo, which has become our team
mascot. We were finally able to get one of the local women to open the school to store
our bikes, and they showed us videos of their local school activities. It was a wonderful
experience.

The next night we stayed at a totally abandoned station at Fitalancao. We climbed
a long grade to one of the highest points of our trip. Andean Condors sored below
us and Eagles above us. The air in Patagonia is crystal clear, no polution and constant
winds, making the views breathtaking. We used the two satilite phones to keep in
touch with Morgan every hour on the hour. Morgan spent much of the day searching
for the station at Fitalancao, and after finding the right dirt track found it was impassable
because of a washout, and he could not join us that night and slept in the car by himself.

The abandoned structures at the stations are all badly deteriorating and we could not
use them for shelter. But to our delight there was one small picturesque wooden baggage car left at the station which made perfect lodging for the night. It consisted of three rooms.
One in the center with large side doors for loading baggage, and a room at both ends with
platforms similar to our cabooses. The windows and doors were gone, but it still provided
a roof over our heads for the sky was getting dark with clouds and we could see flashes
of lightening over the mountains. We over-indulged in our nightly ritual of a couple of shot
of wiskey and got pretty silly. Got some funny videos of Dick showing us how a bird vomits.
Good blackmail material.

The next morning we made another long climb and met Morgan at one of the few road
crossings where he had spent the night in the car. Around midnight while he was sleeping
there was a knock on his window. Another car had stopped to see if he needed help.
He told them no thank you, he was waiting for his friends. This confused his benefactors
because he was in the wilderness in the middle of the night. "Where are your friends?", they asked. "On the railroad", answered Morgan. "But there are no trains", said his benefactors. "They are riding bicycles on the tracks", Morgan replied. At which point
they all jumped back in their car a fled in haste from this foreign madman.

Morgan provided invaluable assistance by carrying about half of our luggage in the car,
and providing cold beer at the road crossing whenever one was available. He also went
ahead to the stations to scout out camping spots or when there was habitation, look for
stores or possible lodging. In the village of Rio Chico He found an unforgetably
wonderful man named Alejandro who arranged for us to stay in the home of a local family. The family moved their kids out to friends or other family, and the travellers then slept in the kids rooms. This is a common practice in Patagonia. Everyone lends a helping had to those in need. It is a matter or survival in this sparly occupied country. Almost all the people are economically poor, but rich in spirit.

Alejandro took us to his ranch where he raises horse and Alfalfa. We toured his property
and met his wife in their modest home. He was a character never tó be forgoten .
About 6 feet four, with a mustache and beret, who spoke good English but with a wonderful
accent and the rhythm and melody of the Spanish language. His hands and arms were
forever gesturing and we could listen to him for hours. He took us to a goucho bar for
dinner where we met a very old local man who had worked on La Trochita all his life.

Buying supplies for lunch each day was our biggest food problem. The few small villages
had only one tiny store, which carried mostly beer and wine. Argentineans hardly ever eat
vegetables and refrigeration in outlying areas is mostly non existant. Meat, chicken and
potatoes are the staple diet. Fresh fruits are scarce outside larger towns. In the very small community of Mamuel Choique we inquired if there was a store. "Si, this way" or something to that effect. We were led through a yard full of dogs, cats, sheep, chickens
and small children to a small adobe house. An old man took us in, got down on his knees
and opened the bottom of a small cabinet, where he pulled out a bag of cookies, and two
other unidentifyable items. Morgan was kind enough to by the cookies, and we had undoubtedbly experienced the world's smallest store.

The same night we made friends of two gouchos who stayed in our camp for some time.
Later they came back and gave us gifts of ancient arrowheads and the rounded rocks they
use in their leather slings to kill game and livestock.

Francisco arrived in Jacobacci the day after we with a group of railfans on a homemade
speeder pulling a trailer. We were able to ride on this for a short distance while they moved
it into a shed for storing. We all agree railbiking is much superior. It was good to see
Francisco again and thank him once more for all his help and hospitality.

Too many memories to share by email. Need a few days now to recover.
Anxious to get home.

Much Love,

P