"Do you bleach your eyebrows?"

I'm stood on a rooftop balcony-patio in Valparaiso at night, with the dark Pacific ahead and the steep hills of the city covered in higgledy-piggledy houses which have been poked in around each other then covered in street art and murals.

I turn back to the table next to the asado and am trying all the beer bottles in vain.

"What are you studying?" asks a young french guy, who for all I know lives in this place. I'm racking my brains as this evening I already told a North American girl that I go to USM, but I don't know what courses they offer.

I stall by introducing myself and guide him inside where I sit next to Kata, but with my back to her. I jab her in the ribs to get her attention while I pull out the second-best story so far:

"I'm the new English professor, actually, not a lot of time for studying anymore..." I tell him confidently, as I feel Kata's ribs shuddering with stifled laughter.

I see his eyes light up as he imagines me, the coolest professor in town at all the hip parties and he says:

"Wait there and I'll find us beers..."

Once Kata and I recover from laughing the gorgeous Brasilera walks up and and was anxious to know where I'm from. Once I'd impressed her with a basic knowledge of Brazilian Portuguese swear-words she was hanging on my every word.

The young Frenchman returned and slipped a botttle of beer in my hand and winked as he walked past. We talked about the most beautiful parts of Brasil and the ideosyncrasies of the language and much more besides.

Eventually she asked me what I'm doing in Valpo. For the first time that week I felt like telling the truth.

I explained I arrived in South America four months ago and hitch-hiked from Buenos Aires to Patagonia where I worked building and gardening for six weeks, before walking across the Andes to Chile in one week, then hitched again to Santiago where I bought a motorbike and am about to ride it to Peru via Bolivia.

I knew the tall German guy was behind me, but the Brasilera's wandering eyes made it clear he was mouthing something to her. Then her face made it clear it was "Bullshit". She walked off giving me the "Why are all men such assholes and liars?" look.

I am the boy who cried wolf.

n.b. In the interests of truth and parity: I realised after I wrote this that I have put two different student house parties together in my mind, so while this all really happened, it wasn't all at the same time or place or with the people indicated.

"Did anyone make it over the top?"

It's midnight and we're speeding through arched tunnels suspended twenty metres above the Santiago streets.


There's around ten of us, and we're on mountain bikes, heading for Cerro San Cristobal. It's closed and we all know. The walkway connects to the back of the hill, and we stop for a break after having run the gauntlet of downtown Santiago traffic - skipping red lights, hopping pavements and weaving through queuing cars. Nearly all of us without lights.


"Everyone's lights off?" O'car asks in a hushed voice, and we set off for the top. Breathing, tyre friction, cranks and gears being the only sounds after that. The back side of the hill is unlit, which helps us avoid detection, but the moon-cast shadows of the trees are playing tricks with my eyes and I'm concentrating hard while O'car sets a challenging pace making my thighs burn.


Rabbits and dogs cross our paths, and every now and then the trees give way to a spectacular view of the night-lit city as the road meanders and climbs. We've split into a few smaller groups now and I hear the roar of an engine behind - I look back to see a Guardaparca camioneta lurching round a bend, flicking on their full beam to blind me as they see us.


We spread across the road to block them, but they swerve between us dangerously, forcing me out into the barrier at the perilous edge. O'car and I stop to see what they do, while Tom's friend keeps his pace up, ignoring them. They fly past him and skid sketchily in front of him at ninety degrees. He casually turns around the truck as they get out to scold him, enraging them further.


O'car and I are laughing at the spectacle, until they go straight into reverse, and are soon at top revs the engine screaming and bonnet twitching side to side as they try and keep straight while bearing down (up?) on the vulnerable cyclist.


As soon as we saw that they didn't hit him, O'car and I head back down the hill - he has a plan. We pass Kev and Daniel, shouting to follow us. Then Tom, his girlfriend and a couple of his friends, but they have their own plan and carry on up.


We fly down the hill, and at a right-left bend quickly double back on ourselves, to go uphill along an unmarked track. We wait, spying on the road through some bushes. A few minutes later Toms friend comes, absolutely flying down the hill, and after a glance over his shoulder to see if the Guardaparcas are in sight skids up the same track to find us all laughing in the bushes.


The camioneta tore down the hill at ridiculous speed, straight past us and we agree to a small rest while they tire themselves out.


Five minutes later the camioneta roars up the track, as if it had smelt us out like a bloodhound, kicking up stones as it skids to a stop. We wave goodbye and pedal past the fuming guards while they're trying to chastise us, and hope that we've at least stalled them for long enough for some of the group to get over the top and down the other side.


On the way down the speed built and built until the wind was pushing the liquid from the corners of my eyes and I couldn't think fast enough to process where the edges of the road were in the darkness. I smiled as I gently squeezed the brake and thought how boring a night the Guardaparca would have had without us.


Sailing through town O'car was calling people to find out who'd been caught and if anyone had made it, and it was agreed to meet at Tom's place for a de-brief. After a quick stop at a botilleria.


Sat in Tom's quirky house drinking beers with a crackly old L.P. playing while he showed us his seventies sushi roller, which is next to a pair of old leather binoculars and a book called "La ultima palabra en lo Oculto" on the shelf, we drank a few beers and laughed about the looks on the guards faces, and wondered how deeply they believed in what they did for a living.

Stgo

Monday was a busy day:

I had to take my new Chilean RUT (tax number) to Jorge, who is the manager at the Calle Lira Suzuki dealership where I had bought my moto, and arrange the ownership documents and insurance.

I still had some bits and pieces to buy for the bike and trip - some tools and panniers.

Kevin had arranged an interview with Chilean musician Nano Stern (check him out if you don't know him), who happened to be in town between playing across the world, and I was to film the interview.

We had to check out of the hostel we'd stayed at and find our couchsurfing hosts' place. We'd got to Sabntiago so unexpectedly quickly that we'd not arranged anything for the weekend. Hostel's are great, but we didn't come half way around the world to hang out with other Europeans - and what better way to get to know a city than with someone who lives there.

Everything went to plan. Jorge at Suzuki was keen to sort everythng for me and excited for my trip. He had nearly spat his coffee over me when I first told him I was taking the little 110 c.c., four-speed, city bike through Bolivia to north Peru and back. As I'd been back each time putting down the money for it, telling him about past adventures I could see him realising I might actually be crazy enough to go through with it.

Shopping went fine and I had some Optimus Prime childrens schoolbags for panniers and a sturdy German foot pump in no time.

Nano was genuinely warm, interesting and thought-provoking. The interview was a pleasure to be a part of and he showed us a very cool bar.

Using the metro system at rush hour with all our bags was hectic, but funny and a perfect peak to a crazy day. As we were trying to rendez-vous with O'car (our host) it became clear that you get perfect mobile phone signal on the entire Santiago underground system. Pay attention London - This is useful.

Then came the best bit by far - We met O'car.

The first night at his place his friend Camila (known from hereon as La Loca to avoid confusion) came over, followed by another friend Camila (known from heron as Cami, with her own couchsurf guest - Kathrin (Kata), who was to start her semester at a university in the nearby city of Valparaiso.

We had a few beers and my first "Melon con vino". I'm sure you can guess the main ingredients, but I' going  to explain the full process so you can all try it at home.

1. Cut off the top, then hollow the pips and sinew from a (honeydew) melon.
2. Fill it with white wine and some ice, adding sugar to taste.
3. Scrape off some of the flesh, leaving it to soak in the mix.
4. Leave in the fridge to soak for as long as you can resist.
5. Enjoy with good people, scraping off the boozy flesh as you go.
6. Try to get most of it in your mouth instead of down your face.
7. Repeat steps 2, 3, 5 and 6 until there is no more wine.

Please procure the ingredients immediately, but wait for great company before combining them.

We all got on so well, and I could tell that Santiago, and O'car, would be good to me.

I spent the next five weeks back and forth between O'cars place in Santiago and Katas in Valparaiso (a.k.a. Valpo - a quirky city on the Pacific 100 kilometres away), waiting for the paperwork for my moto to arrive.

The next blog posts will be stories from these beautiful times.

Peurto Varas

I'd needed a full day to rest and feed up before I could start processing the world around me, without being overwhelmed by all the people, cars and buildings.

But when I could it was lovely. Puerto Varas is at one end of the beautiful and tranquil Lago Llanquihue, while at the other end is the ominous Volcan Osorno. The town was German settled and has a very Bavarian feel to the architecture, food and, of course, beer.

We'd been feverishly finding information on all the national parks and trails nearby - it was all stunning here and we wanted to carry on our nature high, the plan being to tramp around for a week or two using the local buses between treks on the volcanoes, lakes and mountains.

The next day the rain set in. According to the weather it would last for two weeks. Chile is a long country, and we surmised that it had to be warmer further north. Santiago, the capital, was the goal and 1,000 kilometres away. I was to buy a motorcycle, and start a new phase of my journey.

Nearly three months earlier we'd managed to spend two weeks travveling 2,200 kilometres by hitch-hiking - and once again we were in no hurry, so guessed a week on the road would do it.

We hitched out of town in two minutes flat, and marvelled at our luck. We noticed a family hitching further up the road, and thought it must be commonplace here, which could be a blessing or a curse.

In barely ten more minutes we'd got a lift to the main road - Ruta 5, a.k.a. the Pan-American Highway. We couldn't let ourselves think it would all be this easy... After half an hour waiting at a bus stop avoiding drizzling rain we were in a road workers' truck, flying north.

Raul and Leo were funny from the start, and though we couldn't understand absolutely everything they said, we could get most of it and they really did want to chat. They were real jokers and couldn't stop cracking jokes about us and themselves. This was great for our Spanish, as we'd been only talking to each other for so long.

Afetr a while we asked where they were taking us, just out of interest. Osorno was the reply, which is a town about 80 kilometres north of Puerto Varas. They asked where we were heading to, and when we replied Santiago they said they were going there too...

It turned out they had some more work to do, but once finished were driving the whole way there today. They said if we wanted to wait they'd happily pick us up again and get us to Santiago. Looking out of the window the weather was still grey and cold. 1,000 kilometres had to help.

As they let us out at a service station came the confusing bit - Leo said to wait an hour, maybe and hour and a half, and that if we weren't there they would know we'd hitched on. Then at the last second Raul said quickly something about two or three hours. Or it could have been something about two or three a.m.

He'd said it quickly and as we were getting out. I thought he was correcting Leo's hour and a half, but neither of us were sure.

We got a celebratory beer, read newspapers and wandered around to stretch our legs in anticipation of a long ride. After an hour I took my bag to where they'd dropped us off, and the waiting began.

After another hour we started trying to analyse what they'd said exactly. It was obviously pointless, and we couldn't make any more sense of it than at the time. We agreed it was a great opportunity and we should give them the full three hours.

Then I started trying to imagine why two road workers would travel 1,000 kilometres at the end of their shift. Surely each region have their own teams and equipment anyway? I'm sure Chile don't send trucks the 4,000 kilometre length of their country every time they need to fill in a pothole.

I was remembering their cheeky grins, tasteless jokes and sarcastic comments which I'd loved at the time, but now I was imagining that it was all another joke, and they were just seeing how long they could make two gringos sit outside for.

Kevin had faith though, while I was losing it more and more by the minute. It was still a great opportunity so I still agreed it was worth waiting as long as we could anyway. After three hours we started taking turns scouting the area for camping spots. It was all terrible, and we had no ideas for a nice place to sleep.

After four hours we picked up our bags, feeling more than a bit silly and doffed our metaphorical hats to the cheekiest road workers on Ruta 5.

But before you could say "Hoodwinking Bastards", even as we stood up, the camioneta screeched to a halt next to us with a grinning pair of Chilenos now in their tracksuits and a dangerous looking load of light arrays, barriers and cones on the back, held in with an array of threadbare ratchet straps at all angles.

In my mind they'd waited out of sight, watching to see when we'd give up before swooping in to save the day, just to give a real cresendo to our emotional rollercoaster. In real life though, what had just happened was our first experience of "Chilean Time".

It was a fun evening and Leo actually wouldn't stop talking. By two a.m. it was a bit tiresome, but the right-angled seats weren't conducive to sleep and Leo showed no sign of tiredness.

We did eventually get some sleep. Only to be awoken sharply by the dual tone blare of the air horn of a truck. As my eyes opened Leo was reaching avross to jerk the steering wheel right, to put us back into the right-hand lane as a huge truck still sounding it's horn dopplered past us with a blinding flash of light.

The next time I woke up everyone was asleep, but we were pulled in on the hard shoulder. Not the safest move, but probably better than carrying on. In the morning we stopped at a greasy spoon, and experieced our first churrascos in Chile. It was greasy, cheesy, and good. We cruised into town and were dropped at a metro station before 11 a.m.

Chile was still being very good to us.

Day Seven: The log-jumping, deep-breathing, tree-hugging hitch-hiker

I woke up very early, and stayed in my bivi bag while i stoked the fire and prepared our last breakfast. Meanwhile the first rays of sun playing through the valleys and mountains were spectacular - and I felt like I had earnt them.

We finished the porridge, quince jam and coffee, leaving our total food at a spoonful of milk powder and some condiments. We got on the trail, and it was relatively easy-going, we could make good time which was a huge relief.

Soon enough we came across the campground marked on the map, which is a climbers destination due to the epic cliff faces surrounding it. I couldn't get over how many people there were. It was unreal, tents kept sprawling behind bushes and trees in every direction. It could have been a small festival.

The track became flooded and boggy, but had been boarded over so our pace stayed up as we hopped between the split logs towards the real world.

At some point we passed three friendly Chilenos who took an interest in Kev's camera. We stopped and chatted to them about our trip and asked what we could expect to find when we got to civilisation. They were a father and son called Enrique and Daniel, with a local guide (whose name I've forgotten) and are from the capital, Santiago.

In a few hours more it was the early afternoon and we came to the end of the trail. Nature had served us well, and i promised to be gentler on her in the future as a thank you.

It was over, but we were still around ten kilometres from the town Cochamo, there was a single track dirt road the rest of the way. We came across a bustling campsite though, and more importantly Kev cannily spotted a small sign on the farmhouse door reading:

"hay pizza"

Result. After a long and funny conversation with the campsite owner I'd managed to procure two beers and a pizza using Argentine Pesos, here in Chile. Deep down I knew both were terrible, but in that moment there was nothing to stop them tasting so very right.

We started down the dirt track to Cochamo, and it was scorching hot. There wasn't a spot of shade and for the first time my legs couldn't move as fast as I wanted them to. Kevin was ahead, even though he was carrying a much greater load than me, and I could only just keep up.

In an ironic twist the only building of any consequence we passed for all the kilometres we walked down that track was a huge bee farm.As a few stragglers buzzed over to innocently investigate us my fists clenched and I breathed deep and drew on a newfound sense of inner calm to restrain myself from flipping and killing them.

We eventually found a small piece of shade with a stream and stopped to rest and drink. After one minute Daniel and Enrique pulled up in their four-wheel-drive and asked if we needed a lift. There was no shame in taking it - we were just on a road to a town. We'd crossed the Andes and even if we walked the last eight kilometres to Cochamo wouldn't have walked to the Pacific proper, as it has it's own large inlet.

When we got to Cochamo they asked us where we were going. We had no idea.

We knew nothing about this new country we'd walked into. We didn't even know where we could go, let alone where we wanted to go. And we didn't have any money.

They took us ninety kilometres north, to Ensenada, where we would apparently be a bit closer to civilisation. The drive was beautiful, and we passed huge salmon farms in Pacific inlets, giant volcanoes and massive lakes. There was a small drama when a downed tree blocked most of the road, so approaching Ensenada we stopped to tell the carabineros.

As Daniel came out of the station a bus was passing and he instinctively flagged it, knowing it went to Puerto Varas, a real town with cash machines and everything. He stuffed a few thousand Chilean pesos in our hands and wished us luck. Thanks Daniel.

We'd hitch-hiked over one hundred kilometres without putting our thumbs out, and the fist Chilean currency I touched was gifted to me. I had a good feeling about this country.

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Day Six: The fog-staring, leg-slapping, star-wishing map-reader

I woke up early, the lake had a thick carpet of mist laid on it and the fresh sunlight was crawling down the western slope of the valley, quietening the frog chorus.

We got on the trail in record time, and it was a beautiful start - walking through the plain between the horses and goats, a huge flock of birds floated silently overhead. We crossed the river, got on the track easily and started our ascent.

The steep trail was littered with roots and wound through the trees in ridiculous fashion, but I was in great walking form somehow. My legs seemed to have been warmed up by the running the previous evening, or maybe after five days were just getting into it. Kev was slowing up though, and not surprisingly either - his rucksack was not designed for anything like the load he had.

When we eventually got to the first lake it was all worth it. We couldn't get to it, but the bright azul water nestled in the mountainous forest was indescribably beautiful. I couldn't even try.

On the way to the next lake we came across an Argentine couple hiking the same direction. They were on a three day trip from Cochamo. They were nice, but walked painfully slow and I couldn't stand staying with them. It was mentally difficult too, as we really were running low on food and had to find civilisation tomorrow or we'd be walking on empty bellies.

The trail was now gaining a lot of altitude again and was tricky and muddy, but would open out into terrific vistas with bouldered waterfalls and soaring peaks. The peace was broken by the rallying shouts of gauchos on a mission and the clattering of hooves.

An eight-strong train of pack-horses came through, covered in rucksacks and at breackneck speed. Soon enough we got to the next lake, which had an accessible beach. Walking along it's south edge was beautiful, with rocky pools and streams trickling underfoot all the way along.

When we got to the western edge, where the beach is, we found the gauchos who'd stormed past with all the backpacks sat around cooking up an asado (barbecue) and watering the horses.

We chatted and it turned out they were ferrying luggage and cooking for the group we'd seen on our second day. We had no idea how we'd got ahead of them or when, but we had to be proud of still being ahead after getting so lost and carrying all our stuff all the while.

We brewed up a coffee and I had a quick naked swim and wash in the lake before we had a spaghetti lunch, which was a refreshing change.

The trail was now losing altitude but was still tricky and technical. We knew as we descended into Cochamo valley we'd meet lots of tourists - hikers and climbers, and would have to face sharing nature with them. We passed a couple of small groups of hikers over the next few hours, all keen to know how close they were to the upcoming lake.

Then the insanity echoed through the trees.

The usual rhythmic clatter of horse hooves was off kilter and panicked. And rapid. A scared panting and huffing bore towards me with it, disturbingly loud. But the worst was the maniacal scream - almost laughter, but definitely inspired by pain.

The noises burst out of the trees at me and a gaucho on an out of control horse was writhing around hitting himself, and howling desperately. I jumped off the track and the horse reared up on it's hind legs as it passed me, as the gaucho was trying to halt him. The man looked into my face with wide, pained eyes while he rushedly delivered his deathly important message, punctuated by yelps and barks - but before he finished the horse bolted again, and I hoped Kevin (who was some way behind) would get out of the way in time.

The only words I had managed to pick out of the panic reliably were:
"MUY FUERTE!"

Very strong... How ominous.

I was totally confused, but had nothing else to do but carry on. A few bends later there was a 20cm hole in the floor, only just off the track, with a fierce hurricane of bees over a metre high in a noisy, collective rage.

I was too close to it already, and as the first ones left the swarm to hunt me I ran forward to get past them. As I passed the broken hive the swarm came with me and I was enveloped in the most intense buzzing I could imagine, and searing pain stabbed into my bare legs.

I started yelping and howling, hitting myself as I ran, writhing in my skin. I shed a backpack to get more speed, and was cackling, nearly laughing as I thrashed around. I was still surrounded while I ran, the pain was spreading and my mind fevered, so I dropped the other backpack and focused my mind for a sprint.

I don't know how far or for how long I ran, but when I stopped I was still yelping and couldn't help but hitting my now bee-less legs through a crazed smile. Meekly skulking back I found Kevin looking confusedly at my backpack on the floor, and then me - my fists were clenched and I was babbling wildly, hitting myself and barking.

A few kilometres later we passed the El Arco refugio, which was busy - full of campers even though it was still light and early in the evening. The steep, densely forested trail from here was impossible to find a spot to camp in, explaining the rush. We had to hope we could get to somewhere amenable before it got too dark.

We passed more and more sweaty hikers coming the other way, all desperately demanding how far they had left to go. The question irritated me - it depended on where they wanted to go. I asked each time where they were trying to go, but none knew. A few pulled out a free tourist map which wasn't even to scale (let alone topographical), and pointed to a hut symbol. They were talking about the full El Arco refugio, and I didn't have the heart to tell them it was full. I imagine there was quite a spoon that night.

Later on the track did open out and we could see across valleys in all directions, with pink clouds hanging on mystical peaks and huge birds of prey strung silently in the sky. We found a network of bushy meadows and hid ourselves from the trail, where we found an old gaucho hut and some fire pits.

We knew the next day could be a challenge - we had food for this evening and the morning, but no more. We had something like twenty kilometers to do, which under nice conditions without any issues should be fine, but walking hungry with no chance of respite didn't sound fun if anything unexpected happened.

We had:
 One beef stock cube
 One-third of a kilo of rice
 Half a salami
 Five spoons of milk powder
 Two spoons of coffee
 One teabag
 Two portions of oats
 One spoon of jam
 Assorted spices and herbs
 One sachet of sugar

Kevin had the perfect plan though. He made us up a three-course-meal on our capmfire: Stock and herb soup starter. Rice, spice and salami main. Rice pudding dessert.
We had used absolutely everything except some oats, jam and coffee for the morning, but we felt full and the ritual of all the courses had an immense psychological effect, making us feel plush and decadent in desperate times.

Laid out that night, with burning red legs still teeming with poison, knowing there'd be no more food for twenty kilometres, and in dire need of clean clothes - I should have been glad it was nearly over.

But I wasn't.

I wanted to see Chile properly, but I knew there wasn't a society that could beat the wild Chile I'd come to know - and I wouldn't see the Milky Way in a while. A shooting star streaked across the sky, longer and brighter than I've ever known and I wished upon it.

 

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Day Five: The horseflie-hating, blood-letting, Williams-humming fell-runner

We got up quite early, and had streamlined our morning by filling my thermos with hot water the night before meaning we didn't need to play with fire before our brains had woken properly to get our instant coffee and porridge.

I was confident about getting some good distance that day, after traversing the ten kilometres length of the lake we had a fierce uphill stretch to two more lakes at the end of the Cochamo Valley - and we didn't have enough food with us to mess around.

The trail was demanding though. I'd seen a couple of big horseflies the previous day, but by 10 a.m. there was a permanent presence of them, and I-shit-you-not they were three centimetres long. It became apparent they enjoy biting humans, but the real surprise was that these monster-sized ones could bite you through your clothes. And it hurt.

Now mosquitoes can be annoying. But to be fair they have an audible approach, you have a good chance of feeling them land as they need bare skin to bite, and then show the courtesy of anaesthetising you for their visit. After all that they're slow and dozy enough to murder without any ninja reflexes.
These horseflies trump them on all points.

Roots, ruts and rocks made the trail slow going, but the pace helped me appreciate the bizarrities that lived in the valley. Where the previous days' trail-side bushes contained small, brown lizards around ten centimetres long, today's had double-sized ones which were bright orange and green.

Every now and then a giant, demented spider web stretched across the track - I never hung around to see their creators, but judging by their appearance they were surely fevered minds. Then what really sparked my imagination was the two metre wide leaves sprouting from the trails edge.

If yesterday was The Lord of the Rings, then today was Jurassic Park. I started a loud rendition of John Williams' score to the film, and must have kept it up for two hours solid.

While Crichton-inspired insanity kept my pace and spirits up, Kevin had been lagging behind. It was hazardous and difficult track for so many kilometres and Kevin had his large video camera slung over his shoulder hampering him even more than his heavy load.

Suddenly my epic soundtrack cut as my right foot slipped left under my body off a muddy rock into a deep mud puddle. As I fell on my right side my arm shot out to catch myself on a waist height rock, but my palm slipped off and I raked a good twenty centimetres down my inside wrist and arm on the sharp edge of the rock.

For a moment I was stuck, but once I rolled over (getting myself really muddy) I was up again with a double helping of adrenaline and a little less blood. While I should have slowed down and considered more the frustration and pain pushed me on faster and I reasoned using my natural power-up while it lasted was wise.

After five minutes at break-neck speed over downed logs and deep streams my knee twinged with eye-watering force and I stopped, hoping Kev wasn't too far behind. Kevin caught up after a while and he'd had his own issues which I found out as he rolled up his muddy jeans to show a nasty cut down his leg.

We had, at least, traversed most of the lake by now, so we took our time with the last couple of kilometres which brought us to the river feeding the lake at it's north end. I studied the map carefully and it clearly showed we needed to stay on the west side of the river, and that our trail at no point crossed it.

The trail led straight to a ford though, so after a few minutes careful back-tracking I found an alternative which kept west, but was oddly shrouded by an out of place bush. We carried on and confusingly the trail was intermittently fading out and becoming overgrown.

It shouldn't have mattered - we could see on the map the trail would bend west when the contours of the valley allowed. As long as we stayed snug along the cliffs to our left the proper trail would cross our path to take us up to the lakes. After a few kilometres it became thickly forested and then turned dank and mouldy where a huge section was littered with hundreds of dead rotten trees crashed on the floor and each other.

It was hell to navigate through - some trunks were two metres wide, all were covered in slippery moss and they crumbled to varying degrees as we scrambled over them. It was exhausting, creepy and confusing. After a tiring half hour not getting very far I reasoned that if we tracked east we'd have to cross the trail before the river and would make better progress.

We got all the way to the river without a sign of the trail. We followed the river edge back, to before the mouldy dead forest as there was clearly no trail past this point. We put our bags down and took turns scouting up the hillside in different directions while the other would try and understand each contour on the map as intimately as possible.

The afternoon was wearing on, we were muddy, injured and tired. Kevin said that of we did find the trail he couldn't climb it today. We headed back for the ford which was at the north end of Lago Vidal Gomaz where we'd seen a beautiful clearing. We agreed to an early finish to clean ourselves and our things in order to attack the problem fresher tomorrow.

We got back to the river and crossed over into the clearing, which soon revealed a sizable farmhouse and whole menagerie of farm animals. There were at least thirty horses, a goat herd around fifty strong, and incalculable gaggle of geese, a handful of cows, a few pigs and a faithful, if slightly retarded-looking dog.

While Kevin went to the lakes edge to start cleaning his clothes and make a cup of soul-inspiring tea, I headed for the farmhouse and knocked on every door and window going. To no avail.

I washed my clothes while Kev lit a fire and just couldn't stand not understanding where we needed to go - I took off back to the west side of the river, convinced a fresh look without luggage would reveal the obvious. I ran at top speed, convinced the most straightforward and simple route would be the right one. Soon enough I was scaling the same mouldy, crumbling giant trunks but was scratching, bashing and thwacking myself more as I became frustrated and careless. Until my knee twinged again and the futility set in.

I made a bamboo walking pole and headed back for camp, totally confused. My knee recovered and by the time I got back to Kevin I could see he'd made a friend - he was standing next to a small woman in a pink tracksuit. By the time I crossed the river and reached him she was gone, but Kev explained she lived in the farmhouse and said we had to go north through her farm to reach our trail - on the east side of the river, contradicting our map.

At last it was explained - the map was wrong. The fact the trail began clearly told me that the map had once been correct, but my best guess was that when the mouldy forest first collapsed a new trail was blazed from the east side and climbed the valley on it's northern slope instead.

Inexplicably I couldn't yet rest and desperately needed to see the correct route which we were to follow the next day, so jogged through the farm plain, then tracked the rivers edge to find a ford which would be the missing link. On the way, roughly parallel to the mouldy forest was a clue to the whole situation - on this side the trees weren't mossed over or as rotten and it was clear that a fire had killed hundreds of trees in the recent past.

I walked back to camp, content and finally at ease. Just in time for a skinnydip before sundown too. We had a blazing fire that night, and the shape of the valley framed the Milky Way perfectly. A surreal and formidable chorus of bullfrogs kicked in as it got darker and as the days theme tune returned to my head I imagined we were laid in the depths of a giant dinosaur footprint.

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Day Four: The trout-blagging, hobbit-hunting, polenta-spitting tree-walker

Kevin had gone for a morning poo, and while I was restoring the fire for breakfast I sensed someone through the trees on my left, and thought I saw a flash of denim, but couldn't imagine how anyone could get down to the rivers shore without using our route and coming right past me.

A minute later there was a short whistle from the track above, and I could see the outline of a horse.
I climbed up to find a teenaged gaucho with two horses and a friendly smile. I introduced myself and explained about our trip and where we'd been, and asked a few questions about our route and the lake we were going past in the next day or two.

He assured me it was wild and beautiful, and just to prove it pulled out a fresh fish from his saddlebag which he gave to me. This was my first conversation in Chile with a Chilean (except at the border obviously) and I couldn't have been happier to be there and given a fish.

I bagged it for dinner and we got on the road a bit late, but excited to have got to this amazing, generous country by the power of our own legs.

The track was slow - there was a lot of altitude to gain and lose in order to stay in the tight crevasse dug into the mountainside and the Manso was more dramatic and loud than ever - the rare moments we could see it through the trees and over the edge of the horse-dug path it was pure white water and looked like it could destroy and army of elephants in a moment.

We eventually got to a dusty crossroads and this was the point where we were leaving the Rio Manso which had been our guide, out tap, our bath, our washing machine and our soundtrack. To leave it felt like leaving our lifeline and navigator.

From here it was our first serious altitude gain, we had to reach Lago Vidal Gomaz which fed into Rio Manso from the north and is nestled beyond the eastern exit of the Cochamo Valley. The trail was, in the main, less rutted and difficult but we didn't make any better time because of the incline.

There was more than enough consolation though - it was spectacular. The trees were impossibly squat and deeply wrinkled and a thick carpet of bright green moss covered everything, it was like a caricature of a forest. As we gained altitude the trees switched to a polar opposite, and logic-defyingly tall, thin trees without a leaf or branch for their first hundred metres soared straight up, making an eerie creaking symphony as they swayed slowly in the breeze.

"Welcome to Middle Earth." Kev said.
And he couldn't have been more right.

While we were on a narrow, muddy stretch of the trail with a cliff face on our right side we heard the thunderous sound of hooves and clung to the sheer rock face to make way.
Two gauchos were leading six horses and two dogs in the other direction - they stopped to make conversation and were suitably impressed with our progress so far and seemed excited for us even though navigating this terrain is an everyday chore for them.

We stopped for lunch a little later and tried an experiment to see if polenta could cook itself from cold (like cous-cous can). It can't. It was worse than not eating.

Don't try this. Ever.

It was getting late as we came up through the valley and as we finally came over the meadowed crest to see the lake we were relieved and impressed in equal measure. The valley sides were steep, and from our viewpoint looked oddly straight and symmetrical.

As we got to the southern edge of the lake I could see a small farmhouse. I waved to a small boy as we passed, and we thought about how it would be to grow up in such a desolate and remote place.
A short while later the trail passed a maze of tiny mini-meadows cut up by huge, hollow fallen trees avergrown by bushes and moss. They were on a bit of a slope, but I thought probably the best chance for a nights sleep on the lake.

We carried on in case there was something better soon - we could see some small beaches on the other side and the trail did seem to be going downwards. We did get down to a beach, but the sand was wet, and littered with jagged rocks.

There were more of the dead trees, lots left sticking out over the still lake, so while Kev took some photos I practiced inner calm while walking tens of metres over the lake on the creaking, curving and crumbling trunks.

I got naked and wandered through the reeds into the phenomenally motionless lake and it was only once I was out into it that the intense blackness of the water came to me. The lake is a kilometre wide along it's whole length, and each side is about 45 degrees, so it stands to reason there was five hundred metres of still water below me. But the darkness looked infinite.

We headed back up to the little meadows dragging as much firewood as we could with us, and found a hidden patch with a just about sleepable slope, pulled out the fish I was given that morning and made fire.
The taste we experienced is one that can only happen when something is a touching gift, unbeatably fresh and unparalleledly natural.

As darkness fell a faint chorus of frog croaks and ribbets reverborated through the valley, and we stocked the fire before marvelling at the brighter still Milky Way. As well as a shooting star I saw four satellites, and couldn't help but wonder what it would look like to see everything humans have put into orbit at once, hanging in the sky.

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Day Three: The jam-smuggling, bridge-spanning, interpol-dodging bamboo-trampler

We wanted to get through the border procedures before the group, so quite out of character got up early and crossed the bridge to the campsite and dirt road to the border.
It had been a tranquil night and while I never normally feel anxious sleeping out (being stalked by a puma is an exception, obviously), I'd felt an extra air of safety and comfort with our dogs sleeping with us on the beach. I was quite convinced they'd walk with us to Chile and beyond - I even promised them I'd buy some Dog Chow in Cochamo.

The dogs were hesitant though, and while Blanco was halfway across the bridge he noticed that Negro wouldn't set foot on it. And that was it.

Negro absolutely couldn't come over the bridge, which to be fair was high and long over the monstrous river which was in a rapid, white-water state beneath. He wanted to, that much was clear, but as he started pacing and getting agitated we thought it best just to get a move on and not prolong the agony. Blanco returned for his road-buddy and we carried on to the campsite with two friends less.

We spotted members of the group at the campsite and judged we had enough time for some breakfast and still get away before them. What appeared at first to be an overpriced breakfast turned out to be a bottomless feed - we put away three large baskets of toast and put a solid dent in their jam reserves while knocking back four coffees each.

We set off for the border sad without the dogs, but proud we'd left in good time ahead of the group. The dirt road wasn't picturesque and wild like our previous day had been, but we knew when it ended there was no more and it'd be unspoilt nature for days.

The dirt road hung from the valley side overlooking the Rio Manso with more drama than the first day - the track was encroached by the trees, the dropoffs were more radical and the river had become wilder and become a long series of deafening rapids.

The noise of an engine echoed between the trees and we tucked in against the cliff edge on our left. It was a minibus - driven by the tour guide and full of the tourist group "trekking" to Chile.
We burst out laughing and felt prouder than ever to carry our own bags, cook our own meals and follow our own compasses.

By the time we got to the Argentine Gendarmerie post thankfully the group had passed through and we walked in to find a guard no older than nineteen boredly guarding his nation while playing games on his mobile phone.

Formalities were simple enough, but on seeing my British passport there was one conversation I finally couldn't avoid in my time in Argentina. He pulled the rubber stamp away from my passport, toying with my freedom of travel and said three words:

"Islas Malvinas eh?"

I couldn't believe it and wanted to laugh out loud, but managed to soberly explain that I didn't have an opinion and wasn't born when our countries were at war. He gave me a dry, "a likely story" smirk and stamped my passport, shaking his head.

We were in No Mans Land.
To get to Chile we had to cross the Rio Manso again and then could stamp into Chile at their Gendarmerie post and after following the river for one more day could walk north to connect with the Cochamo valley which led to civilisation.

The map clearly showed the bridge over the river, and while it wasn't clear on exactly how to get to it, it was definitive on it's existence. I'd also scoured the area on Google Maps, and while much of the route is obscured by clouds, the bridge is clear and visible - proudly spanning the beastly river.

We kept our westward heading for a couple of kilometers, then tracked around the north edge of the peninsula carved by the river, until we found a small, steep track leading down to the river.

"I'll check it out and shout if it's the bridge."

And there it was. The small concrete base for the suspension cables, a wooden frame entrance, and the bridge - collapsed into the river and missing, no doubt smashed up and strewn about into the Pacific on the other side of Chile.

"KEV! Come down!"
"Is it the bridge?"
"Y... n... Just get down here!"

Why wouldn't the Gendarmerie let us know? Wouldn't it be quite an important point to note? I mean, how often do you get to tell someone "the bridge is out"?
Then I remembered the dry smile on his face as he stamped my passport. For the record, I'm not blaming him - this one's down to Margaret Thatcher in my book.

Could there be another bridge? Or even just a vine swing? Do we camp out while we build a raft?
I could maybe survive the swim, but our bags would be another matter...

We spent the next hour exploring the limits of the peninsula and just when we were about to give up hope we came across two gauchos, mildly drunk but friendly enough. Their Spanish was fast, slurred and complicated, but we understood if we were at the beach below the bridge at 2 p.m. we could get to Chile.

At 2:30 a teenager arrived in a small boat with an outboard motor, a big smile and funny eyes. He explained the bridge had collapsed eight months earlier and no-one wants to pay for a new one as it's such an unimportant border.

Chile was great from the start - the tracks were carved by hoof, and while it wasn't clear which way was right, it felt a lot more rewarding than the dirt road from earlier. After soon enough we came across the Gendarmerie checkpoint and I remembered the bag of fresh apples, the big greasy salami and the handmade jam - all of which was forbidden and attracted heavy fines if found.

The building was at the other end of a small field and there were no signs of our detection so we carried on past, snuck over a small footbridge and I found a tree trunk to stash the food bag in on the edge of the track where it sloped into the river.

Back at the checkpoint we were greeted warmly by another teenaged border guard. He was excited to hear we spoke English and enjoyed practising with us. Their computer system was down, and he couldn't do the security check he needed to though.
We assured him that Interpol weren't looking for us, but he tried calling office after office on the telephone anyway to get the low-down on us.
No questions got answered though, and his boss agreed to let us in on the promise that we aren't international criminals.

Time had run away from us and it was clear we weren't going to get that many kilometers done - I'm pretty sure the bridge being out is as good an excuse as you'll get though.

I was keen to get some distance done in the late afternoon, but the narrow trails meandered and split often, with none more obvious than another.
After a few kilometers the track became more defined.

Wait. That's an understatement.

Presumably horse traffic during wet season had eroded the path deep into the sandy soil and the track was now a two metre deep horse silhouette - uncomfortably narrow at your feet with a big belly-bulge around shoulder height. It was still varied though and the track would open out into long, flat mudslides then descend into a worn section of rocky crags.

It was slow going and we could see that sleeping options were very limited as it was so densely forested and steeply descending into the Rio Manso below us. We spotted a beach on the riverside below us a couple of hours before dark though, and set about finding a way down.

Just up ahead there was a small dead bamboo forest which had been swept down to our beach by a landslide. It was the least steep way, and looked possible if we could get rid of enough bamboo without getting skewered. We took our bags off and got stamping and snapping our way down.

The beach was small, but nice. There was plenty of firewood, it was partly shaded and felt well hidden. Kev promptly got naked and got in the big and perilous river. It was flowing fast and over slippery rocks, but he found eddy's to wash in and made it back to shore.
I lit the fire meanwhile then followed Kevins footsteps while he cooked.

By the time I was clean Kev had cooked dinner and even had some polenta pancakes going on a hot rock, which we ate with the excellent quince jam I'd smuggled over the border that day. I can tell you now in all seriousness that there is no jam tastier than one you've smuggled over a land border which you crossed by foot in a wondrous natural setting. Serious.

We stargazed as I wondered where Blanco and Negro were at that moment. While I was sad to have parted with them, I felt proud to have known our vagabond friends, and shared the spectacular nights sky on the beach the night before with them.

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Day Two: The dog-napping, apple-scrumping, satellite-slinging beach-streaker

We woke up late.
Not late for anything, just late in relative terms of mornings. It was good.
In my drowsy state I laboured over boiling water for our porridge and coffee, and had to re-learn the knacks for a quick boil on the hobo-stove.

We were on the trail by midday, and joked about our dedication and fastidiousness. The trail became more wooded, but stayed low at the foot of the valley, and took us past lots of wild bulls grazing in the meadowy forest, which were surprisingly calm and docile.

Soon enough two dogs appeared - one a very dark chocolate labradore, and the other a dappled white... dog (breeds are not my forte, and this dog was comprised of many).

They didn't go in for the usual canine "Me first!" routine, and were perfectly happy walking either side of us on the trail, or more usually one in front and one behind.

When we stopped for a snack "Here we go!" I said, waiting for the inevitable tongue out, and puppy-dog eyes I expected to see trying to tear us from our limited food supplies. It turned out they just wanted a good walk, and neither one begged for food, or attention even a little bit - which was useful and endearing.

After a few more hours walking with our new friends we both became inexplicably tired, and after a slice of my own home-baked bread with Lago Peulean honey we dozed off next to a stream on the track.

When I woke up, Kevin was talking to someone. As I was dozing I supposed it was the dogs, but there were definitely spanish replies, and I realised we were not alone.
There was a small Chileno, with only a five litre backpack on, it turned out he was leading a group of ten, mainly Chilean tourists who were "walking to Cochamo".

This was disheartening, not only were we doing something which wasn't unique and special, but there were paid-for hikers to bump into. We knew we had to decide whether we wanted to try to stay ahead or behind them - they were cramping our style.

Kevin had a nearly twenty kilogram load, thanks to his camera equipment and laptop - which meant I was carrying all our water and nearly all the food. We were both using school-bag type rucksacks, without any structural rigidity, or waist straps.
From what we had seen the group mostly had no packs, a few had very small day bags, presumably with snacks and a drink in.

We decided to stay ahead of them.

As we forged on a small sense of pride pervaded the initial dismay when the dogs followed us - all logic suggested the holiday-makers would be a much better source of snacks and petting, but these dogs were vagabond travellers and sensed our kindred spirits.

Then the comforting thought appeared that we may have rained on the groups parade too - their grand paid-for adventure was being taken on by a couple of smelly gringos, carrying all their own gear without even a pair of proper rucksacks to rub together.

In some meadows along the river later on the track petered out, and we passed a small track which seemingly only lead to a small farmhouse. We stayed next to the river on the previous heading of the trail.
A couple of kilometers later we were stuck, hemmed in by a sizeable stream which lead back to the farmhouse.

As we got back to the house we could see the group, on the correct side of the stream and passing the house. So we stayed behind and the dogs chased rabbits through the long-grassed meadow.
It was nice to get our boots off and relax with our new furry friends, but soon enough a motley crew of three mongrels sauntered over from the farmhouse in a wave of barks and growls.

Our peace was well and truly shattered, but we'd seen Falluch (the dog from Lago Puelo) in enough fights on this continent to know that most end before lasting injuries, so tried to keep cool. The dark one managed to keep his honour without any more than a lot of growling and a few warning snaps, but the white(ish) one had a couple of nasty tussles with a young but burly opponent.

Our packs' pride was left intact though, and we'd earnt our right to this patch of grass, and, hopefully passage through their farm too. We waded across the stream and waved to the farmhouse family as they tried in vain to call back their dogs. It was probably for the best we hadn't come straight through the correct way as the defending pack may not have backed down.

The trail began snaking up the forested slope of the valley, and at our next break we decided our friends deserved names. "Blackey" and "Whitey" were Kev's suggestions, but were clearly not Hispanic enough so we ended up with "Negro" and "Blanco".

Their personalities were becoming apparent - before sitting down Blanco would select the best spot and spend a minute carefully pawing away any debris before taking a seat. Negro on the other hand would fall lazily onto his left side in the middle of the trail at the first scent of a break.
Blanco enjoyed taking the lead, getting dirty and chasing birds - where Negro was more sedate, he's a bit podgy with a small limp on his right leg and is most happy plodding behind keeping an eye on everyone.

We'd seen that we'd be cutting a bend in the river by crossing a low protrusion of the mountain north of us. As we were looking for the track at the foot of the forested incline Kev saw an apple tree, and we each had a free snack off nature.

Our bodies rejoiced, this felt like just what we were missing in our carb-heavy trail diet and was a huge lift to my spirits. It's strange how a simple apple becomes a big deal, but this was really beautiful moment in my mind - good spot Kev! I shook a dozen off the laden branches and bagged them for lunches to come.

We tracked through the steep forest, Blanco and Negro in tow and before we knew it stumbled across the bridge over the river back to the dirt road on the south side of our Rio Manso. We'd made the twenty or so kilometers we'd wanted that day even with a very late start and a wrong turn.

It was after 8 p.m. so while Kevin scouted a camp I went over the bridge to see what was available at the campsite which was marked on the map. I mainly wanted to know if there was a Gendarmerie post for us to officially stamp out of Argentina in the Nahuel Huapi National Park on the north side of the river - different maps I had seen hadn't agreed on the point.

But I was distracted - they had a great selection of local dried meats and home-made jams. Eventually I selected two huge salamis and a quince jam, knowing that the non-labelled, non-factory-sealed fruits and meats were entirely illegal to take over the border which we'd reach the next day.

I got more than I bargained for though, and the campsite owner wasn't relieved at all that I wasn't alone, but had a smelly Irish friend and two dogs with me. He wouldn't answer my question (about the Gendarmerie) though, and was far more interested in making sure I knew it was totally prohibited to make any fire on the other side of the river in the National Park.
I was careful to be honest, so only assured him in my best Spanish that I knew and understood - not that I wouldn't.

He was sure that we'd never be able to navigate the myriad of unused tracks and river crossings without a guide, and was convinced we'd be back here tomorrow night after a long day getting lost if we tried.

Kevin, Negro and Blanco were waiting for me back on the north side of Rio Manso and had found a great little beach for the night. We talked the next day over while cooking on our naughty fire and reasoned that as we still didn't know if we could be stamped out legally from this side, and wanted to beat the group to the border formalities that we should stick to the dirt-road side, it was only ten kilometers after all.

Blanco and Negro sat patiently while we got naked, washed and swam in the river, and once we bedded down Blanco laid at Kev's feet while Negro slept by my head.

The Milky Way was yet more vivid, the Magellanic Clouds were thick and distinct, and the tiny glow of an orbiting satellite had me thinking about human nature and the desire to explore.

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Day One: The river-fed, harmonica-playing, Magellan-inspired bush-sleeper.

I was up early and queuing at the Aduana before they opened, but I wasn't the only one. Luckily it was a respectful line and had competent, if overworked staff.
This was a far cry from the maelstrom I'd seen in Africa a year before and I was thankful for it.

With my package in front of her unopened, the customs officer listened to my sob story of losing my belongings on the road and wanting to experience the wild nature of the Andes around Bariloche with my own cheap equipment from home.
She didn't even look inside to check the customs declarations, conditions or values were at all correct - she just listened patiently, helping my Spanish where it faltered before handing me my parcel and wishing me luck.
Thanks that lady.

It had taken all morning with the queue, but felt great to be finally ready and Kevin came back from the shops at the same time so we said our final goodbyes to Lorna, Luka and Carla.

At the bus station I was shamelessly trying to steal sugar sachets from tables in the cafeteria when I bumped into Ana (from Crux in Lago Puelo).
We chatted and swapped e-mails, as we'd somehow managed to forget between all the wine, beer and fernet of the last night in Crux.
Before we knew it our bus was in the wrong bay hailing all south-bound passengers and we said a hasty goodbye to Ana and left Argentine civilisation as we would know it.

It was 5 p.m. before we got off the bus at the small village Rio Villegas, and we realised the start of the route was in full view of the Gendarmerie post on Ruta 40, so had to run out of sight as quickly as we could.
Entering the National Park on multi-day hikes is supposed to require a detailed plan submitted to the authorities, along with showing a gas stove and your other professional equipment which we didn't have.

The dirt road was quite well-groomed, and I got paranoid that our route to Cochamo would be a tourist trap full of people, and not the secluded natural paradise we were hoping for.
Over the next two hours we saw a handful of cars, and a few houses as the track bent around the valley following the Rio Manso. It could only get more remote as we went into the mountains, so I pushed the thought to the back of my mind.

We still couldn't see the river through the forests that the track led through, which was disheartening and made the walk a bit dull.
After twelve kilometres we had come down to river level and came across a bridge, with a strong warning it was only suitable for four people at a time, or one on horseback.
The river was wide and strong - it didn't look that deep, but it's always difficult to tell.
I was happy - the river looked like a tough and resilient partner, but was fresh and clear. I knew if he could forge a way to Chile, so could we.

Crossing the bridge meant we were inside the Nahuel Huapi National Park, which means there are consequences if we were found making fire. Consequences could jeopardise our passage to Chile.
It was past 8 p.m. and we passed a couple of hand-built farmhouses so knew we had to get on a few kilometres to stay undetected through the night.

It was impossibly beautiful. We were walking through lightly forested meadows, with the huge but calming Rio Manso on our left and the tree lined valley cliffs on our right.
We were headed due west now, so had followed the river through the first two mountains of the Andes range which stood between us and Chile.

Walking into the setting sun in such a beautiful valley was calming and invigorating at the same time - I couldn't have been more happy and tranquil. Until I saw the big man with rough, outdoors hands and the biggest shotgun I've ever seen.

We stopped quietly, as yet unseen, then tracked left through some bushes towards the river once he'd passed into a forested area.
Between the bushes we found some nice, soft grass in a small natural bowl to give some wind shelter, so stashed our packs in a bush and took our towels to the rivers edge, while carefully noting our bearings relative to the tallest trees.

We bathed and swam naked amongst the powerful currents while the sun dipped below the Chilean mountains at the end of the valley.
Back at camp we made a small fire for the hobo stove and cooked up a simple rice and salami affair which was to become our staple dinner.

As I was getting my bed-roll out of my bag a small, brown packet I didn't recognise popped out onto the floor. The paper had written on it:
"Every hobo needs a harmonica :-)"
And I knew Lorna must have snuck it in my pack earlier that day. Awwww! Thanks!

After Kev showed me through the basics on the harmonica we laid down in a nearby clearing and marvelled at the Milky Way. I saw two shooting stars, both very high in the sky and we tracked two satellites zipping around our tiny, complicated planet.

I had looked up where to find the Magellanic Clouds (which are visible only from the southern hemisphere) and we gazed into other galaxies, back through time as far as the naked eye can below the equator.

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