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.
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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