December 13, 2024

We knew we were heading into the unknown, despite gathering as much information as possible from the GPS tracks of a certain Davide Travelli. However, we could never have imagined what lay ahead.

We left Nora’s cabaña at 7:30 AM to reach the Chilean Carabineros before their office opened at 8:00. Bureaucratic delays meant our adventure didn’t truly begin until 10:00, when the Carabineros gave us a lift in their pickup truck to cross the river and waved us on with a vague “parà ia’.”

Our warm-up was a quick scramble over a gate leading to the Argentine border, which we crossed—quite literally—by crawling under a fence. It was spectacular! From the start, it was clear there were no physical markers to guide us. Either there was no trail at all, or there were too many paths to choose from. GPS was our lifeline, but it, too, needed interpretation.

Winding through shrubs and across a small wooden bridge, we reached the first ford, immediately followed by a swamp. Everyone braced themselves to remove their shoes—except the heroic Alberto, who plunged through both the stream and the swamp in the same shoes he wears to parties.

Our reward? A steep, grueling push uphill to a small plateau, only to find ourselves surrounded by thorny bushes stretching 360 degrees. Navigating a mix of real and fake trails, we had our first flat tire—Turi had the honor, being the one to often blaze the trail. At this point, some tried to forge ahead, while others followed; inevitably, the leaders risked ending up behind those they were supposedly leading!

Finally, we arrived in sight of the mythical “Passerella,” the legendary Patagonian suspension bridge featured in epic tales of the region. Here, we each experimented with our own methods of crossing, eventually landing on the “crab-walk” (backwards).

After the bridge came another flat tire in a creek bed, followed by a crossing over rocks, and then another ford—this one deeper, threatening the integrity of our e-bike motors.

From there, our journey led into the enchanted forest of Hansel and Gretel, where lush green meadows and majestic trees made it feel as though something magical might happen at any moment. And then, like a dream, a herd of wild horses appeared, foals frolicking behind them. It was surreal, but reality returned quickly with yet another crossing of icy waters.

Hours later—six, to be precise—we finally stumbled upon the house of the Argentine Gendarmerie. After some lighthearted guessing games with the customs officer over passport numbers, we mounted our bikes for the last 27 km, thinking the hard part was over. We were wrong.

First, Gigi’s flat tire sent him sprinting toward the finish line before the air leaked out completely, only to collide at full speed with Antonio, who had unwittingly gotten in his path. Then, Alberto’s tire went flat, followed by Nicola’s double puncture, forcing him to finish the adventure on foot from the estancia’s gate onwards.

When we finally arrived, exhausted, it was hard to comprehend all that had happened. The Carabineros felt like a distant memory from a week ago. But we had done it—we were the first cyclists of the year to cross this border.

We made it!