Chapter 15: Threshold of Winter
From high desert ridges to rippling farmland, Argentina opened with austerity and scale. The landscape quieted, but the days grew shorter, the winds more willful, and the journey turned inward.
It began with the smell of eucalyptus after rain and the temperature falling so quickly my breath turned to mist—a sensory prelude that foreshadowed the dramatic shifts, both environmental and internal, that lay ahead. There are stretches of road that undo your plans—not through catastrophe, but through the creeping advance of something larger. In Argentina, that something was winter. It wasn’t a presence you could reason with. It had a direction, a timeline, and only modest sympathy for detours.
Argentina introduced herself not with subtlety but with a spectacle—one hundred miles across a sedimentary rock extravaganza. Geological deep time and colonial heritage, the Quebrada de Humahuaca unfolded like a textbook turned inside out: ancient, layered, and bursting with color. The canyon walls rose in twisted bands of ochre and crimson, their origins rooted in tectonic upheaval and buried seabeds. As I pedaled south and then southeast, my energy still dampened by a stomach bug from Tupiza, I was met by more than landscape—I was met by immensity.
I followed Route 9 out of La Quiaca all the way to Humahuaca. The pavement was smooth but offered no shoulder, forcing me to ride the white line and sometimes hold my breath as vehicles passed. Cattle dotted the roadside, but the sense of wilderness remained. Often I was alone. Eventually, mountains closed in, and I followed the road into a broad valley where tall, columnar cacti pressed down from the hillsides and flanked the road, dominating the landscape around Humahuaca and the Rio Grande that flowed past it.
The town itself echoed that grandeur—cobbled streets, colonial facades, and towering flora framed the arid terrain at 9,000 feet. Saguaro-like in form but distinctly Andean, these plants and the UNESCO-listed town marked a symbolic threshold. Climate Zero—like an orchestral musician sensing a sprawling, unpredictable section emerging late in the score—had turned the page into its final, complex South American movement. The full shape of it couldn’t yet be seen, but the intensity was already mounting.
Still riding the momentum of that symbolic shift—and feeling rested after a comfortable night at Hostal La Soñada—I returned to my place in the score as the next movement stirred. I could see a cloud bank for miles as I descended gradually southward. It hung visibly over the valley like a weathered blanket pressed flat against the terrain. Just before I entered it, I had the good sense to stop and pull on my raincoat—something I didn’t regret.
The imminent descent through the clouds and the switchbacks that followed marked the final leg of a long downward journey that had begun in La Quiaca. Over the course of several days, I had gradually dropped out of the high, arid plains of northern Argentina and southern Bolivia—and, in many ways, the Andes themselves. Though the mountains would remain on the western horizon for many more days, at this juncture I was crossing a boundary as real as any pass.
Moments later, I plunged into the cloud layer. Within a single minute, the temperature fell from the 70s°F (low 20s°C) to the low 40s°F (around 5°C), like a sudden modulation in a musical score—unexpected, dramatic, and irreversible. The shift jarred my rhythm and posture, pulling me into a quieter cadence, more attentive and restrained. Rain began to fall—light at first, then steadily—coating the road in a shimmering film and soaking my gear. The modulation held. By the time I reached the valley floor, mist curled through eucalyptus trees. The smell of wet bark and mineral soil returned me to something intimate, my childhood. I rode quietly, as if holding a sustained note—absorbing the shift, letting it resonate.
But even the most fluid passages in a symphony can break into discord. A few miles before reaching Hostel El Molina in Belgrano, I was grazed by a bus—an unnerving moment on an otherwise rolling plain dominated by small towns and agriculture. Not long after, I caught up to the same vehicle at a police checkpoint. It had been pulled over alongside a small car that, as I would learn, had cut the bus off while overtaking—something I hadn’t witnessed. The bus driver, calm and courteous, offered to drive me the rest of the way to Belgrano. I accepted. There was something disarming about the gesture—something that helped dissolve the adrenaline and unease.
The driver of the small car was fined, but when police asked if I wanted to pursue further action, I declined. I was held briefly to provide my statement, then released. The road resumed, and so did I. But something in me had shifted—not because of fear or danger, but because of grace offered in an unexpected place. That realization stayed with me: that kindness, when it arrives unannounced, has the power to steady a shaken spirit and remind us that decency endures, even on roads where trust feels scarce.
The stretch between Belgrano and Salta unfolded like a dream—tropical, forested hills laced with birdsong, wild horses, and curling ribbons of road. This narrow, winding segment of Route 9 was magic: humid valleys, lush foliage, and sharp bends that revealed new microclimates with every turn. The contrast with what came after Salta made it even more memorable.
Salta itself offered a moment of repair and renewal. After enjoying fresh empanadas at a roadside stand run by a mother and her daughters, I navigated to Goldenbike—a local shop I’d flagged on Google Maps the night before. What followed was the most thorough service my bike had received since Colombia. One mechanic immediately diagnosed and repaired what the shop in Cusco had botched, and addressed the accumulated needs of months on the road. They didn’t have the tires I was looking for, but they made sure everything else about the bike was ready for what remained of my journey south. The shop manager even walked me to a nearby guesthouse not listed online—a small gesture that left a mark. I stayed two nights and, on the manager’s recommendation, had dinner at a nearby restaurant where the owner welcomed and fed me like an old friend returned home.
Route 9 south of Salta quickly turned into a gauntlet. Shoulderless, fast, and unforgiving, it demanded total focus. I was often forced to ride the white-line, for miles. Trucks bore down, a few showing little or no concern for my safety. My nerves frayed. The road became a test of reflex and resolve, stretching from Salta to Tucumán—both large towns—separated by roughly 150 miles of stress. The experience began to change the way I thought about the rest of the route. On Route 9, the risk was too great. Fear of dying on that road began to shape modifications to my intended route.
I had hoped to reach Catamarca and even Mendoza, farther south, before turning inland—away from the Andes and their colder, snow-prone elevations. It was already late autumn in the southern hemisphere, and continuing through the Andes, the original, pre-start to the tour plan, would have meant stunning scenery but almost certain failure. Gravel, remoteness, and cold would have stopped me well short of Ushuaia.
Despite the risks along the way, Tucumán proved to be a valuable stop—similar in size to Salta, but with its own rhythm. At Casanova Bikes, I found new cycling gear, including an autumn jacket, to better prepare for the cold weeks ahead. I paid for a laundry service and enjoyed a comfortable stay at the Mercer Hostal. It was a moment in a long journey to regroup, recharge, and continue south with slightly less wear on my body and mind. I stayed two nights.
Before departing, I also transferred $600 USD to Western Union from one of my U.S. checking accounts, which converted to over 600,000 Argentine pesos (ARS)—an unsettling experience. Argentina’s inflation meant the bills came in six bundles, each totaling 100,000 ARS—more paper than value, and awkward to carry by bicycle, as if the weight of economic uncertainty itself had been stuffed into my panniers. Each bundle was bound with a rubber band and assembled by a money counting machine in full view of a line of people waiting to pull far smaller sums from the same service. I had never handled so much currency, let alone carried it by bicycle. The reason I withdrew such a large amount at once was because getting money from an ATM in Argentina was already proving difficult, and friends had warned that it might only get worse. I hoped that a single, sizeable transaction with Western Union would carry me all the way to Ushuaia. In the meantime, my panniers felt absurdly vulnerable.
A long discussion at Casanova Bikes had concluded in a new plan for exiting the city—a combination of smaller roads that would eventually lead me many miles south on Route 38. Getting local knowledge from cyclists proved invaluable. The difference between Route 9 and Route 38 was enormous: far more comfortable, even if not ideal.
At the conclusion of the day, beyond Tucumán, in the small town of Rumi Punco, I stopped at a local grocery—a typical shop in rural areas where customers order, or point as I often had to do, from a window and counter rather than walk aisles as they would in a larger town. The clerk was curious and friendly. When I mentioned I was looking for a place to camp, she pointed me toward a nearby roadside medical facility, setting in motion the next revision of my route. When I arrived, the on-call ambulance driver welcomed me with calm professionalism, gave me a brief tour of the space, and kindly showed me a sheltered spot behind the building where I could set up my tent.
At Rumi Punco, a new trajectory took shape—first influenced by the route suggestions shared during my long conversation at Casanova Bikes, then refined by the ambulance driver’s local knowledge and my own research into what lay ahead. San Antonio, then La Falda, began to appear on my maps not just as alternatives, but as increasingly necessary detours from my original, planned route through the Chilean Andes. La Falda in particular aligned with Río Cuarto—a waypoint that had taken on new importance. The days were growing colder, wetter, and more erratic. Wind rarely paused. These towns represented more than dots on a map; they marked a turning point: a deeper commitment to a central route across Argentina, eventually connecting to the Atlantic coast and the long, final push south on Route 3—all the way to Ushuaia. Letting go of the Andes felt like a concession—but also a survival instinct, honed by the miles behind me.
The Carretera Austral had long been a dream—Chile’s famed southern route winding through ancient temperate rainforests, past turquoise rivers and beneath towering peaks like Cerro Castillo and the jagged granite spires of Torres del Paine. But I wasn’t chasing beauty anymore. I was navigating what was still possible.
That evening, as I settled in, a soccer match played under field lights in an adjacent field. The sounds of the game mingled with the hush of passing cars. I pitched my tent on a quiet patch of grass, buffered from the traffic by the clinic’s walls. It was safe, peaceful, and exactly what I needed.
The next morning, I sipped coffee alone in a dental exam chair, the room softly lit and silent. The warmth of the cup, the stillness, and the memory of the previous night’s unexpected hospitality grounded me. I left restored, the warmth of the cup lingering on my hands, a small comfort that carried more weight than I expected.
The ride from Rumi Punco to San Antonio passed in quiet contrast to the days before—just one brief detour west into a headwind, then a stretch of solitude and steady rhythm. In town, the only guesthouse marked on Google Maps, Vicky’s Hospedaje, was closed. But three young women sitting on its steps offered help without hesitation, pointing me to a place I never would’ve found on my own. On the opposite street corner, I met Gringa—keeper of an unmarked hospedaje tucked behind her home with an eclectic backyard including a rooster and his hens. She welcomed me without question. I paid about eight U.S. dollars to sleep in one of her rooms. That night, the town restaurant opened early just to feed the traveler from far away. There may have been better places to stop, but on this particular evening I had the privilege of being the only tourist in this town and likely a wide swath of towns close by.
Rested and reminded of the road’s generous grace, I threaded deeper into Argentina's heart toward La Falda, a mountain town known for its quartz-rich hills and the myths that cling to them. The hostel there, Puerta Azul, offered warmth, companionship, and a sense of rest that defied the clock. My departure from Puerta Azul gave the very real impression, for the first time, that I was cycling toward winter—already on its cusp.
From those cold hills, I dropped once more. The plains below unfolded gently, the air warming at the lower elevations they offered. Fields widened in all directions. The road softened. The land did too. I rode with a rare lightness, carried forward not by adrenaline or urgency, but by the calm that follows survival. Leaving the hills south of La Falda had bought me some time, a brief reprieve. But the comfort was fleeting. Winter was still coming. It wasn’t just a season—it had become a presence, tightening, a slow constriction I had to watch with growing awareness, like a shadow extending its reach, reminding me that the margin for error was vanishing. But for now, the road gave me softness, a slowing, a warmth that let me breathe before my fate unfolded.
Argentina wasn’t easing me in. She was changing me—testing, refining, and ultimately redrawing the boundaries of what I believed myself capable of, mile by mile across her vast and unforgiving heartland.
Argentina introduced herself not with subtlety but with a spectacle—one hundred miles across a sedimentary rock extravaganza. Geological deep time and colonial heritage, the Quebrada de Humahuaca unfolded like a textbook turned inside out: ancient, layered, and bursting with color. The canyon walls rose in twisted bands of ochre and crimson, their origins rooted in tectonic upheaval and buried seabeds. As I pedaled south and then southeast, my energy still dampened by a stomach bug from Tupiza, I was met by more than landscape—I was met by immensity.
I followed Route 9 out of La Quiaca all the way to Humahuaca. The pavement was smooth but offered no shoulder, forcing me to ride the white line and sometimes hold my breath as vehicles passed. Cattle dotted the roadside, but the sense of wilderness remained. Often I was alone. Eventually, mountains closed in, and I followed the road into a broad valley where tall, columnar cacti pressed down from the hillsides and flanked the road, dominating the landscape around Humahuaca and the Rio Grande that flowed past it.
The town itself echoed that grandeur—cobbled streets, colonial facades, and towering flora framed the arid terrain at 9,000 feet. Saguaro-like in form but distinctly Andean, these plants and the UNESCO-listed town marked a symbolic threshold. Climate Zero—like an orchestral musician sensing a sprawling, unpredictable section emerging late in the score—had turned the page into its final, complex South American movement. The full shape of it couldn’t yet be seen, but the intensity was already mounting.
Still riding the momentum of that symbolic shift—and feeling rested after a comfortable night at Hostal La Soñada—I returned to my place in the score as the next movement stirred. I could see a cloud bank for miles as I descended gradually southward. It hung visibly over the valley like a weathered blanket pressed flat against the terrain. Just before I entered it, I had the good sense to stop and pull on my raincoat—something I didn’t regret.
The imminent descent through the clouds and the switchbacks that followed marked the final leg of a long downward journey that had begun in La Quiaca. Over the course of several days, I had gradually dropped out of the high, arid plains of northern Argentina and southern Bolivia—and, in many ways, the Andes themselves. Though the mountains would remain on the western horizon for many more days, at this juncture I was crossing a boundary as real as any pass.
Moments later, I plunged into the cloud layer. Within a single minute, the temperature fell from the 70s°F (low 20s°C) to the low 40s°F (around 5°C), like a sudden modulation in a musical score—unexpected, dramatic, and irreversible. The shift jarred my rhythm and posture, pulling me into a quieter cadence, more attentive and restrained. Rain began to fall—light at first, then steadily—coating the road in a shimmering film and soaking my gear. The modulation held. By the time I reached the valley floor, mist curled through eucalyptus trees. The smell of wet bark and mineral soil returned me to something intimate, my childhood. I rode quietly, as if holding a sustained note—absorbing the shift, letting it resonate.
But even the most fluid passages in a symphony can break into discord. A few miles before reaching Hostel El Molina in Belgrano, I was grazed by a bus—an unnerving moment on an otherwise rolling plain dominated by small towns and agriculture. Not long after, I caught up to the same vehicle at a police checkpoint. It had been pulled over alongside a small car that, as I would learn, had cut the bus off while overtaking—something I hadn’t witnessed. The bus driver, calm and courteous, offered to drive me the rest of the way to Belgrano. I accepted. There was something disarming about the gesture—something that helped dissolve the adrenaline and unease.
The driver of the small car was fined, but when police asked if I wanted to pursue further action, I declined. I was held briefly to provide my statement, then released. The road resumed, and so did I. But something in me had shifted—not because of fear or danger, but because of grace offered in an unexpected place. That realization stayed with me: that kindness, when it arrives unannounced, has the power to steady a shaken spirit and remind us that decency endures, even on roads where trust feels scarce.
The stretch between Belgrano and Salta unfolded like a dream—tropical, forested hills laced with birdsong, wild horses, and curling ribbons of road. This narrow, winding segment of Route 9 was magic: humid valleys, lush foliage, and sharp bends that revealed new microclimates with every turn. The contrast with what came after Salta made it even more memorable.
Salta itself offered a moment of repair and renewal. After enjoying fresh empanadas at a roadside stand run by a mother and her daughters, I navigated to Goldenbike—a local shop I’d flagged on Google Maps the night before. What followed was the most thorough service my bike had received since Colombia. One mechanic immediately diagnosed and repaired what the shop in Cusco had botched, and addressed the accumulated needs of months on the road. They didn’t have the tires I was looking for, but they made sure everything else about the bike was ready for what remained of my journey south. The shop manager even walked me to a nearby guesthouse not listed online—a small gesture that left a mark. I stayed two nights and, on the manager’s recommendation, had dinner at a nearby restaurant where the owner welcomed and fed me like an old friend returned home.
Route 9 south of Salta quickly turned into a gauntlet. Shoulderless, fast, and unforgiving, it demanded total focus. I was often forced to ride the white-line, for miles. Trucks bore down, a few showing little or no concern for my safety. My nerves frayed. The road became a test of reflex and resolve, stretching from Salta to Tucumán—both large towns—separated by roughly 150 miles of stress. The experience began to change the way I thought about the rest of the route. On Route 9, the risk was too great. Fear of dying on that road began to shape modifications to my intended route.
I had hoped to reach Catamarca and even Mendoza, farther south, before turning inland—away from the Andes and their colder, snow-prone elevations. It was already late autumn in the southern hemisphere, and continuing through the Andes, the original, pre-start to the tour plan, would have meant stunning scenery but almost certain failure. Gravel, remoteness, and cold would have stopped me well short of Ushuaia.
Despite the risks along the way, Tucumán proved to be a valuable stop—similar in size to Salta, but with its own rhythm. At Casanova Bikes, I found new cycling gear, including an autumn jacket, to better prepare for the cold weeks ahead. I paid for a laundry service and enjoyed a comfortable stay at the Mercer Hostal. It was a moment in a long journey to regroup, recharge, and continue south with slightly less wear on my body and mind. I stayed two nights.
Before departing, I also transferred $600 USD to Western Union from one of my U.S. checking accounts, which converted to over 600,000 Argentine pesos (ARS)—an unsettling experience. Argentina’s inflation meant the bills came in six bundles, each totaling 100,000 ARS—more paper than value, and awkward to carry by bicycle, as if the weight of economic uncertainty itself had been stuffed into my panniers. Each bundle was bound with a rubber band and assembled by a money counting machine in full view of a line of people waiting to pull far smaller sums from the same service. I had never handled so much currency, let alone carried it by bicycle. The reason I withdrew such a large amount at once was because getting money from an ATM in Argentina was already proving difficult, and friends had warned that it might only get worse. I hoped that a single, sizeable transaction with Western Union would carry me all the way to Ushuaia. In the meantime, my panniers felt absurdly vulnerable.
A long discussion at Casanova Bikes had concluded in a new plan for exiting the city—a combination of smaller roads that would eventually lead me many miles south on Route 38. Getting local knowledge from cyclists proved invaluable. The difference between Route 9 and Route 38 was enormous: far more comfortable, even if not ideal.
At the conclusion of the day, beyond Tucumán, in the small town of Rumi Punco, I stopped at a local grocery—a typical shop in rural areas where customers order, or point as I often had to do, from a window and counter rather than walk aisles as they would in a larger town. The clerk was curious and friendly. When I mentioned I was looking for a place to camp, she pointed me toward a nearby roadside medical facility, setting in motion the next revision of my route. When I arrived, the on-call ambulance driver welcomed me with calm professionalism, gave me a brief tour of the space, and kindly showed me a sheltered spot behind the building where I could set up my tent.
At Rumi Punco, a new trajectory took shape—first influenced by the route suggestions shared during my long conversation at Casanova Bikes, then refined by the ambulance driver’s local knowledge and my own research into what lay ahead. San Antonio, then La Falda, began to appear on my maps not just as alternatives, but as increasingly necessary detours from my original, planned route through the Chilean Andes. La Falda in particular aligned with Río Cuarto—a waypoint that had taken on new importance. The days were growing colder, wetter, and more erratic. Wind rarely paused. These towns represented more than dots on a map; they marked a turning point: a deeper commitment to a central route across Argentina, eventually connecting to the Atlantic coast and the long, final push south on Route 3—all the way to Ushuaia. Letting go of the Andes felt like a concession—but also a survival instinct, honed by the miles behind me.
The Carretera Austral had long been a dream—Chile’s famed southern route winding through ancient temperate rainforests, past turquoise rivers and beneath towering peaks like Cerro Castillo and the jagged granite spires of Torres del Paine. But I wasn’t chasing beauty anymore. I was navigating what was still possible.
That evening, as I settled in, a soccer match played under field lights in an adjacent field. The sounds of the game mingled with the hush of passing cars. I pitched my tent on a quiet patch of grass, buffered from the traffic by the clinic’s walls. It was safe, peaceful, and exactly what I needed.
The next morning, I sipped coffee alone in a dental exam chair, the room softly lit and silent. The warmth of the cup, the stillness, and the memory of the previous night’s unexpected hospitality grounded me. I left restored, the warmth of the cup lingering on my hands, a small comfort that carried more weight than I expected.
The ride from Rumi Punco to San Antonio passed in quiet contrast to the days before—just one brief detour west into a headwind, then a stretch of solitude and steady rhythm. In town, the only guesthouse marked on Google Maps, Vicky’s Hospedaje, was closed. But three young women sitting on its steps offered help without hesitation, pointing me to a place I never would’ve found on my own. On the opposite street corner, I met Gringa—keeper of an unmarked hospedaje tucked behind her home with an eclectic backyard including a rooster and his hens. She welcomed me without question. I paid about eight U.S. dollars to sleep in one of her rooms. That night, the town restaurant opened early just to feed the traveler from far away. There may have been better places to stop, but on this particular evening I had the privilege of being the only tourist in this town and likely a wide swath of towns close by.
Rested and reminded of the road’s generous grace, I threaded deeper into Argentina's heart toward La Falda, a mountain town known for its quartz-rich hills and the myths that cling to them. The hostel there, Puerta Azul, offered warmth, companionship, and a sense of rest that defied the clock. My departure from Puerta Azul gave the very real impression, for the first time, that I was cycling toward winter—already on its cusp.
From those cold hills, I dropped once more. The plains below unfolded gently, the air warming at the lower elevations they offered. Fields widened in all directions. The road softened. The land did too. I rode with a rare lightness, carried forward not by adrenaline or urgency, but by the calm that follows survival. Leaving the hills south of La Falda had bought me some time, a brief reprieve. But the comfort was fleeting. Winter was still coming. It wasn’t just a season—it had become a presence, tightening, a slow constriction I had to watch with growing awareness, like a shadow extending its reach, reminding me that the margin for error was vanishing. But for now, the road gave me softness, a slowing, a warmth that let me breathe before my fate unfolded.
Argentina wasn’t easing me in. She was changing me—testing, refining, and ultimately redrawing the boundaries of what I believed myself capable of, mile by mile across her vast and unforgiving heartland.