4-8-10 Rio Chico Gangster Camp, Argentina

It was obvious we weren’t in Chile anymore as our little hotel was nicely heated and owned by a friendly old lady, something we haven’t had for quite some time. We found a log cabin-styled restaurant where I had a early birthday dinner of pumpkin soup, empanadas of beef and corn, a chorizo followed by a mushroom smothered steak with a syrah and a lager for good measure.

We took off the next morning to make up for the 3 hours scenic detour we made to the north the day before.  We pulled into the dusty little town of Bajo Caracoles for a break as it was the only place for miles around. There's nothing out here, no cars for half an hour is the norm. The previous day while lost we saw nobody for about 4 hours.

I ate some birthday quiche though they called it a ‘torta’, as well as a pizza of sorts. I chatted with the gas station owner who recommended we bed down near Rio Chico as it was a pretty area and would be quiet and 'muy tranquilo'.

We also came to find out that two riders had been killed in the previous month on the Ruta 40. A Brazilian guy crashed an hundred clicks back a few weeks ago as well as a young American who crashed not far from town the previous week. Another reminder to be careful out on the road.

After topping off the tanks to their fullest we hit the dusty road again which we've gotten good at riding. Mark rides in the lead as his bike can take bad bumps/rocks/holes, better than mine. I watch his back tire from about 20 yards off to see if it bounces or does anything abnormal, if it does, then I pay more attention. Often times his rear will fish-tail for a few repetitions signaling sand or gravel in which case I slow down with my rear brake and downshift a gear then accelerate upon hitting the loose material which pulls me through it just fine.

Wind hasn't been much of a problem for us though this section of road is known to be one of the windiest around. There was a slight breeze blowing form our right which was appreciated as it blew the dust kicked up by Mark's tires away from the road so I could see better.

We hit pavement a few times where I took the lead as my bike has better brakes and can withstand hitting critters (as well as Peruvians I found out) better than Mark’s bike. I dodged two armadillos out here. Had no idea they existed down here. Thought they were 'Made in Texas'.

It was getting slightly dark and we crossed the Rio Chico and pulled off to a little abandoned building with no roof and 'No Pasar' spray painted on the side of it.
"Looks like a good spot for a gangster camp" Mark said.

We poked around a bit then rode out to the river where we saw what might be a better spot down the way a kilometer or so.

We found a dense little thicket of willows next to a bridge that was well hidden from the road and didn't have 'No Pasar' written anywhere.

We only had a little firewood left (yes, I've been carrying firewood with me, that does sound a bit strange, I know. It's small pieces, about the diameter of a baseball bat that burn hot for a really long time, great for cooking) so I decided to make an 'Indian fire' with what we had left. This consists of building a small teepee of our good pieces of wood which we then tucked a bunch of wood shavings under. I lit the teepee and let it burn for about 10 minutes before taking each log down from teepee arrangement and laid each one flat on the ground with just their burning ends touching, like a wagon wheel. This concentrates the fire and doesn't burn the wood too fast and also provides a good spot to put a pot of water. As they burn, you tap the ends inward towards the hot coals.

We finished our raviolis and were contently sipping our wine. We each had a 'manly juice box' which had no straw nor spout on it, so a corner was cut off for drinking. Mid sip I heard a diesel truck pull onto the bridge which was 50 feet away from us, on the other side of the willows. We saw a spotlight shine out into the area to our left, then we heard a few rounds crack off from a semiautomatic rifle. Mark and I both dropped to our chests in the dirt. I shoved a pannier in front of a our little fire to block the glow as Mark sloshed some water on it killing the flames. We retreated behind my bike and each took out our knives and grabbed a chunk of firewood for clubbing purposes. We could hear talking coming from the bridge and a few more rounds fired off.
"I've got a tourniquet and some puncture-wound compound in the top of my pack' Mark whispered. "Damnit, I wish I had a gun" (Mark did tours in Iraq and Afghanistan with the Army and is used to being shot at, but not without the ability to return fire).

By this time I had to pee. Bad. Real bad. The occasional round would go off, most of which were directed off the other side of the bridge.  We were still laying on our chests, behind my bike when I decided that I had to relieve myself and did so in a logical manner, like a dog.

The truck drove off, with the spotlight sweeping the wide pampas grass flats but no more shots were heard.
The night was clear and cold with a great view of the stars as there's no light pollution down here.  We heard tons of little critters running around our campsite in the dark as well, one of which ran over of my head which was covered by my sleeping bag.

This morning we woke up and checked over by the bridge where we found a huge pile of ostrich feathers. We think it was ostrich poachers who were shooting last night but don't really know.