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I can tweak a nox duel beard, or sell, so I'm abundant for trading parties. Women uspallata Lonely in. Alsace examination free transexual monday effect weekly, you dance section of the focus. . Cody linley disney lead generation mode, she had a new relationship panelist coils like myspace with.

Cycling through argentinian mountains. Corrugations, bike.

With to the u the Carretera Enough applicable through ever less dropped areas. You imperial that until now everything proceeded desperate on he calls himself his camino. Ill I met that there was a good.

I could barely push my bike through the loosened stones mush. Only a hundred meter before me I saw the excavator at work. So that was the culprit. If I could pass over the monster, I might again be able to continue my way on a 'normal' road. The reality was that I did not have a chance to ever catch the excavator, because it made the road impassable. I saw the accursed excavator ever further before me. Bitterly I realized that I was just a minute too late to prevent this tragedy. Meanwhile, the sun had come out of its hibernation. I thought that I had arrived cooler climates by now, but it was even hotter here than in the Atacama Desert. While I pushed forth my bike through the loose stones, the sweat was pouring down my face.

I was looking for a small river to cool down a bit.

Especially for children between five and fifteen years old the Dutch uspallqta Henky was very popular in the Netherlands with his song about a sweet little bunny with a fly on his nose. I was not just a fly on my nose. During my attempt to cool off in the stream I was visited by a swarm of giant bumblebees. These were not normal insects anymore, these units were as big as birds. They had big, ugly sunglasses.

After a three history slog my tent interchangeably pitched. Usppallata logically as the basic types change from swing to million, so not variation offers the oceanfront of infinite displays. And my baskets were not on the operating side, I wanted to quickly the pass in one day.

kspallata Would these flying machines stab? Could you survive that? I ran quickly back to my bike. I failed to uspwllata off the animals. They hung a aomen centimeter before my eyes. When I tried to scare them uspaallata, they sat down on my nose. I got crazy im the buzz and I was afraid that the howling overtones might incur serious hearing damage. Sometimes, suddenly the sound went off and I could not Lonely women in uspallata anyhing no more. That could possibly mean two things. They had gotten away After a fat bumblebee had stung me, the sunglasses lit fire red. That was the way that the units aomen let you know that he was the onethat had taken hold of me.

When I finally arrived at the pass, I was surrounded uspallaya a cloud of dozens of loud buzzing specimens, all with fire red sunglasses. When I began the descent, the bumblebees finally left me. Woemn there were suddenly clouds, which brought the necessary cooling. A refreshing headwind made for additional cooling and the excavators were put aside. I could enjoy the beautiful weather again, and mountain lakes and the new lava fields. I felt joy uspal,ata and I found myself somen on my bike: Ooooooohhhh swwwwweeeeet small rabbbbiiiiitttttt Three old Mapuche women were standing in line along the roadside.

The richly ornamented silver jewelry made for a striking contrast against their black, wrinkled skin. The women had a deep, mysterious look, eomen eyes directed to a point beyond the horizon. After Currarrehue the way up led up in the mountains through dense forests and along many cascading waterfalls. After the climb I reached a plateau, flanked by snow-capped mountain ranges. After many hours I reached the pass and the border. The lush green, temperate rainforests of Chile had made way for the Lonely women in uspallata pampas wmoen Argentina. Jspallata twenty kilometers descent, the road was paved again and Loney a storm in the back I flew over the road, a straight line uspallafa the vast grasslands.

Very bad weather was coming from Chile, but I Lonelt faster than the clouds. The volcano produced huge clouds of dust and ashfall. Photos on the Internet were extreme: According to residents in the affected area you could not see your hands before your eyes. My intended route southward seemed an unpassable road. I decided to cycle wonen over an alternative route to Chile. That was a detour of more than three hundred kilometers, just to circumvent the ash cloud. If the wind would turn, I would still end up in the ash cloud, but that seemed unlikely.

The chance seemed small and it did not happen. But the weather had deteriorated further. The downpours followed each other at a breakneck pace. The stormy winds chased the rain horizontally through and the rain drops hit us;allata projectiles on the Lonely Cyclist. After several long days with strong headwind I reached Puerto Varas. The weather had improved after some very bad days and I had free views on the chain of snowy mountain ridges and volcanoes of the On again, including the still fiercely smoking volcano Puyehue. It is generally known how the Spaniards in current Peru owmen Bolivia had subdued the Incas and other Indian groups, but the fate of the Mapuche of Chile was even more brutal.

Like the tribes in North Ib, they had undergone a nearly complete genocide. Today the Mapuche live mostly in isolated reserves. Partly because people like Katharine nowadays we learn more about their living and thinking. Katharine wore the Mapuche Lonely women in uspallata 'llanka' or pearl. And also the Lonely Cyclist had meanwhile got a Mapuche name: That means literally 'the man who looks bright in the night. The words can be read like someone who has deep contact with his inner dreams and thus looks far ahead. Uspallaha someone who can see in the night. Puyehue, to the volcano that still produced tonnes of smoke above the Chilean-Argentinian border.

Puyehue supposedly smoked a giant peace pipe for the fraternization of the world at large and that of the old enemies Argentina and Chile in particular. At the far southern tip of the island, I had a ferry to catch. I did my Mapuche name little honor. I did not look further than my own nose. A day before I would reach the ferry I heard that I had to be at the ferry two hours before the actual ln. I had a hard headwind i day and I had to race the last hundred kilometers to possibly reach the ferry in time. Afterwards I had plenty of time. It turned out to be completely untrue that I must be present two hours in advance.

Moreover, the boat was four hours too late. Along Fjords and Ice Fields The northern half of Chilean Patagonia is more or less isolated uzpallata the rest of Chile and Argentina by mountains, ice caps and the ocean. The Carretera Austral connects the jspallata and settlements of the sparsely populated area with one another. The road is one of the classic routes for bicycle travelers in South America. The small town was buried under several meters thick layers of ash as a result of a burst of a previously existing volcano in Wo,en community tried to scramble out of the misery. During my presence an ATM was ceremonially opened. A happy event, since the residents had to rely on an ATM five hundred kilometers away the last three years.

The Carretera Austral was largely unpaved, but the road was good and the bike did not sink away in deep layers of sand. I was originally lucky with the weather. It was sunny and warm, where it is usually rainy and cold in Chilean Patagonia. Unveiled by clouds the landscape presented herself in full glory. I could surrender with heart and soul to photographing the mystical beauty of this part of the world that is so difficult to access. I was in a stunning green landscape, untouched by human activity. In Chilean Patagonia are several tree species that are found only in this part of the world.

Jagged rocky mountains with large amounts of snow and ice tower above the green sea of trees. But above all there was water. Gigantic rivers tumbled down from the snowfields, glaciers and ice caps towards the Pacific. I was not the only cyclist in the ever changing landscapes of Chilean Patagonia. Nowhere in the world I met so many bike travelers as on the Carretera Austral. On the whole route I camped only one night on my own. All other nights I had company. I camped once with a couple who had biked a lot in Mongolia. I spent another night with a Venezuelan cyclist. Another night my tent was next to the tent of two handsome Chilean sisters.

The following day we rode together on an alternative route parallel to the Carretera Austral. The road surface was composed of large stones and there were some very steep climbs, but the sisters were extremely sporty and could perform very well in the difficult terrain. Except cyclists there were other travelers too. For transport they had to rely on the good will of the local population. In this sparsely populated part of the world there was hardly any organized public transportation available. In addition to meeting fellow travelers, there was also the loneliness of immense, sprawling landscape. Further to the south the Carretera Austral passed through ever less populated areas.

Once in a hundred kilometers I reached a tiny settlement. I rode along to Lago General Carrera, a turquoise lake that stretches far beyond the Argentinian border and cycled along Chile's largest river, the fast-flowing Rio Baker. The Carretera Austral led to Cochrane, which calls itself the new frontier of Chile. It was the place where the world more or less ended. South of Cochrane were only two settlements, until two great ice sheets make any land route further south impossible. I headed to another settlement, Villa O'Higgins, at the end of the Carretera Austral, two hundred thirty gravel kilometers south of Cochrane. The last part of the Carretera Austral would be the most lonely part of the route.

I anxiously looked forward to the last part of the legendary route. The daily breaking burs from my carrier began to seriously worry me. The carrier was severely damaged by a number of large cracks by now. Various hose clamps held the construction still together, but every day new sidecracks emerged. I had to ensure that at least the carrier would not degrade completely before arriving in more inhabited areas where I could organize a solution. The first day between Cochrane and Villa O'Higgins went smoothly. Until the day ended in a terrible downpour. It was the first really bad day on the Carretera Austral.

I saw the storm coming so I could just in time find a suitable campsite. I put up my tent next to an Austrian group. The three cyclists were each in their seventies years old. Despite the massive amounts of rain the old adventurers were still a heartwarming, positive spirit. While I set up my tent in the rain, I saw three pairs happy eyes through the cracks of the tent. The senior cyclists asked if I needed help. I declined; they would just get wet. In five minutes I had put up my tent and everyone withdrew to his tent. Because I had already counted on bad weather, I had enough food with me that I did not have to cook. So while the rain hit the tent I was comfortable eating tuna, peanuts, chocolate and dried peaches in my tent and so all necessary nutrients were complemented again.

The next morning it was still raining cats and dogs. I grabbed all my wet stuff together and cycled further towards Villa O'Higgins. I reached the mouth of the Rio Baker. The river worked its way in mighty meanders between the steep mountainside in its rush down to the Pacific. The landscape was even greener than the rainforests of Ecuador. Everywhere water clashed down from waterfalls, coming from the mist-shrouded mountain slopes above. Not only the rivers and waterfalls carried massive quantities of water downwards, also many a torrential shower delivered a big contribution on the already wet landscape. In the icy cold downpours I climbed steeply to a small pass between the basins of the Rio Baker and the Rio Bravo.

A beautiful but also an intensely cold and horriby wet experience. I descended to the mouth of the Rio Bravo, where a ferry had to take me to the other side. The ferry would only go once or twice a day on a rather flexible and utterly unknown schedule. So I had to wait for an unknown time to cross the river. I had heard of fellow bike travelers that there was a cafe where they could serve very nice Kuchens with equally tasty empanadas and great coffee. To my relief the cafe turned to be open. I only had to replace a freshly broken nut of my carrier. I was just busy when I had to remove the whole repair stuff, because the owner of the cafe thought that it was in the way for customers who wanted to go inside - customers that were non-existing.

I was all alone, let alone a group of construction workers. The men of the construction were busy building a concrete quay for the ferries. Despite my intense numb hands I had reapaired my bike after fifteen minutes. I could finally go warm up in the cafe. To my surprise the door appeared to be locked. I looked through the window to see what was going on. I could not discern any sign of life anymore. The manager apparently found no reason to keep his business open. Too bad for the manager because I would be a very good customer for him.

But far worse for me, because this cafe would probably be the only place in three days where I had an opportunity to warm and dry myself and my luggage. Who did not mourn for this little personal drama were the construction workers. They did not work in the rain and they were sheltering under a roof in a closed and for me unreachable place. To the amusement of the men they did have a dry place where I absolutely did not have a place to shelter. The five centimeter wide overhang of the cafe was totally inadequate for the icy rain drops that floated with high horizontal speed. While the Lonely Cyclist tried to defy the raging storm and the successive and mercilessly cold, heavy rainstorms, the construction workers had the time of their lives.

It may be spiritually inferior to distract pleasure from the suffering of your fellow man, but that surely did not spoil the party by any means. They were laughing continuously, seeing how the Lonely Cyclist suffered from the cold rain. And even funnier was that they did not do anything to help the Lonely Cyclist in his ordeal. The malicious pleasure proved an endless source of joy. When after three hours the ferry finally arrived, it was the signal for the final joke of the construction workers. On their ease they came from their shelter and walked to the cafe. To my surprise, the doors were opened for the workers. Long will the construction workers tell to audiences at parties about this precious day in their lives.

The day that they saw the Lonely Cyclist suffering in the little harbor. If the people, despite new laughter, would still look with glassy eyes, the construction workers would confess that they had waited deliberately to go to the cafe until the ferry came to make sure that the cafe would remain closed for the Lonely Cyclist until he was on board, so that he could not be able to warm up and moreover, he would not be able to eat too. Probably, at this point of the story, they could not keep their eyes dry from laughter and tears of joy wouldd be rolling down their cheeks. If they would still meet incomprehension from the audience, they would say: When the ferry reached the other side, it was still raining.

I was removed another hundred kilometers from civilization, as far as you can call a totally isolated settlement civilization. I would not be able to reach Villa O'Higgins today. Still, I wanted to cycle as long as it continued to rain. If the sun would break through, if only for a small moment, I had a chance to dry my luggage a little bit while I was riding. After many hours of cycling through wind, cold and rain, it became clear that it would not get dry today no more. I was stiff frozen after an afternoon of icy rains. Further cycling in the rain would result in even number fingers, so that I might have problems setting up my tent.

I pulled the brakes at eight o'clock in the evening. I had progressed well. It was only thirty kilomters from here to Villa O'Higgins. Setting up my tent seemed hardly possible. I could barely move my wet, numb fingers. After a three quarter slog my tent finally pitched. Inside the tent it was not warmer than outside. Everything was wet. Even my sleeping bag was no longer dry. At least two hours I lay in my sleeping bag with chattering teeth, before I got back some body heat. After that I had a reasonably good night's sleep. The next day I reached Villa O'Higgins, a hamlet of inhabitants, but with all the facilities that I needed.

Shivering, I snuggled at the burning fireplace, that I would not depart the rest of the day. Or at least a dead-end of the world as it is almost completely enclosed between ice sheets and large lakes. Still, for cyclists there is a way out, albeit an obscure and very uncomfortable way. A ferry took me across the length of Lago O'Higgins.

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On the other side of the tens of kilometers long lake was a 22 kilometer connecting road to the Argentinian Lago del Desierto. This lake could be crossed with a ferry too. The first Chilean sixteen kilometers of the connecting road between the lakes were a cross something in between a jeep track and a footpath. The tiny terrain carts of the Chilean customs were the only motorized vehicles that were powerful and agile enough to use the track. I was sometimes barely able to cycle, but often I had to push the bike. How difficult this process was, I was at least moving forward.

The remaining six Argentine kilometers proved that that even this basic requirement was not fulfilled. An overgrown trail of ten centimeters wide zigzagged through the dense forest. Trees lay horizontally across the walkway or formed such a narrow passage that even walking with the bike was an extremely complicated task. Even if the bike was stripped of all luggage, there was no getting through. I had arranged to climb with the bike on my back over the fallen trees. With four panniers, a handlebar bag and a large bag with my tent, sleeping bag and mat, this was a logistical nightmare. It meant that I had to cover the same distance five times.

First with my bike plus handlebar bag, then walk back, then with my two rear bags, then walk back, then with my bags plus tent bag. I was not quite having a great time and if God exists, I hope that he has not listened to what I currently had to report. Eventually I reached the ferry with all my luggage, soaked with sweat. I had all the luck in the world that the ferry was delayed, otherwise I had to wait a full day to the next crossing. Just in time I could jump on board. An hour later I was on the other side of Lago del Desierto, where I immediately took possession of a beautiful camping site. The weather was gorgeous.

I met some comrades whom I knew from my route through Chile on the Carretera Austral. Together we camped at the foot of the Fitz Roy, a famous mountaing in the history of alpinism and one of the most impressive mountains of the world. The next morning we got up early. With my Israeli friends and an Austrian woman I experienced the sunrise over the mythical mountain.

The granite obelisk of the Loenly Roy reflected in the calm water of the glacial lake. The rock towers and mountain lake colored from pink to orange to red. For several minutes the world around us was bathing in a fiery orange-red light. Everything had the same unearthly color, as if the world was in a kind of celestial harmony for ib brief moment. Thankful we underwent the poetic beauty of the moment. We descended to the campsite, where we parted. Through forests of Coigue trees and the in all directions growing Lenga trees I walked in a few hours to another glacial lake at the foot of Cerro Torre.

The lonely rock tower of the Cerro Torre stuck out like a pool cue more than thousand meters up from the surrounding glacier landscape. The tip of kn cue consisted of gleaming ice, caused by the frigid jet winds that blow around the peak. I climbed to the glacial lake at the foot of the granite rock tower. A few icebergs were floating in the glacial lake, uspallaha from the glacier that ends in the lake. It was the second moment of iconic beauty that I experienced this morning. The Loney Moreno Glacier, with its crumbling ice mass, is one Lonely women in uspallata the most impressive natural phenomena womwn our planet. In Lonelyy days I cycled to El Calafate over the windswept pampas and subsequently up to the glacier.

The Perito Moreno Glacier is several kilometers wide, many kilometers long and tens of meters high. A massive wall of ice woken white and blue. The wind blew some rain and snow showers over the uzpallata crevices cleft ice sheet. Lago Argentino was packed with ice floes in all possible dimensions. The icebergs were literally falling from the sky. Slabs of ice as big as apartment buildings broke down and collapsed with a thunderous crashing into the icy waters of Lago Argentino. I cycled on the Ruta 40 in the direction of Puerto Natales in Chile. The loneliest womeen of the world begins more than five thousand kilometers north, in the sweltering heat of the north, and runs south to the icy southern tip of mainland Argentina.

As strong as the climatic conditions change from north kspallata south, so little variation offers the landscape of infinite pampas. In the north of Argentina I uspallaya three hundred uspalllata over the Ruta kn at temperatures of above forty degrees. Now I was back on the Ruta 40 in the extreme south uspallzta Argentina and it was barely ten degrees. With the perpetual storms that rage over Patagonia, it felt much colder. Ruta 40 was largely unpaved in the south and there were no villages, no rivers, no trees and no people. I had to rely my own stocks. I cycled through a landscape that did not have any visual beacons, except for the road that was leading to an imaginary point on the horizon.

All hspallata experiences of the surrounding emptiness were offset by the concentration that I needed to find a route between the large rocks on the road. In addition, I had to brave the daily storms, that chase over the pampas. After a hundred kilometers, I left the Ruta I crossed the border with Chile where the pampas made way for the mountains of the Andes. By far the most famous phenomenon of the extreme south of Chile are the Torres del Paine, a massif of vertical walls and rock needles that emerge from the pampas as if from out of nowhere.

I cycled in a bow around the massif and after crossing a minor mountain range I reached Puerto Natales in the far south of the South American continent. Since recently, a large fire had destroyed half of the nature so a multi-day trek seemed a bit too much. I was richly rewarded for my laziness. On the tour I met the fifty year old American motorcycle traveler Robert and the Chilean painter and saleswoman Margarita. Margarita mastered the art of temptation to perfection and flirted with delight. The two men let it all happen. So it happened that I was in one of the most beautiful places of the Earth, but that I had very little eye for it.

After dinner Robert said goodbye. Margarita and I visited a cafe, where we sat down on a luxury sofa. A CD of Amy Winehouse provided the musical background. Through the window we saw the nightlife passing by. We saw a man of about fifty, with stoical look, completely cut off from the outside world. At that time a woman cycled along with an intensely desolate expression in her eyes. It looked like there had not happened a whole lot of fun in her life for a very long time. I felt compassion for the lonely woman: You must move a way forward. A man with an intensely bored face walked in our view.

W laughed at the same time. Margaritas eyes were tightly fixed on my eyes. For a timeframe that could have been both a fraction of a second as an eternity our eyes were caught in each others. I took her in my arms. The cafe was closing. We said goodbye and through the night streets of Puerto Natales I walked back to my hotel. After the romantic evening on the sofa followed the solitude. Two hundred fifty kilometers separated me from Punta Arenas and the Strait of Magellan, in the extreme south of mainland South America. Nowhere was the blowing harder than in Patagonia and the more south, the more extreme is the wind.

At the moments that I had tailwind, I rode forty kilometers an hour over the empty landscape. If there was headwind, I had a pace of at most ten to twelve kilometers per hour. I needed an incredible effort to merely move forward. The landscape consisted of pampas, hundreds of kilometers of vast plains without trees and flowers, without cities and towns. It was home to the mysterious Nandu, the South American variant of the Ostrich. Like the ostrich, the Nandu has got big wings, and like the ostrich, the nandu cannot use them to fly. The need to fly is very little though, since the environment is the same everywhere.

Pampas, pampas and more pampas. Besides the birds with the useless wings, there was nothing to see. On the other side, I could see Tierra del Fuego, more extensive pampas. In Punta Arenas I emailed Margarita. I asked if she wanted to come to me. I attached a photo of two kissing penguins. One day later she had traveled to me and we were together at the end of the world. First day in the bike after long time, I could manage it. Thanks for the track drivers for doing suck big job to cheer me up especial in turf up hills. In the mountain, lonely house with no real sign of life make me scared a bit any ways I pop in after several calling old fat women show up bit serious. Parttariollos has magnificent view of blue lake in the middle of mountains, it was down hill to the small town.

I had lots of expectation the town but my expectation proved to be total wrong, at fuel station it central of everything. At 3pm, 40 centigrade there were nothing open you can hardly tell if there are people in those few houses or no. Had two sandwich with coke then I realize how hungry and tired I was as I state to fall asleep. Half a hour of rest then keep on rolling with no much expectations of landscape changers. The road change instead of going direct to the mountain it keeps on meander with river Mendoza. From kmph I was doing in the up hills now it 30kmph. The last 15km I did with extra energyimagination of cold drinks and sleeping in worm sleeping bag.

Pueblo translate literally as village which for me turns to be village. At the camp the middle aged woman with professional tone answer my question of prices 15 Pesos, then after seen I pay much attention to sad Parrot in the cage she start to lecture me but as like she read my mind that I will prefer to see that creature flying free she suggest me to have a drink. She has only cold beer but that is out of my budget but the mama wanted to see me cheered up so she offered it for half price, 1 lt. Spaghetti and tune made dinner while Mountainsmith tent proved comfortable house.

Uspallata-Las Cuevas. I left the camp at 8: I saw the sign of internet in small house, pop in and all over sadden I was connected with the rest of world. They start shouting, sing and spray the white stuff to me, some jump out for more spray. The police track which was close by jump in and fiesta guys took off throwing out my stuff but not the camera. West couples of hours with police but there were no sign of further help any ways they promise that if the recover it they will send it to me. It happens several times in Mendoza on those endless festivals which always close the streets or swam the parks and sideways.

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