Pucón and Why I Never Want to Ride a Bike Again

Nov 29th & 30th, 2010

After 3 days back in Santiago, I was ready to hit the road again. My bags had FINALLY arrived from the airport (after wasting many thousands of pesos waiting on hold to have 3 frustrating conversations in Spanish about why my possessions were not arriving) I was ready to set off. I had a new travel companion, Patrick, whom I had met in the hostel in Santiago before I left for Peru. It was my last week in the city and his first, and for some strange reason I threw out the offer of traveling in the South with me. For some stranger reason he decided to accept, and three weeks later, there we were.

Our first overnight bus was to the town of Pucón, about 11 hours south. Aside from an overhead bin sounding like it was about to come crashing down every time we went over a bump, the trip was pretty uneventful. I slept beautifully through it, as per usual, to the chagrin of my friend who has not yet mastered the art of being able to fall asleep anywhere, at the drop of a hat.


Pucón was bright and sunny when we arrived at 9am, with the chill in the air that lets you know you are in a ski town, even when it is technically summer. We walked the length of the town a couple of times in 15 minutes, had breakfast, checked out the lake, settled into a comfy hostel, and stopped to get information on the activity that drew us there- climbing the volcano that loomed over the town. It was too late to go that day- climbs start at about 7am, and was supposed to rain the next. The dude in the shop (no matter where in the world you go, I swear there will always be "dudes". This one was French, but no matter) guilt tripped us into doing something that day, so as not to waste the nice weather. Fair play to him, really, but his #1 suggestion was an "easy bike ride" over to a lake. Conveniently, his friend across the street could rent us the bikes. He also assured us it would be a lovely, scenic, mostly flat with a few hills at the end kind of ride. It should take about 4 hours, maybe 5 depending how much time we wanted to spend at the lake. We asked for a map and he gave us some line about not wasting paper- but offered to take a picture of the map on the wall with my camera so we could check the image as we went. Brilliant. He handed us a pump and a spare tube, promised we wouldn't need them, and off we went.
To preface this adventure, a few weeks before I had ridden down Volcano Chachani in Peru, which had been advertised for anyone of a moderate fitness level and could control a bicycle. On this particular trek at high elevation (over 19,000ft at the top!!), I thought my lungs would never inflate again, I fell off about 3 times and still had the cuts on my hands to prove it, and I got sick and also couldn't walk the next day. When Patrick and I had been making plans and talking about what we wanted to do, my one rule had been- no biking. First day, what do we do? Get on bikes. Fool me twice...


The ride started out fairly innocently. The highway out of town seemed to take a while and when we hit the gravel road it was kind of a pain to ride over (both literally and figuratively) but it was flat and the scenery was amazing. We crossed a river surrounded by wildflowers, had a great view of Volcán Villarrica smoking away, snow capped mountains, grassy fields. And then we hit the first hill. It was so steep they had to put cement tracks down so cars could drive up it. And then the next hill. And the next. I lost count of how many times I got off and walked that bike- pushed it, really. The downhill bits were really no better- they were steep and windy and lose gravely, and I had visions of going face first over the handle bars. Luckily I kept my terror in check and my face in one piece.


It was almost 2 hours before we reached the first point of interest, Los Ojos de Caburgua, which turned out to be a beautiful blue lagoon with 5 waterfalls dumping into it. Pat decided to jump in, and I probably should have too, if only to try and numb my muscles for the rest of the trip. We wound up on the highway and, after one last mighty hill (I hated those dudes in Pucón with my entire being) we made it to the lake. Which was lovely and idyllic, something out of the Sound of Music with the beautiful mountains framing it as the sun lowered in the sky. We chatted with a fellow cyclist who appeared to be an actual cyclist- he thought it was tough, but I don't think he was hating his life quite so much- took a few photos, and got back on the road.


Until I realized I had a flat tire. Then we got off the road and tried to change it but neither of us had a clue how to properly do that, so we just pumped it up like mad and hoped for the best. We took the highway home which was smoother and flatter, but longer. 26km long, to be exact. I was not above throwing the bike in some bushes and hitching a ride back, and apparently Patrick was thinking the same thing, but we were too polite (at that point) to start whinging. So, unfortunately, we rode the whole way back. The last few kilometers I really thought I might cry I was so tired and painful and angry, but at last we pulled up, dumped the bikes, silenced the dude who started to ask how the trip went with death stares, and stumbled across the street to a place that advertised happy hour and Mexican food. Perfect.

A couple of cold beers and a few plates of fajitas later, I felt like I was out of the woods (it was touch and go for a while there). We hung out, slouched on the sofa-like bench, until we figured we had to get up or we would really end up spending the night there. Back in the hostel- luckily just a block away- I was asleep before I had even stopped talking.