The Moreno glacier is alive as it creaks audibly, the streams of ice flowing at a pace so slow only stop motion photography can do it justice. Granite weighing hundreds of tones found in the Peak District, is know to originate from the Scottish highlands, carried south as the end of the last ice age. Famously in Chamonix, a plane mysteriously disappeared in the mountains, only to reappear decades later at the foot of a glacier, the crew perfectly preserved. The pilots brothers, in his autumn years, was asked to identify the body, commenting later that it was like starring back in time, as his brother had not aged a day since the disappearance. The Moreno glacier is very light turquoise, with subtle variations in shade catching the early morning sun and as the face warms, gradually crumbling, to join the iceberg already flowing slowly down steam. The dramatic natural setting, along with the accessibility makes the glacier quiet ore inspiring, as it snakes away down the mountainside grinding the rock below.

I’m not sure if Routa 40 was ever built or just evolved through a constant stream of pioneers searching for tracks south. It’s as if, inspired by David Lynch´s “Straight story”, someone has driven bulldozer from one end of the country to the other, exposing the soils beneath. The south of Argentina is still very wild, with a landscape that changes rapidly. The ripio at first is flat and compacted, stretching out across the pampas grassland scrub, but the challenge comes when the road begin to rise and fall, with steep sharp bends following the natural contours of the hills. Parts of the road are rutted, washed out by the rain, with deep pockets of sand and gravel that catch me out regularly, the bike wobbling to the point where I almost lose it. The sculpted landscape is almost unreal, colourful soils exposed with spectral colours repeated randomly, one hill will be shades of purple and pink, another covered entirely in green bracken, the next peat brown. There is little sign of any human life for hundreds of miles, with dust rising from the road in the distance every few hours to signal an approaching pick up. I can tell when I’m close to a remote outpost, as cattle start to appear, accompanied sometimes, by gauchos – Argentine cowboys - on horse back, whips in hand, dogs at their feet, herding their live stock. Small groups of Guanaco – a light brown lama with a white underbelly, that with all other lamas is a member of the camel family - graze on the arid scrub or in oasis like meadows that appear occasionally. As I spot three or four ahead I slow down, edging forward until I’m spotted, off they bound, bar one who stares, mesmerised, his head tilted slightly, until it suddenly occurs to him “…you might eat me”, he then scarpers to catch the others. The road starts to rise again as hills appear either side covered with light coloured grasses. I can see a couple emus in the distance, but not close enough to get a good look, until the road rounds a blind bend to reveal a slightly started bird. I slow down as it begins to run in front like a motorcycle outrider, trapped momentarily by a steep bank on either side of the road, it does a waggle of its plumage as it occasionally changes track, it’s head turning back, eyes bulging, the bank then flatten out, allowing the bird to stride off. As the hours pass the terrain gradually becomes semi desert, I seem to be riding through a very arid dark brown canyon, something quiet small is waddling across the road, as I get closer I can see it’s an armadillo. I stop and get off the bike then hesitate, I know where I am with most animals, but an armadillo, he might want to eat me.

Tress largos is a tiny dusty outpost on Routa 40, sheltered by a few hills stemming the Patagonian winds. My bike is running on fumes as I pull up by a couple of rusting old pumps standing outside next to a few simple buildings. There is no one about so I walk over to the cabin close by, out front are two battered old pickups and a horse grazing. In side a couple of gauchos are sitting on stools at the far end room at a bar, playing cards, while the rest of the room has dark wooden shelves with supplies, what look like home made saddles, shawls, blankets and knives, tables and chairs fill the remaining floor space, as an old television shows the footballs through a haze of static snow. I’m not sure what the owner’s saying, but it seem welcoming, I sit down, as they continue to play dice, slamming down the cup and shouting. After about 20 minutes I wander out to the pumps with the proprietor, fill the bike with petrol and asking if it’s OK to camp on the grass. There’s an evening breeze, so I shelter the tent from the wind behind a wall, only for it to change direction once I’m pitched. Oh well, I’m not moving, so I head back to the bar to watch the rest of the game with an ice cold beer and giant Lomos – stake sandwich with cheese and ham, before retiring to flapping hell to ponder a question that’s occurred to me. I’ve heard a lot of good music in Argentina, there was a great alternative station in Buenos Aires a bit like XFM, plus there’s strong Latin vibe, but recently I’ve heard a disproportionate amount of Phil Collins, come to think of it, the young emo goths running the Internet cafe in the northern metropolis had no signs angst as the radio played a Collins track, then it occurred to me, perhaps Phil Colins has died!