The tip of Argentina and Chile is split territorially, the boarder running like the central vein on a leaf. At the bottom is the remote Island of Tierra del Fuego, where the divide continues. Famous for Puerto Williams, base camp to numerous Antarctic expeditions and Ushuaia, the most southerly city in the world. Ushuaia is set on the banks of a natural harbour, surrounded by snow caped mountains. Reminiscent of the small out post featured in “Northern Exposure”, with its simple corrugated houses painted bright colours and steep banking hills, rising up. The area is being developed, with tourism “...on the riser”, ski and boarding runs are opening up as new lifts are built. La Pista Andino camping is set at the foot of a ski lift, with a piste basher sitting on the lush green grass and horses tethered halfway up the piste. I pitch my tent in the wooded area, to shelter from the winds, summer is well on its way here, but in Patagonia it’s not uncommon to experience every season in a day.

The weather forecast for the next few days is snow followed by high winds and rain, so to avoid being hemmed in on the island I get up early to break camp, Michelle and Mike are tracking back to pick up tyres, so I´ll be on my own. It’s been a cold night so I warm my self by the wood burning stove in the campsites kitchen cabin, just long enough for large crisp snow flakes to start falling; the odd thing is, there are blue skies visible just beyond. I fire up the bike and head North East towards the only pass through the mountains, as I climb the snow becomes heavier and the temperature plummets. A week or two ago in Buenos Aires in the sweltering midday sun and to the amusement of the female shop assistant, I’d brought some white “Steptoe & son” long johns, which I now have on with a pair of jeans and waterproof trousers . I have three long sleeved t-shirts, a fleece, then my bike jackets, two pairs of socks, boots, a snood around my neck, gloves and a helmet. The snow sometimes becomes sleety which is worse than snow, as sleet can not be brushed off the visor, instead it smears with the same affect as put on a pair of glasses with thick lenses. As I continue to climb the inside of the helmet steams up, I try to flip the visor up to wipe it, but it’s frozen shut as the temperature has now dropped. I don’t really feel the cold, except for my knees which take the brunt of the strong icy wind. Beyond a few outposts, the island is empty, except for a few ranches. As I begin to descend from the pass the sun comes out, just in time for the asphalt to become ripio. I’ve heard the road to Parvetir is paved, so for a bit of variety and feeling a little mediumcore, I swing left. I’m looking to cover around 200 miles, but should be able to make up quite a bit of time on the tarmaced road. The territorial line may split the Island, but the road ignores this, so in a day you can cross from Argentina into Chile, and then back again, all within in a few hours. It’s just 142km to the port in Parvetir and the promise of covered roads does not materialise. The repeo is in full affect and the sunshine has given way to high winds, snow, them hailstone which look a bit like polystyrene balls. The road is undulating as it is bending, the texture a partially frozen slushy sand. Suddenly after a steep declined the road is literally “the beach”, it’s so close you can almost reach out and touch the icy waters. The snow is setting on the beach road and I’m beginning to wonder if I have taken a wrong turn, it seems slightly ridicules, trucks surly wouldn’t drive across this. I’ve now been on the road for around six hours. Since the ripio started I’ve seen one truck, there’s been no other traffic and I know I’ve got enough fuel left to reach Parvetir, but if I´m on the wrong road, I could be in trouble. I´ve calculated it’s around 40km to go, so all I can really do is carry on and hope for the best. As the road rises again it becomes lose and I’m riding at a 50 degrees lean into the wind to remain upright. I’m quiet enjoying the uncertainty, but once the 40km are completed with no sign of the port town, I start to worry. Up in the hills the snow has settled on the ripio, the cold has penetrated beyond my knees and the thought of a warm refuge is in the forefront on my mind as in the distance Parvetir appears. I quickly find a small family pension to stay at and without any supper, after a shower, get into bed with extra blankets. After around fifteen minutes I’m nice and warm, except for my knees, which are still only partially defrosted. Tiera Del Fuago – Island of Fire, I´m might have to write to the ministers of tourism about a possible name change.