Reflections from my expedition to Patagonia in 2026

Final Frontier Patagonia 2026

This was my most ambitious expedition yet, traveling through the heart of Patagonia’s wilderness. The journey was full of incredible moments and landscapes I’ll never forget.

March 8, Puerto Montt

On March 8th, 2026, after six months of preparing, the trip finally started. I arrived in Puerto Montt at 7:00 AM, an hour before we were supposed to head out. I used that time to make a final call home, have one last coffee, and try to get my head in the right space.

The morning was surprisingly quiet. A heavy, cold fog was rolling in off the bay, and you could just feel the tension among the 100 riders. People were helping each other check gear and sharing quiet smiles, but beneath that, everyone was a mix of excited and nervous—you could see it in the tears and the laughter.

When it was time to go, the atmosphere shifted instantly. There was a huge cheer, and we started moving out in a massive flow of overloaded bikes. In that moment, all the nerves vanished and I just had a huge smile on my face. The trip was actually happening.

The first 140 kilometers

The first day was relatively easy. We rode 140km of rolling coastal roads with great views of the sea. The sun was out and the weather was warm, which made it easy to settle into a rhythm. My heart was pounding, but mostly from pure excitement.

This was the only day we all traveled together. We reached our first ferry as a group, which was the last time we’d have a shared destination. After that, everyone split up to follow their own plans and paces.

A campsite negotiation

The day ended with a bit of a mess. We arrived at our campsite exhausted and soaked from the rain, only to find it was fully booked.

Since I speak Spanish, I stepped in to talk to the campsite manager for the group. After some negotiating, I managed to convince him to let us camp there for a few hours, promising we’d leave early the next morning. We eventually settled in, tired and wet, mostly just talking about the views we’d seen and complaining about the rain. It was a good moment of camaraderie before we all went our separate ways.

The bliss of independence

The first few days felt amazing. After months of planning, finally being alone in these landscapes made me happier than I’ve ever been. The bike was heavy, but the feeling of freedom was even stronger.

Everything became very simple: just pedaling, eating, and sleeping. All the stress from work and daily life just disappeared. I felt completely free, doing exactly what I love.

Rainy encounters

On the second day, things got a bit tougher. I was riding alone through a wet rainforest when I ran into a couple and their four-year-old child on two heavily loaded bikes. We stopped under a shelter to have some coffee and talk.

They had been traveling for three years, moving south from Colombia. They were so calm and happy, and their kid was actually really funny. We spent an hour chatting while waiting for the rain to stop. It was a great reminder that the journey isn’t just about the distance, but the people you meet along the way.

Gravel and grit

The honeymoon phase ended on Day 6. We underestimated the “big climb” ahead of us.

I was riding with a new friend, Volker, and having him there made a huge difference. We faced 100km of rough gravel that turned out to be much harder than we expected. There were no places to get food or water, and we ended up having to hike and push our bikes through steep, loose sections for as long as 10km at a time. It took us 9.5 hours just to cover 60km.

To keep from losing it, we just used bad jokes and laughter to get through the fatigue. We shared candy, took silly photos, and made coffee whenever we could. It was how we survived the day.

When we finally reached the first village, we were exhausted but happy. We practically emptied the local shop of empanadas. The shopkeeper even laughed at how hungry we were. After a day of living on candy and smashed sandwiches, that real food felt incredible. We still had 20km to go, but the hardest part was over.

Cerro Castillo

After the gravel, I took a rest day in Coyhaique to wait for Valentine to join me. Once we left for Villa Cerro Castillo, the weather turned. It was overcast, cold, and the temperature started dropping toward zero.

The climb toward Cerro Castillo was a struggle. It got freezing and started raining/slushing, which made the cold even worse. Right as I started the descent, I hit a mental wall. A silly phone call had distracted me and pulled my head back into everyday stresses, and suddenly I felt completely overwhelmed.

Being alone in the cold, wet landscape, I just felt broken. I started walking and pushing my bike, trying to find the strength to keep going. But after a bit, I realized that nothing was actually wrong—I was just having a moment. I regained my focus, pushed through, and met up with Valentine at the destination. We spent the night in a hostel, and I realized that being able to pull yourself out of those mental lows is just as important as the physical riding.

Passo Roballo

The transition to Argentina was a race. We reached the Chilean side of the Passo Roballo border at 7:00 PM, just in time. We rode as fast as we could through the 10km of “no man’s land” and made it into Argentina right at the deadline.

It was past 8:00 PM, dark, and we still had about 70km of bad road ahead before the next village. We were already 10 hours into the day, the wind was picking up, and it felt like rain was coming. We decided it was smarter to camp right there in the dark.

The next morning, I woke up in a desert of clay, and it started raining. I knew immediately what that meant: the worst mud of my life. The last 5km before the village took us three hours. The wheels were stuck, everything was covered in mud, and we had to push the bikes because they wouldn’t even roll. It was exhausting, but surprisingly, I didn’t lose my cool.

Once we reached the village, a local family welcomed us into their bakery. They gave us a warm meal and let us clean up our gear so we could finally get into our hotel for the night.

We had survived the mud, but the real challenge was just beginning. We were in the Argentinian Pampa, and the vastness of the Santa Cruz province was about to test us in a different way.

The Pampa

The scale of the Pampa really hit me after I left Gobernador Gregores. I was riding solo now, having lost contact with the main group, and the isolation started to feel heavy.

I booked a transfer from Tres Lagos to get through some restricted desert areas, but the weather was terrible. Leaving Tres Lagos, it was raining, freezing, and I was facing a massive headwind. Eventually, the wind turned to my side, but it was so strong I could barely keep the bike moving at 6 km/h. Then the rain started again.

I was exhausted and my mind was starting to slip. I found a water drain and hid in it just to get out of the wind and eat. After about 10km of pushing on, I just had enough. It wasn’t fun anymore, and the landscape wasn’t giving anything back. I decided to stop the bike, flag down a car, and ask for a lift to El Calafate.

I wasn’t defeated, though. I felt good about the progress I’d made and the fact that I’d pushed myself so far. I knew if I came back, I’d do it better prepared.

This entry was originally published in July 2026.