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In the race for the South Pole, the contenders were a well-prepared but boring Norwegian by the name of Amundsen and a passionate but unprepared Englishman by the name of Robert Falcon Scott, who also happened to be the better writer.
Amundsen tested his methods over the course of years. His journalistic style reflects this view of his trip. It is technical, downplays hardship, and is intensely self-critical. Whenever he encountered a problem, he would soul search and try to see how he could avoid it in the future.
Scott was out on a quest for British glory. He was unprepared and uninterested in technical details, but intensely passionate about the goal. His journal reads like a best-selling novel, complete with last minute escapes, near disaster, her highness the queen, God, and the British Empire.
Amundsen made it to the South Pole and back. He saw little to no hardship. He had no crises. Years of training meant he was so well prepared that he actually gained weight on the trip.
Scott made it to the South Pole. Then he died mile a few miles from one of his supply depots on the way back, after running out of food, fuel and water.
Then there is Shackleton - a third would-be contender, who is famous for having the preparedness of Amundsen but with worse luck. He tried to cross Antarctica, and failed after his ship was trapped and destroyed by pack ice.
However, his appreciation for risk management and having a ¨Plan B¨ meant that he and his crew survived almost 3 years in the Arctic before eventually making it back to the South Georgia Islands.
As they say, if your expedition account reads like a Hollywood thriller - running out of water, near death experiences, etc. - either you are grossly exaggerating, or you are doing something very wrong.
And, despite my best efforts to emulate Amundsen, I had my first Shackleton experience on the trip.
I had food, water, gas and shelter. What I didn´t have was an accurate map of Argentina. And what Argentina didn´t have was well signed roads.
I was planning to take a side road northwest of Mendoza -to cut some travel time and avoid traffic through the major cities. My map said there was a paved road leading back to Ruta Cuarenta, the main stretch of north south highway here.
I followed my map. I confirmed by asking people for directions. When it felt wrong, I asked a toothless old man in a village. He said I was going the right way. Then I flagged down a truck. The driver said it was ¨just a few kilometers, to the right, and on a windy road¨ to Ruta Cuarenta.
But then, inexplicably, I realized I was lost.
I found myself in the middle of the desert, with 46 kilometers to go on the worst roads imaginable life. This was the kind of road I saw in movies on motorcycle travel and would cringe and ooh and ahh at how people got their bikes through. It was a mess of boulders, sand, creek beds and washed out tire tracks.
It was 4PM, I had 4 hours of daylight left and I wasn´t sure the signposted 46 kilometers meant anything.
At least the weather was good. But as I crossed another pass the sunshine turned to heavy fog, and every time I crossed a pass, thinking the hoped-for road was just beyond, it was just more terrible road to the horizon, when there was a horizon. I did 10-15 kilometers an hour, fighting with my loaded bike through unimaginably bad roads.
Three times, despite trying my hardest, I lost control and wound up in the dirt. Three times I had to undo my luggage, pick up my bike, strap on my luggage, and keep going.
Plan B, if it got dark, was to camp in the wilderness.
The story had a happy ending - I wrestled my bike through riverbed after riverbed and, just as dark was approaching, I saw headlights in the distance and realized I had made it. Other than a few scratches, the bike was undamaged. And, other than some fatigue and frayed nerves, so was I.
But, it could have been worse. What if I had hurt my leg? What if the bike wouldn´t have started after I had dropped it?
I finally got a better map (my third!) which indicated that I had missed a turn off. I had followed a paved road, which eventually ended and continued as dirt to where I had wound up. The ¨paved¨ road I wanted was actually under construction. It was unpaved at the turn off - it would have improved in a few miles and taken me to where I needed to go.
What lessons did I learn? First of all, never, ever, take the road less traveled when you are truly in no man´s land. Maps in this part of the world are, at best, ¨directionally correct, ¨and at worst completely wrong. Locals often have no idea where roads go, because they they usually take buses instead of driving themselves. Signposts are hit or miss. Motorcycling around Latin America is exciting enough without that added risk.
Second, if you feel lost, and the road makes you nervous, turn back. Your downside is a few hours of backtracking. The downside to being lost in these huge landscapes is much, much more serious.
In the race for the South Pole, the contenders were a well-prepared but boring Norwegian by the name of Amundsen and a passionate but unprepared Englishman by the name of Robert Falcon Scott, who also happened to be the better writer.
Amundsen tested his methods over the course of years. His journalistic style reflects this view of his trip. It is technical, downplays hardship, and is intensely self-critical. Whenever he encountered a problem, he would soul search and try to see how he could avoid it in the future.
Scott was out on a quest for British glory. He was unprepared and uninterested in technical details, but intensely passionate about the goal. His journal reads like a best-selling novel, complete with last minute escapes, near disaster, her highness the queen, God, and the British Empire.
Amundsen made it to the South Pole and back. He saw little to no hardship. He had no crises. Years of training meant he was so well prepared that he actually gained weight on the trip.
Scott made it to the South Pole. Then he died mile a few miles from one of his supply depots on the way back, after running out of food, fuel and water.
Then there is Shackleton - a third would-be contender, who is famous for having the preparedness of Amundsen but with worse luck. He tried to cross Antarctica, and failed after his ship was trapped and destroyed by pack ice.
However, his appreciation for risk management and having a ¨Plan B¨ meant that he and his crew survived almost 3 years in the Arctic before eventually making it back to the South Georgia Islands.
As they say, if your expedition account reads like a Hollywood thriller - running out of water, near death experiences, etc. - either you are grossly exaggerating, or you are doing something very wrong.
And, despite my best efforts to emulate Amundsen, I had my first Shackleton experience on the trip.
I had food, water, gas and shelter. What I didn´t have was an accurate map of Argentina. And what Argentina didn´t have was well signed roads.
I was planning to take a side road northwest of Mendoza -to cut some travel time and avoid traffic through the major cities. My map said there was a paved road leading back to Ruta Cuarenta, the main stretch of north south highway here.
I followed my map. I confirmed by asking people for directions. When it felt wrong, I asked a toothless old man in a village. He said I was going the right way. Then I flagged down a truck. The driver said it was ¨just a few kilometers, to the right, and on a windy road¨ to Ruta Cuarenta.
But then, inexplicably, I realized I was lost.
I found myself in the middle of the desert, with 46 kilometers to go on the worst roads imaginable life. This was the kind of road I saw in movies on motorcycle travel and would cringe and ooh and ahh at how people got their bikes through. It was a mess of boulders, sand, creek beds and washed out tire tracks.
It was 4PM, I had 4 hours of daylight left and I wasn´t sure the signposted 46 kilometers meant anything.
At least the weather was good. But as I crossed another pass the sunshine turned to heavy fog, and every time I crossed a pass, thinking the hoped-for road was just beyond, it was just more terrible road to the horizon, when there was a horizon. I did 10-15 kilometers an hour, fighting with my loaded bike through unimaginably bad roads.
Three times, despite trying my hardest, I lost control and wound up in the dirt. Three times I had to undo my luggage, pick up my bike, strap on my luggage, and keep going.
Plan B, if it got dark, was to camp in the wilderness.
The story had a happy ending - I wrestled my bike through riverbed after riverbed and, just as dark was approaching, I saw headlights in the distance and realized I had made it. Other than a few scratches, the bike was undamaged. And, other than some fatigue and frayed nerves, so was I.
But, it could have been worse. What if I had hurt my leg? What if the bike wouldn´t have started after I had dropped it?
I finally got a better map (my third!) which indicated that I had missed a turn off. I had followed a paved road, which eventually ended and continued as dirt to where I had wound up. The ¨paved¨ road I wanted was actually under construction. It was unpaved at the turn off - it would have improved in a few miles and taken me to where I needed to go.
What lessons did I learn? First of all, never, ever, take the road less traveled when you are truly in no man´s land. Maps in this part of the world are, at best, ¨directionally correct, ¨and at worst completely wrong. Locals often have no idea where roads go, because they they usually take buses instead of driving themselves. Signposts are hit or miss. Motorcycling around Latin America is exciting enough without that added risk.
Second, if you feel lost, and the road makes you nervous, turn back. Your downside is a few hours of backtracking. The downside to being lost in these huge landscapes is much, much more serious.
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| The Andes on the Argentinian side of the border. |
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| Anybody around here know the way to San Juan? |
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| In retrospect, insisting on dirt tires, instead of the road tires the dealer wanted to give me, was a very smart decision. |
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