Chasing Dust Through Patagonia

All my riding gear had made the trip south packed inside a massive 150 liter USWE roller bag. Big enough to carry everything needed for unpredictable Patagonian weather, yet practical enough to drag through airports, hotel hallways, and parking lots full of dusty motorcycles.

The best part was knowing we could focus completely on riding. No need to carry tools, spare tubes, or even think too much about possible mechanical problems. Juanmi constantly stayed one step ahead of everything. Every stop became a quick service station where chains were lubricated, loose bolts tightened, air filters cleaned, and bikes checked before heading back into the dirt. Alongside being the group mechanic, he also drove the support truck that followed our route across Patagonia loaded with tools, spare tires, fuel, food, and enough equipment to keep the entire expedition moving.

My riding partner for the trip was my friend Sergio, someone I had already shared plenty of miles with over the years. Around us, the rest of the crew slowly revealed their personalities as the days unfolded. There was the “French Legion,” a group of riders who had traveled all the way from France to experience Patagonia on two wheels, along with Vincent, the quiet Swiss rider who claimed he had little off road experience despite riding like a Dakar veteran every time the trail opened up. Before long, Juanma had already renamed him “Dimitri,” convinced he was actually a Russian spy sent to investigate why everybody seemed so happy in Argentina.

The laughter around fuel stops, lunches, and hotel parking lots slowly became part of the trip itself. Machi, our official photographer and one of Big Trail’s most charismatic characters, quickly became part of that same rhythm. He was always moving around the group with a camera in hand, hunting for light, angles, and dust clouds, while somehow still finding time to throw in a joke, a comment, or one of those perfectly timed remarks that kept everyone laughing between sections.

Once back on pavement, we joined Argentina’s legendary Route 237 heading north. At first, I assumed it would simply be another transit section connecting dirt roads deeper into the mountains. Patagonia had other plans.

The road immediately began twisting alongside the Limay River through a place known as Valle Encantado, or Enchanted Valley, and honestly, the name makes perfect sense the moment you ride into it. Massive rock formations rise unexpectedly from the landscape, shaped by wind and erosion into strange silhouettes towering above the river. Some already carry names given by locals over the years, including El Dedo de Dios, or “The Finger of God,” a narrow vertical stone formation pointing dramatically into the sky, and a massive natural amphitheater carved into the cliffs above a bend in the river, the kind of place that makes you wonder whether nature had been studying ancient Roman theaters all along.

Normally, a road filled with flowing corners would tempt me to pick up the pace and enjoy the riding itself. This time was different. Between the deep blue water of the Limay, the strange rock formations, and the changing colors spreading across the valley walls, I found myself constantly slowing down just to absorb the scenery around us.

That combination of river, mountains, forests, and open Patagonian terrain felt completely unique.

Further north, we reached Confluencia, where the Traful River merges into the Limay. Again, the unusually low water levels stood out immediately while crossing the bridge above the river. From there, we left the pavement behind once more and headed west into Paso Córdoba, one of those remote mountain roads that quietly becomes a highlight of the entire trip without anybody expecting it beforehand.

The afternoon ride toward San Martín de los Andes carried that perfect end of day feeling that only arrives after hours spent deep in the mountains. The pace slowed naturally. Conversations at fuel stops became louder. Riders started replaying moments from the trail while the landscapes rolled by beneath the soft afternoon light of northern Patagonia.

By then, I was already completely sold on the Kove 450 Rally. The motorcycle felt perfectly at home on these roads, especially once the pavement disappeared and the terrain turned loose and unpredictable. Around us, the rest of the group seemed equally satisfied after a full day crossing mountain passes, remote gravel roads, hanging bridges, and endless Patagonian backcountry trails.

As usual, Juanma somehow managed to keep everybody laughing every time helmets came off. Whether during fuel stops, lunch breaks, or random pauses in the middle of nowhere, he always seemed to have another ridiculous comment ready at exactly the right moment.

We finally rolled into San Martín de los Andes later that afternoon after covering roughly 158 miles (255 kilometers) of some of the best riding imaginable.

And honestly, the heated hotel pool waiting for us after a full day in riding gear felt almost as rewarding as the ride itself.

Soon we were all gathered by the heated pool with cold drinks in hand, letting the stories from the day start flowing once again. The tension slowly disappeared from tired shoulders while the mountains surrounding San Martín faded into evening light beyond the hotel.

Later that night, pizzas, beer, and nonstop laughter carried the group well into the evening.

The kind of ending every great riding day deserves.

The road narrowed into a twisting ribbon of dirt weaving through dense forest, constantly changing elevation while carving along the shores of Lake Epulafquen. Tight corners, loose gravel, tree roots, short climbs, and quick descents kept everybody fully focused while occasional openings through the trees revealed more distant views of Lanín rising above the landscape.

Every mile seemed to pull us farther away from civilization.

Then the scenery changed instantly.

Without warning, the forest opened into a massive volcanic field known locally as El Escorial, where ancient lava flows once spilled down from the volcano thousands of years ago. The dark hardened rock stretched across the mountainside in sharp contrast against the surrounding green forest, creating one of the strangest landscapes of the entire journey. It looked raw. Untouched. Almost recent, despite the centuries that had passed since the eruption shaped this valley.

Minutes later, the trail disappeared back into the trees.

Waiting for us at the campground, Franco and the Big Trail crew had prepared thick choripán sandwiches and grilled steaks that disappeared almost instantly once the first riders arrived. The French Legion had apparently reached lunch before the rest of us and already looked fully committed to the mission by the time Sergio and I walked in.

Nobody complained.

After several hours riding through cold mountain trails, volcanic terrain, and dense forest, the combination of grilled meat, hot food, and the black volcanic beaches surrounding the lake felt close to perfect.

While most of us relaxed near the shoreline enjoying the afternoon sun, Juanmi once again moved quietly between motorcycles checking chains, cleaning air filters, and tightening bolts loosened by endless miles of washboard gravel and rocky trails.

Somebody always has to keep the expedition moving.

The ride back to San Martín de los Andes felt lighter, with full stomachs, warm sun, and the kind of satisfaction that comes after one of those days where everything seems to line up. We stopped again near Lake Lolog for a short break at a small lakeside café, taking in one last view of the water before returning to town.

Two days deep into northern Patagonia and the mountains had already rearranged something inside the trip. The volcanoes, the forest trails, the hot springs hidden far beyond any paved road. None of it had been planned in precise detail, and somehow that was exactly the point.

Lanín still dominated the horizon as we rode back toward San Martín that evening, its snow-covered cone burning orange in the last light of the afternoon. A reminder, perhaps, that the best landscapes never let you leave quietly.

The first half of the journey had delivered everything Patagonia promised. Long days in the saddle. Remote trails that asked more than expected. And the kind of laughter shared between riders that only accumulates after miles of shared dust and cold mountain air.

Now the road was about to change direction entirely.

South. Back through the mountains. Across the open steppe. And toward one final destination waiting silently at the end of it all.