Refried Neurons

It’s another glorious day in Patagonia. And today on the agenda we have—drum roll—horse riding!

About an hour’s drive from El Calafate by bus is Estancia Cerro Frias, a farm with a small restaurant… and horses! I must not have been impressed with the hostel breakfast because I can barely remember it. I mean, I know we took up the offer, but no idea if it was actually any good.

Buzzing with excitement, we dropped our bags in the car and boarded the shuttle bus. After wasting nearly an hour picking up other tourists from their hotels, we finally headed for the farm. Sorry, but why can’t they just tell everyone to meet in the town centre? We weren’t even the first ones picked up—poor souls must’ve been up at dawn only to sit on a bus driving around town for two hours. Lesson learned: always ask if you can join at the last pickup point and spend that extra hour enjoying a decent cup of coffee.

On the way to the farm, we were given a bit of information, but aside from the fact the farm was huge, nothing really stuck. Upon arrival, we were welcomed into the restaurant with a cup of tea—which was fine—but the best part? The view. Oh. My. God. It was breathtaking. If there were an option just to sit by the fire with a glass of wine and stare out the window, protected from the elements, I could have spent days there. The restaurant sits on the side of a hill, overlooking a shallow river valley and the endless hills beyond.

Wrapped up in warm, dirty, smelly clothes from yesterday, we headed to the stables. We figured after today everything would stink of horse anyway, so may as well rock the sweaty gear again—and we weren’t wrong.

I’ve only ever sat on a horse once in my life, in a paddock, doing lazy circles. I was absolutely not prepared for what was coming.

At the start, everything seemed chill. Everyone got a beautiful horse and we were reassured they knew the route—we wouldn’t have to do much. I got a 20-second manual on how to go, stop, and turn left or right. Fair enough, we were going in single file.

Off we went! The first few hundred metres were smooth, and then… shrubs. Grass. And suddenly, my lovely horse decided it was more interested in exploring than staying with the group. We veered off the path, stopped randomly, or charged forward without warning. The scenery was stunning—lakes, hills, one (dead) armadillo, grazing cattle—basically all the glorious chaos that Patagonia throws at you.

The trail wasn’t easy—especially for someone who’s never actually ridden a horse. We crossed streams, descended steep, rocky hills—paths I’d struggle on foot, yet the horses handled them. Mine, however, had his own ideas. I tried steering, but the horse clearly sensed I had absolutely no clue. Most of the time it was fine… until the Gaucho lost patience and smacked my charming steed properly. That’s when I nearly fell off—one leg still in the stirrup, the other flailing, one hand gripping the reins. Thank you, yoga, for core strength! I think everyone, including me, was impressed I didn’t end up on the ground.

We got plenty of photos, though M is in most of them—passing the GoPro turned out harder than expected while riding in a line, especially when my horse was living in his own universe. I wasn’t thrilled with the Gaucho hitting the horses, but I guess I have to remember these are working animals, not pampered ponies.

Honestly, I saw way more than the others, so I’ve decided my horse was simply making sure I had an unforgettable, character-appropriate adventure. He definitely didn’t put me off horse riding—if anything, it showed me a whole new way to see the world: from a saddle, with a great view, great company… and a not-so-great smell.

The views were incredible, but my horse made the day—for everyone. My only regret? No living armadillos. Still, I had no idea they were native here, so even a dead one counts for something.

After the ride, we had a simple, meaty lunch—as is standard in this part of the world—and were shuttled back to the hostel. We’d checked out in the morning, so we just tossed the bags in the boot and went for one last coffee and dulce de leche stop before the long drive back to Chile. Bellies full of sugar, tank full of cheap petrol, we hit the road.

Earlier that morning, M had managed to find us a last-minute stay in the heart of Torres del Paine National Park. Given the location, we paid pennies—and later found out it was about five times cheaper than the usual rate. But first, we had to get there. With 300 km ahead of us, some of it dirt track, we were in a bit of a rush.

It was my turn to drive first. Our deal was that everyone pays their own speeding fines, and considering no one here seems to like a British driving licence, I stuck religiously to the speed limit. After an hour, M got fed up and started moaning that we’d never get there at this pace. So we swapped. She drove just 10 km/h faster—but this turned into our only fight of the trip.

After another hour we hit our favourite dirt track section near the border, and I was politely asked to take over for “the shitty part”. Fair. I drove, M navigated. This time we actually stopped at both border crossings, got our stamps, didn’t lose any paperwork—very proud of us! We even got the boot searched. Because everything in Argentina is cheaper than in Chile, Chilean border control is super strict—no food, snacks, or anything beyond personal items allowed. Into the bin it all went.

Back on the road—well, dirt—we continued for another 60 km, hoping the roadworks would end soon. As we headed west, the sun began to set. I honestly can’t imagine a more beautiful sight: an empty road, Torres del Paine in the background, lit by streaks of red and purple light. We stopped at nearly every turn—the views kept getting better. Then, just when we thought it couldn’t get more magical, we hit a lake that reflected it all like a mirror.

Eventually, we reached a junction where I was told to turn off the main road onto… a construction site. I did ask M if this was correct. She insisted—Google Maps said it was fine. She’s a road builder, after all, and claimed to understand all the signs. We even passed a tiny, half-hidden sign saying “road closed”, but she was convinced it was just for through-traffic.

So we kept going. For 30 km. Around drainage trenches, construction materials, and piles of dirt, until the road just… ended. No reception. Saturday. Middle of nowhere. My conclusion: since this must be the only road to the hotel, we had no choice but to drive back 120 km to Puerto Natales. At which point M casually said, “Oh wait, there was an alternative route. Just 10 minutes longer.”

I was too tired to get angry. I just laughed. With no spare tyre and the ever-present threat of a puncture, we turned around and headed back into the Patagonian darkness. M had a very quick wee next to the car, convinced a puma would bite her arse off, and we drove on.

To this day, I wonder how I’d have explained to the rental company that we were stuck in a construction site, 30 km from the nearest sign of life.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so focused behind the wheel. Somehow, we made it back to the main road, and just 10 minutes later, we were at the park entrance—with no tickets. At that hour we probably could’ve just driven through, but too scared to get fined, we stopped. Eventually, a very drunk-looking guard appeared, and after explaining our genius route choice, he let us in and told us to check in properly in the morning.

Did I mention how much I love driving on unknown, winding, dirt mountain roads while exhausted? That sweet, sweet cocktail of adrenaline and desperation kept me going, doing a bit of rally cross just to get there. We even managed a couple of back-wheel drifts.

At 10pm, we arrived at a Histeria Pahoe on an island in the middle of a fjord. The bar was open! Well—probably not, but when the bartender saw me, he uncorked a bottle and said I looked like I needed a glass. And hell yes, I did.

The staff couldn’t believe we’d made it through a construction site and still found the hotel. One well-deserved glass of red liquid gold later, we crawled to our room with one dream: a hot shower.

The room was dated but warm and cosy—exactly what we needed. One small issue: no hot water. Apparently, because of the location, it’s only available at certain times… and this wasn’t one of them.

So, we called it a night.