Carreterra Austral, Chile

Tales of the Carreterra Austral have been whispered around handfuls of campfires, reverently spoken by those who have ridden it, mesmerizingly listened to by those who haven´t. Until last week, I´ve been unaffected by its mystique, but now, after six consecutive days of flawless blue skies, blinding white mountains, and tantalizingly smooth gravel, I have realized its appeal. At the next campfire, I´ll be among the muses that pontificate its glory.

Huasos, buried under furry chaps, fuzzy jackets, and funny berets, trot. Chimneys, slightly cocked on rusty roofs, smoke. Trees, clinging to reddenning leaves, rustle. Frost, garnishing foliage in sun-deprived basins, chills. Mist, risen from liquids, wisps. Horses, thought to have lept off embossed belt buckles, graze. Pigs, mistaken for hovering Zepplins, wallow. Bulls, tired of munching, stare. Duck, duck. Goose.