Day 7 – In the Ripio

Esquel to Perito Moreno


Ripio is a Spanish word that means “destroy your vehicle and go mad”, but I get ahead of myself.

There are ever-larger wrinkles in the landscape paralleling the Andes south of Esquel, and we drove on Ruta 40 for hours in the morning down the valley between two of these wrinkles, with snow capped mountains occasionally looming overhead off to our right. It was arid, harsh ranchland with an estancia every so often, but as our valley widened out and the land became even drier, we saw fewer and fewer estancias.

South of Gobernador Costa the valley became perfectly flat and infinitely wide, a mottled plain of dirt and rocks and small tan bushes stretching to meet the sky; the only distinct features being the road and the horizon. Driving through this was like zooming across a brown ocean at 60 miles an hour. Having never seen anything similar, it was spectacular.

We got to Rio Mayo at about 5:30 in the afternoon. The Lonely Planet travel guide for Rio Mayo says that “only soldiers and waylaid gauchos spend more than a few hours at this dusty gas-up pit stop”, and, well, even though Ruta 40 was rubble (ripio) south of Rio Mayo, and even though it was late in the day and 120 kilometers (75 miles) to the next town; we agreed with Lonely Planet and so launched off down the ripio.

It was a foolish decision, except that we made it. You can’t go any faster than 30 mph on the gravel -- not because the signs and camper rental agency try to beat that into your head, but because your vehicle will shake itself to pieces if you go any faster – and so the 70 miles took about 3 hours. We drove the last 90 minutes in the dark, which might have been tolerable if the road was flat, but instead we found ourselves driving up and down dozens and dozens of arroyos. Ruta 40 became a very good paved road just outside of Perito Moreno– the best we’ve seen in a week, and only had a mild aftertaste after I got down on my hands and knees and kissed the asphalt – and we found a great place for the night at the municipal campground in the middle of the small town.


Written in Perito Moreno. Today’s spillage disaster occurred early in the morning when a bottle of Italian Dressing with an unsecured cap fell over in a cabinet in the back of the camper, and the oily goo flowed everywhere. While we cleaned up the mess it was made emphatically clear to me exactly who forgot to tighten the cap. On the bright side, Italian Dressing has a much nicer smell than sour milk.