Paso San Francisco

We took two days to cross Paso San Francisco the third border crossing between Argentina and Chile from the north, coming south. It was the third highest of the passes at 15,505 feet officially. Konstantin doesn’t do well at altitude but Layne and I were feeling fine, breathless but no headaches.

This border is only open on Tuesday and Fridays and Rusty’s exit permit had to be used by Thursday so we had to cross on the Tuesday opening. We started out from Fiambalá late Monday morning to be ready. The crossing is 300 miles long with no fuel on the way. We should be fine but we loaded ten extra gallons to be less stressed. 

Konstantin gave us the jugs after he was denied entry to Bolivia where fuel is not easily available. The dog below belongs to the gas station in Fiambalá. The sign says enjoy and relax. I’m forced to believe the dog can read. 

I like to waste our substance giving dog food away to hungry locals so we stopped at the supermarket named for a sea mammal, here, so far from the ocean. 

Rusty picked up some hints from the gas station dog. 

Just be warned: Paso San Francisco is all desert, all the time. And for us the good news was the road, Highway 60 in Argentina was all pavement 120 miles to the border. Highway 31 in Chile was another story. 

Did I mention there is a hotel and restaurant an hour out of Fiambalá? No gas stations but food, that’s a different story. 

This Argentine couple wanted to know our story and they gave us some useful tips about places to see in the region which we will use next year. It was a good chat, and they uplifted us. Too many Argentines are too shy to talk to foreigners. 

The funny looking pottery pot closest to me is the house specialty which they call “pastel de papas” which turned out to be shepherds pie and we liked it.  

The steak was tender and as good as beef’s reputation in Argentina. 

There is something startling about finding a fully functional hotel and restaurant (with vegetarian choices in meat centric Argentina) a full bar and excellent service lost in the middle of this Martian landscape. 

I’d come back and I think we both might have enjoyed staying overnight in this unique environment. 

The views are what you might expect. 

In the van we had those two jugs filled with regular gas and wrapped but not enough to eliminate all the smell. We both wanted them gone. 

Our overnight stop was ten miles further up the road, about 90 minutes from the Argentine border post. The WiFi at this refuge wasn’t working. Too bad. 

The refuges are basic but a couple of hikers in a pick up stopped by before dark and spent the night. 

We parked next to the hut to try yo get out of the wind but the wind backed and my attempt at cover failed. On the plus side I did empty one of the jugs into the tank. It was hellishly difficult in the wind but I got it done. One down. 

The wind rocked us to sleep. At 11,300 feet with temperatures near freezing it was a disturbed night but morning came eventually. Tuesday was the day to cross the pass. 

Highway 60 To Fiambalà

I had a conversation with Julia about Instagram travel. I liked roadside picnic’s Instagram photos before I met them.

Instagram is the way overlanders keep in touch which is more Layne’s department than mine as I enjoy my own page and struggle with social media. If you follow overlanders online you will end up seeing the same photos of the same places on all the accounts. And everything is always fantastic. Except these guys who go off on their own and give us leads in places no one else has checked out. I was pleased to meet them when we finally did in Chile. And in a few weeks they ship back to Seattle from Chile. Oh well. 

All this to say our idyllic wild camp was crap. The weather was horrid with Scotch mist falling and making everything moist. Underfoot we had a positive plague of prickly burrs which didn’t stick to you but made walking painful even in thin soles shoes. Rusty was walking in tip toe anywhere there was grass or plants on the sand. What a pain. 

It looked Instagram worthy I guess. And it is on iOverlander where I reported our findings without holding back. But let me tell you not every day in the road or in a van is unbounded joy. This Easter morning was one of the less joyful. 

We said goodbye to Konstantin and Julia with plans to meet later. They have to do papers for their cats to enter Chile and went south to try to get them done Monday in the nearest big town. We’re hoping they will cross the border with us but if not we plan to meet them on the beach 

Wednesday got back on Ruta 40 south to try to get up Fiambalá in time to relax for the afternoon. The green bit is the road we’ve driven, the orange is Easter Sunday on the road and dotted orange is where we want to go. 

I wonder sometimes if our journey is a bit too un-dramatic. It’s just driving around but for us we get to see places we have never seen before, vast tracts of desert in Western Argentina I’d never heard of, but we travel largely without drama, no corruption either. All those stories of being treated as an ATM by officials seeking bribes has never happened to us. I hope this journey shows it’s no more dangerous here than there. We look at Google Maps and iOverlander and figure where we want to go, no bandits anymore than you’d expect on I-95 up the east coast. 

If you are intent on avoiding police check points Easter Sunday is a great day to drive. We passed lots and only one was staffed and she waved us through. They do that mostly but when they do stop us a quick look at my Florida driver’s license and  we’re on our way. No big deal. 

The light under black clouds was terrible and I fear my shutter was set a bit slow so some fuzz has crept in and it annoys me. Belen means Bethlehem in Spanish. 

I figure it was poor enough it could pass for the more famous one in Palestine.  

Northern Argentina is a remarkable desert and poverty is everywhere with attendant motorcycles, street dogs, loose cattle and donkeys and goats. Personally the donkeys look like mules to me, they’re that big and mules are a cross between a horse and a donkey.  

High quality asphalt on historic Ruta 40. As usual. 

Argentina isn’t doing road maintenance anymore so the roads that are good are good and the ones that aren’t will remain bad for the foreseeable. 

The government is run by an economist whose drive to operate in the black has cut govern contracts, employees and work so because we’re travelers we notice the piteous state of the roads. 

Ruta 40 varies between excellent to scene g and awful as well as occasional random stretches of gravel. And streets in towns and cities are even worse. They make me miss Chile and its smooth asphalt. 

Did I mention the social poverty? Leg of goat anyone?

People that can afford cats don’t ride utility motorcycles and scooters. 

Street dogs are better looked after than you might think. Only Mexico are dogs starved but in northern Argentina they don’t look as well looked after as in the prosperous south. 

This is a town street in Fiambalá, our destination. 

We passed through a village called London. And no it did not resemble cities I’ve seen by that name in Canada or Britain. 

There is a lot of adobe in this desert. 



No road work means this sort of nonsense may be in your path: 

I have no idea what this scenario was, below, but I had to drive on the left to get past it. As you do in Argentina. 

This desert scenery is worth the drive. 

Konstantin and Julia are going south to La Rioja on Highway 40 but we were turning north on Highway 60 to Fiambalá, and our ultimate destination is Paso San Francisco one of the strangest border crossings between these two countries and we’ve crossed lots of them.  

Paso San Francisco is 300 miles long with no services so we are going to take some extra gas just in case. The pass is 15,800 feet high and is mostly paved though forty odd miles are said to be gravel in Chile. It’s autumn so it’s going to cold up there. And the big issue: it’s only open Tuesdays and Fridays and Rusty’s permit expires on Thursday so we have to get it done next Tuesday. 

Ruta 60 through the desert. More Arizona. 









Layne stopped to check out a tourist booth while I walked Rusty. 



We arrived around 3:30 Sunday afternoon under a weak sun in about 70 degrees.



A monument to women: 









We’d found a picnic area used to spend a free night as listed on iOverlander. It’s got a clear sky for Starlink, a trash can, some local dogs I fed much to Rusty’s disgust and a toilet so foul I don’t think it counts as a facility. 

It worked for us: no prickles, a flat cement pad to park on and no noise. And Rusty liked it.