Look out of the bivouac shortly before 06 and see the sun peek between hill across the river and big dark blue cloud-bank; a scene that bodes for a windy day though still at the moment. Breakfast fruit loaf and mate; packed up and set off at 06.45  with a lot of spiky burs from the tinter dry vegetation of the riverbank clinging to my socks and shoes; which can cause itchy irritation. I would spend time later in the day picking them off. A brisk breeze rises shortly and builds to a headwind as I approach Hotel La Leone. Once across the bridge by the hotel it turns to tailwind for a bit and then to crosswind on approaching the left turn for Chalten with its traveller shelter.

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There is nobody there until I've heated water and start drinking mate when a motorcyclist arrives from Chalten direction: a young french woman who says she is short of petrol having forgot to fill up before leaving town and asks how far Tres Lagos is. I tell her 35 kilometres but the petrol station is 3 kms this side of town; its all tailwind and downhill. Then while resting another motorcyclist arrives and enters the shelter: a young man from New Zealand and five minutes later his pillon passenger enters-a middleage woman with a likeness to him who he says is his mother. Anyway, he donates 3 litres of fuel to the French motorcyclist and refuses payment when she offers, saying its a Christmas present. It'll take her the 30 kms to fill up.

Almost an hour has passed as I ate an orange with other treats and used the wifi while bracing myself for heading back out into the wind. The motorbikes were still there filling petrol as I set off west leaning  into the wind, moving a little more than walking pace with sudden strong gusts heading me off onto the gravel shoulder. I knew there was a stream some 30 or so kilometres ahead with perhaps a smidgen of shelter to camp if the wind gets any stronger. Something to look forward to. 

I haven't gone very far when a car towing a caravan passes slowly and pulls in on the shoulder ahead. The driver out when I reach it and explains he will drive slow to pace me along for about 30 kilometres, an offer I couldn't refuse in the circumstances. To begin with it was fairly hard going. Crosswind from the left so he drove on the outside with me on the sheltered side of the caravan until the road veers left resulting in headwind and a change to riding behind with my front wheel inchs from the bumper a little like the cycling club group ride.

For the next couple of hours I study the rear of the caravan with lots of Patagonia travel stickers from route 3 and route 40. A statement which translates: life is for living. Live life while you can. Then I glance either side seeing the abovementioned stream and see there isn't any shelter there. Further there is estancia margarita, 3 white houses with red sheet metal roofs in a stand of popular tree windbreak and a large area of irrigated greenery which would've been my second place to struggle to and ask to camp, but we carried on. The next possible sheltered place is the bridge over the Las Vueltas river and it looks like I might be paced that far when I heard a friendly hoot of the horn, meaning end of ride as the caravan moves on.

The wind isn't as bad as earlier and I'm able to keep a fair pace, but it is still a long way to Rio Las Vueltas as the wind strenghens again and I spend 2 hours grovelling into it. The downhill to the bridge came eventually and there wasn't much shelter as the river is deep down in a canyon. The only refuse is the walls of an old toilet block belonging to an old roadhouse, the concrete base all that remains of it; probably a sheet metal structure which was taken away for use else where: the breeze block toilets not reusable apart from sheet metal roof which is gone.

I lean the Kona on the lee side of the block and sit down feeling exhausted and dizzle from dehydration. It is 17.05 as I get stuck into a late lunch and relax over mate. A half hour later I feel well again. The wind is even stronger now and the block isn't great shelter as the gusts come around the corner at me.

Inside the old toilet block the floor is smooth concrete, but I'm having such a job setting up the bivouac as the wind blows into the roofless structure, rebounding of the inside walls, lifting and flapping crazily anything that isn't weight down. Once set up and inside without anything blowing away, the bivouac balloons up with the wind battering it so hard it feels like the fabric will tear apart. I try my best to hold it as strong wind for hours pulls against my weight. I can see I won't be sleeping much.