My route from Trujillo led me back into the moutains. Following the rio Santo on dirt roads up through the magnificent Cañon del Pato, through its many tunnels and out into the valley between the cordelerias blanco and negro, with the towering snowy peaks to my left, I arrived in the mountain climbers' delight that is the town of Huarez. Here for the final time I met up with Philip and Valeska, my Austrian friends, who had spent a week hiking in the surrounding moutains, while I had been getting myself back into the saddle in Trujillo. After a few beers that night we took an early (for me, late for them) start together and continued up the valley untill our paths seperated at the entrance to the national park guarding the Cordeleria Blanco. They were headed down to Lima and I was headed across the mountains towards Bolivia. My dirt path led me up to the guard station and at 4100 m it was incredibly cold and the park rangers were kind enough to let me sleep in their station and feed me with hot food for both supper and breakfast the next day.
I had just spent over two weeks at sea level and my ascent from 2000 m to my present 4100 m had taken me 2 days. A note here about altitude sickness: it is not the absolute height you reach that is important but the relative change of height and the speed at which you ascend. I had climbed high, fast and I was paying for it with a thumping head-ache. However after a rest at the guard station and some tea, I felt much better and ready for my climb the next day over the two passes ahead of me, the taller of the two at 4880 m. In the morning I felt good and despite a shortness of breath after relatively little exertion I was confident. This lasted untill about halfway to the first pass I was at about 4600 m and my crushing head ache was back with avengance. The smart thing to do here would be to go back down and spend the day acclimatizing. However I figured that if this pass was too much I could use the low point between the two passes to camp at and acclimatize there. By the time I reached the top of this first path my head ache was crippling but none of the other symptoms (lack of co-ordination, lack of focus, extreme cold) of Acute Mountain Sickness (yes I did my homework) were present. So I decided to keep going and hoped that the 200 m descent down to the low point would ease my head ache. It did not in fact, it got worse and a listlessness started to creep into my attitude and I realised I was too high to stay at over night, if I remained here I could be subject to two fatal conditions (HAPE and HACE, which are scarrily common causes of death in mountaineers).
Like Icarus I had tried to go too high but my only way out of this mess was to go yet higher. Unlike Icarus my machine was working fine, it was my body that was melting away. As I tried to cycle on the rough road bumping me around made my headache exrutiating and combined with the exertion and the gain in height I felt like I was about to vomit. I knew that if I did this I would loose all my strength, I would need all of this. So I got off my bike and started walking up the slope. As I climbed my co-ordination started to go and I kept stumbling on rocks, every 50 m I had to pause for a break to get my breath back and fight down the waves of nausea. Despite my worsening condition, I was not oblivious to my surroundings and I walked past glaciers on one side and snowy mountains away to the other. After 2 hours of struggle I crested the pass only to see the road, after an initial short dip snake up again round the next mountain. The next hour was one of the hardest of my life, the knowledge that dark was coming on and that if I didn't start to descend soon I was going to be in big trouble kept me moving despite the useless state my body and mind was in.
With half an hour of light left I crested the final pass and as I did so the rain started, first as a drizzle and then as a downpour. I was already cold, being at that height the day time temperatures combined with wind chill were below freezing and I was wearing 4 layers. The rain soaked me through despite my waterproof and the additional wind chill from descending rapidly penetrated all my layers. Icarus descended from the skies to the rocks below, I descended from altitude sickness to hyperthermia. My recovery from the altitude was as quick as my descent and felt almost like it had been a nightmare that had never actually happened. As my mind unfogged I realised that if I didn't find shelter from the rain and wind soon I was again in serious trouble, my whole body was already shaking uncontrolably, my feet and hands were blocks of ice. The trouble was the nearest settlement was about 30 km's away. Then as night fell I came upon a mining camp. I begged them to let me sleep in one of their porta cabins (by now I was down to 4200 m and only a head ache persisted), I think they could see I was in a bad way because they they let me in with little argument. I got into the porta cabin as fast as I could and started striping off my clothes, not an easy task given how hard I was shacking and the numbness of my hands (zips had to be done with my teeth). As I pulled on all my remaining dry clothes there was a knock on the door and one of the miners appeared with a mattress I grinned and mumbled my thanks and then climbed into my sleeping bag, curling into the fetus position and willing the shacking to stop. It did, and as it did another minner appeared with hot soup, chicken and rice. After inhaling this food I was almost hot and feeling like a different person. I feel I'm pretty lucky to have escaped this episode with no lasting damage and I don't think this would have been the case without the help of the minners, it seems there's a guardian angel looking out for me. Maybe its Icarus taking care of those with equally foolish ambition, those who try to travel too close to the sun.
Friday 11 June 2010
Down but not quite out
I should have realised that bad things were to come when my first night in Peru was ominously terrible: I had finished the border crossing with about half an hour of sunlight left to me. I spun past the straggling shanty of a border settlement and took the first track I could find off the main road. This shortly led me to a wood and what has, traditionally, been perect camping territory. I whipped out my cooking kit and got the rice and veg combo onto cook before having a look around. What I saw was this, spiders. Hundreds of bloody huge spiders, dangling from their webs between the trees, fangs glistening with arachnic intent. I'm not one to freak out about insects in general so i kept my cool. Found some open ground around a path through the wood and layed my sleeping mat down. By this time it was dark, I dug out my torch and flashed it around, thousands and thousands of tiny beads of light flashed back at me. It took me a few moments to realise that these beads where spider eyes reflecting the torch light back at me. My heart jumped, instead of the relatively few creatures confined to the trees, I was surrounded by legions of the eight legged beasts carpeting every possible surface. Supper would have to be to go. I packed up as fast as I could, taking care to leave any unwanted guests behind, and hit the road. Finding a new camping spot by torch light was going to be a little hit or miss but I thought I had hit the jackpot when I found another side track to an unused field. I had my food while inhaling the scent of mint I had crushed beneath my feet, congratulating myself on a job well done. That was untill I lay down and realised that I had landed myself slap bang in the middle of a swarm of mosquitos. The blood sucking did not let up till after I was back on the road with the dawn and my skin was a painfully itchy pattern of red blotches.
The next few days took me down through pampa (prarie land) to the coast and into unrelenting headwind kicking up sand and dust, from the desert surrounding my road, into my unprotected eyes. This three day struggle along the barren coast was terrible but as I reached the town of Paijan, cane fields and shelter from the wind I was just half a days ride from Peru's second biggest city Trujillo and a planned stop off at the world famous (cycling-world that is) Casa de Cyclista's. I was in good spirits and after twenty minutes of cruising through the fields of cane I saw a few guys by the road side next to their moto-taxi (the Peruvian answer to the rickshaw), not an unusual sight and I waved them a greeting. At this moment the foremost hombre drew a long kitchen knife from behind his back and wielded it in an unmistakingly threatening manner. I was only a few meters away from him and that distances was rapidly diminishing. My natural instinct was to swerve away, out of slashing range. This manouvre killed my speed and the bandito was able, after a couple of strides, to just grab the last item on the bike, my helmet dangling from the rear. He managed to drag me back in and taking a firmer grip hurled me into the center of the road, my bike landed on my chest and I was pinned against road. In an instant my attacker was joined by two more ladrones as they attempted to rip off my bags while dragging my bike to the side of the road. I clung onto the bike tight, with two of my panniers between the bike of the road and my leg round a third they were only able to get one of them. When the assailant with the knife realised his efforts at dragging the bike away were being hampered by my grip. He brought the knife a little closer to my face than comfort dictated and I let go. Two of them picked up my beloved machine and chucked it into the roadside ditch before making good their escape.
It took me a while in my shocked state to realise that leaving my bike behind was not benevelance on their part but a practicle measure, they couldn't have fit it into the moto-taxi and by chucking it into the ditch they reckoned on buying themselves enough time to escape. They were right. My bike had a gear lever ripped off, both rims were bent and the handlebars were at right angles to their accustomed position. I took stock of what was missing: one bag out of four it could have been worse. That's when I realised it was my bag containing my passport, my bank cards, my money, my camera, and the two most irreplacable items: all my photos on their memory cards and all my notes and contact details of those I had met along the way. At that point I have to admit that I thought it was game over and thiss thought hit me like a tonne of bricks. And if it had not been for the help and support I received in the Casa de Cyclista's this might well have been the case. This amazing place, home to any itinerant cyclist who finds their way to Trujillo (and most who cycle South America do), gave me a place to stay, other traveller's to get advice from and distracted me by hosting a world record, by a co-resident, of spending an incredible 33 hours wheeling round the main square in his wheel chair, without break. Acting as support team in this event helped me get over my problems and after 11 days in Trujillio I had a money card couriered out from England, my insurance was handled, a new passport ordered and most importantly Luchio, finest bike mechanic in Latin America (no exageration) and the man behind Casa de Cyclista's, had worked his magic on my bike and it was now better than new and I was ready to head up into the mountains.
The next few days took me down through pampa (prarie land) to the coast and into unrelenting headwind kicking up sand and dust, from the desert surrounding my road, into my unprotected eyes. This three day struggle along the barren coast was terrible but as I reached the town of Paijan, cane fields and shelter from the wind I was just half a days ride from Peru's second biggest city Trujillo and a planned stop off at the world famous (cycling-world that is) Casa de Cyclista's. I was in good spirits and after twenty minutes of cruising through the fields of cane I saw a few guys by the road side next to their moto-taxi (the Peruvian answer to the rickshaw), not an unusual sight and I waved them a greeting. At this moment the foremost hombre drew a long kitchen knife from behind his back and wielded it in an unmistakingly threatening manner. I was only a few meters away from him and that distances was rapidly diminishing. My natural instinct was to swerve away, out of slashing range. This manouvre killed my speed and the bandito was able, after a couple of strides, to just grab the last item on the bike, my helmet dangling from the rear. He managed to drag me back in and taking a firmer grip hurled me into the center of the road, my bike landed on my chest and I was pinned against road. In an instant my attacker was joined by two more ladrones as they attempted to rip off my bags while dragging my bike to the side of the road. I clung onto the bike tight, with two of my panniers between the bike of the road and my leg round a third they were only able to get one of them. When the assailant with the knife realised his efforts at dragging the bike away were being hampered by my grip. He brought the knife a little closer to my face than comfort dictated and I let go. Two of them picked up my beloved machine and chucked it into the roadside ditch before making good their escape.
It took me a while in my shocked state to realise that leaving my bike behind was not benevelance on their part but a practicle measure, they couldn't have fit it into the moto-taxi and by chucking it into the ditch they reckoned on buying themselves enough time to escape. They were right. My bike had a gear lever ripped off, both rims were bent and the handlebars were at right angles to their accustomed position. I took stock of what was missing: one bag out of four it could have been worse. That's when I realised it was my bag containing my passport, my bank cards, my money, my camera, and the two most irreplacable items: all my photos on their memory cards and all my notes and contact details of those I had met along the way. At that point I have to admit that I thought it was game over and thiss thought hit me like a tonne of bricks. And if it had not been for the help and support I received in the Casa de Cyclista's this might well have been the case. This amazing place, home to any itinerant cyclist who finds their way to Trujillo (and most who cycle South America do), gave me a place to stay, other traveller's to get advice from and distracted me by hosting a world record, by a co-resident, of spending an incredible 33 hours wheeling round the main square in his wheel chair, without break. Acting as support team in this event helped me get over my problems and after 11 days in Trujillio I had a money card couriered out from England, my insurance was handled, a new passport ordered and most importantly Luchio, finest bike mechanic in Latin America (no exageration) and the man behind Casa de Cyclista's, had worked his magic on my bike and it was now better than new and I was ready to head up into the mountains.
The avenue of the volcanoes
Type these magic words into google, hit "Images" and enjoy pictures of towering mountain peaks, stunning sunsets and erupting volcanoes. If on the other hand you decide to cycle through this route in May don't forget to bring your rain gear. I spent about a week toiling up and down the valleys that run at right angles to my route. This means to get to that point, just over there on the other side of the valley, so close you can almost touch it, you in fact have to turn to your left and follow the road for km after km down to the unbelievably inconsiderate river cross the bridge and then sweat your way back up the far side. This maybe would not be so bad if it was an occasional punishment but it is continuous, in the Ecuadorian Sierras the word plano (flat, for the linguistically challenged out there) does not exist. It also would have been bearable, maybe even enjoyable, if these alleged views had been visible. However in my week of Ecuadorian mountains I developed a vitamin D deficiency and turned from carribean-tanned to bed-sheet-white from lack of sunshine. Hyperbole aside, I managed to catch a glimpse of one volcano for about 5 minutes before it was again swallowed in cloud and these "stunning valleys" were 9 times out of 10 no more to me than a swirling mass of cloud and fog.
There were a couple of highlights to this section and, as always seems to happen when nature lets me down, these came from people. The first was when the weather let up enough for me to camp next to a river in, what I thought was, a secluded cannon. Above me, perched on a shelf in the cannon, lived a family of indigenous farmers. When they realised that they had a gringo guest camped out below them they whipped out the welcome mat and, after my futile protests, handed me chocla (corn on the cob), peaches and apples, straight off their respective plants. Never has corn tasted so good as it did in the mouth of a hungry cyclist, after a day of struggling through valleys and so fresh it was almost alive. The second highlight came when I eventually met up with two Austrian cyclists. I had first met Phillip and Valeska way back in December on the Baja. We had got seperated by the crossing to the mainland and had since taken different routes. However we had kept in pretty good contact and finally in Ecuador we managed to meet back up and have a few days of riding together to Cuenca and finally into some sunshine. This Austrian couple are exceptionally inspiring, having now spent over three and a half years pedalling the globe, at a much faster pace than any other couple-bikers I've met. Their attitude to what is an amazing feat of endurance however is incredibly relaxed, in Phillip's case utterly childish in the most entertaining of ways, and is summed up by the name of their website: http://www.2-play-on-earth.net/. So with many an entertaining story from their travels and the occasional fart-gag from Philip the rainy km's to Cuenca slipped by.
Cuenca itself is a good looking colonial town, something seemingly scarce in these parts, and I enjoyed a few days there, waiting for my cycling shoes to finally clear customs. Here I departed from the Austrian duo as they decided to get down to the coast and out of the rain, while I, ridiculously, decided to stay in the mountains and give the elements another chance. After two and a half more days of pants weather I finally cleared the last of the clouds with a pass out from the town of Loja. That evening just as I was searching for a place to camp, I came round a corner and saw the town of Catacocha perched on it's hill, with swirling cloud, golden with the setting sun, surrounding its base. I have never seen a sight that looked more like it belonged in a book of fairy tales. The next day saw me pass up and down my final Ecuadorian valleys and into the flat lands of Peru.
There were a couple of highlights to this section and, as always seems to happen when nature lets me down, these came from people. The first was when the weather let up enough for me to camp next to a river in, what I thought was, a secluded cannon. Above me, perched on a shelf in the cannon, lived a family of indigenous farmers. When they realised that they had a gringo guest camped out below them they whipped out the welcome mat and, after my futile protests, handed me chocla (corn on the cob), peaches and apples, straight off their respective plants. Never has corn tasted so good as it did in the mouth of a hungry cyclist, after a day of struggling through valleys and so fresh it was almost alive. The second highlight came when I eventually met up with two Austrian cyclists. I had first met Phillip and Valeska way back in December on the Baja. We had got seperated by the crossing to the mainland and had since taken different routes. However we had kept in pretty good contact and finally in Ecuador we managed to meet back up and have a few days of riding together to Cuenca and finally into some sunshine. This Austrian couple are exceptionally inspiring, having now spent over three and a half years pedalling the globe, at a much faster pace than any other couple-bikers I've met. Their attitude to what is an amazing feat of endurance however is incredibly relaxed, in Phillip's case utterly childish in the most entertaining of ways, and is summed up by the name of their website: http://www.2-play-on-earth.net/. So with many an entertaining story from their travels and the occasional fart-gag from Philip the rainy km's to Cuenca slipped by.
Cuenca itself is a good looking colonial town, something seemingly scarce in these parts, and I enjoyed a few days there, waiting for my cycling shoes to finally clear customs. Here I departed from the Austrian duo as they decided to get down to the coast and out of the rain, while I, ridiculously, decided to stay in the mountains and give the elements another chance. After two and a half more days of pants weather I finally cleared the last of the clouds with a pass out from the town of Loja. That evening just as I was searching for a place to camp, I came round a corner and saw the town of Catacocha perched on it's hill, with swirling cloud, golden with the setting sun, surrounding its base. I have never seen a sight that looked more like it belonged in a book of fairy tales. The next day saw me pass up and down my final Ecuadorian valleys and into the flat lands of Peru.
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