Paso de Agua Negra

We are quite proud and a little relieved to announce that we have just conquered the last, monolithic obstacle on our quest to Santiago (and eventually to see all of you), Paso de Agua Negra: 4780 meters. For those of you already rummaging around for a calculator, that´s 15,682 feet. This leg of our journey was the greatest point to point elevation gain we´ve made in the shortest amountof time. We started from approximately 600 meters above sea level and completed the climb (190 km)in three days...Thats over 30,000 feet of elevation gained and lost! Eat that, Lance Armstrong! Our journey upward was energized and motivated by the ongoing parade of fan club members that passed us by with waves, smiles, thumbs-up, fistpumps, tobacco tin finger-slaps, musical honks and applause. There were few passersby that didn´t at least give us a friendly wave. A river followed us most of the ride up the canyon, collecting snow melt from the capped peaks and melting (too bad) glaciers. The mountains were void of vegetation, but full of electric colors, contrasting golds, reds and shades of grey. We fell under the good graces of the wind gods for most of the climb, until about 15km from the top of the pass, when hurricane force winds blasted us head-on and we struggled to keep ourbikes upright and moving in a forward direction. One slow kilometer and hairpin turn after another, we arrived at the international border with tears of joy in both of our eyes and a little less breath in our lungs. We struggled to keep from being blown off the mountain as we took photos before bundling up for the steep descent. The next morning, we awoke frozen to the bone and rode in hats, mittens and down jackets until the sun rose above the mountains a few hours later. We abrubtly met the infamous Pacific-to-Andes wind that we had been hearing so much about. Sure, we can handle wind, we thought. At least we´re going downhill. Ha Ha! Not much is worse for the psyche than struggling (hard) to pedal downhill. We passed fairly efficiently through Chilean customs and immigration and rode nearly 100km down, into the wind. Beaten, battered and hungry, we pulled over to locate the first town on the map to buy food. (At this point, we were completely out of food less the powdered milk, tea and mermelada that wasn´t confiscated by customs). A car pulled over to ask us if we wanted help and they ended up turning around and 4 adults peeled out. They offered us water, bread, cheese and Cola de Mono, a drink like Bailey´s Irish Cream, to give us energy they told us. They invited us to stay at their house and this time, we took them up on the offer. So, we bustled as fast as we could another 30km, found their house in the dark and they offered up the greatest hospitality. They sent us away this morning,with cheese, homemade apricot jam, bread and fruit. We feel so grateful. Incredibly, the second Chilean we met today invited us to his house, too! We have just seen the Pacific Ocean from La Serena, about 500km north of Santiago. We plan to hit the beach and indulge in a little Chilean seafood and wine this evening. We are thrilled to be here. You wouldn´t believe the amount of fruits and vegetables in season! We thought we saw a lot of grapes in Argentina. There is little earth that is not covered in them here. As we rode down yesterday, the valley looked like Jean-Claude and Christo´s fabric wrapping, because they hang curtains of fabric over the vineyards to protect them from the wind and sun. Our panniers are currently filled with strawberries, plums,watermelon and lots of veggies. They probably won´t last through the night. Anyway, that´s enough from the Chilean coast. We look forward to seeing you all soon. Put the champagne on ice...we´re coming soon to an airport near you!

Argentina - Land of Plenty

"We better keep an eye on the bikes, in case the river comes alive" I said to Kirsten with a grin. "Yeah right" she countered. The riverbed was dry as a bone and looked like it hadn`t seen water in a year. It was our first night in Argentina and, still riding the lunar-like altiplano, could find nowhere else out of sight to camp. So we trudged our bikes upstream, laid them against the steep wall of the riverbank and threw our tent down on a sandbar. We crawled inside and within seconds, the black clouds we had been racing against were upon us and made there presence known by unleashing a thrashing for the ages. Our tent shook violently as the inches of hail piled up around us and the water begain seeping into our now less-than-waterproof abode. For 15 minutes the madness continued, the tent exploding with bright flashes every few seconds as the lightening bolts cracked all around us. As the rain subsided, we sat back to enjoy that post storm calmness when everything is strangely silent and the air is fresh and pure. Except...What`s that noise? A strange new gurgling sound that wasn`t there before now emanated from outside the door. With uncomfortable looks, Kirsten unzipped the tent to peak outside. To our amazement, a full raging torrent of black, muddy, sandy, crap-infested water was gushing by, just inches from the edge of our tent. My joke of 15 minutes past had suddenly become a nightmare of reality and our bikes were helplessly sinking. The water rose before our eyes, first to our pedals, then well above our axles, the small logjam of foam, sticks and other crap another foot higher threatening to breach the top of our still-connected rear panniers and drenching their contents. Without considering the importance of documenting such an occasion on film, something I regret as I write this, I stripped down and jumped into the nów knee deep flood waters and wrestled them across from the far side. Every nook and cranny from hub to hub was crammed full of sand and sticks and muck and it would be several hours before they would be rideable again. Lesson from day 1 in Argentina...Beware of Flash Floods!


The high altiplano that we had become accustomed to would soon become a distant memory as we began our descent into the Humahuaca Valley via the Quebrada (canyon) de Humahuaca. The valley was lusciously green, given life by the meandering chocolate brown Rio Grande, the surrounding hills draped in a dozen shades of red, brown and purple and the thin vegetation consisting mostly of the forests of giant, saguaro-like cacti. The canyon soon dissolved, giving way to the lowland forests of Jujuy and Salta. With a 2500m loss of elevation, we were suddenly battling heat we hadn`t known since the Sechura Desert in northern Peru. We pushed on to Salta, passing up a generous offer to stay from the first man we met in Jujuy, the rolling and winding road through thick forest in stark contrast to the long, straight monotonous stretches of the altiplano. We paused in Salta for a much needed 3 day rest as we were generously and warmly welcomed into the home of Ramon Marin and the other 6 members of his family. Another `Casa de Ciclistas`, they welcome any travelling cyclist to stay, with an entire separate part of their house devoted to cyclists. We brought the new year in with them all, in addition to 5 Belgian cyclists who arrived shortly after we did. 14 of us in all, it was a rowdy night, capped off by Ramon`s 75 year old mother setting off fireworks in the back yard...go Tina!



The beautiful countryside continued south of Salta as we followed the historic `Ruta del Vino` (Route of Wine) through the Quebrada de las Conchas, a remarkable canyon they call `the Grand Canyon of Argentina`. Heavily carved sandstone walls of varying shades of red with towering rock monoliths left us in awe. As would become a custom in Argentina, we found ourselves the subject in as many photos as we were stopping for, nearly every car snapping pictures of us as we passed by. As abruptly as the canyon began, it disappeared, with thousands of acres of grapes taking their place. It seemed every house had its own mini-vineyard along with the 6 or 7 large vineyards that dominated the valley. A brief stay in the picturesque town of Cafayete offered us our first experience with the municipal campgrounds of Argentina (almost evey town has one). They are a rowdy bunch, prone to all night parties and to be sure, we prefer the quiet solitude of our usual campsites, but we met some cool people and had another to-die-for plate of Argentine steak and killer wine. From here the road straightened again and at times we could see so far ahead it almost felt like we were looking straight into tomorrow. Though the landscape seemed monotonous, wildlife was spectacular and we encountered some unusual creatures, including grasshoppers over 5" long! If the dinosaurs stood with grasshoppers, surely they were this big...
As midday temperatures rose to the boiling point, we took a cue from Argentine life and began taking siestas in the afternoon. We`d ride until 1 or 2 in the afternoon, find a shady spot, pull out the hammock and devour watermelons, make popcorn and nap for a few hours until the sun had dropped to a tolerable point. On again into the evening to finish our day. After 7 long, hot days we rolled into Chilecito for a day of rest. A cute town, we found ourselves at home in a place that has an ice cream shop on every block! Still punching out 100-130km every day, we arrived in San Jose de Jàchal, our last major stop before Chile and where our last big Andean conquest begins. Only 160km and nearly 4000m of elevation gain separate us from our new homeland.

Commerce in Bolivia

Although Bolivia was a quick passing in our Latin America riding adventures, it was spectacular at times, frustrating at others and deserves a closer look into the inner workings of its day to day business transactions. Outside of the cities, the scenery was breathtaking and suprisingly free of the litter that pervades LA. We rode through landscapes that reminded us of the desolation of Nevada, the canyons of Arizona and the red rock formations of Utah. Along this stretch of deserted road to the Salar Uyuni in SW Bolivia, only three cars passed in our direction in three entire days. The road was very challenging as we pushed our bikes through sand, shook and girated through washboard and screamed (Kirsten) obscenities as we humped our bikes back and forth from the horrible main road to the nearly as horrible frontage road.

We met a number of incredibly friendly Bolivian women on the road that engaged us in conversations about the history of their towns, their families and had a genuine interest in our curious form of travel. These encounters by far trumped the much left to be desired food and shady business deals in other more ¨touristy¨parts of the country. As we crested a hill in the desert altiplano, we saw kids rush towards us on the road to greet us with their hats upturned, hoping for some coins to walk away with. Panhandling is often directly aimed at us gringos, but we much prefer this less invasive approach to the other common demand, ¨Gringo, Give me money!¨ Within the next 3km, we saw dozens of women scattered along the road selling cheese. There was not even a town in sight, though there was a smattering of mud brick houses way off in the distance. The women shouted, raised their arms in a desperate attempt to lure customers out of their cars and off their bicycles for a sale. Yet, every person was selling exactly the same thing! We think they need a serious economics lesson in supply and demand. It happens this way all over the countries we have visited. Dozens or more selling exactly the same product and they end up aggressively recruiting customers to fight for business. Not a wise economic plan. Remedial math skills would be beneficial, too. 99% of the financial transactions we make are counted incorrectly, often in our favor. If they could count better, maybe they would be more financially stable. That´s some bonus points for education!

Frequently in Bolivia, we´ve entered little stores to purchase food, handed over the bill to pay and they respond in kind with a puppy dog look and whiny tone, ¨Don´t you have anything smaller? I don´t have change.¨ When we say no, they ask us, ¨Don´t you want to buy something else to make up the difference?¨ In turn, ¨No we don´t, but thanks anyway.¨ Often times, they said they didn´t have change, but we could see that they had buckets full. They just didn´t want to disperse their precious change, because they´d run into the same problem somewhere else. Occasionally, they thought it was our responsibility to get change then come back if we wanted to buy something. How absurd! To make matters worse, nothing was ever labeled with a price so we had to blindly trust that we weren´t getting ripped off too badly. Seth went to pick up our laundry one morning, bringing a $50 boliviano bill, about $7USD. She didn´t have change so she wanted to give the bill back to Seth, but keep our laundry instead.

In Uyuni, the day after Christmas, we went out for coffee, ice cream and a few rounds of cribbage. When we went to pay, the waitress told us what we owed, but it was a little more than what we had counted up from the prices on the menu. She insisted that Seth´s coffee was 8 bolivianos. So Seth picked up the menu and showed her that it stated $6. No exaggeration here when she picked up a pen and attempted to change the price on the menu right in front of us. That was a no-go for us. We were flabbergasted! It doesn´t end there, as we were continously being cheated of minutes on the internet, getting skimmed on either side and constantly had to count change in ALL money exchanges. Shady dealings bit us like summer mosquitoes in Minnesota.

Despite these challenges, we didn´t leave Bolivia with a bitter taste in our mouth. In South America, it´s a dog-eat-dog world. Still, we were relieved and excited to enter the modern world in Argentina and we are still adjusting to the welcome changes.

Cusco to La Paz

After 4 days of Cusco, we´d had enough. Tangled amongst the masses of tourists, constantly targets for the sale of this or that, we ready to leave. Not even the sheets of rain falling early in the morning could keep us off our bikes. After another painfully long (and expensive) visit to the post office, we were headed out of town, our least favorite and most dangerous part of cycling in Peru. Dodging buses, kombis and moto-taxis in dry weather is a feat by itself...add thick fog and a steady rain and we were soon drenched and covered head to toe with slimy mud. We pedaled on though and soon found ourselves cruising smoothly away from town back into our favored rural country. We had one final climb before the much heralded altiplano of eastern Peru, where the mammoth climbs become a thing of the past. Paso La Raya was a long, slow slog, the grade just flat enough to convince our brains we weren´t climbing, but steep enough that our legs knew for sure we were. After what seemed like forever, we finally crested our 10th and final climb over 4000 meters in Peru. The downhill we always anticipate with such long climbs was painfully absent and we were instead faced with an endless ribbon of flatness laid out before us, the 3800+ meter altiplano. Few hills, good wind (sometimes with us, sometimes against us) and steady progress meant we would likely make our goal of Puno before the 2:00 Friday closing of the Bolivian Consulate, our chance to get our visa cheaper and without the hassle typical of South American border crossings. We pushed on clicking off 100+km the first two days, passing small friendly villages and many local cyclists traveling to and from their fields, pick axes and shovels slung over their shoulders. Often they were cute little old ladies in their wide, thick skirts peddling feverishly on their one speed cruisers, offering friendly well wishes as we casually came up alongside them, us wondering why we needed 27 gears when someone older than my grandmother (no offense Grandma!) only needs one.

Day 3 was our toughest push and as we searched for our ideal campsite outside the town-on-steroids pueblo of Juliaca, we came up empty. With 135km behind us and a stiff headwind grinding our already aching thighs to the bone, we opted to push the final 10km into town and find a comfy bed for the night. What chaos we rode into. Juliaca turned into one of the most frenzied and frightening city experiences we´ve yet known. Mototaxis, cyclotaxis and all manners of motorized traffic josteled and jived for their spot on the road, leaving the weary cycle tourist lost somewhere in the middle. With no map and dwindling daylight we fought our way to the center of town and after several attempts, finally found an acceptable room for the night.

We were off at the crack of dawn, determined to beat the traffic and make the final 40km into Puno in time for a fat breakfast. As it turned out, this stretch would prove to be one of the most frightening rides yet in South America. The road was without a shoulder, poorly paved and littered with bus and kombi traffic, all intent on breaking the land speed record for most overloaded vehicle. As they passed us, while passing eachother, we were constantly being pushed off the road, mere inches from the speeding hulks as they exerted their dominance, usually waiting until the split second before they passed us to announce their presence (duh...) with a deafening 10 second blast of their horn.

Puno, on the banks of the famed Lake Titicaca, proved to be a much more laidback town. We immediately sought out the Bolivian Consulate, no easy task in a town with no street signs! We found the non discript doorway though and as we stashed our bikes and prepared the small mountain of paperwork required to receive the visa, we were approached by a friendly American woman leaving the consulate who kindly informed us that they had no stickers available and that our mad dash of a ride from Cusco had been for nothing. Go figure. We settled in for a day and a half off and soon hooked up with Japhy, who we hadn´t seen since Huancayo and his friend Natalie. At our hostel the next day, Japhy introduced us to Ted, another cyclist they had met while wandering through town. What a character! Ted is from the Netherlands and is on his third tour through South America. Ted is also 70 and has logged over 300,000km worldwide since his 45th birthday! We were inspired and entertained by the many crazy tales he had to offer from his bike travels throughout the world, our hotel owner seemingly less than entertained as we all laughed hysterically as Ted acted out his adventures on the floor of the hotel lobby.

We left Puno at the crack of dawn again, facing the same madness of buses and overloaded kombis we enjoyed on the way into town. At least it was flat. As we cycled into the afternoon a car passed with curious license plates...those look familiar, I thought. A few minutes later another...Colorado!! Despite my waves and shouts and obvious enthusiasm, they kept on trucking. Though we missed the chance to chat with our fellow statespeople, we were filled with a momentary twinge of homesickness and an overwhelming longing for a Rio margarita that always comes with thoughts of home these days.

We made the border early the next day. We had opted for the more direct, flatter and decidely sketchier border crossing at Desaquadero. We were quickly stamped out of Peru, but the fun was just beginning. We crossed the bridge into Bolivia and entered immigration, expecting, and finding, the usual fat and shady looking men who held our entrance fate in their chubby little hands. As we began filling out the mountain of paperwork and handing over the equally mountainous stack of $20 US bills (touché, they make Americans jump through the same hoops we make them jump through upon entering the US) I overheard one of the other immigration officials announcing to someone on his phone that 2 Americans on bicycles would be passing through to La Paz. Likely not informing the welcome squad of our arrival, our senses were immediately hightened. After 45 minutes or so of entertaining the fat mans demands, we were finally stamped into Bolivia, no less than 5 times each, and allowed to proceed.

With just the miles to La Paz under our belt, Bolivia looks pretty much the same. The people are slightly more reserved, but we have mostly received an abundance of the smiles and waves we grew accustomed to in Peru. A short climb up Paso Lloco Lloco, our first Bolivian 4000 meter crossing, was our only challenge until we reached the outskirts of La Paz, a 20+km maze of sprawl and suburb. La Paz proper is at the bottom of a massive hill, from the top of which you can grasp exactly how big the city is. It is laid out before you in an almost incomprehensible mass of brick and concrete that seems to stretch on as far as you can see. As we bumped and ground down the poorly paved road amid a sea of cars screaming passed us, all we could think of was having to climb back out. It was nearly enough to stop us in our tracks. We pushed on though and found ourselves in the middle of absolute madness. With heavy bikes on steep cobblestone streets packed curb to curb with buses, we were fighting for survival, mere minnows in a sea of behmouth whales and man eating sharks. After what seemed like hours, we finally found a place to stay and settled down for some much needed rest.

Huancayo to Cusco

As we continued our descent or ascent (depending on the face of the mountains) towards Cusco and ultimately our departure from Peru, each stretch of road seemed intent on defining itself as our biggest challenge yet. The peaks seemed to get grander, the climbs longer and the roads rougher. Our ride to Ayacucho was no exception. As we headed out of the bustling city of Huancayo on a dreary, drizzling morning, we were flagged down by Epiphanio, a middle-aged Peruano. He invited us into his house, which was a humble, mud-brick walled adobe with a dirt floor and inadequate roofing. They (huge family and neighbors) offered larger than hoped bowls of Mondongo soup, which contained various internal organs of some unknown mammal. We were too afraid to find out what it was and casually stuck to the corn kernels and broth that accompanied the mystery organs. We shared stories and laughed off their only half-joking request to take their young 2-yr old daughter back to the states with us before hitting the road.

Quickly after, we met Michel and Lise, a Quebecois couple that have been traversing the continent for more than a year now. Onward and upward the climbing began and continued for 30 kilometers or so before we reached the top of the pass, where a sweet, long rolling downhill began. We could see the ribbons of the road laid out before us, the real life map of the exhilerating descent that awaited us. The road soon joined Rio Cachi, meandering by with its starkly, un-Peru like emerald grace.

A bit later (next day) we had finally cracked pass number three and began what we hoped would be another unforgettable cruise. Just past the top, we came across another pueblito, this the most colorful, decorated and artistic town we have yet encountered. Every house was electrified in oranges, greens, yellows or reds with a diverse array of marvelous murals depicting the life of the indigenous highland Peruanos. As we sat on the edge of town, admiring it as a whole on the mountainside, an entire school house of children screamed a rambunctious hello in unison from below, with outstretched arms in big waves.

On our last climb before the grungy city of Huancavelica, we were hit with an intense storm that shook the sky in vibrant pounds of thunder. At the mercy of the weather and in a painfully vulnerable spot as the lightning was electrifying the sky, we continued on under rain and hail until we reached the crest of the peak. We quickly bundled up in hats, mittens and layered shirts for the picturesque descent into the valley. Cold and wet, we opted for a hotel and hot shower before heading out the next morning for Chonta Pass.
As soon as we left Huancavelica, the road turned to dirt and was rough in parts, but the climb was gradual and we made decent progress. We quickly found ourselves isolated and surrounded by a dizzying landscape of huge craggy peaks in a myriad of colors. Large herds of alpacas and llamas appeared at every turn as we entered the high Andean breeding grounds. It seemed they out-numbered everything else in the landscape, creating a virtual forest of furry nomads as far as we could see. The road continued steadily upward and by mid-day we were riding at 14,000 ft, without feeling the effects. As another storm brewed, we found a magnificent camp among our fuzzy friends and rested peacefully over 15,000 feet.The following morning we began with the switchbacks that led us to 4853 meters, about 16,000 feet. We quickly took pictures, bundled up and spit out the coca leaves we had been munching on throughout the climb. The descent took an entire day, skipping our tires over protruding rocks and avoiding stubborn potholes. Our arrival on pavement was well-appreciated as we continued our final 140 kilometers to the city of Ayacucho. It turned out to be a very pleasant city, which we explored for two days, as we gave our legs a rest and our bellies a filling.

The following stretch was the most highly anticipated and approached with an unnerving curiosity, the road (if you can call it that) from Ayacucho to Abancay. We had heard stories galore about this stretch, its difficulties and tribulations. The road was dirt/rock for the 400 km and passed over 4 large mountian passes. Many cyclists bypass this section, opting for the 18 hour bus ride instead. Seeing as that sounded about as miserable as hell, we decided to hit tire to road and at least give it a go. We rode steady for 2 days, riding about 65, hard kilometers per day over extremely rocky, bone-crushing roads. It was indeed a test of our patience and endurance. It would take us multiple days to put it in the bag, days which we didn´t have the luxury of enjoying. Although we could have continued on, we were on a strict time schedule and flagged a bus for the remaining passes to get us quickly to Cusco.

Arriving in Cusco was like landing in another century or country for that matter. Gringos nearly out-number the native Peruanos and we stand out like a dollar sign was flashing on our foreheads. We quickly made plans to get to Machu Picchu as quickly and painlessly as possible. Opting for the less expensive route (although there are very few inexpensive ways to get there unless you want to forge documents and walk the railroad tracks for dozens of miles) we took a bus for 3.50 soles, just over $1 to the town of Urubamba, switched to a combi (minivan) for 30 cents to the town of Ollaytantambo to catch to the train with the hyper-inflated rates. The train, which is called PeruRail is actually owned by a Chilean company and conveniently for them is the only way to get to MP short of walking. We grudgingly dealt with the sky-high prices in Aguas Calientes, the town below MP, for a day and a half. We found a decently priced hotel and left it about 3:50 am for the hike to the ruins. We hiked up the hundreds of stairs in darkness, lit by our headlamp as birds were slowly awaking to the day and the mist and sweat fogged up our glasses on the 1 hour-15 minute climb. Amazingly, we were the first to arrive, just as the rain was beginning to fall. We found shelter, ate a little breakfast and felt relieved that we didn´t look like the remaining hikers that were arriving soaked to the bone. We were able to experience a little bit of solitude as we were the first to enter the ruins in the mysterious fog, before the hordes of foot traffic arrived in the following hours. We hiked up Wayna Picchu the overlooking mountain and caught a few brief glimpses of the ruins below as the fog would come and go (mostly come). We were hiking down by 10:30 as hundreds were still filing uphill to get their peek. We have arrived back in Cusco and will head south to Puno and cross the Bolivian border within the week. We are on the fast track schedule to arrive in Santiago, Chile by the last week of January.