Olacapato to Tolar Grande

ROLLING HOME

We left Olacapato late, after breakfast. We have yet to get an early start, intentionally being gentle on ourselves while we acclimate.

~Behind Olacapato sits one of the largest solar power plants I’ve ever seen, seemingly stretching on for miles.~

It rained again, last night, keeping the road heavy with mud, and the miles slow. We jumped on the old train tracks for awhile to escape the mud. A parade of llamas stared curiously at our passing.

We spent most of the morning, and into the early afternoon, gradually climbing out of the mud. Down the other side, the heat rose and the surroundings became dryer and more barren. We had a fast downhill cruise to Salar de Pocitos, arriving in the late afternoon. The town gritty, having more of a truck stop feel than a homey town feel.

We rolled down a side road to some abandoned buildings, where we set up camp for the night. It wasn’t ideal, but it was out of the wind and out of what looked like a big storm rolling in. I moved trash and poopy toilet paper to the other side of the building, clearing a place for our bikes and a place to set up our beds for the night.

After dark, a little bird flew in the window, flapping about, seemingly upset by our presence. I asked it not to poop on me in the night. It flapped around for a few minutes, then roosted on the other side of the room. In the morning, I discovered a small bird poop on the corner of my groundsheet, making its feelings about our presence known.

The storm never landed, and we woke to dry roads. By the time we packed up, the cafe at the end of town was open. We had breakfast and filled our canteens, rolling out of town late again. A fast ride across the salar, and then a long uphill grind to the edge of the flats, brought us to the red hills of the Los Colorados and to the Desierto del Diablo. The red eroding soils familiar, like something between Utah and the badlands of South Dakota. My mind always comparing new things to things I’ve known. I contemplate this for awhile, thinking it must be a way of helping to set new things into memory.

We set up camp in the Desierto del Diablo, not thinking much about the looming storm clouds, or that we were at the lowest point before the morning’s climb up the Sieta Curvas. It has been so dry since we climbed up out of the mud two days ago, we were sure it was not going to rain. Perhaps a drop or two would fall, but we were sure the distant storm would not land.

We have not seen the stars since arriving in Argentina, and this dry, red, desert seemed like the perfect place to view the southern stars. We cowboy camped at the base of a small red hill, waking a couple of hours later to a light sprinkle. We covered with the tent and drifted back to sleep, waking again later to a much heavier rain, the red surroundings a sticky mud.

We moved camp in the middle of the night, to slightly higher ground, and set up the tent. It stopped raining, but then started again a few hours later, stopping again by morning. We’re usually very good about assessing our surroundings and environment, but evidently, we have very little understanding of this one, and especially its weather.

A fresh layer of snow dressed the high ridges—ridges that were completely free of snow the previous day. The mud was the stickiest yet, bringing Neon’s bike to a halt. He dragged it for a while, until a couple in a Range Rover stopped to chat. They supplied us with extra water while Neon removed the largest chunks of mud from his bike. The Sieta Curvas gave way to a dryer road surface, as we pushed our bikes to higher ground.

~Looking back from the Sieta Curvas, at the small red hills where we had camped.~

Midday I had the strangest feeling, as if suddenly I just became aware of my three dimensional self in this three dimensional landscape. It sounds bizarre, but it was oddly uncomfortable, and I could not shake the feeling. The feeling eventually calmed, but did not go away.

After a long uphill grind we finally reached the pass. A long fast descent brought us to the Salar outside of Tolar Grande. As I rode across the Salar, I kept saying “OMG, it’s so freaking gorgeous here”. I was overwhelmed by the beauty, feeling like I was home. The desert familiar, the mountains in the distance calling me.