”The Funnel” to Fiambala

THE FINAL PUSH

~The never ending approach, to Peinado, through the funnel.~

I’m grateful for the warm morning. The push through the deep sand in “the funnel” lasts much longer than I anticipated. Hours pass before finally laying eyes on Laguna del Peinado, a green lake, glacial green, appears first.

I guess I got too excited by the sight of a road emerging, forgetting that it’s still sand—as I start down the road, I immediately drop my bike, more of a crash than a drop really. Shortly after, the roads are really good and we double our kilometers for the day in less than an hour.

The next part of the lake is deep blue and there are more flamingos. Our presence disturbs them and they move out further in the lake, opening their wings. I shrill with excitement. When they open their wings, they flash the most brilliant deep hot pink. It’s exciting. I shrill at each tip of their wings. The little flies are thick, too gross to stop for more than a few moments, but we still manage to snap a few photos before the loud whining of the flies scares us away.

We took a break at the far end of the lava, past the end of the lake, after the flies subside. A short daunting sandy climb looms over our break. After a lot of snacking I decide the steep climb doesn’t look so steep after all. But I was wrong. About half way through the short climb, after I thought it got less steep, is when it broke me. It seemed to be getting harder, not easier.

To our surprise, a pickup started down the climb as we were almost up. The passenger was motioning at me to move to the other side of the road. I smiled at them in disbelief. They obviously have no idea how incredibly difficult it is to move a loaded bike in deep sand, and how nearly impossible it is to move a loaded bike sideways in deep sand. I continued smiling at them, staying with the line I was on. They took pictures, I smiled. Those last few feet seemed to go on forever. Finally I was close enough to the truck. I stopped and motioned for them to go around me on the other side of the road. They were hesitant with the drop off on that side, but finally went around. I finished the climb. Neon was waiting at the top.

There was a short sandy down, that wasn’t even ridable for Neon, and then a nice ride across some firm mud. Then more sand through more lava. It seemed to go on forever. Deeper and deeper sand, literally picking up the bike and dragging it to make it go where it needed to go. Time stopped. There was only sand. It all seemed endless. We were both exhausted by the time the surface improved. We made it a few kilometers further to an arroyo that made a decent wind block. Why are there always big storm clouds on the horizon when we camp in an arroyo?

I was dizzy. Every time I bent over to hammer in a tent peg I thought I was going to pass out. I finally got the tent up, crawled inside, and sorted my next day’s food. It was hot in the tent, and yet still I felt tiny chills ripple through my body. All through the night little chills would ripple, slowly turning into an occasional shiver. But it was warm. When I got up to pee in the night, my head was pounding. My stomach did a somersault. By morning, I felt worse. And our second ~5000 meter pass was today’s task.

It had all finally broke me. Too much cold, too much pushing, too little laughter joy break time. But here I was with a 4990 meter (16,371 feet) pass between me and a shower and the promise of different food. I usually have a will of steel, endurance fueled by joy at every little thing: a butterfly, a new flower, another vicuña, it doesn’t take much. I sing in icy rain, and smile at every new plant I see. But today it was going to take something different. I felt bad, really, really bad. And I had nothing. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other. There was some pedaling, but the climb was steep and we both pushed our bikes most of the way to the pass. I had to stop often—head pounding, stomach still doing somersaults. Little by little I made the pass. It was a steep descent down the other side. It went quickly, despite the fierce and freezing headwind.

An hour later we had made it down to a waypoint marked for camping. I could not believe, in this fierce headwind, that there would be anywhere protected to camp. But then it appeared, a rock wall at the edge of the lava. I broke out crying, almost hyperventilating at the sight of the beautiful rock wall. I stepped inside its boundaries. The wind stopped. It was warm. The tears flowed. The only thing I had thought about all day long—the thing I leaned on so heavily to get me up that pass—was the image of crawling back into my warm sleeping bag again. And then when we crested the pass, and the wind laughed at us, getting stronger with every kilometer closer to camping, I thought it would never happen. The relief upon arriving was so strong it broke the dam. I could not contain my emotions. A well placed campsite is such a beautiful thing.

We set up the tent and crawled in. I peaked out the tent door, gazing at all the beautiful flamingos in Lago Purolla. Too far away. I apologized to them for not admiring them closer. I told them they are beautiful, and I love them, and the brilliant hot pink they hold secret is extraordinary. I wanted so much to see them closer, especially since there are no flies here, but I could not move. The next morning they were gone.

The first miles passed quickly. My headache was ever present, and the nausea coming and going. Anything steep or bumpy brought me to a stop. Some miles passed quickly, some seemed never ending. The wind teased me, pretending for a moment to be a tailwind, only to push me sideways, and then slap me in the face.

~Crossing the crater of Volcán Blanco.~

Finally in the late afternoon, a fast downhill on a good road surface brought us to a changing landscape. Wild West looking cliffs, greenery, and deep canyons. The cliffs got craggier, the canyons got deeper, and the greenery got greener.

We took the turn to “Termas Los Baños” excited for a warm soak. The road was steep, very steep at one point. I worried about pushing my bike up it in the morning. Some locals had moved into the buildings. They had goats and dogs. But the hot spring pool was still available. We soaked for a long time. Some deep exfoliating took place. We set up our tent a ways down the road. It was a damp area, but the air was warm and there was no wind.

In the morning I wore my backpack front-roll and pushed my bike up the steep grade. It was a 33% grade at one point. After reconnecting with our route, it was mostly downhill all the way to the tiny village of Los Papas. The bumpy road reminded me how bad I still felt, but the lower in elevation we got, the warmer the air got. The warm sun made me feel a little better. I could feel its heat deep in my bones. Things that made me happy: a strange red flower, the warm sun, a grouse-like bird, a bunny sighting, and a burro snorting at me. [The grouse-like bird I saw was a Tinamou, and I’m pretty sure it was either the Andean Tinamou (Nothoprocta pentlandii) or the ornate Tinamou (Nothoprocta ornata). The strange red flower is in the genus Caiophora, possibly Caiophora Chuquitensis, but I’m not sure. Also, in looking up creosote bush I’ve learned that creosote bush originated from South America in a region that includes southern Peru, Bolivia, and Argentina, and apparently spread to the southwest regions of the U.S. during the Pleistocene between 1 million and 10,000 years ago.]

Ninety river crossings stood between us and the end of the day. We skipped Los Papas and headed down river. The crossings were tedious, but there were good stretches of road that passed the kilometers much more quickly than we had anticipated. After the last crossing, the narrow canyon opened up and dumped us out into a landscape that reminded me of parts of Arizona, California, and New Mexico. Rotten granite gravely-sand, creosote bush, mesquite trees, and palo verde trees. Even the sunset reminded me of Arizona. There were tarantula hawks, velvet ants, song birds, and tiny ants everywhere. I just hoped we wouldn’t see a scorpion or rattlesnake too. The air was warm. We braved the clouds and decided to cowboy camp one more time. I watched the clouds dress the horizon in pink, spreading out wispy across the darkening sky. A few stars peaking through their veil.

Walk gently on this earth.

Walk gently on your self.

Am I a parasite, or a warrior?

Words to lose one self by.

What do I give back to the earth?

Is the exploration enough?

Is it enough to share this with you?

Is there not value in the beauty

and the inspiration?

In love and light

the warrior shines.

The morning was warm and we got an early start. It was still early when we arrived in Punta de Agua so we continued on to Palo Blanco. No restaurant was open when we arrived in Palo Blanco, forgetting that it was Sunday and New Year’s Day. We bought some snacks at a minimart, and the lady invited us in for breakfast. It was the standard Argentinian breakfast: crackers, jam, butter, and tea. But it was so nice. We ate the whole block of butter, and the jam was homemade. We tried to give her some money, maybe feeling guilty for having eaten the whole block of butter (and half of her homemade jam), but she refused any payment. We made our way to the next minimart and bought some orange juice, apples, and water.

The road from Palo Blanco to Fiambala is paved and mostly downhill so we thought it would be easy and we’d arrive in Fiambala in the early afternoon. But the wind decided to have one last laugh at what we thought. It started as we were heading out of Palo Blanco. It got stronger and stronger and stronger the closer we got to Fiambala. The wind was so strong that it pushed me to the other side of the road more than once, facing me into head on traffic. I finally stopped riding and just pushed the last few kilometers into Fiambala. The wind did not give until we reached the trees that enclose the town.

I was so faint with exhaustion. My face was so dirty even though I washed it everyday. We checked into a hostel, and went straight to the ice cream shop (the only place that was open).

Moments are never just moments. In their passing, reality is forever redefined. Letting go is the most difficult part of any journey. And sometimes, the most difficult ones are the ones I can’t stop thinking about. I (almost) want to go back and do it all over again.