Trip distance and Time trip correct at La Paz, Bolivia on 28/11/11

More photos in the galleries Bolivia 2011 - Chile 2011 – Argentina 2011

The motorcyclists amongst you may also like the

‘Trails of South America…a photo journal’ gallery which supports my ADV Rider thread

Continued from Chapter 27…

After a painless border crossing at Copacabana (I’d exited Bolivia there in 2009 and so knew the system) I rode on to La Paz only to arrive at Hostel El Careterro just as Mark & Claire appeared on foot to take a look at the place. They’d been staying elsewhere but soon moved when they realized how much they could save my moving to El Careterro.

Bolivian policeman Amadeo Condori was impressed with Rosie!

I hadn’t realized quite how tired I was until I stopped. The dirt roads, bushcamping and cold of the mountains had left me in need of a break that I hadn’t realized I needed until I stopped. La Paz was a better place than most to do that as I could afford a private room where I could make breakfast set-up my laptop etc without having to pack it all away every time I went out. I knew my way around having spent 19 days there trying to repair Lady P’s suspension back in 2009, knew where to get a great fruit/yoghurt salad for lunch and a variety of restaurants for the evening. It is also a ‘real’ city, not one that’s evolved around tourism and so it’s an interesting place to walk around. (A bit of time off the bike also gave me a chance to write chapter 26 and much of chapter 27).

Birthday Boy

A few days later it was my birthday and Mark & Claire knocked on my door bearing gifts, the most fantastic handmade birthday card and an invitation for breakfast.

How cool was my birthday card from Mark & Claire!!!???

Three courses of breakfast later and we could barely move. Nobody gave food another thought until Claire appeared early afternoon with an incredible chocolate birthday cake and promptly brewed fresh coffee to wash it down. It was a stunning cake but rich, oh so rich. Now there was a time when I was the king of the rich deserts amongst my friends and could out eat anyone but even I couldn’t manage seconds. Mark though made me look like a novice and promptly dusted off what Claire couldn’t manage.

Later that afternoon Yoshi arrived and moved into my room which immediately halved the price doing us both a favor. That  evening the four of us headed out to ‘Olivers Travels’, a gringo bar/restaurant that serves as good a Bangers ‘n’ Mash as you’ll find in any pub in England and, when they’ve got it, locally brewed draught Saya beer in either dark or amber. Being a birthday celebration it took several Sayas to wash down the BnM.

Mark, Yoshi (aka Saburo), me and Claire..."HAPPY BIRTHDAY ADAM!"

It was the second time I’d spent my birthday in Bolivia and was in total contrast to the last time when I’d spent a memorable night camping alone on the Salar de Uyuni. Regular readers will recall this flashback to 2009…

Flashback to a very different birthday in 20

Before I knew it I’d been there for 3 weeks. Mark & Claire had left and so had Yoshi, only for Uwe to arrive and take his place whilst the bed sheets were still warm.

Back on the road

I eventually rolled out of La Paz on the 1^st September although that was easier said than done. I’d virtually drained my gas tank dry over the previous weeks by filling my camp stove and as a result I needed gas asap. At the first gas station I was exasperated to be told they couldn’t serve ‘Extrañeros’ (foreign licensed vehicles) and was sent to another station which fortunately wasn’t too far away. There they looked at my license plate and pointed to a sign stuck on a pump that said ‘Extrañeros’ were to be charged Bs8.69/l (normal price was Bs3.74). I’d bought gas for the regular price at a tiny place on the road from Lago Titicaca so I knew it was possible, I just had to find out where. Surprisingly, when I asked where I could buy it for the regular price they pointed to the gas station on the opposite side of the dual-carriageway – WTF! I promptly filled up there for Bs3.74/l.

Note: Recent gas price history in Bolivia – Pissed off with the surrounding countries crossing the border to fill up with cheap gas, president Evo Morales doubled the price of (subsidised)  gas overnight. The people revolted and went on strike, shutting the country down and forcing ‘Evil’ Morales to reverse the price increase as quickly as he’d instigated it. Forced into a re-think he opted for the ‘Extrañeros’ pricing scheme without pausing to think who it would effect. In towns like Cochabamba, some 600km(?) from the nearest border it is obviously only tourist this will effect. Tourism has the potential to become one of Bolivia’s greatest money earners but this fact appears lost on ‘Evil’. I was shocked to hear indigenous people with nothing good to say about the world’s first indigenous leader. It would appear that unless you’re a coca farmer, ‘Evil’ has done nothing to help you. On the subject of coca farming, under the leadership of ‘Evil’, Bolivia has leap-frogged Peru to take-up second place behind Colombia as the world’s biggest coca producer. It would appear that the Latino populate are hopeful ‘Evil’ will be toppled by his own people. An event that would lead to a ‘non’ indigenous leader having a better chance of forging some progress, though not for a long time (perhaps since Simon Bolivar himself) has Bolivia had a leader that didn’t have their own agenda.

Eventually on the road, I headed NW towards Lago Titicaca. When the road split I took the right fork through Peñas and soon found myself back on the dirt following a series of narrow, rutted dirt tracks along the valley floor.  When I came upon what looked from a distance to be a market I was waved down by a group of locals. I never was exactly sure what was going on but it appeared that a photographer from a local newspaper was there to photograph a local farmer with his prize llama. They wanted a shot with me and of course once one had had his photo taken, so the next guy wanted his, and the next etc. I took the opportunity to give my camera to the photographer and get a snap for myself.

Prize Llama

A little further on I rejoined the tarmac and began climbing. The views of Ancohuma (6427m) and IIIampu (6368m) would have been stunning but they were hidden in the cloud. I rode on through the trekking town of Sorata to beging what would be a 470km loop along the old ‘Gold Road’ (so named as it was built by gold prospectors) around the mountains to Coroico.

Ancohuma and Illampu hide in the clouds on the 'Gold' road

After camping on an abandoned road near Ananea I descended into the narrow valley and felt the heat of the elevation change immediately. The road was a narrow affair hacked into the valley wall high above the river, the going so slow I barely got out of second gear all morning. The housing was very different down here with many constructed with thatched roofs and bamboo cane walls giving the place a very Asian feel. It wasn’t just the houses that made it feel like Asia, the heat was getting to me as I wasn’t used to it.

The further I rode the more traffic I encountered and by mid-afternoon I was in Caranavi and after taking on more fluids I turned south for Coroico. When I left town a strange and dangerous thing happened: All oncoming traffic was on my side of the road! At first I couldn’t work out why – was the road one-way? Had I ridden unwittingly into alternative running? At every blind corner I slowed enough to allow me to react to wherever the oncoming traffic came from and was promptly overtaken by a minibus and couldn’t see anything in the dust. There was nowhere to get off the road either and so with no chance of finding a campsite I had no choice but to ride on to Coroico. As I entered the narrow part of the canyon so, it became darker, compounded further by the setting sun. Some drivers had the sense to use their lights in the thick dust and failing light but many did not, waiting instead for it to get completely dark before turning on their lights. I realized (or so I thought) that we were driving on opposite sides of the road to allow drivers of oncoming vehicles to sit next to the edge of the road to better judge their proximity to it.

Trucks and buses often had to back up to allow one another to pass making progress even slower. As it became dark I no longer though about time, I just wanted to arrive in Coroico alive. It’s no surprise that Coroico sits at one end of Bolivia’s once famous ‘Road of Death’. Often dubbed ‘The World’s Most Dangerous Road – BBC’  it was once said to claim the lives of 200-300 travelers annually.  Fortunately, after more than 20 years of construction, the new road is now complete and the old road is little more than a tourist attraction. Not that that means people have stopped dying on it. On the contrary, there are several memorials to Mountain Bikers who have plunged to their deaths in recent years. (More of the ‘Road of Death’ later).

It seemed to me that the Coroico – Caranavi road was just an extension of the infamous part. The dust was incredible. It was the most dangerous three hours I can ever recall spending on a motorcycle.

Arriving in Coroico after the most dangerous 3 hours of motorcycling in my life

The direct(!) road to Cochabamba

I didn’t want to get up the following morning and it was 0800 before I managed to drag my sorry, tired arse out of bed and stretched my eyes with a mug of strong coffee. There was no gas in the gas station which meant descending into the valley to queue for gas before returning to town to ask directions to Cochabamba.

Note: When I calculated my fuel consumption I was shocked to find it had increased from 20km/l to 13.8km/l. I was unsure as to whether that was as a direct result of the poor quality Bolivian fuel, the slow 1^st and 2^nd gear riding of the previous tank full or a combination of both. Either way it would have real consequences for my planned route through the lagunas in Bolivia’s SW corner.

My quest to find the correct road out of town went something like this…

Me – “Donde esta el camino a Cochabamba?”

Local – “Cochabamba? Ah…La Paz…”

Me – “No, no, no. Cochabamba. Directo”.

Local – (shaking head) “Directo? No, no se!”

Eventually I asked the way to Chulumani, the first village of any size on my map and was pointed onto the right road. In Chulumani it seemed everyone was riding old Jawa motorcycles from the Czech Republic – cool.

There was a lot of traffic hence dust and so my camera stayed in its bag for most of the day. Late afternoon I found a bushcamp along the banks of a wide, dry riverbed and pitched camp. Rosie wasn’t the only one running on poor fuel. My salami was shite.

As lost as it’s possible to be without actually being lost

WTF does that mean I hear you all cry! Well, it means I didn’t know exactly where I was, or how to get where I wanted to go but I had my ‘track’ on the GPS so could always return the way I’d come.

The morning had started well but after crossing a valley and climbing to the small town of Inquisivi it all went wrong. Realising I was on the wrong road I returned to town and asked directions at the police checkpoint. Now this is where my limited understanding if Spanish can get me into trouble. I understood that a road led from beyond the plaza to Independencia but I failed to understand that there were two plaza’s and that I wanted the road leading from the second. As a result I followed the track away from the first plaza and into the wrong valley. At the first settlement I came upon two guys making mud bricks and again asked directions to Independencia. They pointed to a track leading off the plaza and told me to take the right fork. The right fork led to a gang clearing the road of fallen trees who said it wasn’t the way to Independencia and pointed me in a different direction. That direction led me along a dead end track that terminated at a tiny finca where I met and chatted with this lovely couple. She shuffled along bent over at 80° and he seemed to do everything.

Friendly couple from the finca on the road to nowhere

Returning to the hamlet I once again met one of the brick makers who by then changing the oil in his truck. He insisted that he had told me the correct way to Independencia and re-confirmed his directions. I passed the wood cutters for a second time and continued to the pass there the road split. Neither showed signs of sufficient use for either to be the main road to Cochabamba and not for the first time that day I was undecided as to which route to take. I made a brew.

Just as I was packing up I spotted a local guy walking along a goat track. I chased him down and using his finger he traced a route around the valley that I should take. Despite his confidence I wasn’t convinced.  The track had grass growing on it and so whilst perhaps it was possible to get to Independencia, it certainly wasn’t the main route that I had in mind. Slowly I descended towards a wide, stony, glacial river valley with a track bulldozed across it. As I descended so I felt something loose on the back of my bike. I stopped to find the r/h pannier frame had snapped and quickly ‘McGuivered’ it with a tyre lever and zip ties.

Broken pannier frame

McGuiver MkI

I contemplated pitching camp but needed water before I could do so and so I rode on to the river in the middle of the valley. Just as I was taking some photo’s a truck appeared on the opposite bank and crossed the river towards me. It was the only vehicle I’d seen outside of a town all day and the driver told me that Cavari was only 40 mins up the hill and there I would find the track to Independencia.

Trail across the river valley

Their mentioning of Cavari allowed me to pinpoint my location on my paper map and finally understand where I was being directed. It became immediately obvious that I was right in my conclusion that it was possible to get to Independencia this way and that the ‘big circular motion’ with the fingeras indicated by the wood cutters had been trying to direct me back to Inquisivi but without actually saying so!

I emerged out of the valley an into the small hamlet of Cavari at the football pitch (match in progress) and suddenly felt the eyes of all the spectators fall on me as I skirted the pitch. In town there was one small tienda and I asked for a coke… “No hay”. A bottle of water…”No hay”. When I explained that I wanted water for cooking I was led through the shop to a standpipe in the back yard. The shopkeeper turned on the tap but no water flowed. Fortunately the drip bucket beneath the tab was full and I took what I needed from that. I bought a tin of tuna and a packet of biscuits. The rest of the stock was made up of large bottles of pop, crisps and popcorn. No wonder the two toothless Cholita’s sitting on the step outside declined to have their photos taken!

I re-confirmed my directions and set off. The sun was setting and I knowing I had to re-cross the river valley to my left I pushed on in the hope of finding a campsite along the riverbank. Once again I had that ‘loose luggage’ feeling and stopped to find my ‘McGuiver MkI’ had shifted and that a MkII was required.

McGuiver MkII

There was precious little daylight left as I turned onto the riverbed and rode upstream a little way to where I could pitch camp out of sight of anyone crossing the river. As I cooked dinner whilst drinking tea and listening to Bill Bryson’s ‘A Short History of Nearly Everything’ on audiobook, I glanced at my gas tank and realized I’d better not get lost en-route to Independencia tomorrow!

The following morning I splashed through the river and took the easy if twisting climb up to the ridgeline where I rejoined what was obviously the road I should have been on all along. I soon ran onto reserve and began coasting downhill in a bid to make it to Independencia and a gas station. As I coasted so I spotted the town in the valley below but despite making it into town I wasn’t out of the woods yet. There was no gas station! When I asked in the shop I was buying a drink from where I could buy gas I was asked how much I wanted. By chance I’d stopped at the one shop in town that sold gas from containers but as ‘Evil’ had limited the amount of fuel villagers could buy in containers and therefore transport to remote villages, the price was inflated. The going rate was Bs7/ltr. I checked the map and asked for 15ltrs which should have cost Bs105 but as I produced a Bs100 note the woman started counting change and I realized that she hadn’t given me 15ltrs, only 10. When I enquired as to why I was informed I had to buy in units of 10ltrs. Had I paid with the right money I’d have been pushing Rosie to Cochabamba!

Bs7/ltr in multiples of 10ltrs is the going rate for gas in rural Bolivia

It was a good job I did as once again I soon found myself on the wrong road! Soon after leaving town the road turned 180° to the right and as it straightened so a much smaller track spurred off turning 180° left. It was much smaller than the main track and couldn’t possibly be the main track to Cochabamba and so I all but ignored it (mistake!)

As my track formed on my GPS screen I realized I was heading south and not south east. Atfer checking my paper map I opted to continue on through Kali to Taipacari where I could follow another track east along a valley to meet the main La Paz – Cochabamba road at Parotani.

It was bloody windy at 400m above Taipacari but as I descended in search of a windless spot to make lunch so a front wheel puncture decided for me. I rode on a little way until I finally found some respite and removed the front wheel as the water boiled.

There are worse places to fix a puncture!

I had leftover soup from the previous day and fresh bread I’d bought in Independencia so I had a decent lunch. I also had a reasonable place to stop and as I was ‘only’ riding to Cochabamba I was in no hurry.

Having re-fitted and packed my tools away I checked the tyre before washing my hands only to find it flat again. Aaarrrggghhhh!!!!

With the help of the adjacent stream I found a series of tiny holes next to the original thorn hole that I’d patched. I tried patching them but to no avail as a second check in the stream revealed yet more holes. I fitted my spare and rode off.

Evo Morales remains popular in some regions

At Taipacari the track carried me straight down the centre of a glacial valley, through seemingly endless water crossings until it seemingly just petered out. I asked some guys working in a field but bizarrely none seemed to understand ‘Cochabamba’ (Bolivia’s third largest city) and it wasn’t until I mentioned Parotani (where the track joined the main road to Cochabamba) that I got a positive response. Somewhere amongst the water crossings the track had divided and climbed the bank to a road etched into the valley wall. I never did find the correct way to that road but I got there nevertheless. No sooner had I joined the track than my right foot slipped off the footrest. Or at least I thought it had slipped off. In fact, one of the two mounting bolts had sheared off allowing the footrest to spin round on the second bolt! (More on this in a bit) Eventually I joined the tarmac for my final run into Cochabamba just as a sandstorm whipped up slowing my progress sufficiently for it to be dark by the time I reached the city. I found Hostel Jardin with its ample parking easily enough and was desperate for a hot shower. Shame there wasn’t any water in it!

Eventually the water situation was resolved, I got cleaned up and headed out into the city in search of a steak. What I found was pretty good and by the time I’d finished the large beer (I was expecting a 660ml bottle but was served a full litre) I’d proclaimed it most excellent. It had been quite a day.

Social grazing

The next few weeks proved to be very sociable. Before leaving Cochabamba I had dinner with ADV inmate and Cochabamba Cory (aka krazykiwi – ADV Rider) and from there, after stopping at six gas stations before finding one that would sell me gas at the regular price,  I rode to Samaipata to visit Maarten and Tip (Chapters 9 & 19). Since my last visit Maarten has started Bolivia Motorcycle Adventures and has procured a fleet of DR, XR and KLR 650’s. They’d also renovated the former dwelling on their plot of land and converted it into a little cabaña which guests can rent (give Tip a days notice and she’ll even rustle up a Thai meal for guests).

In Maarten’s newly built workshop Rosie got an oil change, sidestand and rear brake pivots greased, valve clearances checked and the broken footrest bolt replaced. Maarten also took me to a local welder to get the pannier frame repaired.

Note: Broken footrest bolt – It wasn’t until I began work on Rosie in earnest in February last year that I noticed the footrest mounting bolt issue. ‘Man Mountain’ Ian from whom I’d purchased Rosie had fitted a footrest lowering kit (comprising two brackets which drop the mounting position below the protection of the skid plate) which I wouldn’t need. When I attempted to remove them I discovered that the r/h one had struck something so hard it had pushed one of the original mounts into the frame so it was no longer parallel with the second mount.

Extracting my broken footrest bolt at Maarten Munnik's

Another repair involved the main zip on my BMW Rallye suit which had broken. Now I always thought it was a good idea to have YKK zips on everything as everywhere has spare YKK zippers right? Well nobody told the Bolivians and despite a trip to Santa Cruz both Tip and I failed to find a replacement.  I squeezed the old zipper together a bit tighter with a pair of pliers and added a pull tab from a Chinese zip. Only time will tell…

After a week I waved goodbye to Maarten and Tip and followed the Ruta del Che through the hills and valleys to Sucre just as I had back in 2009. Only this time with some decent weather!

Ruta del Che

Are you still here!?

In Sucre I rode into the regular overland travelers hangout Hostel Pachamama where I found Yoshi patiently awaiting a replacement shock for his 30,000km old 2009 model BMW R1200GS (despite it having dome less than 1000km of dirt roads!). I moved in with Yoshi to share costs and learned that his bike was in bits in the workshop of Motoservi where owner Jamie had kindly let me do some maintenance on Lady P back in 2009. I was in town for about 10 days and on both Sundays Yoshi and I spent the day with Jamie. On the first Sunday we visited a market on the edge of the city where I ate the biggest fish I’ve ever eaten. On the second Sunday we arose at stupid O’Clock to catch a collective the 70km or so to the famous market at Tarabuco. Locals come in from the outlying villages to trade and are regularly dressed in their traditional garb.  We chatted with a blacksmith who’d been working the same forge for 55 years!

CAUTION! Stoking the same fire for 55yrs...

...can make you grouchy!

Indigenous men at Tarabuco market

During my time in town I prepared for my forthcoming ride through the SW corner of the country. I bought a new pair of knobby tyres, a 20l fuel can and addressed the issue of excess play in Rosie’s sidestand in Jamie’s workshop.

Jamie’s very proud of his expertise of cylinder boring and attracts customers from all over Bolivia.

Jamie at Motoservi

An interesting plaque on Jamie's (cylinder) boring bar

When Uwe and I parted company on La Paz we tentatively agreed to meet up somewhere and ride the lagunas route together as Uwe had no GPS. I hung around in Sucre for Uwe to arrive but when he did, he did so with a broken subframe mounting on his frame. After making some enquiries he decided that the frame needed to be welded using cro-moly welding rods but of course there were none to be found. It wasn’t a repair he was prepared to bodge-up and so had to order welding rods from Brazil!

I unfortunately couldn’t due to the time remaining on my visa and so left Yoshi and Uwe both waiting for the postman to come knocking.

Maarten had informed me that since my last visit the road from Potosi to Uyuni had been 80% surfaced and so I opted to carry my tyres to Uyuni. I hate carrying tyre but it was only a day’s ride and riding 360km of tarmac on new knobbies would have been sacrilege!

Rosie gained a bit of weight for the Sucre to Uyuni ride!

The ‘Lagunas Route’

The ‘Lagunas Route’ as it’s become known runs from the Chilean border post at Hito Cajon in the SW corner of Bolivia and runs north, virtually parallel with the Chilean border until it intersects the Uyuni (Bolivia) – Calama (Chile) road at Chiguana, taking in many colourful lakes along the way including the most famous Lagunas Verde and Colorada. From Hito Cajon to Chiguana is approximately 180km and another 35km to San Juan. Gas stations, shops and settlements are replaced by stretches of sand, rocks and ruts. Much of it is above 4000m and there’s no water. You’re on your own…well not quite…The route has become a favorite of 4×4 tour companies either running loops from Uyuni and Tarija or ferrying tourists to and from San Pedro de Atacama in Chile.

The Curse of the Lagunas

I first attempted the route on Lady P back in 2009 but I aborted my first attempt (from the south) because of all the cold starting problems I was having at the time (It’s regularly -10°C overnight but can drop below -20°C). With thinner oil and a new battery I rode to Uyuni only to arrive with a leaking waterpump and have to replace it in the hostel car park. The following day I made a second attempt heading SW from Uyuni only to blow a fork seal which resorted in me tying a rag around the fork leg to prevent the oil getting into the front brake. I was only 30km or so south of Vila Alota at the time and so hadn’t even got to the start of the Lagunas Route proper. The track would only have got worse and so I aborted.

So, after two years of dreaming about this route would it be third time lucky on Rosie? Not quite…

I checked into Hostel Tati Laura where I stayed two years previously and set about changing my tyres. On occasion, over the past few weeks I’d had a feeling that something was loose at the rear of my bike yet despite checking and re-checking I could find nothing amiss. Until that was, I tried to remove the rear wheel spindle and couldn’t. Well not at first anyway. Only with a huge amount of effort did I eventually free it and the reason was immediately apparent. A collapsed cush drive bearing. I was somewhat surprised at this failure as I’d replaced the cush drive bearing and both rear wheel bearings with fully sealed NTN bearings just 11,500km ago in Quito, Ecuador

YEP...that's f@#*#d!

The only place in town that looked likely to have a bearing was closed but it was late afternoon and so I hammered on the door. Eventually a head appeared from an upstairs window and the owner (who was evidently in the shower) asked what number bearing I wanted. He said he had one and told me to wait. He appeared a few minutes later and sold me an unsealed bearing from the Czech Republic. All that remained in the housing of the old one was the outer shell and I had no tools that I could remove it with. He told me to return in 15 minutes, which I did, and the new bearing was in place. Luvvly jubbly.

I worked until a little after dark by which time it was very cold and so it was late the following morning before Rosie was ready to roll. At the gas station I filled Rosie to the brim along with a 5l can and an 18l can. I took the 18l can to the row of tour agencies and asked around until I found a company that was about to leave on a tour to San Pedro de Atacama (Chile) and who were prepared to carry my fuel to San Juan. The driver said he’d leave it at the shop in San Juan and we began negotiating the transport cost. It started at a staggering Bs200 (GBP20/U$32) and after much bartering we eventually agreed on Bs50.

So why did I need so much fuel? It was my intention to ride to Laguna Colorada and then on down to Laguna Verde near Chilean border then return to Laguna Colorada  and continue north through Chiguana, San Juan, Chuvica and cross the Salar de Uyuni from south to north, exiting at the village of Tahua at the foot of Volcon Tunupa. North of there lies the village of Salinas de Garci-Mendoza where, in 2009, I’d marked a gas station on my GPS. I had no accurate information regarding distances for many sections of my proposed route and therefore had to make my fuel calculations based on a piece of string and a map whose accuracy I was uncertain of.

I could have ridden my chosen loop anti-clockwise which would’ve enabled me to return to Uyuni to refuel before crossing the Salar but all the 4×4 tours running from Uyuni ran anti-clockwise and to do the same would mean constantly overtaking/being overtaken and hence constantly riding in their dust. My decision was based upon passing each tour once and once only thereby minimizing the dust.

By lunchtime I was ready to ride and had an easy day riding SW towards Vila Alota and Valle de Rocas, topping up with gas at San Cristobal along the way. The dirt road had been improved over the past two years making it an easy ride to where the real dirt road began at Vila Alota. I dropped my tyre pressures to 18F and 22R (PSI) and crossed the shallow river to join a sandy track that leads onto the wider but still sandy track up the hill. Rosie lapped it up with her new knobbies hooking up and blasting me up the hill in top gear.

The 'real' dirt begins at Vila Alota, 147km from Uyuni

By late afternoon I was in Valle de Rocas where I’d had a memorable bushcamp two years ago and with black storm clouds on the horizon I hastily pitched camp. The storm passed close by, blowing hail stones across my campsite. I had a lousy night’s sleep, probably overexcited at the prospect of finally riding the lagunas route after years of dreaming about it and finally dragged my arse out of bed at 0640.

It was reasonably sandy right from the beginning but Rosie lapped it up, carrying me along in 4^th and 5^th gear – great riding. Soon after the village of Mallcu Villa Mar the track got much stonier and I slowed my pace. The track ran through a narrow gorge before climbing onto a plateau and affording me my first view of Salar Capina.

Approaching Salar Capina

After skirting the Salar the riding was once again fast and I was soon at the National Reserve entrance where I was signaled to stop and pay the Bs150 (GBP14/U$22) entry fee. The clouds had once again begun building in the distance as I approached Laguna Colorada. It was still before lunchtime and yet I’d already stopped counting 4×4’s heading towards me when I got to 20. My plan to ride clockwise seemed to be working.

Coloured by red sediments and pigmentation of some algae Laguna Colorada is an unusual sight. I’d seen many coloured volcanic lakes in Indonesia but never a red one and never one inhabited by hundreds of flamingoes. It was a sight to behold.

Laguna Colorada

Laguna Colorada

South of the lake I joined the road south to Chile and began a steady climb. The wind had picked up and I began to think about finding some shelter where I could stop for lunch.  Walking to the edge of a shallow canyon to take a photo I noticed vehicle tracks in the bottom. I retraced my tracks to the entrance and rode in to find a great spot; so good I made a note of it for later.

Lunch out of the wind south of Laguna Colorada

After lunch I continued to climb to 4900m. It was another ‘Ride for sore ears’ (a reference to taking my helmet on and off so many times to take photos my ears become red raw!). Passing Laguna Salada and the Desierto Salvador Dali I rode on to Laguna Verde before returning to Laguna Verde. The ride looked like this…

Looking back on Laguna Colorada

Icy formations on the pass at 4900m

Laguna Salada

Northbound!

Heading back to Laguna Salada

I was expecting a sub-zero night and didn’t want to add a wind chill factor to it so I returned to the canyon where I’d eaten lunch. The wind was blowing from the west which was perfect as by camping beneath the west wall I’d catch the warmth of the rising sun; although as you can see from the lingering snow it wasn’t that warm.

My bushcamp south of Laguna Colorada

I needed cold water with which to make porridge but as soon as I plunged my Steripen into my waterbottle it froze. The temp gauge on my bike said -6°C and it had already been in the sun for 20 mins. I ended up boiling water then letting it cool on the snowpack.

The water froze to my Steripen as soon as I immersed it.

At the western entry to the National Reserve is a tiny tienda. I stopped to buy water & toilet paper and to take a photo of it and the complex beyond. As soon as I produced my camera the woman (owners wife?) who’d been sitting outside doing laundry in a tub ran screaming from her stool as though she’d been shot! By far the most over-reacted response to being in a photograph (not being THE photograph) I’ve ever encountered. Given the number of 4×4’s I’d seen (that overnight there) she must do more running, waving and screaming than she does laundry.

A well marked track led to the ‘Piedre del Arbol’ (stone tree) after which it was fast going through wide valleys to the next POI, a rock formation that reminded me of the Bungle Bungle’s, only in miniature. The riding was sublime; quite sandy but a blast on Rosie with her fresh knobbies.

The 'Piedre del Arbol'

A little rocky in some places...

...a little sandy in others...

...but always spectacular

In some places the ruts were 30cm deep but they were ‘V’ shaped so my footrests didn’t drag. I passed several more lagunas along the way before coming to a rocky section that eventually descended to the main Uyuni – Ollagüe route. I was tired and making stupid riding errors and so looked for a place for lunch. I hadn’t slept well the previous two nights and I’d had a headache for two days. A combination of altitude, dehydration and tiredness I suspect. Below the road to the west was an area of rock formations very similar to Valle de Rocas and I found some shade amongst the rocks for lunch and 40 winks.

A much needed 40 winks!

After my nap I followed the main road north for a while until my route branched off NE. Another good run through the sand led up to rise with a view across the Salar de Chiguana A sandy and rocky jeep track descended to the salar and I quickly caught up with two 4×4’s ahead of me. To my surprise they moved over for me to pass and I didn’t see them again until San Juan. I crossed the railway track near the army post at Chiguana and continued north across the Salar.

You can see for a looooooong way on the salars!

The first (only?) tienda I came to in San Juan was the one holding my fuel and I walked in to see my can standing in the corner. The owner was a friendly woman and I chatted with her and two customers for a while.  They asked where I’d come from that day and how long it had taken. I checked my GPS to find that my actual riding time had only been 3h10 but by the time I’d added a lunch stop, 40 winks and photographs it was 6h!

I stocked up on a few supplies and feeling the need for a sugar fix, had a special treat of a cold coke and a Snickers. As I was pouring my fuel in so the two 4×4’s pulled up. In one was a Dutch couple I’d met in the guesthouse in La Higuera a few weeks previously. Their tour had commenced in Tupiza hence it was running clockwise. These were the only two I saw running clockwise.

I spent a little longer than I should have sitting around chatting but eventually sped off on a fast dirt road. Fast that is until I made the mistake of following a sign post! It led me to a tiny hamlet from where I had to ask directions to proceed. I could see a track climbing the hill beyond I just couldn’t see how to get there. When I asked for directions I was told the road was difficult but then the guy looked me up and down before adding “Por usted, no problem”

"Por usted, no problem!”

Once over the hill I had my first view of the Salar de Uyuni. It was a rocky descent all the way to Chuvica where I picked up an often sandy track due north to the edge of the Salar from where a causeway led onto the salt flats. Upon entering I noticed there was a little spray and with hindsight being such a wonderful thing I wish I’d stopped to see how bad it really was. Instead, because it was late and sunset was approaching I rode on. Initially there were none of the pentagonal patterns that I’d seen in ’09 and I had to ride a long way before seeing what appeared to be the beginnings of their formations.

A low sun on the Salar de Uyuni

Eventually, just before sunset, I chose a spot to camp and stopped. Immediately I looked at Rosie I was horrified. She had cm of salt built up on the exhaust header and several mm over everything else. I was so pissed off with myself I couldn’t relax. I put a pan of water on to boil and went to clear a spot for my tent. As I kicked out one of the salt ridges to make a flat place so my foot broke through the surface. It was just a thin skin covering the salty slush.

Immediately I wasn’t happy with camping. A – I would subject everything I unpacked o the salt water and B – I would awake to a wet groundsheet/inner tent, the drying if which would delay my (now necessary) return to Uyuni to wash Rosie.

I had the GPS waypoint for the eastern entry/exit ramp at Colchani  from back in ’09 and decided I could ride there in a straight line and return to Uyuni that night ready to wash Rosie as soon as the ‘Lavado’ opened in the morning. The temperature on the Salar plummets at night so I added some warm clothes and set off. I couldn’t see a thing through my black visor and I’d managed to lose my clear safety glasses that I normally wear at night so it was an uncomfortable 70km to the exit.

As I approached Colchani I encountered huge puddles. Puddles so big that their edges were outside the scope of my headlight meaning I had no idea whether to turn left or right. I tried going left and right alternately to keep me going in a straight line but soon I was surrounded with no dry line visible. I had no choice but to ride through first one, then another and another. I was so pissed off (with myself) I was screaming inside my crash helmet. At last I saw what appeared to be a puddle free zone but as I rode onto it so I sank. I opened the throttle but just dug in. I had a vision of getting stuck within sight of land and having to spend the night where I was stuck.

Rosie’s rear wheel was buried up to the swingarm and as I came almost to a halt I jumped off and began running and pushing with a steady throttle opening. At 3600m I had no idea how long I could maintain that exertion for but I was prepared to run until I collapsed in a bid not to get stuck. Suddenly, at the end of my headlight beam I spotted a ridge. About 30m away was the raised ‘ramp’ that heralded the exit I was looking for. I kept running and pushing and eventually made it to ‘dry land’ whereupon I promptly apologized to Rosie for being such a twat. It was still another 25km to Uyuni along a dusty corrugated road. I checked back in to Hostel Tati Laura at 21:04 and went out to eat a shite pizza.

I was fooked!

I was at the Lavado by 0800 and soon had the side panels, seat, tank and bashplate off for a good washing. These places wash all the 4×4’s that do the tours so they’re well set up. A good hosing down with a large diameter hose was followed by a very lengthy scrubbing by hand and another hosing down. It was 1130 by the time I returned to the hostel whereupon I scrubbed the drive chain with kerosene and spent the whole afternoon scrubbing all my luggage and straps. It’s amazing how baked on that salt becomes.

The salt was baked on hard

On with the plan

My paper map showed a road leading NW away from the Uyuni – Oruro road at Chita but when I got there I couldn’t find it. Despite being 1100 the only people around to ask were already drunk and so establishing whether or not the road actually existed, never mind actually finding it, was a game in itself.

As helpful as they wanted to be there arms constantly waved in different directions. Eventually the wife of one of the guys arrived and gave me some directions that led me to a track that seemed to go in roughly the right direction. It was slow going through deep sand and bulldust and was just the beginning of a day that led me through the longest, deepest and sometimes slowest sections of sand I’d encountered with Rosie (In fact, the only time I’ve experienced longer and possibly deeper was on the ride to Australia’s Lake Eyre).

There was no road/track marked on my GPS to follow and the locations of places on my paper map were obviously wrong but I noticed that the irregular shapes of the regions lakes corresponded on both the GPS and paper maps and so that was how I navigated for approx 150km.

Chita - Tambo Tambillo Road

When I met the ‘new’ road on which I’d broken Lady P’s suspension back in ’09 it still wasn’t finished. Not only that, but nobody was working on it. Nor had they for some time judging by a wet seasons worth of debris wrapped around the bridge support steelwork.

I couldn’t find the track I was looking for on the opposite side of the road but eventually picked up a sandy track from behind a cemetery that led me to the track I really wanted. It was more like a ride through Baja than Bolivia. Sandy/rocky jeep tracks stretched across flat scrubland and ran through unnamed villages. Eventually I came to one with a name, San Martin. I stopped to take a photo of the plaza only for a guy to appear waving a finger at me and shout ‘NO PHOTOS’ I don’t know what his problem was but I’d never encountered that anywhere in the world. WTF…it was the town plaza with nobody in it!

San 'NO PHOTOS' Martin

Late afternoon I came to a reasonably deep water crossing and didn’t fancy getting my feet wet. There was a pedestrian bridge 50m upstream wide enough for Rosie and so I took that.

Whoo Hoo! Dry feet!

Eventually I found a place to pitch my tent behind some dunes and cooked my dinner watching the sunset. The next morning, approaching Santa Ana de Chipaya I came across another river crossing. It was reasonably deep at what I estimated to be 50cm or so but what concerned me more was the soft sandy bottom with no sign of vehicle tracks (which would have given me an indication of how firm it was). Once again there was a pedestrian bridge a little way upstream, only this time it was a little on the rickety side. I walked across it and it wobbled and had a few planks missing. What to do? A basic mental Risk Assessment concluded that whist the consequences of the bridge collapsing were high, the likelihood was low. Whereas the consequences of getting stuck in the sand mid-river were medium, the likelihood was quite high. I chose the bridge.

Will it hold!!!???

After passing through the village I found a track that appeared to be a shortcut to Sabaya where I was hoping to buy gas and find a track to Macaya. 20km of sand carried me into Sabaya there the gas station was still being built. Or rather construction had stopped! I was directed around the back to where gas was dispensed from a homemade tank.

Mmm...I wonder how accurate...

...those marking are?

My map showed a track/road heading NW away from Sabaya to Tunupa but I couldn’t find it. Eventually I gave up and rode NE to Huachacchalla and picked up a westward track that, after approx 45km, intersected with the one I’d been looking for in Sabaya. Along the way I found several faults with both the locations of places on my GPS and the papermap. In some cases villages were marked with the wrong name. What was marked as Cotasi on my GPS and Kotasi on my papermap was in fact Juno. My papermap even had villages marked on the wrong roads. No wonder nobody I’d asked had understood where I was trying to go! Unfortunately I’d filled up my diary two days before all this happened and I started writing notes on scraps of paper. At the time of writing I can’t find all those scraps of paper and so can’t recall the details of the map/GPS shortcomings. Bummer.

From Juno to Macaya I had to navigate another salar. It took several attempts to find a way through as many tracks just disappeared into either salty bogs or the river. Once again the riding in western Bolivia was sublime. I’ll let some photos of the Huachacchalla  – Macaya road do the talking…

The view from the road above Huachachalla

Mountains on the horizon

First sight of Volcon Sajama. Still 60km away in this photo

Getting closer

The 'right' river crossing!

Macayas' Chapel

Unfortunately, without my diary, the details of my ride of these few days are rather vague but I rode north through Pampa Magachi and Chachacomani as I headed towards Parque Nacional Sajama. I camped south of the main road to La Paz and had a magnificent view of the perfect, 6542m cone of Volcon Sajama.

Llamas graze below the perfect cone of Volcon Sajama

Now that's a view from my tent!

The morning began with wet feet as I crossed the river to enter the tiny village of Bofedal with its adobe chapel. My map isn’t detailed enough to identify the two mountains in the first photo but I believe them to be Volcon Parinacota and Volcon Pomerape on the Chilean border.

Volcon's Parinacota and Pomerape on the Chilean border?

Bodefal Chapel

Across the main road I entered the park and it wasn’t long before I was getting my feet wet again.

Heading into Parque Nacional Sajama

I hadn’t seen a shower for a week and was looking forward to bathing in the hot springs in the park but I was disappointed to find that the tracks leading to the Termales both ended at carparks requiring me to leave Rosie and walk. I really didn’t want to leave all my gear unattended and so my shower had to wait until the end of the day.

The ride through the park was pleasant enough but without an ascent of Sajama itself the eastern exit of the park proved more interesting. As I exited the park I passed a few cottages, rode through Ojsani and just before re-joining the main La Paz road I came across an area of weird and wonderful rock formations that were like the Valle de Rocas – on acid! Some parts reminded me of Moab’s Slick Rock Trail (USA) and others, well…make up your own mind.

Cottages at the eastern end of the park

Bizarre rock formations included...

...this classic!

I had to have a play!

"I can see you!"

I made lunch in the shade of an overhanging rock then hit the road to La Paz 230km away. In La Paz I returned to Hostel El Carratero where I found two Washington USA registered DR650’s and promptly met Aussie couple Linden and Jeanette who’d bought their bikes in Seattle and spent the past year riding south.  They were up for a bit of proper English pub grub and a real beer and so I took them to Olivers Travels. We walked in to find just one other couple sitting at a table – English couple Simon & Lea from Chapter 27! Needless to say the Saya beer flowed and we had a great night.

Linden & Jeanette

My main reason for returning to La Paz was to collect a parcel from the Post Office. La Paz born, Colorado resident and professional photographer Sergio Balivian had picked up on my ADV Rider thread and after a couple of public postings we exchanged several emails. He was horrified to learn that I was still shooting jpeg’s and finally convinced me to make the switch to RAW (something I’ve known I should’ve done at least 4 years ago but I just didn’t know where to start). Anyway, Sergio had recommended a book but the publisher’s wouldn’t ship it outside the US and so I had it sent to Ken (ADV TrophyHunter) who I’d stayed with in San Diego. He in turn forwarded it to me ‘Poste Restante’ in La Paz. It was waiting for me when I arrived. Thanks again Ken.

It was a brick that I really didn’t want to carry but I knew it was the only way I was going to learn.

Decisions, decisions…

Given the time of year I should have continued north from La Paz into the jungle but I couldn’t drag myself away from the mountains. I still had a few routes in mind that I wanted to try and I quite fancied riding the last leg of the Carratera Austral down to Villa O’Higgins.

And so it was that after a few days I packed my gear and rode SW through El Alto and light rain towards the most northerly of the Bolivia/Chile borders at Chiguana/Visvisi.

At the Bolivian border in Chiguana there was a barrier across the road but nobody there. I saw a building with a ‘Migracion’ sign above the door but when I knocked I found it to be a private house – (take the feckin’ sign down!!!) She told me Migracion was in Visviri (Chile). It was about a 5km ride and I arrived to find that yes Migracion was there, and they stamped me out, but that Aduana was back in Chiguana.  I eventually found my way into the locked compound that contained (among various things) the Aduana office but without any signs it took me a while. I was dumbfounded when the officer wanted photocopies of my driving license, passport and title. I was afterall leaving and not arriving (copies weren’t required when I exited at Copacabana). Of course the photocopy office was closed and there was no sign of the person who ran it, not even in the canteen. – WTF! I waited for ages until the Aduana officers’ colleague returned from lunch whereupon the fax machine was used to copy the title. Suddenly the other copies weren’t important! Then the computer system went down meaning my TIP (Temporary Import Permit) couldn’t be processed and so a copy of my TIP was made using the Fax machine and that was stamped, signed etc (I needed that to prove to Chilean customs that I’d checked out of Bolivia).

I left the compound, got on my bike and just as I was riding away so the Aduana officer came running out to say the system was back online and asked me to return. It only took a few minutes and I had the correct paperwork.

Back in Visviri I got stamped into Chile but the Aduana guys were eating dinner and so I had to wait for them. Eventually they were ready and they quickly processed a TIP without checking anything!

Ahhhh…the joys of Latin America!

Borderline

My plan was to follow the Chile/Bolivia border as closely as possible south to San Pedro de Atacama. A route that would keep me as close to the ridgeline of the Andes as possible whilst carrying me through several National Parks and Reserve’s along the way.

The road south was another wide, corrugated affair until I entered Parque Nacional Lauca near Parinacota with some great views across the Nevados de Payachata. I joined the main Arica – La Paz road and headed east to Lago Chungara right on the border and found a campsite mentioned in LP.  I was grateful of the stone walls that protected me from the wind and I had a magnificent view of Volcon Parinacota.

Nevados de Payachata, Lauca NP. Seen from Parinacota

Volcon Parinacota keeps a watchful eye over Lago Chungara

Lots of bird life around the lake

I awoke to find the campsite wasn’t free! It was 3000pesos (£4/U$6). I wanted to replace front brake pads but the pin cover was seized despite being fitted with anti-seize compound (Curse of the Salar, strike 1?). I tried for ages to unscrew it but to no avail. I rode west to the small town of Putre in the hope of finding  either bike or car mechanic. Eventually I stopped at a shop for empanadas (lunch) and a few other supplies. I was told there was no mechanic in town and no fuel either. I backtracked a little way and turned south onto a dirt road that I was both surprised and disappointed to find was a wide, corrugated affair. I counted over 50 trucks heading the other way on my way to the Salar de Surire and arrived to find a salt mine. Once south of the mine I didn’t see another vehicle. In fact, I only saw one other person between there and my bush camp and he was herding Llamas. Along the way I ran onto reserve with 579km on the trip (from La Paz). I poured in the 5l I was carrying and hoped there was fuel in Colchane.

The high Andes always throw up some amazing cloud formations and today was no different.

Andean skies never fail to impress. Lauca NP

Guallatire, Lauca NP

A strong wind blew up during the night. At one point I thought I was going to have problems as the tent side blew onto my chest as it had in Baja. The force of the wind had pulled the vestibule peg out from the rock I’d jammed it under and the fly sheet was flapping about and in danger of tearing. I managed to secure it and lucky for it to last the night.

Bush camping in Parque Nacional Volcon Isluga

The morning brought a decent ride on regular width tracks past grazing llamas and vicuna’s to the main Iquique (Chile) to Oruro (Bolivia) road which I followed to the border town(!?) of Colchane.

There was no gas station in town and so I made a second pass looking for a sign saying ‘Vende de Gasolina’ – nothing. I stopped at the ‘Carabinera’(Police?) station and asked if gas was sold in town – no. The nearest gas station was in Huara, 195km away on the Pan American highway. I explained that I had enough gas for maybe 80km and he pointed me towards the Bolivian border saying something about the right hand side. I rode off to a small collection of houses but there was nothing there. I then spotted a track leading off to another settlement and so followed that. As I looked to my left I could see the large building that marked the Chilean border. I rode on and as I crossed a football pitch I realised I was back in Bolivia (illegally?) I asked a group of guys where I could buy gas and was overheard by a young woman. She led me to a corner shop but unfortunately they didn’t have any. The owner though pointed me to another building down the street but they didn’t have any either. The owner of that place though directed me to the gas station 500m away! (Why had nobody else mentioned the gas station!?) They had gas at the gas station but looked at my license plate and pointed to the notice requiring foreigners to pay Bs8.59/l instead of the usual Bs3.74/l. I had Bs120 in notes and in my best Spanish and with the use of my map I explained to the guy that at the inflated price I could only buy 15l which wasn’t enough to get me to Huara (it would, but I didn’t want him to know that as I didn’t want to go that way) He agreed to sell me 20l but I explained that I was going south not west and needed a full tank to get to Ollague. I remembered the coins in my pocket and produced another Bs25. He was going to give me 25l but a bit more persuading as he put the nozzle in my tank got him to fill it up. He wanted another Bs20 though which I didn’t have. What to do? Think? A quick mental calculation: Bs20 = approx GBP1 = approx 1500pesos. When I’d paid for my campsite yesterday I’d been given my change in 1000peso notes and whilst I didn’t have a 500 I gave the guy 2000pesos and he was happy. I’d paid somewhere between the two prices but more importantly I had a full tank of gas.

As I rode away back into Chile I realized the whole episode may have done me a favor. Back in Putre the ATM wouldn’t give me any (Chilean) money and so all I had was the 30k pesos I had leftover from 2009 (approx  £40). I wouldn’t see another ATM let alone a bank before San Pedro and if the ATM there doesn’t work I’d have to ride 95km to Calama (in the wrong direction) to visit a bank. Now though, even if my ATM card doesn’t work, I should be able to buy enough gas to get me well into Argentina.

Leaving Colchane I picked up a dirt road SW to Cariquima  and beyond to Lirima. The weather looked bad in the distance with several storms trapped in the various mountains dotted along the horizon. I soon found myself climbing into one such storm and as it tried to sleet so I stopped to don my waterproofs. It was a shame about the weather as the scenery was magnificent. I would have taken some photos only my hands were too cold to operate the camera.

As I climbed it became obvious I was heading to the highest pass I’d crossed with Rosie – 5088m

At 5088m this is the highest pass I've crossed on Rosie to date

On the opposite side of the pass was blue sky and more of the strange, wind sculpted ice formations at the roadside. A few corners later I came across a Toyota Hi-Lux that was stuck. At first I was baffled as to how such a vehicle could get stuck but it turned out to be only 2wd and fitted with road tyres. It was clear that the pass had only just opened and the Toyota, whilst squeezing past the icy formations had dug itself into the loose roadside gravel and subsequent wheelspin had turned it sideways to the point that the rear end was in danger of toppling off the roadside.

The occupants seemed to be the owner who was late 30′s, his wife and her mother. They were trying to put small rocks under the wheels to gain traction but as the wheels spun so they spat out the small rocks. Like so many Latin Americans they seemed unable to look ahead. It was all well and good trying to get some traction but then what? They were trying to drive the truck out of deep holes and it took me ages to get them to understand that we needed to reduce the angle of the exit and use much larger, flatter rocks that wouldn’t get spat out. I also reduced the tyre pressures from 40 to 28psi (no idea what 4×4 drivers use?) It took a long time, moving ever slowly forward but eventually, after almost 2hrs, we got them out. Initially they’d wanted me to return to the previous village to get help but that was 40km away and an 80km round trip would have used enough of my gas to prevent me from going where I wanted to and so I declined. Afterall, nobody was hurt. I’ve no idea how they’d have fared if I hadn’t come along they didn’t seem to have any provisions, let alone warm clothes and at almost 5000m it would’ve been -15°C overnight.

Marcos & family

It was 1330 and time for lunch by the time they got going. Normally I’d have ridden on to a lower altitude before stopping but as I already had all my gear off I decided to use the ice formations as a windbreak and have lunch where I was.

The large ice formations made a good wind break during lunch

This is what Marcos was negotiating when he got into trouble

By the time I got to Parque Nacional Salar de Huasco the sun was out and I stopped for photos at the far end of the lake. It was a great view but really needed to get going and find a campsite. At about 5pm, not far north of the main road I spotted a cracking spot and pitched camp. I’d actually finished eating by the time the sun set for a change. Sunset was a cloudy but extremely orange affair.

Salar de Huasco

Bushcamp in Parque Nacional Salar de Huasco

What did I tell you about Andean skies!?

I awoke to a rather cloudy sky but it improved as I ate breakfast. I was on tarmac almost immediately and stayed on it until the southern end of Salar de Coposa where I turned off onto dirt. It was another wide, corrugated affair that led me past Mina Collahuasi away to my right. Once past the mine the track narrowed and became much more enjoyable.

Mina Collahuasi

In Ollagüe there was once again no gas station. I bought bread and asked about buying gas but they wanted a staggering 1500pesos/litre – almost 2quid!!! (pump price was 650-800).

Whilst Calama was out of my way it was only a 70km round trip out of my way and going there would give me an opportunity to repair my front brake so I decided that was my best option.

Approaching Ollagüe from the north

I left town on what began as another wide, stony, corrugated affair but as it descended past white sand dunes to the Salar de Cocote it became a little sandy. At the far end of the Salar I stopped for lunch behind a derelict building and just grabbed a few photos of a train travelling across the salt flats.

Salar de Cocote

The road surface changed regularly en-route to Calama and I caught and passed the train so I got a few more photos.

I caught up with the same train on the way to Calama

In Calama I rode straight to the campsite where I’d stayed 2yrs ago. I Slept in late then realized Chile was an hour ahead (EH? But its WEST of Bolivia…how does that work then!?), and so it was even later! Once again my camp stove wouldn’t work so I took the generator apart and cleaned it but still nothing.

Went to the tourist office for a map of Calama and directions to where I could buy a new jacket zipper (my squeezing of the slider had lasted all but a day) and the locations of the bike shops. I bought a new zipper but couldn’t get a YKK one.

The next morning I managed to get my campstove going but with an orange flame so it boiled very slowly. I rode to the bike shop, borrowed a hammer and big screwdriver and had the pin cover off almost immediately. Back at the campsite I got stuck into some maintenance. I  serviced front caliper and fitted new pads. Cleaned chain and lubed with engine oil. Washed air filter and 2x filter skins; oiled and fitted one, turned front tyre around (I’ve got into the habit of doing this with Pirelli MT21’s after the first 3000km as it evens out the unusual knob wear – nobody like unusual knob wear!).

Still no Geysers!

I’d only planned a short ride to the geysers at El Tatio and so I had something of a lazy start. The previous evening I’d discovered unlocked Wi-Fi available in my tent and so listened to Simon Mayo (BBC Radio 2 for foreign readers) whilst I ate breakfast and packed .

I ran into a sandstorm as I left town. Visor filthy, in my eyes and everywhere – couldn’t see jack! It was mostly tarmac en-route to El Tatio although it did get a little sandy on the final run in. As I pulled up so did two Chilean two guys from Arica on KTM 450exc’s. They had followed the Dakar route through the desert from home and were heading to San Pedro. Their three mates also on KTM’s soon arrived and we had a bit of a chat. One of them had a KTM350 exc (which I’d never heard of). Now that looked like a GREAT bike – 103kg’s they said…must look it up!

Local KTM gang

I thought I could get a bed in the building but was told it was for staff only. It way too windy to pitch my tent so set off to find shelter. I eventually found it in abandoned mining accommodation block a few km’s south. Most of the buildings had the floors missing but I eventually found one with it in place and by unloading one pannier I could get Rosie inside too. That would help with getting her started in what would be a very cold morning. Or rather I thought it would…

I got up at 0600 so I could ride back to El Tatio to see the early morning thermal activity. It was -8°C inside the wooden hut. My camp stove wouldn’t work so no coffee made for a grumpy start to the day. Outside was colder – so cold I snapped the tube of my Camelback in half!!!

Cold enough to snap the end off my Camelback tube!

I also snapped one of the shaped knee pads in my BMW riding trousers. I pushed Rosie outside and tried to start her but the combination of cold and altitude meant that I struggled. I struggled to the point that I flattened the battery trying. I had to unload all my gear, push her out to the main dirt road, then along it until I found a hill I could bump start her down. (Ever tried bump starting a thumper with knobby tyres at 4400m!!!???). By the time I’d done that and re-loaded all my gear the tour companies were returning to San Pedro…the thermal activity was over for the day and I never did see the geysers!

That was just the beginning of my day. I rode the 90km to San Pedro de Atacama and had a look for a replacement stove but without success so I filled up with gas and headed for Paso Sico. I wanted to enter Argentina at the next border south, Paso Socompa, but my map said it wasn’t an international border. I did some searching online and found a report from a guy who’d approached from the opposite side but was turned away as they couldn’t process vehicles. He tried persuading them but they just laughed and said even if they let him through the Chilean’s wouldn’t.

And so it was that I headed for Paso Sico. I had fond memories of the pass from ’09 when I crossed in the opposite direction but this time the wind was howling and I had a job to stay on. When the wind blew from the side I was leant over so far the front wheel was all but taken from underneath me. At one point I turned so that the wind was behind me and a dust cloud blew past me like I was standing still. I was doing 80km/h so the wind was gusting to at least 120km/h.

The beauty of Paso Sico blew me away in 2009. It did the same in 2011

As I approached Argentina and I got my first view of the border complex so my heart sank. I suddenly recalled the officious, straight faced ‘Jefe’ (boss) I’d dealt with last time. If he was on duty I was in trouble. I recognized him as soon as I walked through the door and before stamping my passport he wanted to see all my paperwork, including insurance. To buy insurance for Argentina in Chile you need either a 6-digit license plate (compatible with their insurance co’s computers) or a roadside insurance agent who will issue a handwritten certificate. Well there are none on the way to Paso Sico so I arrived without and was told in no uncertain terms “No entrada sin seguros”, and was promptly sent back to San Pedro. The wind was even worse on the way back. Like BAD day on Rta40.I finally arrived at 1915 after 510km, 330 on dirt and walked around all evening with my neck craned over at 45°. Once again it had been quite a day.

My third option for entering Argentina was the main road over Paso Jama. Mark & Claire had entered there without being asked for insurance and so I approached it with my fingers crossed. It was tarmac all the way but was a pleasant, if windy ride.

Paso de(?) Jama

I breezed through Migracion and Aduana, even having a laugh with the Aduana officer who apolgised for not speaking much English. “No problem I said. I speak a little but understand very little. Though I understand nothing in Chile I added. She found this very funny and didn’t mention insurance. Phew!

On the border was a YPF gas station complete with expresso machine and sandwich toaster which meant a special treat for me – Latte and Pannini. Whilst I ate I chatted with two local guys riding BMW F800’s. They were returning from a trip to Machu Picchu and we’d passed each other on the road from San Pedro several times as we stopped in different places to take photos. Unfortunately they weren’t sure whether or not there was fuel 450km away in Antofagasta de la Sierra.

I said goodbye and followed the main Rta 27 until I reached the Salar de Cauchari where I turned south onto a dirt road that followed its’ western edge to eventually intersect with the Rta 51 to Paso Sico just above Cauchari and  115km from the Jama border. From the junction it was 68km to San Antonio de los Cobres where I knew there was fuel. Despite being in the wrong direction and being a 136km round trip, it would add 53km to my range. Now 53km is a chuffin’ long walk and so reluctantly I took the detour. I rode into town filled up with gas, noted all the new housing built over the past two years (due to the Borax mining) and rode out again.

There’s really nothing at Cauchari, it’s just a place on the map where Rta 51 meets the road south to Antofagasta, SW to Mina La Casualidad and north to Rta 27. However, I had noted some derelict buildings when I’d passed by earlier and they were of significant importance to me as they were provide me with a place to pitch my tent out of the wind. My stove was now failing on a regular basis and so in anticipation of this I’d bought cheese, ham and bread in San Antonio. It was good job I had as I barely managed to boil enough water for a brew. It was cheese & ham sarnies for dinner.

Escaping the wind at Cauchari

Overtired from the previous two days I’d gone to bed with a headache and didn’t get up until 0800. By now my stove was driving me nuts and in my frustration, when it leaked petrol all over itself, I set it alight. When both the stove and I had cooled down I tried again and to my amazement it lit. And so it was that for the next few days that became my lighting process! The flame was limp at best and cooking on it took forever but at least I could have a hot brew.

Whilst eating breakfast and scrolling through my route south on my GPS I noticed a big piece of missing info and had to re-load Viajeros Mapas (LINK). It was 1100 before I got moving and headed south past the Salar Pocitos o Quiron on another  big, wide mining road. Sign at edge of the next salar said straight on to Antofagasta but that just led to the mineroad led to mine. Tried to follow the route on the GPS but road disappeared into the salar.

End of the road on the Salar del Hombre Muerto

I backtracked to where the GPS showed minor route. It was there but hadn’t been used for eons. Why? There was something wrong, it was more direct than the main route and yet it had been abandoned. There must be a reason. I could sense disaster if I were to have followed that track. The name of that particular salar was after all Salar del Hombre Muerto (Salt plain of the dead man)

I returned to Police post at edge of the salar but being Sunday it was empty. I made use of the buildings to shelter from the wind, make lunch and think about how to proceed.

The Police post was marked Catamarca (state/province) but I was only just over the boundary and so staff must come from south (from the north would be hundreds of km’s) and so there must be a way. With Rosie parked in the shade I zoomed in on my GPS and spotted a thin red line skirting the salar. Bingo! That was my track and I followed around its western edge. I climbed away from the salar and looking back could clealy see the main route across it. Yet without the benefit of elevation I couldn’t find it for love nor money on the opposite side.

From the salar (or more precisely, the mine) onwards the track was much smaller and I saw only Vicuna’s. It got sandy in places but not as bad as I was expecting.

The road to Antofagasta de la Sierra. Argentina

Approaching Antofagasta I passed some incredible rock formations and not for the first time wished I was traveling with a geologist. What I saw were obviously the remains of what had been eroded away of time but what period of time and by what? Wind, rain, snow, ice, glaciers?

Unusual rock formations along the road to Antofagasta de la Sierra

Town itself was fairly quiet but there were several locals slowly getting drunk in the only shop that ws open. I bought a drink and asked if they sold gas. The reply to which roughly translated as “No mate. You buy it in the gas station down the road!”

It took a while for someone to appear and fill my tank after which I continued south through the town and out into a massive lavaflow amongst which I found a great bush camp.

Camping in a lava flow was a first for me

My Scottoiler, or rather the oil I was putting in my Scottoiler hadn’t been flowing properly in the cold climate. I’d previously used straight 30w engine oil which had worked well but all I had found recently was 40w – just a little too thick when cold. As a result I started pouring oil onto a rag and wiping it onto the chain. I propped Rosie up so I could spin the rear wheel and found the r/h rear wheel bearing had failed. I removed the wheel and tried to knock the bearing out but I couldn’t get a purchase on the edge of the bearing with my drift and I eventually gave up and re-fitted the wheel.

Techie bit (girls and pen pushers may want to skip) – Normally when either of the two wheel bearings or the cush drive bearing fail I replace all three (in my experience, not replacing all three only leads to the other(s) failing soon after) but back in Uyuni only cheap, unsealed, Czech bearing were available and so I only replaced the failed one (although I did buy the two wheel bearings incase one failed before I could find ‘proper’ ones. Wheel bearings are an interference fit and so you can only replace them so many times before the wheel hub stretches and the bearings no longer fit tightly. Hence my reason to wait until I could buy all three bearings from a decent Japanese manufacturer AND replace the seals which had been all but destroyed during the previous failure.

The bearing failure scuppered my plan for the day which was to follow a Dakar Rally ‘piste’ through the mountains to Palo Blanco and beyond to Fiambala and its fabulous hot springs but rough tracks and sand weren’t what Rosie needed and so I stuck to the ‘main’ route through Pasto an on to Belen. Not that that began much easier 20km of corrugations for which I couldn’t find the right speed to smooth out. If there was one it wasn’t below 100km/h.

The scenery made up for the state of the road though. It was like riding through a watercolour where everything appeared ‘unreal’ as though I was riding through a 1950’s western.

The 'painted' landscape south of Antofagasta de la Sierra

At El Penon I was surprised to find tarmac (pleasantly surprised given Rosie’s faulty wheel bearing). I was equally surprised 136km later when it ended as abruptly as it had started and deteriorated into a sandy track. I’d lost a lot of elevation, the temperature had rocketed and I was now surrounded by cactus.

In the village of Vila Vil I asked where the Termas were. “Across the river, past the cemetery” I was told and soon found them at the end of a track 1.2km from the main road. There was nobody there

When I arrived I could see what I thought were the changing rooms but where were the pools? A closer look and I realised what I thought were the changing rooms were the pools! A little hut with two doors each opening onto a pool about 30cm deep. Crystal clear and about the temperature of a nice bath I stayed in for over an hour.

With my camp stove still playing up I collected firewood and made use of the BBQ stands. I soon had red hot coals, cooked pasta, made tea and pitched my tent.

Over the next few days I rode south through Belen to Nonogasta where I turned SW to San Jose Jáchal from where I hoped to re-cross the Andes at Paso Agua Negra. The road runs right through a glacier on the Argentine side and has all the making of a stunning route.

At Villa Unión I’d camped in the YPF gas station (as I often do in Argentina) where their café had wi-fi. I checked my emails and amongst them had one from Mark & Claire suggesting I checked the Argentine road reports before I headed for the main Argentina – Chile border at Las Cuevas had been reported only accessible with snow chains the previous day. At 4779m Paso Agua Negra is some 1600m higher than Las Cuevas and sure enough the border was closed and posted as ‘Un-manable”. WTF! ITS SUMMER!!!

A final look at Argentina on the road toLas Cuevas . Amongst these mountains lies Aconcagua, South Americas highest peak and final resting place of Pierre-Emeric Benteyn (Chapter 18) whom I thought of as I passed by

Chile

Unable to take my chosen route I decided to push on and get to Santiago where Mark & Claire had told me about a mechanic who had let them use his workshop.

At 800km it was always going to be a long day so I could’ve done without the drama. After 1h15mins I finally exited the border into Chile. It was dusk and I had about ½hr of daylight left so I was pretty miffed to find my headlight not working. As the switching to both beams is fused separately the fault must lay with the main power fuse from the battery right? Wrong! That meant both filaments in the bulb were blown – very unusual.

There was nowhere to camp and so I stretched my head torch over the screen and rode on. I couldn’t use it to see with but at least oncoming traffic could see me – kind of! By the time I arrived in Los Andes it was 19:40 and pitch dark when I arrived in Los Andes. I was scared shitless as I passed cars in side roads waiting to pull out in front of me and so I was really disappointed to find the shop at the first gas station I found was closed. I rode to a second gas station but they had no spares in their tiny shop. I asked the girl working there and she spoke to one of the guys on the forecourt. He then asked a taxi driver who said everywhere was closed. Then the forecourt attendant asked me what type of bulb I needed and I told him H4. His Subaru Imprezza was parked on the forecourt and he promptly popped the bonnet, removed a bulb and gave it to me saying that he could get a new one in the morning for 2000pesos (£3/$4.50). I couldn’t thank him enough and rode on to Santiago where I eventually arrived at the hostel at 22:00 to find it full. Nooooooo.

I asked the receptionist to see if Mark & Claire were in their room and luckily for me they were. “Of course you can sleep on our floor” they said and so that’s what I did.

Shipwrecked

I hadn’t planned on visiting Santiago at all but managed to get myself ‘ship wrecked’ there for 18 days. As well as new rear wheel and cush drive bearings I needed to replace the seals that went with them. The sand and lack of oil flow from the 40w oil in my Scottoiler had massively increased the wear in my chain & sprockets and they needed replacing after just 18k km. The opportunity to use a workshop also gave me the opportunity to inspect and grease all the suspension linkage, swingarm and steering head bearings as well as a routine oil change.

On the outskirts of town I found Ruben who not only let me work on Rosie but cleared off one of his pump up benches to let me do so. I arrived on a Friday afternoon and so by the time I got Rosie washed I only got a few hours work done. Ruben was open 1000-1400 the following morning so I returned to finish up.

Reuben

That Saturday saw the start of Chiles’ longest weekend holiday. Come 1400 everything would close and remain so until Wednesday. I still needed to find dust seals for my new rear wheel bearings and in the rush to re-assemble Rosie and get to the seal shop before it closed I inadvertently over tightened the steering head bearings. An oversight I would come to regret.

As it was the seal shop (along with several others in the street) had closed early for the holiday and so I was stuck until Wednesday anyway – hence my stay in Santiago dragged on.

It was a sociable time though. I met up with Axel (Chapter 17) who, since I met him in 2009, has become the Sherco Motorcycles importer for Chile and will drive the Sherco support truck in next years’ Dakar Rally. How excited was he!?

Yoshi was in town but without his bike which was still where it was when I left him in Sucre, Bolivia. Having been quoted U$3000 by BMW for a new rear suspension unit for his ’09 1200GS he looked around online. He found a new one in the USA through ADV Rider thanks to a rider who’d had his replaced under warranty but decided to upgrade to an aftermarket unit. The OEM shock was said to be brand new and Yoshi duly coughed up U$550 + U$160 shipping (if I remember correctly). When the shock arrived it was obvious that it had been badly packaged. The spring was loose on the body allowing it to move around. Yoshi fitted the shock, went for a test ride and returned to find it leaking. I admired his philosophical approach to the situation having wasted so much time and money. He was in Santiago having ordered a German Wilbers shock through their Santiago agent and was in town to collect it.

Before riding south Mark & Claire gave me the new stove generator they’d ordered through Coleman Chile and had delivered from the USA. It was a fantastic jesture that really did change my life!When Mark & Claire rode south so Uwe arrived and we spent many a night swapping stories over a few beers.

As all this was going on I received two emails of particular interest. The first from Billy & Trish (Chapters 9, 10 & 16) to say they’d be arriving in Santiago in a few days after two years riding through Africa and would be heading straight to Valparaiso to await their bikes.

The second was from Sergio to say that he was leading a photo tour in Bolivia at the end of which he’d have time to give me some RAW lessons.

I’d already decided that if I was to have any chance of getting through the Amazon then I’d have to scrap my idea of riding further south and so I rode to Valpasaiso and found a cheap place to stay. Meanwhile, Claire had received an email to say her dad had been taken into hospital for a heart operation. Quite naturally she’d lost heart in their trip and they’d returned to Valparaiso to arrange shipping their bikes home. In the middle of doing so Claire got the news that her dad was out of surgery and doing well so she relaxed a little. I’ll miss them. They’ve been a big part of my time in SA since we met in Cali, Colombia back in April, often ahead of me on the road and sending me lots of very good info. Not to mention the great birthday they gave me. Thanks guys.

Street art of Valparaiso

When Billy & Trish arrived we didn’t stop talking for two days and even then we only scratched the surface. Had it been earlier in the year we’d have had the chance to do some camping together and catch up in a more tranquil manner.

Next stop…La Paz!

In order to meet up with Sergio I had 4 days to get to La Paz, Bolivia, 2600km away. I rode it in 3.

I could only find OEM Suzuki sprockets in Santiago and so I was back to OEM gearing which pushed my comfortable cruising speed back up to around 105-108km/h (up from 90) which made a big difference on this ride.

Leaving Valparaiso early I got 1109km under my belt on the first day and 900 on the second leaving me just 600 on the third. The riding was pretty straight and boring for the first 1200km or so but once I turned off the Pan Americana and onto the coast road (Rta 1) at Taltal things began to change and the ride from Antofagasta to Tocopilla was a huge improvement. From there to Iquique though was stunning. The mountains ran straight down into the ocean with the road sitting on a manmade shoulder. At the northern end giant sand dunes ran down to the sea again with the road once again sitting on manmade shoulders.

La Portada, Antofagasta, Chile

Tocopilla - Iquique Rd

Being Chile accommodation was expensive and so I was bush camping and cooking as well. Those were loooooongdays!

Sergio

I spent five days with Sergio in and around La Paz. In an unspoken deal he was sharing his deep knowledge of Lightroom and RAW in return for me acting as a model in his photo and video shoot he was doing to promote a motorcycle touring company he’s launching next year with La Paz friend and resident Oscar Ebert. Over the course of those five days we rode into the mountains around the city on routes I’d not ridden before and took a ride down the ‘Road of Death’ to Coroico where we spent the night. We were joined on that occasion by Sergio’s friend and fellow pro photographer of 50 years Medford Taylor who’s passion for photography at the age of 72 was infectious. His stories of the good ‘ol days when National Geographic Magazine would send him into the Outback with 400 rolls of film and U$10,000 stuffed in his trousers made great listening. A big Thank You to Sergio for all that he taught me.

Oscar Ebert (left) and Sergio Balivian

Riding with Oscar above La Paz. Photo courtesey of Sergio Balivian - www.sergiophoto.com

Come the following weekend Sergio flew back to Colorado and I checked the weather prior to heading north into the jungle. Rain was forecast all week and so I decided to wait it out to see whether it was just a blip or whether the rainy season had begun.

Whilst I waited I tried to find a new set of steering head bearings. When I’d checked them back in Santiago I’d been pleasantly surprised to find them in perfect condition but over tightening them during my hasty reassembly had seen them ‘notch’ (and therefore self-centre) in just 3000km.

Everywhere I went just looked at the number I gave them blankly and shook their heads. Eventually I found my way to Bolivia’s major bearing supplier and whilst they knew what I wanted they had none in stock and only one in the country in one of their other shops. (I needed two).

Oscar phoned a friend in Cochabamba who went looking for me but he too drew a blank. The Suzuki dealer had them but wanted 320% more than the bearing dealer for EXACTLY the same NTN bearing, only in a Suzuki box. I wasn’t prepared to pay their price – a decision I would come to regret.

The Altiplano had lived up to all my expectations and often exceeded them. The Andes are a magical place and I feel privileged to have ridden among them. To have lived off of my bike and experienced the heat of the day, the cold of the night, the wind, the rain, the snow and the thin air is an experience I will never forget. Being a soft twat I can get quite emotional just thinking about it.

Eventually the time came to leave La Paz and the Andes and descend into the jungle but that’s another story…

I’ll leave you for now with a few of my memories of La Paz…

More photos in the Peru 2011 gallery

The motorcyclists amongst you may also like the

‘Trails of South America…a photo journal’ gallery which supports my ADV Rider thread

Peru

When I first properly looked at the map of Peru I was immediately struck by the potential to traverse it along the Andes, primarily on dirt roads. Despite a government TV advert claiming 10k km of new roads had been built (or should that be ‘surfaced’?) I still rode 3193km of dirt; almost 50% of my total distance in the country. The graph below shows how much of that time was in the mountains.

GPS profile of Peru 2011 route

Continued from Chapter 26… I hadn’t realized he (the Migracion Officer)  was still in bed of course until someone spotted me waiting outside the ‘Migracion’ office and directed me to the yellow building with the red roof. A guy who later turned out to be the immigration officer leaned out of an upstairs window and said he’d come down. He let me in, filled in a form and sent me to the Police building on the low ground adjacent to the bridge. I’m not really sure what their part of the process really achieved as all they seemed to do was read my passport, stamp the back of the form I’d taken to them and get sent to the ‘Migracion’ office where I’d started. By the time I got there the guy from the yellow building was sat behind the desk in his uniform and stamped my passport. Getting Rosie’s temporary import permit took a little more time thanks to a poor internet connection but it was a friendly process and I even got given my own chair in front of the computer, next to the customs officer so I could help him complete the online permit. When he sent me to the local shop for a photocopy of my Registration document there was a problem with the photocopier and the lady ran the first copy through the machine 10+ times, overprinting the same image until it became dark enough to read!

When I eventually walked outside with all my paperwork it was of course raining. I’d read on the HUBB about a couple of guys who’d taken 3hrs to ride to San Ignacio in the rain  because of the mud. Luckily for me it didn’t get too muddy and an hour later I was in San Ignacio. I rejoined tarmac exactly 100km south of the border and topped up with gas so I could get some change for the big notes I’d been given in the ‘Cambio’ in Cuenca and rode away doing the sums in my head to work of the price of gas. Had I really just paid 92p/ltr (U$5.80/gal)? I had. Peru was going to be expensive.

I got my first taste of Peruvian sunshine as I rode through a gorge heading for Pedro Ruiz so I stopped at the roadside to brew coffee, take a few photo’s and soak up the view. There’s always something special about entering a new country (even one you’ve visited before) and it’s good to take a break and acknowledge those first few differences.

Sunshine at last on the road to Pedro Ruiz

I’d hoped to ride to Chachopoyas that afternoon but it was getting late and according to my map it was a dirt road beyond Pedro Ruiz so I spent the night there. I needn’t have tough as the road turned out to be tarmac all the way and it took me all of 45mins to ride to Chachopoyas. I had a ride around town, bought some supplies for camping, filled up with gas and rode out of town. At the turn off onto the dirt road to Celedin I descended into the valley and found a quiet, secluded spot by the river and set about making breakfast. I rejoined the main track just as it started drizzling and rode south to the turn-off to pre-Inca ruins of Kuelap. Thanks to an email from Frank & Simone I knew I could camp at the ruins so I had a leisurely wander around and bumped into a tour group containing Mark & Claire!

We could only manage a brief chat as their tour had a lunch booking. I did learn though that their reason for not coming on the bikes was that Mark had blown a fork seal and wanted to avoid what they expected to be a rough ride to the ruins. Had they known it was as smooth a dirt road as it was they would have ridden.

Whilst the ruins themselves were reasonably impressive that must have made for an incredible sight in their heyday. Built over a period of 200years from AD900-1100, the site originally contained three times more stone than the Great Pyramid of Giza!

Kuelap Ruins

Back at the snack kiosk next to the ticket office I asked the lady about big bottles of water. Stupidly I’d forgotten to fill up in Pedro Ruiz and now I had none to cook with. She only had small bottles but when I told her I wanted it for cooking, not drinking, she glanced down at her own 4ltr container and said I could have the water so long as I returned the container in the morning. As the sun set so the 4×4’s loaded with supplies for the mule trains disappeared one-by-one and eventually the mule trains themselves wandered off into the darkness to supply the communities dotted amongst the hills leaving me with two grazing horses for company.

I awoke early to a blue sky but before the sun reached my side of the valley so it clouded over meaning it took a long time for my tent to dry out. It was an hour’s ride back to the main track in the valley but by then the clouds had started to break up.

Chachapoyas - Celedin road

The track was in excellent condition and followed the river through the valley to Leimebamba where it began its climb out of the valley to the Abra Barro Negro pass at 3600m.

Looking west across the Marañon Valley

The views across the Rio Marañon from the pass were spectacular and continued to be so along the 60km descent (2.7 vertical km’s!) to the river at Balsas. It was such a beautiful spot I had to find a bush camp. From the east bank of the river I’d seen a potential spot but when I got there I was undecided as to whether or not it belonged to the adjacent property. There was nobody home and so I hung around for 45mins in the hope somebody would turn-up. They didn’t. I rode on along the riverside and climbed the first switchback for a better view in the hope of spotting a campsite. Just as I finished taking a few photos, who should ride around the corner but Mark & Claire! When I told them what I was doing Claire was immediately into the idea and the pair of them waited whilst I scouted out a goat trail down below. Unfortunately it led to a deep washout that we wouldn’t be able to cross so we decided to take a look back on the east bank along the road to Bolivar.

Rio Marañon near Balsas

It wasn’t long before we came across two guys building a house and asked them if we could camp on their land. I think they were too shocked at our request to say know and once we’d confirmed it was only to be for one night they said yes and we were soon sitting outside our tents with a brew.

Making camp near Balsas with Mark & Claire

It was bloody hot in direct sunlight down in the valley and so I got up early and had Rosie packed before the sun struck our campsite. I left Mark & Claire and began the long climb out of the valley and over a pass to the market town of Celedin. It was Sunday, market day and the streets were filled with indigenous folk from the surrounding villages busy buying and selling sheep and cattle. The region had its own style of hat that was obviously such a trademark that the shelter in the plaza had been built in its honor.

Celedin Sunday market

'Hat Plaza', Celedin

The scenery changed dramatically after Celedin. The steep sides of the river valley replaced by the plateau of divided farmland. Across one more pass and I rejoined tarmac on the descent into Cajamarca. I found a field outside an army training college and pulled in to make some lunch. At first I thought the college was empty but as I unpacked my stove so I saw the inspection hole in the main gate open. I wandered over to check it was ok for me to be there and the request was shouted up the ranks until the senior officer came out for a chat. When he saw I was about to make sandwiches he sent his subordinate to the kitchen to fetch me a bowl of chicken, rice & platano (a not so sweet banana usually served fried).

I rode around Cajamarca for what seemed like ages trying to find a cheap place to stay with safe parking for Rosie. I eventually came across ‘Las Tajas’, just off the main plaza and as I was checking in who should arrive but Mark & Claire.
Great company as always we wasted no time in taking full advantage of Cajamarma’s place at the centre of northern Peru’s dairy production and soon acquired a whole fresh cheese from the market along with a bottle of red, fresh bread and a bag of olives, etc… Too expensive to do alone but a bargain when divided by three!

Claire put together a great feast

I really liked Cajamarca. A typically picturesque South American Plaza de Armas (Central Plaza) surrounded by a Cathedral, Bishops Palace and a convent, all with elaborately carved facade’s and beautifully lit at night. Cajamarca is also the location of the first showdown between the Spanish Conquistadors and the Inca’s (1532). Pizzaro ambushed Atahualpa who, realizing he was bargaining for his life reached up and drew a line on the wall saying he would have the room filled to the line with gold and twice with silver. After striking a deal the Spanish promptly betrayed and ultimately executed Atahualpa.

Cajamarca Cathedral

I slept poorly thanks to all my sand fly bites (a theme that was to continue for several nights) and spent the following morning on a wild goose chase looking for kerosene to clean my chain. (It wasn’t until I left filled up with gas in Huaraz ten days later that I finally learnt that kerosene is banned in Peru because of its use in cocaine production).

After three nights in Cajamarca I said goodbye to Mark & Claire who were heading for the coast, and set off SE through Cajabamba and Huamachuco to pick up a dirt road atop a high pass. It was a rough road under sullen skies that led me to the nondescript mining settlement of Angasmarca where I eventually found a place to stay full of miners.

Belen Hotel, Angasmarca

(ROUTE INFO: It is virtually impossible to trace my route on paper maps as many of the settlements aren’t shown so for those searching for route ideas through Peru this was my route from Cajamarca to Huaraz: Cajabamba – Huamachuco – Angasmarca – Mollebamba – Mollepata – Pallasca – Huacaschuque – Huandoval – Cabana – then back onto tarmac through Tauca – Ancos – Chuquicara – east into Canyon to bush camp then backtrack to just NE of Ancos where I picked up the dirt road through Santa Rosa – Llapo (detour) – Conamires – Bambas – Yupan – La Pampa – SW to Rio Santa Valley – Yuracmarca – Huallanca (Canyon del Pato) – Huaraz. NB: Because of all the stops for photos and my detour via Llapo it took me 3days/2 nights).

Thanks to the guy and his radio in the next room I was awake at 0530 the next morning so I got up soon after, made breakfast and was riding by 0650. It was drizzling as I rode south towards Mollebamba, Mollepata and the valley at Tablachacha so I virtually ignored the scenery and enjoyed riding the often sandy deep ruts that had been worn into banked turns and I had to keep telling myself to “slow down!”

Mollebamba

Mud bricks laid out to dry in Mollepata

Overlooking Tablachacha

The descent from Mollepata to Tablachacha

The road continued to Pallasca where I managed to arrive on the ‘day off’ in the middle of a three day festival (June 21, 22 & 24!!!) in honor of St. John the Baptist. Stalls were still set up and the band was playing so I’m not really sure of the reasoning behind the festival skipping the 23^rd.

Pallasca

I stopped in the plaza, wandered around, had a drink, took a few photos and chatted with the soldiers stationed on the plaza. When I asked the way out of town I was amazed that my request for directions had to pass through three soldiers before one could be found who knew the answer! Had all the recruits been taken to Pallasca under cover of darkness and forbidden to leave the plaza during daylight hours?

After a few more hours on the dirt I rejoined tarmac and was immediately afforded a fabulous view across a wide east/west valley.

View from the Cabana - Ancos road

Panoramic

As I rode west and began my descent towards the Rio Tablachaca the formations of the valley walls reminded me of Ladakh, India.

Riding from Cabana towards the Rio Tablachacha

I passed an abandoned mining village that appeared to have been the victim of a landslide and had since been stripped of all its usable materials.

Abandonned village

At the head of foot of the valley a series of switchbacks carried me down to the Rio Huaychaca where the road turned south and led me through a narrow gorge. The river was full of boulders of an incredible size, all worn smooth from tens of thousands of years of water erosion. Once across the Rio Santa at Chuquicara a dirt road led east towards Cañon del Pato. Thanks to Frank & Simon (2x Honda Transalps – Chapter 23) I had a link to a waypoint for a bush camp 15km or so along this road.

Sheltering from the wind prior to pitching camp

Despite its initial unappealing location it was actually possible to pitch camp out of sight of the road. I made a windbreak using Rosie and my tarp and with a cup of tea in hand I reflected on the fact that the only other vehicles I’d seen all day had been in Pallasca. Just my kind of route, and with that thought in mind I pitched my tent.

The following morning I backtracked to Ancos in search of the dirt road that would lead through Santa Rosa. The track on my GPS was clearly wrong and it took a bit of asking around until I found where I was looking for (blatantly obvious if you knew where to look but it didn’t exist at all on my paper map and my GPS map was wrong). Once on the right track I climbed through El Porvenir and Santa Rosa and past another dirt road that branched off into the next valley. That would wait though as I wanted to visit what I’d read was the ‘friendly village of Llapo’. It turned out to be an apt description.

Llapo is very old and very quiet. As I rode into the sleepy plaza I was the only thing producing either sound or motion and so felt even more conspicuous than usual. I stopped at a small shop on the plaza to ask where I could get a coffee only to find it empty. A woman appeared, running across the plaza apologizing profusely for not being in attendance but had no idea where I could find coffee. She shouted across to two old guys sitting on a bench on the plaza and so began a cross street discussion until a third guy appeared and said he knew but needed to check. He walked to the corner of the plaza then disappeared before re-appearing a few minutes later and gesticulating for me to follow. I parked Rosie and followed him through a door into what I was expecting to be a café/shop only to find myself in the livingroom of 71yr old Ricardo.

Ricardo was a great host and guide

Ricardo took great pride in telling me that he still played football and demonstrated his athletic prowess by kicking his feet to shoulder height!

He made coffee, produced a large chunk of cheese and some bread rolls and we chatted about his house and family. He had nine children, five of which are merchant seamen aboard ships all over the world. The house was 120yrs old and the wallpaper in the background of the photo of Ricardo is the original!

As I finished eating so Ricardo said “Me casa es su casa” (“My house is your house” A particularly friendly Latin American greeting) and went on to say that as such, there would be no charge for the food or coffee.

I took a walk around the village and it wasn’t long before Ricardo appeared at my side. He led me through the back alleys where we met a few more locals who, to my surprise, were happy to have their photos taken despite one of them exclaiming that her pinafore was dirty and that she hadn’t washed her hair! She was in luck though as my camera battery expired after two shots and my spares were on my bike…DOH!

Llapo Village

Ricardo found the church caretaker and had the place opened up so that I could look inside and climb the bell tower for a view across the village. The building next to the church was the only one on the plaza that had a tin roof instead of the traditional tiles. Ricardo explained that in 1997 an earthquake had toppled the upper half of the bell tower and it had fallen through the roof of the next building. Luckily it was empty at the time!

Llapo Village

Ricardo had been a fabulous host and guide and as I prepared to leave so he presented me with a bag of apples “Por el camino” (For the road). What a guy.

As I rode away from Llapo back to junction with the track to the next valley I took a few photos of the road to Llapo.

Road to Llapo

(Route note: Paper maps show only one way in/out of Llapo – from the south. However, the road does continue north to Tauca)

Back at the turn-off I’d noted en-route to Llapo I turned east and climbed over the pass to the next valley. From the pass what appeared to be an endless landscape of deep valleys stretched all the way to the horizon.

The road to La Pampa

It was far more arid here than in the previous valley and I was soon riding in shallow sand amongst the cacti as I descended towards small village of Conamires. The route out wasn’t obvious and so once again I stopped to ask for directions and as I did so the local kids gathered to check me out.

Like most villages I was a novelty in Conamires

From Conamires the track narrowed and the tyre tracks disappeared, only to be replaced by footprints and animal tracks. Staying high on the valley wall the track wound its way through Bambas before climbing again. Before crossing the next pass I took a few photos looking back at Conamires.

Conamires seen from the road above Bambas

Conamires close-up

From the 3400m pass above Bambas in one valley and Yupan in the next I was afforded my first view of the snowcapped Cordillera Blanca rising above 6000m some 35km away to the SE.

My first view of the Cordillera Blanca

It was a long descent through Yuan and on to La Pampa. Approaching Yupan I came across a gang of drunken road gang swinging pick axes as they dug a trench across the road. They wanted some money for more liquor in return for placing some planks across the trench so I could pass. There’s no negotiating with a drunkard, let alone five and so once across I gave them a few soles and took their photo.

Drunk road gang near Yupan

Approaching Yupan

Once in La Pampa I stopped at a restaurant to ask the whereabouts of the gas station only to be told there wasn’t one. The owner of the house opposite was quickly summonsed and sold me a gallon of gas and gave me directions to the hotel. 20 soles (U$7.50/£4.50) bought me an en-suite room and secure parking for Rosie. Back at the restaurant the owner who looked to be late 30’s turned out to be 24 and the girl I took to be here daughter was her 13yr old deaf/mute sister. They had their own way of communicating and after watching them interact whilst awaiting my food I had a long conversation with the younger one. Her sign language included squeezing one breast to indicate ‘mother’.

I made another early start the following day and was riding by 0715. The track led out of town into a barren but multi-coloured valley of red and black and tan rocks. Much of the Rio Santa valley was still in darkness when I arrived and so I found a decent overlook, pulled off the road and made breakfast. Once the sun had reached the valley floor I set off to join it.

Rio Santa valley

This was the valley in which I’d camped two nights previously. My actual campsite was just 32km west of where I rejoined the valley from La Pampa.

Rio Santa valley near Yuracmarca

The river brought life to the valley until it became so narrow that there was no room left for anything but water. There at the village of Huallanca a huge hydro-electric station had been built and the road climbs above the river in a series of switchbacks before commencing its journey through 30+ tunnels hewn out of bare rock way above the now trickling river. (It must have been one hell of a sight before being dammed).

Cañón del Pato

Huaraz

In the California Cafe in Huaraz I met fellow Englishman Charles Saxty Good, owner of Llanganuco Mountain Lodge on Lago Keushu nr Yungay. As well as a website to promote his own lodge he has been working on a second to promote all the lodges in the region. However, he had no information regarding Chacas and offered me a free nights camping at his lodge in return for gathering whatever information I could regarding accommodation there. I was going there anyway so it was a fair deal.

I headed north out of Huaraz and cruised up to Carhuaz out the back of which a dirt road led into the mountains. I’d not ridden far when I got stopped due to road construction and began what was to become the first of many stops totaling 3.5hrs that day. When the road was finally opened I didn’t ride far before meeting Dutch cyclists Maarten & Karen(?). Unlike many cyclists (but not all) who ride across countries in fairly straight lines, this couple rode loops, detours and the roads less traveled (it had taken them 2 yrs to get here from Alaska).

Maarten & Karen(?) from The Netherlands

Another 20mins up the road and I was told I’d have to wait 1h20 for the road to be opened so I found some shade, unpacked my stoke, brewed fresh coffee and made PBJB’s for lunch. Of course just as I was tucking in a whistle blew and I was waved at to move on…ggrrrr….
Three switchbacks later and I was stopped again, their lack of communication between traffic signalers was beginning to grate.
Finally I rode through a narrow gorge and into a glacial valley at 3800m for my first view of the Cordillera Blanca…

Carhuaz to Chacas road

At the head of the valley I was stopped again just before the switchbacks began but fortunately not for long and I was soon climbing towards the pass with a beautiful view of the Quebrada Ulta.

Quebrada Ulta, Cordillera Blanca

By the time I’d crossed the pass the sun was setting. The flat of the valley below looked like a good place to camp but getting there was a different matter. By the time I’d descended far enough to access the flatland it was virtually dark and so with no obvious track to the flatland I opted to ride on to Chacas. I rode the last 40mins or so in the dark, doing my best to escape the dust of the trucks and buses. There were only two places in town with signs advertising accommodation which made my research for Charles easy but didn’t give me many options. Both were full with construction workers and would be for the next year, so I was told. I was led down a dirt road and told to wait by a wooden gate which, after a few minutes opened to reveal a drop of 6-8′ over some steep, rough stone steps and into a garden. Getting in would be ok but what about getting out in the morning? Luckily there was another door at the end of a short corridor that led into another street. Unloaded it looked doable so I rolled Rosie down the steps and into the garden of the house that had a few unadvertised rooms to let.

In the morning I took a look around the town, admiring the Italian wood carving.

Beaufully carved church door in Chacas

Chacas

My route west back across the Cordilera first took me to north Yanama via Sapcha before turning west towards Yungay. A steady climb on reasonable roads took me past a series of lakes en-route to the summit.

High pass on the Yanama - Yungay road

These switchbacks lead down past Lagunas Orconcocha, Llanganuco and Chinancocha. A little further on there was a cracking viewpoint looking straight down the valley over the Lagunas but as you can see from the next photo (shot into the sun) I was about 2hrs too late and the lakes were in the shade…shame.

Descent to LagunasOroncocha, Llanganuco & Chinancocha

There was a cold wind blowing along the valley and with no sun it got surprisingly cold. I was glad to emerge into the open and take the side track to Lago Keushu and the Llanganuco Mountain Lodge where I found Charles and a proper mug of proper English tea.

I soon had my tent pitched below the peak of Nevado Huandoy (6395m/20,981ft) and after cooking a huge bowl of pasta I joined Charles in the bar/restaurant with English couple Simon & Lea who I’d met in a cafe in Cuenca, Ecuador and again in the California Cafe in Huaraz. A great end to a great day.

In the shadow of Nevado Huandoy at Llanganuco Mountain Lodge

It was a short ride back to the main north/south road the following morning and once on it I headed back to Huaraz. After a quick stop for fuel I continued the gentle climb south towards Catac, the valley narrowing and becoming prettier as it did. In Catac I turned east to cross the Cordillera Blanca for the third and final time.

Catac - Chavin road, Cordillera Blanca

Lunchtime was approaching and Laguna Queroccocha seemed like a nice spot to stop.

From the main road a track led across a shallow(!!!) river to some flat ground where I decided was a good spot. The river looked no more than 10″ deep as I approached but what I couldn’t see was the deep channel running through the middle. I rode in slowly but as my front wheel disappeared and the water came over my boots I gassed her up and made it through without drama – except that now I was wet almost to the crotch and I had a 4500m pass to cross – not one of my better ideas!
I dried out pretty quickly in the sun as I ate lunch but of course I still had to re-cross the river to get back to the road.

LagunaQueroccocha

After a night in Chavin on the east side of the mountains I rode north a little way to SanMarcos where I picked up a dirt road heading east through two mines and crossing two passes at 4500m+; the first of which would have been spectacular had it not been for the low cloud. I descended and climbed again, this time into the cloud and rain. I stopped at a couple of sentry posts to check I was going the right way – I was. The second pass took me parallel to the spoil site of the Antamina mine. I took a few shots with my pocket camera just for memory.

Antamina Mine spoil. The bulldozer gives a sense of scale

I climbed and climbed, getting colder and wetter, cursing my broken heated grips. The next descent took me to a checkpoint from where the road through the mine was only open every other hour. I got lucky and after a chat with the security guard (who told me the previous day had been blue sky and sunshine!) he let me through. I rode across huge rocks that had been compacted to build what I later realized was a dam. The scale was so big I couldn’t appreciate where or what I was riding on until I eventually got to look back from a distance. When I did get to see ‘the big picture’ I realized that all the silt being pumped into the lake had raised the water level to the extent that the lakeside road vanished into the water in several places and that therefore an enormous project was underway to contain the lake. Had it not been pissing down I’d have taken some photos.

A bit of info regarding the mine: “The deposit is one of the largest copper-zinc ore bodies in the world. The US$2.2 billion construction program was one of the largest new mine development projects ever undertaken. In order to reach the mineral deposits, tops of several mountains had to be removed and a lagoon drained. It took four years of work.” – http://www.infomine.com/minesite/min…?site=antamina
On the far side of the lake I passed the massive accommodation blocks and rejoined tarmac before climbing back to 4500m. Given the weather I was tempted to stay on tarmac all the way to Huallanca but my Cordillera Blanca map showed a dirt road ‘short-cut’ and with the sky ahead black as the ace of spades I decided I liked the idea of the short-cut alongside the Rio Andachupa.

Heading into the Rio Andachupa valley

Life hasn’t changed in this valley for years. The narrow river snaked in perfect ‘S’ shapes along the impossibly green, perfectly flat valley floor. There wasn’t a car or satellite dish in sight, tiny stone built houses with thatched roofs were arranged in U shapes with a livestock shed and blackened cookhouse.
The track eventually intersected with the Huallanca – La Union road and I turned east once again and rode through La Union and on to Huanaco. It was a typically beautiful ride through narrow gorges that led to another climb back into the cloud and yet more rain as it ran alongside a rocky outcrop that resembled a crown. The descent into the next valley would have been yet another beauty but for the cloud and failing light.
It was well after dark when I rolled in Huanaco and began riding ‘laps’ of the city in search of cheap accommodation with secure parking. Eventually I gave up and rode south out of the city in the hope of finding something on the outskirts. I got lucky and checked into Tito’s where Rosie was safely locked away whilst I wandered down the street for chicken ‘n’ chips.

Cold…f#@* cold!

Up at 0600, riding at 0620 and wearing waterproofs by 0645. It was a cold, wet ride that became progressively colder as I approached Cerro de Pasco at 4300m. My hands were numb and once again I cursed my broken heated grips. South of Cerro de Pasco lays a great plateau at 4200m, atop which the road ran in a straight line. Without the heat of the sun the cold quickly ate its way to my core as I cruised along at a constant speed for the first time in weeks. When I could no longer feel the controls I stopped at a roadside eatery for breakfast. The coffee and cheese sandwiches were passable but I struggled with the intestine soup.

Breakfast

I dug out my riding suit liners and finally found my glove liners and had a much more comfortable ride south towards Huancayo. I passed through the mining town of La Oroya where the only flat ground was filled with a giant smelting plant whilst the town itself was spread precariously along the opposing valley wall, seemingly begging for a landslide to annihilate it. The next 50km was good riding alongside the Rio Mantaro, past Pizzaro’s former provisional capital of Jauja and into the wide, fertile Mantaro valley before finally arriving in Huancayo. As was the case in Huanuco the previous day I rode around for ages in search of cheap accommodation with safe parking for Rosie.  I had given up and was working my way through the melee of closed and one-way streets towards the outskirts when I came across ‘Hotel American’ where I found an en-suite room with safe parking and Wi-Fi(!!!) for 25 soles (U$9/£5.60).

It was Sunday and I’d been cold and wet for two days so when I came across the new US/Euro style shopping plaza I splashed out on a ‘Gringo Night’. Café Latte & apple pie, Burger King and a trip to the cinema to see a film called ‘Limitless’ which, according to my diary, was ‘ok’ but that as I write this I have no recollection of so it can’t have been that good!

Lima bound

I REALLY didn’t want to go to Lima but after looking around all the bike shops in Huancayo and failing to find a rear tyre, let alone a workshop I was happy to have replace my fork seals (one had failed between Chavin and Huanuco and the other the following day) I came to the conclusion that I had no choice.

Mark & Claire were in Lima looking for someone to replace the replacement fork seals (follow that?) Mark had had replaced in Truillo and so a quick email to them reserved me a dorm bed in ‘Friends House’ hostel in Miraflores and by 1145 I was Lima bound.

As per the previous day the ride to La Oroya was a pleasant one but that was where pleasant ended. As I rode through the town so the rain started and by the time I finished donning my waterproofs it was pissing down. It was a long, slow climb away from town with a seemingly inexhaustible number of slow moving mining trucks entering from dirt roads. The combination of rain, mud and lines of trucks without mud guards let alone mud flaps made for a virtually impenetrable mist that rendered my visor impossible to see through in seconds. Impossible that is but for an ‘oh-so-simple’ but ‘oh-so-clever’ idea I’d picked up from Mark & Claire. Some may have spotted the tennis ball with a hole cut in it affixed to my handlebars(?) Inside that tennis ball is a clean, damp rag for wiping my visor clean in just such situations and such was my need for it on the road from La Oroya that I didn’t return it to its holder for 20km. In fact I barely touched the left handlebar as my arm worked like a windscreen wiper to keep my vision clear.  Visibility was especially important given the ridiculous places in which many of the truck drivers attempted to pass one another.

In the distance I could see a dusting of fresh snow on the peaks and sure enough it wasn’t long until the rain turned to snow. With the snow level hovering around 4500m and the pass at 4832m I spent a fair while getting snowed on. Snow in Peru in July – WTF!

Snow on the pass at 4832m

On the descent I rounded a corner to find a van filling my side of the road in an attempt to pull off and impossible overtaking maneuver. Nothing new in that I thought as I rode off the edge of the road, thereby avoiding becoming road kill and all the time displaying ‘the bird’ to the oncoming driver with my left hand. What annoyed me most about this incident was that it was a culprit was a deep red, Volkswagon LT/Crafter campervan with a UK license plate – WTF!!! If you’re reading this you stupid c#@* you’re lucky I didn’t have something to hurl through your windscreen – w#@*er!!! I wonder what the odds are of being killed on a Peruvian road by a tourist from ones’ own country?

OK, two WTF’s in two paragraphs…I’ll calm down and get back in my pram.

The road descended non-stop for over 100km, along the way passing through a narrow gorge. The Lima – Huancayo railway followed the road and through the canyon often ran above it on a series of spectacular bridges.

As I entered Lima so the traffic backed up and the sky disappeared . Lima exists under a seemingly permanent smog/haze/cloud for 7-8 months of the year and therefore has a high count of people affected by SAD (‘Seasonally Affected Disorder’ – I’m not making this up) to the point that TV advertises ‘natural light’ lights, designed to emit light at the same degrees Kelvin as natural daylight!

I was glad of my GPS and rode straight to the hostel where Mark, Claire and another motorcyclist, Irishman James Brady (Yamaha Super Teneré) were waiting.

A few beers, dinner and another beer later and we’d caught up on all the ‘who, when, where and why’s’ of the previous few weeks. An expensive night but one of those where it just seemed like ‘the right thing to do’!

Full Circle

 Back in 2006 when Danny and I left home our plan had been to spend a year riding to New Zealand, snowboard for six months and then spend another year riding from Chile to Boston. When Danny opted to stay in NZ I backtracked through Australia and Indonesia, interrupting that plan. In Bolivia in 2009 my BMW’s Ohlins suspension failed (again) and after limping into Lima I shipped her back to Europe and continued my journey in the USA.

By riding into Lima on what would have been my mum’s 73^rd birthday I had finally completed what Danny and I had originally set out to do.

Fortunately though that didn’t mark the end…merely a waypoint!

Lima

Lima sucks! Sorry Lima, sorry Limonians(!) but I’ve visited you twice and both times you’ve sucked! On a scale of Greyness there’s Battleship, there’s John Major and finally, at the top of the pile there’s Lima.

Fortunately I was with good company on both occasions which helped, but nevertheless on both occasions I’d entered I did so with the same goal in mind – leaving!

My first morning in Lima (Tuesday) was extremely productive and I managed to procure engine oil, fork oil and a new rear tyre. On Wednesday I changed the engine oil, fitted the new rear tyre, removed the springs from the forks and the forks from the bike and took them to Lima’s #1 mechanic for replacement. On Thursday we said goodbye to James who’d finished his trip and flew home to Ireland, collected of forks (late) and finished assembling Rosie much later than expected. The previous evening’s late finish meant I wasn’t quite ready to leave and so on Friday we stocked up on food at the supermarket and made the most of our seaside location by eating Ceviché for lunch, after which I packed Rosie with a view to an early start on Saturday.

Back to the Mountains

 By 0630 Saturday morning I was riding away from the hostel and as I approached the suburbs I was glad I’d made the effort to get up early – traffic was already building. Around Chosica, approximately 40km east of Lima I burst out of the ‘bubble of greyness’ that encapsulates Lima and into brilliant blue sunshine. It was the equivalent of decelerating from hyper-space back into a world of vision and my heart lifted. It was the first time I’d seen the sun in five days. Riding due east so early in the morning meant I had the sun in my eyes but it was still like riding a different road to that on which I’d ridden west 5 days previously. I got progressively colder as I approached the pass and despite the clear sky and great views I didn’t take any photos because my fingers couldn’t unpack my camera, let alone work the controls! In fact I was south of La Oroya before I deemed it warm enough to stop roadside and make breakfast, basking in the sun.

Onward I rode, back through Huancayo (6 days/632km after leaving) and southwards towards Huancavelica. South of Huancayo the road was virtually new (the only damage coming from landslides) and I had it all to myself. At Izcuchaca I crossed the Rio Mantaro on a new bridge that paralleled the older, more picturesque one.

The old bridge at Izcuchaca

From Izcuchaca  the road climbed to another 4500m pass, en-route passing through the ‘Benetton’ village of Cachi Alta where all the houses had been painted in bright, pastel colours.

The 'Benetton' village of Cachi Alta

Finally I arrived in Huancavelica where I quickly (for a change!) found a place to stay and went for a wander around. Unfortunately the thermal baths were closed so I went in search of chicken ‘n’ chips.

Huancavelica

When I arrived at thermal baths early the next morning it wasn’t at all what I expected. Instead of finding a collection of different temperature pools there was one big one and being Sunday that was full of kids with every conceivable inflatable toy you can possibly imagine – I gave it a miss.

Peru’s Highest Pass?

When I left Huancavelica I was back on the dirt and once again under a gloomy sky. Riding south towards Santa Inés the road climbed steadily to 4600m passing Lamas and snowcapped peaks hidden in the clouds. About halfway to Santa Inés approaching the pass at Abra Chonta, a road branches due east to cross what my map says is the highest road in Peru at 5059m.

Peru's 'Highest Pass' wasn't!

My GPS however said different and peaked at 4982m but the discrepancy was soon overshadowed by the sun breaking through for the first time that day and lighting up the multi-coloured rocks of the valley below.

Valley below the high pass

There were two routes into the valley; a long, gentle truck route that took in much of the valley, and a steep series of switchbacks that on occasion intersected with the truck route. I took the truck route so I could see more of the valley but met two trucks in bloody awkward places. One was on a 90° blind bend where I had to jump off my bike to turn her around quickly enough for the truck not to have to completely stop. I eventually came to another mine and a closed gate. A quick chat with the security guard and he opened the gate telling me to “Ask the way as you go”!!!

When I left the mine I looked back and thought “There’s something strange about that view” and then I realized that the wall of rock I was looking at had once been a waterfall but that the river had been dammed by the mine…

This sheer wall of rock was once a waterfall

In the next valley I was flagged down by a local guy and his son with their broken down Chinese motorbike. At least I thought it was broken down but it turned out he couldn’t start it. I think he’d just been trying with the electric starter as I managed to get it going with the kick start. He had no confidence in it though (do you blame him!?) and asked me to take it for a ride. I rode 10m before stopping to straighten the forks in the yokes and get the handlebars square – there wasn’t a thing on it that was straight! When I returned it to him he still wasn’t convinced but what more could do? I took his photo…

This guy was none too happy with his Chinese motorcycle

Not wanting to spend another night in town I pushed on through Lircay and began looking for a bush camp. The valley was narrow and didn’t begin to open out until I approached the pass at 4532m. Not far from the summit on the east side I got lucky and spotted a campsite outside an abandoned mine entrance.
I covered Rosie and sat behind her cooking my dinner in the hope that I’d blend into the background (not that there was much traffic on the road) and once it was dark I pitched my tent.

Bush camp on the pass east of Lircay

Leaving my bush camp behind, I headed on towards Antaparco. A new road appeared to my right and I took a guess that it was a more direct route so I gave it a try. It was freshly graded and fast until I came across the construction crew – it was that new! The deep, loamy soil one always seems to encounter in those situations can be rather tricky but it was no problem for Rosie.

Looking down on Antaparco

Panoramic

At first I thought the track I took into the valley was abandoned as it was pretty overgrown. It wasn’t until I came to the first of two landslides that initially appeared to block the track, that I found someone had cleared path through. Down in Antaparco I stopped for a coke and chatted with the very friendly and inquisitive locals before setting off along the river towards Ayacucho.

Rio Cachi at Antaparco

These kind of striped rocks always remind me of the multi-coloured sand filled glass vessels for sale at British seaside towns.

Colourful rocks alongside the Rio Cachi

Ayacucho – Cusco

A day and two nights in town passed by in a blur of writing, downloading SD/CF cards and burning DVD’s in the internet café and I was soon back on the road. Destination – Cusco and Machu Picchu.

Shopping for sunday lunch in Ayacucho

It was brand new tarmac that led the way out of Ayacucho but it wasn’t long before I was past the road gang responsible for the re-surfacing and back onto dirt. Shortly thereafter I came across Eric & Laura, two cyclists from Oregon that I’d first met near Huancayo 10 days previously. We chatted for a while and they said that Mark & Claire were about 2km ahead!

Eric & Laura from Oregon, USA

Despite being a dirt road it was obviously a major route and there were plenty of trucks, buses and mini-vans kicking up the dust which meant constantly stopping to clean my visor. Whilst the main road took the ‘long way’ around sharp changes in elevation, there were often steep, rough tracks used as short cuts by smaller vehicles and I used all of them in anticipation of catching up with Mark & Claire. I never did and later we reflected that they’d probably ridden ‘off-piste’ for Claire to pee inconspicuously, and hence I passed them un-knowingly.

I passed through Andahuaylas mid-afternoon and rode out to Laguna de Pachuca in search of a place to camp. Unsurprisingly the lakeshore was either inhabited or farmed and so when I spotted a sign for ‘Sondor Ruinas’ I followed it with interest. East of the lake on a ridge overlooking two valleys I came to Sondor Inca ruins. Not a lot seems to be known about the site but it generally regarded to have been an important religious site where human sacrifices were carried out.

The only other person there was the guardian who charged me 2 soles (80c/50p) and said camping was no problem. As it got dark so the guardian left leaving me to share the site with a full moon. The next morning I got up at 0600, made coffee and walked to the top of the conical mound to watch sunrise. For about 20mins before the sun came up I had a clear view of the 6000m snowcapped peaks of the Cordillera Vilcabamba some 60km away to the north east. The clouds rose as quickly as the sun and soon the peaks were gone, replaced by a stunning golden light that set my surroundings ablaze for about 20mins

The Inca ruins at Sondor

Sunrise at Sondor

Instead of returning to Andahuaylas and the main road to Abancay I followed a little dirt road that ran behind the ruins to join a bigger dirt road and 105km later intersected with the main Nazca – Cusco road south of Abancay. I’d forgotten just how good the tarmac road from Nazca to Cusco is – surely amongst the worlds’ best motorcycling roads.  I rode into Cusco and Hostel Estrellita where I found Yoshi walking down the street outside. (A few days later Yoshi’s mate Yoshi arrived on a DR650)

Cusco

I’d only intended to spend a few days in Cusco before setting off for Machu Picchu but the weather forecast was pretty miserable for MP so I hung around and waited for a better forecast. The day after I arrived so did Mark & Claire thereby making an already great place to stay a very sociable affair and a week soon flashed by. It wasn’t until we tried to buy tickets for MP that we realized we’d chosen a bad week. The system for buying tickets was changing THAT WEEK as was the location where you could buy them. I spent hours walking miles to addresses that didn’t exist in search of a ticket before returning to the Tourist Info office to find a new ticketing centre was just getting off the ground within their office. The big difference with the new system is that tickets are now limited to 2500/day which meant that when we were there, there was a 3 day wait for tickets. Eventually we all bought tickets and the following day we left for MP.

Another job I needed to do in Cusco was to get my boots repaired. My Alpinestars Vectors have done an outstanding job, are as comfortable as a pair of slippers and about as waterproof. They are however, the pair I left home with in 2006! The soles were flapping and catching on my footrests and so I went in search of a cobbler. One took my boots and vanished leaving me to muscle my way past his assistant to retrieve my boots without paying (he hadn’t touched them. The second guy got the job done, when he said he would.

The guy who DIDN'T fix my boots...

...and the guy who did!

Sacred Valley

Despite the majority of tour agencies wanting to sell a package for an exorbitant amount of money there are various ways of getting to MP on the cheap.

With your own transport that means: riding/driving approx 240km (half of which is dirt) to the village of Santa Teresa. There you spend the night and arrange to leave your vehicle before catching a ‘collectivo’ approx 15km to the ‘Hidro Electrica’ from where a train runs to Aguas Calientes (the access town to MP) where you spend a second night before getting up at stupid O’clock to visit the ruins.

Along the road to Santa Teresa there are several sites to visit but the one that appealed most to all of us was Moray. Certainly one of the more unusual archeological sites I’ve visited, a temperature difference of 15°C exists from top to bottom leading researchers to believe it may have been used by the Incas study the effects of different climatic conditions on crops.

Moray

After a quick lunch in the car park we all went in different directions. The two Yoshi’s returned to Cusco, I left the Moray site the same way I’d entered and headed to Santa Teresa whilst Mark & Claire left the site the way they’d entered which was different to mine. Why am I telling you this? Well as it goes Mark & Claire somehow managed to get stuck in a bog leaving the site and lost so much time extracting their bikes that instead of meeting me in Santa Teresa as planned they had to overnight in Ollantayambo and catch the train to Aguas Calientes the following day to avoid forfeiting their MP tickets!

Oblivious to Mark & Claire’s predicament and having not caught up with them by the time the road climbed towards the pass above Ollanyayambo, I stopped and waited for as long as I dared but eventually had to ride on knowing I was pushed for daylight.

The pass at 4300m was buried in cloud but it didn’t last too long and I was back in the sunshine by the time the road became dirt. Tarmac was slowly making its way towards the village of Santa Marta but it wasn’t there yet and I lost a lot more time sitting in stationery traffic amongst the construction crews.

By the time I reached Santa Marta I knew there was little chance of me reaching Santa Teresa in daylight. My thoughts were confirmed as I turned south onto a much narrower and rougher track that wore the scars of many landslides. I eventually arrived in Santa Marta ½hr after dark and rode straight to Hostel Yukumama that had been recommended by many. They were very friendly and showed me to a nice room for 70soles (U$25/£18 Are you mad!!!???) I politely asked if they had anything cheaper and they led me around the corner to Hostel Inca Jungle where I got a basic room for 15soles (+2 for a shower!) but most importantly there was safe parking for Rosie and I could leave her there whilst I went to MP.

The road to Santa Teresa

I hung around all the next morning expecting Mark & Claire to arrive but of course they didn’t. At lunchtime the woman running the hostel said a car would come to take me to Hidro-electrica at 1400 – it didn’t and I was lucky to find a collective outside the market that would take me. At the ticket office I was ushered to the front of the queue (Gringo = special treatment & special price) where I paid more than I’d expected for my train tickets to Aguas Calientes. U$18 there (UP), U$12 return (DOWN). The train had separate carriages for gringo’s and locals (who it turned out were paying a FRACTION of what us gringo’s were).

Loading the train to Machu Picchu

The train stopped at the edge of Agaus Calientes just before dark and everyone alighted. I visited many hostels before finding one with a price I liked at the top of the pedestrianized area close to the thermal baths and after checking in went to the internet café to check on news from Mark & Claire. I read with disbelief what had happened to them and was still chuckling as I walked down the street and bumped right into them! We swapped stories over a pizza and were all in bed by 2100 in readiness of an early start the following day.

Machu Picchu

I dreamt that I’d overslept and missed sunrise at MP, then my alarm went off and I leapt out of bed. It was 0330. MP doesn’t open until 0600 and it’s a 20min bus ride from Aguas Calientes. The first bus leaves at 0530 but people start queuing long before that. The other option is to walk – which was what I’d decided to do and why I’d got up so early.

At 0400 I came to two bridges across the river, both locked and guarded by a security guard asleep in the ticket booth. A sign said the bridge would open at 0450 (nobody I’d talked to had mentioned this!) Thanks to the roar of the river the guard didn’t hear me and I climbed around the gate, over the side of the bridge, onto the deck and set off up the walking trail. At 0450 I heard a bus and by the time I reached the entrance at 0510 there were already two private parties of Japanese waiting.

At 0550 the public buses started arriving and by opening time the queue was 200m+ long. Entry to the park is through one of four turnstiles where staff check your ticket (which includes your passport number) against your passport and your face then read the barcode before letting you in. Can you imagine how long that takes?

Luckily for me I was within the first four into the park and quickly chose a spot to watch the sunrise.

Machu Picchu

The site was/is spectacular and stretches down the mountain to create a much bigger complex than the classic photo suggests. The stonework is exceptional, as is the pathway hewn into the Cliffside around the Inca Bridge, but the ‘experience ‘didn’t do it for me. Too many people, too many rules, too many ‘log jams’ caused by tour groups etc. By 1130 I’d had enough and after a picnic with guess who? Yep, Mark & Claire! I set off back to Aguas Calientes to catch my train back to Hidro-Electrica.

Now in most countries, when you’ve visited a place by train and you want to return from whence you came, you catch the train from the same place you left it – right? Well not in Peru!

Peru Rail

I returned to where I’d disembarked surprised to find no sign of my train. When it was ten minutes late I started walking to the ticket office only to hear a whistle sound and the train appeared from further up the line. My relief was short lived as it slowed, then accelerated without stopping and was gone – WTF! (Maybe I should have called this Chapter 27 – ‘WTF!’).

In the ticket office I was told I would have to go to the main ticket office in the Main Station. “Main Station? What Main Station?” It turned out there was another station in the centre of town and that was where the train departed from. How the hell was I supposed to know!?

I won’t bore you with the details of the next 40min row I had at the Main Station, first with the ticket office supervisor and then with the station manager but basically they could change my ticket for the next day but that was all they could do. There were no more trains that day and they weren’t able to issue refunds. They phoned the security guard where I’d tried to catch the train and he said it had stopped! The girl who sold me the ticket at Hidro-Electrica was in the ticket office and claimed she’d explained to me about the two stations (in English!) What they suggested was unbelievable. If I could get the girl who sold me the ticket to admit that she hadn’t told me about the two stations then I could go to the head office in Cusco and request a refund!!! We have been spoilt in Western world with Customer Service and have come to have certain expectations. CS doesn’t exist in Peru Rail and they couldn’t give a f@#*!

I wasn’t getting anywhere; all that was happening was that I was using up daylight when I should have been walking.

It took me 2½hrs to walk along the railway line back to Hidro-Electrica where I was lucky to find one collective waiting.  Had I realized what an easy, pleasant walk it was I never would have bothered with the train.  I enjoyed a cold beer that night.

Dodging trains on the walk back to Hidro-Electrica

Back in the Bush

Instead of returning to Cusco the way I’d come I decided to turn left at Santa Marta and ride a loop through Quillabamba and Quellouno to Calca and then onto Cusco.

The ride to Quellouno was shite. Way more traffic than I’d anticipated making the volume dust dangerous. It improved somewhat once I was east of Quellouno and by Lares it was beautiful. I climbed a high pass late afternoon and with nowhere to camp completely out of site I managed to get off the main road far enough so that no headlights would find my tent as they swung around the switchbacks at night.

Bush camping on the pass between Lares & Calca

When I got up at 0600 I was surprised by the amount of traffic using the road. It was a beautiful site and I wasn’t in any hurry so I wandered around taking photo’s and had two coffee’s before finally setting off on  a strangely empty road. 6km later I found out why. It was only open 1830-0700 and was closed throughout the day for resurfacing. Bugger!

This security guard was a top bloke!

I spent ½hr or so chatting with the security guy after which he got on his radio and obtained permission for me to pass through – slowly. Top bloke!

South to Arequipa

Despite the lack of lines on the paper map there are at least three dirt roads the head south from Cusco and for no particular reason I chose the middle one. It turned out to be one of the Top 5 (if not Top 3) rides of my journey to date.

(Route Info: Cusco – Yaurisque – Paccaritambo -  Cooyabamba – Colquemarca – Santo Tomas – Velille* – Cayarani – Suyckutambo -  Sibayo – Chivay).

On the southern outskirts of Cusco I came to another ‘Road Closed’ sign but after explaining where I wanted to go the girl manning the radio removed the cones to let me pass. Again the road was being improved but after a mere 10km of dirt I was back on tarmac…excellent, smooth, twisty, empty tarmac.

The road obviously hadn’t been used for some time as there were several un-cleared landslides along the way though luckily none had completely blocked the road. I passed through Yaurisque and Paccaritambo before spotting a fabulous bush camping site high up on a ridge and accessed by a deeply rutted track that led to a rarely used quarry.

Accessing my ridgetop bush camp

I had a panoramic view from my camp site

It took a while for the sun to reach my damp tent in the morning and so I didn’t get away too early. The next three days were to provide some of the best riding of my entire trip. With virtually all of it above 3500m and much of it above 4000m I shared the landscape with Llamas and Llama farmers. I was constantly amazed at the remoteness and altitudes I found people living at (up to 4700m). There are no crops grown here, nobody has a car and even if they did many are a full day’s drive from a shop of any description and several days drive form anything resembling a town.

There was simply too much to take in even over the course of just one day. The only way I can remember it for myself is to look back at my photos so I’ll take you on a ‘captioned’ photo ride. Let’s see if it works…

Leaving the river valley below my campsite I climbed towards the plateau...

...passing a waterfall along the way where I filled up with water

There's a stark beauty about the high pampas

This is about as big as a settlement gets above 4500m

Heading into the valley towards Santo Tomas...

...passing 'Inca' artwork along the way

In Santo Tomas and stopped in a small shop and asked the owner (a grumpy indigenous woman) if she had bread. “No hay” she said. I asked where I could buy some and was told “No hay”. “There’s no bread in the town!?” I exclaimed and she again repeated her only words “No hay”. I bought it on the market one block from her shop.

Early evening above Santo Tomas

It was late afternoon by the time I left Santo Tomas and began climbing a long series of switchbacks and I was beginning to think I’d stitched myself up with regards to finding a bush camp in daylight. There was no traffic on the road though and one across the pass I turned off the road and found a great spot hidden behind some rocks.

Bush camp on the Santo Tomas - Velille road

A whole local cheese from Cusco provided me with breakfast for a week

In my tent that night I checked the map and realized I’d taken the wrong road out of Santo Tomas. I wasn’t bothered though as it had provided me with a decent campsite along a seemingly unused road. Rather than retrace my tracks I decided to continue on via Velille and rejoin my planned route further south. Despite being a stony it was a great ride and I marveled at the drystone walling.

Santo Tomas - Velille road

All of the animal enclosures are built using drystone walling

The Velille- Cayarani road follows the Rio Velille

At Cayarani the road turns SE and beging climbing again...

...to another high pampas...

...that had a few rough patches...

...water splashes...

...llama warnings...

...and of course Llamas

The road improved...

...and deteriorated

As I climbed towards the Cordillera de Chilca the road improved dramatically, a sure sign of mining activity in the area. Recent road improvement near a high pass had rendered the start of the road I wanted to take (due east to Suycutambo) virtually invisible and I rode around in circles for a while until finally spotting it. What I hadn’t reckoned on was the road to Suycutambo being so high.

Is this the highest pass in Peru?

Just beyond the highest pass...

...was a magnificent view

Not a bad spot to eat lunch

Peculiar rock formations

Two shadows appear like jet fighters out of my peripheral vision. At first I thought they were two dogs but as they reappear I realize they are condors. The birdlife was incredible and I counted several species of birds of prey though not being a twitcher I’m afraid to say I couldn’t name them.

I took more photos than I road kilometre’s on the second day and almost ran out of daylight as well as water. I stopped to filter river water only for my Steripen to fail.

My Steripen failed in the middle of nowhere

In the next hamlet there were no signs for any shops and so I crept along at walking pace, peering into any and every doorway in the hope of finding a tienda. I got lucky and bought water, yoghurt, bread and gatorade from a very friendly campesino lady.Several people amassed outside the doorway, looking on in amazement as I emptied the bottles of water into my dromedary bags before racing out of town under the failing light.

As the road turned south I once again managed to find a way between to rocks and pitch camp out of sight.

Little did I know...

...that at -11°C this would be my coldest nights camping to date.

"Morning!"

When I stepped outside my tent in the morning my hands froze instantly despite wearing gloves. My dromedary bags were filled with ice and my temperature gauge said -11°C. A combination of taking so many photos the previous day and spending the previous four nights camping at temperatures well below zero had flattened all three of my Nikon camera batteries for the first time ever. The photos above were taken with my pocket camera.

My camera batteries weren’t the only things to suffer either. Rosie starts much better in the cold than Lady P ever did but even she struggled that morning. She doesn’t like the throttle being touched when cold starting at altitude (this camp was 4330m),I just have to wait for the motor to ‘catch’. After several attempts the motor finally fired into life only to stall almost immediately. The next push of the starter button returned a flat battery. Nooooo!!!

The are I had available to me for bumpstarting wasn’t ideal but was certainly possible. To make the most of it I pushed Rosie backwards to the highest point I could (fully loaded) and left her sitting in the sun for 15mins. Before attempting to bump start her I gave the starter button one last push and to my amazement she fired up…and kept running. You beauty!!!

I rode on through Sibayo and Tuti en-route to Chivay where I enjoyed a good soak in the thermal baths. I picked up an email from Mark & Claire saying they were in Arequipa and that it was particularly busy and they’d struggled to find accommodation. They offered to reserve me a bed, an offer I accepted gratefully.

Traditional dress is the norm for many women in Chivay

Arequipa

Once again, thanks to a waypoint from Mark & Claire I rode straight to my hostel (which was next door to theirs) and we were soon sitting in a café swapping stories over Cappuccino and lemon meringue pie.

I had several things I needed to do in Arequipa and top of the list was to call my sister on Skype. With a decent connection I could see my niece on video and saw her walk for the first time. It was a magical moment.

One evening I returned to the dorm to find two others asleep with the lights out. I sat on my bed and set about uploading some photos when the door opened and someone put their bags on the bed next to mine. A few minutes later I got a Facebook message from Adam Mulvanny (Chapter 18) asking if I was still in Arequipa. It was him who’d put his bags on the bed next to mine! I hadn’t seen him since leaving Sucre, Bolivia in 2009.

Plaza de Armas, Arequipa

Cotahuasi Canyon and Valley of the Volcanoes

The topography played havoc with my body over the next four days. The temperature ranged from 30°+ in the Rio Camaná valley to -7° overnight. Altitude varied from a mere 388m to 4942m (see Elevation profile).  My body coped surprisingly well with the conditions but I still experienced headaches, blocked sinuses, sweating and shivering as my body came to terms with what I was doing to it! Neither the temperatures, nor the altitude were remotely ‘extreme’, it’s just the scale of the differences over a short period of time that the human body struggles with.

Cotahuasi Canyon/Valley of the volcanoes ride profile

Road to Cotahuasi Canyon

It was worthwhile though as the ride was magnificent. Once I left the tarmac behind at Chuquibamba I climbed to a plateau at 4500m where llamas grazed against a backdrop of the 6425m Nevada Coropuna.

Nevada Coropuna

It was late afternoon when I reached the Canyon overlook.  Amongst the stonewalled terracing lies the village of Cotahuasi, a vertical kilometre below.

The road is surfaced from the Mirrador to Cotahuasi village

Along a side track to Toro I found a place to pitch my tent and settled down for the night. In the morning I headed into Cotahuasi village and picked up the track that leads SW through Piro and on down to the river. As the canyon narrowed so it climbed again and continued to undulate until the track came to an abrupt end. Lets go for a ride through the canyon…

Cotahuasi Canyon

Cotahuasi Canyon

Cotahuasi Canyon

It's a long way down!!!

Can you see the road?

Cotahuasi Canyon

The road ends with a staging area for the donkey trains that supply the remote communities around the canyon. Navigating the canyon from here on is manageable only by kayak. Downstream from here the canyon reaches its deepest point. At 3354m its the deepest canyon in the world – twice as deep as Arizona’s Grand Canyon!

The end of the road

The ride out is of course equally spectacular…

Cotahuasi Canyon

Cotahuasi Canyon

Valley of the Volcanoes

Contrary to popular belief, there is more than one route to/from the canyon. Granted, some backtracking is necessary, but not the whole route. From where the tarmac begins/ends at the ‘Mirrador’ I retraced my tracks for 33km before turning east towards Andagua, just after crossing the Rio Arma. All other tyre tracks vanished and were replaced by hoof prints. I thought I was going to be in for a tough ride but despite being a little sandy/gritty/stony in places it never became difficult.

There were a few llama farms scattered across the plateau but they were the only signs of life.

Llama farm on the road to Andagua

Wet feet at 4500m...brrrrr!!!

There was nowhere to ‘hide’ my tent but neither was there any traffic and as the track was absolutely straight I reasoned that once it was dark no headlights would see me. As it was, I didn’t see another soul. At 4577m it was my highest camp to date so I was surprised to discover it was a ‘mild’ -7°C when I awoke.

Pre-dawn at my highest camp to date - 4577m

Continuing east from my campsite I came to the head of a valley that lead to Andagua and the ‘The Valley of the Volcanoes”.

The valley road to Andagua and the 'Valley of the Volcanoes'

Beyond Andagua I continued on towards Chachas and after a few corners was suddenly struck by the realization of what I was actually looking at. Ahead of me, stretching for miles, was a lava flow through which a road had been cut.

Valley of the Volcanoes

In the valley are approximately 80 extinct volcanoes formed by geothermal activity during the Quarternary Period (the past 2.6 million years), a phenomenon so unusual it occurs in only two places; here and the Canary Islands. Its hard to create a sense of scale but in the next photo the lower ¾ of the picture is lava!

Valley of the Volcanoes

Life amongst the lava

The road stopped at Chacas and so I rode back through Andagua and back up the valley to the plateau where I took a turn off below the weather station towards Machahuay, Viraco and Tipan. The track descended steeply from the plateau through beautifully engineered stone walled terraces to the green and fertile Llacilajo Valley. Beyond Tipan the valley narrowed considerably, the road cut into the valley side way above the river. Daylight had left the valley by the time I arrived but I so wanted to see it in good daylight that I set about finding a bush camp. At first I thought it would be impossible but on a bend in the road there was an unusual formation of spoil leftover from some road construction and after moving enough rocks to get Rosie ‘inside’ and out of view I pitched my tent.

In the morning I climbed up the valley side and waited for the sun to strike the road before snapping a few photos.

Hidden from view...

...above the Rio Capiza, south of Tipan

I was glad I made the effort to camp as the ride out in daylight was magnificent. At Andamayo I rejoined tarmac, at El Alto I rejoined the Pan Americana and along the way Daisy Duke doffed her cap and gave me a flash.

The ride out to Aplao alongside the Rio Capiza

Cheeky!

I passed through the southern outskirts of Arequipa, topped up with gas and stopped for camping supplies. An indigenous campesino woman selling a variety of things from a large basket outside a shop front asked me where I was from. When I told her England she nearly fell off her stool as she exclaimed “Ooooohhhh….muy lejos!!!” (very far). Unfortunately she declined having her photo taken.

In Mollebaya I picked up a dirt road that would eventually lead me to Puquina, Omate and on to Torata. It began with plenty of shallow sand and bull dust and became so rough and stony that I was sure the USAF had been there before me.

The ride away from Mollebaya was a bone shaker

Early afternoon I spotted a great campsite in what looked like a riverside oasis but it was too early to stop and I rode on. Through the beautifully terraced village of Chacalhuayo I was treated to 5km of tarmac before returning to dirt.

Terracing at Chacalhuayo

An hour later I spotted a radio station high on a ridge. Even from a distance it looked like a great spot to camp and I decided that the chances of it being manned were slim and if it was, well I could ask. It was a narrow, sandy track that led up to the tower and it proved to be a bit of a battle with the type of rear tyre I had. On a few occasions I got bogged down to a standstill and had to dismount to get my weight off the saddle before running alongside, pushing and twisting the throttle to get to firmer ground where I could remount. Eventually I made it to the top where I found the place to be deserted and after a bit more struggling managed to get Rosie to where I wanted to make camp.

Looking SW towards the Pacific I had a stunning 180° view across the peaks and valleys and over the next village of Coalaque (I didn’t know it was there until the lights came on!) which meant that I was not only treated to a special sunset, but sunrise as well.

Sunset at my radio station camp

Sunrise at my radio station campsite

As keen as I’d been to get set-up as quickly as possible so I could get a brew on and watch the sunset I hadn’t given any thought to getting out in the morning. Rosie had settled into the soft sand and no amount of effort from me was going to turn her around to retrace my tracks. Straight ahead of her were two steep sandy banks, each about 4m high, that led to the access track. I carried much of my gear down to the track where I set up my camera for an action shot but the action proved too great and in somehow managing save an imminent crash down the second bank, my finger came off the remote button and I didn’t get a photo. Bummer, it would have been a great shot of crashing without crashing…if that makes sense!

The drama didn’t finish there as I had Rosie at 80° to the direction of travel on at least four occasions as I made my way back to the main track. How I stayed on I still don’t know but I did and was soon cruising down to Coalaque in the cool morning air.

As I approached the bottom of the valley the sides took on a yellow colour that I’d not seen before. Closer inspection revealed it came from tiny plants that spread everywhere like grass. Ahead, the arid landscape took on a surreal look and I was reminded that I was heading towards the Atacama Desert, one of the driest places on earth.

Here I begin to get the feeling of approaching the Atacama

A few more corners and I entered a valley totally devoid of plant life but made of varying shades of brown and cream rock that resembled a giant marble cake.

'Marble cake' rock in the Rio Tambo valley

Turning away from the Rio Tambo

Soon after the valley narrowed and the plant life returned as it followed the Rio Tambo. I crossed the river and climbed up onto a plateau heading south but not before a final look back across the valley I’d just ridden.

A final look back down the valley

55km later I met the main road from Moquegua and took a detour from my planned route into Torata to find a cold Coke and water for the nights’ camp. The road was surprisingly smooth and wide and provided a great ride as it wound its way down the valley. My paper map said it was a ‘Secondary dirt road’ which clearly wasn’t true. The stall holder I bought supplies from told me it was the main route to Bolivia (not on my paper map it wasn’t!)

The dirt road I planned to follow through the mountains to Tacna led away from this main road approximately 130km west of Torata.

A change of plan

I never did find the track I was planning on using. The sky was black and a freezing cold wind was howling across the 4500m plateau as I searched in vain for it. For some time I’d been becoming increasingly concerned that I was pushing my luck trying to fit my planned loop through northern Chile and my planned route through Bolivia into what time I had before the Amazonian rains came. With my new knowledge that the road I was on led directly to Bolivia I decided to scrap my plans for northern Chile in favor of a more relaxed ride through Bolivia and so it was that I spent my last night in Peru camped on Lago Titicaca in an unusual spot below the main Puno – Bolivia road. After dark the light gave me away to a fisherman’s family and suspecting poachers they came to check me out. They were perfectly happy for me to be there once they understood why and in the morning their daughter Laidey came to say goodbye.

My last night in Peru on Lago Titicaca

Laidey

It was a short ride on tarmac to the border crossing with Bolivia. Having used the same border to exit Bolivia back in 2009 I knew where everything was and so had a swift exit/entry.

My ride through Peru had lived up to all my expectations generated by the paper map. I have a particular passion for riding in the mountains and across the stark high altitude pampas and Peru delivered that by the truck load. The majority of people I met were friendly and helpful and the food was the best I’d eaten since Mexico. Peru is a truly great destination for adventure motorcycling. if only everyone who sticks to the Pan American knew what they were missing…

My final route through Peru looked like this…

SEE MAP FULLSIZE

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

More photos in the Ecuador gallery

I was a little nervous as I rolled down the hill to the border, filtering past a long queue of traffic in the rain as my Temporary Import Permit for Rosie had expired whilst I’d been back in GB attending my niece’s 1^st birthday and best mate’s wedding. As a result I was hoping to bypass customs, go straight to Immigration and then ski across the across the border to Ecuador unnoticed. Mike at Casa Blanca Hostel in Cali had told me how the border was laid out and so as everyone queued for the customs window I slipped down the outside, around the back to the carpark and walked into the empty ‘Migracion’ office where I quickly got stamped out. For once the rain was probably doing me a favor as no officials were outside wandering around. Once across the bridge I was directed to a parking space by an Ecuadorian Policeman and I relaxed and grabbed a quick coffee outside the photocopy shop.

Despite the signs saying 'Sunny' - It wasn't. And yes I know I needed a shave and a haircut!

Ecuador

I had planned on riding to Julio Andrade before asking about the current security situation on the road to La Bonita and Lumbaqui but it was pissing down with rain so I rode on. I cursed the broken wire in my heated grips that I’d been unable to repair in Cali (my soldering iron had broken) as my hands froze on the climb to 3000m.

It continued to rain all the way to where the Pan Americana plunges almost 1.5km into the Chota Valley. When I came to the first péage I was surprised to find motorcycles had to pay (they were free in Colombia). The guy who pulled up behind me in the kiosk obviously wasn’t a motorcyclist (one motorcyclist would never follow another into a toll both) and had to wait patiently as I removed my saturated gloves and reached through my waterproofs to fumble in my pockets for U$0.20.

Disturbing my waterproofs was a mistake and I soon felt the initial trickle of water run down my crotch. Now I’m happy to ride in the rain all day but with but when ones bollocks are sitting in a puddle it’s just plain miserable. There would be no hot bath at the end of the day to help them ‘reappear’. I rode on.

It finally stopped raining as I rode into Otavalo and Hotel Santa Fe. U$13 was more than I wanted to spend but it had secure parking, the room was particularly nice and I wanted a place with Wi-Fi to get Chapter 25 posted.

Otavalo is famed for its Saturday market. It’s so big that it separated into four sections (Livestock, Produce, Small Animal and Artesanias) in different parts of town yet it still seemingly manages to fill the streets to the extent that the town feels like one big market. I spent most of the morning perusing the produce market and food hall before a storm sent me back to my hotel for the afternoon.

Locals come from miles around to Otavalo's Saturday Market

Hanging out at the market starts at an early age

Equator

I awoke to find neither water nor electricity in the hotel and got a poor cup of coffee from the adjacent restaurant. I rode south under relatively clear skies which gave me a fair view of the volcanoes although their peaks were hidden by clouds. Somehow I managed to ride straight past the Equatorial monument and was on the outskirts of Quito before I realized. Initially I wasn’t going to bother going back but I convinced myself I’d only regret it later if I didn’t, so I did; but it wasn’t worth the effort. I couldn’t get Rosie near the monument so I took a few snaps with my pocket camera and rode on into Quito.

Equatorial Monumet

All the 'Zeros'

Quito

Arriving at Sunday lunchtime is the secret to navigating large South American cities and Quito was no exception. The roads were all but deserted and I rode straight to Casa Helbing without choking on diesel fumes or sweating my arse off and was greeted at the door by Mark & Claire, a duty we would come to share throughout the next three countries. They introduced me to Uwe, a German guy who’d backpacked to Spain and sailed the Atlantic as a ‘deck-hand’ before buying a KTM990 in Colombia from an Englishman who was returning home.

Being Sunday afternoon virtually all the shops were closed but the supermarket provided all the ingredients I needed to cook a big pot of chilli, Saburo (Japan – GS1200) came to visit and along with Uwe the three of us agreed to share a room. All that was needed to finish off an easy Sunday was a few beers and with Uwe, Mark & Claire they were never far away. On the wall in the hostel I found a sticker belonging to Eric and Gail who I’d stayed with in Oregon!

Gail & Eric have been around a bit!

I went on to spend five very sociable days in Quito. Saburo and I went to Spanish school 2hrs/day for four days whilst Mark & Claire, in their pursuit of new tyres, contacted the local HUBB community for help. As a result we met up with Daniel, Raul and his girlfriend Karla.

L-R: Karla, Raul, Mark. Claire, Daniel,Me, Uwe, Yoshi (Saburo)

Having met several people who’d been mugged in the ‘old’ city of Quito I didn’t even take my wallet, let alone my camera when I visited. It was a shame because I found the old city to be beautiful. The majority of shops around the main plaza remained locally owned small businesses selling regular goods rather than the usual fare of tourist tat. The church of San Francisco built in 1535 is said to be the oldest in South America and the collaboration of Catholic and local indigenous beliefs can be seen in the internal stone carvings – Snakes, Devils, Fruit and more.

We all decided to leave town one Sunday and visit the hot springs at Papallacta, 60km east of the city. I got up early to load my bike and phone my sister before we set off but as I checked my tyre pressures and gave my wheel bearings a cursory check I found the rear ones just on the verge of failure. Luckily I had a set with me and with the help of a wood chopping axe to use as a hammer I Rosie back together in under an hour.

We met Raul & Karla, topped up with gas and followed Raol out of town, along the old dirt road and over the pass at 4065m.

Sunday morning rideout

At the ‘Termales’ we paid U$6pp to camp (without showers) which was a bit steep but it was convenient.  Just as we finished pitching the tents so it pissed down with rain and we headed for the pools. The rain varied from light to heavy but never seemed to stop and so we spent ages in the pools; nobody fancied heading back to their tent whilst it was raining.  That was except for Raol & Karla who had to return to Quito. It was to be Karla’s son’s 6^th birthday the following day and there was no way she couldn’t be there when he woke up. Riding back to Quito in the rain was a prospect I didn’t fancy myself and yet Karla She didn’t bat an eyelid at the thought of 1hr+ on the back of Raol’s KTM640 without waterproofs – top bird!

When it finally stopped raining well after dark, we all made a dash for the changing rooms and then our tents. It was just a pause though and by the time we got back to our tents it was raining again. We found a little shelter under the eaves of the adjacent museum buildings and got the stoves out to brew up and cook some dinner, at least the others did. My stove was playing up and had a lot of abnormal pressure in the plunger. In the dark I didn’t see the pool of un-burnt fuel floating on the top and when I lit it so it burst into flames. Flames so tall they threatened the thatch roof! Spotting some walking sticks propped against a nearby wall I picked the stove up chop-stick style and carried it blazing into the rain and away from where it could do any damage. Once extinguished, I found all the plastic controls had melted and I had to trim the control knob with my penknife to get it to work. I replaced the plunger seal with one from my spares and tried a second time. Again it burst into flames. Finally I tried replacing the generator but for a third time it burst into flames. Despite being a little over a year old it was dead…certainly not the robust Coleman 533 I was used to. (This one was a Coleman Exponent Multi-Fuel).

The following morning I packed-up and left before the others. I needed to return to Quito and find a new camp stove – but where? Most camping shops stock gas cylinder style stoves but I needed one that would burn unleaded gasoline.

I visited every camping shop in Quito on my (unsuccessful) quest to find a compact thermometer and whilst doing so had noticed that the shop just a few blocks away from Casa Helbling was a Coleman stockist. I parked on the pavement outside, walked through the door and there in the glass cabinet in front of me was a Coleman Exponent Feather 442 – the same as Mark & Claire were using! It was the only unleaded burning stove they had and so 5mins later I left the shop U$100 lighter but firmly back in self-sufficient mode.

Back on the Pan-American I was cruising along admiring the volcanoes and thinking about lunch when I suddenly spotted Mark & Claire’s bikes parked outside a roadside restaurant. I made a quick U-turn and surprised the hell out of them when I walked through the door. “I can’t believe you’ve been into Quito, found a stove and caught up with us by lunchtime” exclaimed Claire as I joined them for Chicken & Rice.

After lunch the three of us rode on to Parque Nacional Cotopaxi where we expected to meet up with Uwe & Saburo and camp at Cara Sur on the slopes of the volcano. It wasn’t to be though as we arrived at the park entrance to be told that thanks to the local fuckwits riding ‘off-piste’ and damaging the park, ALL motorcycles had been banned – NO exceptions, including foreign travelers heading for the campsite.

Somewhat disappointed we rode away – destination Lago Quilotoa.

It was a picturesque ride through Saquisilli, Pujili and Zumbahua where rolling farmland butted up against fields on impossibly steep slopes – nowhere was ‘too difficult’ to farm. We arrived with just enough time to pitch our tents at the head of a track above the rim of the crater in daylight.

Pujili and Zumbahua region

In the morning I wandered back to the local shop where we’d asked about camping the previous night to explain to the owner that we had two more friends on motorcycles and could he point them towards us if they arrived. As I was doing my best to explain so Uwe & Saburo arrived.

With their tents pitched the four lads set off to walk around the rim of the volcanic lake.

Lago Quilotoa

The walk was fabulous if tiring. Often the trail took us right along the ridgeline, looking into the crater to our right and the valley on our left. It took us 4½hrs to complete the circuit during which time I managed to completely underestimate the combined effect of the altitude/sun/wind and burnt my face, neck and legs. As my burnt legs kept me awake at night I remembered a joke about Viagra being good for sunburn…”It doesn’t prevent the burning…it just stops the bed sheets sticking to your legs”.

Celebrating reaching the highest point of the climb

Lago Quilotoa camping

We awoke to the sound of rain which scuppered our plans for an early start and we all had a lie-in.

When we did get riding Uwe, Saburo and I left Mark & Claire and set off around the Quilotoa Circuit (Quilotoa -  Chugchilán – Sigchos – Toacasco) in search of the ‘Swiss’ cheese factory in Chugchilán. Well to cut a long story short the ‘Swiss’ part of the factory was merely the original training of the staff in cheese making, the factory also turned out to be 8km up a windy road in the hills above Chugchilán and when we did find it there was nobody there! We eventually tracked the boss down to a local funeral and waited until the end of proceedings to ask him about buying some cheese – which turned out to be Mozzarella!

Uwe asks for directions to the cheese factory

We finished the loop, ate lunch in Saquisilli and cruised down the Pan Am to San Miguel from where we followed a series of backroads to Baños, where it was once again raining. We quickly found our way to Hostel Chimenea where we seemed to spend the next few days hiding from the rain.

After a few days of setting the alarm for 0700 with the intention of leaving – only to peer out of the window at pouring rain and return to bed – I finally looked out to see no rain; low cloud and poor visibility, but no rain. We left.

Saburo rode west, Uwe and I east.

It was a shame about the visibility as the ride through the valley to Puyo would have been beautiful, lined as it was with waterfalls and lush green foliage.

Along the Banos - Puyo road

In Puyo we turned south with the intention of riding tarmac to Macas before taking the dirt road west through the mountains to Guamote. However the weather had other ideas. The constant rain had led to our chosen route being closed by a landslide and so we continued south to Santiago de Mondez where another dirt road led west through the mountains to Guachapala. Or it did until it was closed by a landslide. We continued south to Plan de Milagro where a third pass led to Gualaceo but by now you know the story – it too was closed by a landslide.

We rode south further still to Gualaquiza by which time it was getting dark and time to find a hotel.

The following morning we were delighted to hear that the track through the mountains to SigSig was OPEN! The track we followed out of town didn’t appear on any of our paper maps or the GPS but we were assured we were going the right way. After a while it joined another track from town that was on our maps and we proceeded a little happier. Happier that was until it started raining – again!

Unnamed village along the Gualaquiza - Sigsig road

We climbed into the clouds, passing a low-loader carrying a bulldozer just as the track narrowed as it was carved out of the rock. Etched into the mountainside the edge seemed to disappear into oblivion but we couldn’t really tell because of the lack of visibility.

Ominous clouds along the Gualaquiza - Sigsig road

As we approached the summit at 3300m so it rained harder and harder. Soon after we rejoined tarmac and descended out of the clouds and although it continued to piss down at least we had regained some visibility. We rode on to Cuenca.

Cuenca

After a night with Mark & Claire in the pleasant but overpriced Casa Naranja we all joined Saburo in the far cheaper Casa Cuencana. The city was beautiful, especially at night when many building were elaborately illuminated and a big effort was made to keep the place clean.

Uwe and Claire in Cuenca

As was becoming habit when I met up with all the others I ended up staying longer than I expected but used the time well to get a few things made/repaired.

Whilst inspecting Rosie as I always do after washing her I found the r/h pannier frame broken. In their ongoing search for new tyres Mark & Claire had once again been in contact with the local HUBB community and met Juan, a local KLR owner who had been a great help to them.

I met Juan who led me to a welder who had my pannier frame fixed in no time and added a web for some extra strength.

1. Find pannier frame broken

2. Follow Juan (pictured) to welding shop

3. It ain't pretty (neither is the rider) but it works

4. Say "Thank You" to welder and pay U$2. Double what he asked!

However, he couldn’t repair Saburo’s aluminium pannier and so Juan led us to another friend and motorcyclist Cesar Jarvis, who owned, amongst other businesses, a body repair shop. It was a meeting that was to eventually lead to the most surreal night of my life…more of that later.

We immediately struck up a friendship with Cesar who had his secretary make us coffee whilst his staff repaired Saburo’s ‘spam can’ FOC.

Cesar and his 'Oh so sexy' KTM 950SE

Come Saturday night we all headed for the Taj Mahal, Pakistani(!!!!) restaurant. How a Pakistani could call his restaurant ‘Taj Mahal’, play Bollywood movies on the large flat screen TV and still hold his head high I didn’t know but the food was good enough for it to become the first of three visits during our time in Cuenca.

As you can see, Claire hates having her photo taken. All the more reason for publishing this

Another restaurant visit was at the recommendation/insistence of Cesar and so we all met one lunchtime to sample the Ecuadorian and Peruvian specialty, ‘Cuy’. Or Guniea Pig if you’re British.

You sure as hell didn’t get much for your money and what meat there was tasted rather rich, a bit like pheasant but with a crunchy salt & garlic marinade. Saburo excelled himself though, licking every bone clean, sucking out the brains and delighting on the eyeballs!

Sampling the Ecuadorian/Peruvian speciality 'Cuy'. Better known as Guinea Pig in GB

My favorite part of the meal turned out to be a hot toddy called ‘Canelazo’ which is made with water, cinnamon sticks, lemon, sugar and the local alcohol Zhumir. It was delicious and went down a little too easily!

The most surreal night of my life!

Cesar had some holes drilled in some parts Mark had made for his & Claire’s panniers and brought them to the hostel later that evening. We had a beer in the bar next door, said goodnight and went our separate ways. Just as I was putting the key in the door to our part of the hostel (Mark & Claire were across the street), Cesar asked if Saburo and I fancied going up to Turi, the viewpoint overlooking the city. We did and as we approached the parking area so we noticed a Porsche Carrera and a Hummer parked 100m away, doors open, dance music blaring and a bottle being passed around. “Drug dealers” I thought as we got out to take in the view.

When we came to leave the one-way system led us right past the partiers and to our surprise Cesar stopped to chat and introduced us to Jorge Juan (who we would also come to know as Duke J). Speaking to us in excellent English, Jorge Juan was fascinated by our motorcycle journeys and proceeded to rattle off a list of his own bikes. However, before he finished he decided it would be a better idea if we all went back to his house so we could see them for ourselves. We followed Jorge in his Porsche, tailed by what turned out to be his ‘security’ in the Hummer to a huge set of electric gates that led us into a driveway and then an undercover parking area that contained another Hummer, a Cadillac  4×4 and a Honda 4×4 along with several more cars hidden by their covers. We drove through the covered area, across the garden and into another undercover area containing a wide-body Hummer, a covered Mercedes and Jorge Juan’s collection of bikes: Colin Edwards rep Aprillia RSV Mille,  Ducati 999 Fila rep, Yamaha MT-01, 2x Harley Davidson V-Rods, Yamaha 1800cc V-Max (the new 200hp one) and a Yamaha WR250F.

As we perused the bikes so the bottle of Whiskey I’d seen earlier reappeared and was passed around, the ‘security’ appeared with a bottle of Gin which was also passed around as we walked back to the first parking area. Jorge Juan started pulling covers off cars…another Mercedes saloon, a Mercedes SL600 V12, a Jaguar XJ6, a Corvette Stingray and finally a Bentley Coupé that once belonged to former boxing World Champion George Foreman!

It was then decide we should all go inside to the bar for a drink. Walking in to the party room(?) there was a full size bar on the left, followed by a stage (complete with drum kit, guitars, etc) and followed by another bar. In front of the stage were Jorge Juan’s turntables atop a glass tabletop built on the original engine block from the Corvette outside.

On my right was a swimming pool and floating on the swimming pool was a Jet-Ski and before I knew it I was standing on said Jet-Ski drinking Moet & Chandon Champagne!

WTF!

Jorge Juan got behind the decks and became DJ Duke J and so we partied until the early hours. I struggled to take it all in. In the space of an hour I’d gone from having a beer in a bar with a few friends to drinking Champagne on a Jet-Ski on the indoor swimming pool of one of the richest families in Ecuador. It wasn’t just the Moet that had made my head spin.

Jorge Juan aka Duke J

Parque Nacional Cajas

Having gone to bed in the early hours with one foot on the floor to stop the room spinning like a whirligig I awoke with a remarkably clear head. Maybe the Whisky/Gin/Champagne/Beer/Agaurdiente cocktail is the secret? Anyway, by late morning Mark, Claire, Saburo and I were ready to meet Cesar and ride the 50km or so west to Parque Nacional Cajas. Just one road runs through the 29,000ha (71kAcres), 230 lake NP and with motorized vehicles banned from the trails it remains a wilderness explored only on foot or hoof (though I wondered if a MTB would be feasible?)

We stopped along the way for lunch at an old restaurant that had been around since mule trains were the only means of transport across the pass to the coast. Full of character and its original mud brick fireplace it was an interesting place to wander around whilst we waited for lunch to be cooked.

Restaurant en-route to Parque Nacional Cajas

Restaurant owner

It was a steady climb from the restaurant to ‘Tres Cruces’, the highest point on the road across the pass and for the first time ever Rosie wasn’t happy. Choking as I exited corners I had to be really gentle with the throttle to keep her running. After the obligatory photo stop at the summit we returned to the NP office, adjacent to the refugio where we would spend the night. In complete contrast to the previous night I shared a sub-zero cabin with a mouse called Matias!

Tres Cruces

Morning brought the first cloudless day since arriving in Ecuador and whilst Mark & Claire decided to make the most of it by riding, Saburo and I opted for a long walk in the park.

Parque Nacional Cajas

We had a tourist map that showed three different coloured trails and we chose the one that circumnavigated the lake before crossing the highest adjacent peak. The trail markers seemed to be present where the trail was obvious and disappear where it wasn’t. No surprise then that people go missing and die here every year! Whist the trail marking was poor, the plant life was so extraordinary you didn’t need to be a botanist to appreciate it.

Great plant life in Parque Nacional Cajas

We wasted a lot of time trying to find the turn off the main trail to the summit and as a result the clouds had rolled in by the time we got to the top. It was surprisingly steep and narrow in places, almost a climb rather than a trail and at 4700m it had us puffing.

Panorama of the view from the summit

We didn’t spend long on the summit. The wind had picked up and the clouds were becoming blacker by the minute so we hot-footed it back to the refugio, packed the bikes and headed back to Cuenca and Cesars ‘crash pad’ that he had offered us to stay in.

Everyone though Rosie’s poor running was due to altitude but she’d run fine at the height in Colombia so I didn’t agree. On the run into Cuenca at 2400m I nailed the throttle and she just died. Nothing to do with altitude I concluded; just shitty fuel. As I poured away 30 litres I consoled myself with the fact that at least I was in Ecuador and not Peru where fuel averaged GBP0.92/ltr (U$5.60/gal).

Parque Extremo

We’d returned to Cuenca because Jorge Juan had invited us to Parque Extremo for the first round of the Ecuador Rallycross Championship the following Saturday (which also happened to be Saburo’s birthday). Cesar very kindly gave us the keys to his pad where we made ourselves at home for the few days prior to the weekend. Come Saturday morning we didn’t get away as early as we’d planned thanks to a looooong story that I won’t bore you with but that involved both Uwe and I buying new shoes that were faulty.

It was early afternoon when we eventually escaped the city but it led to a funny coincidence. Riding through a twisty section of road I came upon a white Porsche Carrera. There can’t be too many of them floating around and as I pulled up alongside sure enough it was Jorge Juan. Recognizing me he pulled over and told us to follow him into the park.

Arriving at Parque Extremo

Parque Extremo is just one of Jorge Juan’s businesses. I’ve no idea what are it covers but it includes a RallyCross track, a Supercross track, a Motocross track, boating lake, nightclub, outdoor events arena and a kids play area. Oh, and currently under construction is a water park!

We rode the bikes up to the boating lake and parked them next to the bar where Jorge Juan would set-up his decks and took in the view with a few beers. As the sun set so Duke J hit the decks and it was as though we had our own personal Ibiza superclub. Dj’ing is Jorge Juan’s passion and not only has he played in many European clubs, he’s also hosted many international DJ’s at Parque Extremo including the UK’s own Danny Rampling.

Prevoius guest DJ's at Parque Extremo

Nooooo...not another cute Valeria!

Duke J 'Gittin 'er duuun!'

"Gis a go mista"

At some point it was decided to continue the party on the ‘pirate ship’ on the boating lake and before I knew it the beer had once again been replaced by champagne and the merry time continued. Eventually back on dry land, Jorge Juan announced it was time to eat and so we all piled into the Hummer and headed off to what Uwe, Saburo and I thought would be a restaurant. Instead we drove into the hills above Parque Extremo, through some security gates and on into the hills eventually stopping outside what looked like a small 1920’s Art-Deco hotel. We walked into what was akin to an open-plan kitchen/diner/living room complete with table & chairs, sofa’s and a flat screen TV. In the kitchen there was hot food and a fully stacked fridge. As we ate so we watched the boxing on the TV and as everyone slowly began looking tired so we were told “Open a door, any door, and you’ll find bedrooms. Choose a bed and we’ll see you in the morning”.

"All aboard the Black Pig!" It was gonna get messy...

...very messy...:)

Morning dawned and I walked outside to find myself in Alice in Wonderland. Across the patio cum plaza was Jorge Juan’s parents house; no, palace. I’d heard stories about it but it has to be seen to be believed. Moorish minarets adorned a huge glass backed four story dwelling with uninterrupted views of the valley beyond.

After breakfast in the servants quarters we were taken on a tour of the zoo. Yes, I said “Zoo”. When the Ecuadorian government was looking for a home for animals rescued from circus’s, Jorge Juan’s father Jorge (not a typo) stepped in and set up a private zoo in the grounds of their home. It’s now home to lions, bears, ocelots, cayman and numerous species of birds.

The Family Zoo

Back at the hotel we met Señor and Señora Eljuri, Jorge Juan’s parents. I nearly fell over when Jorge’s mum spoke to me not only in perfect English, but with a proper Cheltenham Ladies College accent! It transpired that she’d been schooled in Gloucestershire, her grandfather was English and her great grandfather is buried in Westminster Abbey. We also learnt the connection between Cesar and the family. Señora Eljuri’s maiden name was Jervis, the same as Cesar; they share the same grandfather who sailed from England a long time ago.

Not a bad view!!!

After a look around the private church Jorge Juan showed us around the house and the fraction his father’s art collection that’s on display. Ever hear about those ‘anonymous’ phone bidders at Sotheby’s and Christie’s auctions? Señor Eljuli’s one of them. I’d love to post a link to an article I read about him but I can’t find it. The article mentions his 6000+ paintings and a collection of Erotic Watches “Second only to that of the Sultan of Brunei.”

At the end of the tour we were invited to join the family for dinner. We had no idea this was where we’d end up when we left Parque Extremo late last night and the three of us were still in our motorcycle gear. The family though weren’t bothered and made us extremely welcome. Over dinner we learnt a bit more about the families 200+ businesses. They own the KIA manufacturing plant that exports cars all over South and Central America, they are Chevrolet’s partner in their Ecuadorian plant and the own banks. I could go on but you get the picture!

After a fabulously long Sunday lunch with Chilean wine, more Champagne and a Spanish liqueur (who’s name eludes me), we said our farewell’s and received a big hug from Señor Eljuli along with an open invitation to return anytime and piled into the Hummer.

Back at Parque Extremo Jorge Juan collected his Porsche and returned to Cuenca ready for work on Monday morning. He is a lovely, warm, friendly part animal and it was a pleasure to meet him. As he departed he said something quite profound… “I envy your freedom”.

We pitched our tents on the stage, unfolded some deckchairs and I laid back, reflecting on Jorge Juan’s parting words. I had thoroughly enjoyed my insight into his world, his family; but would I swap it for mine? No way, I’ll take my freedom and my tent any day.

Back to reality

Why no photo’s? I feel I would be betraying the hospitality I was afforded if I were to post my photo’s of the Eljuli families’ palace online. It may have been a make believe palace/museum to me but it remains their home.

We returned to Cuenca the following day to say our goodbye’s to Cesar. He’d been a great help and treated us all like brothers so we had to take him back to the Taj Mahal one last time.

Cesar's crash pad that he so kindly gave us the keys to

Happy Birthday Yoshi aka Saburo!

We three went our separate ways from Cuenca. Uwe opted to stay for a few more days to meet some friends, Saburo headed for the main Peruvian border on the Pan American at Macará and I headed due south through Vilcabamba to pick up the dirt road through Zumba to the Peruvian border at La Balsa.

I spent my last night in Ecuador in Zumba, 35km from the Peruvian border. Cockerels woke me up at 0530 the following morning and so I got up, made breakfast and was in the gas station before it opened at 0700.

Typical Latin America shower installation

Zumba - La Balsa (Border) road

It was a peaceful start to the day. I was the only vehicle on the jeep track to the border and I cruised along under a typically overcast sky, passing valleys filled with drifting cloud. It took all of 5mins to get Rosie and I stamped out of Ecuador and ride across the river bridge to Peru where the gate was locked and the immigration officer still in bed. To be continued…

Friendly, efficient officials on the Ecuadorian side of the border

NB: I spent 35 days in Ecuador and rode on 12 of them. It rained on 11 of those 12 days.

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

The ‘migracion’ officer was adamant I pay again and gave me a form to take to the bank opposite. I was adamant I wasn’t going to pay again and so began our Mexican stand-off. To let him know I was prepared for a long wait I removed my crash helmet, donned my sun hat and shades but refused to move away from the window.

I’m not sure exactly what changed but after several minutes a different voice asked me for my passport and I handed it to a different officer who stamped me out without question.

Belize

With my bank recently implementing overseas withdrawal fees I’d left Mexico without a peso to my name and an empty gas tank. Oh how I cursed my bank when I filled up in Belize to the tune of U$5/gal. It wasn’t just the gas…everything in Belize was expensive and limited my stay which was a shame as the people were lovely and the food great.

I’m not sure if it was the black faces, the Creole English or the tropical vegetation but riding through the countryside I felt like I was riding through the set of 80’s TV program ‘Roots’.

I walked into an empty roadside eatery where the chalk board menu read ‘Stewed Chicken/Curried Deer meat/Rice n Beans’. The owner returned from the local shop and I told her she’d caused me a dilemma as it all sounded good. “Den how ‘bout I fix you a little of everyting” she said and served me a huge plateful of delicious food before sitting down to join me for lunch.

I spent a few of days camping under a palapa at the sustainable living experiment ‘Monkey Bay Sanctuary’ and spent a morning at the Belize Zoo who’s original inhabitants had been abandoned after the filming of a nature documentary.

Guatemala

At the Belize border I parked behind a Texas registered Suzuki Wee-Strom and went inside to complete the exit formalities. When I returned a smiling face said “Nice haircut” and so it was that I met Texan Jeremy Kidd (complete with Adam/Danny replica haircut!).

Guatemalan entry passed by swiftly and without any hassle from border ‘fixers’. After a drink and a chat we rode south to the Mayan ruins of Tikal  where we camped at the Jaguar Inn right next to the entrance. It’s impossible to camp at an Inn without supping a few beers and so we wiled the evening away doing just that.

Buried in the jungle like Mexicos Calakmul (100km away), it’s easy to lose a day walking amongst the pyramids which is exactly what we did.

Tikal

Further south in Rio Dulce we rode around for ages looking for the campsite only for a guy on a bicycle to lead us to ‘Brunos’, a hotel restaurant on the marina where we could camp in the garden between the hotel and the yachts. Just beware of falling coconuts!

Jeremy and I always seemed to have plenty to talk about and so despite getting up early the following morning it was mid-morning before we finally went our separate ways. It was ‘Hasta Luego’ rather than ‘Adios’ as Jeremy had his bike loaded with diving gear and was heading to the Honduran island of Utila to take his Dive Master course. His invitation to visit was something I couldn’t refuse.

As Jeremy headed for Honduras so I rode west along the north side of Lago Izabela and through El Estor before turning north into the unfortunately hazy mountains. It was well after sunset when I reached Lanquin and dark by the time I found hostel El Retiro.

Dirt road from Lago Izabela to Lanquin

Along the road to Lanquin

Unable to park Rosie next to campsite I carried all of my gear down to the riverside where I pitched my tent under a posada, which was great until I realized the proximity of the hostels restaurant – that played LOUD music until gone 0100. The food almost made up for it though. It was BBQ night and Q40 bought me a huge plate of food that included various delicious homemade salads and coleslaws. Breakfast was just as good with a huge, fat pancake stuffed with fruit and Guatemalan coffee.

A 9km dirt road climbed and then descended to Semuc Champey where the Rio Cahabón has eroded the limestone rock into a series of pools in the bottom of the valley before it tumbles over several waterfalls and continues its journey to Lago Izabel.

Semuc Champey

Semuc Champey

Semuc Champey

From Semuc Champey I rode back to Lanquin and turned west. There the countryside was even better than to the east but again the dust on the dirt road limited my picture taking although I did manage a snap of one of the trucks generating all the dust.

Local transport

In Coban I found a hotel with safe parking, downloaded my cameras memory cards, had a shower etc. By the time I was ready to go out to eat the town was deserted. I walked around for ½hr and saw virtually nobody, let alone anywhere to eat; not even a street vendor. Eventually, on the other side of my hotel I found what must have been the only place in town and ate an excellent ‘Paradilla’ – BBQ’d pork, beef, chicken and chorizo with potatoes and salad. All for Q35.

NB: A week later in Antigua I met Nina from Yeovil, Somerset. We talked about the walk up Volcon Pacaya and she suggested I read the Foreign & Commonwealth Office (FCO) Travel Advisory regarding travel to the region so I did. It said to avoid all travel to the region because of volcanic activity last May ! Isn’t that like saying “Don’t drive on the M25, there was a crash there last week”. I read the whole advisory for Guatemala and came across this which might explain why Coban was deserted…

‘On 19 December, the President of Guatemala, Alvaro Colom, declared a “state of siege” in Coban, the capital of Alta Verapaz Department (north of Guatemala City).  The decision was implemented due to significant levels of violence, and currently there is a strong police and military presence in Coban and around the region.  The state of siege has been extended until 20 February 2011′.

To Todos Santos

The first part of highway 7W was dirt and took me to what was the biggest landslide I’ve ever seen. The road stopped and a diversion switch-backed down the mountainside to where a new route had been bulldozed through the slide before it switch-backed up the mountain again to re-join the original road. I spoke to a couple of surveyors and learnt that the slide had occurred two years previously. Talking to other travelers I subsequently learned that it had completely buried a town in the valley below. Only aerial photos would really emphasize the scale of the slide.

Landslide on 7W

The truck gives a sense of scale

Not far west of the slide I rejoined the tarmac and continued my ride towards the town of Todos Santos. It was a fabulous ride through the mountains with valley after valley of cultivated fields, often etched out of seemingly impossible gradients. The climb to the entrance to the valley containing Todos Santos took me to 3300m where it was rather chilly in the wind despite the bright blue sky.

At 3300m prior to descending into Todos Santos

The road turned to dirt as I descended into the next valley through swirling cloud and mist. My visor quickly became impossible to see through and even with it open visibility was restricted to 20m. It was a shame as I knew the surroundings were beautiful, if only I could see them.

I found a place to stay along the main street where I was the only guest but there was safe parking for Rosie. Although the dorm was dingy a door led onto a small balcony overlooking the street – great for people watching.

Todos Santos accomodation

The owners son...

...and daughter

The towns inhabitants are predominantly indigenous and despite Spanish being their second language (Their first is ‘Mam’ spoken by just 100k people), everyone I smiled at as I walked around town greeted me with “Buenos Tardes”. As per most Maya towns/villages, the majority of women wore traditional clothing. What makes Todos Santos special is that the majority of men do to.

Traditional dress is the norm in Todos Santos

The following morning I made breakfast in my room and hung around on the balcony in the vague hope the cloud might lift and afford me a view of the valley. It didn’t, and after a few hours I loaded up and set off south. As I exited the valley, instead of being met by the bright blue sky I left behind the previous day, I was met by pouring rain. An hour later I was in Huehuetenango sitting in McDonalds, warming up over a cup of coffee and staring out of the window at a Porsche Turbo whilst contemplating the 1hr/50yr time gap between where I was and where I’d come from. With that, a group of indigenous Indians walked in looking as out of place as I did in their village.

Lago Atilan

I rode on along a fabulous twisty dual carriageway that was reduced to one lane in places due to a multitude of landslides. Reaching  Panajachel I pitched my tent in the lone campsite owned by American ex-pat Mike. Some might say he’s eccentric, others would consider him mad but either way I had some conversations with him that were just whacko. “Do you feel like you belong here or that you are just visiting?” referring to me being on the planet. “Can you feel the change?” referring to the build-up towards the end of the Mayan calendar on December 21st 2012. These were just the two that I can put into words. Others would require far too much thought. My final quote from Mike on the subject is that “It’s all just about the 0’s and 1’s”.

LagoAtilan by day...

...and at sunset

Another American ex-pat in Panajachel was Mike Roberts who owns a great little coffee shop Crossroads Café  with his wife Adele. Mike buys all his coffee from the local coffee plantations around Lago Atilan before roasting it himself to sell not only in his café, but all over the world via their website.

The coffee was only half the story though as Adele bakes exceedingly good cakes. I was a regular!

Antigua

My last stop in Guatemala was the beautiful old colonial town of Antigua. The majority of the old missions were destroyed by earthquakes in 1717 and 1773 but some have been restored along with many of the single story buildings whilst others have been left as open air museums to a time before the earthquakes.

Antigua. Overshodowed by Volcon Agua

It was a great place to hang out and I never got bored of wandering the streets, taking photo’s and watching the locals go about their business. The local bike dealer was even friendly enough to let me change Rosie’s oil in their workshop.

Guatemalan 'Chicken Bus'. Antigua

El Salvador

I didn’t know what to expect as I crossed the border into El Salvador. Ravaged by a vicious 12 year civil war, backed by the outside world (The USA supported the government whilst various other Communist backed the FLCN) very few outsiders visited El Salvador throughout the eighties.

I spent my first two nights camping in Parque Nacional El Impossible with German couple Fred & Rebecca who were travelling from Canada to Panama in their impeccably prepared Landrover.

We had to take a guide to walk in the NP but split three ways it was only a few dollars each. Unfortunately the days hike up to Cerro El Leon didn’t turn up the wildlife we’d envisaged, just three sweaty bodies.

Fred & Rebecca from Germany

I followed the Ruta de las Flores to Ahuachapán and continued on to Lago de Coatepeque and then later in the afternoon Lago de Ilopango. These were both rather exclusive destinations and I found no cheap accommodation so headed into the hills and the little mountain town of Alegria.

Unfortunately (for me) there was a fiesta in town and the hostel was full of reveling locals. The owners brother however, owned a place in Berlin, the next town and called ahead to make a reservation for me. It was more than I wanted to pay but as nightfall fell I had no choice.

Hostel Casa Mia  turned out to be a great place. Not just a hostel, but a home and museum.

Hostel Casa Mia. Berlin, El Salvador

Hostel Casa Mia. Berlin, El Salvador

Chatting with the owner Ramon I learnt about the history of the house, Berlin and his efforts to preserve and renovate the towns old wooden houses, all built with Dutch timber.

However, the most fascinating of all was an old black and white photograph of a FLCN group taken during the civil war. The sympathetic news reporter in the photograph was a young Mauricio Funes who was elected president of El Salvador in 2009.

Berlin saw a lot of action during the Civil War

El Mozote

I couldn’t visit El Salvador without paying a visit to the villages of Perequin and El Mozote. In December 1980, government forces backed by the USA slaughtered approximately 900, many of them children in what became known as the El Mozote Massacre.

The FLCN’s clandestine radio station began broadcasting news of the massacre, eventually bringing it to the attention of the world’s press.

The radio station is now part of a small museum in Perequin whilst a new church and adjacent memorial list the names of the victims. Take a close look at the ages next to the names on the church wall.

The Memorial at El Mozote

The new church at El Mozote bears the names of the victims...

...take a look at the children's ages

Border bound

The Pan American Highway (great name, shite road) was full of idiots as I backtracked NW towards San Salvador before turning north to my final destination in El Salvador.

Suchitoto on the edge of Lago Suchitlán is said to be what El Salvador was before being ravaged by natural disaster and civil war.  I likened it to Antigua, pre-facelift and ex-pats but the heat and humidity of my pokey little room drove me on towards the focal point of Central American corruption – Honduras.

Suchitoto, El Salvador

The name of his optomistic(!?) funeral parlour made me laugh

Honduras

All of my research suggested that Honduras would be the most corrupt, troublesome country in Central America, although when I dug a little deeper it appeared that the majority of the trouble overlanders  have with police is along the Pan American Highway (told you it was shite). However, the last thing Salvadorian customs said to me was “Be careful at customs. “Corrupt…very corrupt”.

You won't find a sign like this in Honduras!

“Momento” said the female customs officer as I presented myself at the counter, and promptly picked up her handbag and sat down on the sofa behind her desk to start chatting with her colleagues. After about 10 mins they all got up and left. As she passed by she said they were off to lunch and would return in an hour.

I sat in the shade, fired up my camp stove and brewed coffee to wash down my peanut butter and jam sandwiches the truck drivers looking on in bemusement.

At 1300 I returned to the window and 15 minutes later a male officer appeared and took my paperwork. To cut a long story short he didn’t seem to have a clue what he was doing and kept holding his hand up and saying “Permiso” (Excuse me) before disappearing – at one stage for 40 minutes! Each time he left the woman at the next desk would raise her eyebrows and shake her head.

Once he’d finally worked out what he needed to do he sent me to the photocopying shop 500m away, back near immigration and to the bank to pay the U$35 in various fees. When I finally got to the front of the queue in the bank I was told they didn’t accept U$ and I had to go outside to find a money changer back at the border.

Finally I had all that I needed and returned to the customs office where once again the officer didn’t seem to know what to do with all the photocopies he’d asked me to get.

Once he’d worked it out he came outside to check my chassis number and finally the process was complete. 3h40mins after arriving at the border.

Honduras had some great riding but I’m sad to say didn’t care much for the people. In fact it wasn’t until my final day in the country that I met anyone who lacked austerity. I wasn’t there long enough to fully get to grips with why but corruption, a lack of faith in the police and a burgeoning list of social problems are surely at the root of it. Most of the ex-pats I met told stories that left me open mouthed in disbelief.

I visited the Mayan ruins of Copan and spent a night at the American owned D&D micro brewery near Lago de Yojoa before heading to the coast at La Ceiba.

Copan, Honduras

I’d hoped to find a boat that would take me to the island of Utila to visit Jeremy Kidd but after a promising discussion with the crew the captain arrived and said he’d already received permission to sail from the harbourmaster and couldn’t (wouldn’t) change his cargo.

A thorough soaking on the way back to town to find a hostel topped off my afternoon.

I stored Rosie at the hostel for a few days and took the passenger ferry to Utila.

Famous for its world class diving schools on the world’s second largest barrier reef, life on the island is a much more laid back affair than on the mainland but the most peculiar thing about the place is that everyone speaks English!

Utila sunset

After a few days of good food, snorkeling and listening to ‘dive talk’ I returned to La Ceiba, collected Rosie and headed south. I took the road through Ceba, La Union and El Tigre to Talanaga where I met two ex-pats in a comedor who told me “The bus used to go that way but it got robbed so often they had to change the route”!

The 180km dirt road via La Union was beautiful

After a night in Talanga I skirted around Tegucigalpa and rode on to the border at Los Manos  where a surprisingly easy crossing had me in Nicaragua in less than two hours.

Nicaragua

I had hoped to spend the night on an old coffee plantation on the road to Jinotega but when they wanted U$40 for a dorm bed I returned to Matagalpa.

There's still a strong Sandanista presence in parts of Nicaragua

Heading towards Leon on a long straight road the next day, I was stopped by two policemen standing in the middle of the road. One of them shook my hand and asked me how I was and where I was from before commencing his patter. He pointed to their motorcycle parked at the roadside and said they needed money for gasoline. I knew instantly this was a scam as my tank is transparent and he could easily have asked me to give them some. What he wanted was for me to return to the previous town and buy them some but I said I didn’t have a container. He said I could buy one at the gas station but I pretended not to understand and continued with my “But I don’t have a container” approach. He was very patient and we went through the same conversation again and again. After what seemed like ½hr, but was probably more like 10mins, a car came into view in the distance coming from the previous town. The policeman immediately lost interest in me and waved me on. An easier target I thought as I mounted my bike but as I rode away I saw in my mirrors the driver handing over a container full of gasoline through his window. I never did work out exactly what the scam was as even selling the gasoline and container would only yield a small amount of money. Unless of course they’d been there all morning and had a nice stash piled up behind the fence? Or perhaps they had genuinely run out of gas!

The road to Leon shortly after my encounter with the police

I found what appeared to be a nice hostel in Leon. I unloaded, parked Rosie in the living room(!) and went for a walk with my camera. Almost instantly I was approached by a young guy who asked where I was from etc before shaking my hand and welcoming me to Nicaragua. That was the friendly face of Leon. I soon discovered it wasn’t always like that by the scene depicted in a mural a few blocks away.

Catedral Leon

Murals in Leon recall atrocities of the Civil War

Thanks to the tin roof that had heated my room like an oven during the day I got very little sleep. Even moving to the hammock in the slightly cooler common room during the early hours didn’t pay dividends and so in the morning I moved hostels.

By comparison, Lazybones Hostel was a revelation. Inside undercover parking, a cool dormitory with decent sized lockers and a swimming pool. Yep, that’s right, a hostel with a swimming pool! What better way to escape the 35°C heat of the day!?

My next stop was Granada but the attention of the police was becoming a bore. I’d been on the road less than 2hrs when a policeman attempted to stop me for the third time. He was stood chatting at the roadside with two others when he happened to look round and spot me in a line of traffic. He spun round and pointed for me to stop but he wasn’t quick enough to step out in front of me and so I kept looking ahead and ignored him. By the way he’d happened to notice me and pick me out of a line of traffic it was obvious he sniffed payday but there were no vehicles to chase me with and I was yet to see a cop with a radio.

Granada

The old colonial town of Granada was my next stop and whilst there were some beautiful old colonial building to see, what struck me most were the immaculate streets of cafés, bars, restaurants juxtaposed against the filthy, potholed streets of crumbling buildings that ran adjacent.  I don’t recall having seen such a distinct ‘line’ anywhere before.

Granada, Nicaragua

Happy at work in Granada, Nicaragua

The Darien Gap PtI

Separating Central America from South America, Panama from Colombia is a 160km long swath of swampland called the Darien Gap.

You can cross the Darien either by boat or plane but with the only airline (Girag) now charging U$900 for a bike and the cheapest passenger ticket costing U$320, that’s the expensive option. The cheapest option (if all goes well) is to use a series of lanchas (small boats) and cargo ships that ply the Pacific coast. Very few have done this as it requires a good grasp of Spanish and about 2 weeks. The potential for getting off loaded onto an island and left at the mercy of the locals/next cargo ship (to charge what they like) for onward travel abounds and so this route is more suitable for adventurous backpackers.

The third, and most popular option, is to take a private boat sailing all the way to Colombia (there are no ferries). Even this method throws up horror stories of drunk, stoned, cocaine snorting captains, lack of food & drinking water, changes to costs and destination once at sea, damaged bikes and bikes that are now anchors.

So even this method isn’t ‘plain sailing’ and a little research is required to find a trustworthy captain. Two names in particular seemed to stand out; The German ‘Stahlratte’ and the Austrian ‘Fritz the Cat’.

Having never sailed on a catamaran before I chose the ‘Fritz’ and so back in December I emailed the captain asking about dates for March. He replied saying it was too early to have any plans and asked me to email again approx 4 weeks before I wanted to travel.

So I did, only to learn the ‘Fritz’ was in dry dock and wouldn’t be sailing…Bugger. The Stahlratte was due to sail several weeks before I wanted to but was the only other boat I trusted and so I emailed Captain Ludwig. It turned out that it was fully booked berth wise, but he was prepared to take my bike for U$415. Given his experience, Ludwig (or Lulu as I later came to know him) was the only captain I trusted to take my bike without me being present (it was also less than half the price of airfreight) and so I agreed. I also got myself top of the reserve list should anyone cancel.

The downside of all this was that it gave me a week to get to Portobelo, Panama and the boat.

Why the rush? My best mate Jez had announced his plans to get married eleven days after my niece’s first birthday and so I’d booked a plane ticket departing Bogota, Colombia on March 29^th. The next sailing of the Stahlratte wasn’t due to dock in Colombia until March 30^th.

Initially I was pretty pissed off about having to race through Costa Rica but I constantly seemed to be riding in mist/cloud/rain and so couldn’t see much of the countryside anyway. It didn’t take long for me to nickname the place ‘Costa Fortune’ either.

Panama was a different story though and I would like to have spent more time there exploring the indigenous villages towards the Darien.

Panama

At 5½hrs the border crossing from Costa Rica to Panama at Canoas set a new record for me (previously held by Turkey/Syria). After queuing for ½hr at what I thought was Costa Rica Immigration to get stamped out of the country, two more motorcyclists, Olli and Alex from Germany arrived and as we chatted so it became apparent I was in the queue for Panama Immigration. Costa Rican Immigration was 300m back down the road and had been hidden behind a line of trucks queuing for the border when I’d ridden past.

Alex tries to stay lighthearted at the Costa Rica/Panama border

Central American border crossings are a demonstration of inefficiency and Costa Rican Immigration was no exception. Even filling out the departure form meant tracking down the (un-uniformed) person handing them out. Not that there were any signs saying to do so, just that everybody noticed everybody else filling out a form and asked what it was for and where it could be obtained. Fortunately cancelling Rosie’s Temporary Import Permit (TIP) was a little quicker and it was in this queue that I met Californian Danny, also riding a DR650.

Back in the Panama Immigration queue I met a pair of American riders I’d first met back at the Nicaragua/Costa Rica Border. I hadn’t thought insurance was needed for Panama but they informed me that not only was it compulsory but Customs wouldn’t issue a TIP without it. They gave me some directions to an insurance office, told me the rest of the process and left (they’d been there all morning). I never did find the insurance office they’d described but whilst I looked I was approached by a rather eccentric American. Sporting the haircut of a Samurai Warrior and gripping a large walking cane with fingers adorned with commemorative gold sovereign rings celebrating a life in wrestling. He had been working the border for 18yrs. He pointed me towards a different insurance office and soon followed me there, offering his services to smooth my border crossing – for a mere U$40! When I politely declined he returned to the immigration queue in search of a richer client.

Back in the Immigration queue Danny, Olli, Alex and I suddenly found ourselves all together  – behind several coach loads of people heading for Panama. Our eccentric American friend re-appeared and was obviously having a slack day. He’d decided that all the native English speakers should stick together and started checking that we all had what we needed. As it turned out, none of us had had our insurance ‘authenticated’. That entailed going to the police office upstairs and handing over the insurance certificate for them to stamp!

Finally we got stamped into Panama but all that meant was that we could get all the photocopying done before we could begin queuing for Customs. As usual there was no photocopier available in the building and so it was back to the insurance office to get copies of – Passport photo page, Panama entry stamp, Driving License, Bike Registration doc and Insurance Certificate.

Armed with the ever increasing pile of paperwork we joined the Customs queue where no matter how many truck drivers appeared after us we seemed to remain at the effective back of the queue; despite being at the literal front of it with our paperwork on the counter! Finally they processed our TIP’s and we turned away from the Customs counter to find what had been a manic hive of activity all but deserted. We still hadn’t completed the formalities though as we then had to take our TIP’s to another office to get them stamped with a checklist the customs inspector could check off. Outside I found a Customs inspector who verified my paperwork and checked VIN and Engine numbers before sending me to have Rosie fumigated. First though, I had to find the right sliding window in which to pay for the fumigation (no signs) when I did find the right window I was issued a certificate to take (along with Rosie) to the ‘fumigation station’ where the wheels and engine were sprayed with a solution (much like vehicles were during the 2001 F&M outbreak in the UK) and the certificate signed.

That certificate got me the final tick in the box I needed to complete the process and 5½ hrs after arriving at the border I jubilantly rode away into Panama.

Luckily I didn’t have to ride far, neither did I have to find a place to stay. On the day I left Xpu-Ha beach in Mexico, so Englishman Graham Styles arrived. We only managed a brief chat but he put me in touch with English Ex-pat Norman who in turn invited me to stay. We had a great evening telling stories and drinking beer but with a boat to catch I couldn’t hang around.

Norman & Amelia

Global Village

In Coihaique on Chile’s Carretera Austral back in 2009 I met Englishman Richard Harwood (See Chapter 18 LINK) riding a BMW R100. At the time he was awaiting the renovation of his apartment in Panama City to be completed and by the time I arrived in February 2011 he’d been moved in a mere 3 months. Nevertheless he invited me to stay and we spent two nights drinking beer, telling stories and eating excellent fish bought from the fish market and expertly cooked by Richard.

The day in between was taken up with visiting said fish market, the Miraflores locks on the Panama Canal and a wander around the old city. Just a few blocks away an invisible line marks where you do and don’t  go. On my way to Richards I was stopped at the roadside checking my map when a woman walking her dog approached me. I thought she was going to ask where I was going biut she didn’t. She said “Don’t stop here, you’ll get robbed!”.

Old meets new in Panama City

A buscar in the Old Town, Panama City

The first attempt to build the canal was commenced by the French in 1880 but aborted after a staggering 22,000 deaths, mostly from malaria and yellow fever.  In 1904 the Americans took over and final achieved the seemingly impossible 10 years later after a mere 5,600 deaths. Approximately 15k vessels use the canal annually, paying an average of U$90k for the privilege,  although this can rise to U$400k for the largest container ships.

The Stahlratte

I packed up said “See you in two days” to Richard and headed off to Hostel Wunderbar in Portobelo. That was where all those sailing aboard the Stahlratte were meeting for final instructions regarding loading and I arrived to find a courtyard packed with bikes. The two Japanese ‘Sabor’ and Akira (BMW1200GS & Yamaha TDM900) that I’d met in Nicaragua, Olli & Alex (KTM990  & BMW 1200 Adventure), Daniel – a Brazilian riding home on his Suzuki V-Strom and finally Danny who was to ship just his bike like me.

Over breakfast the following morning the Hostel owner mentioned that someone was missing and hadn’t confirmed their berth. I immediately jumped on my bike and rode the 50 mins back to the last bank to withdraw the cash to pay for my crossing should a berth arise. When I got back everyone was at the beach ready to commence loading. The group had been joined by another two motorcyclists Murray & Loren from Australia (BMW F800 & F650Twin).

Captain Ludwig arrived along with the hired help and a lancha to get the bikes from the shore to Stahlratte and whilst the first of the bikes were being loaded, Danny and I repacked our kit as we were to return to Panama City by Taxi and fly to Cartagena, Colombia.

Two at a time bikes were man handled into the lancha and ferried to the Stahlratte, moored in deeper water. A pulley system attached to the boom was then used to hoist them aboard.

First up the bikes are loaded into a lancha...

...then hoisted aboard the Stahlratte

...before returning for the luggage

On deck a disappointed Danny got his marching orders from one of the crew but nobody had mentioned me. When the Captain appeared I asked him what the score was and addressing both of us said “As long as you don’t moan about not having a bed, we’ll take you”. Neither of us relished the thought of 4 nights/5 days at sea without a bed, but it was a good group on board and we both wanted to see the San Blas Islands. We agreed.

Setting Sail

We set sail at dusk on a swell that had the bows rising and falling a good 6-7m (20ft) but it was only 4hrs to the small island airport of Porvenir where we dropped anchor in anticipation of the arrival of the non-motorcycling passengers. I found a place to sleep outside but under cover behind the regular crew’s quarters and was lulled to sleep by the melodic tones of the ships 280rpm diesel engine.

The Stahlratte

Early the following morning the final guests arrived, a huge breakfast spread was laid on, introductions made and the ships rules laid out; after which we sailed to the idyllic San Blas Islands. We dropped anchor at Coco Bandera , an island small enough to walk around in 5mins and that halved in size with the tidal flow. It was everyone’s idea of tropical paradise an soon everyone was either diving in or launching themselves from the boom mounted rope swing.

Oklahoma John plays Tarzan in the San Blas Islands

Early evening came and wood, food and beer were ferried to the island for beach BBQ. Life and soul of the party was undoubtedly ‘Oklahoma’ John (ADV’s Throttlemeister). I’m sure he has gills as he was either talking or drinking and never seemed to draw breath. More of John later.

Beach BBQ on Coco Bandera

The following morning five of us took up the offer of a ride to one of the local indigenous villages, home to the Kuna. The crew were buying lobster/crayfish from the local fishermen and so we went along for the ride.

Arriving at the Kuna village, San Blas Islands, Panama

Kuna Village, San Blas Islands, Panama

Left - Right: Jos, Saburo, Me, Local, John

Food onboard was always very good but that night it was extraordinary. The garlic cream sauce in which the crayfish/lobster was served being exceptional.

The food aboard the Stahlratte never failed to impress

Long before sunrise the following day the diesel engine slowly awoke and we chugged away from paradise. Ahead of us lay 28hrs of open ocean sailing, a thought none but the hardiest sailors relished.

I claimed my spot on one of the sun loungers on the top deck and there I stayed, horizontal, for 24hrs – rising only to visit the toilet. I neither ate nor drank anything.

A tropical island all to myself!

I slept fairly well through the night thanks to Olli making me an impromptu windbreak with a mattress and only the occasional dowsing from the spray off the bows caused me to wake.

I later asked the captain how the roughness of the sea rated on a scale of1-10 and he smiled a big grin before saying 4. FOUR!!! Feck’…I’ll never make a sailor!!!

Colombia

I was still asleep when the sails were lowered but awake and vertical by the time we passed the colonial ramparts that protected Cartagena from the enemy. Although it didn’t stop Sir Francis Drake taking the city in 1586.

Last Supper…well lunch actually

There was a delay in the Immigration office (surprise) and so despite dropping anchor late morning we wouldn’t get our passports and be allowed on shore until mid-afternoon. The bikes were a different story. Customs refused to process them on the day and as the following day was Sunday it was to be Monday before the bikes were processed…or so we thought. That meant enough time to cook the huge sail fish that had been caught on a fishing rod attached to the stern of the ship. I also gave me the opportunity to climb the crows nest and take this…

The bikes look tiny from up here!

The majority of us found accommodation in opposing hostels along Calle Media Luna and so had a very sociable weekend eating, drinking and exploring the old town. It was almost 17 months since I shipped Lady P out of Peru and flew to the USA to buy Rosie and it felt great to finally be back in South America.

Customs debacle

None of us were sure of how the bikes were to be unloaded from the Stahlratte and any thoughts of the ships zodiac being used were soon pooh poohed. How wrong we were! We arrived at the agreed shore side location just in time to see the zodiac heading towards us with a bike aboard. Once in shallow water the motor was lifted and the crew jumped out to drag it backwards onto the slipway before manhandling the bike over the side and onto dry ground. With ten bikes to bring ashore along with everyone’s kit it was a slow process.

Loading the Zodiac in Cartagena

Loading the Zodiac in Cartagena

Unloading the Zodiac in Cartagena

With the exception of Murray & Loren (who did their own thing) the rest of us waited for all to be ready before following incorrect directions to the customs building. We arrived to find all seven bikes from another boat ‘Wild Card Jack’ in the car park and ahead of us in the queue. That didn’t matter until we were told customs were only prepared to process eight bikes per day! What! Are they taking the piss? Eight bikes per day would mean someone having to wait until Wednesday! All of us who’ sailed aboard the Stahlratte were being represented by the son of the usual agent and he quickly acquired the tag ‘Useless’. It soon became apparent that no bikes were being processed due to a computer system fault yet nobody (in Customs) seemed to acknowledge that meant either everybody leaving their bikes in the car park overnight or illegally riding them into town. As ‘Useless’ didn’t seem to want to ask questions we spent the afternoon hanging around awaiting a decision. Eventually ‘the boss’ concluded that all the bikes could be left in the car park – but not where they were. And so a new place was found, bikes secured, luggage removed and crammed into taxi’s for the ride back to the hostels.

The Old City of Cartagena

The Old City of Cartagena

‘Useless’ returned to the Customs building the following morning and we called him at 0900 for the latest news; “No Electricidad”. We called again later only to be told there was no change. Early afternoon Sharna, an Australian girl who’d sailed on the Wild Card came to the hostel to say she’d just heard from their agent that the power was back on and that we should return to Customs.

We arrived to find that the computer fault still hadn’t been rectified but someone had come up with the brilliant idea of filling the forms in by hand!!! Obviously pissed off with a car park full of bikes they also decided they would process all the bikes at the same time.

When the customs inspector appeared the waiting room fell silent, save for the sound of jaws shattering on the floor. Everyone looked at the inspector then at each other in a mixture of disbelief and wonderment and back to the inspector. How could you possibly wear that to work!? She was stunning and in a reversal of roles from Moto GP, hot chic tottered outside shadowed by a motorcyclist holding her umbrella, followed by more drooling motorcyclist, tripping over their tongues and one another in a bid to take her photo. It was hilarious. Was she sent knowing nobody would/could be angry with her, or were all the men of the office looking down from their windows, laughing at the drooling gringo dogs following her around?

'THE' Customs Inspector!

We finally rode out of Customs 80hrs after dropping anchor but the customs inspector had made the wait worthwhile. Viva Colombia!!!

On the road again

We all went our separate ways over the course of the next two days but it didn’t last long…

Are all Danny's 5'4"!?

Riding through the Caribbean coastal town of Santa Marta on the day I left Cartagena I bumped into Sharna who was loading her bike. Unhappy with the hostel in which she’d spent the previous night she was heading to the nearby fishing village of Taganga. I had no fixed agenda so joined her for the short ride and it wasn’t long before we’d found a place to stay, showered and were sitting on the seawall with a couple of beers watching the sun go down.

Taganga sunset

Two more motorcyclists arrived the next day in the form of Josh (USA) who I’d met in customs and had sailed on the Wild Card Jack with Sharna, and Patrick (Denmark) who was Josh’s riding partner but had air freighted his bike to Bogota to spend a week with his little brother before re-joining Josh.

As we all had the same basic idea in mind – to ride to Punta Gallinas, the most northerly point of South America – we decided to ride together. We made for an diverse mix of machinery and experience: Sharna was riding a Yamaha YBR125 (Same as Nick Jones – Chapter 24) but rode track days at home aboard her Ducati Monster, Josh was riding a woefully overloaded DR650 and had only passed his test just prior to setting out on their trip and Patrick was riding a Suzuki 650 V-Strom but had spent many years riding trials bikes at home.

Getting directions

We spent our first night in a hospedaje in Uribia and it was whilst loading our bikes the next morning that I managed to drop my camera. Despite being in its case, the polarizing filter smashed and I struggled to pick out the debris and unscrew it without scratching the lens. Since then the autofocus has been sluggish and it won’t autofocus at all maximum zoom. I can’t begin to tell you how pissed off I am about it.

Uribia was also where the tarmac ended and the dirt started. It was also where I realized I was going to do a lot of waiting. The track followed the railway line that links one of the world’s largest open cast coal mines, Cerrejón to the coastal terminal at Punto Bolivar and so was straight, virtually flat and made no difference to my cruising speed. The others though were feeling their feet and took a while catch up. A huge sign (that we all initially managed to miss!) pointed the way to our next stop, Cabo de la Vela.

Cabo de La Vela turn-off

Here the track narrowed and in places became rutted and threw up the first of the sand. Everyone managed well though and each relayed their own story of a ‘moment’ they’d had as we stopped to top-up with fuel sold from containers at the roadside. Up here on the peninsula of Guajira cut price fuel (smuggled across the border from Venezuela) was available everywhere.

It was early afternoon when we arrived in a virtually deserted Cabo de la Vela and after choosing a place to stay we tucked into the obligatory fish lunch on the beach.

Accomodation in Cabo de La Vela

Afternoon became evening, beers were bought and we watched another Caribbean sunset. Breakfast the next day was a strange affair; with no drinking water to be found anywhere we made porridge with peach flavoured fruit juice. It was an acquired taste that we’d all yet to acquire.

Back on the bikes we returned to the main track and turned north so start our search for the turn-off that would take us to Punta Gallinas. We asked for directions from the few locals living along the track and a gang of railway workers and gradually narrowed our search to a sprawl of dwellings we came to learn marked the start of the track. One such dwelling was a little shop selling the usual mix of cold drinks, snacks and a few essentials. The owners’ son was sat on a large speaker that was booming 70’s disco music. We were drinking coke and eating sweet bread when Queen’s ‘Mr Fahrenheit’ got played and everyone started singing and dancing. The owner found this so entertaining she played it again. It was a surreal moment in the middle of nowhere.

Young Mr Farenheit

We rode on, crossing dried mud flats and salt pans linked together by sandy/stony/rocky tracks. The track continuously split in multiple directions and with no signs all we had to navigate by was the shape of the trace we were making on the GPS relative to the coastline (it showed no tracks) but with two large bays to by-pass there was neither a straight nor obvious route. When we did come across a house where we could ask directions we were assured we were going the right way only for the track to disappear into in impassable, overgrown sandy hollow less than a kilometre later. We picked another track and met a truck full of people heading the opposite way and were relieved to hear we were heading the right way and that we were just 30 mins from Taroa.

Sharing a laugh with a truck load of locals

It was a tight squeeze in the cab!

From Taroa the final track led to Punta Gallinas (according to the map!). 30mins came and went as did sunset and in the dark I came to a rope across the track and a local cyclist who said we were going the wrong way. The others were even further behind than usual and I backtracked to find that Patrick had failed to see a muddy patch and fallen. Luckily no harm was done and as we readied ourselves to continue so a Toyota Landcruiser 4×4 ambulance came by and I flagged it down to ask directions. “Follow me” he said, and so I did through the rope where the cyclist had said I was going the wrong way! The ambulance was driving surprisingly fast given the terrain, never mind the fact it was by then pitch black, and so it came as no real surprise when it came to an abrupt halt and the brake lights came on – we’d overshot a junction.

The gang head north

Several km’s further on the ambulance pulled over and the driver pointed to the track leading away to the left. “Just keep turning left” the driver said so we did and soon we were climbing a rocky trail I didn’t think the others would manage without incident. To their credit they did although by the top they were all physically and mentally ready to stop. None of us had sufficient food, my camp stove wasn’t working and Sharna didn’t have any camping gear at all so we carried on. A little further on we happened across a basketball court that loomed out of the darkness and we assumed marked the edge of Taroa. I followed what appeared to be the most well used track only for it to lead into someone’s house where three guys were sitting around drinking beer. That ‘someone’ was Luther who decided trying to give me directions was far too difficult and instead fetched his motorbike and led the way to where all the tracks converged into one bound for Punta Gallinas.

Luther

Not only that but he phoned ahead to one of only two Hospedaje’s there to tell them we were on our way. Twenty minutes later we came upon a guy stood at a junction in the track waving a torch. He asked if we’d come from Luther and pointed us in the right direction. Five minutes later we arrived at Hospedaje Luz Mia. It was nine hours since we’d left Cabo de la Vela, the last three of which had been ridden in complete darkness. Any food would have been great but imagine our surprise ten minutes later when we were served rice and lobster!

Josh, Sharna, myself and Patrick finally arrive at Punta Gallinas

We spent two nights in the Hospedaje; me in my tent, Josh and Patrick in hammocks and Sharna in a room. We visited the electronic lighthouse that marked the most northerly point of South America and took a walk across the sand dunes near Taroa to the Caribbean Sea. Along the way I found the track south that we should have come on the previous evening and made a note of where it turned off.

Sand dunes of Taroa

There's not much to mark the most northerly point in South America

...just a bit of graffiti

Our return to Uribia was simplified by a local couple we met at the hospedaje. They had taken a jeep tour of the peninsula and recorded various waypoints along the way in their GPS which they were happy to pass on. After a quick photo at the ‘light house’ we took the correct track where we were amazed by how quickly we progressed. If only we’d gone that way heading north!

We came across one of the small tienda’s we’d stopped at two days previously and stopped for drinks just as the local school turned out.

The local school kids

Uribia was our last chance for cheap gas so we filled up and hit the tarmac back to Santa Marta.

Smuggled gasoline is cheap near the Venezuelan border

South at last

A couple of days passed by in Sant Marta before I waved goodbye to Sharna, Josh and and headed south to the city of Bucaramanga. Along the way I encountered semi and totally destroyed houses and others with high water marks level with the windows; debris filled rivers, collapsed bridges and roads reduced to one lane. They’d had it tough…

Back in November Colombia had been lashed by the tropical weather system ‘La Nińa’ and the unusually heavy rains had caused flooding in 28 of 32 provinces, swept away thousands of homes and killed more than 300 people.

Rubber

My tyres had been bald since Nicaragua and I’d failed to find what I wanted in the towns along the north coast. With the mountains upon me and with them the prospect of rain and dirt roads I set about finding some new rubber. My search didn’t last long though as the ever helpful Colombians sprang into action. At the first bike shop I saw with a tyre rack outside I stopped to see what they had but couldn’t find what I was looking for. The owner Javier, asked what I wanted, made a phone call and asked me to wait. Ten minutes later a lad arrived on a bike sporting a huge plastic basket as a rack and containing a pair of tyres. The front wasn’t what I was after and so as I fitted the rear so two more calls were made and again the lad reappeared with exactly what I wanted.

Fitting new rubber in Bucaramanga

Javier (far left) and the gang at Codimotos, Bucaramanga

Adios!

Into the hills

I climbed away from the city past more evidence of cleared landslides and a construction team that appeared to be securing the hillside properly alongside a new section of road. Lush green valleys abound, the view slightly tinted by the ever present haze.

Descending towards Pamplona I once again found myself close enough to the Venezuelan border to benefit from the smuggled cheap Venezuelan gasoline and filled up before heading into town for a quick snack.

More lovely cheap gasoline...

...in Pamplona, Colombia

Riding south from Pamplona a combination of road construction and landslides had blocked the road and it was a while before a path was cleared to allow the passage of waiting traffic.

Waiting for the road to open south of Pamplona, Colombia

My map showed the route as a fairly major one and so I was surprised to find it deteriorate into a gravel track as it climbed its way towards the pass. Alone on the road as the mist rolled in, I felt a real sense of remoteness. It was the first time I’d been alone since Costa Rica a month previously and my senses were heightened; the limited visibility adding to the mystery of my surroundings.

It was almost dark as I rolled into Malaga and quickly found a nice hotel in the centre of town, where the owner rearranged the hallway furniture so I could park Rosie in the common room. Prices away from the cities fell dramatically and here a private en-suite (cold shower) room with a TV cost less than a dorm bed in some hostels.

In the morning I left the hotel to find coffee and as usual it wasn’t long before I found a guy wandering the streets with six flasks of hot, sweet ‘tinto’ (black coffee) and a stack of plastic cups. Another passed by on a tricycle with a selection of fried empanadas filled with either beef, chicken or egg and breakfast was complete.

Yesterday’s veil of mist had receded and the ridges of the valley were clear to see under the brilliant blue sky. Back on my bike and back on tarmac I continued south in awe of my surroundings.

Finally the clouds began to lift...

...along the Malaga to Capitanelo road

At first I missed the small turning in the village of Capitanelo but eventually I found my way onto the dirt road that led through a narrow canyon towards El Espino where I rejoined the tarmac for the final climb to the well kept colonial mountain town of El Cocuy.

Into the canyon SE of Capitanelo

A chat with a local guy I met in the plaza confirmed my suspicions regarding the weather. Clear mornings followed by rain at around 14-1600.

Unsure of whether to stay in El Cocuy or ride further into the mountains I visited the office of the El Cocuy National Park for a chat with the ranger. The park contains lakes, glaciers and peaks rising to 5330m and so the office is a serious operation.

My weather advisor in El Cocuy, Colombia

I was the only visitor and the ranger took his time to photocopy some maps, describe some hiking trails and show me a dirt road that runs through the park to Guican that didn’t appear on either of my maps.

With the information in hand it was easy to make a decision regarding what I wanted to do, where and when and I was soon climbing away from town through magnificent scenery, bound for hacienda ‘La Esperanza’. My plan was to camp at the hacienda, rise before dawn, and hike the 8hr round trip to Laguna Grande de la Sierra.

Hacienda ‘La Esperanza’

I was warmly welcomed by fourth generation owner Marco Valderrama but thanks to the sodden ground and threat of more rain he barely needed to convince me to take a bed in the empty dorm – and was I ever glad I did!

Into the courtyard at 'La Esperanza'

After a dinner of fresh trout expertly prepared by Marco I struggled into bed under the mass of thick blankets and set my alarm for 0545.

As I walked towards the kitchen just before 0600 I looked through the windows and could barely see across the courtyard. Marco had already made coffee but suggested I return to bed and try again at 0700 as it wouldn’t be possible to follow the trail in the cloud. I returned to bed with a coffee and arose again at 0700 only to repeat the same scenario and return to bed until 0800.

0800 was the latest time I could set out but alas the weather was still against me. Instead I spent the morning blog writing and sorting photos until I flattened my laptop battery but as the weather had knocked out the electricity that was it for the day.

Lunch arrives at La Esperanza

Marco had kindly provided me with a woolen poncho and a hot water bottle (there was no heating in the hacienda) and over lunch I learned more about the history of La Esperanza. His great grandfather had built the original house 200 years ago with materials carried in by mule. Back then it was a two day ride from El Capitanelo, via the narrow gorge I’d entered through. That was the only access until 50 years ago when the dirt road between El Cocuy and Guican was built. Another 20 years passed before electricity reached them – when the sun shone!

Marco Valderrama

At no point during the day did the weather show any sign of improving and by 1900 I was tucked up in bed reading by candlelight.

La Esperanza after the storm

Daylight brought blue skies and a clear view of the fresh dusting of snow surrounding us. Again, but for a different reason, Marco said it would not be possible to follow the trail and so after breakfast I packed up and left, vowing to return in January when the weather is more predictable.

The track to Guican continued through magnificent scenery and whilst stopping to take photos I met a local lady amazed at my presence.

A surprised local. Sierra Nevada El Cocuy

I rode on with a clear view of the snowcapped ridgeline but the contrast with the dark rock below made it difficult to photograph.

This finca in particular stuck in my mind for its impressive location…

Wouldn't you...

...like to...

...live here?

Over the next few days I continued my ride SW through the mountain until I turned north at Duitama. The dirt road was much rougher than it looked and as I climbed into the cloud so it became a rather miserable ride. The lack of visibility continued until the track descended again but the rough ride continued.

It didn't look bad but the road north from Duitama was a boneshaker!

In the middle of nowhere I rounded a corner to find a line of flagpoles stretching along the roadside and out of sight around the next bend. Strange wooden houses shaped like espresso pots in varying stages of construction were scattered amongst the trees. To my left, partially hidden behind the trees I saw the corrugated steel roof of a huge building; to my right a huge billboard painted with the image of an old, bearded man. The flag poles continued into the distance and I stopped to take a few photos. As I did, so I was approached by a guy and his girlfriend. After the usual introductory chat he explained that they were a ‘community’ made up of many nationalities that all followed the teachings of ‘old bearded dude ‘ (I didn’t catch his name). They were concerned about their security (probably because many of them were in the country illegally) and asked me to delete the photos I’d taken. I was alone and there were several hundred of them and so I obliged and went on my way. It was a curious encounter.

St.Patricks Day 2011 – 5 years on the road

I arrived in Medellin to find Oklahoma John (ADV – Throttlemeister) who I’d met on the Stahlratte had also just arrived in town and together we rode a three day loop through the countryside, returning in time for St.Patricks Day.

Along the way we’d visited El Penol where we met Medellin resident Santiago and his Brazilian girlfriend Mariana and John had a collision with a truck on a blind bend in the hills above San Luis. Although after his hair raising adventures in Cuba it didn’t even count as a flesh wound, but it did leave him hobbling around for a few days!

El Penol

The view from the top

John checks the damage

Santiago had told us that Colombia has just three micro breweries and that only one of them – 3 Cordilleras – ran a tour. That tour runs every Thursday and by chance that coincided with St.Patricks Day.

15,000cop (5 quid) bought us entry and 5 beer tokens. Enough to try each tipple and return to your favourite!

3 Cordilleras - REAL beer!

St.Patrick's Day specials

Santiago, Mariana, John and me

The bar closed fairly early but Santiago had a bit of local knowledge up his sleeve. We walked to the local mall and found the ‘Beer Store’ on the first floor. They cut off our wrist bands and gave us another free beer!

Now St.Patrick’s Day wouldn’t be St.Patrick’s  Day without Guinness and so we headed back to The Shamrock for a drop of the black stuff. And a drop it was too at those prices! The sign’s tagline should read ‘Everywhere else is cheaper’!

St.Patrick's Day 2011, The Shamrock, Medellin, Colombia

It was a great evening and a fitting way to celebrate my fifth year on the road.

The Stahlratte connection

Driven by the prospect of an all-girl rodeo weekend we arose (relatively) early, shook off our foggy heads and rode south to Pereira where a well surfaced dual carriageway wound its way down the mountainside and into town. It was a dream motorcycling road that sucked you in and made you ride faster and faster. As the road straightened out for the final stretch into the city I heard sirens behind me and was convinced I was about to get a ticket.  A police van pulled up alongside and the passenger wound down the window shouting “A dondé vive?’ (Where are you from?), and so began a barrage of questions interspersed with big smiles and a ‘thumbs –up’ before they drove away!

Jos (from Luxembourg) who had also been aboard the Stahlratte , had a Colombian girlfriend and they’d invited us to spend the weekend in Pereira and visit the rodeo. It wasn’t until we arrived that we discovered there’d been some confusion over what rodeo was where and it turned out that the all-girl rodeo was near Bogota and that the rodeo local to Pereira was just that – a local rodeo. Nevertheless we went along and enjoyed an Argentine style BBQ before watching the local cowboys and cowgirls in action.

Argentinian style BBQ at the rodeo

Colombian Cowboys

After the weekend I took a short ride to Manizales. Josh’s father owns a house there and before parting company back in Santa Marta Josh had invited me to visit him and Patrick there. I arrived to find the two of them and another American motorcyclist Ryan, whom I’d also met during the customs debacle back in Cartagena.

It was a great opportunity to do some maintenance and I earned my keep by showing the others how to do various jobs on their bikes  – in particular checking valve clearances.

Josh & Patrick...a lovely couple

The house was a world apart from ‘the outside world’ and proudly kept by housekeeper Lady who was greatly offended the moment anyone attempted to do anything domestically oriented.

Josh’s dad’s Colombian wife had her 29^th birthday whilst we were there (Yes, I know, lucky bastard!) and we had a great party to celebrate. A house full of dental students with a penchant for doing shots made for a messy night and a late morning.

Our hangovers were the only evidence of anything having taken place the following evening as thanks to Lady, the bombsite we’d left behind had already been cleared away. The good company and Josh’s excellent culinary skills made it hard to leave but eventually I dragged myself away. I had an appointment in Medellin…

ADV Party

Whilst I was in Manizales John returned to Medellin to meet Vincent (ADV – Crashmaster). Vincent had spent the previous two years riding through the Americas on his KTM990 and had some very useful information to share regarding the Guianas.

Thanks to Vincent (ADV - Crashmaster) for his Guyana's info

After picking Vincent’s brains the three of us headed out for some ‘fukingoodribs’

I wasn't joking...

Vincent had eaten there before and so we were well looked after by English owner Simon, who’s teenage years in Brighton had obviously left an impression on him judging by the Ska music that played all evening.

The 'Meister' and the 'Master's' tuck in to fukingoodribs!

Downtime

It was with a tinge of sadness that I rode away from Medellin. I’d fallen in love with Colombia and its delightful people over the previous six weeks and it was only the thought of seeing my niece that kept the throttle twisted towards Bogota.

Thanks to all the Sunday road closures to allow cyclists, rollerbladers, joggers and walkers the run of the city I had a nightmare finding the home of Carlos who had kindly offered to store Rosie for me whilst I was away.

I spent the Monday sorting out what I needed to take and what could stay, then finding a suitable (cheap) bag to carry it all in. Dinner with Carlos and his family on the Monday evening was a very sociable affair and we were joined by his son who had recently spent a month riding his BMW F800 around Colombia and had produced a coffee table book of his photos.

On Tuesday 29^th March I boarded the Continental flight to Heathrow via Newark only to discover the increasingly tightfisted airline had replaced the regular in flight entertainment with ‘Direct TV’; yours for a swipe of your credit card and a mere U$6!

And so began my ‘holiday’?

Touchdown

On Wednesday April 27^th I touched down back in Bogota and managed to fit in a visit to the splendid Museo del Oro (Gold Museum) before collecting Rosie.

I’d had a great time in Jersey attending my niece’s first birthday and spent more time with my sister and family during the drive up to the English Lake District for my best mate Jez’s wedding.

The weather obliged and a great time was had by all in beautiful surroundings. It was great to catch up with everyone but now it was time to hit the road again.

Only there was a slight problem. Whilst I’d been away ‘La Nina’ had returned to give Colombia second helpings even worse than the first. My plans to visit various National Parks got scrapped and Carlos kindly printed me some maps to get me to Cali avoiding the many closed roads.

A BIG Thank You to Carlos for looking after Rosie

Casa Blanca Hostel

Owned by Danish motorcycling enthusiast Mike and his Colombian wife Diana, Casa Blanca Hostel in Cali is a mecca for motorcycle travelers. It’s Mike’s enthusiasm that makes it, along with the undercover secure parking and excellent kitchen. Need something modified/repaired/replaced/shipped/stored? Mike knows where to get everything done.

Having taken me to a place to have one of my panniers repaired Mike told me about a fabricator/welder that had repaired the crashbars on one of his bikes so well you couldn’t see the repair. What made the guy particularly special said Mike is that “He just gets it”.

I’d had a modification to my rack in mind for a long time but whilst finding a welder was easy, finding a good one and someone that understands what you are trying to achieve rather than just what you are trying to describe to them is nigh on impossible.

Mike convinced me he had the right man and so I followed him across town to the workshop. Sure enough the guy at the fab shop understood exactly what I was trying to achieve and so I left Rosie with him overnight. I returned at the specified time the next day to find he had indeed “Just got it”. He had not only achieved what I wanted to, but in exactly the way I had wanted it.

I spent much longer than planned in Cali, partly due to the opportunity to get a few things repaired/modified and partly to get this blog up to date before heading into Ecuador. I was further delayed by a very sociable couple from Bristol riding a pair of Yamaha XT600’s. Having spent two years riding from England to Australia ten years ago Mark and Claire had finally realized their next dream of riding the Americas and set off from Calgary, Canada eight months ago.

Mark obviously knew his stuff regarding motorcycle mechanics and we had several conversations he obviously hadn’t been able to have for several months and Claire grinned with pride in his passion and knowledge.

I’ll look forward to sharing a few beers with them again.

Mark & Claire from Bristol, UK at Casa Blanca Hostel, Cali

I brought a few spares back with me from the UK and so Rosie got new chain & sprockets, fresh brake fluid, a larger (homemade Scottoiler reservoir) and a few other new Scottoiler  parts thanks to the continued support from the guys in Milngavie.

NB. For those that like to follow Rosie’s progress there is also an update on the Suzuki page.

Mike at Casa Blanca Hoste lwas a great help

The South

I finally escaped Cali and headed south on the Pan Americana. I didn’t get far before the police stopped all the traffic and I asked around to see if there had been a landslide. The answer was no. The road had been closed for a cycle race, and not even a professional one. This was a multi-day stage race for ‘Young Riders’. They sure do take their cycling seriously in Colombia.

Young Riders’ multi-day stage race

I spent the night in Popayan, a whitewashed colonial town dating back to 1536 before crossing the mountains to San Augustin. Not long after the dirt road ascent began so I came to a waterfall right on the roadside but no sooner had I pulled my camera out so it started raining – and continued to do so across the 3000m plateau – which made for a muddy ride (and no photos). The rain stopped just as the tarmac began on the descent to ??? and continued onto the small town of San Augustin.

My reason for visiting was the Parque Arqueológico where very little is known about literally hundreds of stone statues, some dating back to 3300 BC.

Waterfall Road

It was a 3km walk each way to the park and a few more inside it so I returned to my hospedaje for an early night. Before retiring to bed I told the landlady of my intentions to leave at 0600 the following morning as I wanted to make it to Ipiales. She raised her eyebrows before telling me the route through Mocoa was the quickest. Mike had always been told this route was unsafe whenever he’d enquired so I was glad to hear ‘no problema’ (although the Policia’a answer when I enquired the following day was ‘Más o Menos’!)

By 0900 I’d ridden to Mocoa, eaten breakfast and was heading west into the mountains and once again it started raining as soon as the tarmac ended. The rain had little effect on the road surface being, as it was, hewn out of the rock but it did spoil what would’ve been spectacular views into the valleys. Never before have I ridden a road along which I lost count of the number of waterfalls!

'Waterfall Road' Mocoa - Pasto

The road was all but invisible as it climbed slowly towards the pass but out of the mist appeared a sidecar outfit. Now that’s got to be a gringo I thought and so it was that I met Aussie Dean, and wrapped up in the sidecar, his Colombian(?) girlfriend. Dean arrived in Argentina feeling tired after cycling across Africa so when he met an English couple who were selling the Ural outfit they’d just ridden from Alaska, he bought it.

Dean and his Ural outfit

It finally stopped raining as I dropped out of the clouds and headed towards Laguna La Cocha and onto Pasto where I rejoined the Pan Americana for the great ride south to Ipiales.

Before riding into town to find a hotel, I had one last thing I wanted to see – the Sanctuary of the Virgin of Las Lajas, 7km east of town. Unhappy with the parking arrangements I continued past the Sanctuary to the next town where I found a dirt track that led down the opposite side of the valley to give me the following view.

Sanctuary of the Virgin of Las Lajas

Hasta Luego Colombia!

I spent my last night in Colombia (for now) in the border town of Ipiales and awoke to the sound of rain, pouring rain. I was tempted to just pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep but I managed to drag my arse out of bed and after brewing coffee in my room,  donned my wet weather gear and headed out to the border with Ecuador…

Now I don’t want you all to finish reading this thinking about rain, instead I’m going to leave you with my final (recurring) thought of Colombia…

No caption required!

More photos in the Central America and Colombia galleries – click the Smugmug logo

This video represents many conversations I had in the US. In fact, if I had a $1 for everytime I heard it, I woudn’t have spent Christmas in my tent!

Back in SanDiego I had felt a tinge of trepidation at the prospect of heading into Mexico. Having been in the western world for the past year I felt as though I was starting my journey again but as I sat in the sun drinking coffee in San Felipe it didn’t seem strange that nobody spoke English, the currency had changed, the country was obviously poorer. There was in fact a familiar feeling to being back in Latin America, and I liked it. Once I’d warmed up I rolled south out of town, acutely aware that the sun was rapidly setting and the coastline I was following was disconcertingly residential. At the first sign of beachfront palapa’s (shelter under which you can camp or sling a hammock) I stopped, haggled over the ridiculous price and eventually pitched my tent on the concrete base. Supper was the last of the outstanding fish Ken had cooked and then very kindly vacuum packed for me to take with me.

Blown Away

I was led in my bed with my laptop on my campstool watching a film when the wind picked up. Having had plenty of windy night in my tent I didn’t take much notice but suddenly a gust bent the side of my tent in so far that it knocked the stool over and the wall of the tent touched my chest. The next gust blew the tent a metre across the floor of the palapa, a feat I thought would be nigh on impossible given the combined weight of me and all my kit inside it. By then I was concerned and had no choice but to collapse the tent on top of me. I reached outside and released the four pole ends from there eyelets but it wasn’t long before the wind had unhooked one of the fly sheet hooks and it was flapping wildly. Concerned that it would either become unhooked completely and blow away or simply tear, I reached outside once again, unhooked it and dragged it inside. Now though the wind could blow through the mesh vents of the inner tent and were trying to lift it off the ground. I managed to hook one leg around one pole, hold the other with one hand and pull my sleeping bag over my head (it was a chill wind) before gathering up a handful of flapping material in my other hand.  And that was how I lay for the following six hours. Somehow I eventually fell asleep and awoke to a windless blue sky and a tent full of sand. Unfortunately it wasn’t just the tent that got filled. In the rush to secure the tent I hadn’t packed away my laptop and it wasn’t until I went to burn some photo DVD’s a few weeks later that I found the optical drive full of sand and non-functioning. Bugger.

What the feck!

After a slow start I finally managed to pull my finger out and fit the pair of tyres I carried from Ken’s. The tarmac would end early today and I didn’t want the extra weight of the tyres onboard. As I fitted then so I saw a few bikes ride south but being a fair way from the road they didn’t notice me. Sure enough te tarmac soon ended and typically, just 20mins south of the palapa I found plenty of opportunities to bush camp. Here the properties were loosely scattered and mostly for sale with signs in English; a sign of more Americans hastily trying to liquidate their assets? Later in the day I spotted a motorcycle in the distance. Englishman Nick Jones was stopped at the roadside. As if encountering a UK license plate out here was unusual enough, Nick was riding a Yamaha YBR125. Yep, you read that right…a 125cc.

Nick Jones

Not only had Nick ridden it from Wrexham (England) to Cape Town but he’d done so with very little money and bush camped the whole way! From Cape Town he shipped ‘Rudolph’ (his bike) to Korea, spent a year teaching English to earn some money then shipped it to San Francisco and was on his way to Ushuaia. You can read his blog here – Tales from the Saddle

Nick Jones

Baja Boys

Nick was looking for a place to camp but I needed to find supplies before I could do so and was therefore unable to join him. A few kilometre’s after leaving Nick I came to a shop/restaurant complex in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. Outside were parked three motorbikes, presumably those I’d seen ride past my palapa earlier. Joe and Pete had ridden down from Pennsylvania and had met Kay (an Egyptian living in Baja) the previous day. After eating dinner together we rode a few hundred metre’s to the beach and pitched our tents in the shelter of an engineless truck and a long since abandoned fishing boat. Based on the amount of beer Joe and Pete kept fetching from their panniers I don’t think they’d packed any clothes!

Coco’s Corner

The following day we all rode together to Coco’s Corner. Anyone who’s ever ridden in Baja or read a ride report regarding Baja will have heard of Coco’s Corner. Twenty years ago Coco arrived with M$20 a 5lts water, set-up camp and has been there ever since. A checkpoint on the Baja1000 desert race, Coco’s is adorned with memorabilia (mostly girls underwear!), race photos and travelers photos. Visitors return year upon year and his guestbook’s now run into volumes. It’s not just motorcyclists that call in for a cold beer either. The landscape and ‘lack of rules’ has attracted buggy drivers for years. Some driving the classic Baja Bug (based on a VW Beetle) other in U$100k purpose built creations.

Coco's Corner (Coco shirtless)

Nick arrived whilst we were chatting and a plan was formulated for the rest of the day. Joe and Pete were also travelling with Joe’s boss, bike shop owner ‘Cooper’ who had chosen to come on a Ducati Multistrada and so was sticking to the tarmac. Joe, Pete and Kay set off to meet Cooper whilst I waited for Nick. Nick puts most ‘adventure’ motorcyclists to shame with regards to how/where he rides but he does so at Rudolph’s pace! By the time we all regrouped, Kay had continued south to a wedding leaving the rest of us to eat fish tacos in Bahia de los Angeles. Just south of town we found an abandoned fish factory that we could just squeeze the bikes into.

It was atight fit but Pete managed it!

With the original sea facing sliding doors long gone it provided both shelter and a great view. It wasn’t long before the tents were pitched and we were dipping into the bottomless beer cooler that was Joe & Pete’s panniers!

Sharing a beer with big Pete

I haven’t mentioned that Pete’s Russian and is therefore built to Russian proportions. He is the only person I have see dwarf a BMW 1200 Adventure. Not only does he sit on it with both feet flat on the floor, knees bent. But he gets on it by swinging his leg over the topbox! With less holiday time than the others, Cooper headed home but not before a manouevre outside the local supermarket had us all burying our heads in our hands and wondering whether he’d make it! We spent the following few days together, riding the dirt roads, camping in the evenings. Joe and Pete had their first experiences riding sand (and vowed to return with lighter bikes). One night, under the moonlight on our bushcamp just outside San Francesquito, I saw something move from the corner of my eye. I hate scorpions and quickly grabbed my headtorch. I needn’t have worried…it was just a Tarrantula (hell bent on getting under Nicks tent!)

A Tarrantula visits camp

Joe and Pete were great company and there time to leave and continue their ride south came all too soon. Our campsite on the outskirts of the little missionary town of San Ignacio didn’t have a toilet and so the owner had given us a shovel. He also sold fresh dates, a large bag of which I’d bought and so had Pete but he left his behind. Now though I was camping with a fellow Englishman and that meant tea, and lots of it. Combined with the dates that shovel saw a lot of action! “How much persuading would you need to hang around for another day?” asked Nick over breakfast on the second day. “Very little” I replied. We rode together for the next three weeks…

Registration

Unlike the UK where a vehicle registration lasts for the life of the vehicle, in the USA (amongst others) it expires annually and therefore needs to be renewed. Aware that I could renew online I had had the safety inspection carried out in Utah but wasn’t able to renew until 30 days prior to expiration. When I did try to log-on I discovered I needed a pin number that had been sent with the renewal notice. I emailed Ian (the previous owner where Rosie is still registered) but no renewal had arrived. And never did. A phone call to the Utah DMV (Department of Motor Vehicle) informed me that I could log-on with some different information. All good, or so I thought… I got right through to the payment page where I selected ‘UK’ on the billing address page but the ZIP (post) code box would only accept a US style 5-number code and so it wouldn’t accept my card. Having my registration expire could lead to problems later on so I needed to resolve it. One email to Saints Scott & Joanne was all it took. The following day Joanne sent me confirmation of my renewed registration; two days before it expired! Thanks again guys but you still need to have that chat! J

Road of Stones

With the admin out of the way we could head inland across the mountains and pick-up a more interesting route to the south. From Loreto we followed the road towards San Javier as hugged the canyon side.  20km after the road became dirt we turned NW onto a smaller track that would take us through the old Jesuit mission of San José de Commondu (1737) and onto the main dirt road from Rosarito to La Purisima at San Isidro. Or so we thought… The road had obviously been damaged by water fairly recently as many of the bridges had been washed away and replaced by dry season only ‘route-around’s’. With an hour or so of daylight left we decided to cross the pass ahead of us and camp on the west side. The track up the pass was the knarliest I could remember riding. There was no obvious ‘line’ through the rocks, no trails to follow, just deep rain ruts and rock steps. Only a very good jeep would be able to negotiate this track and as we hadn’t seen any of them I began to wonder if this was the right way (another track branched off just before the climb started). We made it a third of the way up before deciding to turn back and try the other track but after several kilometre’s that just led us to a dead end and a deserted corral. With the daylight rapidly fading we returned to the foot of the climb and pitched camp.

Camping at the foot of the 'Road of Stones'

The following morning we set off up the climb once again. Knowing some of the lines from the previous day made the first section a little easier and as I came to a level spot so I stopped to take a few photos of Nick.

Nick tackles the Road of Stones on Rudolfo...

...but doesn't find it easy!

The next section started with a steep section with a rather narrow rideable line and I hit a rock with the front wheel, bouncing me into a patch of larger, loose rocks. Despite digging out some of the rocks from between my wheels I couldn’t get going and waited for Nick to arrive to help push me out. My hoped for delivery address in Panama had fallen through and so I was carrying all my maps and guides for Mexico, Central and South America as well as a bit of extra reading material (I knew English books would be hard to find) and some extra spares and the extra weight was just enough to tip the balance and upset Rosie’s great off-road handling. The track suddenly improved, lulling us into a false sense of security. A few hundred metre’s later deteriorated once again into a track on which I daren’t stop. On and on I rode in first gear, dodging the avoiding the deep rain ruts and loose rocks. Several times I used up all my ground clearance and I wondered how Nick was coping. As I reached the pass and the track leveled out so I stopped to wait for him. After a while I started walking back to learn that he’d just got going again after falling (again).

My turn to get stuck

We passed a few abandoned dwellings as the track climbed and descended the canyons. There were very few sections of reasonable track –everything was damaged. After a few hours we came to a canyon filed with lush palm trees. The early Jesuit missions were all built on springs and so we knew we weren’t far from San José. We descended into the village, parked outside the church and after a look around ate lunch in the shade of the adjacent pavilion. There were a lot of pick-up trucks in town which was promising. They certainly hadn’t got there on the route we’d taken which meant the road out of town must be half decent – right? We turned right, following a sign to San Isidro and stopped to fill-up with water as we crossed the stream. Almost immediately the road deteriorated into a rocky trail that climbed steeply up the canyon side. At the top the track split with the left fork looping almost back on itself to head SW past the cemetery which was the wrong direction for us. Instead, we took the right fork and continued our rocky ride north. Sometimes wide open, sometimes hemmed in by cacti, often washed away but rarely easy so the trail continued. It was hot; bloody hot. There was no shade and the sun beat down on us relentlessly. We passed an occupied goat herders shack which was promising (the road was in regular use) and rode on. Sometime later we rode into the yard of an unoccupied dwelling/corral. Upon first sight it appeared to be a dead end but after parking the bikes and walking around we found two tracks leading away. We took the one heading NW. We passed an abandoned hacienda that was on Nicks map but not mine and realized we weren’t on the track we thought we were. No two manufacturer’s maps are the same for this region which brings into question the accuracy of any of them. Instead of heading NW we were heading north. It wasn’t all bad though as the main Rosarito – San Isidro track ran East-West to our north so as long as we kept riding, eventually we’d intersect it.

A rare break from the stones

Whilst we were stopped I noticed my GPS bracket was looking somewhat lopsided. A closer look showed it had broken on one side and the vibration had split the other. The trail was taking its toll. When the compacted tyre tracks on the trail led into another dwelling/dead-end we were pretty pissed off. The trail ahead didn’t have so much as a hoof print on it although the ‘stripe’ through the landscape indicated it had once been a regular trail. Again we rode on, climbing the rocky, water damaged trail, our unspoken concerns exactly the same. With the trail no-longer used, would we encounter a washout that had no route-around? The next descent was the section for which Nick coined the term ‘Road of Stones’. It was like riding on marbles, big marbles and at the bottom my unspoken concern – an unrepaired washout. I sat in the shade provided by Rosie and filtered drinking water whilst waiting for Nick. We had two options. 1 – Return the way we’d come. 2 – Find a way across the washout. There was no way we could return up the Road of Stones as we’d have been riding directly into the sun and we’d have crashed our brains out attempting it. Returning would have meant camping for the night and there was no-way I wanted to awake to more of this. We had to find a way across the washout. As it happens, our viewpoint from where we’d stopped made it look much worse than it actually was and once stood in the washout it wasn’t hard to work out how to cross it. We rode on. Again my thoughts returned to the Babusa Pass. This was hard going on Rosie which meant it would have been impossible for me on Lady P, yet I did make it across the Babusar Pass (Pakistan) on Lady P – albeit with a lot of help. Atop the next ridge so the track turned 90° left to descend into a flat valley. Down in the valley was a hacienda, the first sign of life since entering the Road of Stones and sign also of improving roads. Seeing it though was one thing, getting there was another.

The final descent was tricky going over the rock steps

A series of rock steps led to a trail of loose rocks that continued into the valley. I couldn’t roll over them quickly as I’d have bottomed out the engine and so I slowly rolled over each step, my left foot bracing against the hillside for balance. Once over the steps I could pick p some speed over the rocks until the track turned 90° right onto a trail of loose volcanic pumice (again like riding on marbles). Several hundred metre’s later the track met with the one emerging from the hacienda and so I parked and walked back for Nick. I found him just around the last bend. He fallen again (no surprise given the going) but he and Rudolph were unharmed, just exhausted.

Yep, that's the trail behind him!

From atop the next ridge we could see a track stretching out straight across the valley. Once on it we crossed two huge boulder fields that had had a path cleared across them. A real indication to the hurricane that it turns out had created all the damage. From here on the track was still pretty rough and on occasion sandy but I found 3^rd gear for the first time that day and we covered the next 15km quite quickly. Ahead of me I saw a clearing and then a road sign – ROSARITO. We’d found the main track. As Nick arrived so I held up my hand for a high-five. “Feck that!” he said… “Give me a hug!” It had been one of those days.

Finding the road to Rosarito was like finding an oasis!

Despite having ridden just 70km we pitched our tents in a dried-up river bed and pooled our resources for dinner.

What’s the chance…ptI

We were both by now out of food and water so instead of taking our chances west we rode east back to Rte1. It was also my sisters birthday so I needed to find Wi-Fi and ‘Skype’ her. Riding east along the main track we noticed the signs indicating we were on the Baja 1000 route. Compared to the previous day it was like riding on a billiard table and we cruised along in 4^th gear. At the main road I stopped to clan my chain and as I was doing so I looked up towards the sound of two bikes approaching from the south. I put my hand up to wave only to realize it was Joe & Pete! They couldn’t believe it either and turned around for a chat and a story swapping session.

Beach bums

After our efforts of the previous days we decided to hit the beach and found a nice spot under a basic palapa at the end of a bay south of Loreto. We stayed for a couple of days, swimming, diary writing, reading.

Chilling out under a palapa

Having not made it to San Isidro we were faced with the long boring stretches of Rte1. Time to get comfortable…

Trying not to fall asleep on Rte1

Trying not to fall asleep on Rte1

Our only break came in the middle of a looooooong straight section of road through Ciudad Constitución where, for the first time since Peru, I found the fantastic spicy fish dish ‘Ceviché’.

Back on the dirt

Further south a track led NE towards the sea at Bahiá Coyote. The first 60km was in excellent condition but it was the last 30km that was always going to be questionable. Once again all the maps contradicted one another. I won’t take you along for the ride this time but soon after the next photo it went a little like this…

Approaching the east coast at Bahia Coyote

Track rapidly deteriorated, became rocky, became rain rutted, often steep, Nick couldn’t select 2^nd gear, we could see the sea, it got dark, we rode on, the track became narrow and sandy, hemmed in by cactus, Nick fell, we straightened his bike, we found another track leading to a clearing and pitched our tents.

A well earned brew!

In the morning we discovered we’d pitched camp on a dried mud flat behind the sand dunes

Mud flat bush camp

We didn’t ride far down the coast before we found some beautiful sites for bush camping – if only we’d have arrived a few hours earlier the previous day. The often narrow jeep track wound its way through the multi-coloured canyons and out to the sea where it opened out to become a smooth, wide dirt road highway.

Bahia Coyote

Bahia Coyote

La Paz

We rode straight through La Paz and out to the ferry terminal so that I could obtain the temporary import permit for Rosie (that I would need to enter the mainland). Back in town we stocked up on supplies and headed SE out of town with a beach camp in mind but it was already mid-afternoon and by the time we found the road we wanted we’d lost more time and had to rethink. The only place we’d seen that had potential for a bush camp in such a built-up area was on the road to the ferry. In the shrubbery surrounding a small bay we noticed a few other cars and so presumed it was a regular unofficial camping spot. It wasn’t until after we’d pitched the tents, dinner had been cooked and the noise of the camp stoves receded that the sounds of the camp wafted our way. People weren’t camping, it was love lane. Nooooooooooooooooooooo……………………… Nick remembered the name of the hotel Joe & Pete had mentioned and for the same price as the pair  of us would have paid for two dorm beds in the hostel we got an en-suite twin room with cable TV, Wi-Fi and secure parking right outside the door. We spent two nights in La Paz during which time Nick gave Rudolph some much needed TLC. What he manages on that bike is really impressive.

Impresssive artists at the tatoo parlour

A stroll into town revealed a Guinness World Record attempt at the world’s longest burrito – 2km! Walking along the promenade I noticed a tattooed, helmet carrying couple walking towards us – it was Frank & Simone!!! Unfortunately they were staying outside of town and so couldn’t stay for a beer. They’d had a torrid time of it since I left them in Oregon. Frank had had a hernia in the USA (and a U$6500 medical bill), Simone had had a cyst develop on her leg and to add insult to injury their laptop hard drive had crashed that morning! They weren’t the only ones with laptop trouble. That was the night I discovered my DVD drive full of sand and non-functioning.

The Mainland

Two ferries sail from La Paz, Baja California to mainland Mexico; one to Mazatlán (12hrs) and the other to Topolobampo, nr Los Mochis (6hrs). We took the shorter one as we wanted to visit Barranca del Cobre (or Copper Canyon as it’s known in the west). The ferry was due to sail at 1500 but didn’t sail until 1630 so it was almost 2300 by the time we disembarked.  Arriving at a hotel so late dramatically reduces your haggling ability and we stopped at a couple of hotels before finding an acceptable price at Hotel San Marcos.

Getting directions

Welcome to Choix

For some reason I really enjoyed the slow, straight road NE form Los Mochis. A pick-up truck had a second one, cut-up for scrap, wedged in the back and I saw a homemade sidecar outfit for the first time in a year. Truck drivers plied the roadside eateries and farmland stretched beyond. The mainland certainly had a very different feeling to Baja. After a late start we spent the afternoon riding through farmland and so with no obvious potential bush camps we rode into Choix for another night in a hotel. As it turned out, the cheapest room in the hotel had a covered balcony that overlooked one of the main streets. It was Friday night and the locals were cruising in everything from flash new pick-ups to beaten up wrecks that limped along. Music blared from all of them but not western electronica.  Instead it was Mexican music that filled the streets. The only vehicles not playing music were the regular, heavily armed police patrols. Earlier in the evening as we’d walked around town we’d noticed uniformed men with ‘VIGILANTE’ embroidered on their backs. Clearly there had been some trouble there previously. We though, cooked supper on the balcony, sat back and enjoyed all of this going on below us.

Damn...we'll miss the entertainment!

Copper Canyon Pt I

Choix – Tubares – Piedras Verdes* – Mesa de Arturo – Cerocahui* – Bahuchivo – Cuiteco* – San Rafael – Divisadero – Creel.  NB. *Denotes not shown on any map.

That was our chosen route, pieced together from various online ride reports. Without the GPS though we needed to rely on asking locals the way as three of the villages weren’t on any map. Neither did any of the maps show a road from Choix to Mesa de Arturo which was rather surprising as it turned out to be a bigger, better road than that from Mesa de Arturo to San Rafael which was on the map! Sometimes we got good directions, sometimes we didn’t.  Sometimes they’d point in the direction of the village we were asking for and not the direction of the road that led to the village.

Approaching Tubares en-route o Copper Canyon

After lunching on of peanut butter & jam sandwiches J and coffee in the spread out pueblo of Tubares we asked for directions to Piedras Verdes and set off into the canyons. Here the road was much narrower and hugged the canyon walls as it climbed one and descended into the next. We were obviously in the land of the indigenous Rarámuri Indians. Their homes dotted amongst the canyons in seemingly impossible to access locations. Getting building materials there would have been a slog. We thought finding a place to camp was going to be hard and it was. The narrow road was cut into the canyon side and wherever it opened up even slightly so it was occupied. Eventually we came to a small parking are that would have been used by the road builders. Beyond the flat area a trail led onto a ledge under some trees overlooking the valley and we managed to get the bikes down there and camp out of sight.

Bush camp on the road to Mesa de Arturo

Sunset across the valley

The next day was another where we didn’t cover as much ground as expected. A wrong turn in the Pueblo of Cieregoita cost us time as did a long lunch at a spot overlooking the ‘un-mapped’ town of Cerocahui (unusual given its size).

Cerocahui overlook

Cerocahui mission

Copper Canyon Railway

From Cerocacahui to Bahuchivo was a landscape of rocky outcrops and trees that could easily have formed part of the National Park. In Bahuchivo we crossed the Copper Canyon Railway for the first time and then paralleled it into the next canyon. The 653km, 14hr train ride stretches from the coastal town of Los Mochis to the inland plains of Chihuahua and is said to be one of the world’s most extraordinary train journeys.

Following the Copper Canyon railway

Sometimes alongside, sometimes above, sometimes below, the railway was never far away as it shared the canyon with the road. In Cuiteco we were diverted around the pueblo along a riverbed and across several shallow water crossings. Beyond Cuiteco we entered a fabulous, deep, narrow canyon where an all but dry river trickled past boulders as big as I’d ever seen. We needed a place to camp and as we climbed away from the canyon we found the perfect spot. The road crossed the railway that appeared through a cutting to our left. By riding parallel to the railway, up and over the embankment we were not only out of sight but had a fair view onto the track should a train approach.

Copper Canyon Railway bush camp

We awoke to frosted tents and the sound of an approaching train and after snapping a few photos and eating breakfast we headed for Divisadero.

Copper Canyon Railway

In Divisadero we paid the M$20 to access the road to the viewpoints. It was worth a quid…

Copper Canyon

At the railway station we parked the bikes and walked up to the platform. I’d read that the Gorditas (fat corn tortillas, sliced open, stuffed with your choice of filling and baked or fried) there were exceptional but they turned out to be the best in Mexico. As well as the food stalls, the locals came to sell their produce to the train passengers. The train itself was due an hour after we arrived and so the platform was a hive of activity.

The best 'Gordita's' in Mexico were served on the station platform

Divisedero Railway Station

As we were getting on the bikes to leave so we were pestered by two young hawkers. Despite me buying something for my niece from the older of the two, she still sported a face like a smacked arse…

So Nick showed her his willy…

He didn’t really!

What’s the chance…ptII

Whilst riding around Creel looking for the supermarket I spotted to KLR650’s parked in a hostel. A closer inspection revealed they belonged to Duncan & Mark who I’d stayed with in Seattle back in July. The receptionist dragged them out of bed (they’d had a hard night on the Tequillla) and we swapped stories for an hour or so. For now though we were heading in separate directions so the beer would have to wait. Just outside town we pitched our tents alongside Lago de Arareco and settled in for another cold night. Sure enough we awoke to frost on the tents and ice in my water container and we ate breakfast basking in the sun like a pair of lizards.

Lago de Arareco

Copper Canyon PtII

60km or so of well surfaced road led us through Samachic to the pueblo of Karare and the start of the descent into the canyon proper. From here on the road was dirt and after passing through a shallow valley it emerged into a magnificent canyon. Almost 2km below us we could see the road cross the river and disappear into the next canyon (the road crosses four of the six canyons en-route to the town Batopilas  60km away).

Nick provides a sense of scale

The road to Batopilas

Every corner led to another photo opportunity and it was slow going down to the river. It was the first we’d seen containing a reasonable level of water but the real water level was evident in the erosion line some 10m above. Indication the river would be an unstoppable force in full flow. After a few hours we arrived in the old silver mining town of Batopilas. After a look around the long abandoned hacienda we followed the riverbank south out of town before climbing out of the canyon to find a bush camp. We struggled to find anywhere at first but eventually found a perfect spot. A trail overgrown with brambles led to a steep descent alongside a rain gulley and onto a small flat plateau on which a radio mast was perched.  In the distance we could just make out the road as it wound its way further up the canyon.

Batopilas bush camp

Compromised!

Imagine our surprise when we awoke just before midnight  to the sound of a vehicle scraping its way past the brambles. At first we just listened in the hope it was just somebody else looking for somewhere too sleep. No other vehicle could drive to where we were so we weren’t too concerned; unless it was a repair gang coming to the mast? Surely not at this time of night? Then came the slamming of doors, torch lights, voices. As I scrambled into some clothes I heard a voice say “Gringo’s!” As I poked my head out of my tent I came face to face with a M16 machine gun. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the light and realise that the person holding it wore a uniform, an army uniform. Thank f#@* for that! “Donde vives?” said a voice from the dark. “Inglaterra” I replied and was relieved to hear “No problema”. For the next hour we led awake listening to the soldiers battle their way through the cacti that surrounded us and down the hillside beyond. Then puff and pant as they struggled back up carrying whatever it was they were recovering. In the morning we went for a look ourselves but either they did a good recovery job or their booty was a long way below us. We hadn’t ridden far out of Batopilas when Nick’s chain broke and whilst he got covered in grease, I wandered down to the river to photograph a lonely cow. The ride out of the canyon in the harsh morning light wasn’t quite as good as the ride in. I’d like to see it again when the river is at full height, the waterfalls are flowing and the vegetation lust green instead of parched. Leaving the canyon behind us we rode SE to Guachochi and the spectacular Cańon de la Sinforosa. A dirt road led us 18km south of town to what looked like a private residence. Ready to turn around thinking we’d missed a turning, a man appeared, charged us M$20 each and opened a gate. Another dirt road led several hundred metres to a parking area and a large lookout.  No roads lead into the 1830m deep canyon and treks along its length take 2-3 weeks!

Sinforosa Canyon

Back in town the newly built Hotel La Roca provided us with a twin room, en-suite with Cable TV, Wi-Fi and parking for M$300 and we wandered into town for a final meal and a beer.

Solo

After three weeks of riding with Nick it seemed strange to ride out of town alone. He’d hit it off immediately and had shared a lot of laughs but now we both wanted to go in different directions and so it was time to part. By lunchtime I had 280km on the trip and stopped at a sign saying ‘Gorditas’ in the pueblo of Revolucion on Hwy45.

Stopping for lunch on Hwy 45

The morning’s ride through the hills was just like riding through the backroads of northern California but here on the highway it was about to get boring. Over lunch I scoured the map and decided to head back across the Sierra Madre Occidental and pick-up Hwy23 towards Durango. The first part through Santa Maria del Oro and on to San Bernardo was on tarmac and clearly signposted. Even El Colorado was signposted, albeit by a wooden sign nailed to the wall by the plaza. Every little town has a plaza and San Bernardo was no exception.

St.Bernardino

El Colorado didn’t have a plaza. It didn’t have much of anything including people when I rode through and out the other side on the wrong track. Because I hadn’t seen any alternative I presumed I must be on the right track but it was running parallel with the ridgeline I wanted to cross and showed no sign of turning west. Eventually I rode back through El Colorado where I met a guy in a pick-up and asked directions. As I approached the last building so I spotted the track and as I did so the homeowner came out. I didn’t understand all that he said but I did understand ‘Bad’, ‘There is no traffic’, ‘30’km’, ‘1½hrs’. Great, he didn’t say road closed. The track was pretty broken up and in places almost blocked by landslides but it was no problem on a bike. I would have taken some photos but it was late enough in the afternoon for me to be riding in the shade. On the west side I encountered some long, deep rain ruts. Eventually I fell but in trying to prevent falling I managed to trap my right foot under the tank. It took me a while to get free and then a while longer to pick Rosie up and get out of the rut by which time I was a little concerned about the remaining daylight. Once upright it was an easy ride to Hwy23 but it was after dark when I rolled into Tepehuanes and found a hotel. The only eatery open in town was a snack wagon and as I ate my supper so a family of three arrived. The wife spoke English and was surprised to see a gringo in town. I explained about my journey and when I came to pay for my meal the snack wagon owner said “No. Es regalo.” It’s a gift, and she thanked me for visiting her van.

'Es regalo!' The snack van in Tepehuanes

Zacatecas

I did plenty of laps of the UNESCO World Heritage listed town of Zacatecas before finally finding Hostel Colonial. Unbeknown to me I’d arrived on a national holiday weekend and took the last bed in the dormitory. I spent four days in Zacatecas, wandering the streets, visiting the cathedral and enjoying coffee from the first expresso machines I’d seen since Baja. Nick arrived, his gearbox still playing up and causing him concern. Several emails led to the offer from a dealer in Colima to supply all parts at cost and for Nick to use his workshop and tools!

The streets of Zacatecas

The streets of Zacatecas

More photos from Zacatecas in the Mexico gallery

Guanajuato

Avoiding the ‘Quota’ (toll road) meant riding through the centre of Aguas Calientes, another Mexican City that suffered from ‘disappearing signpost syndrome’. A local guy on a bike pulled alongside and asked where I was going. I said the centre and he said to follow him. We had a broken conversation at the red lights en-route and when I said I was just stopping for lunch then continuing on to Guanajuato he replied “No time. Guanajuato 3hrs more. You can’t ride after dark!” He led me through the centre and pointed me in the right direction before peeling off to work. Then the signs ran out and I rode around in circles again. AAARRRGGGHHH!!! Guanajuato, another UNESCO World Heritage site, was once the richest town in Mexico thanks to its gold and silver mines. Wedged into a narrow ravine it sits atop a network of tunnels that once channeled the river under the city. These days the river runs much deeper and the tunnels have been paved to allow the traffic to by-pass the centre.

Tunnels beneath Guanajuato

A vibrant university town there was always something going on. Every night around the Jardin de la Union musicians serenaded diners and students dress up to stage interactive shows. Small bands would wander the streets with followed by groups of revelers dancing and clapping to the classic Mexican songs.

Musicians warm up in the plaza

It soon became my favourite town in Mexico and I walked miles between the Market, Plazas , churches and up the hillside to Monumento al PÍpila and its viewpoint over the town. A great spot for watching nightfall…

Nightfall over Guanajuato

Nighfall over Guanajuato

Nightfall over Guanajuato

Sitting by a snack wagon one evening eating a very tasty quesadilla stuffed with shredded beef and beans, I could hear loud music asthough some kind of outdoor show was playing. I walked around the corner to find a light and sound show celebrating Mexico’s Bi-Centenary being projected onto the wall of the Alhóndiga de Granaditas.

Lightshow on the Alhóndiga de Granaditas

On my final day in the city I wandered out into the street to find a carnival style parade taking place. My favourite was the traditional Mexican dance group that was obviously playing out the stories of the songs.

Bi-Centenial parade in Guanajuato

Bi-Centenial parade in Guanajuato

More photos from Zacatecas in the MEXICO gallery

Mexico City

Back in the USA I’d posted a question regarding Mexican Insurance on the HUBB. Amongst the replies was one from Garry Dymond who invited me to stay if/when I passed through Mexico City. The mornings ride from Guanajuato through San Miguel de Allende was great but after a few more large towns that suffered with the ‘disappearing sign syndrome’ and encountering plenty of Sunday drivers on the twisty Hwy 15, I was suddenly aware that I wasn’t going to make my 1630 rendezvous with Garry at the BMW dealer in Leerma. I stopped at a petrol station to phone him but the phone only took cards and they’d sold out and so I rode on. The next petrol station sold me a card only for me to discover that both their pay phones were out of order. They sent me back to the previous village where I finally found a phone that did work; only it wouldn’t recognise Garry’s mobile number and the house phone was engaged. I waited and tried again; still engaged. In the distance the black sky was occasionally lit up by lightening and I decided to take the Quota in-order to make up some time and hopefully pass through the storm quickly. As the traffic separated to enter the two tollbooths so an Alaskan registered BMW R1200 GS appeared.  We exchanged a few words as we crept towards the barriers but I didn’t realise it was Englisman Dom at the time. Sure enough it pissed down but fortunately not for too long. By the time I reached the BMW dealer Garry was long gone so I rode back down the hill to the local Oxxo store where there was a phone. Still it wouldn’t recognise Garry’s mobile number and the home phone was still engaged. I knew Garry and family were going to the Bi-Centennial sound & light show in the Zócalo and so my time was limited to contact him. I rode into town and found an internet café only to be told they closed at 1900 – 20 mins away. No problem said and emailed Garry asking if I could meet him at the Zócolo. Finally lady luck shone down on me and at 1905 with the internet lady tapping her fingers Gary replied with the address of a parking garage close to the Zócolo. All I had to do was find it, which was easier said than done in one of the world’s most densely populated cities inhabited by over 20 million people! I hastily printed off a few Google map pages and set off toward the city. It was of course dark. I didn’t recognize any of the names on the signposts and eventually stopped to ask two policemen. They seemed a little confused by the combination of map and address (I later found out why) but eventually gave me directions to where the arrow pointed on the map. I rode away and got lost again. Closer to the centre I could finally consult the city maps in both my road atlas and guidebook. Eventually I came close to the Zócolo only to find it closed off from several blocks away due to the show. Again I looked at the maps and headed off to find the parking garage. I got within a few streets of the arrow on the map but it was obviously the wrong place. Not only was it too far from the Zócolo but it was I an area of town I really shouldn’t have been in (hence the policemen’s confusion). I left – quickly! Back near the Zócolo I spoke to a security guard and learnt that the street I was looking for was parallel to where we were standing, five blocks closer to the Zócolo. I rode around but all the roads were closed and I couldn’t get in. I returned to the security guard and he jumped on his bike so I could follow him. He led me around the barricade and pointed me onwards. It was like swimming against the current as I crept my way through the throng of pedestrians that came towards me. I got within one block of where I wanted to go before I was stopped and forbidden to go any further. I asked two policemen on what block the address I was looking for was on and headed off to try and get around the closed area. Just as I thought I’d succeeded so I came to a police car blocking the road I wanted to go down. I opened my flip-up helmet and let out a silent scream and to my amazement the driver looked at me and backed up enough to let me through! Nearly there; I found the street I wanted but I was facing it from the wrong end (it was a one-way street). A few turns later and I pulled-up outside the parking garage just in time. Minutes later the show finished and 300,000 people poured out of the Zócolo and poured past me like a stone in the river. It took what seemed like forever for the crowd to shuffle past and for the first time that night I began thinking about my alternatives should Garry not show up. Finally, a voice said “You must be Adam.” I shook Garry’s hand – I hadn’t been so pleased to meet anyone in a long time! It was a 40min drive back into the suburbs to reach ‘Garry Hostel’. Garry and his wife Ivonne had the foresight to presume I would be hungry and we stopped along the way to eat the best tacos yet in Mexico.

Garry Dymond ‘Geezer’

Englishman Garry Dymond ‘Geezer’ met his Mexican wife Ivonne in London back in ’76. Married her, moved to Mexico City and hasn’t looked back. A keen motorcyclist, Garry (and the real ‘Garry Hostel’ boss, Ivonne!) have been hosting international motorcyclists at their home for several years.

Garry Dymond 'Geezer' and Aldous

Zócolo Show

After cooking some cracking omelet’s for breakfast, Garry gave me directions of how to get to the Zócolo on public transport. A hour’s bus ride to the metro station followed by a 30-40min train ride. Mexico City’s Zócolo (Central square) is the third largest in the world but with all the equipment and stages set-up for the evenings show it was impossible to really appreciate its size. The Cathedral that stands on the north side of the square is the largest in Latin America. Stepping inside I was immediately struck by the fact that it’s wonky (It was built during the ‘Wonky’ period Paul. Sorry, family joke!) Look straight along the aisle and you can clearly see the columns out of alignment. In the centre of the Cathedral a plumb line floats above lines marked on the floor indicating its movement. Built on a lake, the Cathedral, like much of central MC, is sinking. The 1½hr long show depicting the history of Mexico was a magnificent spectacle. Unfortunately my Spanish was far from sufficient to follow the narration but that didn’t detract from the visual show. Big screens told their story in pictures whilst the lightshow illuminated the Cathedral, Palace and adjacent government buildings on a scale I’d never seen. At one point all the building ‘moved’ and at another, depicting the 1985 earthquake, they ‘fell down’.

I’ve put all the lightshow photos in a separate gallery entitled Mexico City Lightshow gallery

Here’s a few…

Zócolo lightshow

Zócolo lightshow

Zócolo lightshow

The public transport system coped well considering the volume of people departing the venue but it still took me 1¼hr to get back to the metro station at Viernes. I emerged to find the bus depot empty and despite hanging around for ½hr no buses arrived. Eventually a taxi pulled up and I showed him Garry’s address on a piece of paper. He didn’t know where it was but was eager to help and made a few suggestions so I jumped in. After 20mins of driving around and me pointing to the rough vicinity on a map in the taxi, he finally admitted defeat. He stopped at a taxi stand and wanted to pass me over to another driver but they didn’t seem too sure either and so I got him to return me to the metro station. He was very apologetic so I gave him a tip for his effort and wandered across the road to the taxi stand which now that it had taxis in it, was obvious! The first driver I spoke to knew where to go, until we got close-by and he had to radio the dispatcher to find out exactly where it was at which point, being that far away, the price went up. Finally, I tip-toed through the house at 0130 three hours after the show had finished.

Dentist Pt1

Months ago a hole appeared in my tooth that was so big a filling must’ve fallen out. Being in the USA I avoided visiting the dentist and instead waited until I was in Mexico. Garry walked me down the hill to his local dentist where I made an appointment for the following day. When the dentist looked up from my mouth she did so with a gasp and eyes as big as plates… not good. Apparently I was close to needing a root-canal, but not quite. After too much drilling/grinding for my liking she was finally ready to make a mould. It was Thursday and I was to return on Saturday once a filling had been made.

Dentist PtII

I returned on Saturday to have my filling fitted and was dismayed to be approached by the mask wearing assistant. Garry had been winding me up about not letting the assistant touch me. The filling didn’t fit and as she prised it out so she dropped it down my throat! I just managed to gag and cough it up before swallowing it (I didn’t fancy having it fitted had I had to wait for it to pass!) She tried a few more times but eventually had to concede to the dentist proper (who was treating a second patient in the second chair in the same room). The dentist didn’t have any luck either and suddenly my visit to the Torture Museum (OMG!!!) the previous day didn’t rate as one of my better ideas! Again and again the dentist tried fitting the filling, taking it out, grinding it, trying again, taking it out, grinding it (repeat to boredom). Eventually she decided it had to be re-made and took a second mould. It was probably the attempt to hold it still with one hand (whilst using the other to talk animatedly to the rest of the room that now featured an alarming number of people), that led to the mould being so inaccurate. “It’ll be ready on Monday. We’ll call you.”

Dentist PtIII

It was the following Friday before the call finally came but thanks to the description in the last paragraph I wasn’t confident of it being a quick visit. It wasn’t. In – out – grind – in – out – grind…repeat to boredom once again! To be fair, she was patient and conscience which was fortunate as I eventually had an excellent fitting filling, albeit after almost six hours in the chair! Can’t complain at M$1200 though.

The waiting period

My time waiting for the dentist didn’t go wasted. I visited many of the sites in town including the world class Anthropological Museum and one Sunday, after Canadian Aldous arrived on his F650 we all went to the magnificent pre-Colombian ruins of Teotihuacán , NE of Mexico City. We also spent an evening strolling around Coyoacán. Once a capital in its own right, it’s been absorbed into Mexico City but with its own church, plaza and market manages to maintain an air of independence.

The view towards the Temple of the Sun, Teotihuacán

A used replacement GPS unit arrived for a very fair price from Mike Jones, a friend of Jim Brannon that I’d met in Georgia back in April. Efficiently delivered by Dick Turpin’s Express Courier robbery service. I spent some time researching and downloading (free) maps that cover all but Ecuador, Bolivia and the Guiana’s.

Maintenance

Packed with the GPS was a set of steering-head bearings that I’d had sent to Mike’s and so I fitted them, changed the oil, serviced the brake calipers and checked the valve clearances.

Garry Hostel

My room was quiet and my bed comfortable. Every night when my head hit the pillow I all but passed out. I hadn’t slept so well in months and obviously needed it. Ivonne kept me well fed and their son Lloyd took Aldous and I to the wrestling – one of Mexicos most avidly followed spectator sports. It was a great place to stay where I really felt at home. On our final Sunday Garry, Aldous and I rode out to Tres Marias where the local motorcyclists gather to pose, pull wheelies and check out the other bikes. Having seen so few bikes on the roads I was surprised to see so many, let alone so many sports bikes, many of which were new. Sunday morning playthings explained Garry. They’ll all be back in their garages by mid-afternoon.

Moving on…

When I arrived I’d asked Garry if it was ok to stay for 4-5 days. The dentist had other ideas and so it was 15 days later that I rolled out of Garry Hostel, though not alone. Aldous and I would ride together for the first day but first I needed to visit the Post Office and so Garry led the way. Bloody good job he did as we’d never have found it!

Post Office parking

I’d had a fabulous time with Garry, Ivonne and Lloyd. Garry was truly a Dymond Geezer not just by name but by nature.

Garry & Ivonne

South East

Garry led us to our turn off, pointed the way and continued on to work. Once clear of the city we stopped for lunch before heading over Paso de Cortés at 3800m (named after conquistador Hernán Cortés), between the easily pronounced volcanoes of Huejotzingo and Popocatepetl!

It was rather chilly at 3800m

The next day we went our separate ways. Aldous to the coast and me to Oaxaca on Hwy190, to date my favourite road in Mexico (after Copper Canyon). I didn’t find Oaxaca the fabulous destination so many others do. Perhaps after four weeks spent in various cities I wasn’t quite ready for another. I took in the elaborate church of Santo Domingo de Guzmán…

Santo Domingo de Guzmán, Oaxaca

Santo Domingo de Guzmán

And headed down Calle Mina where cacao can be seen being ground and where they serve big bowls of hot chocolate and bread.

Grinding Cocoa in Oaxaca

Road to nowhere

With the WWF listing some sections of the pine forest as being the richest and most varied on earth, the area of the Sierra Madre Norte, NE of Oaxaca had to be worth a look. According to my road atlas it was possible to turn east off of Hwy 175 at the village of Ixtlán approx 60km north of Oaxaca, then make a loop through the mountains and rejoin Hwy 190 SE of Oaxaca at Mitla. Hugging the mountainside, the road passed through several pueblos as it climbed towards a pass at 2800m. Up in the cloud it was bloody cold and the trees were covered in a light dusting of snow. Even as I descended I took a while to warm up as the vegetation was so dense it was a while before I was back in the sun. The road was lined with recently cleared landslide debris and I was glad it wasn’t raining.

Sierra Madre

From an overlook I could see the road leading away from the pueblo of San Bartolomé Zoogocho and into the valley beyond. When I arrived though, I found myself in the middle of a market with no way through. I returned to the edge of town where a sign appeared to be directing traffic around the centre. I followed the sign up a steep concrete road, around a few switch-backs only to encounter the road gang still building the road. Back at the junction I spoke to two old guys waiting for a ride and asked them the way. What made it confusing was that there were two pueblos named San Andres and whilst the map said the road led through one to get to the other, the guys I was talking to were pointing in different directions. Eventually I rode away and turned left into the valley just a kilometre or so up the hill. Sure enough the road joined the one leading from the pueblo. Down in the valley the landslides had been so big that the road was now cut through the debris like a railway cutting. In the valley bottom the tarmac ended and a dirt road ascended to the next pueblo of San Andrés Solaga and on through Santo Domingo Yojovi.

Santo Domingo Yojovi, Sierra Madre

Santo Domingo Yojovi, Sierra Madre

Soon after, the track plunged towards the valley and I rounded a corner to encounter my first obstacle. A section of unrepaired road indicated that from here on the road was closed to most traffic but it was still worth a look on a bike.

The first obstacle was a simple washout

A few corners later and a slide a halved the width of the road…

So was the second...on a bike

…and a few yards further on I had to clear rocks from the path to get through.

The third meant moving a few rocks

A few more corners passed by before I came across a slide that initially looked impassable but that actually proved very easy

The fourth was pretty straightforward

One more washout took me around a corner to where I was finally stopped. Two slides blocked the road and whilst the first was negotiable, the second certainly was not. Not only that but the slide was so big that it covered the road below me aswell.

The final (impassable) obstacle

Now whilst the ride down had been pretty straightforward, the ride back up proved to be anything but. Halfway across the washout my rear wheel slid out on the loose surface, bottomed out the engine and I toppled over. After unloading all my camping kit it still too me over an hour to dig Rosie out.

Re-crossing the final washout caused me problems...

It was like the scene from Long Way Round where they all muck in to dig away at the riverbank and make a ramp for the vehicles to climb out of the river. The difference being that I had no digging tools and was working one handed whilst I hold Rosie upright with the other. Eventually I managed to scrape away enough of the bank to clear the engine and get some flat stones under the rear wheel to aid traction and drive her out.

Getting some traction helped

Reloaded I continued on up the track only to be foiled again at the section where I’d had to move rocks. At the far end there was a large rock to negotiate and doing so meant riding close to the edge on some loose rock to allow enough space for my panniers to pass. Halfway past and the surface under my wheels gave way and I slid down the small bank so that the left footrest sat atop the large rock. Rosie was stuck. Again I unloaded all my camping gear and tried to free her. A big concern when trying to unstick a stuck bike whilst riding solo, is injuring yourself before the bike is freed. Do that and you’re screwed. The large rock was preventing me from standing her up and so I needed to break some off. Using a tyre lever as a chisel I began working away at the large rock.

A tyre lever made for an improvised chisel

Fortunately the rock was fairly soft and broke relatively easily. Unfortunately, the only thing I had to use as a hammer was smaller pieces of the same material and so they often broke before the big rock! It was a time consuming process but I eventually managed to break off enough to allow me to lift her slightly. That was part 1. Part 2 involved digging around the rock under the right handlebar as I couldn’t lift the bike enough for the tank pannier to clear it.

The rock that needed moving...

...was finally moved.

With the rock moved and some smaller ones wedged under the rear wheel I managed to lift the handlebars a few inches and drive her out into open space. With just 10 minutes of daylight remaining I wasn’t going anywhere and so pitched my tent on the road. There were still two obstacles between me and the village so I knew I was safe. As I cooked my dinner in the last vestiges of sunlight so lights began to appear across the valley, teasing me with their proximity. The following day I made three more attempts to find a way across the mountains. Following a sign to ‘Zoochina’through a gap in the hillside, I emerged at a T-junction overlooking another valley. Turning left led me to a church and a view of the pueblo below but there was no road leading on from there.

Zoochina church

The right turn led me through a pueblo where the track crossed the combined school/churchyard before descending past the graveyard and into the valley beyond. Initially the road was somewhat overgrown and I was skeptical about it leading anywhere but a few corners on I encountered a freshly graded track and between the trees I could see across the valley to a road heading east.

The elusive road east!

No way through!

Several more turns later and my hopes came to an end. Below me was a bulldozer still clearing the road. I made one more attempt through the pueblo of San Caterina Yahuio but that led to yet another slide, only this time being cleared by hand. Clearly the region had recently suffered huge damage and I finally resigned myself to returning the way I’d come. I arrived back where I’d left Hwy 190 1½ days earlier and rode east.

San Cristóbal de las Casas

It took me two days to ride to the hill town of San Cristóbal de las Casas. Hwy 190 remained the great ride it had been the majority of the way from Mexico City and carried me through a slowly changing countryside. Twisting through the cacti, following the Rio Quiechapa gorge the road traversed the Sierras in a seemingly never ending string of 80km/h turns. The temperature rose as I descended towards the coast and plummeted again as I headed back into the hills beyond Tuxtla Gutiérrez; a sign of things to come. Here in the state of Chiapas the vegetation had changed completely and it was as though I’d entered another country (I later learned it was once part of Guatmala). Cacti gave way to a huge variety of trees including palms and everything took on a greener, more tropical look. On the way into San Cristóbal I passed a flooded village set in a mountain bowl. The village had flooded in September, a month in which it had rained everyday!

It rained every day in September...

San Cristóbal was a pleasant mountain town where the indigenous people from surrounding villages come to trade which adds to the appeal of wandering its streets. It was a gringo town though and I saw more foreign tourists than I had in the whole of the rest of my time in Mexico put together.

Indigenous women in San Cristobal de las Casas

The weather turned for a couple of days and the temperature plummeted. Nowhere had any form of heating which I found surprising given the 2100m altitude and as the mercury sank well into single figures overnight so the breakfast conversation turned to how many blankets everyone had piled on their beds. I spent five days editing and uploading photos, wandering the streets watching the world go by and thawing out in the coffee shop. In the evenings I would walk to the market outside the Templo de Santo Domingo Guzmán (yes, there’s one in Oaxaca too!) where I not only found a lady selling great ‘Tamales de Pollo’ but Arroz con Leche. Now Arroz con Leche was something of a revelation to me, as it would have been to all Brit’s as it was basically rice pudding in a cup!

San Cristobal de las Casas

Chamula

10km west of San Cristobal lies the the Tzotzil Maya village of Chamula where the locals practice a blend of traditional animist belief and Catholicism. Photography is banned inside the church and a ticket has to be purchased prior to entry but stepping inside reveals an interior unlike any other. There are no pews and locals sit on scattered pine needles whilst arranging candles to make a ‘message’. The walls are lined with statues of the saints furnished with offerings of food, drink and clothes. The thousands of candles are the only light, emitting a surreal glow. I sat at the back and watched the locals come and go, performing their rituals as they did so. It was fascinating to watch but I felt like an intruder and so I left. The locals aren’t keen on having their photo taken so I was surprised when two young girls ran up to me asking for their photo to be taken. I of course obliged.

Chamula girls

Chamula church

In ruins…

It seems that even the road builders were confused over the distance to the Mayan ruins of Palenque.

Make your mind up!

It was my final day of enjoyable roads as Palenque sits at the foot of the Chiapas highlands. Beyond; the flat Yucatán Peninsula stretches NE to separate the Gulf of Mexico from The Caribbean Sea. Here is not the place to go into detail regarding the various sites I visited but I’ll give a brief overview and post a few photos. I camped just along the road from the ruins and got a ride to the site entrance with a French family who were camped next to me. Arriving at opening time allowed us to beat the crowds and get a feel for the place before it became overrun. Unfortunately though, as turned out to be the case at every site I visited, the best view of it came from looking east making late afternoon the best for photographs. Unfortunately, anything after 10am meant hordes of visitors.

Palenque

Calakmul

Probably the largest archeological area in Mesoamerica, Calakmul has nearly seven thousand buildings. The great pyramid here is the largest Mayan construction in existence. Thanks to its location 60km inside the Reserva de la Biosfera Calakmul, close to the Guatemalan border makes it one of the less visited sites. Even when the coaches begin to arrive, the site is so big that it seems to absorb the crowd. Watching the resident howler monkeys is as time consuming as touring the ruins themselves. Standing atop any of the pyramids all you can see in any direction is the top of the jungle canopy, and of course those building tall enough to pierce it. My only disappointment was that the photograph used in all the promotional material was obviously taken from the air and so isn’t visible on-site.

Calakmul

Campeche

I took a break from the ruins in the coastal town of Campeche on the Gulf of Mexico. The heart of the town is built within a defensive wall intended to keep out pirates. The town had many beautiful buildings, in particular the Catedral de Nuestra Seńora de la Concepción which stands on the Parque Principal. The most unusual though was basically a square ‘flying-saucer’ that was lit up by an ever changing sequence of coloured lights.

Uxmal

A combination of setting, elaborate decoration and Iguana’s made Uxmal my favourite ruins amongst the few I visited in Mexico. As per all previous sites I arrived at opening time, earlier in fact as I got changed under the shade of a tree in the carpark just as they opened the barrier and I was the first one in. I left at 1130 just as several coaches spilled their passengers through the gates. It was the longest I spent in at any of the sites I visited. In the car park I chatted with a bus driver from Cancūn who owned a ’76 Honda CB750 and was part of a motorcycle display team!

Pyramide del Adivino, Uxmal

Palacio del Gobernador, Uxmal

There were plenty of Iguanas at Uxmal

Chichen Itza

Thanks to its proximity on the main highway from Cancūn to Mérida, Chichén Itzá is by far the most visited of all Yucatán’s Mayan sites. I’d camped in the grounds of the Piramide Hotel in the nearby town of Pisté the night before visiting and was at the entry gate before opening time. Here though the gates to the carpark were closed until 0800 at which time I was charged M$20 (the same as a car) to park Rosie. Despite the grandeur of El Castillo I wasn’t really taken with the site. Unlike previous sites where you were allowed to climb the pyramids (and get a sense of location).

El Castillo, Chichen Itza

Heading for the beach

‘Cenotes’ can be defined as ‘surface connections to subterranean water bodies’ and the Yucatan has many of them. Some attract cave divers who are slowly starting to map the underwater cave system, others attract locals ad tourists who just want to swim or snorkel. West of Chichen Itza, close to the city of Vallodolid are the ‘X-Keken’ and ‘Samula’ cenotes. As my journey goes on so I find myself saying ‘it looks just like x’ rather than ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before!’ but these cenotes certainly fall into the later category. X-Keken was packed with people when I arrived but I did get lucky across the road at Samula where I had the place almost to myself. What a bizzare place! A shaft of light illuminates tree roots that reach 20m(?) into the water from the ground above.

Cenote Samula, Yucatan

Finally….the beach!

Holger & Anja the German couple I met at the Horizons Unlimited travellers meeting in Australia back in 2008 had recommended this spot on the beach 25km south of Playa del Carmen and so it was that I holed up here for Christmas. I hadn’t even removed my crash helmet when American Ralph called me over to join him and wife ‘Putty’ for a beer. One beer soon became two, became dinner, became three. They couldn’t have been more hospitable and I came to thoroughly enjoy their company over the next week. A few days later Ross and Cathy arrived from Canada in their VW camper and made for some very sociable breakfasts/evenings.  Cathy’s breakfast pancakes were particularly special!

Xpu-Ha beach camp

Xpu-Ha beach

I unfortunately got the shits for the fourth time in Mexico and so didn’t enjoy the beach as much as I should have. I don’t know whether I had four different bugs or whether I never really shook off the first one but it was very unusual for me to be unwell, especially so often. It took me 5 days (including Christmas ) to return to normal, or as Ralph so elequently put it…”Happiness is a solid shit!”

Another tough day for Ralph & Putty

New Year

I accepted an invitation from Garry Dymond ‘Geezer’s’ daughter Leslie to join her, brother Lloyd and friends in Playa del Carmen for New Year and so left the beach on New Year’s eve and headed up to Leslie’s. She and her house mates cooked a fantastic roast lamb and roast potatoes (not what I was expecting but hey, her dad’s English!) afterwhich we headed into town to see the New Year in. As in the majority of households very little happened on New Years day and I spent most of it in front of the TV (I hadn’t seen one for months).

Hasta Luego Mexico!

Finally though it was time to move on and not just from Leslie’s but from Mexico. Despite spending 11weeks there I felt like I’d seen a little over half of what I’d wanted to. It’s a big country, as diverse in it’s food as it is in it’s countryside. Vibrant, friendly, helpful it’s a shame so many American’s have come to view it like the guy in the video.

For those of you who have been I nave two words – Tacos and Topes!!!

Next up…Central America…

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

I hit the ‘Update’ button for the blog (Chapter 22), finished loading Rosie and headed out into Vancouver’s late afternoon traffic. An hour later arrived at the border, and 20 minutes after that I was back in the USA.

The same standard of living had cost me 60-70% more in Canada and I was glad to be back in the US. I found a bush camp by the river right in the middle of Skagit River and pitched my tent.

Eastbound

I followed Hwy 20 through the Cascades, past North Cascades NP, over Washington Pass and onward east.  My passport said I was back in the USA but I’d be forgiven for thinking I was still in Canada. Pine forests plunged into emerald green lakes from rounded glacier peaks and Maple trees grew amongst the evergreens as deer grazed along the roadside.

Washington Pass, WA

More photo’s for this chapter in USA PtIII and Formula Drift Finals – Irwindale 2010

Southbound

Another of North America’s long distance trails runs from Canada to Mexico along the Continental Divide. Just like the Pacific Crest Trail I’d ridden from Northern California to Washington in July, the motorable CDR followed the true (Pedestrians only) CDT as closely as possible.

I picked up the trail at Eureka, close to the Canadian border, and rode due east before turning south, parallel with Glacier NP. A storm was caught in the distant mountains, hiding the peaks, but the potential was there for all to see.

Onto the CDR

More photos in the Trails of North America gallery

I stopped at Polebridge for lunch and was immediately adopted by a family who said they had far too much to eat by themselves. Soon I was facing a full plate of cheese, crackers, Pringles, nuts…”Eat, eat, eat…more lemonade!!??” They even insisted on sending me on my way with a goodie bag and a bottle of water!

From Polebridge a dirt road led away from the CDR and into Glacier NP to join the main road at the visitor centre. As I continued east heading for the parks Logan Pass so the swirling mist would part for a few seconds and give me a glimpse of the magnificent, lightly snow dusted peaks beyond. Had it been clear it would have been spectacular but it wasn’t. It was misty and drizzling and the temperature was plummeting fast as I approached the pass at over 2200m. With such a short season (3-4 months) all maintenance is carried out whilst the park is open. Major shoring-up of the road was current ongoing project and I talked to one of the STOP/GO sign girls who’d been there for four seasons.

Glacier NP, MT

Once clear of the parks boundary it took me a while to find a suitable bush camp. It was worth searching for though and I was rewarded with a night right on the shore of Lower St.Mary’s Lake.

Lower St.Mary's Lake, WY

I awoke to the sound of rain so skipped breakfast, packed up quickly and headed back into the park. The weather in the west looked like it might break – it didn’t. My ever optimistic onboard thermometer measured 7°C on the pass so I pressed on for breakfast at McD’s in Kalispell but arriving in time for breakfast was going to be tight. I didn’t.

Warmed by copious amounts of coffee and an extra layer of clothing I ventured outside again, stocked up on food supplies and found my way back to the CDR. Lots of minor roads past rural housing eventually led me to some decent forest tracks. The weather remained pretty poor though and as I wound my way south through Montana I couldn’t help thinking it should be renamed ‘Big ‘Dark Grey’ Sky Country.

Stopping roadside for a call of nature, I noticed my tooltube was completely missing. Bugger. One of the mountings had broken a while back and I had it strapped up with a bungee strap. It contained some important  spares (front sprockets, both inner tubes and all my consumables – glues etc) as well as a few tools – tyre levers, T-bar and valve core tool. I couldn’t continue on the CDR without the means to repair punctures and so I left the trail and headed into the town of Butte.

After visit to Walmart and two motorcycle dealers I was ready to hit the trail again but whilst talking to staff in said shops I discovered a holiday weekend was approaching and I wanted to be in and out of Yellowstone NP before the major crowds hit.

As I headed out of town on Hwy 2 so the sun finally shone and I finally got to see Big Sky Country in all its glory – just in time to enter Wyoming!.

Yellowstone NP

Finally I got lucky with the weather. Clear blue skies were the order of the day but with the exception of the ‘Grand Canyon of Yellowstone’ and the thermal activity (which was stunning) I wasn’t overly taken with Yellowstone NP. Sure there was wildlife in abundance but nothing I hadn’t seen previously and without  40 camera wielding tourists chasing whatever poor bewildered beast that had the misfortune to break cover.

Yellowstone NP, WY

People’s stupidity knows no boundaries and a local guy in a petrol station told me the story of a father who was fatally wounded when a Bison lifted its head as he tried to sit his young son on it neck for a photo!!! (The Bison’s horn punctured his lung).  Riding through the park, traffic would come to a complete standstill as abandoned cars blocked the road; their occupants in hot pursuit of whatever had been spotted. The thermal activity was impressive though with my personal favorites being the Midway Geyser basins ‘Grand Prismatic Spring’ and West Spring where you could peer deep inside the earth through crystal clear water:

Yellowstone NP, WY

Yellowstone NP, WY

More pics in the USA PtIII gallery

I left the park heading NE across Beartooth Pass (as recommended by Aussie Geoff – nice one Geoff). Personally I found the scenery out here far more impressive than that of the park and so after riding all the way to the town of Red Lodge I stocked up on supplies and returned to the pass to pitch my tent.

Beartooth Pass, MT

Beartooth Pass, MT

Another of Geoff’s tips was the ‘Chief Joseph Scenic Byway’ across Dead Indian Pass that runs SE from the Beartooth Hwy to the town of Cody. The roadside historical markers make interesting reading and tell the story of how Chief Joseph led 1000 Nez Perce Indians across the mountains to escape the US cavalry.

I passed back through Yellowstone en-route to Grand Tetons NP but with the weather looking set to turn I didn’t linger.

50km SE of Grand Tetons I turned south on a dirt road and was back on the CDR and heading for Union Pass. I found a bush camp on a plateau and spent a frustrating evening with a misbehaving campstove, dodging some short, sharp showers. When it stopped raining I emerged from my tent to a beautiful sunset.

Sunset on the CDR near Union Pass, WY

I spent the following morning on dirt roads across open prairie past herds of cattle. As the day wore on so the countryside became more like scrubland, the wind up and without a tree in site there was no shelter to stop for a brew. Had it not been for the sunshine and the occasional pronghorn (similar to an antelope) it would have been a rather bleak ride.

Open trails on the CDR in Wyoming

Colorado

As the CDR entered Colorado so it followed the Snake River east. Along the way I spotted an impressive residence that had obviously cost a fortune. That residence turned out to be ‘3 Forks Ranch’

3 Forks Ranch

I turned off the CDR and headed towards Boulder. In the distance the clouds looked strange and it wasn’t until I got much closer that I realized what I was looking at was smoke and not clouds. A huge forest fire was raging (headline news at the time) and so I stopped for a few photos.

Boulder forest fire, CO

My destination was just down the road in Lafayette where I was to visit Flash (Steve Ling). A friend of a friend whom I’d met once, some 15 years previously. As I pulled up on the driveway so Flash and son Mike appeared wielding beers. As we quickly reacquainted ourselves so Flash said “You’re rear tyre looks rather soft” and as we chatted so it expelled all of its air.

As darkness fell so we headed indoors and ordered pizza. ‘Ordered Pizza’ sounds easy but it was far from easy. Flash and Mike had only moved into their house the previous day and so weren’t up to speed with the local food outlets. Mike started phoning around in an attempt to find someone who’d deliver but was constantly given another number to call. Eventually it looked promising but they couldn’t find the address in their system. Flash and I listened on in disbelief until Mike finally exclaimed “You’re in Louisiana!!!” There is indeed at least one more Lafayette. A few more calls and the pizzas were finally on their way and whilst we waited I had my first shower in 10 days – dirty b@#*>rd!!!

Prior to my arrival I’d had a pair of tyres shipped to Flash. He and Mike had left early for work and Flash had taken my tyres with him (he’s a motorcycle mechanic), leaving me to pump-up my rear tyre after some breakfast. However, I couldn’t get the tyre to inflate and a closer look revealed a 2” nail I must have picked up at the roadside whilst photographing the forest fire. I had no choice but to remove the tyre, repair the puncture and re-fit the tyre just to ride to the workshop to fit a new tyre! I couldn’t complain though; it was my first rear wheel puncture of the trip!

Maintenance

The plan was to spend the day in the workshop where Flash works but upon my arrival the owner wouldn’t let me in the workshop sighting a lack of insurance cover. Instead, I set-up shop under a tree in the car park and set about preparing Rosie for the western leg of the Trans America Trail. New tyres, oil & filter, valve clearance check, airfilter wash & oil. Both my tachometer and temp gauge had recently stopped working and with the tank off it was easy to see why. A mouse/rat had chewed through 5cm of cable! Flash was a fantastic help, providing me with an oil pan and fitting my tyres whilst I worked on other stuff. Mike showed up mid-afternoon and we headed to Wendy’s for a late lunch/goodbye hamburger.

I left Flash & Steve and headed down the road to Denver to pay my third visit to Lora and Ron. As previously, Ron’s excellent cooking awaited me (he was trying out his new Wok this time), all washed down with plenty of beer. I had plenty of running around to do (replacing the last of my missing tooltube parts, replacing my riding gloves, post office etc, etc) and so stayed a couple of nights. It was something of a sad goodbye as unlike my previous visits there was no “See you later in the year”. This time I was leaving with no plans to return. That chance meeting with Lora in Punta Arenas, Chile in February last year had led to my base in the Rockies (I’ve visited three times!) on this trip. Thanks guys.

Mike & 'Flash'

Trans America Trail PtII

I finally dragged myself away from Lora and Ron’s great company on the morning of September 9^th. Riding along some pretty backroads I eventually picked up the TAT NE of Salida. Back in April I’d ridden the Oklahoma section of the trail but with Colorado’s high passes still closed to snow I’d had to wait until later in the year to continue along the trail.

Riding past long abandoned mining ruins, the forest road began its climb through the tress towards Hancock Pass. I knew this would be one of the more difficult parts of the TAT (many riders choose the easier ‘dual-sport route around’) so pitched my tent for the night knowing that not only would I have plenty of daylight if it got difficult, but that I’d have the sun at my back and not in my face.

It had been pretty cold overnight, perhaps 3-4°C and I was eager to get going to warm up. I needn’t  have worried, the trail soon had me sweating as I bounced over the rocks on the jeep width track. It was the most technical trail I could remember riding and on the few occasions it leveled out I had to park Rosie and walk around corners, planning my route as I would on an Enduro special test. Taller riders wouldn’t have this problem but I couldn’t stop amongst the rocks and put my feet down so I needed to know in advance which lines to take.

Near the summit I met a hunter on an ATV (Quad bike). Having spent 15 years applying and being rejected, he’d finally been issued one of the limited number of permits issued annually. He was hunting for mountain goats but hadn’t seen any.

The view west from the summit (3700m)was beautiful.

View west from Hancock Pass, CO

More photos of the TAT in the Trails of North America gallery

The descent was a series of steps with rain ruts and rocks that led to another stony track. Close to Pitkin the TAT turned south and headed up an even stonier track hemmed in by trees and I kept thinking pack to Pakistan’s Babusa Pass and wondering how different it would be on Rosie. Onward through a picturesque river valley where the Aspen trees were turning a beautiful golden colour, past the town of Lakeside, onto another dirt road and some BLM land where I could pitch my tent. I shared the spot with a couple from Roswell, NM and spent the evening chatting around a very welcome campfire.

As expected it was a cold night and I awoke to ice in my 5l water container.

A cold night on the TAT near Cinnamon Pass, CO

What a day! Cinnamon Pass – Engineer Pass – California Pass – Corkscrew Gulch – Ophir Pass; I spent more time taking photos than I did riding! The landscape was magnificent, so magnificent that I’m not going to attempt to describe it…

Cinnamon Pass

California Pass

Corkscrew Gulch

Ophir Pass

More photos in the Trails of North America gallery

Heading up the east side of Ophir Pass late afternoon I got a puncture. Having had my first rear puncture of the trip less than a week previously I thought it rather odd. Upon removing the tyre I found the patch had become detached from the tube. I patched it again and was riding again within the hour and headed up to Lizard Head Pass and another free camping spot.

Ophir puncture

Another cold night with my water container once again iced up followed by a huge change in scenery. I headed downhill on tarmac from the pass and picked up a forest trail which soon turned into what appeared to be an old cobbled road. It soon became muddy with big puddles the full width of the track (which I was keen to avoid).

Avoiding the puddles on the TAT

Moab

The descent into the valley was like an abandoned Lake District farm track with rocks pointing out of the ground between the rainwater ruts. Once in the valley I was following forest roads west towards the La Sal Mountains when I got another rear puncture.

2nd one today!

Once again the patch had completely detached itself from the tube, leaving no trace of where it had been glued.

SE of Moab the tracks deteriorated into a series of really nagger, rocky climbs that had me sweating and so I was happy to roll into Arrowhead Motorsports and a hot shower courtesy of Fred the owner. It was my third visit to Fred on this trip, and his open invitation to pitch my tent in his yard.

Fred was meeting friends for dinner and invited me along. ‘We’ll take the Corvette” said Fred…”Corvette?” I asked…”Yeah, haven’t I mentioned my Corvette…?” And with that he wandered off to the garage and reappeared in his 2007 RED Corvette…all 505bhp of it !!!

I’m not a big fan of American cars generally but I’ve always liked Corvette’s. Pinned to the passenger seat, my cheeks doing their best to tuck themselves behind my earlobes, I managed to ask “So how fast does it go Fred?”…”How fast d’ya wanna go?” he said… “I’ve seen 170mph on the speedo”.

We arrived at the restaurant all too soon where we met Wendel & Michelle who’d trailered their DR350’s down from Washington to play in Moab’s unprecedented playground.

Can’t believe after three visits to Fred I haven’t got a photo to post here…damn!

The next morning I replaced the rear tube with a new one. There was obviously a mismatch between the tube, patches and /or glue and I didn’t want to be continuously fixing punctures when I hit the trail again. I was just about to refit the wheel when I spotted a broken spoke which meant removing the tyre for the 5^th time in a week. (I had to remove the tyre to remove the broken spoke). Next job was to fit a new horn so I could take Rosie for her Bi-annual safety inspection (a Utah State requirement, equivalent to a UK MOT). I rode into Moab and found a garage where they could do the inspection which turned out to be a bit of a joke. The mechanic came outside, checked the lights, indicators and horn; estimated the thickness of material left on the brake pads and printed me a certificate valid for two years!

Whilst I was doing this, Marty & Scott arrived on a pair of Kawasaki KLR650’s. They too were riding the TAT and had arranged with Fred to call in to change their engine oil, replace tyres etc. There was a good chance we’d meet on the trail later.

Back on the TAT

After lunch in town with Fred we said our final goodbyes and I headed north out of town to rejoin the TAT.  The initial dirt road away from Moab was interesting combination of rock slabs and sand eventually giving way to a fast, open gravel road and eventually a long tarmac run into Green River (another place I was passing through for the third time on this trip – remember the ‘Ghostbusters’ ambulance photo?). At the western end of town I rejoined the dirt but I couldn’t find my way across the railway line. Backtracking, I rode across the baked, cracked surface of a dried mud hole only for the top to cave in. I was in third gear at the time and was nearly flung over the handlebars as Rosie came to seemingly virtual stop. Quickly changing down I sat back and nailed the throttle. The mud hole was deep enough to cover my feet and reach ⅓rd of the way up my shins. It was a thick, heavy mud that had caked everything and I had no choice but to return to Green River, find a truck wash. It took several sessions with the power washer to remove all the mud but had I not done so I would surely have encountered overheating problems later on.

A final look back at Moab, UT

Heading away from Green River for the second time that afternoon I bypassed the section I hadn’t been able to navigate and picked up the trail on the south side of the railway line.

The next section led me through a canyon, the name of which I forgot to note, which is a shame because it was quite a challenge on fully loaded Rosie. Sand, BIG rocks, rut, roots, creek beds, it had it all. Sometimes the trail followed the creek bed, in places there were ‘route arounds’(RA’s) avoiding the difficult/impassable sections. I missed some of these and ended up boulder strewn creek beds. Crossing one creek bed with a steep sandy exit into a 90° left turn I managed to drop Rosie. Luckily I dropped her towards the high side of the embankment and was able to pick her up and get going again fairly easily.

Into the canyon west of Green River

The canyon went on for ages but with the sun low in the sky and shining in my eyes I could’t see properly and kept missing the RA’s and battling my way along rocky creek beds. Eventually I found my route completely blocked and I had to go walking to fins where I’d missed the RA. I was cursing my decision to replace my ageing Arai Tour-X helmet (which has a peak) with a flip-up Shoei Multitec. Despite wearing sunglasses under my black visor I was still struggling to see and shielding  my eyes with one hand was rarely an option on such a technical trail.

Occasionally I would see a fresh pair of tyre track and so pushed on in the hope of catching up with Marty & Scott but to no avail. Once clear of the canyon I pitched my tent and watched the sunset over Utah’s spectacular scenery. Reflecting on the day I realized the effect Rosie was having on my journey: there’s no way I’d have got Lady P through the canyon.

I was up before sunrise in preparation for another eventful day. Almost immediately the trail took me into another two canyons on even gnarlier terrain.

Deep, soft sand with no run up. On a few occasions I resorted to running alongside Rosie in gear and with the motor running. When the trail dropped into a sandy creek I was so absorbed in riding through the sand that I missed the exit and rode to a dead end. Once again I walked back to find the correct route before returning to tackle it on Rosie.

And so the TAT narrowed...

Just as I thought things were improving so I encountered the deepest, softest sand yet. It was in a narrow track with banks either side so there was no way to avoid it. I managed to ride some but resorted to running and pushing as well. There were lots of corners too which made it even harder.

Things improved when I climbed a steep trail out of the riverbed only for it to descend into another soon after. Sand, grit, rock; I was glad of the early start as it was already bloody hot (30°C+).

Eventually the canyon gave way to decent gravel roads that ran parallel with I-70 and led me into the town of Salida. After lunch and giving my chain a much needed clean, I set off towards Richmond.

The horizon was dominated by a forest fire and as I climbed away from Richmond and into Fish Lake NF so I’d head one minute into smoke and the next into blue sky. Fish Lake NF was a surprise and threw up some pretty rock trails with some steep , rutted, loose descents that weren’t too easy. West of the NF the trails opened up once again and I found a nice bush camp atop Crystal Peak, approx 30km east of Great Basin NP. Checking over Rosie that night I noticed I’d shattered the chain guide on a rock back in the canyon.

I’d kept an eye out for Marty & Scott all day but didn’t see them. Either I’d passed them whilst they camped or they’d skipped the Canyons and were now well ahead of me.

Nevada

After a look around Great Basin NP I continued west. I thought the trail would open up in Nevada and I’d cover a lot of ground but the trail has a habit of throwing up the unexpected and Nevada was no exception. Sure there were fast open dirt roads but there was also a lot of jeep tracks and plenty of rocky/rutted/undulating tracks too. A fair dose of sand too and some singletrack through creek beds and under trees that I had to duck to negotiate.

A fabulous descent to a dry creek bed that led through a canyon was like a narrow version on Death Valley’s Titus Canyon and led me out to the town of Lund.

Eating homemade brownies in the local bakery I learnt about the forthcoming bi-annual ‘Silverstate’ race that was set to take place nearby. 90 miles of twisting public road are closed for cars to race against the clock.

NW of Eureka I came to a wide open valley looking across to the Shoshone(?) mountains and pitched my tent next to an abandoned mine on a plateau overlooking the valley.

Abandoned mine bush camp, NV

As I went about unpacking my cooking pots I found that my r/h pannier had burst its ream along a 10cm length and so dug out my extra straps to hold it together until I could contact the manufacturer.

The next morning I left early with the intention of getting to McDonalds for breakfast and to use the Wi-Fi to contact AndyStrapz, the pannier manufacturer. I’d only been riding for 20mins or so when I spotted Marty & Scott camping on an old slag heap. I stopped for a brew with them and whilst they packed up, learnt about the ‘Dual-Sport route around’s’ designed for those with fully laden bike to avoid the more difficult sections. (A lot of riders ride dirt bikes, have support vehicles and/or stay in hotels every night and therefore carry only minimal equipment).

We rode on together, stopping for breakfast in Battle Mountain before heading north into Paradise Valley.

With an average elevation of 1676m, Nevada is the USA’s most mountainous state. It’s striped by north/south mountain ranges which are in-turn paralleled by roads. From a distance they look like impenetrable rock masses but up close they’re a world of surprise. Beautiful gorges and passes abundant in wild flora and fauna fed by snowmelt make them a hidden gem.

Paradise Valley, NV

North of the Valley the road turns west to rejoin Hwy95 but the TAT continues due north into some remote countryside. The trail was rutted, rocky, overgrown and often steep, loose, off-camper and climbed towards a seemingly never ending ridgeline. It was late in the afternoon and the low sun cast a beautiful golden hue across the grassland.

TAT wilderness, NV

I could tell Marty & Scott were keen to escape the ridgeline before darkness fell (it would be very cold up there and they weren’t prepared for it). As we dropped off the plateau so we came upon a level clearing around a cattle watering hole and with less than ten minutes to go before sunset it was perfect timing and we quickly pitched camp.

This part of Nevada is remote. Alongside a few Andean crossings and Australia’s Walkers Crossing & Lake Eyre, it’s probably the most remote place I’ve ever travelled. Even in the Australian Outback the roads were just that – roads, and so in the event of an incident you’d have to survive until the next car/truck passed. Out here in NW Nevada though we were on a farm track that a farmer would occasionally use to check on his cattle but with no cattle in sight there was no need to visit and so we were isolated.

Up before sunrise at 0600 we didn’t start riding until 0820 because we kept talking. Slow progress was set to be the order of the day with our average moving speed being some of the slowest of the TAT.

Scott (being an airline pilot) had been paying particular attention to the weather and said heavy rain was headed our way from Oregon. The TAT (particularly in Nevada) isn’t somewhere you’d want to be riding in the rain (let alone camping) and so late afternoon as the trail took us close to Hwy140 approaching the California/Oregon/Nevada border, we bailed out and headed into Lake View where the guys treated me to dinner – thanks guys!

Marty & Scott

It was quite late when we left the restaurant and said our goodbyes and so it wasn’t far from town that I pitched my tent.

It was a shame that none of us got to ride the last leg of the TAT through Oregon but Marty & Scott had a limited time in which to get home to Washington and I had an invitation to keep.

Eric & Gail

Long-term readers will remember Dutchman Maarten Munnik and Thai wife Tip who I stayed with in Thailand in ’06 & ’07 and again in ’09 now that they live in Bolivia. Maarten gave mw Eric & Gails business card and said to visit them when I got to Oregon. They were off to China on September 23^rd so I had a deadline if I wanted to meet them.

I was glad to arrive when I did as it had been cold crossing the pass to get there and Scott’s predicted rain had given me a chilly soaking.

Eric and Gail have been travelling the world by motorcycle for many years (including riding 2-up along the ‘Road of Bones’ en-route from Magadan to Finland in ’92) and having received such hospitality along the way decided to open their home to fellow travelers (on a recommendation basis).

I arrived to find Shigeru (Japan) and German couple Frank and Simone in the process of painting their own signs to add to the second post in the Haws garden.

Eric& Gails

Eric showed me to my own room and their fabulous bathroom complete with heated towel draw and underfloor heating.

Eric had a very dry and often sarcastic sense of humour unlike any American I’ve ever met (perhaps a leftover from his previous life as a lawyer!) and combined with his beard that made it difficult to read his expression made it hard to tell when he was serious and when he was joking. Usually he was joking.

They took us all to visit a local fish hatchery but the rain had made the water murky spoiling the view. Every once in a while though the water would stir and a 30-50yr old sturgeon would surface! A stunning relic of prehistoric times and the first time I’d ever seen one.

Southbound

After a few days of enjoying the banter and hospitality it was time to hit the road again. As we were all heading south initially we all rode together with Eric leading the way through the backroads until he had to return home to pack his bag for China. The rest of us continued south to Diamond Lake.

Simone, Frank and Shigeru

After a picnic lunch at the lake we all went our separate ways and I headed over to Grants Pass and a company called Kientech that specialize in Suzuki DR’s and with whom I’d had many online dealings.

Just like Cogent Dynamics in NC (who built my shock), I arrived to find Kientech another cottage industry, operated from a barn in the garden of husband and wife team Jesse and Janet.

Jesse & Janet of Kientech

By the time Jesse had finished showing me around his machine shop (he manufactures a lot of parts himself) and explaining the various projects he had on the go it was dark and so he offered me his motorhome to sleep in which I gratefully accepted.

In the morning I bought a new chain guide, sprockets to see me through to Colombia (and beyond!?) and various other parts that I knew I wouldn’t find once I left the USA.

California Coast

Having bush camped my way across the lower 48, Canada and Alaska I was a little suddenly found it impossible to find anywhere for only the second time (the first being Oklahoma). Sure, if I’d headed inland (a fair way) I’d have found NF land but out on the coast there was nothing. It wouldn’t have been so bad but the state parks wanted a ridiculous U$35-45 to pitch a tent for one night. I broke the law.

It was overcast and dreary for much of the ride so I didn’t take many photo’s but I did take a few in Redwoods NF.

Giant Redwoods on the Caliornia coast

I was heading to Santa Rosa and an appointment with Renazco, who’d built my seat. I’d sent them some feedback saying that my seat was the most uncomfortable motorcycle seat I’d ever sat on (and I’ve ridden an R1 from England to Spain!). Owner James Renazco wasn’t happy having an unsatisfied customer and after discussing various aspects of the seat via email over the previous few months he invited me to visit. I arrived at my allotted 0800 to find yet another cottage industry and a welcoming and accommodating James Renazco. He already had a plan for my seat and was about to loan me a stock seat when he decided to make me a whole new one on the stock base in his possession. I paid him for the delivery and arranged for him to post it to Scott & Joanne in Reno.

Unfortunately James is a little camera shy so no photo, just an appreciative Thank You!

Animal House

I kept in touch with Scott & Joanne regarding my return but unfortunately it coincided with Joanne attending a conference in San Diego and Scott riding down to visit her. “No problem..you know where the key is, beers in the fridge.” said Scott.”If you’re there when we return then great. If not, safe travels”. What can you say to that!!?? Incredible.

When I arrived Scott had already left but Joanne was there and asked if I could do them a favour whilst they were away. Eager to anything to help earn my keep she showed me how/what/when to feed the dogs and feed/muck out the horses.

I wanted to give Rosie a major overhaul before leaving the USA and so the first thing I did was removed the rear shock and send it back to the manufacturer for servicing. Having already talked to them about doing this they serviced it and had it back on the Fed Ex truck the same day they received it. Exceptional service that confirmed I’d made the right decision when I chose them to build the shock.

Over the next week parts arrived from everywhere. A new chain to go with the sprockets from Kientech, spark plugs, cush-drive rubbers, all my Central and South American maps and guides that I’d left with Ian & JoAnn in Boston. I even managed to track down a new laptop battery (mine was lasting <1hr)

Maintenance at Scott & Joanne's

I stripped, cleaned and greased the suspension linkages and swingarm pivot but couldn’t do the head bearings as Scott didn’t have the right size socket. Chain & sprockets, spark plugs, new chain guide, cush-drive rubbers all got fitted along with a new Renazco seat when it arrived, and a new pair of Andy Strapz panniers. I scrubbed six months worth of dirt roads out of my riding suit, scrubbed tank panniers etc, etc.

Earlier I mentioned a 10cm split in one of my panniers. Having contacted both the USA importer and the Australian importer I was told they had a lifetime warranty and asked where I wanted the new pair sent. It’s great to deal with a company prepared to stand by its product and honour its warranty – shame the Swedish don’t feel the same way.

Mid-week, Dexter, the oldest horse hurt his leg and it swelled to three times its normal size. After discussing it with Joanne she sent the vet out who promptly gave me antibiotics to be administered twice a day (once via syringe, once in his food) and cream to apply to his leg. Getting the syringe in his mouth on the first day was easy but he soon got wise to the taste and I struggled after that!

Scott arrived home on the Saturday which was great and enabled us to catch up over a few beers before I left.

On my last morning we got up at 0600. Scott cooked egg & cheese sandwiches and we watched the last six laps of the Japanese Moto GP from Motegi where Rossi stuffed it up that Spanish prick!!!! Sorry, got a bit carried away there J

My journey would of course have taken its course had I not met Scott & Joanne but not only did they help make my life easier, they made it special and I really can’t thank them enough. Thanks Guys! See you on the road…

Snow

It had been 30°C+ everyday at Scott & Joanne’s but the night before I left so an unseasonal cold front blew in from the SW and it started pissing down. Earlier in the year when I’d visited Yosemite NP with aussie Geoff we couldn’t leave the park via its eastern entrance over Tioga Pass as it was still closed with snow. With that in mind I planned my route from Scott & Joanne’s to LA via Tioga.

It had been 30°C+ everyday at Scott & Joanne’s but the night before I left so an unseasonal cold front blew in from the SW and it started pissing down. As I got on my bike to leave, so Scott gave me that all knowing ‘rather you than me look’ – I got a good soaking before reaching Reno.

The signs said Monitor/Sonora/Tioga passes OPEN, so I pushed on south along Hwy395. Immediately after I crossed the California border an electronic sign said Monitor/Sonora/Tioga passes CLOSED. Damn! It was snowing in the Sierra Nevada.

I remembered the weather forecasters predicting snow above 8500ft (2438m) so I got out my road atlas and looked to see if there was a pas below that. There was one – Carson Pass at 8753ft (2667m). If there was a way across the mountains, that was it. Luckily for me it was open although the crossing was bloody cold! Descending the west side I saw blue sky for the first time that day and headed due west, avoiding the storm and finding a bush camp on some wasteland next to the junction of Hwy41/I-5.

‘Mucky’ Chris Harrington

Who?: Chris and I go back to Northampton and the British road racing in ’89. The following year he went to work in Greece where he met none other than Danny Burroughs (see Introduction/Profiles), 10 years before me. They struck up a friendship that led to Danny joining Chris in Malaysia at the Team CycleStop Malaysia superbike team in ’92. From there Chris moved to Texas to work for one of my then sponsors D&D Exhausts. I last saw Chris in ’95 when I spent the week with him and wife Karen after racing in the USA for the first time at Road Atlanta.

Earlier in the year I’d been trying to work out a route that would take me through Ft.Worth and a surprise visit to Chris but he beat me to it. Whilst searching online for old CycleStop photos he came across the ShortWayRound/Introduction page and got the surprise of his life. Not only did he not know that Danny and I knew one another, he knew nothing of our world trip let alone that I was in the US!

Chris, so it turned out, was working for Scion (car manufacturer owned by Toyota) as their motorsports/events photographer and so we arranged to meet in LA where he was shooting the Formula Drift Finals at Irwindale.

Not only had Chris secured me a photographers pass for the weekend, he’d also arranged with good friend and owner of World Racing, Chris Rado (thanks Chris!) to give me access to their fabrication shop to make a few repairs/alterations to Rosie.

I arrived at World Racing’s Torrance headquarters to find Chris and his RV set-up in the car park. I was soaked after an unbelievably heavy downpour heading into town on I-405. That though was soon forgotten about when Chris took me out to his favourite Indian restaurant, run by a Sikh, that evening. Incredibly good food served up in US proportions!

As had been the case in the UK, Chris new everyone in the race paddock and we were well fed and watered as we cruised around on his scooter. Everything from Sushi to breakfast burritos meant we were never hungry.

I’d previously only seen Formula Drift once on TV and wasn’t particularly taken with it. However, to see it close up and in such a confined space was quite a spectacle and all of a sudden the skill became apparent.

Formula Drift Finals - Irwindale 2010

Formula Drift Finals - Irwindale 2010

You can see my photos from the weekend in the Formula Drift Finals – Irwindale 2010 gallery

Basically drivers run in pairs in a knock-out formula. Each pair has two runs where each driver takes a turn to lead. Around the course a various markers and points are scored for speed, style, accuracy (getting close to the markers) and proximity to the leading driver. Unlike other tarmac motorsports, the idea isn’t to keep the wheels inline but to ‘drift’ like a rally car around the course.

Playing the Pro - Formula Drift Finals

Modifications (Teccy  – girls and pen pushers may want to skip this bit)

After a cracking weekend at the event where I got to shoot with some of Chris’s exotic Nikkor lenses, we returned to the workshop where fabricator Tito set about making some repairs/mods to Rosie. First up was to find a durable replacement to my tooltube issue. At the local metal supplier I bought a length of 4” aluminium tube. Tito welded a plate on one end and in a moment of genius Chris found a plumbers pipe pressure testing plug that was not only waterproof but needed no machining to fit.

Tito extended the drop of the r/h pannier frame and made some half-round brackets to clamp the aluminium tube to.

Tito welds my pannier frame

Sand and grit had worn away at the sidestand pivot so much so that the stand (in the folded position) had to be held away from the swingarm with a bungee strap. Tito built up the frame with weld and did the same with the stand before grinding both to fit without the previous freeplay.

Aluminium Tooltube

Finally it was time to move on. I’d planned on entering Mexico two weeks previously but the chance to spend a week with Chris was too good to miss. We had a great time hanging out, telling stories and generally sharing a British sense of humour that I guess both of us miss on a daily basis. Chris – I look forward to next time.

With 'Mucky' Chris Harrington

Final Stop

It was after dark when I rolled into the El Cajon home of Ken and Laura Nelson. Several months ago Ken had read one of my posts on the ADV Rider website and invited me to stay on my way through.

Unbeknown to me, Ken had taken the following day off work to show me around the area. We drove into San Diego to visit the aircraft carrier/floating museum USS Midway (highly recommended) as well as visiting a local fish wholesalers owned by another member of the San Diego Adventure Riders group. During our tour of the plant we were fed shrimp eggs (like caviar) straight from the shrimp (about U$60 a portion in a Japanese restaurant) and left with a huge bag of fish and scallops the size of ice hockey pucks!

Over the weekend I carried out the last few bits of maintenance I either hadn’t been able to do at Scott’s, or had wanted to leave until the last moment. I changed the engine and fork oil and went to strip clean and grease the head bearings but was disappointed to discover they were already notched (worn) and so not worth doing (see Suzuki tab for more details). Phoning around the local bearing stockiests proved fruitless so I left them alone.

Ken fabricated a bracket to hold a new, easily accessible Scotoiler reservoir and I strapped on a pair of tyres I’d ordered online back at Scott & Joanne’s and had delivered to Kens.

On Sunday evening Ken BBQ’d the fish and scallops. It was some of the best seafood I’ve ever tasted. Exceptional ingredients perfectly cooked.

Come Monday morning I thought I’d run out of time to look for the one last thing I’d hoped to find before leaving the USA – a new pair of riding boots (after 4.5yrs mine are as comfy as a pair of slippers but about as waterproof). Ken though was having none of it and drove me to every bike shop he could think of but to no avail – nobody had my size.

It was lunchtime when I was finally ready to leave and after saying my goodbyes I hit the road. Two corners later I stopped. I’d told my sister I’d phone before leaving the USA and I hadn’t to I dived into Starbucks and called her on Skype. By the time I emerged 1½hr later I was unsure about crossing the border that day. Not knowing how long the crossing would take and wanting plenty of time to find a bush camp afterwards I decided to postpone it a day and so headed down towards the border and found a bush camp.

Afterthoughts

Riding from the affluent New England, through the mining communities of West Virgina, across the Asian poor south, the Mexican South West and the hippie NW I couldn’t help wondering just how the ‘United’ part of USA fitted in. Each State has its own laws that are incompatible with other States and often contradict Federal Law. I had been shocked at the amount of anti-Obama sentiment I had encountered and the accusations of his controversial healthcare bill being ‘socialist’. It’s quite scary to consider that the election of the world’s most powerful man relies on the votes of so many people for whom the world stops at the ocean.

Two things however did unite the states. One good, one bad…

The bad is the bastardisation of the English language. Two phrases in particular grated on me: ‘Right from the get go’ and ‘Where you at?’ All English words granted, BUT THEY DON’T MAKE A SENTENCE!

The good was the hospitality I was afforded everywhere which was AWESOME!

The USA is a beautiful country and I for one will return.

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

And what a 100,000 miles it’s been – 4½ years, 5 continents, 38 countries.

* Why Rosie? DR=Desert Rose. Rose Tyler was Dr.Who’s best ever assistant and was played by top bird and my beautiful niece’s namesake – Billie Piper. So ‘Rosie’ it is.

I left you last time in Moab, UT where I was dodging thunderstorms and going trail riding.

Soaking up the White Rim Trail. Moab, Utah

White Rim Trail, Moab, Utah

Trails of North America…a photo journal – click HERE

More photos for this chapter in the USA PtII and Canada galleries

Whilst stocking up with supplies at the local supermarket I bumped into a guy called Ara and his pitbull Spirit. They’d been riding around the USA for 4 years in Ara’s BMW 1150GS sidecar outfit.

Ara & his pitbull - Spirit

Whilst we were talking some friends of his Irene & ??? from Georgia appeared. Their RV was parked at a campsite close by and we spent the evening together sharing a few beers over a BBQ.

Before leaving Moab I took a look around Arches NP

Arches NP, Utah

Onward West

When I eventually managed to drag myself away from Moab I took the scenic Hwy 24 to Capitol Reef NP. Running parallel to the NP on its east side is the Notom-Bullfrog road, along which lies a cracking little FOC campground. The waterpocket fold, a 160km long wrinkle in the earths crust parallel’s the road.

'Waterpocket Fold'. Capitol Reef, NP

Capitol Reef NP regularly gets overlooked NP as people drive by en-route to the more famous Zion and Bryce canyons. Talk to the local though and you’ll soon discover this is a favorite as it attracts a fraction of the crowds of its big brothers. I took a day off to ride the Scenic Drive and hike up to the Cassidy Arch before returning to camp via the scenic Hwy 12 to Boulder then the beautiful Burr Trail Road that eventually connected with the Notom-Bullfrog road south of my campsite.

Burr Trails Road, Utah

From Capitol Reef Hwy 12 takes you along what must be one of the best rides in the USA through the Grand Staircase Escalante. It’s a place that can neither be described nor photographed (except perhaps from the air). On I rode past the entrance to Bryce Canyon. It was the weekend so I rode straight past the entrance (I don’t do crowds in the countryside). Later in the day the main road (Hwy 9) took me right through the centre of Zion NP but like I said, it was the weekend. Instead I pushed on for Las Vegas and an invitation from ADV Rider inmate Matt.

Small World

Back in Jersey over Christmas whilst I was researching the USA leg of my trip I came across a posting on the ADV website entitled ‘Coming to America…what should I see?’ It had been posted by an Aussie dude Geoff and when I read through the post I learnt he was struggling with the difference in rules between states with regard to vehicle purchase. Having recently purchased Rosie in Salt Lake City I posted my experiences. Matt picked up on my reply and invited me to stay when I passed through Las Vegas – so I did.

I rolled into town early evening and cruised down the strip where I was surprised to see how much was familiar – even the pirate ship at Treasure Island remained.

Matt said there was another ADV’er in town – Trady, an Aussie bloke – and it soon transpired that Trady was none other than the originator of the post that had generated Matt’s invitation! Dinner was planned for Saturday night and a gobsmacked Geoff walked through Matt’s front door with his mouth agape and a finger pointing outside to my bike. “I’ve read every bloody word of your blog – twice!!” We had a good night out where Geoff and I did a lot of listening – man Matt can talk!!

With Geoff Mason

Back in Moab I’d managed to drop Rosie with no luggage on and snap one of the brackets that held on the tooltube. Matt was a huge help in tracking down not only a welder but one that wouldn’t require a mortgage to do the work.

Matt looks on as the tooltube mounts are repaired. Las Vegas

California

With the repair complete I struck out early on the Monday morning, bound for Death Valley – at 3 million acres, the largest US NP outside Alaska.

Unusually low temperatures some 20°C+ below average gave me the opportunity to ride to some of the more remove parts of the park without melting so I headed out for a ride through the one-way Titus Canyon.

Titus Canyon. Death Valley, California

Titus Canyon. Death Valley, California

Before heading out I stopped at the visitor centre to ask whether Snow Pass on Hunter Mountain in the SW of the park was open as it had snowed the previous night. Nobody knew so I was left to find out for myself. Late in the afternoon I took a look at Ubehebe Crater before riding SW towards the Hidden Valley. At Teakettle Junction I wanted to turn right to visit the ‘Racetrack’ but it was too late in the afternoon and I was already pushing my luck to get over the pass before sunset – if indeed it was open.

Beyond the Hidden Valley the Ulida Flat was resplendent in the late afternoon sun and reminded me of the high Andes.

Ulida Flat. Death Vally, California

At the end of the valley the track narrowed and steepened into a four-wheel drive track as it climbed Hunter Mountain. The sun was already below the ridgeline making it too dark for photos as the narrow track was lined with wild flowers. The ridge wasn’t a peak as I’d expected but a wooded plateau stretched out ahead of me. The trail, made muddy by the snowmelt, climbed slowly to a summit that I reached 10 mins after sunset.

Hunter Mountain summit. Death Valley, California

It was rather chilly at 2200m so I pushed on until I’d descended to a much warmer 1650m where I found a place to camp and pitched my tent under the moonlight. In the morning I followed the Saline Valley track out to Hwy 190 that afforded a great overview of the park before descending into the heat of the valley where low flying US Airforce pilots appear to use unsuspecting tourists for target practice.

Bush Camp. Death Valley, California

Geoff had left Vegas a day before me as he had his new BMW F800GS booked in for its first service in Bakersfield. We’d discussed the possibility of meeting up so I stopped off to use the free Wi-Fi in McD’s in Ridgecrest so I could email him. Later on I stopped again in Lake Isabella to check my email only to find Geoff was stuck at the dealership. There was a problem with the diagnostic computer reading Geoff’s CPU – the joys of BMW ownership huh?

Lake Isabella lies at the southern end of Sequoia NF that becomes Giant Sequoia NM, Sequoia NP and eventually Kings Canyon NP. It was late afternoon and the road followed the River Kern along the valley with plenty of NF campgrounds. I normally avoid these (‘cos you have to pay!) but it was getting late and the sites were particularly nice.

We rolled into Hospital Flats campground to be met by a manic 6’+ Californian by the name of Rob who came racing out from behind his RV, gesticulating for us to stop. He had a BMW K1200S parked behind his trailer in which he had his BMW 1200GS Adventure! His riding buddies had left early leaving Rob and his wife Karen with more food and beer than they could eat or drink and so making us perfect candidates to join them – “If you want to…” Do bears poop in the woods? (No…they poop on the road; but that’s for later…)

Adam, Rob, Karen and Geoff. Hospital Flats CG. California

An evening of steak, beer and wine ensued until we couldn’t take any more and we turned in. We awoke to Rob making breakfast of delicious potato patties, eggs and fresh coffee – it was hard to say goodbye!

We dragged ourselves away and had an easy day stopping off to admire the giant Sequoia trees.

Sequoia NF, California

Geoff appreciates  some creature comforts and that means campsites rather than bush camping and a bottle of red to finish the day – fine by me. We stopped in a campground just inside Sequoia NP where everyone was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of bins being ransacked. In the morning there was a lot of Ranger activity and in transpired that a bear had ripped the fire grate off the pitch next to us and throw it around before heading to the bins which were opposite our pitch about 10m away. After the bins if found a car a few pitches along that obviously contained food (BAD idea!!) and proceeded to peel the drivers’ door out of its frame at 90°!!!

Aware of the approaching Labor Day weekend (one of the busiest holiday weekends in the US) we pressed on towards Yosemite NP. The ride through Sequoia & Kings Canyon NP’s was beautiful if a tad chilly at 4°C.

It was late afternoon as we rode up to the Yosemite NP entry point at Mariposa Grove. We were a bit miffed when they couldn’t tell us about campsite availability in the valley especially considering it was the only part of the park that was open, it was approaching possibly the busiest weekend of the year and it was still 58km to the valley. We had no choice but to try our luck and so we rode on, in the pissing rain, into Yosemite Valley.

It soon became apparent the place was full but after riding around all the campsites we eventually found one fellow motorcyclist Dave, who kindly agreed to share his pitch. Believe it or not, it was the first time I’d had to pitch my tent in the rain and with the tarp strung up between the trees we set about cooking some supper.

It rained most of the night and we awoke to find the trees surrounding the rim of the valley were dusted in a fresh coating of snow.

Yosemite Valley, Yosemite NP, California

We opted to take the 5hr return hike to Upper Yosemite Falls in the hope that its billing as ‘Strenuous’ would keep the crowds to a minimum – it did, and we enjoyed a cracking view out over the valley under a blue sky.

Yosemite Falls, Yosemite NP, California

The following day we attempted to walk the trail to Vernall Falls. I say attempted because the crowds were ridiculous. Stone steps wind their way past the falls and every time somebody stopped so the domino effect backed up the whole trail; it was like being on a London Underground escalator. Geoff and I looked at one another and shook our heads; time to get out of Yosemite.

We hit the road early the following morning as the Tioga Pass to the east was still blocked by snow which meant we had to ride a fair way west then north before we could finally turn east and cross the Sierra Nevada – California’s geographical backbone.

The Sonora Pass had opened the previous day afforded us some beautiful scenery as we headed towards the summit. Past the second set of gates (Closed in Winter) there were pick-up trucks and trailers tucked into pull-ins amongst the snowbanks as avid Snowmobile owners finally gained access to some stunning backcountry riding.

Senora Pass, California

Once on the east side we took 395 then 89 north over Monitor Pass and on to Lake Tahoe but with the holiday weekend in full swing we didn’t hang around long.

Our destination for the day was the home of Scott & Joanne, in the countryside an hour north of Reno, Nevada. Geoff had met them through the same ADV Rider thread through which we met and they had kindly extended an invitation for us both to stay.

We were both in a dilemma as the weather NW of us all the way into Canada was shite and had been for several weeks so we spent a few days watching the weather forecast and catching up with some emails etc. I’d had various problems with memory on my laptop since having to clear enough space to install my GPS map of North America. The software will ONLY install to the ‘C’ drive which was already at its capacity limit. I won’t bore you all with the techy details but all my research said there was no straightforward solution. When I learnt Geoff was in the IT business I explained the problems I was having and Geoff just grinned and said “I’ve got a bit of software for that…and that”. I gave him my laptop for an afternoon and sure enough he did an awesome job on it – thanks again Geoff.

Back in May at the Canyon de Chelly I met retired English couple Paul & Jan who are touring the USA in their RV. They were planning on leaving the country to renew their 90 day visas and I asked why they didn’t have 6 month visas. It turned out they’d found the process on the US Embassy website very unclear and so hadn’t bothered. However, when I said I’d been through the process they offered me a deal: In return for helping them navigate the site, they would take me back to London with them in June for the price of a Buddy Pass (Paul was a retired airline employee).

Paul and Jan

So why did I want to return to London? Well it wasn’t London but Jersey that I wanted to return to. On 6^th April my sister had given birth to daughter Billie and I was keen to visit. I had initially planned to return from Canada on my return from Alaska but this was too good an offer to turn down.

Paul & Jan were flying from San Francisco on June 19^th but I wanted to be much further north by then. I’d contacted the HorizonsUnlimited community in Seattle and had a tremendous reply with several offers of places to leave Rosie and all my kit whilst I was away.

The weather however, had other ideas and with more rain forecast for another week Scott suggested I return to Colorado where the weather had just broken and the high mountain passes were beginning to open. I could then return to Reno and leave everything there.

With Scott, Joanne and Geoff

Backtracking

Scott helped me plan an interesting route across Nevada that took me past Lake Pyramid (home to the pre-historic fish Cui-ui) and on through the Humboldt Toiyabe NF on a series of dirt roads.

Heading for the Monitor Range. Nevada

SW of Austin I spotted a track across Bunker Hill that looked like an interesting shortcut. It would have been had it not still been blocked by snow.

Stopped by the snow. Bunker Hill, Nevada

Dirt roads across the Monitor Range were the way to go and helped me avoid what are otherwise very straight, boring roads across most of Nevada. I only had two weeks in which to ride to Colorado and back before my London flight from San Francisco so I eventually bit the bullet and hit the highway. My worst suspicions were confirmed and I was soon bored to tears on Hwy 375 the ‘Extraterrestrial Highway’ so named for its close proximity to the infamous Area 51.

Extra Terrestrial Hwy, Nevada

Once in Utah I bush camped just off Hwy 14, close to Cedar Breaks National Monument which had finally opened for the season that day. Word hadn’t spread of its opening and by arriving early the place was all but deserted. Snow still lay in the gullies and added to the already beautiful park.

Cedar Breaks NM, Utah

Riding east away from the park, Hwy 14 is bordered by 30 million year old lava flow

Hwy 14, Utah

Further east I once again picked up Hwy 12 and once again it was the weekend so yep, you guessed it…I rode straight past the entrance to Bryce Canyon. How the hell had I managed to cock up my timing that badly – twice? Still, the ride back up the Grand Staircase Escalante made up for it.

Just before Boulder I spotted a sign for ‘Hells Backbone Road’. A dirt road through Dixie NF built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1930 – long before the multi-million dollar Hwy 12. Ara had mentioned this road so I had to take a look.

Hells Backbone Road, Utah

When the track turned south to head back to Hwy 12, I turned north through the forest passing several lakes. There was nobody on the track so when I encountered Roundy Reservoir on my right I pitched my tent on the far side. Having not seen a shower since leaving Reno three days previously I took a rather cool dip.

Exhausting…

In between Utah’s Capitol Reef and Canyonlands NP’s lies the San Rafael Dessert. An appealing alternative to Hwy 24/I-70 route to Moab I followed my nose and headed onto the multitude of sandy tracks that traverse the desert.

San Rafael Desert, Utah

It was great riding until what sounded like an outrageously loud raspberry being blow made me stop as fast as I could. It was the unmistakable noise of an exhaust failure and I climbed off my bike expecting to find a cracked header pipe. I didn’t; but I did find the mid-pipe and silencer (2/3 of the system) broken off and lying on the back wheel. I quickly pulled it out before it damage the tyre.

Insert expletive of choice!!!

It was 39°C (102°F), there was no shade and I was 50km from the nearest road. Great.

I didn’t have any bailing wire so my first bodge was made with electrical wire and lasted a few km’s. My second bodge was with bungy straps and lasted a few more km’s until I revised the arrangement to one which lasted.

I crossed the railway tracks into Green River wondering how and where I was going to arrange a repair when I saw this…

Who ya gonna call!!??

…and all I could think of was …”Who ya gonna call?…GHOSTBUSTERS!!!

Bodge 1

Bodge 2

Of course it was Sunday and most places were closed when I rolled into Moab. Fred Hink (owner of Arrowhead Motorsports) however, works from a building on the same plot of land as his shop and so I guessed there’d be a fair chance of him being there. I’d bought both a new and used rear tyres from Fred on my previous visit to Moab but with the used one lasting so well I’d opted to leave the new one with him to collect later in the year.

Luckily for me Fred was not only in his shop but was clearing up after the annual bike rally he’d hosted that weekend. He told me to throw my tent up in the yard before dragging the BBQ out and cooking up some of the pile of leftover burgers.

In the morning Fred phoned around but the only guy it seemed everyone trusted to make a welded repair was out of town. I did get to speak to him but his advice was to bodge it up as well as I could and head straight along I-70 to Denver where I’d have lots more options. At the local auto parts store I bought exhaust repair bandage, a roll of repair strap and set about making a better bodge  before setting off on the 550km ride to Denver.

Denver

Lora and Ron (Chapter 20) were on their way home from a weekend away on the bikes at the same time and I was constantly trying to find Wi-Fi along the way to contact them. They were expecting me but not for another week or so.

It was after dark before I found a McD’s with WiFi and managed to contact Lora. They’d just arrived home and I was welcome to join them – TFFT!!

Once I’d accessed the damage properly and discussed it with Ron we decided that a welded repair would only move the weak point elsewhere and would therefore only provide a temporary solution.

An initial search on ebay proved fruitless but a real stroke of luck the following morning threw up exactly what I needed (a 2003 GSXR100 Titanium silencer) with a buy it now price! SOLD!!!! To the man with the fastest trigger finger on ebay that day.

The silencer was only one of the two parts I needed though and whilst I could get the silencer shipped from Alabama quickly, the mid-pipe would have to come from Oregon and wouldn’t arrive until after I’d have to leave to get back to Reno and on to San Francisco for my London flight. My only option was to have it posted to Scott & Joanne and to make a more permanent temporary (an oxymoron; I know) that would last to Reno.

Lora & Ron

I spent a few days with Lora & Ron whilst awaiting the arrival of my exhaust can. I gave Rosie a good service in Ron’s well equipped workshop (ooer!), enjoyed Ron’s fabulous cooking and went to the cinema for the first time in 18 months (Get Him to the Greek – bloody funny!).

Back in Reno

The hardest part of the three day ride back to Scott & Joanne’s was staying awake on the looooong, straight Nevada roads.

Scott had insisted on driving me to San Francisco (4hrs each way) on his day off which was an unbelievable offer for which I am truly grateful. I packed my day sack and on Friday 18^th June we drove to the Airport Travelodge where I’d arranged to meet Paul & Jan.

Scott & Joanne

London bound

Staff travel offers exceptional value but as you’re travelling on stand-by its only for the patient. Having flown tens of thousands of miles over the years Paul & Jan were just that and knew how the system worked.  An early start to the airport saw us upgraded to 1^st class to Toronto but there ended the days luck. The next two flight were full but Jan and I got on the third (as a guest I had to fly with one of them). We arrived in London on the Sunday morning and were collected by their daughter Zoe and driven to her home in Woking where we spent the night. It wasn’t until Monday morning that Paul arrived having first flown to Halifax before London!

Despite his obvious jetlag we spent the afternoon battling through the US Embassy website to arrange their visa appointments. I say battling because the system had changed since I’d made my application back in January!

With their application complete, Paul dropped me off at Woking station where I caught the train to Gatwick and the last flight of the day to Jersey.

Billie

The birth of my niece Billie not only gave me the title ‘Uncle’ but expanded our family by 50%!

Paul & Jan’s interview at the US Embassy took longer than expected to arrange and my two week stay in Jersey turned into three weeks. I hadn’t been there in the summer for years; my godmother who I hadn’t seen since I left England in 2006 came to visit for a week and we all had a great time making the most of the fabulous weather.

My beautiful niece Billie

Beach BBQ in Jersey with Shell, Paul and Billie

Saying goodbye to Shell and Paul is never easy but the arrival of Billie has made it all the harder.

Back in the US…

My return to Reno was a four day, four plane, four lifts and a bus affair. Thanks to friends Wendy & Keith and Steve & Sally for picking me up/dropping me off and putting me up.

The first officer at US Immigration (in Toronto!!!) didn’t like my story and couldn’t decide whether to allow me to enter or not. He told me I should have surrendered my I-94 Immigration card upon departure and that I’d been told the wrong thing by the US Embassy in London. His take on my visa was that I could spend up to 6 months in a rolling 12 month period and as I was going to exceed that he wasn’t prepared to let me in. After disappearing for 5 mins he returned, typed my story into his computer and sent me to the second interview room. There I was met by steely faces, handed over the folder given to me by the first officer and told to take a seat.

When I was called to the counter two officers asked me about my story, wrote down this website address to look up at home, told me to keep my current I-94 and get a new one at the Alaskan border – completely contradicting everything the first officer had said!!! Our plane from London had been late and from Halifax even later making our connection in Toronto rather tight and thanks to that first officer we missed it and with the next two flights full we headed for a hotel for the night.

Up at 0400 to catch a plane that was again late and meant I missed the once daily train to Reno by 10 mins! So the bus it was and I arrived in Reno at 2130 to be collected by Scott & Joanne.

Ticking Clock

Having left Ian & JoAnn in Milford four weeks later than planned back in April, lost two weeks of NW travel due to the weather and now another week after Paul & Jan’s visa’s took longer than expected I was some seven weeks behind where I expected to be. Now I know that in the greater scheme of things that’s no big deal but when your travel itinerary involves mountains it’s a big deal.

The weather in Alaska begins its change with August rains and whilst it can snow in the high passes of Colorado on any day of the year, the likelihood increases from mid-September onwards.

Back in Reno…

Scott is an established motorcyclist and racer and as such has a suitable garage to stable his collection.

Scotts garage

As well as his KTM990 Adventurer he has his two Honda CRF450’s; one racer, one practice bike. Back in 2006 Scott not only completed the grueling Baja 1000 (miles) desert race but did so in the Ironman class. That means NO team mates – 1000miles, 36hrs non-stop racing through the Baja California Penninsula.

My first job was to fit the new exhaust mid-pipe and silencer. A task that proved much more time consuming than Ron and I had surmised back in Denver and an additional collection of spacers were required for final assembly.

My luggage was also due for a makeover. Whilst all the effort I’d put into designing and fabricating the Q/R Pelicase/detachable hoop set-up was ok on paper, in reality it restricted my riding position and it wasn’t until I started riding some rougher trails that this became apparent. My day sack was also pissing me off. It was fine in the cooler weather but in the heat I found it to be uncomfortable and restrict the airflow through my jacket vents.

To avoid boring the non-motorcyclists amongst you I’ll add the changes to the Suzuki page for those that are interested.

Finally there was a new front tyre to be fitted and Scott presented me with a new Dunlop D606 for which he would accept no payment; instead insisting that his friend and mechanic would never accept payment from Scott and so Scotts only way of putting money in the guys pocket was to buy bits from him! Scott is a big believer in ‘paying it forward’ and if his actions towards me are anything to go on then he’s due for a whole lot of good karma in the future.

NW at last!

Leaving on Saturday morning meant that Scott could come with me for a day, camp out then race straight to work on Sunday morning. Due to his job as a bulldozer operator for the National Forest Service assigned to the Fire Department he knows the trails intimately for miles around and so I followed him through the Plumas NF where he took me through the site of a 100,000 acre forest fire.

100,000 acre forest fire. Plumas NF, California

We stopped for lunch in Westwood near Lake Almano where we got chatting with the owner Rod. It turned out that Rod was an avid motorcyclist, rode a Honda Transalp and Suzuki DRZ400 and was an ADV Rider inmate. He also served a mean bread pudding that slowed me down for days!

Bear Attack!

After lunch we made our way through Lassen Volcanic NP. With piles of dirty snow on the ground and ice on the lakes beginning to melt it was in a state of transition from winter beauty to summer beauty; we’d caught it with its pants down. Emerging from a straight avenue of trees in the north of the park, a brown bear ran out of the scrubland to my right to cross the road, obviously oblivious to my presence. Unable to slow down as it descended the metre high bank it roared (well it opened its mouth as if to roar but I had ear plugs in and music playing!) and desperately tried to veer right and avoid me. I, in the meantime was steering left and the result was that we travelled parallel and within touching distance for several metres before it could make it back up the bank and into the scrub. It was about the size of a large St.Bernard dog and was dripping wet from a stream crossing it must have made en-route to the road. The guy in the car behind said he’d been visiting the park for 20yrs and it was only the second bear he’d seen – everyone in the car thought it was trying to attack me!

We stopped for supplies in a small supermarket in a small town on Hwy 299. I got chatting with a retired couple who offered me a place to stay if I needed it. I couldn’t miss their place as the yard was decorated with flags; one her her sons had been flown home from Afghanistan on Thursday. “It must be great to have him home from there” I said; “It is” she replied…”The funeral’s on Tuesday” he said.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so empty so quickly in all my life. I suddenly felt like an empty vessel, my insides a void, a vacuum. How do you respond to that?

She’d already lost one of her three sons in the first Gulf war. Her third son was a helicopter technician also serving in Afghanistan, “But it’s safe where he works” she added.

Had I been alone I would have accepted their offer but it was a rare opportunity for Scott to ride and camp so I explained my position and accepted an open invitation for the future.

Scott and I found a suitable bush camp, cooked steak on the disposable BBQ he’d brought with him and shared a few beers before turning in.

The following morning we said ‘Hasta luego’ and I rode north to pick up the Pacific Crest Trail whilst Scott rode south to work. That sounds like I’m rubbing it in, doesn’t it!? Well I’m not; it’s just what happened!

Pacific Crest Trail

My US research had thrown up a long distance walking trail known as the ‘Pacific Crest Trail’ that ran from Mexico to Canada and although no mechanized transport was allowed on it there was a parallel – almost! Back in 2004 a group of friends had spent what must have been a huge amount of time and effort plotting a legal route that followed the foot trail as closely as possible. Running late was now in my favor as most of the snow had melted on the high passes.

At the end of the first day after a beautiful ride along a ridgeline with views through the pine trees across to snowcapped Mt.Shasta, I rolled into the campground at Crater Lake NP where I’d arranged to meet Geoff. Whilst I was having my exhaust trouble and visiting Jersey, he’d ridden through Montana, Canada and on up to Alaska and was now heading south. It was good to catch up but the mozzies were EVIL. I remember seeing ‘Mosquito proof clothing’ in outdoor shops for the first time several years ago and laughing it off as a gimmick. It wasn’t funny at Crater Lake though when the f@#*er’s ate me alive through my clothing.

The mozzies bit me through my clothing...EVIL f@#*!!!

The following morning we took a ride around the crater.

Crater Lake NP, Oregon

In one of the carparks on the rim drive I spotted a yellow number plate on a motorcycle. After further investigation I met Dave(id) and Gill from Plymouth, UK on their BMW R80. They were the first Brits I’d met since Graham & Graham on the road from La Paz, Bolivia last September. Dave(id) and Gill are heading for South America so who knows, maybe I’ll see them again.

Dave(id) & Gill from Plymouth, England

As Geoff had booked and paid for the campsite, I insisted on buying him coffee in the restaurant as we were unlikely to meet again. At $3.75 each the price was as outrageous as I’d expected but when I laid down a $10 bill the waitress asked if I wanted change!!! I’ll give you a tip…don’t be a greedy cow!’

Later that afternoon, sitting outside a shop in Crescent Lake, I got chatting to a guy who’d made his living picking wild mushrooms up and down the Sierra’s for the past 20 years. I asked him about the mozzies and he said the NW had had a particularly wet spring which generated the high numbers of them. It was as bad as he’d known it in 20 years he said. Great.

I stayed on the PCT for the next three days and had some fabulous riding. Snowcapped Mt.Shasta gave way to Mt.Hood then Mt.StHelens, Mt.Ranier and Mt.Baker. Trees, lakes and rivers lined the route and the surface varied from fast forest roads to windy mountain climbs and a whooped out sandy track reminiscent of the UK’s Natterjack  Enduro course. The only thing that spoilt it were the mozzies that laughed at my attempts to cover up and got drunk on my insect repellant. I was struggling to get a nights’ sleep as whichever way I lay something itched!

Near Waldo Lake, along the Pacific Crest Trail, Oregon

Mt.Hood seen from the Pacific Crest Trail, Oregon

Beyond the 'Road Closed' sign. Pacific Crest Trail, Washington

Along the way I stopped in the tiny hamlet of Detroit, Oregon and struck up a conversation with a local family. Whilst we were chatting an old RV, decorated like a newspaper arrived in the carpark. Not only was it old news, but tabloid news at that.

"So you don't like him then..."

Seattle

I stopped short of riding the PCT all the way to the Canadian border as I had an invitation in Seattle and instead picked up I-90 into town.

Now I’m no city fan but it was plain to see from the Interstate that Seattle has something about it lacking in most big US cities – character. The undulating nature of the land, dissected by lakes and waterways means the usual grid-planned ‘cookie cutter’ pattern doesn’t fit. Add to that the distinctly different architecture of each neighborhood and an abundance of individually owned businesses and you’d be forgiven for forgetting you were in the US

Earlier on I mentioned contacting the Horizons Unlimited community in Seattle in the hope of finding a place to leave Rosie and all my kit whilst I was away. Of the many offers I had, one was from Duncan Smith.

Over my first ever Vietnamese meal I learnt that Duncan was preparing his Kawasaki KLR650 for a trip to South America. He’s planning on leaving early October so there’s a fair chance we’ll meet along the way.

Whilst in Seattle I visited the Boeing plant where they build 737’s and 747’s and assemble 787’s. The 90 minute factory tour was full of huge numbers including the claim that it is the worlds’ largest building by volume (covering an area of 93 acres) and employs 30,000 people. They  assemble a 787 every 3 days (parts are manufactured worldwide a la Airbus) but with 852 currently on order you’ll be waiting  7 years!! A 747 takes a year to build – at a cost of $350 million ea.

On the Saturday evening Duncan’s potential South America partner Rob and wife Kitty joined us for dinner and Duncan spit roasted a duck in the garden – delicious.

Rob (left) & Duncan

Then on the Sunday morning he took me on a tour of the downtown area, the highlight of which was Pikes Place market where the fish market sold things I’d never seen before – like 50cm long crabs legs!

Monday morning was a time for some bike maintenance but finding out why my headlight kept blowing fuses took me longer than I expected. It turned out to be the bulb itself, something I’ve never encountered before.

It was late afternoon when I finally left Duncan’s – Canada bound.

Canada

My first stop in Canada was Vancouver for no other reason than I had a friend to visit there. I’d first met Kev in Pokhara, Nepal back in 2006 and we air freighted our bikes from Kathmandu to Bangkok at the same time. Once in Bangkok Kev helped me with choosing and setting up the laptop I’m still using now and remained in contact ever since.

Having ridden his BMW R80 from Belgium to Cambodia, Kev knew exactly what a motorcyclist away from home needed and had it all waiting as I walked through the door. Room – glass of water – shower – beer – food – chat! The view from his 19^th floor downtown apartment out across the harbor was spot on.

Vancouver sunset

The weather was as ‘good as it gets’ in British Colombia and so it was Kev’s suggestion that I made the most of it and pushed on straight away (yeah, yeah…I got the message!) and hang out for a while on my return.

Before I could leave though I had chain & sprockets to replace, a broken wire in the r/h heated grip to repair, laundry to do and some emailing to catch up with. When Kev returned home from work we headed out for ‘all you can eat’ Sushi!

Northbound

‘During my research for North America…’ Are you getting fed up with reading that line; ‘cos I’m getting fed up with writing it!

Anyway, I came across a website called Ride BC Backroads offering a 30 day tour using a combination of dirt and minor roads as well as some unavoidable major roads. It looked good so I copied it to a paper map and downloaded the GPS file of the section they’d made available and left Kev’s place bound for Harrison Hot Springs.  I wouldn’t have time to follow all of it and would have to ‘trim’ it somewhat but it was a start.

I followed the undulating trail along the west side of the lake before descending across a few drainage channels towards a larger on. To my surprise, as I crossed the channel there was a people carrier facing the opposite direction with a rather distressed looking teenage girl standing next to it. They couldn’t get across the channel and asked for my help. I suggested to the driver, her father, that he reverse out the way they came as they’d struggle to get up the hill but it transpired that they had come down the hill but that further on the track deteriorated again and they couldn’t continue. They’d managed to turn around but were now stuck. I took my jacket off and helped the daughter fill the channel in with rocks and then lay head foliage on the loose grave l to give them some grip. After much crunching, banging, bottoming and wheel spinning they made it across and continued up the hill in a cloud of dust.

WTF!!!???

WTF!!!???

So why hadn’t the father helped you ask? Because he was in a wheelchair! I cringed at the damage he’d done to his specially adapted vehicle. I met nobody else along that trail and wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t turned up.

West side trail. Harrison Lake, BC

Further I long I came across a ‘Road Closed’ sign ahead of where a landslide had wiped the road out. It had obviously been like that for some time as there was a well established route around it that was the width of a quad bike.

I found a suitable turning off the main track and gained some altitude along with some daylight as found a small clearing and after checking for bear shit, pitched my tent.

The ‘Technical Route’

Day two dawned and I rode on past Lilooet Lake, gassed up in Pemberton and ate a lunch of noodles by Carpenter Lake outside GoldBridge before finally turning onto what Ride BC Backroads determined ‘The Technical Route’, an option on their tour.

Carpenter Lake, British Columbia

Not far north of Carpenter lake I encountered my first brown bear. In a scenario very similar to that in Lassen NP, a bear came running out of the trees, across a scree field, downhill towards the road. Once again we were on collision course but it had so much momentum it couldn’t slow down.  I accelerated and the bear passed right behind me, across the road and into the trees.

It was plain sailing up past Marshall Lake where I had to open/close a gate to proceed. It wasn’t technical at all until I reached Mud Lake but from there on I encountered a 4×4 trail of pot holes, puddles and trees roots. Three water crossings then led me to the steepest climbs I’ve ridden since my last Welsh Enduro. A jeep width trail damaged by 40cm deep rainwater ruts and littered with loose stones took me to a plateau where I was sure the trail would peter out. I took a few wrong turns before finding the right route and was soon cruising along a pristine logging road at 80km/h.

Mud Lake, BC

Along the 'Technical Route', BC

It was late afternoon and time to start looking for a suitable bush camp when I spotted a jeep trail heading steeply away to my right as the logging road descended into a valley. The valley turned out to be the splendid Farwell Canyon and I’d picked a trail to the overlook.

Just as I made my decision to camp so a 4×4 arrived. I was expecting the ‘can’t camp here speech’ but a family of six emerged and we struck up a conversation. They were cattle farmers from Vanderhoof some 4hrs to the north and were returning home from a three day camping trip and invited me to join them for supper.

Once they’d packed up I took some photo’s in the setting sun. Little did I know that the forest fire on the opposite ridge would be a taste of things to come.

Farwell Canyon bush camp, BC

Forest fire opposite my Farwell Canyon bush camp, BC

It’s all gone up in smoke!

Farwell Canyon was unlike any other I saw in Canada and resembled a miniature of India’s Spiti Valley. No photos though because of the haze of smoke from a forest fire. Forest fires would come to dominate my next few days and not for the last time, so I would come to learn.

North of Farwell Canyon is the town of Williams lake. I rode 310km north from there before emerging from the smoke. The sun was a deep red like you’d see at sunset only it was the middle of the day. In Vanderhoof I rejoined tarmac and rode west on Hwy 16 to Kitwanga and the start of the Cassiar Hwy. An electronic sign at the start of the road said it was closed at km 690 just south of the Yukon border due to a forest fire. Enquires revealed that it had already been closed for two days.

It would take me two days to get there with my planned side trip off the main Cassiar and a look at the map revealed that to ride around would involve a 1500km detour. I decided to continue in the hope the road re-opened by the time I got there. Even if I had to sit there for three days it would take no longer than riding around it.

My two side trips off the Cassiar Hwy took me first to Stewart where steep, pine covered hills met the pacific in a setting you’d expect to find in New Zealand. A few bears sauntered across the road along the way, neither being too bothered by my presence.

Black Bear on the road to Stewart, British Columbia

My second side trip followed the Tanzilla River to Telegraph Creek. Some friends of mine had raved about it after their Canadian holiday last year and I was keen to see the place. Once out of the trees the ride in on a forest road was very picturesque with the river cutting a gorge way below.

Road to Telegraph Creek, BC

In Telegraph Creek I didn’t recognize anything from their photos. It was even smaller than I expected and didn’t take long to look around.

Telegraph Creek, BC

Later on I Google’d it and realized my friends had been to Telegraph Cove (on Vancouver Island)…DOH!!!

Back at Dease Lake, where the Telegraph Creek road meets the Cassiar Hwy, I called into the general store for supplies and the latest news on the forest fire. They had a few aerial photos of the fire that was still burning and it was huge. The latest news said that the following morning, waiting traffic would be escorted through the closed stretch of road at 0800. The convoy would leave from Beaver Dam rest area 200km to the north. The rest are was full of RV’s and a few trucks all waiting for the escort.

At 0745 an escort vehicle arrived along with a helicopter spotter.

Escort team. Cassiar Hwy, British Columbia

Warnings that it wasn’t advisable for those with breathing difficulties seemed a little over the top. It was a little smoky but nothing like I was expecting. 60km later we crossed the Yukon border to meet the Alaska Highway and queue of RV’s waiting to be escorted south. I turned right and rode into Watson Lake where I found the ‘Forest of Signs’ at the visitor centre. The collection currently stands at 68,000!

'Forest of Signs'. Watson Lake, Yukon

I had a shower at a campground at the east end of town then headed NW on the un-surfaced Robert Campbell Hwy where I spent the next two days looking at trees. Not for any special interest or scientific reason but because that was all I could see! Actually, that’s not strictly true. A huge bear crossed the road ahead of me way off in the distance. It dwarfed all the other bears I’d seen and I wondered if it was my first (and sadly only) Grizzly sighting?

West of the Ross River township I followed a maintenance trail below a line of overhead power cables to an open area atop a small hill and pitched my tent.

Daylight this far north at this time of year is very deceiving. Sitting in my tent at 2300 the red hues of sunset remain on the horizon and it will be another hour or so before it’s fully dark. Even then it will only remain so for 4-5hrs.

The next day, just outside the historic gold rush town of Dawson City, I followed a dirt road to ‘Dredge 4’ . The last of the two biggest dredges ever operated in the region. Built in Ohio in 1912 at a cost of $½million, it cost the same again to transport and assemble it. It made $800k in its first year of operation! The 90 minute tour was excellent and capped off with a B&W video made in the 1950’s. What stuck in my mind was the noise. To prevent gold flakes sticking to the bucket arm, nothing was greased! The screeching could be heard for miles and certainly destroyed the hearing of the operators.

'Dredge 4'. Dawson City, Yukon

Alaska

At the north end of town a free ferry crossed the Yukon River and led to the so called ‘Top of the World’ Hwy to the Alaskan border. I’d deliberately chosen this, the smaller of the two entries to Alaska in the hope it would be quieter and I’d get a better reception than I had on my previous encounter with US immigration. If I was refused entry I’d be stuck in Canada with a US registered bike and no overland route to Mexico. The border was empty as I approached the window and handed over my passport. As soon as I started answering questions I could see the disbelief in the officers’ eyes and I was soon invited inside for a chat with his senior. As he thumbed through my passport I had to explain every US and Canadian stamp in it along with my travel plans, when where and why I bought my bike etc. Eventually they chilled out a bit and showed some interest in my journey. Then, to my surprise he issued me a new I-94 valid for 6 months and told me to keep it when I re-entered Canada on my way back from Alaska.

The road followed a twisting ridgeline above the undulating landscape of trees and the dirt road glowed a golden brown in the falling light. ‘Moonraker’ (from the David Arnold album of James Bond themes) came on my iPod; the first line of which is ‘Where are you?’…Where am I…I’m in Alaska baby…ALASKA!!! And I thought of Brian (Chapter 9 – Who’d given me the album) and his lovely family in Denmark. I rode on with a warm fuzzy feeling and a big grin on my face.

The road was in much worse condition than I’d expected for a major route and it wasn’t until I stopped that I learned it had only re-opened two day earlier after being washed out by heavy rains.

At the gas station in Chicken  (yep, that’s what it’s called) a tank of gas came with a free nights camping and  so I pitched up for the night next to a couple from Illinois on his ‘n’ hers BMW 1200 Adventure’s. They’d had a torrid time with her bike since leaving home five weeks earlier. They’d been trailered to a dealership twice and spent $2000 on four repairs!

And whilst on the subject of repairs, my front tyre was in desperate need of replacement. On the dirt it had been by far the best I’d used but it was shot in 4k km. A Michelin T63 will go 15k at a push so I was expecting at least 8k from the Dunlop.

Dunlop D606 after 6953kms

Instead of riding to Fairbanks and on up to Prudhoe Bay I’d have to ride SW to Anchorage for a new tyre first. The Glenn Hwy to Anchorage afforded mountain views to the south…

Glenn Hwy, Alaska

…and whilst the glaciers were an impressive sight it was all too easy to see just how far they’d receded…

Glenn Hwy, Alaska

My US/Canada road atlas has the scale of the US pages in Miles and the Canadian pages in km’s. I’d forgotten this as I rode into Alaska and completely messed up on the distance to Anchorage. I ended up buying supplies in Palmer then backtracking to find a bush camp.

Might have to watch my step bush camping around here…

Friendly lot...the Alaskans!

Once in Anchorage I visited a few shops before finding a suitable front tyre at Alaska Leather. My oil was also overdue a change and my air filter needed cleaning. It was raining and I wondered how/where I was going to carry out the maintenance when I spotted a disused unit on a retail park. The original entrance was under cover and faced away from most of the other shops & restaurants so I bought 4l of water from the supermarket (to make into an oil drain pan) and unpacked undercover.

Mall Maintenance. Anchorage, Alaska

It was quite late when I finished but I’d remembered being told at Alaska Leather that the family owned Harley Davidson dealer in town offered free camping for all motorcyclists. I arrived at the closed dealership to find a small grassy area complete with picnic tables. In the morning I also discovered free coffee in the shop along with very friendly staff and an immaculate washroom with shower – all for a donation! It was a great service – Thanks Guys.

Sharing the car park was motorcycle tour operator MotoQuest (formerly Alaska Rider Tour). The staff took an interest in my bike, a conversation was struck up and I was soon invited to hang out, use their WiFi etc. In the corner I spotted a huge pile of used tyres (wish I’d seen it yesterday!) and found a suitable rear that was mine for $50. I didn’t need one for a while but I would need one before re-entering the lower 48 (States) and didn’t want to pay the outrageous Canadian prices.

The weather forecast wasn’t good. It seemed I’d missed the Alaskan summer by a week and whilst all the talk was of the recent warm weather, the forecast was for rain.

It looked slightly better in the south so I decided to take a look down there for a couple of days. If I was lucky the weather in the north might improve.

with Brendan at MotoQuest, Anchorage, Alaska

I took a ride over Moose Pass to the port town of Seward. Thanks to the cloud it was like riding through an art gallery with the lights turned off. You could make out the shadows on the wall and knew if you could see it would be beautiful; but you couldn’t.

I left Seward and headed for Homer on the Sterling Hwy. It was late in the day and time to look for a place to camp but with every bit of flat land squeezed into the valley being utillised I couldn’t find anywhere and for the first time since Crater Lake NP back in Oregon I ended up in the state run Johnson Lake Recreation Area.

The next day it rained….and rained…and then rained some more and for the first time (I think) since Tim Hobin and I camped on Bruny Island off the coast of Tasmania back in 2008 I spent the day confined to my tent.

The following day I awoke to the sound of… silence! No rain pattering on my tent. It was still overcast but I headed back to MotoQuest to collect the used tyre I’d left with them. In the car park were the two Suzuki DRZ400’s I’d seen in the workshop a few days ago. They belonged to Dave and Francine from New York who have spent two weeks, twice a year, for the past two years riding across the US, storing their bikes, flying home then repeating. I’d come across the trip report – The Mobius Trip – when choosing a replacement for Lady P. They invited me to share their lunchtime pizzas and we managed a brief chat whilst David beaver’d away replacing chain & sprockets etc. They did, after all, only have two weeks.

That night I found a bush camp alongside the Chulitna River just outside Denali NP. Once again I awoke to an overcast sky and it was soon drizzling as I headed north. As I approached the park entrance though the cloud broke up to reveal blue sky so I took the road into the park as far as you’re allowed to take your own vehicle, to grab a glimpse of the highest peak in North America, the 6194m Mt.McKinley.

It may have been my first bit of luck that day but it wasn’t my biggest. On the long downhill run towards Fairbanks I ran out of fuel. No problem…reach down and turn the fuel taps from ‘ON’ to ‘RES’….NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!…I hadn’t reset them from the last fill…the tank was dry!!! I whipped the clutch in and crouched behind the screen as best I could to the run down the hill. I was dreading a long push but as I rounded the next corner there were not one but TWO gas stations at the bottom of the hill. Yeah, yeah, yeah….’You lucky bastard’…I can hear you from here Kinger!

Across town I found Dan Armstrong at the business he runs from home – Adventure Cycleworks. Dan kindly agreed to babysit my spare tyre whilst I rode up to Prudhoe Bay, 400km north of the Arctic Circle.

Dan Armstrong - Adventure Cycleworks

He also recommended the ¾lb burger at the Hot Spot truckstop north of the Yukon River. Having not eaten out in a long time his description of the ‘handmade, lean mince patty, topped with mushrooms and salad grown in the garden’ sounded too good to miss. It was bloody good and I crawled into my tent at the roadside just south of the Arctic Circle feeling completely stuffed.

Arctic Circle

Those of you who watch the TV program ‘Ice Road Truckers’ will be familiar with the Dalton Highway: the 667km support road for the Trans-Alaska oil pipeline. Mostly well graded dirt but with some stretches of tarmac it runs from the Elliot Hwy to Deadhorse, Prudhoe Bay.

I took the obligatory photo at the Arctic Circle sign…

Crossing the Arctic Circle. Dalton Hwy, Alaska

…and soon after was donning my waterproofs for what was sure to be a good soaking.

'Yep...looks like rain'

Sure enough, 40km or so south of Coldfoot it started raining. Looking at a map you’d be forgiven for thinking Coldfoot is a town, where it is in fact little more than a truckstop. A sign on the counter inside read :

‘The pumps will automatically lock out at 217 gallons preventing everyone from pumping fuel. If you require more than 217 gallons please inform staff. The cost of 217 gallons is $997”

There are no services between Coldfoot and Deadhorse (400km) so I filled up with fuel and head out into the first of many delays in the ongoing roadworks. Unbelievably, trucks in the US are not required to have mudguards so the spray they produce create some severe visibility problems. When they pass in the opposite direction in the rain whilst driving on tarmac it’s bad enough, but on wet dirt roads your visibility is reduce to zero every time one passes by. I soon got pissed off with the constant visor wiping, stopping, cleaning etc and was glad to get to the foot of the Atigun Pass where the rain stopped and the truck traffic significantly reduced.

Approaching Atigun Pass, Dalton Highway, Alaska

The Atigun Pass leads to the Atigun Valley

Atigun Valley, Dalton Highway, Alaska

This section was clearly the highlight of the Dalton Hwy although it continued to be nice until it climbed away from the Sagavanirtok River. Camped along the roadside all through this section were hunters who’d obviously been here for some time.

Apart from the Atigun Pass and Valley where it runs underground, the oil pipeline is never far from view.

The 1288km pipeline built between 1974 and 1977 not only cost $8 Billion, the 1288km but also the lives of 32 construction workers.

Twelve pump stations along the pipeline maintain the temperature of the heavy crude to keep it flowing to the next station. Un-insulated, this heat would have serious consequences for the permafrost on which the pipeline is built and so aluminium radiators on every support absorb the cold from the air and transfer it to the ground. Each support also has a ‘sleeve’ to allow the pipeline to expand and contract lengthwise and the ‘zig-zag’ shape of the pipeline layout allows for lateral movement – all very clever!

A chilly mist hung in the air for the last 50km into Deadhorse so I didn’t hang around long. I took a few photo’s, filled up with fuel at the 24hr un-manned station, visited the general store and with the coffee shop closing 90 mins before my arrival was glad to find a free one in the hardware store.

It was about 6°C so I didn’t hang around too long and was soon heading south once again.

Deadhorse General Store, Prudhoe Bay, Alaska

Winter transport. Deadhorse, Prudhoe Bay, Alaska

Southbound

I had planned to camp at Galbraith Lake at the north end of the Atigun Valley but when I got there it was raining again so I decide to push on. I figured the roadworks would be shut down for the night and I wouldn’t have the 90mins worth of delays I’d encountered northbound. This far north in August daylight has only just stopped being a 24hr affair and it was only just dark when I rolled into Coldfoot to top up with fuel at midnight. By 0130 I’d made it back to the Arctic Circle where I knew there was free camping and it would be easy to set-up in the dark. At 990km it had turned into the longest day of the trip.

Southbound on the Dalton Highway, Alaska

My planned early start the following morning went out the window when I met a group of Brazilians at the Arctic Circle sign where I was eating breakfast. Ronaldo, Escorse, Marcio and his son were on a two week trip on rented KLR650’s and were good fun and invited me to stay when I return. Ronaldo lives right on my planned route through the Amazon. They spoke a little English and I spoke no Portuguese. Once they learnt I’d been to South America though they had me speaking in pigeon Spanish which was a real brain tester after a year away. A year!!!!Bloody hell!!! Where did that go!? I’d better pull my finger out and keep riding south…

Last stop in Alaska was back at Adventure Cycleworks to collect my tyre and was Rosie. The Dalton Highway is sprayed with the somewhat corrosive Calcium Chloride to help hold it together and the sooner I got her washed off the better.

Dan washed her off for $10 and with my luggage re-loaded and my rear tyre strapped on I hit the road south.

Over the next few days I cruised down the Alaska Highway through Tok, re-entered Canada, Destruction Bay, Haines Junction, Whitehorse and back to Watson Lake.

Just outside Haines Junction I narrowly avoided a big storm but did get to see some cracking rainbows.

Mmmm...not looking good for pitching my tent!

Although the view from it was pretty good!

At the campsite I’d stopped at for a shower on the way north I’d noticed they were charging $10.50 for a ‘shady tent site’. Combined with the $2 coin-op showers and laundry and free WiFi it wasn’t just the bargain of Canada, it was the bargain of North America and remains the only commercial campground I’ve stayed at. I spent two nights, did some laundry and some bike maintenance and chatted with the few motorcyclists that came and went. Amongst them were a German couple on a BMW 1200GS who’d ridden up in stages from South America. They’d been stuck in an even smaller down the road for a few days awaiting a new back tyre. By the time it arrived and shipping and fitting were added to the $250 price, their bill was $400!!! FOR ONE TYRE!!!!!

They too had ridden up the Cassier Hwy and I was surprised to hear that the 0800 convoy was still in place – two weeks later. When I asked the site owner about the fire he said it was still burning and now covered 20,000 hectares (50,000 acres). Numbers varied depending who you asked but almost 400 forest fires were burning across the province of British Columbia compare to just 56 at the same time last year.

Although affected by the smoke, the next day was an absolute joy.

Bison grazed at the roadside…

I found a cracking spot for lunch…

A mother black bear strolled by with her two cubs…

And finally I found a lovely bushcamp…

Bush camp at Toad River, Yukon

The following day was my birthday and was about as bland as it gets. I didn’t give a monkeys’ though…my head was still full of great images from the previous day.

Another day took me to Prince George where I had an invitation to stay from Kelly & Brandi who’d been following my Trails of North America thread on the ADV Rider website. They’d been mad keen mountain bikers until Brandi broke her back in a 2007 car crash in Cuba. Though far from 100% she’s made great progress since being screwed back together and they now enjoy the slightly gentler pastimke of motorcycling; in fact, they returned from a two week 3800km trip 10 mins after I arrived.

I spent two nights with them and used the day in between to change the engine oil and wash the oil filter, clean the air filter (or rather Kelly did) and change the rear tyre. Brandi was working away from home so I started cooking chilli before Kelly took over and did a cracking job. Dinner was eaten in front of the TV with a few beers, laughing or heads off at ‘Nitro Circus’.

It’s all gone up in smoke II

I left Prince George under a shadow of smoke and rain storm and didn’t ride out of it. I camped just outside Jasper NP but the ridgelines on either side of the valley road were but a pencil line in the sky. At Jasper I turned right onto the world famous Icefields Parkway. Visibility was a little better but still far below par.

Icefields Parkway. Alberta

I rode on down to Banff where it was decision time. Should I stay or should I go? In the end I decided to go. If I couldn’t see the NP at its best I’d rather wait until another time. The NP would be preserved and one day I will return with a RV and a MTB. But for now my time will be better spent back in the US where there are things I want to do that I may never have the opportunity to do again.

I left the Banff NP via the Kootenay NP and over the next three days made my way back to Vancouver.

Along the way I passed through Kimberley, Kamloops and Whistler. It wasn’t until I got to Lilooet approx 150km west of Kamloops that the smoke began to clear just in time for a great view of the Fraser River Gorge; although you can still see the haze in the distance.

Fraser River gorge, British Columbia

A little further SW along Hwy 99 towards Whistler the smoke finally cleared

Hwy 99 SW of Lillooet, British Columbia

I arrived back at Kev’s in Vancouver 25 days and 12,104kms after leaving. It had been a whistle stop tour of Canada but for various reasons. 1 – I had arrived in Canada seven weeks later than expected. 2 – Canada is crazy expensive. My daily spend was 60-70% higher than the US for the same standard of living. 3 – Forest fires had left the countryside looking way below its best.

Kevin Beretta

Pulling back some time had done me a favor. When I re-enter the US at the weekend I’ll be able to visit a few places I thought I’d have to miss out and still be able to follow the route I want to.

All being well my next update will be just prior to entering Mexico around the first week of October.

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There’s something cozy and secure about being tucked up inside your tent, warm and dry, whilst listening to the wind howling through the trees outside. It’s a primeval feeling like a subconscious return to the womb; or am I just rambling on, talking bollocks…?

I’ve spent 27 of the past 31 nights in my 6’ x 3’ home and I’ve finally pitched it somewhere for long enough to write something. So here I am, listening to the sound of the Colorado River as it heads for the Grand Canyon, typing what I hope will be a worthy summary of the past…bloody hell…has it really been 5 months!!??

A Tale of two Families…Pt I

There are times in all of our lives when we have to take a step backwards in order to take two forwards and for me the past six months have been just such a time. When I made the decision to replace Lady P I contacted my old employer in the hope of securing some temporary work to pay for her replacement. It may have worked out had I wanted 18+ months work but I didn’t and it was my sister Shell and partner Paul , struggling to find trustworthy tradesmen in Jersey, that made me an offer that did us both a favor. As a result I spent 10 weeks in Jersey over Christmas and the New Year, re-modeling and replacing the bathroom, building a loft in the 6m long garage and replacing the skirting boards and architraves in what would become my new niece, Billie’s room. I owe a huge Thank You to Shell and Paul without whom Lady P’s replacement would not have been possible.

Talking of Lady P, it seems not everyone has understood the name. It’s short for Lady Penelope of Thunderbirds fame, my favorite program when I was a kid.

During my time in Jersey I made a short trip back to the UK, primarily to fulfill my ‘appointment’ at the US Embassy in London for a 6 month visa. I’ll spare you the details but it was somewhat of a palaver and included completing a form listing every country I’d visited in the past 10 years, the last two places I was educated and my last two employers!

Hometown visit

From London I took the train to Andover (my ‘home’ town). The last time I’d been there was in April 2007 (at the end of my first year on the road) for my best mate Jez’s 40^th birthday. With just a few days notice, Jez had done a great job of rounding up my friends and 20 of us enjoyed a few beers in Andover’s oldest pub, the Angel Inn before 15 of us made for a rowdy table in the Light of Asia Indian restaurant.  Tony Tanner and Steve Conway were on particularly good form with the behavior, humor and conversation no different to that of The Winton School dinner table we’d shared from the age of 11. Thanks to everyone who made the effort to come out, especially so soon after Christmas, it was bloody great to see you all. I only wish I’d had more time to chat with each of you.

I spent 5 days in Andover which wasn’t nearly enough time to catch-up with everyone I wanted to even though it seemed I spent every waking moment visiting friends.

Nobody wants to read a list of Thank You’s other  than those mentioned so I’ll just say a BIG Thank You to everyone who put me up during my time In England, cooked me dinner, drove me around, bought me beer and coffee, etc. You all know who you are – THANK YOU!

Whilst on the subject of Thank You’s, I need to say a BIG THANK YOU to Dean Buck and BMW Park Lane for supplying me with a new BMW Rallye 2 Pro riding suit. Mr Red, who became Mr Pink, is now Mr Blue…

And finally…thanks to Nick Muddle at Scottoiler UK for supplying me with another unit for the DR. It’s all about lubrication you know…

A Tale of Two Families…PtII

I returned to Ian & Jo-Ann’s in Milford, MA in the middle of February and was once again welcomed as another member of the family. The weather was fickle and went from snow to rain to flooding to a heatwave then back to rain and eventually sunshine. Building the DR (see ‘Suzuki’ tab) took longer than I’d expected due to many unforeseen delays but Ian and Jo-Ann were adamant that I stay for as long as it took to prepare the bike properly and for that I’m truly grateful. I spent many days freezin’ my ass off in the garage, sometimes accompanied by Jo-Anns’s 80yr old father John, but the coffee pot was as warm as the welcome.

The Barr Family - Jo-Ann, Ian, Nicole and Ashley

After forcing down another of Jo-Anns FatBoy breakfasts I finally rolled out of Milford on the morning of April 12^th; a little heavier than when I’d arrived thanks to Jo-Anns cooking. Even a pair of shorts I’d bought whilst I was there were tight by the time I left! There was a standing joke about me building a sidecar for Ashley the dog and as I rode away I couldn’t help thinking what good company she’d make.

Saying goodbye to Ashley

It was pleasant riding past the painted wooden houses that define New England, through farms with their age old barns and vintage machinery on display.

Another change of plan

Having spent ten weeks in Jersey working on Shell & Paul’s house and then another eight in Milford building the DR I had to re-think the next leg of my journey. When I left Peru at the end of September it had been my intention to return to South America asap, but now I was way out of sync with the weather and it made more sense to stay in North America and ride up to Alaska this summer, then aim for Mexico in October (having missed the intense summer heat) and Colombia for January 2011.

The Trans West Virginia Trail – TWVT

Whilst looking for a suitable route from Massachusetts to Georgia I came across the TWVT on the ADVRider website. The title doesn’t do it justice as it starts at Frenchtown on the New York/ Pennsylvania border and runs through Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia and Kentucky to the Tennessee border at Jellico. Made up of as many forest roads, farm tracks, mining roads and minor roads as possible it’s a 5-6 day 1800km ride through the backwoods.

It was a day and a half’s ride to Frenchtown and being so early in the year I pitched my tent next to a deserted lake in High Point State park before tucking into the last of Jo-Anns’s home cooking – frozen beef stew J Damn’ I miss you guys already!

The following morning I picked up another route from ADVRider, The Trans New Jersy  Trail – TNJT. I’d hoped to ride quite a bit of this but having left Milford a month later than I’d hoped I had to modify it a bit to suit. It wasn’t long before I was riding a dirt road through the Kitatinny Mountains when I saw something large and back cross the road around the next corner.  As I rounded the corner so I saw a Black Bear bounding away up a steep embankment through the trees. It was (and still is at the time of writing this) the only wild bear I’ve ever seen. It was a magical moment.

Day 2 on the TWVT

The magic didn’t last long though as a few corners later it started raining and once out of the forest I could see there was no end to it so I bailed out of the TNJT and headed for Frenchtown and the start of the TWVT.

I’d exchanged several emails with Chip Grose (the guy who has dedicated a HUGE amount of time and effort into putting this route together) and had asked him about the possibilities for bush camping along the way. He put me in touch with another ADV inmate Mike Mullins who owns a piece of land along the route. Mike invited me to camp on his land and made arrangements for Chip to visit whilst I was there.

Mike and I got along straight away and we spent my first full day there racing around the woods in his Polaris Razor. I don’t think too many people outside the US will be aware of what this is but imagine a cross between a golf cart and a quad bike with an 800cc engine and automatic, hi-low ratio gearbox with switchable 4-wheel drive and a top speed of 63mph. Mike lives on the edge of the Hatfield-McCoy trail network which with 2000miles of trails is the largest playground for dirt bikes and ATV’s east of Moab, Utah.

Mike's Polaris Razor - damn good fun!

Mikes playground in the woods

One minute we were racing flat out along forest roads, sliding through corners WRC style. The next we were climbing impossibly steep hills and crossing creeks littered with vertical entry and exits over slippery rock. I was amazed at what it was capable of.

All of a sudden we’d run out of time and headed back to Mike’s for a shower before Chip arrived for a BBQ. He made a good job of the steaks and as we chatted about the final two days along his route so Mike decided to join me.

Whilst Mike got his stuff together I washed my air filter, changed the front tyre and generally tinkered about and the following day we hit the trail again.

The following two days were in total contrast to the three I’d spent riding to Mike’s. Whilst the Pennsylvania/Maryland/West Virginia section had been like a tour of millionaires homes, we were now riding through coal mines and little communities where Cletus and cousin Jed sat on the porch waiting to play a tune for an unsuspecting tourist. When it came to camping in the woods, the bears were the last of my worries!

On the first evening (which happened to be a Sunday) we pulled into a church car park to check the map for tracks into the forest for a bush camp. One of the church goers asked if we needed help and promptly directed us to a track just 100m along the road. At the top of the track we came upon a dead end (literally) as we rode into the cemetery. Baffled by the directions we were about to discuss our options when the guy who’d sent us there arrived in his truck and said “If you boys are just looking for somewhere to sleep, you can sleep in the covered picnic area behind the church”. So we did, and whilst Mike hung his hammock so I rolled out my bed on top of a picnic table (warmer than the concrete floor).

Mike chose the hammock...

...I chose the table

Our second day took us across Kentucky on a lot of good forestry tracks. As per yesterday I was amazed at the mixture of homes on some of the backwater roads. Shambolic trailers (mobile homes) with the yard full of old cars on blocks, disused domestic appliances and every kind of junk and a scattering of kids toys were often overlooked by brand new 5+ bedroom homes with manicured lawns and new cars.

The amount of dirt roads on the Kentucky section, and a cock up whilst navigating one of the three possible ‘alternative’ additions to the route, made for a long day in the saddle. When we rolled into Jellico’s supermarket early evening I was ready to grab some supplies and head for the forest. All Mike could think about was a hot shower and a comfy bed and he was soon on the phone to Days Inn. The deal was done – Mike got us a room to share and I provided dinner and so with the curtains drawn so not to upset anyone I cooked up Spag Bol.

Mike Mullins

Next stop – Cogent Dynamics

Mike had been good company, always smiling and joking, so the possibility of meeting up with him out west later in the year is something to look forward to. For now though it was time to go our separate ways. With a leaden sky I donned my waterproofs and rode south through Knoxville, Tennessee and over the Smoky Mountains in the pouring rain (I later learnt from Mike that he’d looked at the sky and stayed another night in the hotel – call yourself a dirt biker; poof!)

Cogent Dynamics owner & Mastermind - Rick Tannenbaum

Cogent Dynamics in Fletcher, North Carolina are the company that modified my rear suspension unit and supplied the parts for my forks. Having read many good reports about them on ADV Rider I had a long telephone conversation with the owner Rick, at the end of which I was convinced they were the right company for me to deal with. After my previous problems with Ohlins I wanted a company that kept every part in stock and was prepared to send them anywhere in the world. Rick not only makes all the parts (so they’re always available) but he put together a spare seal kit for me to carry and relayed several stories of other travelers he’d helped along the way.

After an afternoon in the workshop chewin’ the fat, Rick and his wife Joyce invited me to spend the night . First stop was a roller shuttered warehouse in the, dare I say ‘hippy’?, town of Ashville which, once the shutters were up, became the Green Man pub and had IPA on tap! The next stop was a newly opened Indian restaurant (which I think will do very well) and the evening was finished off with a tour off some of the Art Deco and neo-Gothic architecture of the town.

The Legend that is …Jim Brannon

Jim is only the second person that I’ve given ‘Legend’ status to and I’ve looked forward to seeing him again for many years. I first met Jim back in 1995 when I was racing Triumph Speed Triples in the one-make series in the UK. Triumph UK had invited four of us to attend the inaugural running of the series at Road Atlanta, Georgia and chose me along with Paul ‘Marra’ Brown, Ian Cobby and Alan ‘Batty’ Batson. Marra had taken the place of Scott Zampach’s injured teammate whilst the rest of us rode bikes that had been supplied by Jim Brannon and his ‘Freewheeling’ dealership from Douglassville near Atlanta.

At home with Jim Brannon

With limited practice time we were disappointed to learn that grid positions had been decided in the order in which the entries had been received. Marra was on the front row in his role as replacement rider but Ian, Batty and myself were on row 11.

With two laps to go I passed American Tripp Nobles for the lead but with just two corners to go I had to roll off the throttle to avoid a fallen rider on the blind exit under the bridge and Tripp passed me back. I got a good run on him through the last corner and pulled alongside him as we passed the checkered flag. Tripp got the win by 1/1000^th second – my closest ever finish and a truly memorable race.

Jim and I hit it off instantly and he cordially invited me back the following year to ride at Daytona and Loudon, NH where I finished 2^nd & 4^th respectively. Loudon was the last time I saw Jim and I recalled him saying he was 56yrs old which would make him 70 now.

Freewheeling was easy to find and had expanded somewhat since I was last there. Jim was at lunch but the manager agreed to play along with my surprise and plied Jim with a story of an irate customer that would only speak to him. My back was turned but as I heard him approach so I turned to face him and fortunately he was as pleased to see me as I was him.

Jim is a racer through and through – still is. The first time he won the infamous Baja desert race on a quad was in the millennium year when the race was doubled in length to 2000miles – he was 62yrs old and has won it again since. He’s still the local ‘Masters’ enduro champion but his real passion these days are Karting and cycling on his variety of ultra-trick recumbent bicycles – he cycles 100 miles a week to keep fit for racing. And race he still does. Last year he fitted a Suzuki GSXR1000 engine into his kart and has been timed at 180mph in it. Unfortunately for Jim only a few circuits will let him run it as kart tyres are only speed rated to 145mph!

Jim Brannon with his GSXR1000 powered Kart

At home by the lake I met up with Jim’s wife Becky and youngest son Lance and after an early evening meal in their favorite Mexican restaurant we headed off for an evening at the Barrel Races. This involves horse riders racing into a rodeo arena and following a set, figure-of-eight type pattern around three barrels. Jim’s granddaughter Sydney was racing and won her division – I guess racing is in the genes.

The following evening Jim invited a friend over and we spent much of the evening in Jim’s trophy filled workshop talking shit, tellin’ lies and suppin’ the finest drop of homebrew this side of Hazard County.

It was a pleasure to see Jim, Becky and Lance again after so many years. And talking of many years I hope Jim has plenty more in him. As Steve McQueen once said “Racing is life…everything else is just waiting around”.

Westward bound

Both Mike Mullins and Jim Brannon had told me not to miss the Barbour Motorsports Museum. Included as part of the world class facility that is the Barbour Motorsports Complex just outside Birmingham, Alabama they have on display approximately 600 of their 1200 motorcycles in a five storey museum overlooking the racetrack. By skipping through many of the modern bikes that I was familiar with I just about got to see everything else in the four hours I was there. There were only a handful of visitors thanks to the NASCAR event at Talladega Raceway just up the road and it felt like I was the only one there. I highly recommend it to anyone with an interest in motorcycles and will try (time allowing) to add a photo gallery dedicated to the museum.

Barbour Motorsports Musem

Trans America Trail – TAT

I continued west, bush camping  through Alabama and Arkansas until I reached the Oklahoma border. A guy called Sam Correo has spent many years piecing together as many dirt roads as possible to make a trail ride across the US. It is something I’ve fancied doing since I first read about it some years ago but the $300 cost of the maps has put me off doing the whole ride (that’s what I’ve spent on maps for the rest of the world!). Some reports say there is too much tarmac in the eastern sections and a look at the road atlas suggested it would be easy to find pleasant minor roads through Alabama, Mississippi and Arkansas – which it was. Oklahoma though was/is a different matter. The road atlas shows a grid of straight lines and nothing of any interest could be drawn from it – so I bought Sam’s maps for Oklahoma, transferred all the info to my GPS and picked up the trail on the Arkansas/Oklahoma border.

It was mid-afternoon when I picked up the trail and was pleasantly surprised to find a twisty, undulating dirt roads through forests and streams. I spent the night at Snowdunes State Park (herin- SP) where I met four guys who were just about to finish the eastern leg of the trail having ridden the western leg last autumn. The first 250km or so of day 2 were similarly enjoyable but then the country turned flat, the trail headed straight for the horizon and the south westerly wind tried its damndest to knock me off my bike. The wind alone wouldn’t have been a problem but on the often loose and sometimes sandy sections it constantly tried to take my front wheel from underneath me. It was similar to what I’d experienced in Patagonia though fortunately not as bad.

For mile after mile I searched for some kind of shelter to stop and make coffee but it was mid afternoon before I found such a place. As the trail crossed Hwy 132 I detoured north to a collection of buildings I learnt was called Manchester. “Bollocks…I’ll have to lock everything up” I thought but the place was deserted and I parked up behind and old warehouse for a brew. It wasn’t deserted enough though and soon a pick-up truck pulled up and out climbed an old fella wearing a ‘Retired Reservist’ baseball cap. He was soon talking about his commands etc then noticed the list of countries on my screen. “How’dya get on in all them crazy Muslim countries” he asked. ‘What crazy Muslim countries?” I replied facetiously  before adding that they were in fact full of friendly, helpful, loving people trying to put food on the table like everyone else. “The fundamentalists are a minority but give the majority a bad reputation” I told him. “They are?” he replied questioningly.

I won’t relay the whole conversation but the highlights were:

“Obama is a Muslim”

“What!!!” I replied incredulously … “What makes you say that?”

“He’s got a Muslim name”

“I’ve got a Welsh surname, that doesn’t make me a Taffy!”

“He (Obama) can’t prove he’s American – his birth certificate can’t be found”

“He’s (Obama) a socialist”

“All his people he’s putting into government are Communist”

I’d stopped for a rest but my head was ready to explode. I got back on my bike and took my chances with the wind…God bless middle America!

Dorothy's House in Liberal, Kansas

I spent the night at Alabaster Caverns SP where I was the only camper. That was lucky as there were only two spots out of the wind and I listened to it howling all night. Everything around was fenced off farmland so bush camping wasn’t an option.

Day 3 on the TAT and the wind had changed direction to a westerly. No longer dangerous but it sure did make the DR suck some gas. I detoured into Liberal, Kansas for fuel, supplies and to visit Dorothy’s House (Wizard of Oz) and ate my lunch in my shirtsleeves in the shade. The following day I got snowed on in New Mexico – WTF!

A few sandy jeep tracks made the TAT a little more interesting in the western end of the Oklahoma ‘pan handle’, other than that there was nothing to write home about. I spent my last night on the trail in Black Mesa SP and crossed into New Mexico the following morning.

TAT Oklahoma Day 3

The terrain was just an extension of Oklahoma grazing land until I passed I-25 whereupon the scenery changed dramatically. Hwy 58 through Cimarron was beautiful but there was a storm in the distance and I added an extra layer of clothing and my waterproofs when I stopped for a brew. It was the right decision and as I climbed away from Eagle Nest Lake headed south on Hwy 64 so it began to snow. My thoughts flitted between ‘It’s chuffin’ May tomorrow!’ and ‘What would I pay for a log cabin with an open fire and a huge bowl of Jo-Ann’s beef stew and dumplings!’

Snow in New Mexico

The snow slowed me down somewhat and I was late finding a place to camp. I ended up at the very picturesque Fenton Lake SP (only to find numerous bush camping opportunities just a few km’s further along the following morning). It was the first busy park I’d encountered – fishing in the lake being the big draw – and it was also my first sub-zero night back in my tent. Around -4 or -5°C judging by the volume of ice in my 5l containers.

Arizona

Arizona 2nd May - WTF?

Next on my list was Canyon de Chelly NP on the New Mexico/Arizona border. It was now May 2^nd so  I was somewhat surprised to awake to an inch of snow! After being confined to my tent for much of the morning when the snow turned to rain, I took advantage of a break in the weather to stretch my lags around the campsite. Walking past a camper (RV) I overheard English voices and later joined retirees Paul & Jan from Bisley, Surrey UK for coffee and supper – more of them next chapter.

Also on the campsite I met Pascal and Ed from Santa Fe. They had some good suggestions for routes near Monument and also told me I could camp FOC in the Valley of the Gods.

My trip the USA west will be pretty much a dot-to-dot of National Parks and Monuments  and so it was that I left Canyon de Chelly NP and took a ride through Monument Valley , Valley of the Gods, Natural Bridges NP and on to Moab, Utah where I’d spent a week mountain biking and camping 15 years ago.

Monument Valley

Camping in the Valley of the Gods

My first full day in Moab was a Friday so I decided to get some trail riding in before things got busy over the weekend. It had been hard enough to get a campsite on Thursday afternoon as I rode in and out of ever BLM (Bureau of Land Management) along the Colorado River east of Hwy 191. Eventually I found a secluded spot, too small for most but ideal for a solo motorcyclist. Later on in the Information Centre I overheard that every commercial campground in Moab was full.

'Chicken Corners' trailride. Moab, Utah

Why is Moab so popular? It’s got both Arches and Canyonlands right on its doorstep, sensational mountainbiking and an unrivaled network of trails through the Canyonlands region that are open to OHV’s (Off-Highway Vehicles). People ride motorcycles, quads, side-by-sides and all manner of off-road machines from jeeps to buggies.

So until next time, I’m off riding….!

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Graham & Graham were the first English overlanders I’d met since meeting Richard Harwood in Chile back in January. Young Graham (22) had flown his bike into Toronto in April and ridden north to the ice roads before turning south to cross the USA. Old(er) Graham had started in Los Angeles and the pair met in Guatemala, joining forces for the ride through Central America. We stood on the roadside for an hour or so having a good chat, swapping stories and info. At 4000m the sun on the road from La Paz to Lake Titicaca was pretty intense and after so long in the shade of the city I’d forgotten just how quickly my head burnt. After six months without seeing another overlander I was clearly back on the ‘Gringo’ trail; not since leaving Brian & Fie in Thailand in March 2007 had I seen three British number plates together.

Meeting Graham & Graham outside La Paz, Bolivia

After 19 days in La Paz I was not only glad to be on the road again but especially glad to be out in the countryside. The fields were bare but the sky was blue and the air was crisp as I cruised gently towards Copacabana on the shore of Lago Titicaca. Not just the largest in South America but at 3812m, possibly the world’s highest navigable lake. Having lost a lot of oil from the rear suspension, riding Lady P was like riding a giant Pogo Stick. Luckily though good road conditions meant it wasn’t too bad but stopping was proving a little tricky as the slightest movement made her bounce up and down, affecting my toehold on the ground.

As the road crossed the final pass to Copacabana so the view over the town and out across the lake was beautiful. A patchwork of bleached fields led to the lakeshore where the dark blue waters stretched to the horizon to meet the brilliant blue sky. I headed down into town and soon caught up with Kiwi Bryn Jones at the hostel he’d arranged. I’d met Bryn in La Paz whilst searching for parts for Lady P. He’d read one of my postings on the Horizons Unlimited website and sent me a message from the UK to say he was flying into La Paz and could bring anything (small) with him if it would help. Unfortunately I very rarely check the Horizons message box and he’d already left the UK when I read his message (DOH!). We did meet up in La Paz though and decided to ride together as far as Nasca in Peru whereupon he would turn south and I north. Bryn had bought his BMW K100 in Los Angeles last year and ridden it down to La Paz where he’d stored it whilst he returned to work for another 10 months. Having rushed through the southern part of Peru last year he was keen to back track a little and see what he’d missed.

Walking track along the narrow Isla del Sol

We left the bikes in the hostel and caught the ferry to Isla del Sol where we spent a night in the perfectly located hostel Inca Kala, waited two hours for pizzas in the adjacent hut/restaurant and shared a table with Jan, a young Danish lad who’d recently qualified with a Physics degree having specialized in Cosmology. It was fascinating conversation in which he talked in numbers most of us cannot comprehend but to him were as normal as reading a bus timetable. The following morning we underestimated the effects of the sun, wind and altitude as we walked 4km along the ridgeline to the Inca ruins and returned to the mainland with split lips and burnt faces.

Peru

Bolivia/Peru border at Kasani

Bryn had been a little on edge as the time to leave Bolivia approached. My temporary import document for Lady P had expired three weeks ago but that was nothing compared to Bryn. He didn’t have one. At the border I’d hoped to get into the Customs office first before Bryn upset them but he was processed through immigration quicker than me and beat me to the office.  The customs officer in charge had started ranting at Bryn and was talking about sending him back to the border he’d entered through 10 months previously. I presented my paperwork and held my breath as I was stamped out, the officer either overlooking or failing to notice the expiry date. Meanwhile, Bryn was telling his story to another officer and showing him around his bike. After much negotiating between the three and checking the registration document etc they let him through.

We’d heard stories of ‘Contributions to the Madonna’ being required by the border guards on the Peruvian side so whilst Bryn completed his paperwork I engaged the chief in conversation. He was soon writing down his favorite national dishes and telling me in which regions to find them and it wasn’t long before we were back outside without the word ‘contribution’ being mentioned.  Outside the shop opposite, two local couples in their 60’s were sat at a table having a few beers and it wasn’t long before they’d insisted we join them. The brother of one of the men lived above the shop and they’d all come to visit. They spoke no English so conversation was slow and every understanding celebrated by more beer and a toast and soon an hour had disappeared. A young Peruvian lad who spoke good English joined us at the table  and filled in all the gaps. It had been a good start to Peru and we rode on full of good feelings.

Cusco

The 'floating' Uros Islands, Lago Titicaca

En-route to Cusco we spent a couple of nights in Puno inorder to visit the ‘floating islands’ on the Uros. In a very basic description, the islands are essentially clumps of floating reeds tied together to make ‘islands’ upon which the people of the Uros live. Tourism now supports (but can’t replace) their economy which comes mainly from hunting and fishing on the lake (Titicaca).

Uros Island Girl, Lago Titicaca

Hostel Estrellita in Cusco had been recommended by Carlos, Monica and Richard and with good reason. They were ready with a sturdy ramp to ride the bikes down the three steps into the huge courtyard, breakfast was great value and we were only a few minutes’ walk from the centre. Bryn said my brakelight wasn’t working but investigation showed the inside of the lens and the bulb to be covered in a thick coating of dust.

We visited a few museums in town including the Museum of pre-Colombian Art. An excellent collection of artifacts but all the descriptions seemed to have been written by a ‘modern’ artist describing their piece for exhibition at the Tate Gallery. I’ve never read such bullshit. Plenty of English words I didn’t understand along with many sentences whose words I did understand but whose meaning I didn’t. The last time I had read English like this was entering Syria from Turkey with Danny where a huge board had instructions written in English words but constructed into sentences that neither of us could fathom. On the corner of the ubiquitous Plaza de Armas we had lunch in the Norton Café, full of motorcycling memorabilia and photographs.

A visit to Machu Picchu is the main reason most people come to Cusco but without spending a ridiculous sum of money on a guided trip involved 120km or so of dirt road, something I wasn’t prepared to do whilst riding Lady P with her temporarily repaired rear suspension. It will have to wait until I return.

Nasca

The 600km ride from Cusco to Nasca has been touted as one of the best routes in South America and we weren’t disappointed. It took us two days to cross four 4000m+ peaks and descend to 1800m in between. (If anyone can explain how I can display the ‘profile’ from my Garmin GPS on this site I’d be grateful)

Along the Cusco to Nasca Road

We rode alongside the Apurimac River, famous the world over for its white water rafting, through terraced valleys and across vast treeless plains to the worlds’ highest sand dune (2070m) on the outskirts of Nasca.

Along the Cusco - Nasca Road

We cruised along taking in the scenery and stopping often for drinks and for Bryn to do some filming and despite taking two days for the ride we still rolled into Nasca late afternoon. As we did, so we were met by a couple of hotel touts, something I don’t recall seeing since Turkey. We followed them to a hotel on the Plaza where we were offered a rather nice room for a third of the published price along with parking for our bikes in the lobby. There was already a BMW 1150 Adventure in the lobby so it was going to be a tight fit.

With Bryn and Mike in Nasca. Peru

As we squeezed the bikes through the doorway so we met Mike, the owner of the BMW. Having sold his Chiropractor business in Washington State, Mike was heading south on the first leg of his world tour. He’d found Robert Wicks’ book Adventure Motorcycling (see sidebar link)quite inspirational during his research and so, he said, it was rather surreal to see me walk through the door. The three of us had a very sociable time over the next two evenings with a few beers and good steak.

'Monkey', Nasca, Peru

My main reason for going to Nasca was to see the famous Nasca Lines. Best viewed from the air I took a short flight to do just that and being a single traveler I got the co-pilots seat. I was OK until I started looking through my cameras viewfinder to take some photos whereupon I felt quite sick. The pilot circles each geoglyph both clockwise and anti-clockwise so that everyone gets a good view and he does so with the aircraft banked over at maximum lean so you’re looking virtually straight down. I was glad I went but also glad to return. It doesn’t bode well for visiting my friend Ian Longstaff who is now competing in aerobatic competitions and is insistent on taking me up the next time I visit. I think I’ll have to strap my sick bag on nosebag style.

From Nasca the three of us went separate directions. Mike headed for Cusco along the route Bryn and I had travelled, Bryn headed south to Arequipa and I headed north to the coastal town of Pisco where I would hang out for a few days before entering Lima.

Pisco

The day after my 40^th birthday, 595 people died and 90% of Pisco was destroyed in an earthquake that measured 8.0 on the Richter scale. At least that’s what the International community said. The Peruvian government, so I was told, had declared it 7.9 ensuring it failed to meet the 8.0 requirement to receive government aid. The townsfolk were left to themselves.

The fault line ran right under the Plaza de Armas, alongside the government building and under the San Clemente Cathedral which was holding mass at the time. Whilst the government building remained intact, the Cathedral collapsed killing everyone bar the priest.

I found a very pleasant hostel a few km’s south of the city in Paracas and spent a couple of days taking it easy before heading into Lima.

The Early Retirement of Lady P

Whilst the engine (with the exception of the waterpump of which I’ve replaced 4) has been extremely reliable (apart from the cold starting) the chassis has been another story. The headlight has been held in with zip ties for 3 years + (all the mountings having vibrated themselves to bits), I’ve replaced 4 sets of steering head bearings, 6 fork seals, 7 engine cradle bolts, 4 sets link arm bearings (and the current set are seized), 1 pair of link arms, 1 set linkage bearings (and the current set are seized), 2 Ohlins suspension complete failures and 5 batteries. All that despite stripping cleaning and greasing with waterproof grease on several occasions. Had I been paying dealers to do my repairs I would have spent more repairing the bike than I did buying it.

I could’ve decided to repair Lady P properly and continue my journey to Alaska on paved highways and gentle gravel roads – but that’s not the kind of journey I want. I like to get off the beaten track, cross the mountains via the less travelled passes, camp in the bush, meet people who vary rarely encounter foreigners. To me that is the whole point of having my own transport.

It took a lot of thinking about but I finally decided to replace Lady P and replace her with a Suzuki DR650 (see Suzuki tab for why). After discussing the idea with my sister and old friend Ian Barr in Massachusetts I came up with the following plan: To ship Lady P back to Europe, fly to the USA, buy a used DR650 and ride it to Ian’s in Massachusetts where I would spend three weeks doing as much preparation work as I could before flying to Europe to collect Lady P. I would return to Ian’s at the end of January, finish preparing the DR and return to SA to pick up where I started missing places due to Lady P’s problems. (See Suzuki tab for DR build)

Lima

I rode into Lima early on a Sunday afternoon (the best time to enter any SA city) and soon found my way to Hostel Espańa as recommended by Maarten Munnik. A beautiful old colonial building that appeared as much stately home as it did hostel and is located just a few blocks away from the Plaza de Armas and many beautiful buildings.  Being September though I’d arrived right in the middle of the Garua, a thick cloud/fog that covers the city from June to November.

Lobby parking in Hostal Espana, Lima, Peru

I was in Lima to find a shipping agent for Lady P and doing so proved somewhat of a mission. In fact in turned out to be the worst shipping experience of the trip to date. Prior to my arrival in the city I’d been in touch with Shenker, a large shipping company recommended by Thierry (Switzerland F650). Despite several emails being exchanged it still took another three days and a visit to their office before they came back to me with a quote. I nearly fell off my chair when they did; at U$4500 it was three times what I’d paid from Singapore – a journey of double the distance.

I posted a request for information on the HUBB and received a reply from a very helpful Peruvian now residing in California. He said his brother still lived in Lima and had a friend who worked in a shipping agent. I contacted the friend and set into motion the process of obtaining a quote. His initial response was U$550 + Crating + Bill of Lading + Customs fees. That all sounded good and I guesstimated  a final bill of U$800-900. WRONG! The stumbling block seemed to be crating and it took two days plus the weekend before I got a final quote – U$2100!! Better than the Shenker quote but still way more than I was prepared to pay. A look at his breakdown of cost showed U$200+ union fees and I began to wonder if Lima was just a particularly expensive port and set about making enquires up and down the coast as far south as Santiago in Chile to Quito in Ecuador.

Whilst awaiting replies I started looking through the phone book in the lobby when a taxi driver asked what I was looking for. Once I’d explained he took me to see a friend of his in the building next door who was a travel agent. I immediately thought the taxi driver hadn’t fully understood what I meant but it turned out the travel agent – Enrique – had contacts in the shipping world and within 24hrs had a quote for U$1215 which I naturally accepted.

Two days later I followed Enrique across the city to the shipping agents premises to deliver Lady P. Unfortunately the agent didn’t speak a word of English and whilst I can get by in Spanish on a daily basis, the technicalities of arranging a shipment were way beyond me and I was reliant on Enrique to translate though he was struggling to translate the technicalities also. It was agreed that Enrique and I would return in the morning to complete the paperwork and for me to disconnect the battery, drain the fuel and supervise the packaging.

When we arrived the following morning I was horrified to discover Lady P already packed and it seemed I threw the whole deal into question when I insisted she was unpacked sufficiently for me to disconnect the battery and pack a few extra things. I’d also given crate dimensions that involved removing the front wheel, mudguard and mirrors which they clearly hadn’t been able to do. I was incredulous when told I wouldn’t be able to pack Lady P like that as the shipment would be classified differently (spare parts) and become much more complicated!!

With the battery disconnected we set about the paperwork. This in itself was like nothing I’d experienced in other countries. All the SA countries I’ve travelled through so far use a ‘Notaria’, similar to a solicitor/lawyer just a little bit down the scale (so it appeared). They are used – amongst other things – to authenticate documents, give certain permissions etc. In my case my temporary import document, vehicle ownership document and written agreement with the shipping agent were checked against me and my passport; photocopied, stamped and signed with copies given to me and the agent.

Later that afternoon the agent appeared in my hostel looking rather stressed and insisting we go to the nearest Notaria. It transpired that the Customs office had refused to allow the agent to deal with my temporary import document on my behalf without having permission in writing and authenticated by a Notaria. As a result we sat in another Notarias office for another hour.

During this frustrating eleven days I was kept sane by a few good people in my hostel. Ian, who Id spent time with in Salta and Sucre arrived as did Christian, an American cycling home from Ushuaia and finally Australian Warren. We soon found a cracking lunchtime restaurant near the hostel that served the national dish Ceviche, raw fish marinated in lime or lemon juice and absolutely delicious. A few blocks from there a local baker served great apple pie and a lemon (meringue) pie to die for (5” thick!). A slice of either along with a coffee was less than a quid. Good for the budget – bad for the waistline.

My other task was to track down a suitable Suzuki DR650 for sale in the USA. I found three potentials online, the first of which sold very quickly. The second was a mere 2hr drive from my friends place near Boston and being already suitably modified was looking good but by the time the owner replied to my email it was sold. That left one in Salt Lake City, Utah. My first contact with the owner didn’t go well as he miss-interpreted my initial email and perceived a scam. Once I’d proved my identity and Ian (yes, another one) became very helpful. Working as an aircraft technician for Delta Airlines, not only was the bike properly looked after but he also got me a ‘Buddy Pass’ for my flight from Lima to Salt Lake City. It was the first time in my life I’d got on a plane and turned left (Business Class) and the first time I’d ever wished the flight longer than it was. “Would you like the wine menu sir?”, “Would you like waking for breakfast sir?” After supper I pushed the ‘sleep’ button on the automated chair and stretched out fully under the down duvet. I could learn to put up with that. J

USA

The joy didn’t last long though. My Buddy Pass meant travelling standby and I was soon moving from gate to gate as I was repeatedly bumped from the list in Atlanta airport. Having arrived at 0800 I eventually left at 1820 on the 5^th of 6^th daily flights and was met by man mountain Ian in SLC. He took me to the cheapest Motel in town ( Motel 8 ) but at U$50 it was way out of my budget but I had to suck it up for the night. I bought an internet card and soon found a hostel in the city for U$15. That would be where I would head if I agreed to buy Ian’s bike. Ian picked me up and took me for breakfast before we headed over to his house. With four children the garage was pretty full of bikes and motorbikes for all ages. Amongst everything was the DR, every bit as tidy as Ian’s photo’s suggested, 2006 model, 2402miles on the clock and still wearing its original tyres. After a successful inspection and test ride we agreed a price and set about the paperwork.

The vendor Ian was a Man Mountain!

I had intended to register the DR using my friends address near Boston but a complication that nobody could explain a way around prevented me from doing so. Utah State requires the vendor to remove the license plate(s) (registration plate) at the time of sale. The buyer then applies for a new one, a process which is completed whilst you wait if you attend a Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) Office. DMV’s only register vehicles in their own state so in order for a resident of another state to buy a vehicle they provide a ‘Temporary Tag’ valid for 96hrs. However, Massachusetts don’t allow a vehicle to enter their state on a Temporary Tag!

Luckily for me Ian came to the rescue and said I could keep the bike registered at his address and also use it for arranging insurance, which I did very quickly online. Ian was good to his word and forwarded the insurance papers to me in Massachusetts.

The only downside to the whole process was that it was Saturday and as an attempt at cost reduction the DMV’s opening hours had been changed to 0700-1800 Mon-Thurs which meant staying in SLC until Monday.

I arrived at the office just after opening on Monday morning and within 20 minutes was bolting a new license plate onto the DR.

Golden Arches Tour

No, not Canyonlands…McDonalds!! I became increasingly colder as climbed I-80 away from Salt Lake City.  The DR had neither a screen for wind protection, heated grips, nor a power socket to plug in my heated vest and despite handlebar muffs and two pairs of gloves I couldn’t feel my fingers. As I crested the pass approaching Park City so the three lane interstate was reduced to one as snow covered the outer two. I was planning on taking US-40 across the mountains to Denver to visit Lora Felger whom I’d met in Chile back in February but the weather had other ideas. With snow settling on the Interstate there was no way I could risk a ride through the mountains – I needed an alternative route.

I pulled into McDonalds at Park City to warm up with a coffee, check my map and add a few layers of clothing. Being unable to turn off the engine brought home just how cold it was (the key was frozen in the ignition switch). I hit the kill switch before realizing the lights were still on and so had to park in the sun for 10 minutes before I could remove the key. I approached the counter bright red from the temperature change and with snot dripping from my nose I asked for a Café Latte only to be asked “Do you want that iced or hot?”!!! I think the position of my eyebrows gave away my answer before I could speak. There was, afterall, 5cm of snow on the ground and I was riding a motorcycle!

With my coffee drunk and a few more layers of clothing added I hit the road once more. To keep out of the mountains I followed I-80 due east through southern Wyoming to Cheyenne and I-25 south to Denver. Again the weather decided it was going to have some fun with me and it wasn’t long before I rode into the first of two snow storms. As the snowfall increased so my speed decreased and the intensity at which I wiped my visor clear increased. Eventually the snow on my visor was freezing on faster than I could wipe it off and I was forced to pull onto the shoulder. I put on my safety glasses that I keep for emergency use in the rain and dark and set off along the shoulder at 50km/h with the gap between glasses and helmet giving me the biggest dose of ‘ice cream head’ I’ve ever had. As I rode along I recalled the weather forecast I’d seen the previous day which said “showers”! I’d had better ideas.

I escaped the blizzard before shapping this..

I'd had better ideas!

I rode like this for some 30km or so before moving into some brighter, though windier weather as I entered Wyoming. A call of nature led to a roadside stop and my first incident on the DR. As you can see in the photo, Ian is a big fellow and whilst the 50mm taller than stock seat and extra stiff suspension suited him perfectly they made my life somewhat awkward. At traffic lights I would try to stop at the roadside and put a foot on the kerb but when that wasn’t possible I had to slide off the edge of the seat whereupon I could just about get a big toe on the ground. As I came to a halt I slid off the seat to the left and just touched the floor as a gust of wind blew from the left, blowing me over and snapping off the r/h rear footrest. Bollocks. I thought I’d wait a few minutes before unloading the bike to pick it up in the hope that someone would stop to offer a hand. Sure enough a monster sized 4×4 pulled over and the driver got out to help. After checking I was OK he quickly helped me with the bike and was on his way. He didn’t ask what had happened but I could see him glance at the road that was dead straight as far as you could see in either direction. I felt a complete knob.

Another snow storm came and went but fortunately wasn’t as bad as the first. It was still cold though. An ambient temperature of 3°C meant the windchill at 100km/h was about -12°C and despite good clothing the cold gradually crept in as I sat in it hour after hour. After one final stop for a warming coffee at Ronnies (McDonalds) where I-80 met I-25 I turned south to Denver and rolled into Lora’s just after dark.

Saying goodbye to Ron Nugent

Lora was flying down to Chile the following day en-route to Antartica for her annual 3 month visit – hence the need to ride to Denver in one day. She and Ron were great company and the evening soon raced by. Lora has become a BIG motorcycle racing fan and attended both US Moto GP’s and the WSB in 2009. I could have stayed at Lora’s place once she’d left but staying with Ron was a far more sociable option and the DR was at home in his garage with his immaculate BMW R80 GS, 2 Cagiva Elephants and a Norton Commando(?).

The big push east

Doing my best to avoid the Interstate I picked up US-36 and rode due east. Kansas was defined by mile after mile of undulating farmland. Farmland meant fences and fences meant limited (ie none) bush camping and so I opted to ride on after dark (to avoid being seen) then pitch my tent in a roadside rest stop somewhere NW of Kansa City. Thanks to Ron who’d leant me his camping stove I was able to brew some coffee and cook supper and being 80m or so from the surprisingly quiet rode I had a good nights sleep. I had my tent paced before sunrise and was riding soon after. Within an hour it had started raining and so it was to be for the next 2.5 days. Yep, you read that right, it rained non-stop for 2.5 days, 2500km across half of Kansas, all of Missouri, Illinois, Indiana and Ohio. In fact it didn’t stop raining until close to the Pennsylvania/New York border. Despite wearing a waterproof over my BMW jacket (which has a Goretex liner) I was still wet in a few places by the days end – the lack of a screen was driving the water through my riding gear and the thought of camping really had no appeal. Motels were expensive but I calculated that by riding for a few hours after dark and leaving again before sunrise I could get to my destination near Boston in three days. For U$60 Motel 8 provided a large room with an air-con/heater unit, a bath and a help yourself breakfast so with the heater set to MAX and the room looking like a Chinese laundry I took a long soak in the tub. Despite being wrapped in bin bags most of my kit was damp and I had to get up really early to re pack it all before hitting the road at dawn.

Once again it was Ronnies that kept me going; space to spread out my wet riding gear, a clear view of my bike and good coffee. At one such stop I peeled off three layers of clothing, two pairs of gloves, balaclava and facemask. It was still pissing down outside and as I approached the counter my boots squelched and oozed water. After placing my order I was asked “Is that to eat in or to go?” and I wondered whether the staff were trained or programmed.

Much of the countryside passed me by in a blur of spray from other vehicles but even that couldn’t hide the beauty that was autumn (Fall) in Pennsylvania, where the sheer variety of colours really did resemble an artist’s palette. Once I’d finally ridden out of the rain I should’ve stopped to take some photos but I was pushing my luck to make it to Milford, MA by dark so kept riding.

Old Friends

Ian Barr and I had been friends since 1993 when we’d met whilst working for Stannah Stairlifts in the UK and this was my third visit since he’d emigrated back in 1996. Ian has led a somewhat colourful life that has brought him a long way from Hull to here in MA where he lives with his wife Joanne, her daughter Nicole and a most beautiful, friendly, intelligent Golden Retriever – Ashley.

Haloween proper in the US of A

“Our home is your home – I’ve even cleared the garage out for you to work in”. I couldn’t have hoped for a warmer welcome and was soon in the thick of the banter the Barr household is built on. Halloween was the big event during my stay and I soon found myself sitting on the kitchen floor carving pumpkins with Nicole and the neighbors kids.

Three weeks flashed by in a blur of tracking down parts for the DR, replacing my worn-out tent and other camping kit etc. Ian knew where to source most raw materials but some things (like thin-walled steel tube) took some finding. Ian had me added to the insurance for the ‘Beast’, his old Ford pick-up which was a huge help and enabled me to go in search of tools/parts/materials etc. I won’t go into details about building the DR here but will change the tab ‘Bikes’ to ‘BMW’ and add another – ‘Suzuki’.

Joanne’s cooking and a regular supply of bagels and muffins along with a huge box of candy left over from Halloween helped me add a few pounds just when I least needed it – the run up to Christmas. I justified (or at least tried to) my over indulgence by reasoning that goodies like this were hard to find in South America and it was ok to fill my boots while they were available.

European Vacation

On November 9^th I flew into Hamburg and two days later collected Lady P from the shipping agents warehouse. Having been told the earliest I could collect Lady P was the following day I visited the warehouse to arrange a customs inspection. I was surprised to be told that it was indeed the last day I could collect her and that if I returned tomorrow it would cost me another 45euros in storage fees. Having already paid 200euroes in port duties/handling fees etc I took delivery of Lady P there and then. The office staff were very helpful but the guys in the warehouse weren’t. In Thailand, Indonesia and Chile the warehouse workers fell over themselves to help uncrate my bike but here they wouldn’t even lend me a crowbar. I raced back to the train station, crossed the city and walked back to my hostel where I collected my tools, riding jacket and helmet before retracing my route back to the warehouse. I’d been told they were open until 1800 but as my German is virtually non-existent I may have got it wrong. I returned to find the warehouse in darkness and the main gates locked but with a few lights still glowing in the offices I walked to another entrance and managed to return to my bike where I’d left her in her crate under a spot light. Using a few pieces of timber from the skip I managed to pries open the crate and get her out by myself. After re-connecting the battery she fired-up first time and I set about re-fitting the seat, rack etc as quickly as possible whilst keeping one eye on the shrinking line of cars in the car park.

On the way back to my hostel I stopped for fuel and got the biggest shock I’d had in a long time. 50 euros for a tank full of petrol!!!!!!

Friends from the road

Copenhagen

Riding from Hamburg to my sister’s in Jersey was something I’d never planned on doing but it was a great opportunity to visit some very special people I’d met along the way. Those of you who have been reading from the beginning will remember Brian & Fie (R1150GS Adventure) that Danny and I met in India, Cambodia and Thailand back in 2006/7 and so I took a detour to visit them and their 15 month old son Vincent in their ‘new ‘ home north of Copenhagen.

Leaving Copenhagen behind me I crossed the second suspension bridge to return to mainland Denmark and began looking for fuel – too late. On my way into the country I ran the main fuel tank dry (as I often do) and turned on the auxiliary tanks whilst still moving, only this time the engine didn’t re start. It took me a few seconds to realize I hadn’t re-connected them at the warehouse (they had to be drained for shipping) and by the time I managed to stop on the hard shoulder (I was of course passing an entry slip road when I ran out) I had lost a fair amount of fuel. During my stay with Brian & Fie I’d forgotten all about this episode and combined with the strong headwind my fuel calculations were way off.

St.David of Denmark!

I was, of course, miles from anywhere when I ran out but hoped the ⅓ltr I’d drained from my stove would get me off the motorway and into a fuel station – it didn’t. I could only push Lady P for 100m or so at a time as the combination of Goretex socks and Cold Killer long johns inside my boots wouldn’t allow my calf muscles to expand as they needed and they just seized up. A minute or so rest and I could push for another 100m or so. After 1.5km I was beginning to wonder if anyone would stop when a purple Golf Cabriolet with English licence plates pulled up behind me. David gave me the contents of his spare can and suggested we pull off the motorway for a chat. At the next exit we did just that and he asked how far I was planning to ride as there had been a severe weather warning on the radio, the road south was already blocked and the bridges I’d just crossed were set to be closed. When I told him I was heading to Holland he offered me a place to stay at his place, ½hr drive away.

I accepted and followed him back to his house where his garden contained three cars, a van and five motorcycles. After changing out of my riding gear and hanging it all up to dry we headed into town for some lunch. It turns out David had lived in Denmark for 23 years and was a University lecturer. I also learnt that he wrote for a Danish 250cc European Championship road racing team. Having myself raced motorcycles in the British Championship from 1988 to 1997 we soon realized we knew many of the same people and so the memories flowed. After lunch we drove to his girlfriends house where I enjoyed more Danish hospitality and a hearty evening meal.

Whilst at Davids I picked up a copy of ‘Bike ‘ magazine and flicked through it to find an article of a competition winner riding Barry Sheene’s 1976 world championship winning Suzuki. The winner had won a competition to find Britain’s Ultimate Biker and included competing in Motocross, Road Racing and on-road navigation amongst other skills and the winner turned out to be none other than Will Sawyer, a friend from home who I’d teamed up for the Dawn 2 Dusk 12hr enduro back in 2004. Nice 1 Will!

David had been a real Samaritan and epitomized the notion of travelers looking after fellow travelers that I’d discovered the world over. Another bad day turned good.

The morning dawned drier and brighter and I hit the road in time to get me to The Nederlands in daylight.

Next stop was close to Assen in the north of The Netherlands where I visited Steven & Marlouse, the cyclists we met in Malaysia and Sydney. Having spent 4 years cycling from Holland to Kathmandu, Shanghai to Sydney, New Zealand and India they returned to Europe and cycled home to announce they are expecting their first child in February.

It was a similar story for Maarten & Ilse (Africa Twin) whom we first met whilst staying in a houseboat on Nigin Lake in Kashmir. We spent plenty more time together in Thailand and Malaysia before going our separate ways – Danny and I to New Zealand and Maarten & Ilse to Italy for a slow ride back to Holland where, after two years, two months, two weeks and two days they announced they were no longer just a ‘twosome’ as Ilse was pregnant with their first child – the delightful Lilou.

Finally, I paid my first visit to Luxembourg to visit René (Africa Twin) who I’d met in Puerto Natales, Chile back in January on the day I also met Darren (Australia) and Thierry (Switzerland) both riding F650’s.

It was great to spend some time with all of them – their company as easy as I’d remembered.

Jersey Bound

Luxembourg to St.Malo was the longest leg of my ride to my sister’s. I wasn’t actually booked on the ferry until the following evening but severe weather had recently caused cancellations and was set to do so again the following day. I kept my head down for the 800km ride and was glad of the first decent weather since arriving in Europe. Having had just a quick snack en-route I rolled into St.Malo with enough time to visit the supermarket and strap as much Hoegarden and Leffe beer to my bike as possible before boarding the ferry for the one hour crossing.

Lady P…a Final Word…

My 2004 BMW F650 had carried me 133725km (83095miles) through 37 countries across four continents over the past 3yrs 9mths. Her Odometer reading is 141581km (87977miles). She’s carried me through deserts, along beaches, across rivers and over mountains in temperatures from -10°C to +48°C. Not once has she left me stranded at the roadside. Only time will tell as to whether I’ve made the right decision to replace her.

I cannot leave my ‘BMW Years’ behind without saying two thank you’s. Firstly to Tony Jakeman at BMW Motorrad UK who supported Danny and I from the beginning and provided our Rallye II riding suits which I will continue to wear. And secondly to Dean Buck of BMW Battersea. Dean started his career in the motorcycle industry by polishing bikes my local dealership whilst still at school. From apprentice mechanic to workshop manager Deans attention to detail has made him my first (and last) point of contact whenever trying to resolve a problem with Lady P. Unluckily for Dean (but luckily for me) he cut his teeth in a multi-franchise dealer and so just because I’m no longer riding a BMW doesn’t mean I won’t be emailing Dean when I’m stuck! – Thanks a lot guys.

Christmas and beyond…

Coming to Jersey wasn’t just about retiring Lady P but about spending Christmas with my sister Michele and her partner Paul. Shell and I have always spent Christmas together and in recent years she has visited me in Thailand and Australia. That’s all about to change as she is currently 6 months pregnant (first time) and therefore can’t fly.

I have a return ticket to Boston at the end of January whereupon I will finish preparing the DR and return to my journey. My heart wants to return to South America asap but early enquiries into the weather/seasons suggests I may be better to ride to Alaska this summer and return to South America afterwards. Another factor in re-commencing my journey will be the weather in the NE USA. When I told Ian and Joanne of my plan to leave them mid-February they just laughed and said I wouldn’t be going anywhere by motorcycle at that time of year. “Why not”? I asked… “…eeerrrr…..snow…. I’d completely overlooked that. So, until the snow melts…

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

Chapter 20 photos in Boliva PtII and Peru

I visited three offices on the Brazilian side before I found a guy prepared to make a few phone calls in an attempt to track down someone to process Lady P (my bike) out of the country. His telephone calls led to nothing and for the next twenty minutes I watched from his office window as he wandered from office to office in his pursuit of a customs officer with the ability to process my temporary import document. Eventually he found someone and it wasn’t long before I was on my way.

Paraguay

I rode across the bridge into Paraguay and could have ridden straight into the country without even having my passport stamped, let alone having a temporary import document issued. Once I’d cleared immigration I had to ask around for the location of the customs office and after several false turns, eventually found the ‘Aduana’ where the process was quick, friendly & painless.

As I rode out into the traffic so the difference between the two countries hit me immediately. Bumper to bumper traffic was overlooked by bill boards advertising ‘Tax free electronics’ and hemmed in by street vendors stalls and when the traffic did move parking touts chased me along the street in an attempt to direct me to ‘their’ parking area.

All of the banks, money changers and jewelry shops had security guards brandishing pump action shotguns and wearing cartridge belts across their shoulders like the Mexican cowboys in Westerns. Not wanting to leave Lady P out of sight, I parked on the pavement outside a bank and tried to enter. The revolving door though was locked and the shotgun wielding security guard was gesticulating at a ‘drop-box’ into which people were depositing their phones. Trying to explain that I didn’t have one, in broken Spanish, through an inch of bulletproof glass, proved rather difficult and when I unzipped my jacket to show the guard I wasn’t carrying anything I thought he was going to pull the shotgun on me! All was well in the end and I left town without further hitch.

The rain drove me out of Paraguay after just three nights which was a bit of a shame. Despite all the ‘warnings’ and comments like “OH!! You’re going (to Uruguay) are you?” I liked it. It had an ‘edge’ to it that was more akin to SE Asia than the other South American countries I’d travelled through but despite that, everyone I met was polite, friendly and helpful.

Back to Argentina

After a fairly painless exit from Paraguay and entry to Argentina (though the Argentine Customs system did say that my temporary import document from Patagonia 3 months earlier was still ‘live’ despite my having departed to Chile, returned to Argentina and departed to Uruguay since then!) I rode out into the rain but not before noticing two Chilean registered Harley Davidsons on a trailer heading back to Chile….poofters!

Motorcycling...for boys AND girls!

At the first police checkpoint, a few hundred kilometers from the border I was stopped. This was quite unusual as I had passed countless numbers of them in other parts of the country and had rarely been stopped. When I had and they realized I was a tourist, I was sent on my way with no further questions. This time however, I was asked for my driving licence and ‘seguros’ (insurance). My heart sank. After spending the past few months in Uruguay, Brazil and Paraguay I’d forgotten all about Argentina’s requirement for seguros and it hadn’t been mentioned at the border. When I couldn’t produce seguros I was escorted to the office where the ticket and receipt books were produced and a fine of 300pesos (GBP 60 quid) demanded. Fortunately for me I’d got into the habit of keeping most of my cash tucked away with just enough left in my wallet to look like a realistic amount. I produced 125pesos and the boss just laughed and walked off. When he returned he started ranting about wanting 300 so I shrugged and pulled 15k Paraguayan pesos (10 Arg pesos) from my wallet then tipped it out to show it was empty. After more ranting he told his junior to write me a ticket and a receipt. What little of the explanation of the ticket I understood suggested I had 30 days in which to buy seguros and produce it, along with the ticket, at any police station. I couldn’t buy it that day as it was Sunday.

I rode into the next town, collected some more cash from the ATM and rolled out of town straight into another police checkpoint where I was once again stopped. “Driving Licence & Seguros” – Bollocks…here we go again! As soon as I entered the office I asked to use the toilet where I quickly redistributed the cash I’d just withdrawn about my person. In the office I produced my previous ticket for no seguros and explained about being stopped at the previous checkpoint. They read the ticket and said it was for a licence infringement and that they were going to fine me for not having seguros!! (it pays to speak/read Spanish here!!) I flatly refused to pay anything and said “You are holding my licence. What is the infringement?” They didn’t have an answer of course because there was nothing wrong with my licence. This seemed to agitate them and it seemed they wanted me to return to the previous checkpoint to get the ticket corrected. I flatly refused and pointed to the telephone on the desk at which point the two  policeman started ranting in Spanish and so I started ranting in English! Suddenly, the one holding my licence handed it back and briskly lifted his chin towards the road in an Italian style ‘Go on…fuck off’ gesture.  So I did.

I couldn’t help but think this was all a deliberate scam to extract cash from non-Argentinians coming across the border. Ultimately though, the incorrectly completed ticket (an therefore it’s carbon copy) was for a licence infringement and negated my need to buy seguros. IF anything was ever said about the ticket I could produce my licence and say “No entiendo”!

For the rest of that day and all of the next I rode across hot, straight, flat boring plains where the only things of any interest were the combine harvester crews towing their accommodation blocks behind them. Finally, 1060km from Paraguay, the foothills of the Andes came into view with just a faint, hazy line above the distant tree line. South West of San Miguel de Tucuman I turned onto Ruta 307 and headed for Tafi del Valle and immediately I felt like I’d been teleported to another country. The damp air was in stark contrast to the heat of the plains, moss covered every tree trunk and the temperature plummeted. The road climbed swiftly through the lush green gorge, up to a plateau at 1900m where I found a great spot to pitch my tent on the shore of Lago Nahuel Huapi at the opposite end to the town of Tafi del Valle.

After a night by the lake I rode on past Tafi del Valle. The road soon turned to ‘ripio’ as I headed on up to the pass at 3000m from where I descended through a treeless rocky pass full of huge cacti. I rejoined Ruta 40 for the first time in several months and set about finding my may to the old Pre-Inca Indian ruins that are Quilmes. I managed to pick the wrong trail and rode along an ever steepening and narrowing track towards the pueblo of Quilmes and not the ruins of Quilmes. By the time I’d realized my mistake, turning round was quite difficult but after much sweating and cursing I managed it and as I did so was afforded a cracking view through giant cacti and across the valley.

I eventually found the ‘correct’ Quilmes which was worth seeing but would have been far more interesting, had there been some sort of literature explaining the site.

Cachi

All but the first 20km of the 160km from Cafayate to Cachi are ripio.  Adobe houses are scattered amongst the immense rock formations where the (mainly indigenous) inhabitants manage to scratch what, for most, looked to be a meager living.  Rounding a corner I was surprised to encounter a lake beyond which lay a good sized farm. The lake marked the beginning of a fertile valley that ran all the way to the pretty town of Cachi at 2400m.

Whilst camping on the surprisingly well kept municipal campsite above the town I met Per and Emma from Sweden. They were nearing the end of their three month trip around Argentina and were on their way back to Buenos Aires where Per worked for the Swedish Embassy.  Over a few bottles of wine I learnt that Per was also a ‘Eurocrat’ in Brussels but I tried not to hold that against him.

I left Cachi via the Parque Nacional los Cardones, a large plateau at 2800m where giant cacti grew (bizarrely) on one side of the road only. Leaving the plateau, the air became rather cold as the road climbed to 3300m and turned once again to ripio. The road headed for what looked like a dead end but turned sharp right to reveal the magnificent Quebrada de Escoipe. I’ll let the pictures do the talking…

At the end of the valley the road intersected with Ruta 68 at El Carril. Once again I’d managed to ride into town in the middle of siesta and spent a while riding around looking for a shop in which to buy supplies for dinner. Eventually I found somewhere and after stocking up I headed south out of town so I could see the ‘Quebrada de Cafayte’ in the late afternoon light. It was a good decision as the low sun cast a gentle light on the multi-coloured rocks, adding extra warmth to the already spectacular landscape.  Spectacular rock formations mostly coloured red like western Australia, but also greens, browns, turquoise, pinks and so on. Once again, having my own transport meant I could easily avoid all the tour buses that drive out from Cafayate late in the afternoon and I was able to snap a few photos…

Salta was my best chance of finding tyres for Lady P and so I spent four nights there taking in the sights, looking for tyres, repairing trousers etc. Amongst the sights was the Museo de Arqueolologia de Alta Montana (MAAM) where the star attraction is one of the three 500yr old child mummies found perfectly preserved in 1999 by an Argentinian/Peruvian expedition (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Llullaillaco).  I met a few good lads in the hostel and courtesy of Thomas (Switzerland), enjoyed a rooftop ‘asado’ (Argentine BBQ where the coals are arranged thinly under thick steaks so they cook very slowly….mmmmmm…..) along with Chris (ex-pat Kiwi) and a few French lads.

I had a few things to post home so headed for the correo (post office) with my parcel addressed and ready to go but left open for inspection. My first trip came to nothing when I learned they only accepted overseas mail between 0900-1100 and even then, in a different building. I returned the following day and when I got to the front of the queue was told they wouldn’t accept it unless it was wrapped in brown paper! What difference does that make I asked, only to be told “Those are the rules”. But this is Argentina… not Germany! I exclaimed before heading off down the street to find brown paper. I eventually found some in a pavement newspaper booth and after making a purchase returned to the correo, and the queue. “FM…How much!!” It was a good job nobody understood English when they told me it would be $233pesos (GBP 45 quid!!!) to sent it to England…but I REALLY like that hammock so I bit the bullet and begrudgingly gave Dick Turpin his money.

North of Salta, the old Ruta 9 was a smooth, narrow (single lane) road that wound its way along a valley of trees draped in vines almost all the way to Jujuy. From there on it was much bigger but climbed 1300m as it headed north through the picturesque valley of the Quebrada de Humahuaca. I spent a few days in Tilcara visiting the Jardin Botanico (full of Cacti) and the Indian ruins of Pucara. Similar but smaller than the runs at Quilmes they had much better signage and were therefore far more interesting.

Before leaving Tilcara I fitted the new front tyre I’d bought in Salta and adjusted the steering head bearings. My next destination was the small village of Iruja, accessed via a 49km ripio from Ruta 9. The ride was stunning. I rode through a few tiny hamlets and forded a few shallow rivers before climbing to 3954m for a view across a mountain with a coloured peak of sand(?) unlike anything I’d seen before.

The road then descended via a series of switchbacks onto a plateau in the valley below. Across the almost dry riverbed, the cliff face rose up 200m to a patchwork of fields seemingly precariously perched above. Descending again through another series of hairpins, the road met the river and followed it past some spectacularly eroded rock formations to Iruja. The streets of Iruja were so steep and narrow that I found somewhere safe to park Lady P and set about wandering around to find accommodation. There was plenty to choose from but seemingly none with parking. When I did find somewhere with a courtyard there was nobody home. The sun was setting when I finally found a place on the plaza (which itself was hidden behind a maze of small streets). There was no ‘secure’ parking for Lady P so I unloaded everything and chained her up outside the front door. A lovely old lady fed me well in her ‘restaurant’ close to the plaza and it was a good job she did because breakfast the following morning was shite! Once again I enjoyed the ride back out of the valley and once back on the main Ruta 9 I headed south again and stopped off in Urquia to visit the little cactus roofed church built in 1591. Its most unusual feature though, was a series of poster sized paintings depicting angels wearing 17^th century battle dress and sporting shotguns!

By now my regular lunch stop whilst on the road had become the YPF petrol stations.  I’d camped in several and knew they generally served croissants and toasted sandwiches but most importantly, the best Café con Leche I found in Argentina – and all at the right price. So, after a YPF lunch back at Tilcara, I rode a little further south and turned west onto Ruta 52 and the rather nice little village of Purmamarca, famous for its mountain of seven colours.

Two blocks from the central plaza and immediately behind the church I found a campsite, pitched my tent and sat in the afternoon sun sewing up all the holes in the fingers of my now rather tatty riding gloves. An early night was followed by an early morning to try to catch the low sun on the mountain of seven colours and so after a few attempts to do the scene justice, I packed up and continued west. Once again the scenery didn’t disappoint  and the road hugged the left side of the valley as it passed by multi-coloured rock formations eroded into shapes even my camera struggles to portray. Across the river, tiny small holdings with goat and llama pens were dotted along the bank and up the valley sides. Further along the road began a long series of switchbacks as it climbed steadily to 4200m.

There’s something about being in the mountains that raises my spirit, invigorates me, makes me feel alive. When I look at the rock I think about time, inconceivable lengths of time, Mother Nature. I feel humbled surrounded by this greater force; perhaps this is how religion affects believers? I once heard the timeline of Planet Earth described thus: ‘If the planet were 24hrs old, the human race would be but the blink of an eye’. Hard to comprehend until you come here and stand amongst these giants.

Ruta 52 is the main route to Chile via Paso de Jama but I wasn’t headed that way this time. Instead, as the road dropped down to the salt plateau of Salinas Grandes I turned onto a ripio track and headed south west to San Antonio de los Cobres. Along the way the track not only got rather sandy but the sand was a brilliant white and despite my black visor I was blinded several times and had several near crashes after getting cross-rutted and riding into pot-holes when I couldn’t see. I ended up wearing my sunglasses under my black visor which worked well against the blinding sand but had the visual effect of looking at an underexposed photograph.

I found the only hostel in San Antonio and was in the middle of making some lunch when the manager told me the Tren a las Nubes (Train to the clouds – http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tren_a_las_Nubes) would be crossing La Polvorilla viaduct in 20mins time. “So what?” you all say. Well the Tren a las Nubes remains one of the world’s most spectacular railway journeys, La Polvorilla viaduct is its most photographed feature and this was the first train to run in six months. I skipped lunch, jumped on Lady P and rode the 16km to the viaduct just in time to watch the last carriage clear the structure – bollocks! What a difference 5mins would have made to the photos.

Walking around town that evening I felt I was truly in the Andes for the first time. Not only was I at 3200m but there were very few Latino Argentineans; this was home to the Quechua Indians. Old American pick-up trucks with families of seven wedged across the front seats cruised into town, mothers carried babies in multi-coloured blankets strapped to their backs and older women wore bowler hats. The town’s dirt roads had many shops but as none had signs to indicate what they sold I took a stroll around, peeking through doorways until I managed to find enough ingredients to cook dinner.

Back at the hostel Marcos, the owner, invited me to park Lady P inside. I was grateful for this as the old ‘failure to start from cold at altitude’ had raised its ugly head again and it would be -5°C overnight.

Paso Sico

Despite being parked inside overnight, Lady P once again failed to start despite parking her in the sun whilst I loaded up. Fortunately, around the corner there was a hill to bump start her down. Unfortunately, she still didn’t want to start! Once again I parked her in the sun, sat around for an hour and finally she fired up.

San Antonio de los Cobres (Argentina) to San Pedro de Atacama (Chile) is 350km, the first 250km of which is ripio. The route has been superseded by Paso de Jama and as a result sees little traffic. When I arrived at the Argentine border I was not only the only one there but I was the only person they’d seen that day. The younger employees were very friendly and efficient but there boss was a miserable bastard. It was a pretty remote posting so I forgave him! I climbed away from the border post past rock formations reminiscent of Arizona’s Monument Valley and headed up to Paso Sico itself. The approach to the crest was spectacular as the distant multi-coloured peaks slowly came into view. A truck rolled by in the opposite direction and was only the third vehicle I’d seen that day and it was 3pm.

As the road descended so it turned a corner into a most amazing valley(?) where the grass tufts were a golden yellow and seemed to carpet all but the ripio that cut a line through the bottom and out of sight over the horizon. As the road began its climb out of the valley so I had t stopat the Chilean customs post. Despite being as desolate as the Argentine border post this was a truly breathtaking location and looked across to a salt lake invisible from my initial descent. I went into the office and removed my crash helmet to complete the necessary paperwork. This was the first time I’d realized how sore my ears had become from taking my helmey on and off all day taking photos (If anyone fancies donating a Nikon dSLR with live preview I’d appreciate it!!!)

Chatting with the border guards I learn that the overnight temperature here (4200m) was currently -10°C but would drop to -30°C come August! By the time I left the Customs post it was 1530 and there was no way I would make it to San Pedro before dark. I had to start looking for a suitable place to camp but given my problems getting Lady P started in the morning I needed to find some high ground so I could bump start her in the morning. Luck came my way a little further on when I came across the turn off for Lago Miscanti. The road headed up over a ridge and from where I was it looked as though there was some sort of shelter at the top. Sure enough, at the top of the track I found the entry kiosk for the National Reserve with a curved wall built next to it. Not only was the space behind the wall just big enough for my tent but it was located perfectly to shelter me from the wind. I soon had my tent pitched and dinner cooking; watching the sun go down, coffee in hand. All being well I would have eaten and been in my tent within half an hour of sunset as the temperature was sure to plummet. All was not well though as three female park rangers arrived to tell me I couldn’t camp there. Pissed off? You bet! Communication was entirely in Spanish and therefore limited but I managed to explain my problem with Lady P and my need to be on top of a hill. They wanted me to leave but as the sun would set in another 30mins I flatly refused stating that I didn’t ride in the dark, especially on ripio. Eventually we struck a compromise that involved me re-pitching my tent next to the rangers house inside the reserve which meant missing the sunset, pitching my tent in the dark and eating cold rice for dinner.

I set up my laptop on my camp stool and snuggled into my sleeping bag to watch Gandhi but the battery didn’t like the cold and expired halfway through the film. I awoke to a glorious morning and had to stand my 5ltr water container in the sun to thaw enough water for a cup of tea. It had frozen solid inside my inner tent thanks to the overnight -10°C.

With the best of the scenery behind me I rolled into San Pedro de Atacama but not before noting it was the first time I’d ridden with five volcanoes within my peripheral vision. Made up largely of single story adobe dwellings San Pedro was a tourist trap. Every third shop was a tour agency and the two in between either a restaurant or artisanas. I hung around for a few days and visited the spectacular and unusual ‘Valle de la Luna’ (Valley of the Moon) before moving on to Calama where I camped on a site owned by a retired detective. I was the only one there and in place of a camp toilet block/kitchen he gave me the keys to one of the cabins and so I slept in my tent but had the use of the cabin the rest of the time. On my first morning there I awoke to fog! Unheard of in this, the Atacama desert. Luckily for me it cleased by late morning and I rode 16km north to the mining town of Chuquicamata in the hope of getting on a tour of the worlds largest open cast coppermine. Thanks to fellow overland traveler Goh (from Singapore), I had the GPS coordinates to the car park the tours left from and sure enough I arrived to find several other gringos waiting for the coach.

Chuquicamata is now a ghost town, the last resident having left in February this year. It was quite eerie to visit somewhere so new and yet deserted. The mine had expanded so close to the town that it was deemed unsafe for residents to remain. Our guide had been born in the local hospital, said to be the most technologically advanced in Latin America when it was opened in the early eighties but it is now buried under millions of tons of spoil.

Despite having previously visited Western Australia’s ‘Superpit’ the hole in the ground here was incomprehensible. Already 10km long, 3km wide and 1km deep, it will be 15km long by 2015 when the current three sites are linked. The mine produces 2000 tonnes of copper per day but in order to do so 600,000 tonnes of material are excavated! To help move this, the mine has a fleet of 100 giant tippers including 30 Liebherr T 282B’s – the world’s largest tipper truck with a capacity of 400 tonnes – about the same as a fully loaded jumbo jet!!

Back to San Pedro

From Calama I made an aborted attempt to visit the Geiser del Taito after getting caught in a sandstorm. Instead I headed back to San Pedro then south to Toconao where I picked up the ripio to Peine. En-route I detoured to Laguna Chaxa, a favoured spot for pink Flamingoes.

The route from Peine across the Salar de Atacama and the Cordillera de Domeyko was recommended by Axel (from Santiago) and gave me a real surprise. My maps of the region have no contours and without then this route looked nothing special but after passing several salt mines as I crossed the Salar so the road climbed 500m as it crossed the Cordillera from where it was downhill all the way to the ocean.

After losing one pair of pannier padlocks on the Carretera Austral, I managed to lose the other pair on Paso Sico. The few days I spent in Antofagasta were spent searching the Ferreteria’s (hardware shops) for a set of four padlocks all using the same key. Try explaining that in Spanish! Eventually I found a guy who knew what I was talking about and he showed me a picture of exactly what I wanted on the back of the packaging of one of the manufactures. He didn’t have any locks though. He did however phone the local distributer and after waiting half an hour for a return call was told they didn’t have any either. So four separate padlocks with four separate keys it was and what a pain in the arse that is!

South of Antofgasta I made a quick photo stop at the ‘Hand in the Desert’ before riding on to the coastal town of Chańaral. I was riding around looking for a place to stay when I was flagged down by a guy in a pick-up truck. I told him I was looking for a place to stay and he said I could stay at his mum’s hotel. I was a little suspicious but decided it was worth a look. When we pulled up I immediately spotted the big poster of Chilean Dakar competitor Carlo de Gavardo who, coincidentally is a friend of Axel in Santiago. Eduardo’s mum offered to move her car so I could park my bike inside and that was it, deal done. I ended up with my own room, an evening meal and breakfast all for the same price as a cheap hostel dormitory. A chat with Eduardo revealed the connection with Carlo de Gavardo. Eduardo was his mechanic! – Small world.

Paso San Francisco

It had been my intention to cross the Andes three times before winter set in and the snow came. Paso San Francisco was my second of these crossings and once again provided breathtaking scenery.

The valley road through Diego de Almagro followed the old mining railway until becoming ripio near Potrerillos and climbing steeply through a series of switchbacks onto a plateau at 3500m. It was bloody cold in the wind and so when I got to the Chilean border I fitted my handlebar muffs and got a mug of boiling water from one of the officers so I could make coffee.

20km or so further on the road turned east and it was this east-west section that provided the most amazing scenery. Away to my right were three peaks over 6600m whilst to my left was the turquoise Laguna Verde.

Once again I was virtually alone. Just one truck had passed through the order whilst I was there and it remained the only vehicle I saw since Potrerillos.  I had hoped to camp at the Argentine border but it was at the bottom of a ‘bowl’ and so there would be no chance of bump starting Lady P the following morning. Instead I rode on and turned south into a wide valley where the late afternoon sun repeated the ‘golden carpet’ effect I’d seen on Paso Sico. Refugio’s started appearing at regular intervals and I was lucky to come across one on a bit of a hill with 40minutes or so of daylight remaining. I had hoped to ride all the way to Fiamballa but once again all the photo stops had eaten into the available daylight.

Sunsets in the mountains don’t normally amount to much but I was privy to a beautiful post sunset sky before setting up camp in the refugio and cooking dinner.

Sure enough, the following morning, Lady P didn’t want to start. I was at 3600m and it had been just below 0°C overnight. I tried bump starting but the incline of the road wasn’t steep enough and the knobbly front tyre (Pirelli MT21) created too much drag for me to get any speed up. Once again I resigned myself to waiting for the sun to rise and warm her up so I got my book out (Khaled Hosseini’s: A Thousand Splendid Suns. V.good) and sat by the roadside. After a few hours it became apparent that as the sun rose so the cloud increased and the expected increase in temperature didn’t occur. I unloaded everything and tried bump starting again but this time instead of jumping on before ‘popping’ the clutch I just stamped her into gear and kept running alongside to keep the speed up. On my third attempt the engine started just before my heart stopped. Bump starting alone at 3600m is not recommended!

The palaver of the morning was soon forgotten once I’d pitched my tent at the thermal springs above Fiambala where I spent the evening in the splendid complex of naturally heated outdoor pools that ranged from 35-43°C – marvelous!

Cafayate – again!

For the third time I found myself back at the campsite in Cafayate. I had wanted to stay high in the Altiplano and ride through the remote Antofagasta de la Sierra to Susques and my final Argentina/Chile Andes crossing at Paso de Jama but I needed to return to Salta to buy a new rear tyre and to do some research into my cold starting problem. I got up before sunrise with the intention of making an early start but once again Lady P didn’t want to play ball. I left her in the sun and walked into town for breakfast but when I returned an hour later she still didn’t want to start. I took her to bits, checked the battery voltage and connections but everything seemed normal. Once again I unloaded everything and this time pushed her out of the campsite and along the road out of town to the bridge over the river where I hoped to bump start her down the incline of the bridge. Three times I pushed her up the bridge until eventually she started. Up at 0730, engine started at 1315. I wasn’t very happy.

Salta II

Second time around I stayed at the Correcaminos Hostel where I was able to park Lady P in the courtyard and which I liked so much more than where I’d stayed previously. Free Wi-Fi enabled me to do plenty of research into the starting problem but rather than be a fault with my bike in particular it seemed to be a generic BMW F650 problem. Suggested solutions included; pull the clutch in when starting, change oil to 10w40, change to synthetic oil, update the BMS (Fuel Injection Software) and most commonly, ensure the battery is in tip-top condition. When I’d replaced the battery in Chile in January I’d been unable to buy my battery of choice (Yuasa) and therefore had my suspicions about the one that was fitted. The BMS had been updated in Singapore in October. I also learnt from a friend in England who is the workshop manager for a BMW dealer, that BMW had released a modified decompressor lever to aid cold starting.

Along with a new rear tyre I managed to find a new Yuasa battery but I couldn’t find 10w40 oil anywhere. Walking back from the tyre shop I saw a BMW GS1150 parked outside a hostel near the plaza. I was sure I recognized it and returned to my hostel to check my photos. Sure enough, it was Nicos, the dreadlocked Ecuadorian American I’d met in Ushuaia, ridden to and camped with in Rio Gallegos back in February. The following morning I knocked on his door to be met by one very surprised Nico. He and his girlfriend were on their way back to Ecuador and so I’ll catch up with them again in a couple of months.

Hostel Correcaminos was full of good people including (amongst others) Ian from Florida, Dave & Ali from Bournemouth (UK), Rich from Yeovil (UK). All were staying for several days and a good time was had by all including another splendid asado and a few rather messy late nights.

Paso de Jama…or not…

I left Salta, passed through Purmamarca and continued up to Susques where there was a nice looking place to stay on the main road just out of town but where the price was so ludicrous I didn’t even bother to start haggling. Instead I rode into town where the advertised hostel was still double what I wanted to pay and eventually found myself in a bit of a dive but it did the job for one night and I was able to cook in my room. Guess what happened…or rather didn’t happen the following morning? Yep, Lady P failed to start – so much for my new 50 quid Yuasa battery. Even bumping her down the hill into the town centre didn’t work and once again I sat around like a right lemon, waiting for the sun to do its job.

I was more than pissed off. My planned route into Bolivia was across Paso de Jama to San Pedro de Atacama (again) then into Bolivia’s south-west corner at the remote Hito Cajon and past Laguna’s Colorado and Verde and onto the Salar de Uyuni. The route is ripio and sand and almost entirely above 4000m with night time temperatures of around -10°C, and with the exception of some mining traffic is only visited by 4×4 tours. There was no way Lady P would start in that climate and the effect of the sun at that altitude would be limited. If she wouldn’t start until lunchtime the route would take twice as long and I would have to carry double the food and water. Just like Lady P, the idea was a non-starter.

So back to Ruta 9 it was, and the ‘conventional’ route from Salta to Bolivia. I had hoped to camp in the little pueblo of Yavi, east of the border town of Quiaca but the riverside campsite was inaccessible by bike and so I returned to Quiaca where I found a room at the friendly ‘Cristal’.

By now you all know the drill that ensued the following morning and so whilst Lady P was sunbathing I sat in the bar drinking coffee. Finally, at 1145 she fired up and after using up all my existing Argentinean pesos in the petrol station I rode to the border.

Bolivia

Exit Argentine Aduana, exit Argentine immigration, ride across bridge, enter Bolivian immigration. So far so good…but where’s Bolivian Aduana? Back across the bridge in Argentina I found the Bolivian Aduana.

“Seguros!” (insurance) was the first word out of the officers mouth. Of course, I didn’t have any. All of my research had suggested the only place I required it was Argentina but this guy was having none of it. Being a Sunday I couldn’t even by any. I tried my luck with my travel insurance policy and nearly got away with it but because it only had my name and no vehicle registration number he eventually declined it. Once I realized it wasn’t a definite ‘you can’t come in’ I started negotiating and after a while he suggested he would let Lady P in for 60 days. I had a 90 day visa and eventually bartered him up to 70 days but I couldn’t get him to give me the full 90 – whatever, I was in Bolivia!

Outside town I had a good chuckle at a toll booth for the gravel road that led north. I spent my first night in Tupiza where the following morning Lady P once again refused to start but a group of friendly locals offered to bump-start me down the road. It took a while to find the right route out of town but once I did I had a great days riding. The track was being improved in many places and there were many detours. It ran along a dry riverbed for many kilometers crossing lots of streams and a few rivers along the way.

Just south of Potosi I had my first encounter with a ‘Chollita’ (country woman). I stopped at the roadside for a coke and had quite a chat with her – all very friendly. When I came to pay the price was 5 Bolivianos (Bs). I offered her a 10Bs note but she shook her head. “No tengo cambiar” (I don’t have any change). I pointed at some of the other establishments nearby but she shook her head “No hay” (there is none). I pulled out 4Bs in coins from my pocket but she just looked at me in disgust so I shrugged my shoulders and put all my money back in my pockets. Then, with a face like thunder she rummaged in her apron pockets and produced 5Bs change! So began my education of the distrust/dislike between Campasinos and Latinos.

Sucre

I met up with Aussie Adam Mulvanny in Sucre and spent a few nights at his place before moving into the homestay he had recommended where I spent a month with the family of Julio, wife Lilian, sister Roxanna and son Sergio. I spent 4hrs a day in Spanish school but to be honest I struggled. Despite a fantastic teacher my reading and writing improved enormously, my speaking improved some but my understanding remained/remains very poor. When someone is speaking to me, I’m still translating word no3 when there on word no10! I guess I’m just not cut out for languages but I’m still trying.

Whilst at the school I met Tom. English by birth but Aussie by residency, he was travelling with his girlfriend Juliette and daughters Luca 10 and Isla 7. A lovely family who’s company I enjoyed immensely. They had rented a house with a great view across the city and we spent several evenings eating, drinking and sharing a few yarns.

The Che Trail

Back in 2006 Maarten, Ilse, Danny and I all stayed with Dutchman Maarten Munnik and his Thai wife Tip (Tippawan) when they lived in Kanchanaburi, Thailand. Since then however, Maarten and Tip had moved to Samaipata, approx 160km west of Santa Cruz, Bolivia.

The ride there took me through ravines and river valleys and reminded me very much of northern Pakistan but without the really jagged peaks.

Maarten and been sick for a few days prior to my arrival (the thought of sharing his house with an Englishman I suspect) which was a real shame as it was Tip’s birthday on the Sunday and she had a picnic planned. All was not lost though as Maarten had arranged a surprise party for her and around 20 ex-pats and locals turned up. There are somewhere in the region of 12 different nationalities living in the small town of Samaipata.

Maarten added a few ‘roads’ to my map that weren’t marked and when the time came to say goodbye I followed ‘Ruta del Che’ to La Higuera where Che Guevara was executed by the Bolivian Military on 8^th October 1967. Along the way I stopped at the Che museum in Valle Grande and visited the hospital where Che’s body was presented to the press the following day. It was a good history lesson as I hadn’t realized he had been involved in so much fighting in Bolivia.

La Higuera itself is reached by a dead-end track, 300m and several kilometers below the ‘main’ track from Valle Grande. 50m from the memorial is the beautiful guesthouse ‘Telegrafista’ where I spent 1½hrs reading and watching the sunset from a hammock. I was the only guest.

I awoke to low cloud, mist and drizzle. I hoped it would clear – it didn’t. As I climbed away from La Higuera and into the cloud I stopped to don my waterproof jacket. It was the best decision I made that day. It was a real shame about the weather. Every once in a while I got a glimpse through the clouds to the stunning valleys beneath. In places my speed was reduced to 20km/h because of the visibility in the mist, in others it was reduced to 20km/h because the dirt road was like ice and I could touch neither the clutch nor the brakes. I descended out of the clouds through a leafless winter forest to cross Valle Grande where once again my thoughts turned to NW Pakistan. It rained harder but now I was below the clouds at least I could see. Despite the weather it was a fantastic ride on which I met only two other people during the first 250km or so. Just how good would it have been with good visibility? I guess I’ll just have add it to my ‘must return to’ list.

I rejoined the tarmac near Tarabuco and stopped in a lay-by to clean my chain. When I went to rock Lady P off her sidestand, one side sank into the ground and it was all I could do to stop her falling over. I was stuck. I couldn’t let go and eventually managed to flag down a passing mini-bus by shouting and shaking my head. I must have looked a right lemon.

Potosi bound

I spent the night in Sucre with Tom and the girls where I was glad to get out of my wet boots and have a hot shower. In 8hrs of riding I’d stopped only to clean my chain. The following morning I picked up a new front tyre (Metzeler Karoo 345Bs – 30 quid!!!) before leaving town. Tom and Aussie Don had taken a taxi to Potosi (160km) and I met them there. We checked into the Carlos V Hostel where Lady P had top billing parked in the lobby and booked ourselves on a mine tour that afternoon.

The state mine, which dominates the landscape around the world’s highest city, was closed by the government in the ‘80s and is now operated by cooperatives formed by small groups of miners. Small quantities of silver are still mined but these are substituted by lead and other minerals. Working conditions are 18^th century and the whole experience reminded me of an Indiana Jones film. Dressed in waterproofs, rubber boots and hard hats with lamps we entered the mine above 4000m and waded through 20cm of water as we crouched and walked through the maze of tunnels. Wooden trapdoors alongside the tunnels covered ladders that led to smaller tunnels we scrabbled through on our hands and knees. Some weren’t even tall enough to get through on all fours and it was more akin to pot-holing than mining. At the workface miners hammered chisels into the rock to make holes for dynamite and chewed coca leaves for energy and to help with the effect of altitude. We all carried gifts of more coca leaves and bottles of drinks to share with the miners. 4hrs was a long time to spend in the mine but it went surprisingly quickly. On the walk out I noticed the (frighteningly few) wooden roof supports covered in ice.

If the day-to-day working conditions were tough, the long term conditions were deadly. The majority of miners live a relatively short life due to the exposure to noxious gasses. The next time you hurl your alarm clock across the bedroom on a Monday morning, just think about where you could be going to spend your day…

I spent a few more days in Potosi, visiting a few museums and wandering through the streets and among the markets with my camera.

Uyuni

Thinking the road I’d entered Potosi on was a ring-road I zig-zagged my way through the maze of one-way streets to the outskirts of town where I’d entered only to find it wasn’t. Back through the city, past the central market and on out of town to the first toll booth where I checked I was on the right road – I wasn’t. 1km back towards Potosi I turned onto a dirt track that led me to a road of pristine tarmac – well, for a few km’s anyway.

The days ride was 225km of ripio that started at 4000m, climbed to 4300m, descended to 3400m and ended in Uyuni at 3700m. The riding in Bolivia (if you like ripio) is awesome. I stopped off at the mining village of Pulacayo, SE of Uyuni and hope to the Train Cemetery which contains the first locomotive in Bolivia and the train robbed by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And I got to play Casey Jones for half an hour…whooo whooo!!

In Sucre I’d managed to change my engine oil from 20w50 mineral to 10w40 synthetic. This was one of the suggestions that had come up when I was researching Lady P’s starting problems back in Argentina. It hadn’t cured the problem but it had certainly seemed to make a difference. As a result I was going to make a second attempt to visit the remote SW area of the country around Lagunas Verde and Colorada. Both my maps of the area were different and other than a few waypoints I picked up on the internet I had very little in the way of GPS information. I spent a morning wandering around Uyuni’s many tour operators, looking at their maps, writing down villages and routes, talking to a few guides and gathering the information I needed to alter my maps and plan a route. The best piece of information though, was that there were sufficient 4×4 tour operator running trips into the region that if (or rather when) the track split into many options, I could stop and wait for a passing 4×4 and ask directions.

Maintenance…then more maintenance…

Whilst fitting my new front tyre in my hostel (Tati Laura) I gave Lady P a check over and found a missing subframe bolt, a broken cradle bolt (again)  and leaking waterpump. I had a parcel of spares being delivered to La Paz from the UK and decided I could get away with topping up the radiator until I got to La Paz where I could carry-out all my maintenance in one go.

The following morning I loaded up, checked out then checked the water level only to find oil in the radiator – I wasn’t going anywhere. I checked back in, unloaded, replaced the waterpump and flushed out the radiator as best I could. Italian Paulo and his Japanese wife staying in a room a few doors away invited me to share their pasta lunch they’d just cooked with Paulo’s brother, his wife and a few more friends. It was the perfect invitation – cheers Paulo!

Whilst cleaning the clutch cover gasket it split but I took a chance and re-assembled it anyway – bad decision! When I fired up the motor it wasn’t long before she was pissing oil out. I went out to buy instant gasket before the shop closed but it was too late in the day to start the job again. The next morning I found the courtyard full of tour operators 4×4’s and it was some time before there was enough space to work on Lady P. I took the clutch cover off and replaced the proper gasket with instant and booked another night as it would take 24hrs to cure properly.

It was roughly -10 °C overnight, enough to freeze the water in the toilet bowl, all the water pipes and put an inch of ice on the 50 gallon drum outside the toilet block. I hadn’t experienced water that cold since trekking in Pakistan’s Hindu Cush.

I didn’t get the early start I wanted as once again Lady P refused to start despite a few hour sunbathing. When she did finally start I was delighted to find no leaks – apart from a tiny drip from the waterpump drain screw (I didn’t have a new copper washer).

I queued for fuel for 45mins then finally rode SW out of town and after 90km came to San Cristobal where I saw a sign for fuel. Filling up there would give me added security for crossing the Salar de Uyuni at the end of my planned loop. In the petrol station I got chatting with 3 Landcruisers full of Italian tourists. Many questions followed leading eventually to “How old are you?”… “41 errr…well 42 tomorrow” and with that I was sung an impromptu ‘Happy Birthday’ – good job I still had my lid on as I was glowing like a baboon’s arse.

I checked the route with one of the guides and continued on past Alota before turning south past a lake where a herd of llama’s were drinking and on towards Culpina K. A little further on I came to a split in the road; straight on alongside the river or across the river and onto a sandy track. A sat there for a while scanning the horizon when I spotted three dust clouds heading my way. Once they were close enough to ensure they were 4×4’s and not local trucks (which could have been coming from any of the remote settlements) I crossed the river and picked up the sandy track. After a second river crossing the track climbed again passing some spectacularly eroded rock formations away to the west. The track became little more than a single vehicle wide and I rode in one deep sandy wheel rut around blind bend after blind bend praying nothing would come the opposite way – it didn’t. As I entered the the Valle de Rocas a smaller track led into the vast expanse of peculiar rock formations I’d once read described as ‘Mars on Acid’.

It was a beautiful location and so after finding as sheltered a spot as I could I built a small wall out of rocks and had a great place to pitch my tent. Like all good bush camps I had the place to myself and after an early supper sat on top of a rock watching the sun change the colours of my surrounding as it slid rapidly behind the distant mountains.

I had a fairly leisurely breakfast and let Lady P bask in the sun until 10am when she started fairy easily. I had a slow puncture in the front tyre for a long time but it was so slow I couldn’t find the hole. Checking the tyre pressures the front was indeed low so I pumped it up before leaving camp. At the first bend in the track I narrowly avoided crashing as the front wheel tucked under on me and so I stopped to alter the tyre pressure. Again I stopped to adjust the pressure but again I nearly fell at the next corner. Back on the main track I was struggling to maintain control. The surface was rutted and in places soft. It wasn’t that bad, but whatever I did the front end just wanted to ‘plough’ in the ruts. I stopped again and this time noticed the left fork seal had blown. I couldn’t (and still don’t) believe this was the sole reason for my bike’s poor handling but the track would get much worse further on and I decided against continuing on. It was my second attempt to get to the SW corner and it was the second time Lady P had decided she didn’t want to.

Salar de Uyuni

Instead, I returned to Uyuni, filled up with fuel and headed out onto the Salar de Uyuni – the world’s highest and largest salt lake. Although cold, it was the idea time of year to cross it by bike (ie dry). Ever since I began researching this trip back in 2004 I had wanted to camp on the Salar and doing so on my birthday was a bonus. A few people had relayed the story of a couple of German cyclists who’d been run over in their tent in the middle of the night by a couple of locals racing around in 4×4’s with no lights on. I figured you’d have to be pretty damn unlucky to get run over in the middle of 12,000km² of salt lake but nevertheless I chose my campsite carefully. Any vehicles crush the salt ridges that form the patterns on the lakes surface and so it was easy to pick a spot where nobody had been. Far away from the edges of the lake I parked up and spent several hours taking photos and observing the routes taken by the 4×4’s. Once confident I was as safe as I could be I  ran Lady P’s motor until the fan came on then wrapped the engine/tank/radiator in my insulated groundsheet to keep the wind out. I was expecting -10 to -15°C overnight + windchill so I figured limiting how cold she got would help when it came to starting in the morning. I pitched my tent, cooked supper and absorbed all the beauty of the ever changing light as the sun set – a truly memorable campsite.

I awoke just before sunrise and got up to watch the sunrise. At -6°C it was much warmer than I’d expected and again I had a leisurely breakfast and took many photos. At 10am Lady P started up fairly easily. Wrapping her up had obviously worked and I was soon on my way to Isla Incahuasi (also known as Isla del Pescado), a coral island raised up from the sea bed and covered in tall cacti. After walking the trail to the top and back I rode north towards Tunapa Volcano (easy navigation!) where I exited the Salar at the ancient pueblo of Tahua. Riding past the stone walls and dwellings I continued north, skirting the volcano along the roughest track I’d encountered in a long, long time.

My leaking fork seal was soon pissing out oil and I ended up with a piece of rag tied around the fork leg to soak it up before it got into the front brake. A few more pueblos passed by and I entered another dry salt lake as I rode in a big anti-clockwise loop to the pueblo of Salinas de Garcia-Mendoza where I expected to meet the ‘main’ track that runs NW and on to Huari where I’d hoped to spend the night.

A new ripio was being built alongside the old one and I was constantly diverted on and off it. The new sections were like a billiard table but the detours were a different matter. Ruts, potholes, bulldust, sand and dried mud were the order of the day. Not to mention the multitude of tracks that spread out across the plain as traffic had obviously tried to avoid the worst parts during the wet season.

To the south, a vast plain stretched out into the distant mountains and it was as though I’d been transported to the Kazakh steppe – only the llamas gave away my true location. Stopping at the Miguel y Alex Tejada Meteorite crater I climbed the cactus wood observation tower but as it swayed in the wind I opted not to stay long and rode on.

It was late afternoon, the road was running in the same direction as the one on the ‘World Map’ on my GPS (no detailed map for Bolivia) but not ‘on’ it. It could be a mapping error, it could be the same road, I would never be certain. What I did know was that it was late afternoon, there was no sign of Huari and there was nowhere out of sight to camp. I rode on.

The sun was getting low in the sky and the diversions off the new ripio all ran on the opposite side of the road several metres below and hence were in the shade. Every time I was diverted I had to lift my visor to see and after doing this several times I ploughed into a huge pothole and got a face full of bulldust. It was a while before I could see again and continue riding; all the while the sun was setting.

Off the track I rode through a small pueblo I hoped was Huari – it wasn’t. Behind the pueblo I was delighted to find a way onto an un-opened section of new ripio but my delight was short lived s I soon found my way blocked by piles of earth. The sun had virtually set and so I had no choice to ride into what looked like some abandoned adobe buildings nearby. Scouting around, some of them were indeed abandoned but others were obviously used by passing shepherds. I made myself as discreet as I could (but not as discreet as I’d have liked) and waited until after dark to pitch my tent. Having not been able to scout around properly in daylight I was uneasy with my choice of site which was compounded by my proximity to the pueblo and combined with an overnight temperature of -10°C it was a restless night. I need not have been concerned. Up early to thaw out my frozen water bottle in the rising sun before I could make breakfast, every local who cycled past gave me a friendly wave.

14km (20 mins) up the road I rode into Huari and onto tarmac for the first time since leaving Potosi eight days and 900km earlier. I rode straight through Oruro and onto the pueblo of Tolar where I turned right onto a 29km ripio and the natural thermal springs of ‘Thermas de Urmiri’. The track climbed to 4100m, turned a corner and presented a magnificent view of Illimani (6439m) before descending to the termas at 3600m.

After three night bush camping at temperatures from -1 to -10°C and lots of sweating in between, I arrived stinking like a pole cat and spent the following day in and out of the thermal pools, sauna and swimming pool. Watching the Milky Way appear in the night sky from the warmth of a hot spring was pretty special. Stepping out of the pool into the night air was not.

Blown head gasket?…least of my problems…

My plan for the day was to ride to the border with Peru to try to get permission for Lady P to stay in the country for another 20 days as her papers were due to expire in four days. I hadn’t topped up the radiator for a few days so before setting off I did just that. I continued the descent to Sapahaqui and followed the valley out to the main Oruro – La Paz road. Whenever I stopped to take photos so Lady P would drip coolant…sometimes leaving a sizeable puddle. Several times I stopped on my way into town, let her cool down and topped up the radiator. Twice she blew out a large volume of coolant from the header tank overflow and once again I was concerned to find the radiator cap covered in oil.

Founded by the Spaniards in 1548, La Paz is said to be the world’s highest capital city though it seems many think of Sucre as Bolivia’s capital. Whether it is or isn’t, it is surely one of the world’s most spectacularly located cities. From its airport at 4058m the city sprawls into the canyon some 500m below where building cling to the steep sides, affording views across snow capped peaks.

Concerned about finding somewhere to stay before Lady P came to a complete standstill I was overjoyed to see a hostel pop up on my GPS. Maarten Munnik had given me all his waypoints of the Americas from his RTW trip and if he had stayed there, there must be parking – there was.

The staff at El Carretero were friendly and helpful and between us we bumped Lady P up the few steps from the cobbled street and into the courtyard. Knowing I had some maintenance ahead of me I took a single room with bathroom for 40Bs and unpacked.

I had a spare fork seal but needed a few special tools to fit it and so took it to the local Honda dealer who replaced it for 50Bs. With Lady P re-assembled I checked the water level properly and took her outside where I ran the motor until the fan came on – no leaks. I ran it for 5 mins more – no leaks. Once cool I checked the water level – normal. I waited until the following day (Sunday) when the traffic would be quieter before going for a ride. 35km – no leaks. Again I let her cool down and checked the water level – normal. Conclusion – pilot (ie. Fuckwit) error. I think that when I set out for La Paz I’d inadvertently overfilled the cooling system causing it to expand beyond the volume of the header tank. The oil in the radiator I concluded to be residue from the waterpump failure back in Uyuni.

I hope it is/was a false alarm as there is no BMW dealer in Bolivia and I would need to have the parts flown in from Chile (v.expensive).

Time out in La Paz

On the Monday I collected my parcel of spares from the UK, had Lady P washed and set about servicing the brake calipers, replacing seals and pads. When I removed the rear wheel I made my customary check for vertical play in the swingarm as the link arm bearings have a tendency to fail. On a good day there would be no play, on a bad day there would be perhaps ½”, today there was 2”. FM!! 2”!! The whole shock unit was moving up and down.

It’s a long job to remove the shock as the whole pannier frame assemblies, rack, seat and tanks and exhaust have to be removed before the subframe and underseat fuel tank can be unbolted and tipped up to reveal the top mounting bolt for the shock. At least it would have revealed itself had it been there. It had in fact sheared off allowing the shock body to impact the frame damaging the top of the unit (cylinder head), the shock of which had snapped the U-bracket on the opposite end – OH FUCK!!!

I emailed the Manufacturer – Ohlins – in Sweden to get the part numbers I needed, then emailed all the South American distributors – Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Colombia and Peru. It took a few days but they all replied – nobody had the parts. I emailed Ohlins USA who had most of, but not all, the parts but even if they did they wouldn’t sell them to me. I would have to ‘find’ a dealer prepared to post to Bolivia and have them order the parts from Ohlins USA who would, in-turn, order them from Sweden! I did find a dealer in California who’s website claims to be the ‘World’s largest Ohlins dealer’. I figured there had to be a chance they’d have the parts in stock so I emailed them only to have them contact Ohlins USA. I received a reply saying “It seems you already know what’s going on” ! I emailed the UK distributor who also had most of, but not all of the parts I required. Again I emailed Ohlins in Sweden, told them who I had contacted and asked if they could supply to me directly. I received a reply saying they had spoken to the UK distributor who had told them they had all the parts! I promptly forwarded them the message saying theUK didn’t have the parts and received a reply saying “Please order your parts through the UK distributor”.

Even if I did manage to get the parts I would still have to fly to Santiago, Chile, to have the distributor make the repair. At GBP156 a plane ticket was the cheapest way to get my shock to an Ohlins agent. The Chilean dealer quoted U$250 labour only and the bill for the parts was running at U$350 + shipping…not good for the piggy bank.

Whilst all these emails were flying around I walked miles up and down the hills around La Paz seeking a solution. It’s tarmac all the way to the Ohlins agent in Lima, Peru, approximately 1600km away and if I could make a temporary repair to get me there I could avoid paying for a plane ticket to Chile, have the parts delivered regular mail instead of paying for a courier and leave Bolivia before my visa expires (Lady P’s papers expired a few weeks ago so I’ll have to wing it at the border).

Worth hanging around in La Paz for was an AC/DC cover band playing in a local club. They were awesome. How a Bolivian managed to sing in a high pitched Geordie accent I’ll never know.

Three German overlanders rolled into the hostel on their way south from Alaska. Husband & wife Carlos & Monica, and Richard were the first overlanders I’d met since Patagonia back in March and it was good to be able to share some info. When I watched Carlos and Monica leave I couldn’t help but wonder why it was my suspension that had broken!

Eventually I was given directions to another Honda dealer on the other side of town. The guy I spoke to indicated that the ‘experienced’ mechanic would return soon and that I should wait. Two hours later I was freezing my ass off. Wearing just a T-shirt as the sun set I said I’d return the following day. I did exactly that and met José. I had hoped we could remove the broken U-bracket and have a new one CNC’d but we couldn’t. Instead we made a shield to protect the rebound adjuster knob from the heat of welding after which I jumped on the back of José’s ’83 Kawasaki Z650 and we rode across town to find a welder. I’d never seen aluminium ‘stick’ welded before but by now I had nothing to lose so shrugged my shoulders and let them get on with it. The finished article wasn’t/isn’t pretty (I know…neither’s the rider) but one can’t complain for 15Bs.

Back at the workshop, Josés’ assistant had finished turning up a new spacer for the top of the shock. Final bill – 50Bs. I couldn’t thank José enough and hurried back to the hostel where I spent the afternoon re-building Lady P. All the needle rollers in the linkage to shock bearing fell out and had to be cleaned and re-assembled, the link arm bearings are again worn out and the linkage to frame bearings are seized. Given that I replaced the link arm bearings and seals and cleaned and greased all the other linkage bearings when I arrived in Chile I’m not very impressed.

So, after two weeks of emailing, waiting and walking, Lady P is finally back in one piece; but will she get me to Lima? Tune in to Chapter 20 to find out…

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