The Longest Friday

After a few days in one place, the urge to get a move it is overwhelming.  It feels so good to throw a leg over the saddle and roll the throttle back, bringing 1150cc’s to life with a low pitch growl.  It usually takes me a while to wander my way out of a sprawling capital city, but I’d done my homework and plotted the route through Lima on the GPS.  An hour after leaving Miraflores I was back in desolate coastal desert rolling towards Paracas.

A couple of days hanging with pilots at the Mira Flores launch had left my head filled with all sorts of creative flying ventures around the country.  A couple guys had tempted me with ideas of flying the coastal ridges of Nacional Reserve Paracas.  It’s a nature reserve set along the Pacific just outside the small town of Paracas.  The main attractions are the massive sea cliffs and outlying islands…often termed the poor mans Galapagos, teaming with seabirds and abundant sea life. Even though it’s a reserve, you can camp and drive and do whatever, anywhere you want. Most of the reserve is essentially just a vast desert sand peninsula with out so much as a bug or plant anywhere,( except the ocean life bound to the water and coastal cliffs).  I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was lured in with the idea of camping out along the coast, and maybe,. if things looked good, a bit of flying.

I pulled up to the gate and paid up few bucks for entry.  Armed with directions from the friendly guards/staff, I set off onto a dirt road running south to a point called “the Cathedral”.  The Cathedral is named after some unique geological formation that ironically doesn’t exist. (earthquake knocked it down).  I was loving it, and I’d barely gotten past the gate. It was a weekend and I didn’t see soul in the park.  I roarted down the freshly graded dirt road as the setting sun cas a glow through the desert hills.  The air smelled good and the terrain looked so pristine devoid of the usual vestiges of human activity…..trash.  I eventually arrived on bluff overlooking the ocean.  Wanting to get a glimps of a beach below the cliffs…. I decided to venture off the dirt road.

I had thought with the miles I was putting in, I’d get better at reading dirt.  I mean, you’d think you would know just by looking at the ground, if it was solid or if it was the “swallow your bike whole’ type of sand trap.  What I have learned is that you don’t know exactly what you’re getting into …..until you get into it.  So I gingerly nudged my front wheel off the graded road and onto the desert floor.  My TKC80 tire tread, barely put a dent in the desert crust.  It was incredible,…….under a mere centimeter of loose sand was compact clay material that concocted a Peruvian recipe for two wheel ecstasy.  Nature had just sponsored me with a license to explore anywhere in this desert as fast and madly as I dared!  I didn’t bother with another road until exiting the park the following day.

Back in Lima I’d met a few French tourists who had been ruffed up a bit in this area. Its rare in this area but it happens…just like anywhere.   So I was careful to pick a campsite well into the hills and out of site.  The reality of motorcycling in S. America, is that it’s not always convenient or safe to camp out.  But when you do get the chance, it’s so rewarding.  Without bugs or critters of any type in this sterile landscape, I didn’t bother with the tent.  I just rolled out my sleeping bag on tarp beside my bike.  It was dinner, followed  by cup of wine and a rare treat of high end cigar.  Entertainment for the evening was the most epic celestial display I’ve ever witnessed.  I’ve done a lot of camping, and been fortunate to enjoy plenty of beautiful night skies,…but this was different.  The Milky Way was so thick it  resembled clouds.  Laying beside my bike, my sleeping bag drawn close over my head against the cold, I gazed out at the night sky and marveled over the universe until I drifted off to sleep.

I was up with the sun, enjoying a bowl of raisin spice oatmeal fortified with powdered milk, and a steaming cup of black green fusion tea on the side.  I was quick to pack up, snap a few photos and move out.  I wanted to check into a possible flight in the area, and I wanted to do it early before the sea winds arrived in force.

I found the beach and coastal ridge that my new friends from Lima had described to me. It did in fact look like an awesome playground for a glider.  But the winds were to weak to take advantage of the small ridge.  I needed something bigger.   Parked on a high point along the sea cliffs I gazed off along the horizon, my eyes came to rest on the largest terrain feature in  area.  It was big plateau that sprang from the desert floor a few miles from the coastal cliffs.  Its size and position in relation to the sea breeze hinted a possible launch site.  Regardless of  whether it was flyable or not, I was going to have a ball riding exploring.

I set my course directly for the plateau and coasted at 40mph over the desert floor.  I initially figured I’d park below the plateau, then climb it on foot.  The face of the plateau was steep and I didn’t think I’d make it up fully loaded.  But the more off road miles I put in on this terrain, the bolder I got….and I went for it.  I pulled hard on the throttle and raced up the face.  I couldn’t believe it, the big fat pig of a motorcycle was rallying up this mountain like a 250 motocross bike.  I topped out, and stood atop the plateau completely astounded that I’d made it up the steep face.  We need to import some of this dirt to the States It practically grips your tires as you ride.  I never sank the bike in, and never dropped it, after two days of off road riding….new record for me.

So there I was.  On top of the plateau overlooking the Reserve Caracas.  The winds were gently rolling up the face and whispering in my ear,…..”If you don’t fly this right now you’re a moron.”   It was a great location, no one was coming up this way, and I could keep in eye on the bike from below.  I locked her up of course…for good measure.  I had the glider setup in minutes and taking that last minute check over my shoulder, I knew it was fly time.

The light wind coming up the face gracefully lifted me off the plateau and sent me on my way,.. coasting high above the desert floor.    There was zero turbulence and let my hands off the brakes, steering with an occasional weight shift.  It was a sled ride down to the desert floor, and I enjoyed every minute of it.   I hadn’t even touched down, when I decided I just had to do it all over again.http://www.vimeo.com/5300316

Paracas was a good warm up for what lay ahead,……Nazca and the worlds highest sand dune. Next post!

The previous 4 days of riding from the Ecuadorian border revealed some dreary terrain pockmarked by dusty cinderblock villages. I didn’t expect too much coming into the capital city of Lim.  Aiming for MiraFlores, the nicest district in Lima, I broke through the rougher sections of the city and arrived in a very modern and clean neighborhood. I was looking for a hot shower, hot food, and a beaming wifi signal.

My heart skipped a beat when I spotted a paraglider soaring between two high rise office buildings.  Abandoning my search for a hostel, I zoomed off to see what the Lima paragliding scene was all about.  I was welcomed with utmost hospitality by all the local pilots.  I took the site director out to lunch and got full access to launch.

The flying was exceptional.  It’s an experience you’re not likely to find in the States….legally that is!  I laughed like a mad man as I cruised right up along the top floor of some posh glassy 20 story office buildings.  What a feeling… to look through the window of  top story corner office,  making eye contact with a business executive as he glances up from his computer.

Don’t take my word for it, peep this vid,

I had an overall awesome experience in Lima.  The local pilots took me under their wing, guided me on the site, set me up at a best local hostel, and took me to the top Chifa restaurant in town.  Good people and good time in Mira Flores!  And it was key to refit for the next desert stretch ahead.   It seems to only get better as I roll South in Peru.

also wanted to add these few pics

when the gliders are waiting for wind, the falconeers come out..very cool

Jeff, a cool dude from Colorado that is pioneering flying areas in the Andes

South of Chimbote, the smell dissipated and the fog lifted her skirts revealing the sterile beauty of the desert landscape.    The desert had changed from scrub to sand and rock.  It was beautiful and easy to appreciate with the peace of mind of a full tank of gas and 4 liters of water on my passenger seat.

I had every intention of making it to Lima that day, but priorities change!  That’s the nature of a solo motorcycle touring.  An enormous sand dune appeared before me just south of Chimbote. It was easily the biggest dune I’d ever seen. The road contoured around it, giving me time to stare at it long enough to be magnetized to its base.  I could just see myself soaring that dune with my glider; at the very least it would be unique sled ride back to the bike.  It was cloudy, cool, and the winds were light, perfect time to knock out a new fly site.

I happily slid off the tarmac and into the desert.  I started gingerly on an old track, then got excited and blasted full throttle over the sandy desert floor to the base of the dune. It’s amazing what that monster machine can float over with enough speed.

Conditions still seemed to promise an epic flying experience. I parked the bike, locked her up, and headed up the dune with the glider on my back.   It was slow going up this huge dune with full pack on.   I’d take 10 steps forward, slide back 3, then look back in fear of desert folk materializing out of the sand to vandalize  my bike.

As I approached the apex of the dune, I noticed the clouds parting and the temperature increasing 10 fold.  Conditions were changing.  I rushed to pull out my wing and rig up my harness.  Just as I laid the wing out to hook in, the first thermic blast hit.  It was all over from there.  The wind was just too much for me to deal with.  I held on to one end of the glider as the other end whipped in the air and filled with sand.   I stuffed her desperately back into the bag..sand and all.  An hour earlier, it could have been an amazing experience, but I was too slow.  So its just another ….to do list….sort of thing.  Next time, I’ll camp out here,, climb up early in the morning and knock it out right.

At any rate, was good to get some true off road riding in.  Upon returning to the bike, I promptly rehydrated and packed up.  Getting a little excited, I gave her too much throttle and dug that back wheel in above the axel.   I pushed the bike over, pulled the back end away from the hole, pointed her down hill, lifted her back up, jumped on and raced down across the desert floor and back to the tarmac.

I’ve tried to keep an anthropologically open mind, but this region has gotten me down a bit.  Maybe its the constant grey/brown fog thats getting to me.  Its certainly not like everyone has it out for me here, but after a couple of run ins with some unfriendly folk in town, and getting run off the road three times in one day, I’m about ready for a change of pace  The terrain is a bit dreary also.  Actually that’s an understatement, this place looks, smells and feels like the Middle East.  As far as the country side goes…. it’s a barren desert wasteland occupied  by random piles of burning trash and the occasional starving diseased livestock unlucky enough to be associated with such dismal human poverty.

Puerto Chicama

I understand that a certain smell is associated with coastal fishing villages.  I did a summer working in a cannery in Alaska.  And I remember days when the cooling system failed and the goodies started to “tenderize”. Fish processors get pretty nasty, but the smell generally hangs around the cannery and doesn’t permeate the town.  Since arriving on the on the NW Peruvian coast,  I’ve been immersed in some weird god-awfull fish smell for several hundred miles.  Even with no town in site, I can still smell rotting fish.

At some point it dawned on me that they are probably using some sort of fish substance to fertilize the local crops.  That’s my best guess.

That being said,  most of the folks are pretty cool.   People still stop on the street to ask questions and encourage me on my tour.  The police officers are friendly, and actually have encouraged me to speed.

The tollways are free for bikes, and the ice cream in Chiclay was absolute tops!

Setting out to accomplish a task from mission control (my older brother), I went looking for the worlds longest surf break.    Unable to find a road to the little fishing village of Puerto Chicama, I stopped in the next town of Paijan for chow and directions.  The only restaurant I could find was a Cevicheria.  I’d avoided these joints in the past, cus Ceviche just didn’t sound right to me.  Its essentially raw shellfish served in a cold soup. Its all the rage down here, and I knew a time would come when I’d have to suck it up and give it a shot. Seeing how this was the only grub in town, I  ordered up a bowl with dire hope for something akin to sushi.

I smiled at the cook as if I was thoroughly savoring  the slippery cold mess.   Think of uncooked rocky mountain oysters,…that about sums it up.   Okay, it wasn’t terrible…..but it was close. Not for me thank you.

But the ceviche adventure was not with out its success. I scored directions to the lair of the worlds longest wave.  Yahoo!

pic- the road to Puerto Chacama

A fun fast ride, dodging tuktucks( three wheeled moto taxis) and donkey carts all the way out to the coast.

It was nice to have the ocean in site, but the town itself and surrounding scenery still held that dire straits ambiance.  Surfers had left their mark on this town, and it was good thing.  Aside from the fishing economy a miniature tourism industry had arisen to cater to a minuscule surfer tourist crowd.   About five nice hostels had opened on the edge of town over looking the ocean…and the world record wave.   The surfers had left a good mark on the locals and I didn’t get the usual evil eye from a local, staring me down as the all threatening gringo diablo biker.  People were friendly in this town, surfer and native alike.

I’ll be honest, I’m terrible at surfing, and I can barely spot a decent set.  I did what I know best, and that was roar around on the desert tracks on my bike ……in the vicinity of the worlds longest surfbreak.

So …er,,,,uh…its great riding!…on a bike.  But for real intel on the waves, I had to ask a real surfer.

“Epic!” was the answer to my surf questionnaire.  This was after all a world class ride!  Everyone seemed entirely stoked about the surfing.  The fact that no one was actually in the water, suggested that everyone was so beat from surfing, they were taking a break before running out for their next big set.

An Ode to Surfers!

I feel the need to rally my support behind surfers and what they’ve done for tourism that no one else has.  I’ve noticed a trend from Baja all the way to Peru.  Surfers have created a form of grass roots industry that benefits indigenous communities far more than your standard high roller cruise ship tourism.

Big time tourism transforms quant fishing villages into ……Puerto Vallarta or Cabo San Lucas type destinations.  By the time big time tourism fully moves in, the locals and lower end budget tourists have been replaced  or squashed  by wealthy weekenders and big business hotel owners.  The locals lose to big tourism as do surfers and other shoe string traveler like me.

Surfers, budget travelers, have managed to bring business and supplemental income to indigenous communities without transforming them.  As long  as these surfers don’t show up with rolls of hundred dollar bills, the big city business men wont arrive by the truckloads to commandeer industry away from the locals.

With out these surfers, I’d show up in such a town as Chacama and get the evil eye for being a conniving gringo foreigner.  Surfer bros have been traveling the world, spreading good will, and contributing directly into the pocket of the locals.  So thank a surfer if you’d rather crash in a bungalow after a blissfull day on a nearly deserted beach instead of taking the elevator up to your 10^th story suite after a full day communal sunbathing at the pool.

Don’t get me wrong, the world needs places like  Puerto Vallerto and Cabo San Lucas.  If you’ve got a grand and only five days to spend it, hell yeah, go have a riot in Cabo.  But the world also needs refuge from such places, refuge from our creations of highrises, fast action media, and a blurring fast existence.  The world needs quiet retreats that offer tourism at minimal impact to the environment and just as importantly, minimal impact to the culture. Surfers, and to some extent backpackers, provide that form of locally beneficial tourism. So when ever I get the chance, I invite a surfer over to my campfire and offer him up whatever I’m cooking. (although statistically, this usually happens the other way around)

I don’t go hunting vultures.  In fact I’d like call myself a friend of the baldy scavengers.  The most common bird at every paraglding site, they’ve led me into more thermals than I can count.  So its with some disappointment that I crashed into one, and not to mention I got  a serous bell ringing.

I was just minding my own business,…ie- opening up the throttle to 80 for the first time in weeks…..eating up Peruvian tarmac on a beautifull day with a humming engine and brand new clutch.   The road was immaculate, and there wasn’t a soul on it….with the exception of a dead snake…..and the happily feasting vultures.

I was in the other lane, and I was sure they’d just do their usual thing and fly away out of reach just in the nick of time.  I figured that buzzards, like crows, were pretty smart birds,  but at least one of them was a little short on intuition.  Just as I arrived on the boa a la carte, one vulture ventured away from his smarter brethren and launched directly towards me.  I was thinking to myself,…. this is going to be close, still confidant the big bird would get enough altitude to clear my windshield. Well,..he did clear my windshield…and then he smacked hard against my viser and rolled off the top of my helmet.   So this is why we wear helmets!  A six  pounder turker buzzard would have rearranged my face leaving me looking about as sexy as well… a turker buzzard.   Pulled over to the side of the road, I was letting the ache reside from my head and neck,…thinking to myelf,….of all the birds to collide with my face,…..why did it have to be a big ass vulture….why not a humming bird…or a pretty young sparrow perhaps.

As any good Samaritan would, I returned to the scene of the collision expecting to see a totally jacked up vulture splayed across the road.  Standing next to the dead boa, I looked around, surprised to see nothing but a few wholesome looking buzzards staring blankly back at me from a fence post.  There were quite a few feathers laying around, including those stuck to my visor, but the contact vulture seemed to have come through well enough to get off the road.  Tough birds,….my respect for birds of carrion has increased ten fold, especially for the big ones….with the crazy eyes!  You never know when one of them is going to make a go for your head!

I tried to make it from Riobamba, Ecuador to Peru in two days.  I almost made it.  Its always a late start for one reason or another.  This time I had a great reason to stick around.  As I was strolling back to my hotel I caught site of two gringos on a fully laden BMW R1100.  Excited to see some adventure bikers, I flagged them down and asked if they were looking for a hotel.  They were using the same technique I use to find hotels, …drive to the town square and then drive in circles until you find a hotel with tasty rates and secure parking.

They pulled into the parking lot and we introduced ourselves.  Karl and Monica are two very hip Germans doing a year long Americas tour.  Coming from Inivuik (that’s way uber north Canada!) they were headed for Argentina.  The fun part was in communicating, we found ourselves the sponsers of an entirely new dialect respectively termed Germanaspanisch.  Why degrade one language,.. when you can murder two!?

For the record, I’ve never scene a bike so loaded. I’ve no right to complain about the load I’m carrying.

I stopped by their room for visit and instantly found a cerveza in my hand and good conversation.  They were ecstatic to be able to speak German to someone. Even though mein Duetsch is pretty poor these days, its about the best german you’l find on this street in Ecuador.

One conversation led to another and we suddenly realized that we’d actually already met on the icey slopes of Cotopaxi two nights ago.   Unkowingly I had actually taken a photo of Karl as I was ascending.  I remember him making some comment on my rallye suit at the time, but in the wind and snow, I hadn’t thought much of it at the time.  At any rate, it was totally wild to randomly meet up again in the comfort of our hotel in Riobamba.

I didnt know it at the time, but that's actually Karl on the right.

I wish the best to Karl and Monica on their tour, and I’ve happily “versprochen” to visit  them in Munich next summer.

The ride to the border was good. Its always good riding in third world countries.  They can’t afford to make borring super highways, so the roads just go with the terrain, and when you’ve got terrain like Ecuador, you’ve got killer roads.  It should have been an easy two days ride to the Marcala border crossing, but two days of heavy down pour combined with endless road construction.made the ride long and wet and muddy.

I chose Marcala, because it’s a quiter more out of the way border crossing.  I hate messing with the chaos of busy borders. The golden rule is generally to get through and away from the border as fast as possible. All sorts of weird people hang out at border crossings, and with weird people, weird things happen.

Well, I miscalculated and ended up at the border a few minutes before it closed.  Not wanting to risk being caught in no mans land with two borders closed, I opted to stay the night in the border town of Marcala

Marcala looked like the city planners thought the town was really going somewhere,….. then it didn’t. Like some empty promise, the suedo modern looking buildings lay dark and empty.  There was none of the quiet colonial charm of your typical latin American small town.  The good news is that a  private room cost 5 dollars, cant beat that!

On a humerous note, I went into a liqure store to buy a bottle of beer.  An old man and his wife were watching the television as I inqured on the price of a brew.  The old man grumbled and waved his finger at me, griping at me for disturbing him from his show.  His wife, concerned about getting some business, yelled at her husband. Then the husband yelled at the old wife.  Not wanting to start a case of domestic violence over a beer I walked out,  listening the escalating cacophony behind me and chuckling over the comedy of it all.

Peruvian Border-no corruption, no problems

I’m not sure how Cotopaxi ended up on my agenda. I like big volcanoes! This one just happened to be on my route and at some point an ice axe and crampons had fallen into my panniers, which was a sign for me to climb some mountains. Cotopaxi stands between Quito and Latacunga rising up to over 19,000ft. I pulled off the highway onto a dirt road and followed the little wooden signs to Parque Nacional Cotopaxi.

Much to my disappointment the guard at the gate house explained that I could only enter the park between 6 and 4pm. Even more disappointing was some bizarre anti biker regulation that forbade motorcycles from entering the park. The guard kindly allowed me to make camp nearby allowing time to devise a plan to get into the park.

From my campsite I caught a rare glimpse of Cotopaxi as the clouds parted just long enough for the setting sun to cast an alpine glow over the summit glaciers. What was initially a mere interest in summiting, was now growing into a true desire.

As I unpacked my panniers and set camp, a growing crowd of local types gathered around to ooh and awh over my foreign goodies.

Apart from the crowd, a man stepped forward and introduced himself as Santiago. Santiago is a construction foreman from Quito, assigned to build condor housing high on the mountain. Over hot tea and biscuits he described his project and invited me join him at the construction site. Intrigued by his venture and hoping to see a Condor, I agreed to link up the following morning.

Santiago

Santiago's camp on the mountain

I’m not sure what the altitude was at the site, but I’m guessing its around 15,000ft. I was winded just walking around and the weather was nasty. Addressing the difficulties of construction at high altitudes, Santiago employs  Indians from the highlands that are capable of laboring at this altitude.

The rain was pouring down and the winds were howling. I assumed everyone would hang out in the campemento until the weather cleared, but Santiago and his crew set to work immediately. It was an impressive project.

Also accompanying us, was Louise from Quito. A top notch wildlife photographer, Louise was employed by the Condor Foundation to record pictures of the habitat construction and condors in the area. Louise invited me to hike further up the mountains in search of varios local wildlife.

A young eagle

A fox keeping check on us out from the ridge above

I never saw a condor, but I learned a lot about condors and the local area. Santiago’s hospitality was incredible as he insisted I join him for meals and endless hot drinks to ward off the high altitude cold. In the evening back at the park entrance, Santiago had a chat with the guard. I don’t know what he said, but I suddenly had unlimited access to Cotopaxi on the motorcycle with no park fee. Thanks for clearing the red tape, Santiago!

With my newly acquired freedom, I stormed the park gates on the GS, entering dirt rider utopia. I explored throughout the lower flanks of the mountain, completely enamored by the strange and beautiful terrain. Wild horses galloped along the flowered flood plains. Foxes stared down at me from the ridges above. Eagles traced the sky and llamas did their llama thing. I was pretty excited to see my first llama on the tour. In their natural setting (not someone’s backyard in Colorado). They’re intriguing animals, like camels, their weird features, curios behavior and overall shagginess is exceptionally cool. I bought a llama hair hat to commemorate the congregation of myself and the real deal Andes llamas.

I sunk the rear wheel about 4 times on this road

Riding around to the north side of the volcano I found the dirt road leading up to the refugio. (climbers hut / base camp). Eager to inquire on climbing conditions and immerse myself in that exciting base camp environment, I rode the bike up to 15,000+ft. A new high point for bike,…. she did just fine.

I stepped into the refugio and made my rounds through the climbing parties. Climbers from all over the world, including Korea, Germany, Holland, England, USA, Switzerland, had ascended to the refugio all in hopes for a shot at the summit. Things didn’t look to good. The volcano’s upper regions had been socked with nasty weather for days. Since there’s not much of a weather report down here, you just keep you fingers crossed and keep one eye on the sky,…sun could come out at any moment. In truth I’d seen nothing but cold wet weather since I’d arrived at the park. The sun would peak its head out for a minute or two, just to toy with your emotions. Just as soon as I had my kit laid out to dry, big drops would patter down and the sun would disappear. I could almost hear the sky laughing at my futile attempts to dry out.. for riding it was okay, but for climbing it was a problem.

However, I was inspired by a number of climbers that were going to make a summit push that night. We were all feeling pretty optimistic that conditions would clear around midnight and we’d get our shot. But I had a lot of logistics to work out. I had to find a safe place for the bike to be left for 2 days. I had to get transportation from the bike to the base camp. I had to acclimatize for several days. I had find enough food and water to support myself as I acclimatized at the base camp. I ran the numbers and ideas through my head as I hiked back to my bike through the snow and rain.

My initial plan was to leave the bike at Santiagos work site, and hitch or hire a truck to the refugio. Aclimitize at the refugio for two days, then run for the summit. I hated this plan. Its important to me to have the bike close by, so when ever the situation turns sour, or I get the feeling to move out, I can! I was also a bit peeved that the guys running the refugio wanted me to pay 22 bucks a night for a seedy bunkbed, when EVERYONE else was paying 10 for the same. (that’s what I get with the dang BMW patch on my shoulder)

I finally arrived on a decision to shoot for the summit that night. I was feeling strong, living above 10,000 feet for almost two weeks, and I was confidant I could beat the altitude bug if I made a fast and light alpine ascent. I’ve negotiated the altitude this way before on a number of climbs, but never over 19,000 ft. As a safety precaution, I decided to just be ready to back off at any time on the climb if things looked or felt like trouble. I’d also carry overnight gear in case of the worst case scenario of having to bivouac.

I took the bike down to 12,000 feet and set camp to prepare my gear for the summit bid that night…. and maybe get an hour or two of sleep.

Everything was in order, ….with one exception- the weather. I laid there in my sleeping bag, my optimism sinking with each drop of rain that soaked through the tent fly.

At 1130pm my watch beeped me awake. Frustrated to still hear rain pelting my tent, I was wondering if it was really a good idea to be driving up through the storm to 15,000 feet then attempting a summit bid. It seemed that all the luck I’d had with weather on Orizaba was turned against me for Cotopaxi. I decided to go ahead and head up to the refugio and check out the conditions from there. I pried my unwilling body out of my toasty sleeping bag and stepped out into the rain to get the stove going.

As I drove up towards the refugio, the rain turned to snow and my wet rally suite froze over. This was the roughest start to a climb I’d ever experienced. Topping out over 14,000, I was relieved to find myself above the storm in cold dry weather. Luck seemed to be turning in my favor. I parked the bike, locked her up, and began my ascent at 0230 in decent conditions. Above me, I could just make out the head lamps inching thier way up on the glacier.   I new I’d be catching up to them within a few hours.

With out a rope team, and carrying only enough gear to bivouac, I moved fast up the mountain following the tracks of the climbers above. The cold wind blew hard with snow and clouds, but visibility was good enough to make out the route ahead.  My ice coated rallye suite was keeping me toasty as long as I kept moving. After an hour on the glacier I noticed several teams making their descent. It was too early for anyone to be returning from the summit, so I knew something was going amock on the upper reaches of the mountains. Judging by the twinkling headlamps, now virtually all of the teams were abandoning the summit attempt and returning to camp. I met up with the first team descending and screamed a greeting over the wind. The guide was wearing a face mask patterned with a skull, which kinda freaked me out, given the dark ominous conditions. He shouted back that the wind was too strong over the exposed section above. I thanked him for the information and explained I’d go a little further and see if things would change. Conditions did seem a bit strong, but I was feeling good and making great time on the ascent. Despite the roaring wind and ice, I was having an exceptionally good time. It felt great to be so physically and mentally challenged in way that only mountains and their mean weather provide.

An Ecuadorian guide and his team heading down

I passed four teams heading down, stopping to chat with each group as they descended. I ran into one team from Quito that explained that it was absolutely impossible to make the summit under the current conditions, and that I should return immediately with them to base camp. I had other ideas.  In fact I considered the current climbing conditions quite good. It wasn’t perfect weather by any means, but I wasn’t getting blown off my feet, and I had just enough visibility to make out the way in front of me. Feeling great, and enjoying the climb, I decided to push forward. I could still see headlamps from two teams higher on the mountain and I wanted to get their perspective on the situation above.

The two highest teams on the mountain were still ascending. At this point all the local guides had turned their teams around and were heading down. I caught up with the lead group. Sheltered from the wind behind a serac, they were debating over continuing the climb. The lead climber and I both reasoned that it was still a go. I was invited to climb with them, but I knew I couldnt generating enough heat at their pace so I passed them and continued up the mountain. An hour further up the mountain I lost site of the British team. Knowing they had turned around, I felt a little insecure about being the only climber going for the summit.

I was a bit confused on exactly why every one had turned around. I didn’t think the weather was that bad compared to a winter day on the continental divide, or a windy day in the Cascades. Maybe they knew something I didn’t, which gnawed at the back of my mind. Its also quite normal at high altitude to see at least half the teams abandon a climb due to a combination of altitude sickness and exhaustion.

But I was still feeling strong and ascending quickly through what appeared to be improving conditions. I was now very alone on the mountain; it was a true solo experience.

if you double click on this pic, you can see my tracks coming down the face of the cornice

Things became even more interesting when I lost the main route. It was obvious that no one had been this high on the mountain for at least a couple of days. With out tracks to follow to the summit, I took my best guess on a route and started breaking trail through the snow. Punching through the snow and forging my own route was exhausting. My route was a “go”, but it was getting a bit technical and I was wishing for a second tool and a belay as I got into mild mixed ice snow and rock climbing. Descending the same route was doable, but dicey, and I hoped to find a better route from the summit. It would have been a blast with partner, a full climbing kit, and more time, but I was running against the clock, pushing hard without stopping for food or water. I knew time was absolutely critical, and the quicker I made the summit the safer and easier my descent would be. I was nervous being this high and alone, but the summit was close. I could not find a reasonable excuse to turn around so close to the summit with what was now much better conditions.

I focused hard on kicking each step firmly into the ice and planting my axe just right, counting ten steps at time. Nearing 19,000 feet I was hitting the altitude wall, my stomach churned, my head ached, and my body wanted to shut down and fall asleep in the snow. It was getting tough.. Topping out on the summit ridge I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the last few hundred feet of easy grade to the crater rim.

I peered into the crater, but there was nothing to see. Clouds and steam obscured the abyss below.

Additional clouds were moving in from the north, covering most of the summit. I plopped down in the snow, rested for a minute and snapped a photo. I was feeling good about the accomplishment, but new that in climbing it’s the descent that offers the greatest risk. Eager to get the technical part of the descent behind me, and a bit noxious from the sulfur fumes emitting from the crater, I began my descent.

I slowly made my way down the steep snow wall just below the summit ridge. I was down climbing facing the snow, planting my axe shaft deep into snow with each step. The sun was now up lighting the way, but also warming the glacier and weakening the snow bridges. I watched the snow carefully as I descended, avoiding any evidence of hidden crevasses and spreading my weight across the snow when ever a foot sank in.

Searching through my bag, I realized I’d forgotten my sunglasses. Now, time was extremely critical, each time the clouds parted, the sun reflected off the glacier and roasted my eyes. I knew I was risking snow blindness if exposed for to long. The frequent clouds were now very much on my side.

I stood above the last technical pitch, desperately looking for another way. The clouds parted for split second and I caught a glimpse of an old crampon track below in the distance. Thrilled to see a piece of the main route, I had enough of a track to figure out where the main route went. I happily descended an easy snow pitch to the trail, bypassing the technical ice and rock pitch.

I eventually found my original tracks from earlier that morning. I plopped down and took a breather, relieved that the hardest, most dangerous part of the climb was over, and I had enough of a route to negotiate even in white out. The only risk from there to base camp was catching crampon on my pant leg and falling off the trail into a crevass.

relieved to be off the harder pitches and back on track to basecamp

I fell once, catching a crampon spike on a protruding piece of ice,… I tumbled forward,  knocking my shin hard on ice. I self arrested and laid there against the snow, taking the hint that I’d better stay focused until I was off the glacier.

looking down the glacier

At last, I exited the ice and stepped onto volcanic talus. It was a pleasure to remove my crampons and slide/ walk the rest of the way down to the base camp.

soaking up some sun at the refugio

scored a rainbow on the ride out

I got out the park that same day, and I’m now holed up in a hotel working my way through a jar of nutella.  As soon as my gear is dry I’ll be rolling south for the Peruvian border.  I here tell there’s some pretty country down that away!

Ibarra is a great place to start exploring Ecuador. Eager to get off the roads that night I took the first hotel I could find in the city. For 15 dollars I scored a luxury room that was a big step up from the usual hostel or campsite I’d been frequenting. After a 12 hour day of riding I crashed into that oversized bed with 50 pillows and didn’t bother to get up until late morning the next day.

Again, I was eating something I couldn’t discern, but it was a great breakfast Any breakfast that tastes good, fills me up and runs $2.25 is fine dining in my book. With a full belly I mounted up and rode a few miles out of town on a cobble stone road to the village of Esperanza.

pic-Esperanza

Dominating the setting of Ibarra and surrounding region is the stunning 14, 995ft Volcan Imbabura. Although not an Andes giant, it stands taller than any mountain in the lower 48 US. Esperanza was the closest village to the East face of the Volcano, and a good location for my base camp. Naturally,… I had aspirations for a climb….and perhaps a volcano flight.

The only accommodation I could find in Esperanza was Casa Aida. It’s a gold mine of a hotel. Cozy, rustic, simple, affordable, quiet, and run by a warm and friendly staff.

Senora Aida and her grandson

The owner herself is an amazing cook, although the healthy vegetarian meals had me yearning for some serious slabbed bacon! She gave me all sorts of good advice about the mountain. The most disturbing advice concerned theft on the mountain. Cacheing gear was out of the question, as she explained that even if you couldn’t see the Indians, they were watching you, just waiting to make a move on your gear. A number of climbers had returned to camp to find….well..nothing. Even the tents were stolen. This was alarming for me as I had planned to set a base camp with tent and glider, then go light for the summit. I knew now that I’d have to carry a full kit all up…..bollocks! I’d be severely distraught if my glider ended up as some bizarre ritual headdress.

Taking a day to explore, sort my kit, and plan my ascent, I soaked up the quiet and relaxing atmosphere of Casa Aida and the surrounding Esperanza. Things were definitely different than Colombia. Most of the villagers were full blood indigenous folks living off subsistence farming. They weren’t unfriendly, but were very reserved. I must have looked as alien to them as they looked weird to me. I slowed the bike down as I passed women hiking up the paths leading various livestock into town. Again, I so wanted to take a picture of their intricate clothing and unique physical features, but I couldn’t bring myself to shove a camera in there face. Communication was extremely difficult. Either they didn’t speak Spanish, or they were to intimidated to talk to me…..or they are strictly KTM fans and don’t care much for BMW riders!

exploring the area

I asked Senora Aida for a big double portion lunch to prep me for the climb. Expecting the usual vegetarian dish, she surprised me with an excellent baked chicken leg and cheese filled potato thingys. Calories were just what I needed, as I was packing as light as possible for an overnighter on the volcano. It was a sort of an experiment. I wanted to see if I could effectively climb and fly with enough food water and equipment to comfortably manage a two day trip. Two days would allow me to knock out the summit, bed down high on the volcano, then arise at daybreak for the (usually) safest time to fly.

I hit the trail at 2:30 under brilliant conditions.

check out these cool popcorn like flowers

Moving quickly up the trail in shorts and tee shirts I eyed the sky and seriously considered foregoing the summit and launching right then and there. Its always a gamble. You never know if your seeing your last weather window. But I decided to stick with the plan and make for the summit. If conditions were this good now, surely they would be just as good or better at day break the next morning.

Much of the hike winds up grassy slopes….the type of launch terrain that makes a paraglider pilot’s mouth water. It was as if 2/3rds of the mountain was a manicured launch zone.

In addition to its utilitarian flying aspects, the terrain was breathtakingly beautiful. Above 12,000ft I had the mountain entirely to myself.

At 14,000 feet the grass was overtaken by volcanic rock and weird alien-like plants.

The vistas were mind numbing.

I caught myself on a number of occasions just standing their staring off into the distance at the surrounding dramatic landscape. High altitude glacier capped peaks jutted out of green fertile valleys and pierced the clouds above. The evening sun cast an alpine glow on the ridges while dipping the valleys into darkness.

The wild Ecuadorian geography can hold your gaze for hours like some enthralling thriller.

As the sun dropped, the temps dropped and clouds rolled in. I donned pants, balaclava and gloves and continued scrambling up the volcanic rock. This is where on any other mountain I’d have cached my heavy gear and breezed up to the summit. I could really feel the glider that I wasn’t flying and the 4 liters of water I wasn’t drinking, but the risk was to great to leave it behind, so up we went with full kit.

It was rewarding climbing, not technical, but still hands on and never boring.

pic-the route nearing the summit

There was definite room for severe consequences involving some exposure over the crater, but it was never unreasonably dangerous. I peaked just as the sun set. I was in a sort of pink cloud that was turning darker by the minute. I tapped in a way point on the gps and turned around for the descent. The maze of volcanic spires, darkness, and fog would have made for a bit wilder descent if it weren’t for my beloved garmen gpsmap….thank goodness for backtrack!

At 14,300ft I stumbled upon the only decent campsite I’d seen above 13k. Sheltered from the prevailing South Easterly, relatively flat, and cushioned by moss, I couldn’t pass it up. Camping at around 14k is usually not my idea of a good time. It often involves headaches and restlessness, but I hadn’t scene a descent campsite below, and it was now pitch dark and raining.

It was good night, sheltered from the rain and wind in my tent. Dinner was an exquisite mix of tuna fish, top raman al carte, oatmeal, and granola bars washed down with no less then four cups of steaming hot tea. (which resulted in no less than four annoying exits from my warm sleeping bag that night) My appetite was a good sign of being acclimated.

I slept okay, woken up only once by a severe gust of wind that had me worried as I envisioned myself flying off the mountain trapped in the tent…with a glider inside. ….weird!

Nature wasn’t playing along this time. Rain tapping against my tent woke me up at day break.

The wind was howling and thrusting all forms of wet nastiness on the mountain. Flying a glider was out of the question. Disappointed, I packed up my kit and headed down the mountain in hopes of waiting out the storm.

descending through the clouds

As I descended conditions improved mildly, just enough to keep my hopes up. At around 13000ft I parked myself on a ridge and decided to wait it out in hopes of just enough of a weather window to launch.

I waited there on that ridge for 8 hours, watching storm after storm roll across the valley and smash up against the volcano. Tucked away under my tarp I munched on my last granola bar and sipped my last few drops of water. I was kicking myself for not having launched the previous evening, when conditions where so perfect. At this point it was walk down or wait out the weather in hopes of getting lucky, and I hate walking down! I was determined to stay up until my thirst and hunger got the best of me.

At 3:30 there was a sudden lull in wind and I jumped for my harness and wing. The sun even poked its head out to encourage me. With my glider and harness laid out I was seconds from launching. Seemingly out of nowhere a storm announced itself on the other side of the valley pushing a mean gust up the volcano and wreking havoc on my setup. My glider blew aside, lines tangled, …and then to really make things fun…it rained.

I just stood there screaming obscenities at the wind….until eventually the rain stopped and the storm passed overhead.

With another launch window at hand, I rushed to straiten out the wing and hook in. I took one last look over my shoulder at bright sunny skies over the valley, and felt the light breeze on the back of my neck. Everything seemed as good as it could get. With a reverse, light wind launch I stepped off the ridge, plummeting initially as the wing dived forward. I stabilized the wing over my head and watched the volcano ridges fall away beneath me as I drifted away from the mountain.

The air was smoother than I expected, everything felt great and I set a course for a pasture in Esperanza four miles away.

As I should have expected another storm was brewing on the opposite side of the valley in the direction I was heading. Whisps of clouds were preceding a few miles in front of the storm. They looked benign so I held my course hoping to beat the primary storm cloud to Esperanza.

As I found out in a hurry, these benign little clouds were being pushed by serious wind gusts. I found myself getting jerked around by the strongest winds I’ve ever met in the air. My wing was a handful to control as I got rodeoed all over the place. All the extra overnight gear in my harness was a godsend as it kept the wing loaded with enough weight to prevent wing collapses in the turbulence.

I wind was a road block on my flight path towards Esparanza. As I was getting thrown around in the air, I was neither going forward or down. The gusts were holding me in place as the storm moved in to have its way with me. I abandoned my course for Esperanza and decided to run with the wind towards Ibarra.

Riding the wave of this storm, my gps clocked a personal fly speed record as I screamed towards Ibarra. I picked out the biggest field I could see and hoped it was big enough. I was alarmed to see trees bending over in the gusts, and smoke forced along the ground under the high winds. In these conditions I was not in control and wanted down as fast as safely possible. I pulled in my wing tips to lose altitude and dropped like a rock. I didn’t need a vario to tell me I was sinking out at super fast rate, I could feel it my belly as I dropped towards the ground. I was happily losing altitude, but I was still very high. My arms ached as I held the wing tips in for what seemed like eternity. After two gut punching drops I begin to near the tree tops. I let out the wing tips and flew diagonally into the wind to avoid some power lines on my landing approach. The wind forced me almost strait down in parachute like descent. Despite the unnatural flight path, the trusty DHV 1 glider never stalled and smoothely dumped me down into the field. After a quick tumble in the weeds I stood up completely buzzed from adrenaline and checked myself over. (not the good type of buzz, but the “I just got the shit scared out of me buzz”) I’ve never been so happy to be safely restrained to the earth by the loving arms of gravity.

check out the trees bent over in the background

There are lot of should’ve, could’ve, would’ve, hind site is 20 20 stuff. involving this flight, but I wont bore you with all the mistakes and lessons learned. Bottom line is that I got schooled on this flight and will be taking a great deal more into consideration on the next backcountry launch.

Of course the story doesn’t end there in that field outside of Ibarra….I still had to get back to Esperanza.  As I’ve mentioned in past blogs, its always gamble on how folks are going to react to someone falling out of the sky into their field. After a flight like that I’d happily be standing on the ground facing an army of angry machete wielding farmers, as opposed to getting hammered around by Thor’s storm cloud a thousand feet up. People are negotiable, bad weather is not. However, I had apparently got out of the sky before anyone had caught site of me. I slipped out of my cold weather mountain clothes and dressed for the hot hike back. With my glider and harness packed away I scooted off the field and onto a dirt road with out any unwanted attention from the nearby dwellings.

It always amazes me how I find myself hiking back up a hill after flying down a hill. The whole point is to fly back to your campsite or start point, not to land below it. But up in the sky, priorities change with the weather. Suddenly the thought of landing ANYWHERE safely is all that matters. So I’m hiking away from Ibarra towards Esperanza. It should have been a mild 4 mile hike crisscrossing rural farmland. At least that’s how it looked from way up on the mountain, as I had sat there for eight hours scanning the terrain below. Sure, I knew there was a little gully to be traversed. No big deal right? I’m a capable climber, and there is always a way.

Well not this time! You may recall me mentioning the dramatic Ecuadorian terrain. This gully was 20meters deep with vertical dirt walls.

check out the mule mocking me from the other side

I hiked along it for a full kilometer looking for a way to cross. No luck. There were only two options- climb halfway up the mountain to where the gully starts, or hike back to Ibarra to find a bridge. I was smoked, had no water, no food, and I was close to Ibarra, so the choice was easy.

In Ibarra I sucked down a few Gatorades and a coke, then I set another new record for this trip……..public transportation.

I abhorre busses! Once you go motorcycle you never go back! But I set my stigma aside and joined the ranks of the less fortunate on the bus. If you can keep a secret, I’ll admit that it was actually pretty cool. The buss driver demanded I sit up front with him. He then instructed every pretty gal that got on the buss to come sit up front next to me. I appreciated the drivers good will, but it was a little weird . I felt a like dirtbag sitting there in a dirt smudged t-shirt, unshaven, with two days of sunscreen on my face, surrounded by young women in their immaculate white laced traditional outfits. Fortunately, I think all that sunscreen and dirt hid the fact that I blushing from embarrassment.

Over 28hours from the start of my climb, and 23 miles by foot, glider and by bus, I finally stumbled into the hotel and gave way to a hot shower and disappointingly vegetarian dinner,…good food, but there comes time when man needs a full rack of baby back ribs. But who was I to complain. Hot chow is hot chow.

I’ve got some killer video footage of this climb and fly, need a day to sort it out and post,.. meanwhile check out this vid I just finished

Fly Colombia

pic- close to the Ecuadorian/Colombian border

I was only too happy to get the call from Ruta 40 BMW to retrieve my bike from the shop. I got the new clutch installed and frame repaired and reinforced by a welder. It took a bit longer than expected,..which I expected… what I didn’t expect was Ruta 40 cutting my service fee in half for inconvenience of the delay. These are top notch guys. Its not like your typical BMW shop, where if you want some custom work done they point you down the road. When I mentioned I needed some custom welding, Felipe simply nodded his head and said he’d make sure it was done by the next day. It’s not just another bike shop, it’s a BMW adventure touring workshop……amen!

With my wheels back I felt like celebrating. I picked up this card at the hostel and I felt the calling.

The Barking Spider is a biker bar in Medellin not far from the Casa Kiwi hostel. I parked my bike out front next to a sparkling orange KTM 940. Not one to frequent the bar scene, I could make an exception with this one. A two story top notch establishment loaded with bike related art of all makes and models. I immediately spotted the owner/biker/lost Scotsman. Albert made his way out to S. America over 10 years ago from Scotland and started a number of bars ranging through Ecuador and Colombia. He had just opened this The Barking Spider and was excited to receive his first motorcycle tourer.

Its always good to see a biker doing well for himself!

He gave me a good heads up on Ecuador as I sipped on the first decent brew since leaving Mexico. (most of the beers down this way are pretty weak) I’ll be keeping an eye out for his other bar in Quito….The Turtle Head.  He’s also going to start up a pub near the beach with another creative title..you’ll have to ask me about.

It’s a mean two day ride to Ecuador from Medillen Colombia. The midway point to the border is Cali. I was so motivated to be back on the road again, I pulled a personal record by not leaving the saddle for 8 hours. I didn’t eat, or hit the lieu, and I never dismounted when gassing up. I was on the go, and determined to make it to Cali that day..or night as it turned out.

From Cali I got an early start and made the border by fiveish. A little apprehensive about borders from my central American experience, I braced myself for the worst. I stepped into the Colombian border agency and handed over my documents. After quick glance at the paper work, the border agent looked at me and pointed to the dates on the vehicle import visa. I couldn’t believe it! I had actually violated my visa by staying over two months in Colombia. It had actually never even occurred to me to check this,..it totally slipped my mine. I apologized sheepishly wondering what kind of penalty I would incure. But to my surprise the lady just smiled and said I should probably pay attention to these things next time. (well said!) Then she wished me a good day and safe travels. I couldn’t possibly leave Colombia with a better impression than I did that day.

Ecuador customs was a breeze. No lines, no harassment, no fees, no bribes….what a relief! I had been traveling since 7am that morning, and with the border behind me I felt I deserved a treat. On arriving at my first town in Ecuador I passed what looked like a barbecued chicken stand on the sidewalk. Following my nose I pulled a uturn and arrived at the sidewalk cookery. Greeting the ladies running stand, I inquired on the meat they were cooking. What I thought was chicken was apparently something else. I have no idea what it was. I was more than a little disappointed it wasn’t barbecue chicken, but I didn’t want to offend the cooking ladies by suddenly leaving with out at least trying it.

It looked terrible, had terrible texture, and tasted really good! Some time is pays to eat things that look like they’ve already been eaten!

I love hostels,…its great to meet weird people and hear their stories.  the downside is getting your milk jacked out of the communal fridge.  Below you can witness my creative methods at detering food thieves…