Selva Alegre, Ecuador
The surrounding landscape is nothing short of vast: rolling mountains checkerboarded by pasture and farmland, vistas punctuated by massive volcanic peaks reaching far past the habitable and terminating in rocky pinnacles. Craggy gullies filled with greenery split the land and drop into the valleys far below. They empty their contents into luscious cropland, groves of fruit trees, legumes, avocado, papas, and maiz. Cloud forest broken by small plots of cattle stretch out around the undulating cliffside road where I find myself perched.
A misty haze radiates out around my ledge, and clouds have started to collect in the valley. A chill runs down my spine. My survey of the environment has reminded me: I was told this area is dangerous and I should not go here by myself. Cell signal faded out far down the mountain and I did not bring a backcountry capable GPS in case of emergency. A friend and local contact told me to always proceed with cation in this area. If something happens no one will come to the rescue.
I have ridden my bike deep into the remote: far past the towns clinging to the sides of the volcanic slopes and beyond the deep blues of Lake Cuicocha, the vast volcanic crater where intrepid tourists stop. The road continues upward, into the Cordillera Occidental of the Ecuadorian Andes. The trees begin to disappear, thick grass and high-altitude shrubland replaces them. When the sun peeps through the gathering clouds, I can feel its equatorial wrath immediately. At this low latitude and high elevation, the sunlight is a constant enemy and I take care to hide from it.
The road undulates and pitches in rhythm with the jagged relief of the terrain. The remnants of landslides and the unstable environment can be found around every turn. Rockpiles, washouts and overgrowth are everywhere. The mountain is alive, and it wants to reclaim what it rightly owns. However, debris aside, the path leading further into uncharted territory is travelable and unobstructed. The mountain seems to ask me to continue onward into this uninhabited land, but I can’t help but sense ulterior motive.
I roll my bike to a stop 1000 meters above the town of Atuntaqui, where I started my accent. The climb has taken me well over an hour to conquer. The sensations in my legs were fantastic in the beginning of the accent but as the road continued upward, the lack of oxogen started to take a toll on my power. My initial brisk pace degenerated into a crawl. I huffed for air with every pedal stoke. When I was finally gifted with flat ground, the route had taken me above 3350m (11000 ft).
I put on my jacket. The ripe temperature of the lower slopes has given way to a wet chill at this high altitude and the decent will bring speeds close to 100 km/hr. The extra layer is necessary as I sit on my top-tube and rest. I absorb the last of the epic vitas before they are obscured by cloud. The crisp, clear skis of the morning are fading into what appears to be a wet afternoon. I learned early on during my time in Ecuador that the standard weather applications I trust in the US do not work well here. The mountains are so vast each valley has its own local climate. I can see the rain clouds materializing but there is no telling whether I will feel their effect. I have found it is brutally important to bring multiple layers when ascending to these high elevations. The weather may turn in an instant.
I take down valuable calories in the form bread honey and bananas. Standard cycling nutrition like gels and drink mix are hard to come by here. A piece of bread drizzled with honey and rolled tightly is a favorite of local riders. It is easily consumable and packs the caloric punch needed to tackle such mountains as this. I eat and meditate on the spectacle of the valley I currently stand atop: a patchwork of towns and farms so far below they seem surreal, a watercolor painting.
This remote ribbon of asphalt has presented me with an opportunity for adventure few will be able to experience. For most travelers and tourists, the road ends at the lake 20 kilometers down the mountain. Even the locals have few reasons to ascend past the farms on the lower slopes. Experiences such as this are some favorite– following an inconspicuous road on a bicycle, deep into a world I would have never otherwise explored.
