A few of you probably remember me posting this rather long, photo dense post about beautiful and breezy riding through the Chilean Patagonia and Carretera Austral. And in the next post complementing the tale of endless waterfalls and lush scenery with pointing out how those scenic shots from cycling paradise didn’t exactly paint the whole picture.
This post is sort of doing the same job. Because yet again, did I leave out a few details when scribbling down my last entry from and about some of the dreamiest mountain weeks I have experienced in my life.
Along Carretera Austral it was rain.
Along this one particular ride up and along the puna in the high Andes – it was some seemingly never ending stretches/days of exceptionally crappy roads.
I won’t dwell on it, as reading about someone pushing a fully loaded bicycle at 5 kph.. 4.. 3.. and at speeds too slow for the odometer to even register any movement at all.. is about as good of a time as actually doing that pushing.
Anyways – every single word in the last post still stands. This is just me adding some (way too) deep gravel to it.
Probably no speed records anytime soon..
If nothing else – soft ground offers super comfy sleeping!
Alright. Confession session of the day – done. Let’s pick up where we left off.
Coming up to a good couple of weeks off the grid, climbing pass after pass and free wheeling along some of the biggest volcanoes on the continent, my spirit was still that of a kid who’d just cashed in her golden ticket to Willy Wonkas chocolate factory. The cries of my protesting body though, was steadily increasing in volume.
Happy! At Laguna Verde.
With legs about as alive and kicking as this guy.
It was about midday.
‘Come on now. You’ll get to be lazy all you want in a little bit..! Just not yet.’
The headwind was a joke. And the panoramic volcano views that otherwise would have been my companions of the day were hidden behind the thick grey storm clouds, seemingly mid mission of suffocating the whole world. I felt the ice crystals crack open my completely dried out lips as I was silently pleading to my numb legs to stop messing around and get a move on. Simply because the weather didn’t leave stopping as an option, I kept peddling up the intensifying hail storm to what was both the highest, and very last mountain pass of my little Andean getaway.
It sucked, but it had to be done as options were few to none. Paso San Fransisco, 4767 meters above sea level.
Early afternoon, I climbed those very last meters and was – DONE.
2 long weeks in some of the most spectacular environments I’ve ever had the privilege to find myself in. Environments who’s inaccessibility make them a rare sight for those lucky few with an adventurous mind and a sturdy high clearance 4WD. Or in my case, an extensive dose of selective ignorance and will to let body pay the price for the enjoyment of the mind.
In any case. This was the end of the road. Or I guess to be more exact – the beginning of it. A 3000+ meter altitude drop on silk smooth tarmac lay ahead, ready to lead me straight back into civilisation and that oh so dreamy variety of ice cream flavours that are only to be found in Argentinian heladerías. Warm showers, soft beds, crystal clear (erhm, not really..) Skype calls back home. It was all waiting, and I could literally feel those familiar butterflies once again coming to life in my belly.
All that was left was (again, not really).. one last pedal stroke, and some steering while letting gravity lead me through those 200 km all the way down to the longed after township of Fiambála.
Done, in every sense of the word.
Though for the 3rd time in this post – not really.
This was my first ever actual sight of Volcán San Fransisco. The 6000 masl piece of earth that I’d set my mind on months earlier, while drooling over Andean maps and altitude charts. The one that I don’t ever how many people along my way north had told me would be another mission impossible to even consider. Summiting was out of question.
Explanations had been ranging from everything between everything from lack of gear, an apparent lack of sanity to the more obvious – lack of oxygen. Though whatever reason of choice the common message was clear – DON’T.
I do hear people out. Everyone, always. I promise.
What I don’t always do though – is listen.
Apart from having their apocalypse visions in common, there was one more important common element to every single one of these oh-so-knowingly advice givers. Not a single one of them had even seen, let alone climbed the mountain they were referring to. Not one.
In other words, not too unlike the in-numerous people who a couple of years ago told me this whole journey in itself was nothing but a well packaged death wish.
I’m quite glad I didn’t listen to them either.
Still hauled over my bike on the top of the pass I was looking up the only so visible volcano reaching up towards the dark sky. I was smiling. Once again repeating some alternative words of advice I this time had chosen to let drown out all other voices from the past months.
‘San Fransisco is your perfect spot for a few first breaths above 6000 meters. A simple and straight forward pile of gravel with spectacular views. Enjoy!’
The message had been simple, and the words rang clear. Partly because they were exactly what I had wanted to hear. But more than anything else because they came straight from no-one else than Janne Corax, one of Sweden’s most experienced mountaineers and the one person I give credit for some of the best months in my life back in China and the Himalayas.
These were from someone I would not only hear out. They were from someone to whom I would listen. And fortunately, they were conveying precisely what I had been hoping for. Spending the previous evening chilling out at Laguna Verde, picking the brains of an acclimatising group of climbers heading for the crown jewel of the area – Volcano Ojos del Salar – had not only provided some truly valuable advice on the volcano itself, but also some new hope that the weather could or might actually open a window of opportunity to head up high.
Food wise I could still afford to stick around for a couple of days, waiting for a clearance. And patience wise, that was probably were I would have draw my limit anyhow. Because funny as it might seem, the call of that ice-cream I mentioned was seemingly just about as strong as the one of the mountain.
Turning my face straight into the roaring winds, I looked up the mountain one more time. The hail was gone. But the whole place still felt about as hospitable as the imaginations of all those people telling me I was better off duck taping myself to closest railway.
‘I’ll give this one day. Then I’m out of here.’
It was still early afternoon when I hauled my bike into the small ‘refugio’ built on top of the pass. A weather change seemed way off, but so was the mere thought of continuing without even trying. I closed the door behind me, crossed my fingers and didn’t as much as peek out the window until the following morning.
Mountain pass refugio. What a DREAM!
Hotel room as good as any.
A good while before sunrise the alarm clock went off. Already wrapped up in most of the clothes I carry with me, I opened my eyes, quickly zipped up my sleeping bag and headed for the door. I opened.
And saw.. STARS. Millions of stars and a cartoon sized moon beaming down, painting big shadows on the ground long before there were supposed to be any.
Jackpot. And go time.
One massive bowl of oatmeal and yet another couple of layers later, I found myself by the very foot of the mountain, hiding Mr. Bike behind a big rock and finding my way to the rather suddle 4WD track leading up the first part of the volcano. From here there was just one thing to do – walk.
Let’s keep it short. An hour or so in I was already on 5 000 + masl, breathing the thinnest air of life. Slowly I was gaining altitude and watching the snow steadily increase, hand in hand with the suddle acceleration of my beating heart.
This is what it looked like.
Homemade Sea to Summit backpack – approved!
Rocky terrain after the end of the 4WD track
First views of the peak
A bunch of hours later. I could feel my heart pounding through three layers of clothing. In a good way. I was actually up high now – and feeling absolutely great. Taking those last steps to the cross marking the very top of the volcano I was already laughing. Not knowing what one really is ‘supposed’ to do on the top of a mountain, I found myself just standing there. Taking in the panorama with every cell of my body.
Gazing out, letting the sun warm my face and breathing big – I smiled. Just like I 24 hours earlier had done in that raging storm, looking up the very peak on which I was now standing. With my sloggy oxygen lacking mind thinking of how Mr. Bike absolutely would have loved to see this too. The dizzy clarity I was experiencing was intoxicating. And I stood there, with a whole new personal definition of Euphoria.
Yet again, the words rang crystal clear – playing in my head like a new favorite tune.
‘San Fransisco is your perfect spot for a few first breaths above 6000 meters. A simple and straight forward pile of gravel with spectacular views. Enjoy!’
Thank you Janne. Enjoy it I did.
Volcán San Fransisco summit, 6018 masl
Until next time,
Fredrika
