Wiggling our way out of Quito consumed most of the morning as we gagged an
d dodged our way through traffic and canines to reach the Panamericana. From there, we sailed into Machachi where we encountered the first trip-defining crossroads; take a right on the Panamericana to reach the main entrance of Parque Nacional Cotopaxi; take a left and follow the "mostly cobbled" track through the north entrance. In our characteristically non-conformist decisions, we went with the latter, going on marginally understood directions from an onlooking Ecuadorian and an aged sign perched high above the main square.
"Mostly cobbled" proved correct, but no mention was made of the grade in our copied pages of the traveler´s
bible. We soon found that we "went the wrong way," according to a cycling guide that led tours down the same route. Yes, "down" the same route. Without luggage. But like most advice that we´ve been receiving, we respectfully heeded his word and lethargically proceeded, upward, with luggage. The strenuous pitch and the jostling surface subsided after hours of climbing in the granny gear, changing into a delightfully smooth dirt road that wound through the tundra at the base of the volcano. We were then able to shift down, but only one cog. As bewitching hour approached, which comes early in an equatorial sun path, we came upon a spring-fed valley, framed by the few hearty pines that could endure such elevations,
seasonally occupied by the livestock, temporarily occupied by our feigning bodies. Cotopaxi gleamed in the fading light of our first day, treating us to an panorama unfathomably different than what we expected starting in the fume-laden heart of Ecuador.
Waking to a cloud-covered landscape, we pedaled on with only the base of Cotopaxi to guide us. Reaching the saddle between the famed volcano and its younger, feebler cousin, we relished in the descent ahead. Eager as kids on their first ride without training wheels, we forged ahead with nervous braking and intermittant pedaling. At points, the volcanic ash that had been churned up from the jeeps and busses that crawled up from the main entrance became deep enough to make us wish we had training wheels again. We fishtailed our way back to the Panamericana and bore through the raging traffic that we gladly left behind in Machachi, pace-lining into Ambato with our tanks reading "E."
d dodged our way through traffic and canines to reach the Panamericana. From there, we sailed into Machachi where we encountered the first trip-defining crossroads; take a right on the Panamericana to reach the main entrance of Parque Nacional Cotopaxi; take a left and follow the "mostly cobbled" track through the north entrance. In our characteristically non-conformist decisions, we went with the latter, going on marginally understood directions from an onlooking Ecuadorian and an aged sign perched high above the main square."Mostly cobbled" proved correct, but no mention was made of the grade in our copied pages of the traveler´s
bible. We soon found that we "went the wrong way," according to a cycling guide that led tours down the same route. Yes, "down" the same route. Without luggage. But like most advice that we´ve been receiving, we respectfully heeded his word and lethargically proceeded, upward, with luggage. The strenuous pitch and the jostling surface subsided after hours of climbing in the granny gear, changing into a delightfully smooth dirt road that wound through the tundra at the base of the volcano. We were then able to shift down, but only one cog. As bewitching hour approached, which comes early in an equatorial sun path, we came upon a spring-fed valley, framed by the few hearty pines that could endure such elevations,
seasonally occupied by the livestock, temporarily occupied by our feigning bodies. Cotopaxi gleamed in the fading light of our first day, treating us to an panorama unfathomably different than what we expected starting in the fume-laden heart of Ecuador.Waking to a cloud-covered landscape, we pedaled on with only the base of Cotopaxi to guide us. Reaching the saddle between the famed volcano and its younger, feebler cousin, we relished in the descent ahead. Eager as kids on their first ride without training wheels, we forged ahead with nervous braking and intermittant pedaling. At points, the volcanic ash that had been churned up from the jeeps and busses that crawled up from the main entrance became deep enough to make us wish we had training wheels again. We fishtailed our way back to the Panamericana and bore through the raging traffic that we gladly left behind in Machachi, pace-lining into Ambato with our tanks reading "E."
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