Abras, Peru

In the Andes, immense changes happen throughout the day. Somehow, the elements that went into creating other mountain ranges have collided in overabundant proportions here to create an environment that humiliates our experience with spiteful surprises.

Weatherwise, we´re used to seeing three or four seasons in a single day, as was the case leaving Leymebamba. The sun baked the west-facing slope as we climbed out of town, but before lunch, we had ridden under a blanket of clouds that cooled our water-bottles to a refreshing temperature again. Later, after tuna-and-crackers, the blanket of clouds enveloped us with whiteness and wetness. For 30 km, we climbed with no indication of the supposed Abra Barro Negro at 3760 meters, but after evading the whipping winds in an abandonded building, we found ourselves shifting into the second and third ring, hardly recognizing the feeling. Around the fourth corner, the clouds were whisked away by a broom bigger than we could imagine and the landscape revealed itself. It was as if we spent the morning looking through a foggy pair of binoculars, suddenly taken away. The relatively treeless expanse appeared muscular in its striations, the contours of which we traced like bobsleds on the thrilling descent. For 60 km, we hooted and hollered our way down the winding gravel track, feeling like kids opening presents on Christmas morning. Darkness descended upon us as we rolled into town, but the whites of our bulging eyes and the bug-pasted gleam of our cackling smiles provided ample light to find accommodations.

Terrainwise, we hesitate to make predictions, because around each hairpin lies something unexpected. As we crawled out of our bug-oven on the banks of the Rio Marañon, the sun crept over the canyon walls, cooking the urine-soaked streets of the disgusting transit-town that clung to the bridge like a leech. In full daylight, we realized the filth we had overlooked in our euphoric state from the night before. With furrowed noses, we pedaled over the bridge and into a deserted landscape, incapable of cultivation. The heat persisted until we reached a partial plateau that began to show signs of life, but the steadily climbing track kept its course, toward a veritable wall at the end of the valley. As we got closer, we saw that the wall had a scar that stitched its way to the top with six switchbacks, stretching from one end of the valley to the other. With gritted teeth, we continued onward and upward. After 6 hours of consistent climbing with 45 km of zig-zags behind us, we flung ourselves onto the cool grass at the Abra Sin Nombre at 3600 meters, goofily recounting the day and its hellish scheme against us. The track leisurely led us into Celendín where we treated ourselves to real beds and fake pizza.

Moderation has no place in the Andes. Everything is taken to its extreme, the result of which leaves lasting impressions. In addition to accumulating some memorable experiences, we´re also left with sore smiling muscles, aching saddle sores, and swollen bug bites, each to a degree we´ve never felt before.