Salar de Coipasa, Bolivia

If one could have observed our progress from above as we entered the salt flat, our tracks would have spelled ¨stupified¨ in jumbled cursive script. Once on the white plain, all navigatory indications disappeared in the stark, spaceless expanse, allowing us to assume an unhindered, undirected, unbelievable course through the magnificently desolate plain. Since the past 5,000 kilometers have been directed by either animalian, pedestrian, or vehicular traffic, we took liberties with the ditchless, trackless, dustless, shadowless, topographicless, anythingcomprehendableless environment at hand. Circuitous routes abounded.

Our first experiment in the featureless landscape involved blind-riding in one-minute intervals. Eyes closed, pedaling at a consistent rate, I pursued what I thought was a direct route, but upon opening my eyes, the horizon that had been seared into my retinas a minute earlier had disappeared. Panic arose as I hurriedly scanned my surroundings to find something recognizable because the panorama that lay before me had completely transformed from the time that I began the experiment. Geology must have been operating at an astounding rate to have transformed an entire horizon. I collected myself within moments of opening my eyes, but the initial shock left me thinking that I had been transported to a frozen lake in northern Minnesota. Pinching a fingerful of the surface I stood on confirmed my whereabouts. Salt, not snow.

Throughout the day, I had to remind myself of its composition, because everything in my experience led me to believe it was frozen. When a section of salt creaked under my tires, I cringed at the thought of breaking through, mistaking the glistening crystals, yet again, for a different chemical compound. Lunchtime reassured me when we seasoned our ground bologna with the very ground we sat upon. Flavor was in no shortage that day.

The afternoon wore on, our giddiness subsided, and thoughts moved toward finding a campsite. Suitably flat spots surrounded us, but Soren and I agreed to meet in another 10 kilometers to find a perfectly empty panorama to pitch our tents. He motored off into the distance and was soon out of sight, leaving me alone.





Emptiness.





Nearly an hour later, I saw a black spot hovering above the layer of reflected heat. I figured that no one else would be strolling the salt flat at this hour, and within fifteen minutes of first spotting the blob, I confirmed the Soren-sighting. We threw open our tents and attempted to drive the stakes, but, as expected, the surface was as comparably hard as concrete. As the sun went down, a storm brewed to the north, striking the white surface with frequent bolts that kept us anxiously awaiting an electrified night. Thankfully, we had enough gear to keep our parachutes grounded and enough faith to fend off the tempest.

Early the next morning, after crumpling my salt-caked gear into their respective stuff-sacks, I resumed the bearing from the day before and pedaled toward the slightly darker divergence in the duotone horizon. As the surface became increasingly wet, I felt a surge of vertigo brought on by the bottomless mirror created by a thin layer of standing water. For over an hour, I freed myself from gravity´s pull and proceeded to pilot my pedal-powered plane through absolute absence.

Once grounded, my heart sunk as I saw how destructive the outing had been for Surely. I couldn´t think of an eviler deed done unto a steel machine, but I apologized, promising to compensate with an oil massage and a new paintjob once we reached more familiar terrain. Until then, confounding experiences would dilute my sympathy for corrosive acts of machinistic cruelty.