El Cajas - Laguna Toreadora

 

I awoke with the dawn and stepped out of the tent. It was cold. The mountains were brightly outlined as the sun was coming up the valley behind them. Sometime during the night the rains had stopped but the rain fly was soaked and condensation from my breathing had dampened the inside of the tent. I packed up my gear and carefully folded up the tent, making an effort to separate the wet rain fly from the inside portion of the tent. Try as I always did, I knew from experience that everything would soon be completely wet inside the tent bag.

 

 

I pushed the loaded bike down the steep gravel path and out onto the road. I had changed my jeans for shorts and was still wearing the rest of the clothing I had gone to sleep in. It was a slow climb up the valley towards the higher mountains.

 

 

The sun was coming up over the mountains now and lighting up the valley behind me. Then the sun caught up to me and it was hot and took off layers down to my t-shirt. The road continued climbing, over a bridge to the other side of the river and then series of cutbacks and higher. With the higher altitude the country began to change from green pastureland to rocky and jagged, brown and barren mountains. I was feeling the higher altitude and felt dizzy and nauseous and out of breath and I stopped more frequently to rest.

 

 

Just before the El Cajas park entrance there was a comedor and I stopped for a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bread and cheese, coffee and a fresh mora juice. I had read there was a campsite at Laguna Cucheros, 3km from the park entrance, at the first of many large lakes inside the park. The restaurant owner asked me where I was headed I told him of the lake. He made a face and cautioned me against it. There were delinquents that often vandalized that area around the lake, he said. You should go to Laguna Toreadora, 7km further. There is a refugio there that you may stay the night inside.

 

 

I was not looking forward to another 7km of difficult climbing but I did not want to be attacked by vandals and I thanked the man and began my slow climb again. It was desolate country and very cold now and I saw some of the small lakes that the park was known for. Along the roadside I passed wild llamas feeding. Then after a 5 long steep cutbacks the road leveled out and began to fall and I was coasting down the rocky mountainside, leaning deep into the turns, feeling so good to move without pedaling and I saw ahead a couple of buildings and a large lake and the sign for Laguna Toreadora and I braked and turned down a gravel road that led to the refugio and a restaurant.

 

 

The refugio was a drafty old wooden two-story shelter with a kitchen. Inside bunk beds had fitted wherever there was room. There was a tiny room under the stairs and I took it and hung my wet camping gear over my bike and from some nails on the walls to dry and spread out my wet sleeping bag on the top bunk. There were no sheets or pillows for the bunk beds.

 

 

I walked down to the lake. Coming from the west were dark storm clouds. El Cajas was known for its wet and brutally cold weather and I hurried back to the refugio. The temperature was dropping and I put on my synthetic long sleeved shirt and made myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

 

 

There was an Argentine named Pablo who was staying the night. He was from Mendoza and was traveling by car. It was nice to speak of Argentina again. It was a country that I liked very much. Pablo explained that things were getting bad there. Economically things were very bad. It was expensive for him in Ecuador and even in Peru now.

 

 

We talked awhile longer but the rain had started and it was very cold now and I told Pablo I needed to get inside my sleeping bag to warm up and I excused myself. Though it was still early I fell asleep for awhile When I awoke I ate a bag of peanuts instead of getting out of the sleeping bag to cook dinner. It was too cold. Outside the rains pounded the refugio. I had not ridden very far this day, but I had ridden high. I was now well above 4000 meters.

Road to El Cajas

 

 

I left Cuenca on a sunny morning and began a slow climb through the western part of the city and out of it. I rode through pastureland along a river that had cut through the mountains. I felt good on the bike but then the altitude began to effect me. I could feel myself wearing down, feeling nauseous and shaky.

 

 

There was a restaurant serving trout that had attached cabanas and I stopped there and order a trucha al ajillo (trout in garlic). In my fatigue I also ordered a drink from the menu I had never heard of without even asking what it was. Carajillo was its name and when it was served with the trout I took a sip and realized I hard ordered a hot brandy with spices. I did not have much interest in a hot, spiced brandy but pledged to myself to finish it. It was no doubt a typical drink of these mountains. Perhaps it would revitalize me for more climbing.

 

 

The trout was delicious and came freshly caught from the rivers that ran in these mountains. I had also finished the carajillo. Instead of strengthening me it had only added to my lightheadedness and weakness. I realized I could ride no further today. While drinking the carajillo I had rationalized that I could stay in one of the cabanas if I needed to. There are all sorts of rationalizations a fatigued cyclist makes in the mountains, all of them involving getting off his bike. I asked the man who ran the place about camping and he said I could ride up the mountain behind the restaurant and put my tent up there.

 

I could barely push the bike up the steep dirt road behind the restaurant. I went up and up and then I found a flat, grassy spot that was somewhat hidden. I was too tired to put up the tent and spread out my Thermarest ground pad and fell asleep in the sun.

 

 

I awoke later feeling cold. The sun had gone and the temperature was dropping rapidly. I quickly got the tent up and the gear inside it. Coming up the valley from the east were dark storm clouds. There was thunder and lightening and then it was raining hard. I lay inside my sleeping bag and continued to read Hamsun’s Mysteries until the battery on my computer died. Then I lay in the darkness listening to the rain. I was wearing two pairs of socks, my jeans, a t-shirt, my synthetic long-sleeved shirt, my wool sweater and my new wool hat and I was warm and happy inside my sleeping bag.

Cuenca 2

Cuenca is a beautiful city. It is certainly one of the more beautiful South American cities I had been in. It is also filled with American retirees. I had never seen so many older Americans in one place, even in America. It is a retirement village of sorts.

 

At the breakfast place next door to my hostal there were many of these older gringos and I would listen in on their conversations. They all appeared to know each other and would talk about the different activities during the week they were planning to be present at. Very few of them could speak Spanish with any facility and the old part of Cuenca and its shops had adapted to their presence. The waiters and hosts of the restaurants would greet all the gringos in English when they entered. When they realized I could speak Spanish it surprised them.

 

The prices too reflected the presence of these gringo retirees. Hostal room prices were almost double what my guidebook listed them at three years before. There were still little restaurants to get a cheap almuerzo in the old part of the city, but there were many more restaurants selling gringo food. There was New York and even Chicago style pizza, as well as bars and clubs that catered to the Americans.

 

But cities for me are an opportunity to get things done that I can‘t do in the countryside. I went looking for butane gas canisters for my stove and after going to four shops I found them. I also went looking for a good wool hat to wear up in the mountains and spent part of a day at Cuenca’s outdoor artesanias markets. Going looking for things and asking where to find them, especially the gas canisters, gives me an opportunity to see a city and to meet its people. I ended up walking through much of the old city, no doubt seeing many of the important churches and buildings discussed in the guidebooks.

 

I also had my very dirty clothes washed by an old woman who ran a laundry spot down the street from the hostal. The clothes washing would take two days and cost me $3. With my clean clothes and wool hat and two large gas canisters I was ready for the mountains. At the tourism office I had inquired about the road through El Cajas National Park that led back out of the mountains. I had asked if the road was paved and indeed it was.

 

As beautiful as Cuenca is I did not want to stay too long and lose the mountain conditioning I had built up on the ride there. I wanted to apply this conditioning to harder riding in higher mountains. From what I had read the mountains around the park were just the challenge I was looking for. I was going to ride to up to 4500 meters.

Cuenca

As I left the hotel at Azogues the rain began. There was some climbing but mostly the road dropped down towards the plateau upon which Cuenca was built. It began to rain harder and I put on my full rain suit and bootees. There were some furious descents with the rain pelting my face like tiny pebbles.

 

 

Then the Pan American high way split off from the road I was on and I followed it, winding along a mountainside, towards Cuenca. I had researched the way into the center of the city the night before and it was as I had written it down. It was not long before I was in the old city and riding on the stone streets.

 

The hostal I had wanted to stay at was full and I took a private room at the hostal next door. The women there were much impressed that I could speak to them in Spanish. Cuenca is every bit as beautiful as I was led to believe.

Azogues

The hotel at Canar was along Ruta 35 as it ascended through the town. I left the hotel in the morning and resumed the steeply graded climb of the previous day. There was no warm-up. The road wound through the town and out of it, higher and higher, sweat dripping head down in my lowest gear higher, until finally I could see Canar no longer.

 

 

The temperature dropped and then clouds covered the sun and it was cold. I stopped and put on my rain jacket and leggings and resumed the climbing. I felt good on the pedals but was glad I had decided to stay the night in Canar instead of riding through it. I would not have had the strength for this punishing climb. Behind me thick clouds were again pushing up the valley. Like the day before it was to be a pursuit race, the clouds chasing me up the mountain.

 

 

It was cold and overcast when the ascending ended. There was a long, mostly flat stretch of road through pastureland and then the road descended steeply and I was bombing down the mountain now, head down, my rain jacket zipped up against the cold wind, and Ruta 35 dropping quickly into a deep valley. There were farms and cattle grazing and further south I could see many houses and what I figured was the town of Biblian.

 

 

I descended for almost 20km, barely using my brakes, leaning deep into the turns, passing trucks and slower moving cars, and through evergreens and thick forest and the mountains I had come down from now very high behind me. To descend so far and fast had meant I had ascended high. All that suffering had earned this descent. I only hoped I would not soon need to climb it back.

 

 

I descended through Biblian and continued for Azogues, the road still dropping. The sun was back out and it was hot in the valley and I stopped to take off my leggings and rain jacket. As I did a pickup truck pulled alongside me and a man got out and asked if I wanted some Coca Cola. No one had ever stopped for me in Ecuador I was quickly on my guard. Then I saw he was traveling with a woman and a little boy. I told him I was okay and thanked him for stopping and he told me it was all mostly flat and downhill until Cuenca.

 

 

I realized I could make Cuenca today. It was not even noon and Cuenca was only another 30km. But I had no map of the city and I had done no research on places to stay. I did not want to ride into a big city with no idea of where I was going. I decided that if I saw a hotel or hostal along the road I would stop and stay the night, but if I didn’t I would ride straight through to Cuenca and figure it out when I got there.

 

 

I passed a turnoff for Azogues and then ahead I saw a hotel on the opposite side of the road. It looked like a luxurious place but being so poorly located I figured it might not be very expensive. I secured the bike outside the reception and went in and asked about a room. $15 a night and there was a swimming pool, cable tv and internet access. I took the room, a large room with a balcony looking out at Azogues and the mountains. I could use the rest of the day researching places to stay in Cuenca and mapping out how to ride into the city. Tomorrow morning I would be in Cuenca.

Cañar

I awoke and the aching legs of the previous day were gone. I felt recovered. Indeed, I felt robust. There was great climbing again for me, taking me up beyond 4000 meters and I was ready for it. I made coffee and ate a pan de queso and watched the sun coming up over the mountains. I had packed up most of the gear the night before and only needed to do minimal packing of the panniers. I took the bike and gear down the stairs of the hotel and loaded it on the street and pushed the bike up the steep hill to the avenida principal.

 

 

 

I received confirmation from an old and withered man with no teeth that Zhud was in the direction I was headed. The climbing was gradual with only a single steep section and soon I was in Zhud. At the town center the road I had been traveling since the flatlands merged with the Pan American Highway, called Ruta 35, and I headed for Cuenca.

 

 

From the Zhud I crossed over into the next valley and the town of Juncal. From Juncal there was spectacular climbing looking down at clouds moving up the valley and I stopped often for pictures and to watch the slowly moving clouds. They seemed to follow me as I climbed, covering over where I had been.

 

 

As I rounded the crest of a climb I saw another cyclist ahead and I stopped. His name was Xabi and he was a Basque from Bilbao, Spain. He had come from Ushuaia and was headed for Cartagena, Colombia where his trip would end. We reminisced about Patagonia and the winds and we talked about Ecuador and exchanged information on what was ahead for each of us. I recommended getting out of the mountains and skipping Quito to see the coast. I also cautioned Xabi against riding to Esmeraldas on the north coast. That border region with Colombia was said to be lawless and filled with smugglers, narco-traffickers and FARC guerillas run out of Colombia. We wished each other much luck and shook hands and each headed off down the road the other had ridden.

 

 

I passed through the town of Tambo on a long and fast descent and then beyond the town had a long and steep climb to recover the altitude of the descent. It was colder now and I was riding into a strong headwind and despite the sun I put on my rain jacket as a windbreaker.

 

 

After another climb I stopped to eat an orange. Looking behind me I could see the clouds coming, pushing up the valley, covering the mountains I had ridden, covering Tambo now. Then as I started down a short descent I felt my front brake go slack. Since my rear hardly functions I put my foot onto the asphalt and gradually over many meters slowed myself to a stop. I examined the cable and it was not broken. I unloaded the front pannier and with an allen key discovered the nut had worked itself loose and the cable and slackened. I was lucky to have caught it at the start of a descent.

 

 

Coming into the town of Canar there was a brutally steep ascent and at the top I saw a hotel and figured I would go in and inquire about rates. It was only noon, but there was at least 26 kilometers of riding to the next town. If there was heavy climbing involved I might not make it and be forced to camp. I didn’t want to again have the trouble I had had getting to Suscal. I had also neglected to ask Xabi if camping was possible along that stretch of Ruta 35.

 

The hotel was $12 a night with wifi and hot water and I took a room. I rationalized that not destroying myself with another 4 or 5 hours of climbing would leave me refreshed for tomorrow. I ate an almuerzo in the hotel restaurant. Later in the afternoon the clouds that had been following me caught up with me and covered the town.

Suscal 2

I took a day off in Suscal. I needed it. When I awoke in the morning my thighs ached. There was no water for a shower and I took a painful walk up the steep hill to the avenida principal for breakfast. But it was a good pain, the pain of muscles being taxed and stressed. My knees felt fine and I seemed to have acclimated to the altitude. The previous day I had felt nauseous and shaky. That was gone now.

 

 

After lunch the water was turned on in the town and I was able to take a shower. I lay in bed until lunch and almost didn’t walk back up the hill for it. The aching in my legs was nearly stronger than my hunger, but I told myself I needed the fuel and suffered slowly up the hill.

 

 

The tiny Indian townspeople dress in bright pink and purple handmade clothing and wear black, wide-brimmed hats. Many of them are under 5 feet tall and the old women are dark and shriveled but carry large loads easily on their backs. Though I was stared at wherever I went I was greeted by many, both men and women and even the young, with a buenos tardes.

 

There was sun until the afternoon when the clouds came up from the valley and covered the town. Like the day before you could hardly see a block ahead after 5pm. It was cold and there was a light rain during the night.