Intro
I rolled out of Pallasca at 10:00 a.m. under a heavy ceiling of clouds, my lungs finally clear of that wet-wool feeling but my legs wary of the 80-kilometer trajectory ahead. The day promised a massive 2,700-meter descent into the Tablachaca Canyon, beginning on a treacherous mix of mud and loose gravel before smoothing out into the heat of the valley floor.
Grinding Through the Powder
- The morning started at a small restaurant on the Pallasca square where I’d left a half-empty jar of yogurt in their fridge overnight. I mixed in my own oats and fruit, washing it down with a glass of cold, thick Avena. That heavy, spiced oat drink felt like a necessary fuel injection for the first few kilometers of the AN-100, which were surprisingly punishing. Instead of the easy descent I’d hoped for, the road was a mess of muddy patches and short, steep climbs that forced me to stand on the pedals. The dust here isn’t just dirt; it’s a thick powder that coats everything, turning my sweat into a black paste and making the tires slide unpredictably on the turns.
- Despite the slow start, the scale of the landscape began to reveal itself. I was riding along the rim of the Tablachaca River canyon, and the drops were so vertical they made my hands clinch the brakes a little tighter. The major rattle of my gear against the frame was constant, a rhythmic clattering that didn’t stop until the gravel finally began to compact. I spent the first two hours stopping constantly, standing with an open mouth at the sheer depth of the gorge. The canyon walls were a kaleidoscope of red and yellow stone, occasionally interrupted by patches of defiant green vegetation clinging to the cliffs.
Gravity’s Long Payoff
- By 12:45 p.m., I’d only covered 25 kilometers, but the road surface finally began to cooperate. The steep uphill kicks vanished, replaced by a steady, winding downward grade. I found a small roadside shack in the middle of nowhere and put away a bowl of Caldo de Gallina, saving the three omelette sandwiches I’d packed for later. As I dropped lower, the air grew warmer and the scenery changed from high-mountain grey to a deep, baked brown. I passed the ruins of La Galgada, ancient stone structures sitting silently near the river, but I didn’t stop. The momentum was too good to break.
- Down at the river level, the engineering of the locals was fascinating. I saw manual cable cars—essentially small metal cages on wires—used by families to ferry themselves and their goods across the rushing water to isolated homes on the far bank. In the riverbed itself, men stood waist-deep in the current, washing sand and stones. They looked like they were prospecting for gold, their backs bent under the sun that had finally started to poke through the clouds. The road here was a strange hybrid, with patches of old pavement visible through the dirt, eventually giving way to a smooth, two-lane highway for the final 25-kilometer sprint into Chuquicara.
Reunions and Culinary Disasters
- I pulled into Chuquicara at 5:45 p.m., my bike and bags completely grey from the thick powder of the upper canyon. After a brief negotiation at Hotel Ave—where I had to turn down a cheaper, filthier room across the street—I lugged my gear up to my room. As I was leaning my bike against the wall, I heard familiar voices. In the room next door was a French cycling couple I hadn’t seen since Mocoa, Colombia, months ago. We spent the next hour sitting over their dinner, trading stories about the mountain passes we’d crossed since our paths last diverged. It’s a small world when you’re moving at fifteen kilometers an hour.
- The day ended on a bit of a low note regarding the local cuisine. My first attempt at dinner was cancelled when the kitchen simply stopped working twenty minutes after I ordered. My second attempt at a different spot resulted in a plate of cold, raw potatoes and incredibly chewy chicken that was impossible to swallow. I eventually gave up, told them I wasn’t paying for raw food, and retreated to a third place for another bowl of Caldo de Gallina. I spent the rest of the night fighting with a German government website trying to renew my driver’s license, but without a domestic address, the system just locked me out. I shut the laptop at 11 p.m., exhausted by the bureaucracy but satisfied by the 2,700-meter drop.
Overnight
I stayed at Hotel Ave in Chuquicara for 60 soles. It was the only place in town that met a basic standard of hygiene, and having my friends from Mocoa in the next room made the price hike feel worth it.
Reflection
A 2,700-meter descent sounds like a free ride, but on unpaved canyon roads, you pay for every meter with the vibration in your wrists and the dust in your lungs.
Route summary
- Date: 2026-04-23
- Distance: 79.26 km
- Elevation gain: 161 m
- Elevation loss: 2767 m
- Duration: 8 h 40 min
- Time in Motion: N/A
- Average Speed: N/A