Intro
The usual morning ritual of checking tire pressure and scrubbing grit from my chain was replaced by the low hum of a village waking up for a holiday. Chacas sat under a sky of non-committal grey-blue, its paved streets still holding the chill of the Cordillera Blanca. Today was about stationary recovery, a deliberate pause to let the heavy climbs of the last few days settle into my muscle memory.
Kettles, Calls, and the Andean Rain
- I spent the first hour of the morning on the terrace of the Mirador Lodge, watching the light slowly define the surrounding peaks. The lodge provided a gas stove and an electric kettle out there, and I sat listening to the rhythmic click and hiss of the water coming to a boil. It was a stark contrast to the silence of the high passes. I ate a bowl of oatmeal topped with whatever fruit I had left, feeling the warmth of the steam on my face while I dialed Felix back in Germany. Catching up with him made the distance feel less like a physical weight and more like a bridge.
- By mid-morning, I headed out for a grocery run, looking for staples like avena, nuts, and more fruit to fuel the next leg to Carhuaz. Just as I reached the local tienda, the sky opened up. It wasn’t a storm, just a sudden, sharp Andean shower that turned the air cold. I stood inside the small shop for nearly 25 minutes, shielded by the scent of cold, wet stone and dust as the rain hit the pavement outside. Instead of rushing, I took the time to inspect every bag of nuts and every piece of fruit, waiting for the clouds to break. There is a specific kind of patience you develop when your only transport is a bicycle and the weather is the landlord.
The Feast of the Landlord
- Noon brought an unexpected invitation from the lodge owner’s family. It was May 1st, a bank holiday, and they were preparing a traditional feast. While it wasn’t a true pachamanca—the food wasn’t buried in the earth with hot stones—the spread was massive. We sat together over plates piled high with boiled potatoes, thick cobs of corn, sliced beef, and chancho. I focused on the pork, specifically the tacky, fatty resistance of the skin that had been rendered down until it was chewy and rich. It was the kind of calorie-dense fuel that my body has been screaming for since Laguna Llanganuco.
- The afternoon was a slow blur of digital housekeeping. I sat with my laptop, finally uploading the backlog of blog posts from the previous week. It felt good to move the stories from my head to the screen, even as my legs felt like lead weights under the table. There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing the map of where I’ve been while knowing I don’t have to climb a single meter until tomorrow morning.
The Generosity of La Bonanza
- As evening approached, I took a slow walk through the village. Chacas has a quiet, dignified energy. I stopped at Triple Z bakery for a cheese sandwich—the bread was crusty and the cheese sharp—and followed it up with two rounds of ice cream: one vanilla mani and one frutos de bosque. The cold sugar was a perfect chaser for the heavy lunch. I eventually wandered into La Bonanza for a proper dinner, where I ran into a group of tourists from Lima who had taken over most of the rooms at the lodge.
- They recognized me from the hotel and insisted I join their table. We spent two hours talking about the route, the mountains, and the contrast between the chaos of Lima and the silence of the Ancash region. I ordered a spinach lasagna, a welcome break from the potato-heavy diet of the mountains. When the bill came, a man named Manuel simply shook his head and covered the entire table, including my meal. It was an unexpected gesture of hospitality that left me feeling a bit light-headed as I walked back to the hotel.
Overnight
I moved from the main lodge to a simpler room in the family wing of the hotel. A large tour group from Lima had booked out the premier rooms, but the new spot was half the price and perfectly clean. It lacked the expansive views of the valley, but it was quiet and functional for an early start.
Reflection
A rest day in a mountain village is often more productive for the head than a hundred kilometers of riding is for the legs.