Intro
The sky was a sterile, cold blue this morning as I packed up my tent in Salinas Huito. At 7.5°C, the air felt thin and sharp, and my 09:20 departure was far later than I’d planned for the 72-kilometer grind across the washboard gravel. The road surface was already showing its teeth, promising a day of slow progress through the high-altitude dust.
The Bone-Rattling Vibration
- I started the day by hunting for Thomas, the hut owner, who had vanished to tend his alpacas. By the time I’d secured three fried egg rolls and refilled my bottles with hot water, the sun was high. A local guide at the reserve gave me a grim briefing: the road ahead was nothing but sand and deep corrugations. He wasn’t lying. As soon as I hit the gravel, the bone-rattling vibration of the washboard surface traveled through my handlebars and settled deep in my wrists. It’s a relentless, jarring sensation that makes every bolt on the bike feel like it’s about to vibrate loose.
- Around 10:30, the monotony of the gravel was broken by a group of vicuñas darting across the track about 200 meters ahead. They moved with a fluid grace that felt like an insult to my own clumsy, stuttering progress. I stopped for lunch at noon to eat two of the egg sandwiches, watching an old man cycle past with a massive load of greens strapped to his rack. He didn’t say much, eventually wandering off-road with his dog, leaving me alone with the sound of the wind and the heat reflecting off the salt lakes in the distance.
The Lung Burn and the White Walls
- By 13:00, the physical cost of the last few days started to manifest. I reached a bridge positioned next to a decaying stone predecessor, and as the road tilted upward, my chest tightened. The ‘lung burn’ was intense—a raw, searing feeling deep in my pipes, likely from inhaling days of fine Andean dust when trucks and busses were passing by. Every breath felt like I was pulling in sandpaper. I had to drop into my lowest gear just to keep the wheels turning over the sand, my eyes fixed on the strange, cylindrical white natural walls that rose ten meters high on either side of the pass.
- I reached the high point at 14:20. Looking at my watch, I realized I was facing a choice. I could push the remaining 42 kilometers and repeat yesterday’s misery—arriving at 19:00 with frozen fingers and a headlamp—or I could take a gamble on the tiny cluster of houses at the Tico Tico crossing. It looked like a ghost town from the ridge, a collection of weathered stone and silence. I decided to stop. I didn’t want another night-ride in the sub-zero wind.
The Ghost Town Gamble
- I rolled into the village and found only one house that didn’t look abandoned. I knocked three times before a woman opened the door, greeting me in Quechua before switching to Spanish. When I asked if I could pitch my tent to avoid the night cold, she didn’t hesitate. ‘Bring the bicycle inside,’ she, Rebecca, said. Within twenty minutes, I was sitting at a wooden table while she served a massive plate of fried chicken, rice, and potatoes. She had even peeled the tomatoes and cucumbers, a small detail that any cyclist who has dealt with mountain parasites appreciates deeply.
- After lunch, I asked about a place to wash. There was no shower, just a dirt-floor room and a bucket of heated water. The texture of the cold dirt under my feet contrasted with the steam rising from the plastic tub. I used a small cup to pour the water over myself, being careful not to waste a drop. By the time I finished, the bone-rattling vibration in my muscles had finally started to subside. I poured the grey water out into the garden and felt human for the first time since Arequipa.
Peas, Alpaca, and German Bills
- As the evening chill set in, the landlady told me to put on a beanie. I followed her into the kitchen and offered to help with dinner. For the next hour, we sat together, and I listened to the hollow metallic tap of peas hitting a plastic bowl as I shelled them from their pods—the first time I’ve ever actually done that. We talked about the road, and later, her cousin David joined us to ask about Germany and the Second World War. It was a strange, quiet domesticity in the middle of a desolate landscape.
- Dinner was a bowl of alpaca meat in a thick, savory gravy, followed by a cup of chachacoma tea. The menthol-sharp steam of the tea cleared my head instantly; it’s a local remedy for just about everything at this altitude. Before bed, I pulled out some Euro bills from my wallet to show them the currency from home. They passed the notes around with genuine curiosity, touching the paper as if it were an artifact. Now, I’m tucked under a sheep blanket so heavy it feels like a lead vest, listening to the wind howl against the stone walls.
Overnight
I’m staying with a local family in an intact house in the Tico Tico ghost town. I have my tent and air mattress set up inside the dining room, protected from the wind and covered by a massive, heavy sheep blanket provided by Rebecca.
Reflection
Stopping at 14:30 felt like a failure of endurance, but trading 40 kilometers of night-riding for a bucket bath and a bowl of alpaca stew was the right move.
Route summary
- Date: 2026-09-15
- Distance: 30.76 km
- Elevation gain: 246 m
- Elevation loss: 378 m
- Duration: 5 h 28 min
- Time in Motion: 3 h 31 min
- Average Speed: 8.7 km/h