Intro
The morning in Ichuña started slow, with the thermometer hovering at 9.3°C under a sky that looked like polished glass. I spent the first hour in bed with Duolingo and my route maps, knowing the 27-kilometer stretch to Juncal would be short on distance but heavy on gravel. The road surface was already a known variable—potholes and loose stones—but the elevation gain promised to turn every kilometer into a negotiation.
The Five-Floor Shuffle and the Adobo Maker
- Packing up was a sluggish process today. I had to ferry my gear down five flights of stairs from my room to the reception, then walk 200 meters to the garage where the bike was stored. By the time I actually set off at 9:55 a.m., I’d already broken a sweat. The road followed the canyon wall, a jarring path of deep potholes and loose rocks that made the rhythmic crunch of loose gravel under my tires the primary soundtrack of the morning. The landscape was a muted palette of browns and greens, devoid of large trees, with the grey riverbed snaking through the valley floor below.
- Around noon, my stomach forced a halt. I spotted a man and his daughter working by the roadside, shaping mud and straw into blocks. I asked if I could sit with them to eat my rice and pasta. As I ate, the man showed me the gritty texture of the adobo bricks they were sun-drying. He explained that these weren’t just for a house, but for a greenhouse. In this part of the Andes, the cold is a predator for vegetables; you can’t grow anything ‘under the sky’ without protection. He pointed out the black-painted walls and the air tubes designed to circulate solar heat—a clever bit of high-altitude engineering that felt far more practical than anything I’d brought in my panniers.
The High Road vs. the 5-Meter Drop
- Navigation in the highlands is often a choice between two evils. Just past the village of Jasus Maria, Komoot urged me to drop into the valley to cross the river twice. However, a warning on iOverlander suggested the crossing was destroyed. I chose to stay on the main road, which meant an immediate 60-meter climb that felt twice as high in the thinning air. Each breath brought the sharp, dry sting of cold air in the throat, a sensation that never quite goes away at this altitude.
- When I reached the crest of that detour, I looked down into the valley. The ‘road’ Komoot had suggested was gone, swallowed by the river and ending in a sheer 5-meter drop-off. It was a sobering sight. A second time, I ignored the digital route’s suggestion to descend, opting for another 80-meter climb instead. That time, the river looked manageable from above, but I wasn’t willing to gamble my momentum on a ‘maybe.’ In the Andes, the high road is the only one you can trust, even if it costs you every bit of oxygen in your lungs.
The Mental Game of the Final Ramp
- The final 3.6 kilometers into Juncal were the hardest of the day. The road didn’t just climb; it stuttered upward in a series of steep, punishing ramps. There was no rhythm to be found in the terrain, so I had to manufacture one in my head. I stopped looking at the top of the hills and focused entirely on my front hub. I started counting: one, two, three, four… all the way to fourty. Then I’d reset. The rhythmic crunch of loose gravel became my metronome.
- Every fourty strokes, I’d allow myself a tiny sip of water to dull the sharp, dry sting of cold air in the throat. It was a slow, mechanical grind. I honestly thought I wouldn’t make it to the village before the sun dipped, but the counting kept the panic at bay. When the grade finally leveled out for the last two kilometers, I felt like I’d cheated the mountain. I rolled into Juncal at 4:50 p.m., my legs feeling like lead and my throat raw from the effort.
Saul’s Backyard and the Reality of the Highlands
- There are no signs for hotels in Juncal, but I got lucky. I caught a man named Saul walking out of an unmarked building. He told me the main rooms were full, but after a moment’s thought, he led me to a small, detached house in the backyard. It had a bed, a table, and a roof, which was all I needed for 20 Soles. While Saul cleaned the room, I leaned against the wall, feeling the gritty texture of the adobo bricks and realizing how much heat they actually hold from the afternoon sun.
- Dinner was a plate of Lomo Saltado in a small shack nearby. The owner and I talked while I ate, and the conversation turned to the reality of living out here. He described life in the rural highlands as ‘trist’—sad and hard. There’s a quiet endurance required to live at this altitude that makes my cycling trip look like a luxury. I walked back to my room in the dark, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed. The wind is picking up outside, but the adobo walls are holding the day’s heat.
Overnight
I stayed in a small, unmarked backyard house provided by a local named Saul for 20 Soles. It was basic but private, offering a quiet space to recover from the final climb.
Reflection
When the road turns into a series of steep ramps at high altitude, counting pedal strokes is more effective than looking at a map.
Route summary
- Date: 2026-09-20
- Distance: 26.97 km
- Elevation gain: 656 m
- Elevation loss: 120 m
- Duration: 7 h 11 min
- Time in Motion: 3 h 29 min
- Average Speed: 7.7 km/h