Intro
I’m writing this by the light of a single bulb in Yanacancha, my legs still humming from the 1,081-meter climb. The morning in Bambamarca was heavy and overcast, the kind of grey that makes the decision to take the unpaved 3NB route feel like a serious roll of the dice. After a quick chain adjustment and a bowl of leftover tallarin salteado, I headed out to see if the local officer’s promise of a quiet, scenic gravel road held any truth.
The River and the Rejection
- The day started with a mechanical ritual. I spent the first hour in my hotel room in Bambamarca loosening my chain tension, listening for that specific metallic clicking to soften into a smooth, quiet spin. Once I was satisfied, I hit the market for supplies, grabbing a prepacked mix of corn, carrots, and peas, plus some precooked lentils. I knew I’d be in the middle of nowhere by nightfall, and I didn’t want to rely on finding a kitchen.
- The first 15 kilometers out of Bambamarca were deceptively easy. The road followed a river through a deep valley, the compact gravel vibrating under my tires with a predictable hum that reminded me of the river trails back in Germany. However, the hospitality wasn’t as immediate as the scenery. I went through two rejections while looking for water before a tiny canteen in Llaucan finally agreed to refill my water bottles. To keep things fair, I sat down for a second lunch of rice and menestra. It was a heavy fuel for what was coming, but I knew the 3NB gamble was about to get steep.
The Sliding Slope
- As soon as I turned away from the river, the landscape reared up. The compact dirt vanished, replaced by a treacherous, shifting gravel that refused to hold a line. For eight kilometers, I fought the gradient. On the steepest pitches, the rear tire would just spin out, forcing me into a slow, rhythmic hike-a-bike. The texture of the road was exhausting; every step felt like sliding backward on a pile of marbles.
- The silence of the highlands was absolute, broken only by my own ragged breathing and the occasional rattle of the bike frame. There were no trucks, no exhaust fumes, just the relentless vertical gain. By 2:30 p.m., the sky turned a bruised purple. I could hear the thunder growling in the distance, a low vibration that felt more like a warning than a sound. I was halfway up a mountain with nowhere to hide when the first fat drops started to fall.
Shelter and Protein in Llica
- The sharp scent of wet dust—that distinct, metallic smell of highland rain hitting dry earth—filled the air just as I reached a small cluster of buildings in Llica. I ducked under the corrugated metal roof of a porch, leaning my bike against a bench. The owner came out, and we sat together watching the rain turn the road into a slick, muddy mess. I was shivering and ready for a nap, but the high-altitude chill makes it hard to actually rest.
- Instead of a nap, I got a masterclass in local protein. The host disappeared for a moment and returned with two boiled eggs, still warm, laid that morning by his hens. They were the best thing I’d eaten in weeks. When the rain finally tapered off at 3:30 p.m., he wouldn’t let me leave empty-handed, pressing a hunk of homemade cheese and a stack of bread into my bags. It was the fuel I needed to crest the final ridge.
The Golden Hour and the Concrete Bed
- I finally hit the summit at 6:20 p.m. The clouds had broken just enough to let the sunset spill across the peaks, turning the entire valley into a wash of orange and deep shadow. The descent into Yanacancha was a race against the fading light. By the time I rolled into the village at 6:50 p.m., the temperature had plummeted. I stopped at a small shop to ask about a place to stay, and the owner—a kind woman who seemed to understand my exhaustion immediately—walked me through the dark streets herself to find a vacant room.
- The room is a basic concrete box with a bed and not much else. There’s no sink, so the owner brought me a large metal pot to use as a basin. I used a bit of my precious drinking water to scrub the mountain grit off my hands before firing up the gas stove. I’m currently eating a massive bowl of lentil and pasta-letter soup, supplemented by that homemade cheese. The floor is rough, cold concrete and my quadriceps are still twitching, but the 3NB gamble paid off in quiet miles and fresh eggs.
Overnight
I stayed in a simple, unoccupied room in Yanacancha found with the help of a local shop owner. It featured a comfortable bed and a concrete floor, but lacked a wash basin, requiring the use of a large pot for cleaning up.
Reflection
A steep gravel climb is significantly more manageable when fueled by eggs that are less than six hours old.
Route summary
- Date: 2026-04-01
- Distance: 27.20 km
- Elevation gain: 1081 m
- Elevation loss: 318 m
- Duration: 9 h 6 min
- Time in Motion: N/A
- Average Speed: N/A