Intro
I woke up at 6:00 AM in Cabanaconde with a dry throat and a single-minded curiosity about whether the condors would show up for me today. The morning air was already a stiff 22.6°C, and the paved road out of town sat waiting while I opted for a bus to the rim instead of an early-morning pedal. I didn’t realize then that a missing bus would dictate the entire rhythm of Day 322.
The Rim and the Long Wait
- By 6:45 AM, I was standing at the Mirador Cruz del Cóndor. The sun was just beginning to scale the ridge, casting long, sharp shadows across the canyon floor. There were no crowds, just a few vendors quietly setting up their stalls. I started walking along the rim, moving through eight different viewpoints to find the right angle. At the third platform, I saw the first one—a massive silhouette against the canyon walls. I worried I’d moved too fast, wondering if I should have stayed put at the first stop, but I kept pushing toward the final Mirador.
- That last viewpoint was where the morning shifted. I sat alone, far from the tourist clusters, and unzipped my bag to pull out a plastic container of rice salad mixed with tuna and a boiled egg. The smell of the cold fish and the sulfurous egg was pungent in the thin, dry air. As I ate, the condors began to rise. They didn’t just fly; they owned the thermals, soaring so close I could hear the wind vibrating through their primary feathers. At one point, a bird passed barely six meters above my head, its shadow momentarily cooling the back of my neck.
- The trouble started when I tried to leave. I walked back to the main road at 9:15 AM, expecting a quick ride back to Cabanaconde to start my ride. No bus came. I walked back to the first Mirador on the main road, checked my watch, and waited. I talked with a couple from the States for nearly an hour while the rangers shrugged and said a bus would ‘for sure’ be there by noon. It wasn’t until 11:10 AM that I finally caught a ride. By the time I finished a power nap, packed my panniers, and shoveled down a quick lunch, it was 13:45. I was starting my day’s ride nearly four hours behind schedule.
The Liquid Reward of a Late Start
- Leaving so late meant the sun was already beginning its slow arc toward the horizon, painting the agricultural terraces in a heavy, golden light and I would not make it to Yanque as planned. A few kilometers out of Cabanaconde, I saw a group of people working a field. It was a scene from another century: a horse leading a wooden plough, one man guiding the animal while another literally ‘surfed’ on the blade to keep it deep in the earth. I pulled over to film the rhythmic, heavy thud of the horse’s hooves in the loose soil.
- A man noticed me and shouted a name, followed by the word ‘Chicha.’ A woman appeared from the edge of the field carrying a large jar. She poured me a massive glass of the stuff—the local fermented corn beer. As I tilted the glass back, I felt the grainy, fermented grit of the sediment on my tongue. It was cool, sour, and thick slightly prickling. We stood there for twenty minutes, talking about the harvest and the road ahead. If I had been on time this morning, I would have passed this field while they were still at breakfast. The bus delay had placed me exactly here, at the moment they were ready to share a drink.
Gravity and the Buzzard-Eagle
- The climb to the day’s high point at 3780 meters was a slow, 400-meter grind over eight kilometers. By the time I reached the summit at the Mirador de Tapay, the temperature had dipped to 14.4°C and the wind was picking up. I pulled on my windbreaker and prepared for the descent into Maca. The road began to drop away in long, sweeping curves, the Colca Valley widening out below me like a giant green tapestry.
- On one particularly sharp bend, I saw a massive shape on the road. I squeezed the levers, and the sharp, metallic screech of the brakes echoed off the rock walls as my rear tire skidded on the asphalt. A Black-chested Buzzard-Eagle, startled by my sudden arrival, took flight. It didn’t go far; it soared in a tight circle over my head before landing on a bright flower perched on a small hill nearby. I sat there for a minute, my heart still hammering from the hard braking, watching it watch me.
- The final run into Maca was a gift. My map showed a punishingly steep climb just before the village, marked in dark red on the profile. I braced my legs for the effort, but as I rounded the corner, I realized the map was outdated. A tunnel had been cut through the mountain, allowing me to glide through the darkness on a flat surface. I rolled into the main square of Maca at 18:02, just as the last of the light was bleeding out of the sky. The village felt silent, almost ghostly. A shopkeeper across from the abandoned-looking hostel saw me, made a quick phone call, and five minutes later, the landlady appeared with a heavy iron key.
Overnight
I stayed at a hostel on the main square in Maca that looked completely shuttered until the local shopkeeper intervened. Dinner was a DIY affair in my room: a bowl of pasta from the shop mixed with a jar of olive tapenade I’d been carrying in my pannier.
Reflection
The tunnel near Maca isn’t on the digital maps yet, which saved me a 18% grade climb at the end of the day.
Route summary – Stroll along Mirador Cruz del Condor
- Date: 2026-09-03
- Distance: 4.24 km
- Elevation gain: 80 m
- Elevation loss: 70 m
- Duration: 2 h 49 Min
- Time in Motion: 1 h 10 min
- Average Speed: 3.6 km/h
Route summary – Cabanaconde to Maca
- Date: 2026-09-03
- Distance: 32.28 km
- Elevation gain: 618 m
- Elevation loss: 649 m
- Duration: 4 h
- Time in Motion: 3 h 16 min
- Average Speed: 9.9 km/h